The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘And a fire, too,’ Lussac commented drily. The smoke rose, billowing up from the white-grey shingle, fanning out against the low, ochre-coloured cliffs that lined the shore. ‘Let’s hope the smoke doesn’t draw any unwanted attention; we have no idea whether we are in a safe area or not.’

  ‘I said that!’ Philippe jabbed the air triumphantly, the woollen tunic that covered his chainmail pulling tautly across his rounded stomach. ‘I told them the exact same thing. But would they listen? Nay, says Mortimer, our Queen is freezing and her ladies are cold after such a horrendous journey and we need to warm them. Christ, I swear that man will do anything for that woman. I know that they want to keep their adultery a secret, but honestly, it’s plain for anyone to see!’ He turned his attention back to his friend, noting the familiar, bleak look in Lussac’s eyes, the shadowed expression. ‘Not that any of this concerns you.’

  Lussac shrugged his shoulders, mouth tightening. Philippe was correct. The fact that Queen Isabella had fallen in love with Roger Mortimer, her campaign commander, mattered little. Nothing concerned him. Nothing, that was, except finding the man who killed his family. But the Queen’s campaign to overthrow her husband provided him with the means to travel to England, and for that, he was grateful.

  ‘Do you want me to row?’ Lussac offered. Beyond the deep shadow cast by the ship, the surface of the sea sparkled, as if studded with diamonds.

  ‘Gladly,’ Philippe said, wiping his forehead. ‘It took me an age to reach you.’

  The two men swapped places, Lussac gripping the oars, dipping the blades rhythmically, easily, in the water. Strings of water glittered down from the pale wood. Philippe sighed, leaning back in the boat, closing his eyes and tipping his face up to the tepid heat of the September sun. The light danced off the water, shining, blinding; with a strange, keening cry, a raft of sea-birds curved in one sinuous movement towards the bouncing sea, before jerking away at the last moment, inexplicably, to head off in a different direction.

  Philippe opened his eyes. ‘Thank Christ the weather has taken a turn for the better. I couldn’t imagine sleeping under canvas in the likes of that storm we went through.’

  ‘I suspect the Queen will call in some favours,’ Lussac replied, twisting around to see how near to the shore they were. ‘I’m sure she has no intention of sleeping under canvas either.’

  Soon they were in the long swathes of white surf, shingle crunching and grinding along the bottom of the boat. Drawing the oars in to rest along the sides of the boat, Lussac climbed out into the shallow water, Philippe grumbling behind him about wet feet. The water soaked through their calf-length boots, their chainmail chausses, but Lussac scarcely noticed. He was used to harsh conditions, to being wet and damp and cold, being camped out for days and days in winter, fighting in the borderlands between the English-held Gascony and France. Fighting, battling—they were his modus operandi; without them, he would simply cease to be.

  ‘Ah, Lussac!’ Mortimer approached, his gait awkward across the sloping shingle. He was a tall, thin man with a rigid, angular frame and everything about him, from his jet-black hair, his brown eyes, to his grey tunic and black flapping cloak, was dark, crow-like. He slapped Lussac congenially on the back, his head making a strange bobbing motion into his shoulders.

  ‘How are the women faring?’ Lussac asked, the briefest of smiles on his face. Many of the Queen’s ladies had suffered on the journey, the rolling, heavy sea taking its toll on their stomachs.

  Mortimer rolled his eyes. ‘Not good. Isabella’s complaining about being hungry; they all are, in fact. Honestly, when you look at the way they’re carrying on, you’d think we were out on some day trip, not invading England.’

  ‘How much food do we have?’

  ‘The bread is soaked through with sea-water...and the milk has turned. We only brought enough provisions for the journey.’ His eyes swept the cliffs in desperation, as if they would provide the answer to their dire food situation. ‘Our compass bearing, when we set off from Flanders, should have brought us within sight of the Earl of Norfolk’s castle and estates. He supports the Queen and will give us board and lodging—’

  ‘The storm blew us off course,’ Philippe chipped in. He understood Queen Isabella’s predicament, for his own stomach growled in sympathy.

  Mortimer’s gaze slipped over to the short, stocky man at Lussac’s side, his expression blank, diffident, before switching his attention back to Lussac. ‘As the first soldiers came ashore with their horses, I sent them out as a search party, to find out where we are, to find some food. But they seem to be taking for ever!’

  Lussac glanced at the soldiers huddled together in large, sprawling groups on the gently shelving beach, waiting. They were tired and hungry, and in no position to push forwards, to march any long distances. The few horses belonging to the nobles stood behind the Queen’s tent, tails fanning out in the breeze. He had no wish to sit and wait with them, to chew over the tedious details of the journey, to stare dully at the sea. Or to think.

  ‘I will go and look for them. They can’t have gone far.’

  ‘Nay, you can’t do that!’ Mortimer looked horrified. Lussac was the same rank as himself and, beyond that, he was close friends with the King of France. They had grown up together, trained together; it simply wouldn’t do to send such a high-ranking nobleman out on a simple scouting expedition. His gaze switched to Philippe. Maybe...?

  ‘I want to go,’ Lussac explained. How could he explain the constant nagging restlessness coursing through his big frame, the inability to sit still and reflect, to stare at a bird in flight, or watch the waves crash on to the shingle? Nay, that might be for other men, but not for him. Not now. If he allowed his mind to think too much, then the full horror of the past came back to him, filling his head with images and pictures he would prefer to forget. Better to keep active, to throw himself into every battle and skirmish when the opportunities arose, rather than sit around and brood. Never that.

  Chapter Two

  Lussac kicked the heels of his stout leather boots into his horse’s side, urging the animal away from the beach. After the cramped, restrictive conditions on board ship, it felt good to be moving again. He stretched his legs out against the stirrups, the taut muscles in his thighs and calves relishing the movement as the saddle-leather creaked beneath his tall, muscular frame. As his horse climbed to the top of the narrow path that led up the low cliffs, the whole sweep of this hostile country spread out before him. To his left, through a patchy area of tidal creeks, the wide, flat ribbon of a river made its slow, meandering course towards the sea. Before him, a gently sloping area of rough grass dissolved into woodland up to his right. The place was deserted.

  But then his gaze swung back, sharply. What had he seen? What has his mind registered that his eyes had not? A trace of colour, blotched on the horizon? He kicked his horse on, suspecting he might find the soldiers he was looking for. The animal cantered across the uneven plain, Lussac hunkered low in the saddle. As he approached, he realised it was one soldier, sitting on the bleached ground at the edge of the tussocky marshland, his head bowed. A dark-blue patch of colour in this pale, glittery, everlasting landscape. He had removed his helmet and his thick, sandy-coloured hair riffled in the slight breeze. Galloping across to him, Lussac reined his horse brusquely, jumping down almost in the same movement.

  ‘You, soldier, tell me what happened!’

  The boy looked dazed, drugged even, as if he had woken from a dream. Seeing Lussac, recognising his authority, he placed one hand behind him and tried to push himself to his feet, but dizziness overwhelmed him and he fell back.

  ‘Stay where you are, boy,’ Lussac ordered, impatiently. ‘What happened to you?’ Behind him, his horse shifted constantly, as if aware of his master’s irritation, hooves pawing the ground.

  ‘An angel came,’ the boy murmured.

&n
bsp; ‘And she hit you on the head?’ Lussac mocked. The boy had obviously been unconscious, judging from his addled speech. What did he think he was saying?

  ‘Aye, she hit me on the head. And she took my horse.’

  Lussac snorted in disbelief. The boy was clearly talking nonsense. ‘Can you not remember what really happened?’ he tried once more.

  ‘I tell you no lie, my lord, I promise you.’ The young soldier rubbed the back of his head, tentatively. A searing, uncomfortable ache was spreading through his skull. ‘I was following the others, at the back. And then, all of a sudden, I was pulled from my horse, backwards. She pulled me from my horse.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘An angel, I swear to you. Her face...like a pearl, gleaming it was. Beautiful. She was beautiful. I must have knocked myself out when I fell, despite wearing this...’ he gestured towards his helmet ‘...and she leaned over me, told me I would be all right.’

  ‘Did she indeed.’ Lussac didn’t believe one word of it. A face like a pearl? The lad was delusional, suffering from the after-effects of hitting his head, or he was deliberately making the whole story up to cover his own embarrassment at having his horse stolen. He had probably fallen off his animal of his own accord and the horse had run off, following the others.

  ‘The other soldiers—did they see any of this?’

  The lad had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I was lagging behind, and they didn’t realise. I’m...I’m not used to riding with all this heavy armour.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Lussac replied tartly. ‘Which direction did they take? Can you remember that, at least?’

  The boy lifted his arm, pointed towards the cloud of dark-green trees to the north. ‘That way, they went towards the forest.’ He lowered his arm, fixing Lussac with a resolute stare. ‘And the angel followed them.’

  ‘On your horse.’ Lussac threw the lad a tight smile as he swung himself back into the saddle. The leather creaked as he leaned forwards, gathering the reins, the split side-seam of his tunic falling open to reveal long legs encased in shining chainmail.

  ‘On my horse,’ the soldier repeated, staring up at him. ‘I know you don’t believe me, my lord, but it’s true. An angel stole my horse.’

  * * *

  Irritation clenched at Lussac’s gut as he raised one arm to push away a low, overhanging branch at the entrance to the forest. Where had Isabella found these mercenaries to fight on her behalf—in the madhouse? The only saving grace was that they had all gone in the same direction—north—Mortimer’s men, and the ‘stolen’ horse.

  The forest was quiet, still, the thick belt of trees diffusing the power of the wind that had raced across the flat river plain. Sunlight, diluted, subdued, flickered down to the sandy mud of the forest floor. The half-light was easy on the eye, a welcome relief after the stark, searing light of the beach, the sunlight bouncing harshly off the sea. Lussac inhaled, deeply, rolling his shoulders back to ease the tension in his muscles, a clean, fresh scent rising from the ground as his horse’s hooves ground into the pine needles strewn across the track. The smell yanked him back, back to the southern pine forests of his youth, those carefree days when he had ridden bareback through the trees, laughing and joking with his friends, when he had swam in the cool lakes and eaten fresh walnuts from the trees, in those idyllic days, when he had had a family to go home to.

  There was no one there now. His family home was empty, half-burned to the ground. His mother and father and sister were dead, dead from smoke inhalation, their prone bodies clasping, reaching out to each other to die on the floor of the locked solar. Where he had found them.

  A sudden sweep of wind brought down a shower of leaves, beech leaves, spinning around his helmet like burnished feathers, adding to the undulating carpet of dark-green pine needles across the ground, jolting him back to the present, to the quiet stillness of the forest.

  A sound—a single sound carried towards him on the breeze.

  The jangle of a bridle. Amidst the startled shriek of a blackbird, the sough of the wind high in the tree canopy, and the slow whisper of leaves dropping to the ground, he heard it. And heard it again. He spurred his horse on, pushing the animal from a trot to a canter, hooves flying over the soft ground, in pursuit of that delicate sound. The sound of an angel? He smiled, but the smile failed to reach the steely turquoise depths of his eyes.

  * * *

  Fortunately for Katerina, only one clear track was discernible through the trees: the only path that could possibly have been taken by those brutish soldiers. She prayed Waleran wasn’t too frightened and would realise that she had every intention of rescuing him. As he had rescued her. The other members of the circus troupe joked about Waleran and her being joined at the hip, and maybe it was true. Her friend since childhood, he had taught her the tricks and turns which, at that time, she had never realised she would come to rely on. Waleran had offered her freedom and she had seized it as a drowning man grips on to a floating raft.

  Following the path with an easy trot, she held her seat comfortably in the rigid, upright saddle, fingers slack around the bridle. Every now and again, the horse would shake his head violently, mane fanning out like a chicken’s-tail feathers, the bit between his teeth jangling. It was almost as if he were protesting at having a woman on his back! But all the head shaking and eye rolling didn’t worry her; she had grown up around horses and could handle them without fuss, however temperamental they wished to be.

  Katerina could have moved faster; the track was wide enough, but she had no wish to barge straight into those thugs. Nay, she would have to be more cunning, for they would overpower her in a moment and the element of surprise would be lost. She intended to spring Waleran from their clutches by a far more subversive method. At this precise moment she had no idea what exactly that method was. Caught in her musing, she failed to hear the thump of galloping hooves until they were almost upon her.

  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve!’ A low, powerful voice struck her in the back.

  Panic shot through her, hot, visceral, sucking the strength from her limbs. Instinctively she crouched forwards, as if expecting a blow, at the same time digging her heels sharply into the horse’s sides to speed him away from any attack. Seizing the reins, she felt her hands shake with fear, adrenalin hurtling at breakneck speed around her body.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ From behind, two massive arms clamped viciously around her shoulders, wrenching her slight weight up and off the horse. The treacherous animal moved away from under her and she was left dangling in mid-air, her attacker, unseen, at her back. Almost immediately she began to struggle, to kick her legs this way and that, feet flailing, trying to make her attacker drop her, trying to twist her body out of that hateful grasp. Fear spurred her on, forcing her to fight, for her freedom, for her life. Would these strangers kill you, for stealing a horse? She had no wish to find out. Katerina thrashed out, heels catching back into the soft flank of his horse, as she used all the muscles in her body to throw it to and fro, trying to break the fearsome grip.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she shrieked, her voice rising with hysterical anger. She had to force him to drop her and then she could run. She was fast, she could outrun any man. Her captor’s arms were like iron bands around her upper body, squeezing the air from her lungs, but his bare hands, lean and sinewy, were inches from her chin, fingers linked. Bare. Skin. Inches from her mouth. Inches from her teeth. She bent her head down and sank her little white teeth into the fleshy part of his hand, between thumb and forefinger. Drew blood.

  ‘Why, you little...!’ For a tiny moment, the moment that she expected, his grip eased by a fraction. This slight loosening was enough, all she needed to wriggle violently from his grasp, to slip from those brawny arms, to hit the leaf-strewn forest floor and take off. And then she ran, ran with every last ounce of strength in her fra
me, away from the path, snaking through the densely packed trees with her light, dancing step. The horse would be unable to follow and the lumbering soldier, slowed by his cumbersome armour, would simply give up. He would never catch her now.

  Lussac plunged from his horse, angry now. The little brat had bitten him! And now the bobbing hood and coarse-woven tunic disappearing through the trees mocked his sword and shield, his armour, the trappings of war. The varmint obviously thought he had the means to outwit him, Lussac. Just wait until he clamped his hands once more around his scrawny little neck! The wretch might think he was nippy on his feet, but Lussac was much, much faster. The advantage of greater muscle power and longer legs. He kept his eye focused on the dun-coloured tunic darting through the solid trunks, his long strides powering through the piled drifts of fallen leaves, scattering them. The silvery skin of his chainmail glittered in the faint sunlight. Yard by yard, he gained on the thief, steadily, inexorably, until he was a mere body’s length away.

  As he launched himself full-length through the air, he could hear the boy’s breath, ragged, quick, before he crashed down against the narrow back, bringing him down, flat, hard, beneath him. A muffled squeak of shock escaped his quarry before his face was buried in the leaf litter of the forest floor. Let the scamp try to escape now!

  For one horrible moment, Katerina lay stunned, groping in the threatening blackness, her mind struggling with the details of what had just happened to her. A tremendous weight pressed down on her back; her mouth, and nose and eyes were full of dead leaves, wet and musty against her skin. Hot tears of anger flooded from her eyes at the dreadful realisation: she had been caught, after all. Panic rose in her chest, an unstoppable surge; the force of the impact had pressed all the air from her lungs. Now she found it impossible to lift her head! Stretched out before her, her arms, her fingers, flailed against the earth, trying to find purchase, struggling to push her body away from the muffling, constricting ground, to find some air, to breathe.