The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  Katerina bounced down from the saddle, coming round to meet him at the horse’s head. Her grey eyes sparkled, the colour of pewter, shot through with streaks of silver. ‘Why don’t you ride for a bit and I’ll lead? Let’s swap.’

  This time, he did laugh out loud, teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Katerina, where have you been for the last few years? Have you any idea of the notion of chivalry? Men are supposed to take care of women, not the other way around. How would it look if I rode into Bury on horseback, with you leading me?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, enjoying the sound of his laughter; it made him seem more boyish, more approachable somehow.

  ‘A noble lady is like a delicate flower, not supposed to do too much, to become too tired, or too dirty,’ he explained, amusement threading his voice. ‘Surely you experienced a life like that at home?’ They walked together now, each either side of the horse’s head.

  ‘My mother was always telling me to stop rushing about, to stop going outside, stop behaving like a hoyden.’ Katerina sighed. ‘She was always telling me to act more like a lady. It’s been so long, I suppose I have forgotten. I’m so used to fending for myself now.’

  He wanted to tell her that he would take care of her. But how could he take care of someone, when he couldn’t even take care of himself?

  She stopped suddenly, placing one hand on top of the horse’s nose. Her pale fingers were fine, tapered, he realised, her skin so delicate against the coarse woven fabric of her sleeve. How could he ever have mistaken her for a common wench? Her hands were those of a noble lady. ‘Even if the situation is sorted out with my father, I’m not sure I could go back to that kind of life—I’ve had a taste of freedom and, for all the hardships, the cold, wet nights, the lack of food, I think I prefer it. It makes me feel alive. Instead of the prospect of days and days inside, working away at some dull tapestry, I get to throw my body through the air, to perform, to entertain. Do you understand?

  Lussac nodded slowly. He did understand. She was like a wood-sprite, a nymph of the forest, dancing lightly through the green-soaked glades, ethereal, magical. How could anyone curb that energy, her passion for movement? He would hate to see anyone try to do such a thing to her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The high, towering frontispiece of the abbey at Bury St Edmunds was built in a white dressed stone, huge blocks forming two towers either side of a wide, central doorway. Niches had been carved into the front, curved columns like clusters of pipes on each side, topped with a sharp, triangular arch above. Intricately carved statues of saints had been set within each of the niches, a head bowed here, an arm outstretched there, giving the whole abbey front an impressive level of detail, and no doubt delighting the steady succession of pilgrims who made their way towards the shrine of St Edmund, situated behind the high altar.

  As Lussac and Katerina walked across the busy cobbled courtyard, Lussac’s horse trailing behind them, a large rotund figure squeezed out from a small door at the side of the abbey.

  ‘Philippe,’ Lussac murmured. ‘Brace yourself.’

  His friend hoisted one arm in the air, a dramatic gesture of welcome as he bustled towards them, his glance darting curiously back and forth between Lussac and Katerina. ‘Lussac, what are you doing here? Have you...?’ He struggled to find the correct words. ‘How are things?’

  ‘We encountered a few problems,’ Lussac replied calmly. His deep, rich voice cut straight through Philippe’s incessant burbling, the lurching hand gestures. ‘One of which I hope Isabella will be able to help with.’ His bright gaze touched the burnished top of Katerina’s head.

  ‘She’s settled herself in the great hall, with her ladies,’ Philippe said. ‘We’ve only just arrived here ourselves.’ He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. ‘I warn you, Lussac, she’s not in the best of moods.’

  ‘Katerina!’ Three sets of eyes turned in unison towards the masculine voice.

  ‘Waleran!’ Katerina cried out, recognising the lithe, sinewy figure of her friend coming around the corner of the chapter-house. She lifted her eyes towards Lussac, her face radiant and happy. ‘It’s Waleran!’ she said, by way of explanation.

  ‘I can see that,’ Lussac responded drily, through gritted teeth. A grinding irritation clamped around his chest; he had an insane desire to curve his arm around Katerina, a definitive gesture of possession, of proprietorship. His hands bunched into fists at his sides, nails digging into the hard skin of his palms. Katerina belonged to no one; he would do well to keep his hands to himself.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Katerina exclaimed as Waleran approached, almost skipping across the cobbles towards her. A smile wrinkled his narrow face. He grasped her hands, then pulled her close, hugging her in his lean, sinewy arms. She tensed slightly as his arm moved across her painful shoulder, before drawing back.

  ‘Sorry,’ Waleran said suddenly, a dull ruddy colour seeping across his jaw-line as he recalled their last, awkward conversation, his offer of marriage. ‘I was so pleased to see you, that’s all.’ He threw a shifty glance up at Lussac, scowling darkly at him over Katerina’s neat head.

  ‘But what are you doing here?’ she repeated, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘John’s over the moon. The Queen enjoyed the performance at the Earl of Norfolk’s castle so much, she asked the troupe to accompany her to Bury. Will you come around to the camp or...?’ Waleran glanced past her to Lussac, as if asking for permission.

  ‘It’s probably the last time I will see everyone,’ Katerina said quietly, her fine eyes searching the chiselled lines of Lussac’s face. ‘And in this last year, the troupe have become like a family to me. I need to say goodbye before I return home.’

  Lussac handed the reins to a stable-boy, who had finally emerged from the low buildings to the left of the main abbey. Every bone in his body told him not to let her go. He wanted her by his side, where he could see her, especially with her so-called friend, Waleran, hanging around.

  ‘We’ve set up on a piece of rough pasture, behind the abbey hospital,’ Waleran added, as if that would help his decision.

  ‘Are you planning on running away again?’ Lussac muttered softly.

  She shook her head. A gold-spun tendril of hair fell across her cheek. ‘No, Lussac. You are right. I have to stop running, stop looking over my shoulder, worrying every day that my father’s henchmen will catch up with me. I must face my future.’

  His hand cupped her shoulder. ‘I will go and see Isabella about the writ. If you go back to your camp and say your farewells, I will come and find you later. Stay close, Katerina.’

  He followed her graceful progress across the courtyard, arm in arm with Waleran. Was he a fool for allowing her to do this? ‘Philippe, go after them and keep an eye out,’ he said suddenly. ‘Don’t let her go anywhere.’

  * * *

  The afternoon was hot; layers of shimmering heat lay across the land, pressing down on the earth, muting birdsong. Bees swung lazily amongst the flowers in the abbey gardens. Harvesting took place; scything wheat, the peasants in the fields stopped periodically to mop the sweat from their faces with their sleeves. The monks, dressed in their serviceable brown habits, silver crosses dangling on beaded threads from their waists, engaged in less physically demanding activities: gentle weeding in the vast vegetable gardens, or picking apples from the heavily laden trees in the orchards.

  ‘It felt so sad, saying goodbye to everyone,’ Katerina said quietly.

  ‘You’ll see us again, I’m sure.’ Squatting down on the shallow, curving bank of loose stones, Waleran attempted to keep his voice jovial. He reached out and dipped the wooden pail into the deeper part of lazy flowing river.

  ‘Maybe, when everything is sorted out, I will come back,’ she mused.

  ‘John would welcome you with open arms, Kate
rina. It’s your act that draws the crowds.’

  ‘I’m going to miss everyone, so much.’

  Trees hung low over Waleran’s head, casting his features in an eerie green light. ‘You’ll see me again, Katerina. I plan to come back to Longthorpe, to visit my family. I just hope that Belbigny is right, that the Queen’s word will change your father’s mind. You’re giving up so much.’

  ‘I have to take that risk, Waleran. Lussac is right; the time has come to stop living like a fugitive.’ Katerina sat on the bank, legs outstretched on the loose shingle. Two full buckets of water balanced on the stones either side of her.

  Lussac. The way she spoke that man’s name, in a delicate lilt, made him fume. She’d not even known him above a handful of days! He glanced down at the water, a sickening jealousy swirling in his gut. Beneath the clear surface, a shoal of tiny fish darted, jerking in unison, first one way, then the other.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t trust you,’ Waleran bit out resentfully. ‘Look at the way his man regards us.’ He nodded in the direction of the tents, where Philippe’s solid build in dark-blue surcoat could plainly be seen.

  ‘I can understand it,’ Katerina replied. ‘I’ve already given him the slip once—why should he trust me again?’ She fiddled with the little stones at her sides, rolling them around between her fingers. Warmth flooded her body at the thought of him, of his big frame against hers, his mouth across her lips. She blamed the heat; even beneath the trees, it was oppressive, pressing down on her like a thick blanket. Whereas before she had been the right temperature, now she felt uncomfortable, out of sorts. Perspiration prickled along her spine; she scratched at the back of her neck, feeling the slick of sweat.

  Waleran staggered up the bank, dumped the bucket beside the others, water slopping. Beneath the green tunnel of trees that curved over the river, Katerina’s face shone out with a pearly luminescence. There was so much he didn’t know, so much she hadn’t told him; she, Katerina, who normally confided every last detail. So much he couldn’t ask. Where had she spent the night? Had she been alone, or with him? His fingernails gouged into the calloused flesh of his palms.

  He grasped a bucket in each hand, feeling the muscles pull across his shoulders as he lifted. ‘Are you coming?’ Waleran tilted his head to one side, studying her seated figure, her sweet face, sprinkled with freckles.

  ‘You go on,’ she replied. ‘I’ll come back a bit later.’

  Waleran stared down at her, frowning, as if trying to decipher information from her closed, beautiful face. He wondered at her reluctance to accompany him, felt the surge of regret.

  ‘Don’t look so stern, Waleran.’ She laughed at him. ‘I’ll be along, soon enough. ‘

  ‘You’d better not be too long, or that one will be after you.’ He nodded in Philippe’s direction.

  Katerina sat quietly for a while, chin balanced on her knees, listening to the sound of Waleran’s retreating footsteps, the trill of birdsong in the trees high about her head. The continual flow of the water exuded a hypnotic, melodic quality and she watched the slick of water as it curved over the bigger lumps of stone, deepening the colours of the rock; seams of bronze, blue and ochre sung out from beneath the surface. Her tunic sleeves clung stickily to her arms, the fabric cloying. She knew what she wanted to do, now, right at this moment—did she dare? She glanced about, checking her surroundings, making certain she would not be observed; Waleran would nearly be back at the camp now. In a trice, she tugged her tunic over her head, stepped out of her boots and braies. Falling to mid-thigh, her gauzy chemise stuck to her skin, but modesty made her keep it on as she walked barefoot into the cool water.

  * * *

  Beads of sweat gathered at the back of Lussac’s neck as he strode out from the abbey, a renewed sense of purpose fuelling his stride. Isabella, horrified at the prospect of such a marriage, had readily agreed to scrawling her signature at the bottom of a writ drawn up by her scribe. Lussac had paced that dark, gloomy hall, listening to the scratch of the clerk’s nib against the nubbled paper. It had seemed like an eternity before it was finished, but now he had it, stored safely in his saddle-bag—the paper that would secure Katerina’s freedom.

  The grass grew up in thin dry wisps, parched and crisp, scratching at the cloth of Lussac’s braies as he walked across the field. Where was she? Where was Philippe, for that matter? The camp seemed deserted, apart from one wizened old man sitting cross-legged on a threadbare rug in front of one of the tents. He plucked idly at a lute, the pale, polished wood reflecting like a mirror in the sunshine, the single notes rising sweetly into the thick, heavy air. Across the horizon, grey, bulbous clouds gathered strength. The old man’s fingers paused on the lute strings.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ Lussac asked. His huge shadow fell across the man, casting him into darkness.

  The man hunched his narrow shoulders, placed his instrument tentatively down on the lumpy rug. Some of the woven threads had come apart, fraying at the edge. ‘Your man’s over there.’

  Lussac followed the jerk of his head, spotting a pair of dusty boots crossed at the ankles poking out from behind one of the tents. The boots belonged to Philippe, his portly frame stretched out in the long, hot grass behind one of the tents, his head propped up on a canvas bag, snoring gently.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Philippe, can’t I trust you to do anything?’ Lussac shoved his toe savagely into his friend’s rounded side. ‘Where’s Katerina? I told you to keep an eye on her.’

  Philippe held his hands up before him, a placatory gesture. ‘It’s all under control, Lussac.’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Katerina is down by the river, with that friend of hers. They went to fetch some water.’

  ‘Really? And you let them go?’

  ‘Stop fretting Lussac, look, I can see her from here.’

  Squinting across the shimmering heat haze of the afternoon, Lussac spotted two figures, moving under the trees. ‘I thought she was supposed to be saying goodbye to all of them, not just him,’ he muttered. ‘Why did you not go with them?’

  ‘I thought I would give them a little privacy,’ Philippe cleared his throat delicately.

  ‘What? They’re not together, if that’s what you mean,’ Lussac shouted back, beginning to stride across the field. Jealousy flared in his gut, spurring his steps. He should not have let her out of his sight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  What was it about this maid and water? Lussac thought. Was she compelled to move towards it, against her will, like iron filings aligning towards a lodestone? He strode through a waving sea of grass, the feathery plumed tops tickling his hands, brushing against his boots, scratching the leather. The air was heavy with the scent of warm grass seed, kernels of oil heated in the hot sun.

  In front of him, a curving line of deciduous trees marked the line of the river. The countryside was deserted, save for a single figure heading towards him, features shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, struggling along the hedgerow between two heavy pails. Waleran. Katerina’s friend. Katerina’s lover?

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  ‘She’s down by the river,’ Waleran puffed out under the weight of the slopping buckets, before Lussac even had time to open his mouth. There was a note of resignation in the young man’s voice, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

  Lussac nodded, moving past him. Encroaching from the west, the clouds piled up in ominous pleated folds, darkening. Once at the tree-line, he stopped beneath the spreading branches of an oak, breathing in the dank air of shade. The neck of his tunic stuck to his skin; he tugged at it in annoyance, feeling the damp sheen of sweat on his throat. Had Katerina moved along from the spot at which Philippe had pointed? He couldn’t be sure. Against the river’s constant burble, he listened for any clue to Katerina’s whereabouts. In the grass, out in the scorched pasture, insect
s whirred and hummed.

  He moved upstream, working his way around thickets of brambles, the tree-roots and trunks that crowded the river-bank. Boots scuffing against the dry, hard-packed earth, he took a side step out into the field again to avoid a cluster of tightly packed trunks.

  A flash of white caught his eye, glimmering out from the dark shade. His heart eased with relief. He paced towards the gleam, intending to call out, to shout her name, to remonstrate with her for leaving the camp.

  His speech fled.

  Half-turned away from him, Katerina stood in the middle of the river, the thin white stuff of her chemise floating softly on the water’s surface, like the satiny petals of a flower. Her hair hung loose, rippling tresses of deep amber, coiling down her back in a shining fall of copper. Eyes closed, she scooped the water up in joyful handfuls, flinging the cool liquid over her neck and face. Crystal droplets tracked down the slim column of her neck, pooling in the shadowy hollow at the base. Then suddenly, she sank, bending her knees so that the water swirled over her shoulders. The chemise billowed upwards, revealing the rounded, naked curves of hip and thigh, gleaming with a pearly luminescence, white marble beneath the smooth slick flow.

  Lussac braced himself against a tree, fingers digging into the ridged bark. His breath stuck to his ribs. Passion rushed through him. He had to remain immune to her, for all their sakes! A voice clamoured in his brain—the voice of sanity, of self-restraint?—telling him to go now, to leave, but his feet seemed welded to the spot, limbs leaden, unresponsive. She would catch him spying on her and he would never hear the end of it, caught like a naughty child pilfering cakes steaming hot from the oven. He closed his eyes, shutting out the mesmerising sight, but her image remained, forged into his brain. His body shook with desire, blood rattling through his veins with relentless fury, building.

  ‘Who’s there?’ The trill of her voice threaded sharply across the water. Now he was trapped; if he tried to move, to disappear, she would see him and accuse him of watching her secretly. He would have to brazen things out, pretend he had just arrived.