The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Aye, we fought over her when she was alive, and, after she died, we fought over you. You look so much like her, he wanted to wed you instead. I had to make that promise to him, Katerina, despite knowing how wrong it was, because he said if he couldn’t have you, he would kill you. It was the only way I could keep you alive.’

  ‘Sweet Jesu,’ murmured Lussac.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Katerina.’ Her father leaned back in the chair, sparse eyelashes shuttering over his watery eyes, exhausted by the whole proceedings. The loose, ragged sleeve of his tunic fell back, revealing the grey, drooping skin of his arm. Revealing a leather cuff.

  The muscles in Katerina’s knees faltered, sagged with relief as she spied the silver discs twinkling on her father’s arm. All the pent-up worry, all the anxiety she held about her father’s possible involvement with Lussac’s family lifted away, a heavy weight removed. She swept around the chair, kneeling on the floor before her father, the long train of her cloak brushing over the rough leather of Lussac’s boots, and grasped her father’s arm. The leather around his wrist was well worn, silver discs glinting in the feeble light of the fire.

  She arched her head up, meeting the turquoise strike of Lussac’s eyes. ‘Look!’ she announced triumphantly. ‘My father wears a cuff, his cuff. That means the one you have—’ Her speech stuttered out so fast, her words tripped over each other.

  ‘...belongs to your uncle,’ Lussac finished the sentence for her.

  Katerina rose to her feet, willowy, graceful, her eyes narrowing on Lussac. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I will pay him a visit.’

  ‘It won’t do any good,’ she whispered, a loop of amber hair falling across her forehead. It won’t do you any good, she wanted to say. She wanted to protect him, protect him from the bad feelings that would persist, that would clag his heart if he followed his intentions. But she had said her piece, had told him how she felt. She could do no more.

  ‘He lives out at Hambridge,’ her father chipped in, catching onto the subject of the conversation, ‘not above three miles from here.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Katerina said. Maybe there was some way she could prevent what was about to happen. In truth, she didn’t want to see him go.

  Lussac’s lean fingers touched the silken curl across her temple, smoothed it back. She caught the warm intoxicating smell of leather from the palm of his hand. Her eyelashes drifted down, fractionally, the thrill of his closeness dancing along her veins. The urge to lean into him, to press against the strong solidity of his frame, scythed through her—a lightning bolt of sensation. Her hands, hidden beneath her cloak, clenched tightly, her sole defence. She had to remain rigidly aloof, keep herself distant from him in mind as well as body, for it would only make it harder for her when he finally walked away.

  ‘No, it is too dangerous for you.’ Lussac’s voice was a low, velvety timbre, a caress. She wanted to close her eyes and sink into the wonderful sound, be cradled by it; she cursed the weakness of her own body—why could she not remain immune to him? ‘That man is too dangerous for you. I don’t want you anywhere near him. Stay here with Philippe. I’ll give him the writ, so he can show it to your father.’ He glanced at the forlorn, shrunken figure in the chair. ‘Although I suspect you’ll have no need of it now.’

  ‘But when...?’ She stopped suddenly, aghast at what she had been about to say. When are you coming back? She had no claim on this man, no hold over him. He was free to do whatever he wished. A raft of sadness crested through her, like a wave, dousing any hope she might have possessed. By obtaining the Queen’s writ, he had helped her, but he held no feelings for her. He had made it clear that she was entirely lacking from a physical point of view.

  ‘Take care,’ he said, squeezing her hand briefly, before striding over to the doorway. Watching him go, her heart closed up with grief. He spoke to Philippe, who nodded and clapped him high on the shoulder.

  And then he was gone.

  * * *

  ‘I think you should have gone with him, that’s all.’ Katerina clattered around the dismal kitchen, trying to find something for the three of them to eat. The state of the place appalled her. When her mother was alive, the kitchens had formed the hub of the home, a light, spacious room, filled with bustling servants, warmth and the delicious smell of food. Now, it was a dank cellar, thick stone walls sparkling with damp, a heap of cold, grey ash in the smoke-stained fireplace. The iron spit, the hooks that would have carried roasting meat and hams above the flames, now hung empty, dangling down from inside the chimney.

  Philippe hoisted one hip on to the sturdy table in the middle of the room. A thick curve of hardened grease, speckled with dust, slicked across the table top behind him. ‘It’s more important that I stay here with you,’ he said, his eyes following Katerina’s rapid, darting movements around the room. The castle was so cold, she had kept her cloak on over the light-blue gown, the hood falling in soft gathers about her shoulders. ‘Lussac can take care of himself.’

  Her searching fingers touched a sealed jar of honey, pushed right to the back of a deep shelf. The image of Lussac’s tall, broad-shouldered silhouette filling the arched doorway tormented her, drove into her soul like a knife. She wanted to weep, but instead gulped air, heart clutching in grief. He was gone. He didn’t want her. She had to accept that and move on with her life.

  ‘Here, look what I’ve found!’ She pinned a semblance of a smile on her face, turned to Philippe, holding up the earthenware jar of honey like a trophy. ‘We might not starve, after all.’

  Arms folded across his belly, Philippe tilted his head to one side, studying the odd flare of colour in Katerina’s white, drawn face, her wide, sad eyes.

  ‘He is coming back, you know.’ He eyed her curiously.

  She lifted her shoulders, the healing skin on her shoulder puckering beneath her gown ‘Why would he?’ she blurted out. ‘All he wants is recompense for his family, Philippe. All he wants is revenge.’ Her voice echoed dully around the kitchen.

  ‘Aye, he does,’ Philippe agreed.

  Her chin jerked up, her eyes a shrouded grey, lacklustre. ‘So once he’s achieved what he wants, he’ll race back to France and forget.’ Forget everything that ever happened, she thought forlornly. Forget the magical afternoon when we lay together, limbs entwined, by the cool rippling river. The kisses we shared. She thumped the jar down on the thick boards of the table, a discordant, crashing sound. ‘Why would he come back here at all?’ She almost spat the words out, her tone hectic.

  ‘Because he wants something else as well—

  A cry from above made them both jump up and race for the stairs that led up to the great hall, Philippe drawing his sword as he puffed up behind Katerina, following the bobbing train of her cloak. Together, they sprang through the curtained doorway at the top of the steps and into the dim light of the cavernous hall.

  ‘It’s Thomas, my uncle,’ Katerina squeaked, her eyes immediately alighting on a burly figure by the fireplace. She stopped, holding her arm across Philippe’s torso, instinctively protective. An icy thread of fear sliced through her chest. ‘Oh my God, Philippe, what’s happened to Lussac?’

  Stepping in front of Katerina, Philippe scanned the room. Two soldiers, dressed in the scarlet tunics of the Dauntsey family, stood by the door; another two flanked her uncle by the fire. Katerina’s father cowered in the chair, his body bent and curved; he seemed to have shrunk.

  ‘Well, well,’ a harsh, guttural voice broke across the uneven flagstones. ‘A little bird told me you had returned. But I refused to believe it until I saw you with my own eyes.’

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Katerina flew over the stone floor, closely followed by Philippe. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s right here, can’t you see?’ Her uncle swept a hand downwards, indicating her father. ‘And from where I’m standing, he a
ppears perfectly well.’

  ‘No, not him!’ Katerina shouted. Her voice rose to the high rafters of the great hall, hectic, panicky. Her limbs shook. ‘Lussac. Lussac of Belbigny. The man who came to find you.’ She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘What’s happened to him, Philippe?’

  Keeping one eye fixed on Thomas, Philippe laid a hand on her sleeve, reassuring her. ‘Calm down, Katerina. Lussac will be fine; he always is,’ he murmured quietly.

  ‘Belbigny. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,’ her uncle replied slowly. His narrow eyes were like slits, a muddy-brown colour, as they raked up and down Katerina’s slim frame. ‘Coming to find me, is he? I wondered if he might catch up with me eventually.’

  ‘So it was you!’ breathed Katerina. ‘It was you, out in Gascony. It was you who slaughtered his family.’

  ‘You talk about something that doesn’t concern you,’ her uncle said coldly, dismissing her accusations with a violent sweep of his hand. ‘More importantly, what brings you back here? I must say, I’m delighted to see you, but I’m curious. You’ve managed successfully to evade all attempts to bring you home so far—so why come back now? After all this time?’

  ‘Because you have no power over me any more, Uncle. No power over me, or my father. You cannot bully us any more about this ridiculous marriage. Philippe here has a writ, signed by the Queen of England herself, preventing your marriage to me.’

  ‘Let me see this writ,’ her uncle demanded. In contrast to her father, collapsed weakly into his chair, he looked impressively healthy, his face ruddy, his stomach padded out with the extra flesh of good eating. All at her father’s expense, Katerina thought. She hated the husk of a man to which her father had been reduced.

  Extracting the precious scroll slowly from his satchel, Philippe handed the parchment into Thomas’s impatient, outstretched hand. Her uncle broke through the red-wax seal containing the imprint of the Queen’s golden ring and unrolled the crackling parchment. His eyes moved swiftly over the document, his jowls sagging as he tilted his chin down. Lifting his eyes from the document, to everyone’s surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. A cruel, metallic sound that ripped up to the rafters of the great hall.

  ‘So do you see now, Uncle,’ Katerina said urgently, as soon as his laughter had died away, ‘that you must leave me alone, leave us alone.’ She gestured towards the wan features of her father. ‘There’s nothing you can do; it’s over.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to take any notice of a piece of paper, you are seriously addled, my girl.’ Her uncle tapped the side of his head, as if demonstrating her stupidity.

  ‘But...but you’ll be breaking the law!’ she spluttered back at him. Fear slid down her gullet, her gaze moving to the curtained doorway, wishing, hoping that it would pull back, and Lussac would be there. She wanted him by her side. She wanted to know that he was safe.

  ‘They won’t give a damn, Katerina,’ he snarled nastily. ‘Do you really think the Queen cares about you? You’re nothing to her. Do you think I care about what she has to say? Never. You will be my wife, Katerina, whether you like it or not.’

  Katerina’s world shifted, her mind hazing. In panic, she looked at Philippe, her expression shocked, questioning. Her father’s head was in his hands; he wept quietly, the sound of his quiet, wretched tears breaking the tense silence in the hall.

  In a trice, Philippe had grabbed her around the waist, brandishing his sword wildly at her uncle and his men. ‘You...’ he jabbed the point of the blade at Thomas ‘...you are going to let us walk out of here.’ He backed away with Katerina, aiming for the smaller doorway at the opposite end of the hall.

  ‘No chance.’ Her uncle smiled slowly, his expression smug. ‘Seize them,’ he ordered his soldiers.

  * * *

  Katerina drummed her fists against the solid oak door, then sprang back, frustrated, stalking around the chamber like a fretful cat. They hadn’t stood a chance against the overwhelming force of his soldiers, those big, burly henchman advancing swiftly on her uncle’s orders, making a mockery of Philippe’s brave attempt to extricate Katerina from the situation.

  Philippe’s sword had been struck away promptly, to spin in futile circles across the stone floor, a soldier hanging on each of his arms as they marched him away to some unknown prison. Grinning broadly, two other soldiers had approached Katerina, but she had refused to give them the satisfaction of fighting back; she had strode proudly after the lead soldier, following him up the spiral staircase to the third, and highest, floor of the solar tower. The key had rattled in the lock and the huge bolts were drawn across from the outside, securing her, trapping her.

  She ceased pacing, placing her palms flat on the wide windowsill, tilting her body forwards to stare dismally out at the flat, flat landscape. Her fists balled against the gritty stone, tears of frustration hazing her eyes. Why was she even surprised by her uncle’s behaviour? He was an evil man, tyrannical, a bully who considered himself above any laws. Obsessed with the idea of Katerina being his wife, he had never given up searching for her, and now she had walked right back into the whole messy business—and she had brought Lussac with her.

  Lussac? Where was he? Anxiety coursed through her frame at the thought of him hurt, or injured somewhere. Or worse. She closed her eyes, tight shut, trying to block out that awful possibility. With him gone, it was like she had lost part of herself, like a leg, or an arm. The low timbre of his voice echoed continually in her head and she almost turned around, expecting to see him standing there. She missed him, but that didn’t mean he was coming back. She hoped, beyond anything, that wherever he was, he was safe.

  Her fingers picked idly at the loose mortar at the bottom of the window, beneath the glazing bars. Some of the lead-work that held the small, diamond glass panes in place had come away, creating a gap. Katerina glanced up. A pole had been secured across the whole window, carrying a heavy velvet curtain that swung back to one side. Now was not the time for self-pity, or to wait around for Lussac to come back and rescue her. She had become used to his strong, powerful presence at her side, had relished it, but, in truth, it had made her soft, vulnerable. She could take care of herself and would do well to remember that. Quickly, she shucked off her cloak, yanking the yards of cloth that formed her overdress over her head. The extra material would weigh her down, unbalance her. She needed to be as light as possible; the underdress, laced snugly at her waist and fitted tight to her arms, would have to suffice in this escapade.

  Reaching up, she grabbed hold of the pole, lifting her knees and feet from the floor, so she could swing into the window space. Backwards and forwards she went, increasing her speed until the soles of her feet smashed into the weakened glass infill of the window and sent fragments of glass and little pieces of lead flying outwards. Balancing her toes on the sill, she briefly admired her handiwork, the substantial stone frame empty of glass, with a space big enough for her to squeeze through.

  Crouching down on her hands and knees, she peered out through the gap. The warm breeze touched her face: fresh, invigorating after the musty stuffiness of the chamber. About five inches wide, the narrow ledge of decorative stone ran below the line of the windows, where she had known it would be. This ledge would be her escape route. She swung one leg out and her foot skimmed the ledge, then found a hold, followed quickly by her other foot. All she had to do was creep around this ledge to the western side of the tower, where her father had helpfully built an exterior staircase that led to the second floor. There, she would be able to jump down.

  The gathered skirts of her gown billowed out in the drift of air; she burrowed her fingers into the chiselled stone above her head, finding handholds with practised efficiency. She felt no fear, being so high above the ground; her only instinct was to flee, to escape. Even now, her uncle might be priming and bribing the local priest in readiness for their marriage; once she was tied in
matrimony, there would be no escape. It was now, or never.

  As she inched herself along, hoping no soldiers would have the wit to look upwards at the tower, she peered into each window, helpfully set on a level with her upper body. Maybe Philippe had been put into one of these chambers; they were thought to be the most secure, after all. She passed one empty chamber, then another, until she came to the last window on this north-facing side. Thick iron bars had been secured into the stonework in front of the window and she reached for them, curling her hands around the substantial iron, resting for a moment. Her fingers ached with the effort of supporting her body weight, her nails coated with stone dust, but she knew she only had a little way to go; the staircase was around the next corner.

  Philippe, slumped in a carved oak chair in the middle of the chamber, started in surprise as the shadow crossed his window. Levering himself from the chair, he strode over, eyes widening at the sight of Katerina, hanging by her hands from the iron bars outside his window. Fingers fumbling with the iron latch, he managed to open the casement by an inch or so. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered, fiercely. ‘Are you mad? How can you do such a thing?’

  She shook her head sharply, dismissing his urgent questions. ‘Where is Lussac? Where do you think he might be?’

  Reaching out one hand through the bars, he touched her fingers, eyes flicking a warning. ‘Keep your voice low, Katerina; there are soldiers outside my door.’

  ‘But where is he?’ she hissed.

  ‘You must stop worrying, Katerina. He will be fine. He’ll come back here when he fails to find your uncle.’ A smile broke the fleshy planes of his face.

  She tried, and failed, to gather some reassurance from his voice. As the light began to fall from the day, the wind strengthened at her back, pressing her skirts against the back of her legs. She would need to move soon, before her feet became numb.

  ‘Can you get out of here?’ she demanded, urgently. A small frown puckered her forehead as she assessed the space between the iron bars.