The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Lussac?’ She was there, standing by him. A shimmering angel, his salvation. He wanted to reach out to her, and draw her in, draw on all her light, and warmth, and heart. ‘I speak the truth, don’t I? It’s what you intend to do.’

  Aye, it was what he had intended to do. Curious that his thoughts ran through his mind in the past tense. A spinning leaf, falling, brushed past her ear, landing on her shoulder. He flicked it away, waiting for the customary anger to rise in his gullet, the black bile of fury to rise up against her at her intrusive words, but strangely his heart felt light, lighter than it had in years. All he was aware of was Katerina, standing before him, her pearly white skin, dewy in the dusky evening, the pale flame of her hair.

  ‘It’s just that killing someone who you think is responsible is wrong,’ she stumbled on, unnerved by his silence, trying to explain. ‘And I’m not saying this because you think it might be my father, or my uncle, who did this. Killing for revenge does not help anyone.’

  ‘It will help me.’ The words lurched awkwardly from his mouth. Did he really believe what he was saying any more?

  ‘Will it? It won’t bring your family back.’

  She heard the clutch of breath in his chest and wondered if she had dared too much. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Lussac, I can see how you lost your spirit; I can see how the loss of your family eats you up inside, but please, please, don’t do this. You will never find your heart again if you do this.’

  Held in her quiet, metallic gaze, Lussac was astounded by the forceful clarity of Katerina’s speech, her boldness. No one had ever, ever spoken to him about his family like this. They wouldn’t have dared. Only a few days ago, he would have struck out at anyone who said such things, but now, feeling the soft clutch of her fingers on his arm, the fires of revenge began to wither and die. His constricted heart slackened, then eased.

  ‘Katerina...’ He stumbled to find the correct words to explain, to tell her. Overhead, the breeze sifted through the branches, lifting them, rustling. A shower of golden leaves burst down over them and over Philippe’s seated figure poking industriously at the fire, pretending not to listen. ‘I have lived with this thing for so long...and I am so close, so close to finding my family’s murderer.’ His voice was so low, she had to lean forwards to catch his words.

  ‘I know...and I understand,’ she said quietly. ‘But do you have to kill him?’

  He turned away from her, away from the sweet rose-scented fragrance of her skin, her limpid dove-grey eyes, and fumbled in the half-darkness for the straps on the back of his horse that held his blanket roll in place. This maid was turning the whole reason for him being in this country on its head. He felt unbalanced, topsy-turvy.

  ‘But that’s what I came here for, Katerina. If I step away from this, then I let my family down. They deserve more than that. Deserve more than a son who forgets and walks away,’ he replied, hauling the thick blanket savagely from the back of the horse.

  ‘Do you really think they would agree with what you are doing?’ Katerina held her breath; she was taking a chance.

  His mind reeled back: his mother, ebony hair falling in a shining plait over one shoulder, walking through the walled gardens of his home, drenched in sunlight, his sister skipping alongside, clutching her arm. He was walking behind, inhaling the fragrant scent of the roses, the swaying pine trees overhead. Arms linked, the pair of them, smiling, turned in unison, skirts swirling out, calling towards him, laughing. He couldn’t recall the words. Deep in his heart, he knew the answer: no, they would not agree with what he was doing; both of them had an astounding capacity to forgive. His mother would even give chambers in the castle over to injured English soldiers, brought in from the battle-lines and left for dead by their own people. She would treat them and nurse them back to health.

  With every fibre of his being, he wanted to tell Katerina that everything would be fine, but he could not. He would not lie to her, make false promises. She deserved more than that. He had lived with this thing, this pall of guilt, for too long; it was part of him now, part of his character. His fingers dug into the woollen blanket, held against his chest.

  ‘A better person might give you the answer you want to hear, Katerina, but I am not that kind of man, do you understand?’ His voice sounded hollow, echoing beneath the trees. The sky had darkened considerably, the only light emanating from the flickering flames of the fire. He sighed, running one hand through his hair, silky spikes standing on end. ‘You’re giving me qualities that I cannot live up to, setting the bar too high.’

  ‘No—’ she shook her head, eyes dark and twinkling ‘—no, I am not. You’re a good man, Lussac. You’re good and kind...and loving.’ Her heart seized, clenched with a sear of desire. He had shown her so much, so much of the man he was capable of being. Her fingers drifted upwards, rested along the side of his jaw. Had she said enough?

  Her words shot into his brain, like an arrow of fire. Did she really believe that, especially after what had happened between them? Did she really believe that he was a good man? ‘Katerina, don’t pin your hopes on me, please.’ He shoved the blanket into her chest with such a force that she staggered back, dropping her hand from his cool skin to grasp at the bundle. ‘Get some sleep. I can promise you nothing.’

  * * *

  Originally, Longthorpe Manor existed as a priory, thick walls of grey Barnack limestone built by the monks on the only piece of raised land for miles around. Over the years, the boggy ground around the fortified manor, with its three-storey, crenellated tower, had been gradually reclaimed with a series of hand-dug drainage channels. The resulting pastureland was rich, fertile, producing excellent crops, grain and root vegetables; the few poorer areas of soil with their thin, spindly grass were used for grazing sheep and cattle.

  At first, Katerina could not be certain whether the darker patch on the horizon was her family home or not, but as the three of them plodded steadily northwards the next morning, frothy white clouds scudding across a turquoise sky, she began to discern familiar shapes: the solar tower with its wooden, conical roof and the gleam of slate from the lower building alongside which contained the main living quarters. The glass in the windows blazed in the sunlight, red, orange, as if they were on fire.

  Her heart leapt, then plummeted, as she focused on Lussac’s straight rigid back up ahead. After her dramatic plea last night, he had been quiet, rolling himself into his blanket and staring blankly into the golden flames. Had her impassioned speech meant anything to him? He had given her no clue. This morning, as they had cleared the camp, Philippe stamping out the charred embers with one great boot, he had been taciturn, mouth set in a grim line. She was glad of Philippe’s chirpy presence as he was happy to chat and comment on just about everything, leaving her little time to brood.

  She wondered how her father would react to her appearance. It had been over a year now—would he be happy to see her, or angry? He had changed so much after her mother had died, his character withering, folding in on itself, as if a significant part of him had followed her mother to the grave. His moods had become unpredictable, sometimes volatile, sometimes low and miserable, so that she had crept about the place not wishing to disturb him. With his brother, her uncle, who lived several miles away on another estate that belonged to the family, her father slipped into feeble subservience, placatory and subdued; she hated to see it and had begun to dread the impromptu visits from her uncle until the day she had overheard her father promise her in marriage to his brother. She had left the very next day.

  Leading the way, Katerina navigated her horse off the grass drove on to a wide, stony track, shielded on one side by a stubby hawthorn hedge. The hour was still early, but the sun had risen enough to coat the top part of Katerina’s body in a warm, fiery glow.

  Lussac brought his horse alongside her own, matching her speed. ‘How much further, Katerina?’ He was so c
lose to her that the lower part of his leg, encased in well-fitting woollen braies, brushed inadvertently against her upper thigh.

  She flushed, the colour climbing rapidly across her fair skin. Tucking her chin in the air, she pointed. ‘Look over there.’ The edge of her cloak fell back, revealing a scarlet lining, patched and worn. Several threads hung from the seam that joined the lining and the outer wool fabric together. ‘That is my home. That is Longthorpe.’

  Lussac scrunched up his eyes in the direction she indicated. A faint haze of mist rose from the soaked, spongy ground, gathering, coalescing in slow trails, wisps of white floating two or three feet high, drifting. The details of the manor house emerged slowly, suspended on this thick cloud, like a magical dwelling from an enchanted land.

  ‘My God!’ breathed Philippe at their backs, as Katerina led the way across the raised causeway directly towards the gatehouse. Reeds rustled on either side of them, the top of the grasses barely reaching the level of the track. ‘What an amazing sight! It’s like a dream.’

  But as Katerina neared the house, droplets of mist chill upon her face, she realised how wrong Philippe was. The manor looked nothing like the place she had left a year ago. The polished grey slates had fallen, shattered on the cobbles, leaving large, gaping holes in the roof; the window glass had cracked, or was missing completely and the wooden frames had warped and buckled with water damage. What had happened? Her father was normally so fastidious about maintenance; he had taken pride in his dedicated team of craftsmen devoted entirely to the upkeep of the buildings.

  Katerina shook her head, puzzled. The climbing rose that her mother had planted by the entrance door had withered, leaves yellowing and spotted. One white rose, petals stained with brown, hung forlornly, jammed up against the crumbling mortar of the front wall. ‘I don’t know what’s happened!’ She turned to both men in dismay. ‘This is not right—something is not right.’ She bounced down from her horse, allowing the reins to trail over cobbles thick with weeds and moss. No stable-boy appeared.

  ‘Katerina, wait!’ Lussac dismounted quickly, strode over to her. ‘You need to take care. Let me go in first, at least.’

  She had reached the arched doorway, set into the gable end of the main house, before she stopped. ‘But it’s my father,’ she blurted out, ‘what can he do to me?’

  ‘What hasn’t he done, Katerina?’ Lussac growled down at her, eyes darkening to midnight blue. ‘He has promised you in marriage to his brother, he has sent thugs halfway around the countryside to drag you back. I think that demands an element of caution on your part.’

  She nodded her head, knowing Lussac’s words made sense. Tears clustered, unbidden, in her eyes. What had happened to her beautiful home?

  Pushing open the door with one hefty shoulder, Lussac drew his sword, the linear steel gleaming in the dim interior. He could feel Katerina at his back, almost touching him; his body warmed in acknowledgement of her closeness. A sound of splintering wood assailed them; shifting his head around to Katerina, Lussac raised strong eyebrows, silently asking for directions.

  ‘That way,’ whispered Katerina, pointing at an embroidered curtain hanging across a stone arch. ‘The sound is coming from the great hall.’

  She followed Lussac closely, standing on tiptoes to peep over his shoulder, anxious, afraid of what she might see. A man stood over by the vast stone fireplace, stooped, muttering, an axe in one hand, hacking randomly at what looked like the remains of a carved oak chair. The dull blade of the axe struck the polished wood repeatedly, obviously aiming to reduce the beautiful piece of furniture to a mass of serviceable firewood.

  ‘Who is it?’ Lussac hissed.

  ‘My God, it’s my father!’ Katerina clutched at Lussac’s arm, shock cascading in sharp rivulets through her veins, needles of fire. ‘Please, don’t do anything to him, don’t harm him!’ She stared up into Lussac’s carved features, shadowed by the stone arch of the doorway, desperation pinned to her pale face. ‘At least hear what he has to say for himself!’

  Lussac tipped his head forwards in slow acknowledgement of her plea. With his body tense, rigid and acutely aware of the small delectable figure rolled into her blanket at his side, he had lain awake for most of the previous night, thinking about what Katerina had said. He had stared into the dying flames until his eyes scratched with tiredness. Her passionate words had released him, operating like a key on the final lock of his stiff, dried-up heart, releasing the last dregs of resentment. In truth, ever since he had met her, wilful and truculent in the forest, the radiant aura of her spirit had nurtured him, warmed him, gradually melting the frozen wasteland of his revenge. She had helped him; but what had he done for her? He had only taken from her, taken her physically; tormented her, forcing her to lead him to her family. It was as if a blindfold had dropped from his eyes; suddenly he could see clearly again. Everything was crystal bright, vivid.

  Snared in his thoughts, Lussac failed to prevent Katerina from plunging forwards, his fingers holding fleetingly, then losing, the flying side of her cloak. She rushed over to her father, reaching out to grab his arm, to prevent the axe from doing more damage. ‘Father! In God’s name, Father, what are you doing?’

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ The man observed her through watery eyes, suspicious, cradling the axe against his chest like a friend. Lussac moved closer to Katerina, his gauntleted hands poised on his sword, ready to strike, to protect her. The man looked wild, demented. Philippe hovered near the curtained doorway, sweeping the chamber with his eyes, assessing the situation.

  ‘It’s me, Father, Katerina. Don’t you recognise me?’ Her heart sank at the sight of him. His hair, what was left of it, hung down in lank, greasy locks either side of his gaunt face, covering his ears. The knobbly ridge of his collar-bone poked up from beneath his tunic; he was too thin. His clothes were ripped and dirty, his leather boots warped with age.

  Fingers roped with arthritis stretched out, touched the vital flame of her hair. ‘Katerina,’ the old man murmured. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘What has happened to you? What’s happened to this place?’ Her eyes roamed around the hall; everything was missing, the tapestries, the shields and swords that had decorated the walls, all the silverware. There were no tables, or benches—had her father burned them all? Only the flagstones remained, stained with wine and ale, and the small pile of furniture clustered around the fireplace.

  Her father began to shake, his eyes rounding with fear. ‘You must leave, Katerina, go from here!’ Without warning, he placed a hand on her shoulder, shoving roughly.

  ‘Hey! None of that!’ Lussac stepped in front of Katerina and pushed her father backwards with his muscled bulk, deftly removing the axe from his feeble grasp.

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand.’ Katerina’s father blinked up at Lussac, as if noticing his presence for the first time. ‘You have to take her out of here—he will kill her when he sees her! He said that to me: “If I can’t have her, then I will kill her!”’

  ‘Who, who said that, Father?’ Katerina placed one hand on Lussac’s arm, skirting around him.

  ‘Thomas.’ He spat the name out.

  ‘My uncle,’ Katerina answered Lussac’s questioning glance. ‘The one I was supposed to marry.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Here, Father, let me help you to sit down.’ Katerina caught the older man under the elbow, shocked at how little flesh cladded his spare frame, and steered him towards the last remaining chair by the fireplace. Crouching, Lussac poked at the fire, then placed more sticks in a criss-cross fashion on the feeble flames in an attempt to throw more warmth into the room.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Katerina said, kneeling on the floor beside her father’s chair, chafing at his rough, worn hands. He scarcely seemed to notice her ministrations, eyes casting anxious glances towards the doorway as if expectin
g something. ‘Why are you living like this? When I left, this place was beautiful—where have all the tapestries gone? The shields and swords from the walls?’ Her voice rose with a note of wavering anxiety.

  ‘It was because of you. When he couldn’t find you, he wanted something in recompense. I gave him money. Then, when the money ran out, I gave him pieces from the house.’ He breathed heavily, focusing his grey gaze on his daughter. ‘I did it to protect you, Katerina.’

  Katerina thrust up from the floor, uncertain, confused by her father’s words. ‘But you and he sent those thugs after me anyway? How was that supposed to keep me safe?’

  ‘I never sent anyone after you, Katerina. It was Thomas, all Thomas’s idea. He wanted you back, so he could marry you.’

  ‘Why did you promise me to him in the first place, Father? Surely then none of this would have happened?’ She paced to and fro, her gown swishing against the stained flagstones. ‘Why has your brother such a hold over you?’ Rising to his feet, Lussac leaned against the fireplace, the turquoise velvet of his eyes observing her closely.

  Her father jerked his head forlornly, shoulders hunched with the weight of his guilt. He threw a half-apologetic glance up at Lussac. ‘Because I took the one thing in life that Thomas cared anything about,’ he whispered. ‘Your mother.’ His pallid skin distended tautly over his cheekbones. ‘Thomas loved your mother more than anything in the world; he intended to take her as his wife. She was the only thing he wanted. But she chose me, Katerina. She loved me. And he’s hated me ever since. He’s been jealous of everything I’ve ever achieved in life: my marriage, and you, my beautiful daughter.’

  ‘So that’s why you constantly fight.’ Katerina paused by her father’s chair, sought to steady herself by placing one hand on the high chair back.