Protected by the Knight's Proposal

by Meriel Fuller

  But where was she? And where had Lachlan gone? Pointing her toes to stretch her legs, she realised her legs were bare. The rest of her clothes had been removed for she wore only her chemise and under-garments. Searching the small space, she spotted her gowns and cloak folded neatly on a stool in the corner.

  A glorious scent filled the chamber: a sumptuous beeswax mixed with the aromatic herb, rosemary. And lavender, too—she caught the faintest whiff, reminding her of summer. Bundles of dry herbs lay by the door; had someone treated her illness with them? But who that someone was she had not the faintest memory.

  Throwing back the sheet, Cecily swung her feet to the floor. The chamber spun and she fought the swirling dizziness in her head, trying to regain a sense of balance before she rose to her feet. This was ridiculous! Her body was normally so strong; there had been no time for her to become this exhausted. Shoving her feet into her mud-stained boots, she resolved to go and find someone who could tell her where she was and what had happened. And if that person was Lachlan, then so much the better.

  Cecily struggled to open the chamber door; the wooden planks seemed unusually heavy. Her white nightgown billowed out around her and she shivered. The dim corridor was empty, hushed. Was it too early for anyone to be awake? From outside she heard the first stirrings of dawn, the burbling twitter of small birds. She began to walk, resting her hand against the dank plaster wall for support.

  ‘Hey!’ she called out. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Her voice sounded unusually hoarse, stuck in her throat. She moved forward purposefully. Sweat coated her limbs beneath her gown; her breath emerged in short little pants, as if she had run up a hill, not walked along a corridor.

  A round, diminutive nun crossed the corridor at the end, then stopped, her eyes falling immediately on Cecily. ‘Oh, thank the Lord, you are awake!’ She bustled along the corridor, towards her. ‘But you should not be out of bed, my lady.’ She smoothed her hands down her white habit. A wooden cross swung down from the thin leather belt that circled her substantial waist.

  ‘I woke up and had no idea where I was, or what had happened to me.’

  ‘You have been gravely ill, my lady, with a very high fever. Your husband carried you over from the abbey.’

  Her cheeks flushed heavily. Of course, the little nun would naturally assume that Lachlan was her husband, for what else would she be, a single lady, travelling alone with a man? ‘So...are we next door to the abbey?’

  ‘Yes. This is the nuns’ priory. We are of the same Cistercian order as the monks. We share their provisions, but no man is allowed in here...unless they are ill or wounded.’

  ‘Lachlan...he is at the abbey still?’

  ‘I believe so, my lady. He was waiting outside the gate for ages, waiting for any news about you. But the Abbott had to order him back inside to take some food and sleep.’

  She imagined him pacing the corridors of the abbey, impatient, itching to continue with his journey. The sooner he could hand her over to William, the sooner he could continue up to his estates in Scotland. Cecily was merely an encumbrance. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘More than three days.’ The little nun bustled forward and put a hand on Cecily’s shoulder. ‘How do you feel, my lady? I’m not sure you should even be out of bed yet. You still look a little peaky.’

  ‘Three days!’ Cecily fell back against the wall. ‘I must... I must go to Lachlan.’

  Sister Magdalena laughed. ‘I think you might need to put some clothes on before you go back into the abbey, my lady.’

  She helped Cecily into her garments, sliding the lilac underdress with its tight-fitting sleeves over Cecily’s head, followed by the sleeveless tunic of dark purple wool. Cecily’s fingers fumbled over the rows of tiny buttons, until Sister Magdalena finished the job for her, closing the fabric over Cecily’s bare arms. Dividing her shining hair into two loose bunches, Cecily plaited the glossy tendrils, securing the ends with short leather laces that she found in her bag. Winding her linen headscarf around her head, she tucked her silver circlet back into her bag, not wanting to wear it in such austere surroundings.

  ‘You had best wear your cloak, my lady.’ Sister Magdalena lifted the one remaining garment from the oak coffer and swung it around Cecily’s shoulders. ‘It’s bright outside, but there is a cold wind.’

  Linking her arm in Cecily’s, Sister Magdalena led her along the corridors of the priory, out, out into the brilliant sunshine. They walked towards the arched gateway set into the thick stone wall that divided the abbey from the nuns’ priory. Slanting sunlight lit the bare, frilling branches of an oak tree standing alongside the path, striking the nubbled bark at an oblique angle. Through the few remaining leaves, sparrows darted about in a flurry of wings, sudden streaks of white. Further to their left, down on the river floodplain, across that flat grassland studded with sheep, starlings swooped and turned in the quiet afternoon chill, a wave of swirling black dots.

  Sister Magdalena lifted her hand, grabbing the bell rope that hung to one side. Cecily held her breath; her heart picked up a beat, beginning to race. The gate creaked open and a monk peered through, his skin creased, tanned, from a lifetime spent outdoors. A fraying rope gathered his rough habit around his portly waist.

  ‘Where is Lord Lachlan?’ Sister Magdalena asked. ‘I would take Lady Cecily to see him.’

  The sound of Lachlan’s name, spoken on the nun’s lips, rolled through her. Cecily’s nerves tightened with anticipation. Quickened.

  ‘Oh...he is in the stables,’ the monk replied. ‘But you cannot come in here, Sister. You know the rules.’

  ‘Step aside, young man.’ Sister Magdalena’s voice rose, strengthened with protest. ‘This is not a time to be handing out orders. Stand aside, I beg you.’ Dipping his head in acquiescence, the monk did as he was told and the two women swept through into the grounds of the abbey.

  ‘Do you know the way?’ Cecily asked, as the little nun steered her down a grassy slope, in the direction of the river.

  ‘I do,’ Sister Magdalena replied, giggling. ‘It’s my secret; tell no one. We will go through the abbey gardens.’

  Cecily lifted her chin, tipping her face up to the weak, winter sunshine. The tepid heat kissed her skin. She turned to Sister Magdalena and smiled at her. ‘It’s so good to be out in the fresh air,’ she said. ‘I feel as though I have been cooped up for ages.’ The stiff breeze, racing up the river valley from the sea, whipped at their skirts, sending their hems flying upwards as they walked along the narrow path through the neat gardens of the abbey.

  They followed a corner around the bottom of the slope and proceeded along a path bordered by a trellis. A climbing rose had been carefully trained and tied along its length, vigorous thorns poking out at intervals from the green arching branches. A rosebud, petals brown and folded into a solid clump, clung tenaciously to a stalk.

  ‘These are the stables.’ Sister Magdalena stopped at an open gateway in a stone wall. Inside was a cobbled yard, surrounded on three sides by low, open-fronted buildings. A pile of horse manure, mixed with straw, steamed slowly in the middle of the yard. ‘Can you see him?’

  In the dimness of the stables, Cecily spotted the familiar flick of brindled hair. Her heart jolted.

  ‘Yes.’ What, in heaven’s name, was she going to say to him? Her brain seemed washed blank from the illness.

  Sister Magdalena frowned at Cecily’s pale, washed-out features. ‘Do you want me to come in with you? You’re still a little unsteady on your feet.’

  ‘No, no, you go back. Thank you, Sister.’ Cecily grabbed the nun’s hands. ‘Thank you for looking after me.’

  ‘It was my pleasure.’ Sister Magdalena smiled. ‘Now go to your husband.’

  Shame flicked through her at the lie. She sighed. At what might have been.

  * * *

  Lachlan was grooming the stallion that he had borrowe
d from King Henry. His sinewy fingers curled around the brush, moving over the animal in long, sweeping movements. The horse’s pelt gleamed, shining in the bright sunlight.

  As Cecily walked slowly towards him, her heart thudding, she watched the strong ripple of his shoulder muscles beneath the snug-fitting tunic. She remembered the sleekness of his limbs against hers, the sheer ecstasy of their lovemaking. She would never know such closeness again. Her relationship with William wouldn’t even come close to what she had shared with Lachlan. There, she had said it. She had admitted it to herself, at least. She wanted Lachlan and no one else.

  At the sound of her light step, Lachlan turned, brush suspended in the air. The bristles shone in the dipping light as it slipped from his fingers, plopping down on to the straw-strewn cobbles. ‘Oh, my God... Cecily,’ he said, striding towards her. ‘You’re...here!’ He lifted her freezing hands, big thumbs playing over her knuckles. Her face was vivid, cheeks slapped bright with the cold air. ‘And...you are well again? How do you feel?’

  ‘I feel...fine,’ Cecily said. Smiling, she traced the lean angles in his face, the generous curve of his mouth. Her heart twisted with love for him.

  Squeezing her fingers tight, Lachlan shook his head. ‘I was so worried about you, Cecily. My God, when you were in that bedchamber, tossing and turning, feverish... I thought...’ his blue eyes darkened ‘...I thought I would lose you.’

  Cecily frowned at the possessiveness of his words; wondering at it. Her head spun and she swayed before him. Why would it even have mattered much to him? He was going to leave her, anyway.

  ‘Come, sit down here,’ Lachlan muttered, leading her to a wooden seat outside the stables, pushing her down gently on to it. He studied her face, the shadowed hollows beneath her cheeks, the daubs of blue beneath her eyes, then sat down on the bench next to her, stretching out his long legs over the cobbles. ‘You gave me quite a shock.’

  Her chest squeezed beneath the soft attentiveness of his voice. ‘Really, I’m fine now, Lachlan. I have recovered from it now.’

  ‘It was that wretched soup,’ he growled. ‘That horrible greasy soup.’

  She tipped her face towards him, laughing. ‘But, Lachlan, you ate most of it and you weren’t ill at all!’ His face was very, very close. Her eyes grazed the hard contour of his jaw, the edge of his mouth. The lips that had claimed her own.

  ‘I have the constitution of an ox, Cecily, so my mother used to tell me!’

  His words echoed out into the sifting air. Rang out. There was a pause, a long silent beat. Cecily studied her hands, pillowed in her lap. ‘Your mother,’ she said tentatively. ‘You have never spoken of her before.’

  Because I couldn’t, Lachlan thought. Because I was not able. His brilliant eyes roamed Cecily’s delicate features, drawing in the perfect bloom of her cheeks, the delicate tip-tilt of her nose. You have helped me to speak of her again, he thought. You have done this.

  Cecily bit her lip, hesitating. Should she risk his anger, his coldness, if she asked about his mother? She took a deep breath, gaining confidence from the soft look in Lachlan’s eyes. ‘What was she like?’

  His gaze followed the white curve of the scarf that framed Cecily’s face. He thought of her misplaced bravery, her efforts to protect her family, her resilience in the face of despair.

  ‘She was very like you,’ Lachlan said. ‘Brave. Beautiful.’

  Cecily flushed. ‘I’m neither of those things.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, Cecily. Do you have no idea of your own worth?’

  No, she thought. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, stretching out her legs beneath her skirts, feeling the cramped muscles in her legs relish in the movement after being stuck in bed. ‘I just did what had to be done.’

  ‘Because there was no one to help you,’ Lachlan said softly. ‘No one to look out for you or share some of the burden.’

  Cecily’s head whipped around, snagged his eyes, translucent blue, shimmering in the afternoon light. ‘Exactly. That’s exactly how it was.’

  ‘And will William look out for you? Will he care for you and be a good husband?’

  The name doused through her like cold water. Her chest caved in with sadness. ‘Yes, William will look after me,’ Cecily replied dully.

  ‘The monks know where he lives. They have given me directions. Only a few miles from here, in fact. That’s why I’m saddling the horse; I was going to fetch him for you.’

  Please. Don’t go, her mind screamed at him. But Lachlan didn’t want her. Despite the fact that he thought she was brave and beautiful, he still didn’t want her and, practically, she needed a husband to protect her from the King. William would have to do.

  Cecily closed her eyes, leant her shoulders back against the stable wall. ‘How long will you be?’ she murmured.

  ‘A few hours, at most,’ Lachlan said. He traced the delicate line of her jaw, sinking his gaze into her creamy, alabaster skin, the faint flush of her cheek. The fragile skin of her eyelids, like petals over the brilliance of her eyes. A few hours, and the light would go out of his life. ‘I will bring William back to you.’

  * * *

  Cecily sat, her eyes closed, alone in the sunshine, for a long time. She heard the click and slide of hooves on the cobbles as Lachlan rode away. Sadness sunk through her, a heavy, grating despair. How could she let him ride away from her like this, how could she give him up, so easily, after all they had shared together? Her hands splayed out across her skirts. Lachlan had told her how beautiful she was, how brave, yet she was just sitting here, feeling dejection wash over her like physical pain. Where was that bravery, that courage, now?

  She needed to fight for him.

  Cecily jumped up, swaying slightly. The silver embroidery around the hem of her purple gown winked, sparkling in the sunlight. There was no time to saddle her horse. She strode, fast-paced, through the abbey gates, following the track on which she and Lachlan had approached the abbey, all those days ago. Weakness sapped the customary strength in her legs, her leather boots stumbling over the loose stones, and she pursed her lips, hating the frailty caused by her illness.

  The track led her through an area of flat pasture, cropped grassland that would cover with water when the river was in flood. Below her, the river broke into several tributaries, casting a shining net of water across the floodplain before heading out to sea. Lines of willow followed these curving streams, branches a burnt orange colour, rising straight and tall, vivid against the washed blue sky. A few sheep grazed idly, their white woollen coats dotting the sparse green landscape. They eyed her warily as she walked past, following the flap and snap of her cloak as the breeze tugged out her hem behind her.

  Her gaze tore over the landscape, searching for him. Then, in the distance, she spotted the glossy rump of Lachlan’s horse, shining out against the dull grasslands. He was not that far ahead, almost level with a clump of willows that bordered the main channel of the river.

  ‘Lachlan!’ she shouted, her breath catching in her lungs. Holding her skirts high, she sped down the track, her feet slipping, skittering over the stones, the sticky patches of mud. Her heart pounded, struggling with the effort of running. Her head spun. But she had to reach him, stop him. She had to fight for him. For right now, she had nothing to lose.

  Her step slowed as she ran through a soggy patch of ground. Horrible, stinking mud clung to her boots, splattered her skirts as she staggered on, her eyes pinned to the flash of his hair, the flowing lines of his cloak. In dismay, she watched him steer his horse into the river, plumes of water splashing up as he rode through the shallows. Had he not heard her calling?

  Cecily reached the water’s edge, boots crunching on the shingle beach. His horse had slowed, thank God, as he steered the animal into deeper water.

  ‘Lachlan!’ Cecily shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. Above her head, seagulls wheeled
and screeched, and she shouted again, her cries fighting through their high-pitched calls, ‘Come back! I need to talk to you!’ The force of her voice scoured her throat, but she cared not.

  Lachlan turned his head in astonishment, his eyes immediately pinpointing the lone figure on the shore. The violet gown, wool mud-spattered and wet, clinging to the delicious indent of her waist. The white veil blowing across the beautiful oval of her face. The liquid green of her eyes, pinning him to the spot. What in hell’s name was she doing?

  His heart melted, coalescing with love at the sight of her. Christ, how he loved her. The words burst into his brain, searing into the back of his skull. Yes, he thought, I do love her. With a scowl he dashed his foolish thoughts away. She didn’t want him, she wanted to marry William.

  He flung his arm towards her. ‘Cecily, don’t be an idiot, go back!’ he growled. Christ, why was she out here, on her own? Her face was pale, wan, and she hugged her arms around her middle as she wavered on the riverbank.

  ‘I’m not leaving here until you come back and talk to me!’ Her words carried across the swirling water towards him, cutting through the feral screech of seabirds, the clack of rooks as they squawked past.

  Had he heard her aright?

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Lachlan! Come back!’ Lifting her skirts impatiently, she took a step forward, almost running into the water in an effort to reach him. Incredulous, he stared at her for a moment, before realising her intention.

  ‘Cecily, stop! I’m coming,’ he bellowed, squeezing his knees into his horse’s flank to turn the animal, pushing the animal at full speed into the water. Plumes of water fanned upwards, frothing white as he reined the animal in, sharply, beside her. ‘What are you doing, you foolish woman?’ he yelled down at her. ‘You’re just out of your sickbed, do you want to be ill again?’

  ‘Why did you lie to me about what Henry said?’ She stood, legs planted wide beneath her skirts as if to give her some stability on the stony bank. ‘Why did you lie?’ She rested one hand on his horse’s neck as he brought the animal alongside her. Her cheeks were flushed, the ends of her linen headscarf trailing limply across her bodice.