Twitching her skirts so as not to trip, she followed the young man up from the darkness of the dungeons. As they emerged into the open air, into the breeze of the shadowed gatehouse, she staggered, blinking hurriedly, squinting in the bright light. Water streamed from her eyes, coursing down her cheeks.
A hollow fear entered her heart as she followed him across the inner bailey, through a thick-curtained arch and into the great hall. Here, she would learn her fate. Learn what Lord Simon planned to do with her. A tiny pinprick of hope needled her: hope that lay in the form of a giant of a man, with tousled bronze hair and brilliant blue eyes. Her heart lifted with possibility.
Eight large windows in the great hall flooded the enormous space with daylight. Greyish-white plaster covered the double-height walls, stopping at the point where the heavy wooden trusses arched inwards to support the roof. Colourful woven tapestries depicting the many conquests and victories of the Okeforde family hung down from horizontal wooden poles at intervals along the wall. The familiar trestle tables sat in rows before the high dais, the fire burned dully in the grate, puffing out desultory grey smoke.
She eyed Simon’s knights, sitting along the trestle tables, laughing, talking to each other, digging into the food no doubt sorted out by Martha or one of the other servants. Strange how this task, that of organising the kitchens to provide food for the castle inhabitants, had been removed from her hands, alongside all the other countless jobs she dealt with on a daily basis. Isabella had been a great help before she became confined by her pregnancy, but her mother had done little to help her in the management of the estate.
‘Keep moving,’ the house knight urged her on, reminding her that she must walk forward. He took her elbow and dragged her past the trestle tables to a spot below the high dais.
He was there. Lachlan. Sitting next to Lord Simon, talking to him, in between mouthfuls of porridge. Shock tingled through her. Clad in his dark blue surcoat, the colour emphasising the brilliant red-gold of his hair, he formed a startling, dramatic contrast to his friend, with his brown hair and watery, insipid eyes.
Lord Simon stood up, leaned over the table. His chair scraped across the wooden boards as his calf muscles pushed back against it. His voice was quiet, but strangely menacing, every word that he uttered pulling her further and further down into the depths of despair. ‘Today, you will begin your journey to the King, young lady, and he can decide what punishment to mete out for the crime you have committed.’ He lifted a roll of parchment, secured with a red wax seal. ‘Within this document I have written the full details of what you have done, for the King’s eyes only.’ He handed the roll to Lachlan. ‘You keep that safe, Lachlan.’
Her heart flared, a volatile mix of fear shot through with excitement. Was this Lachlan’s solution to her situation? What was he planning to do with her? Take her to the King, or maybe would he let her go? Cecily’s head spun.
Lord Simon stood back from the table, his hands resting on his hips. ‘She’s all yours.’ He slapped him on the back. ‘Make sure the little chit doesn’t outwit you, like she almost did with me.’
Lachlan grinned. ‘I don’t think she will be a problem.’ His hot glance ran the length of Cecily’s slender frame and she pulled herself straighter beneath his penetrating look, meeting his gaze boldly.
‘I owe you for this,’ Simon continued. ‘John and Walter can ride alongside you; you’ll need some protection on the roads and you can take them further on with you, to travel north, if you like.’
Lachlan grinned, smoothing his hand across the wine-spotted tablecloth. ‘It’s not that bad, Simon. You speak as if the north is a lawless hell-hole.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. It is my homeland.’ Scraping the remnants of porridge from his bowl, Lachlan laid down his spoon, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stood up. ‘You two,’ he said, pointing at the knights who waited below the top table, ‘go down to the stables and saddle up four horses.’ He turned his bright eyes to Cecily. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
Cecily jutted her chin in the air, clasping her hands across her stomach. ‘Yes, yes, I am. But can I say farewell to my mother and sister, before I go?’
‘I will send someone to bring your mother down when you leave,’ Simon replied, running one hand through his dark hair. ‘She can bring anything she thinks necessary for your journey.’
‘Thank you,’ Cecily replied.
Then suddenly, Lachlan was beside her, his vibrant hair burning like a flame, catching the light in its glistening strands. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Eight
In the watery light of morning, the sun hazed by floating ribbons of dark cloud, Marion’s angular figure appeared between two house knights at the top of the stone steps, the main entrance to the castle, her white face pinched and rigid. She hunched her shoulders against the chill wind, holding a leather satchel. The breeze tugged at her skirts, pulling the rich material aside to reveal her bony ankles.
‘It was not my choice to come down.’ Marion’s voice was rigid, censorious. ‘Lord Simon insisted upon it.’ She clutched the leather satchel like a talisman, as if reluctant to hand it over. Her mouth clamped into a tight line. ‘And Isabella begged me to come and say goodbye. To give you her good wishes. I’ve packed some things for you.’ The gold embroidery on Marion’s pale blue gown twinkled in the weak winter sun. Against the dark heavy wood of the door, she appeared like a glorious butterfly shining out between the two house knights in their understated livery.
In the cobbled yard of the bailey below the stable lad was saddling the horses with Lachlan. Cecily lifted her gaze at the sound of her mother’s voice, squinting in the harsh light. Her hood was drawn up over her plaits, the bulky dark blue wool framing the delicate lines of her face. She glanced around at Lachlan, tightening the girth straps on his stallion, tracing the impressive breadth of his shoulders as he bent down beside the big animal. ‘Can I go up...and say goodbye to my mother? She has brought down a bag for me.’
‘Go on up,’ he replied quietly, as the stable lad handed him the reins. His woollen cloak hung in soft gathers from his wide shoulders to his knees, the cloth secured with a wooden toggle at his neck.
Lifting her skirts, Cecily climbed the shallow steps, the flat stone chipped in places, mottled with patches of dark green moss. She held out her hand for the bag her mother held, clearing her throat. ‘Thank you. How are Isabella and the baby this morning?’
‘They are doing well,’ her mother replied tersely. ‘Although she is exhausted, poor mite.’ Marion stared pointedly at Cecily’s loose braids, hanging down across the open front of her cloak. ‘You need to do your hair,’ she hissed. ‘There’s a veil and circlet in that bag for you, hairpins, too. Make sure you use them.’ She turned away.
Cecily reached out, scuffing her fingers against her mother’s elbow, stalling her. ‘Tell me where William is, Mother. What happened to him after we left Crekelade?’
Her mother narrowed her eyes. ‘Ah, yes, William. I had forgotten.’ Marion’s mouth curled with contempt. ‘You know I never like your friendship with him.’
Cecily jutted her chin in the air, ignoring her mother’s harsh tone. ‘Tell me.’
‘He went east, towards Dornceaster. Your father sent a letter of recommendation to the Duke of Montague, but I am not certain he is there now.’ The wind tugged at Marion’s veil, blowing the flimsy material across her thin face.
Relief sifted through her. William was someone she could trust. If she needed help, then at least now she knew where to go. Where to run. William would hide her. From her elevated position on the steps, Cecily stared down at Lachlan’s imposing frame as he stepped forward to take the bridle of her dappled mare. But maybe she wouldn’t need to run. Lachlan had promised to talk to Lord Simon after he had left the dungeon last night. This flame-haired warrior might be able to help her, after all.
* * *<
br />
Cecily placed her foot in the knight’s interlaced fingers and sprang lightly on to the side-saddle. With practised ease, she twisted her leg in order to hook her right knee around the pommel, giving her a secure seat. Leaning down, she shook out the voluminous cloth of her skirts to fall in a graceful arc over her legs and gathered up the reins. Her mare nickered gently in recognition of her mistress. The stable lad pulled out the back of her woollen cloak so the material spread over her mare’s rump.
Lachlan sprang into his own saddle, the stitches in his leg pulling slightly with the movement. He twitched his reins to bring his horse alongside her own. ‘Ready to go?’ His knee bumped against her rounded thigh.
Sensation flared through her at the fleeting touch. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ Her eyes swept up the steps, but her mother had disappeared, the door firmly shut. She turned her head sharply away, focusing on the track that ran down the steep hill from the castle.
They rode away, away from Okeforde, the place that had been her home for the last year. Had it only been twelve months since she had been married and widowed? It felt like a lifetime. As her horse plodded carefully down the steep stony track towards the river and the village, an unusual feeling swirled through her: a sensation of weightlessness. The burden of responsibility eased away from her strained limbs, her muscles tense from lying to everyone for so long. The truth was out; she had nothing to hide any more. She was Lachlan’s prisoner, but curiously she felt free.
‘What was your mother talking to you about?’ Lachlan tilted back in his saddle as his horse picked his way through the loose stones. The stiff breeze riffled his flaming hair, pressing the fiery strands back from his forehead, revealing the strong profile of his face, the high cheekbones.
‘About...?’ She would not tell him about William, about her refuge. For if he knew she had a place to go, to hide, then he would keep a much closer eye upon her. Better he thought that she was vulnerable, with nowhere to go. Alone.
‘She looked so angry with you.’ His piercing blue eyes narrowed with curiosity. ‘She was not sad to see you go. Maybe you would tell me now why she hates you so?’
Her mare pitched forward awkwardly and stumbled. Cecily clutched the pommel, steadying herself, trying to regain her balance. Considering the fate that lay before her, did she have anything to lose by talking to Lachlan? Nothing she said now would make the King’s ultimate sentence any worse. It was bad enough already.
‘It’s a long story,’ she mumbled.
He shrugged his shoulders, his gaze drifting to the far horizon, the wide rolling moorland stretching away into the distance. A few trees, gnarled and bent over by the force of the wind, dotted the landscape; long, bleached moor grass dominated. ‘We have time,’ he said. ‘We have at least a day of riding to Exancaester.’
Her spine sagged. ‘She hates me because...’ She stared bleakly at Lachlan, as if scouring his face for a way of putting what had happened into words. His expression was neutral, neither overly sympathetic nor judgemental. She looked away quickly, down at the frothing mane of her grey mare.
‘Because...?’
‘Because I caused the death of my younger brother.’ There, she had said it. Cecily waited for the shock, the condemnation on Lachlan’s face, but saw neither.
He watched the shadows dull her beautiful eyes. ‘What happened?’
Cecily chewed on her bottom lip, staring at the wind-whipped trees ahead, the rippling strands of long grass, a buttery yellow colour. She sighed. ‘It happened many years ago. When we lived at Crekelade. My childhood home,’ she added, by way of clarification.
‘To the east of here?’
‘Yes, it’s further on from Exancaester.’
If they kept going in this direction, she thought, they would eventually reach it. A fortified manor house built from a warm yellow stone, set in acres of fertile pasture and woodland. When the weather was good she and her brother and sister would play outside, running through the gardens, the woods, the fields. Her heart twisted with memory. Until her brother’s death, when it had all stopped.
She wrinkled her nose, considering, wondering how to put into words what had happened that day. Her gaze ran over the two knights riding in front of them, every tiny link of their chainmail glinting in sunlight. They wore helmets and carried swords and shields, adequately armed against any attack.
Her thumb rubbed at the worn leather on her reins. ‘There was an accident.’ She spoke so softly that he leaned sideways in his saddle to catch her words.
They had reached the path that ran on a level beside the river towards the village. A stand of pines marked the crossroads, their frilly silhouettes starkly green against the washed blue sky. Wind roared through the top of the trees, leaves skittering on the track. The knights up front turned right, heading towards the huddle of cottages in the distance, the bridge that they would cross towards the open moorland. Smoke rose in thin trails from the thatched roofs.
‘It happened in the winter. The pond had frozen solid, a thick layer of ice on top.’ Cecily turned her horse in unison with Lachlan, memories crowding in. ‘A clear blue sky, sunshine. Isabella was not well, so she stayed inside.’ God in Heaven, how she wished they had stayed inside that day, as well.
She shivered in her cloak, hunkering down in the saddle. The cold seeped into her muscles, numbing her movements, making her limbs feel stiff, unresponsive. Her eyes held a haunted look. Lachlan itched to reach out, to touch her, gather her in his arms. But instead he waited. He could not force her to tell him, but he wanted her to. Because with every word she uttered he began to understand her, just a little bit more. Understand why she had agreed to enter into this mad deception with her mother and her sister.
Dropping the reins, she rubbed her fingers together, trying to warm them. ‘I was out, playing with my younger brother, Raymond, by the pond. He wanted to slide across the ice. I told him...’ Her voice wobbled with emotion. ‘I told him the ice wasn’t thick enough.’ Her voice pitched higher. ‘I told him that. I told him not to go. But he wouldn’t listen.’ Her teeth began to chatter. Emotion welled in her chest: great, heaving waves of loss, of the grown-up brother she had never had. ‘He ran out into the middle before I could grab him, turning to laugh at me. Then the ice cracked open and he disappeared.’ A sob tore through her voice. ‘I lay down flat upon the ice and pushed my hand down into that freezing water and I tried to pull him out. But it was too late.’
At least you tried, thought Lachlan. He reached over and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He curled his big hand over her knuckles, squeezing gently. His cheeks were a dusty red, whipped raw by the relentless wind.
Tears ran down her cheeks and she dashed them away angrily, forcing herself to school her features, to train them into some semblance of normality. ‘That’s the reason why my mother treats me as she does. She blames me for ruining her life. She wishes it were me who had fallen that day, not Raymond. When my father died, we lost the castle, because my brother was the only male heir on our side of the family. I thought, I thought, by doing this...’ she waved her arm angrily back towards the moor ‘...by pretending to be pregnant to keep my husband Peter’s castle, I thought... I thought she would love me again. But I was wrong. She is never, ever going to forgive me for what happened to my brother.’ Cecily clamped her lips together, embarrassed. She had said too much, blurting out her life history.
His hand continued to cup her knuckles, warm, nurturing. ‘So you took a risk to win back your mother’s love. But it didn’t work.’
‘Thank you for pointing that out.’ Using the back of her free hand, Cecily smeared the tears across her cheek. His fingers tightened around hers, strong and powerful. His nails, broad and flat, were clipped short; the pads of his fingers were rough. A deep sigh welled up from her chest and she sniffed, tugging her hand away and rubbing violently at her nose. ‘So now you know.’ Cecily threw him a tight little s
mile. ‘I suppose you think I’m pathetic for doing such a thing.’
Not pathetic, Lachlan thought. Cecily was the complete opposite of pathetic. Pathetic was a word he associated with the simpering wenches who hung around the royal court, who wouldn’t lift a finger to help themselves. Nay, Cecily was strong and determined. Clever. Even now, she was not bowed by her experience. She rode beside him, her figure graceful, narrow, straight and upright in the saddle.
‘I think nothing of the sort.’ His eyes flared with a grudging admiration. ‘Foolish and rash, maybe. But not pathetic.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her generous mouth tipping up at the corners. For some reason, her chest swelled with his faint praise, seizing his words like a talisman. She leaned forward eagerly in the saddle, adjusting her seat. ‘So, now we’re away from the castle, tell me your plan.’
‘My plan?’ Lachlan frowned.
‘Yes,’ Cecily said eagerly. ‘Remember, you said you would talk to Lord Simon. That you might be able to help me...?’
‘I did talk to him. This is the result.’
‘What...you escorting me?’ Cecily gaped at him, damping down the fear trickling through her chest. ‘That is the plan? I thought you were going to let me go!’
‘No, Cecily,’ he replied calmly. ‘I’m not going to let you go.’
‘Why not?’ she cried at him. ‘You must have something better to do, surely?’
Protected by the Knight's Proposal Page 10
