Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  Her mother lifted her head, startled by the unfamiliar noise, then shrunk back into the corner of her bed, huddling, drawing her knees up to her chest. Springing from the bed, Matilda wrenched open the door, stuck her head out into the musty corridor. Gilan was marching down the stone passage, banging his great fist on every cell door, calling her name with every thump. And at his side, her lined face screwed up, little mouth puckered with anger, the prioress, no doubt pulled from some deep slumber by his bellowing, her sparrowlike frame skipping frantically to keep up with his long-legged strides.

  ‘My lord, this is totally improper!’ she was berating him. ‘Men are not allowed in the priory. You need to leave—now!’

  ‘Not until I find who I’m looking for,’ he roared at her, hammering on the next door with a raised fist. The noise ricocheted up and down the dim corridor, squeaks of feminine alarm erupting from behind the closed doors.

  Matilda moved out into the corridor. ‘Gilan, stop,’ she called out to him. Was that the first time she had used his Christian name? The word felt strangely intimate coming from her mouth. ‘I am here. You have found me.’

  He strode towards her, covering the stone flags swiftly. ‘You were gone too long,’ he pronounced by way of explanation. His eyes swept over her, glinting, diamond-cut.

  ‘What on earth could happen to me, in a house full of nuns?’ Matilda hissed at him. ‘Now, you truly have scared them half to death!’ Beyond his shoulder, she watched the prioress move along the chamber doors, murmuring reassurances to the awakened nuns, coaxing them back to their beds.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows what might have happened? I thought you had spent too much time in here.’

  Matilda shook her head, her lips tight, disapproving. ‘You can’t go around terrorising innocent people! Especially good people such as these. This isn’t the Baltic, you know. You’re not on crusade anymore.’

  His face clouded, like a veil dropping. She peered up at him in horror, watched as the spark in his eyes snuffed out, deadened. Had her angry words forced him across some invisible boundary, pushed him into forbidden territory? The shadowed air between them pulled tight, time vanishing. She resisted the urge to move away from him, to retreat from the sudden bleakness of his expression, the hardening of his jaw; instead, she wound her arms tightly across her bosom, barricading her soft curves against whatever onslaught was to come.

  He scowled down at her, eyes fathomless pools of black liquid. ‘Do not speak of what you do not know,’ he growled out. ‘Just fetch the woman and let’s get out of here.’

  ‘She refuses to come.’ Matilda sighed, shaking her head, relieved at his reaction to her harsh words. ‘I have spent ages trying to persuade her, but she will not budge.’

  ‘I’ll budge her,’ Gilan said gruffly. ‘Surely this is her livelihood? Why does she refuse?’

  Because she has given up, thought Matilda, despondently. My own mother, who I used to think so strong, so capable, has been reduced to a shivering wreck by the death of my father. A woman incapable of facing the outside world, who has hidden herself away in this house of prayer.

  Gilan watched the fleeting sadness cross Matilda’s face. ‘Let me fetch her out for you,’ he suggested, more kindly. ‘I’m sure she can be persuaded to come.’ He took a step forwards, indicating that Matilda should move out of the way. But she huddled into the archway, pressing her hands up against the stone to stop his forward progress; the huge blocks of cut limestone framed her slender build, emphasised the fragility of her bones, the delicacy of her collarbone.

  He took another step forwards. ‘Out of the way, Matilda.’ His knees brushed against hers through the fabric of her gown.

  ‘No,’ she managed to force out, one hand flying up instinctively to push against him. He was too close, crowding into the archway with her! The wooden door pressed into her back, the iron latch jabbing at her shoulder blade as she hitched away from him. She would not allow him to enter the chamber, to terrorise her mother. Her fingers splayed across the pleated tunic, unconsciously rubbing at the ridges of tough muscle beneath the layer of material.

  He was so close that the rush of his breath stirred the wisps of hair on her forehead. Angling his gaze, he pinpointed her fingers fanning out on his chest, her touch sending darts of desire through his hard frame. In the shadows he picked out the spikes of dark feathered lashes, the limpid profile of her flushed cheek, the etched curve of her top lip. A lick of pleasure, of anticipation, rushed through him, treacherous, wild, unstable. One step, one step closer and he could have her pinned against the solid wood of the door, her delectable body crammed against his, his mouth against hers. On those soft, rose-petal lips. If she tilted her head up slightly, then…

  ‘I must ask you both to leave.’ A censorious voice broke into the sensual luxury of his thoughts. The prioress. She stood beside them, addressing Gilan, poking a bony finger into his upper arm. ‘Your behaviour has been most improper. Who is your lord? I will make a formal complaint…and make sure the bishop gets to hear of this!’ Her brown beady eyes alighted on Matilda, huddled in the doorway. ‘And you, young lady! I had expected better behaviour from you with all your mother has been through!’

  Mother? Gilan frowned. What was the prioress talking about?

  ‘We’re leaving…now,’ Matilda said, hurriedly. Breath whooshed from her lungs. Her hand dropped from Gilan’s chest and she twisted her fingers together guiltily, cheeks flaming. ‘I’m so sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused.’ The stone wall scraped against her spine as she edged awkwardly past Gilan, head hanging. What was it that made her body leap in response to the merest brush of his arm, or hand? She marched off down the corridor, neat shoulders set in a rigid line, without turning back to see if Gilan was following.

  He wasn’t.

  ‘Mother?’ Gilan repeated his thoughts out loud, indicating with an incline of his head towards the prioress that he expected an answer.

  ‘Yes, that’s her mother in there, didn’t you know? And I’m probably going to have to spend the rest of the night trying to settle her back to sleep, more’s the pity!’ The prioress pushed irritably at the door of the chamber, squeezing her wiry body through the narrow gap and slamming the door in his face.

  * * *

  Once clear of the Priory gatehouse, Matilda kicked her horse into a gallop, angry, frustrated at her mother’s weakness, her pathetic demeanour. Disappointment flooded through her, weakening her knees, her wrists; what an utter waste of time the whole trip had been! She wanted to cry, to weep, but he was there, the hooves of his destrier thumping up the track behind her, sending up clods of chalky mud, dogging her steps.

  As the path narrowed, she was forced to slow her horse to a walk. Gilan nudged his horse in beside her, tugging on the reins to match his animal’s pace to her own. ‘That was your mother in there?’ he questioned mildly. ‘What’s she doing with the nuns?’

  The wind had picked up, blowing in fresh and strong from the estuary, bending the tough tussocks of bleached grass. Matilda shivered, hunching over in the saddle. ‘She prefers it there,’ she mumbled in reply, keeping her eyes set on the track ahead.

  ‘Why would she not come? Why would she not help her own daughter?’

  ‘Because she’s frightened, Gilan. Not strong enough for the outside world.’

  ‘Not even to help her own daughter?’

  Matilda pushed her flapping veil back around her shoulders. ‘Not even for that.’ A vast shudder clenched at her heart; Katherine would lose her baby now and it would all be her fault.

  ‘Is that why you live with your sister?’ he asked.

  ‘What…?’ Snared by the worry about Katherine, Gilan’s next question was unexpected. She sucked in her breath. How much to tell him? The man would be gone by tomorrow morning, riding away from her sister’s castle with Henry and his men. Did it reall
y matter if she told him the truth? She doubted he would be that interested in her domestic arrangements anyway.

  ‘No, I don’t live with my sister.’ Matilda forced her tone to remain neutral, hoping he wouldn’t ask any further questions. ‘I come over to see Katherine almost every day at the moment.’ She lifted blue eyes towards him, haunted but determined. ‘She needs me. And right now, she needs me more than ever.’ A wave of panic crested over her, clamping her lips together, Matilda tried to prevent the bubble of tears welling up, sadness snagging at her chest. Jaw set, she focused on the bobbing mane of her horse, willing herself not to cry, not to burst into tears in front of this man. ‘How can I tell her that there’s no one to help her, that I’ve failed?’ Her voice wobbled with tiredness, with misery.

  Sympathy crashed through him, potent, visceral, hitting him in the solar plexus with the force of an axe. Surprisingly, he understood. She would do anything for her sister, such was their bond of sibling love. Just as he would do anything for his brother. For Pierre.

  Would have done.

  Pain hit him, scythed through his gut. He had run through the hail of arrows, the great gobs of hot tar splattering down from the turrets to reach his brother. Cradled his fallen body in his arms. Idly, he rubbed at the top of his thigh, ground his fingers down into the hard muscle. A flick of hot tar had burned through his woollen leggings, burned into skin unprotected by leg armour as he had run, and now the scar itched. A legacy. A reminder of that terrible day.

  Rags of cloud swept across the dark sky, shifting the limpid shine of the moon. Matilda caught the flash of pain in his eyes, a shocking bleakness. Ducking her head, she lifted her fingers to her circlet and patted the coils of hair over her ears—self-conscious gestures. ‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked. ‘It’s no concern of yours.’

  But it was, he thought suddenly, surprisingly. He wanted to help, to find out more about this unusual woman who had sprung so unexpectedly into his life. ‘You want to help your sister,’ he replied. ‘It’s understandable.’

  ‘I’ve failed her.’

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice low and calm, so strong. ‘From where I’m sitting, you’re doing everything in your power to help that baby survive.’

  Astonishment coursed through her. Was he complimenting her?

  ‘Is there no one else who can help? No other midwife?’

  She scrubbed at her eyes with small fists, beating back the tiredness. ‘The only woman for miles around is sitting at my sister’s feet. There’s no one else.’

  ‘There’s you.’

  ‘Are you mad? I have no knowledge of how to do such things! I can’t do it, don’t you realise? That’s the whole reason I went to fetch my mother!’ But even as the words were out, she knew she lied. She had attended many births with her mother and watched the various techniques performed, even helped on some occasions. But never on her own. ‘I’ve seen it done.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  Listening to the steady tread of the horses’ hooves, she bit her lip. Why hadn’t she tried to help her sister before she had made this fruitless journey? Because she had felt she wasn’t capable? Yes, that was it, the fear of failure. If someone else turned the baby and it didn’t work, at least then she wouldn’t be culpable.

  But surely…surely her help was better than none at all. ‘I could try…’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘I think you can do it.’

  ‘Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?’ she flared back at him, truculent. ‘You scarce know me!’

  ‘I know that you didn’t balk when those ruffians attacked you this afternoon,’ Gilan replied. The brass on his bridle jangled as he shifted position in the saddle. ‘I know that your hand was steady enough to nearly shoot my ear off.’ She caught the wry, upward curl of his mouth. ‘I think you are capable.’

  In astonishment, she tipped up her chin up to him, met his gaze with puzzlement. No man had ever spoken to her like this before. Her father—God rest his soul—John, and even her beloved brother, Thomas, all of them had chastised her for her hoydenish ways, implored her to be more ladylike, more restrained. But this man? He sounded like he was paying her a compliment!

  ‘Should we gallop?’ he asked, nodding at the widening track before them, the spread of extensive countryside.

  Matilda nodded, a new confidence growing within her, fortifying her limp frame. She had made up her mind. And he, Gilan, this daunting knight who had appeared in her life from nowhere, had helped her. ‘Yes, let’s go,’ she said, squeezing her knees against the sides of her mare.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘It’s a girl!’ Matilda declared, handing the squalling, red-faced bundle up to one of Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting. A wave of relief crested through her; she sat back on her heels, exhausted. Tired, but happy. It had taken the remainder of the night, and a good part of the next morning, but finally, finally, after long hours of pushing and cajoling, of tears and screaming, John and Katherine’s daughter had been delivered safely. She thought of Gilan’s encouraging words last night and realised she wouldn’t be able to thank him; he and Henry would be long gone by now. The ten o’clock bell had already rung out on the chapel in the outer bailey, and sunlight crept across the woven rugs scattered across the floor of the bedchamber, picking out the madder-dyed red of the pattern.

  The baby continued to bawl, the noise becoming louder as one of Katherine’s ladies dabbed the new pink skin with a soft cloth dipped in warm water, its limbs jerking out at all angles in protest. Still kneeling at the foot of the bed, pins and needles beginning to run up her feet and calves, Matilda watched the new baby’s antics with a smile on her face. A feeling of exhausted contentment washed over her; she was happy for her sister. The baby girl was alive and healthy, and that was all that mattered. After Katherine’s string of disappointments, her miscarriages, this moment was one to celebrate.

  Emotion crimped her heart. Her gaze lingered on the water sparkling down from the violent, kicking limbs and she bit down hard on her bottom lip. She would never have this, never hold a child of her own in her arms. She had realised long ago that wedlock was not for her; she was too wayward, too bossy for most men, and she had no intention of curtailing her ways, of becoming someone she was not. If that meant not having children, or marriage, then so be it. Her mind zigzagged back to the evening before, to Gilan standing over her at her mother’s chamber door. His big frame folding around her, the musky smell of his skin, the husky rasp of his voice. Delight skipped through her veins at the memory. It was the closest she had ever been to a man. Ever.

  She tightened her mouth, fighting a flicker of disappointment. Nay, it was better that he had gone. Lord knew what his constant presence would have made her do next. He had made her behave out of context, sent her mind into disarray, looping illogically out of control. She was in no doubt that any further contact with him would be disastrous; at least now, her body and mind were her own, firmly embedded within her control.

  With a soft moan, Katherine turned her face away from the window, away from her new daughter. Her sable locks strung out across the stark white of the pillow, like straggling seaweed on the beach; the hair was matted, unkempt after her night of exertion.

  ‘Katherine?’ Jerking out of her reverie, Matilda eased herself up from the floor, bundling the stained linens together in a pile for burning. Her limbs ached from being in a confined position for so long and she stretched her legs and toes out, raising her arms above her head to stretch out the kink in her spine as she moved slowly, awkwardly, towards the head of the bed.

  ‘He will kill me,’ Katherine whispered. Her wrecked, tear-stained face was pinched with sorrow as she turned towards Matilda.

  ‘No, Katherine. You don’t understand. Your baby daughter is alive and well. Look. Look over there!’ Matilda gestured towards the window,
where one of Katherine’s ladies was now using a soft towel to dry the yelling, indignant newborn. A sable fuzz of hair peeked out above the crook of the lady’s arm, burnished by the morning light nudging in through the window.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Matilda.

  ‘She’s a girl,’ Katherine juddered out, her voice muffled by the pillow. Her fingers plucked at the fine linen, agitated. ‘John wanted a boy. You’ll have to go and tell him, Matilda. Don’t let him in here. I can’t face him. I can’t!’ Tears of desperation flowed down Katherine’s face as she turned towards Matilda, her expression distraught.

  Matilda crouched down by the bed, stroked back her sister’s sweat-streaked hair. ‘You’ll feel better soon,’ she said. ‘When you’ve fed your daughter, when you’ve had a bath…’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ Katherine’s response was clipped, bitter. ‘John wanted a boy! I wanted a boy! You’ll have to tell him, Matilda. Tell John that he has a daughter and see what he does!’ Her voice rose shrilly, tinged with a tremulous note of hysteria. Against the bedlinens, Katherine’s face was milk-white, pallid, her lips cracked and dry.

  Matilda grasped her sister’s hand; the fingers were limp, cold. ‘I think you are exhausted, Katherine. I’ll go down and ask the servants to bring up some broth. You need your strength.’

  ‘Find John,’ Katherine whispered, her eyes half closing. ‘Oh, Lord, I wish I had died along with the child. God knows what he’s going to do to me.’

  ‘He will do nothing to you, Katherine,’ Matilda replied briskly, frowning at her sister’s dramatic words. ‘I’ll go and find him now.’ She moved over to a low table by the window. Pouring water from a jug into an earthenware bowl, she rinsed her hands in the cool liquid and splashed her face. Submerging a linen washcloth, she wrung out the drops from the material, smoothing it across the back of her neck, across her throat. She longed for a bath, a change of clothes. Drying her hands, she snared the eye of another of Katherine’s ladies, hovering by the huddled, weeping form of her mistress in her bed. The lady tilted her head sideways, mouth twisted into a wry smile, indicating her surprise at Katherine’s behaviour, her reaction to the birth.