Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  Matilda shrugged her shoulders. Tiredness swamped her, robbing her brain of logical thought. She was at a loss to explain Katherine’s strange, despairing mood. At a loss as to the method by which she could persuade Katherine to accept her daughter. All she wanted to do was to leave this place, to go home to Lilleshall and sleep. But first, she had to find John.

  * * *

  The great hall was deserted, except for two menservants working industriously along each trestle table. One piled the detritus from the night before onto a wooden tray whilst the other followed him, scrubbing vigorously at the stained wooden planks. Pewter tankards lay on their sides, both on the tables and across the flagstones; half-chewed meat bones and lumps of bread spread haphazardly across the tables. Dogs trotted about, sniffing hungrily, seeking out a stray crust here, a discarded bit of fat there, their paws making little sound on the mead-soaked straw that covered the grey flagstones.

  As she hovered in the doorway, Matilda’s stomach heaved at the stench of stale alcohol in the air, the smell of greasy meat and rank straw. Pressing one hand against her belly, she wondered if Henry and his men had found the guest accommodation last night—in her haste to help Katherine upstairs, she had forgotten to give the servants any orders. She hoped John had remembered to tell the servants to make up the truckle beds in the guest tower. Not that they would have been there for very long. Judging by the mess they had made, she suspected they had been taking advantage of John’s hospitality until the small hours of the morning.

  Seeing her on the high dais, both servants stopped what they were doing, bowing respectfully.

  ‘Any news, my lady?’ asked one of them, in the process of carrying a heavily laden tray in the direction of the kitchens.

  Matilda nodded. ‘Yes, but your lord has to be the first to know. Do you know where he might be?’

  ‘I’m here.’ A guttural voice cut across her question, assailed her. From the opposite end of the high dais, John approached from the garderobe, adjusting the leg of his hose, before flapping his tunic down over his thighs. Matilda turned her gaze away in distaste, pert nose wrinkling.

  John threw himself into his chair, eyes bleary, bloodshot. ‘Christ, my head!’ He leaned forwards suddenly, thumping one clenched fist against his forehead. ‘It’s like hammers in there!’ With one hand pressed against his lined brow, he wrenched his thick neck towards Matilda. ‘Haven’t you got any of those powders you women take?’

  Matilda frowned. Why did he not ask about Katherine? Had John drunk so much that he had forgotten that his wife had been labouring away half the night?

  ‘Well?’ he barked, unsmiling. His beady eyes roved over her, narrowing on her slim waist in the rose-coloured gown, staring critically at her silky chestnut hair. She had removed her circlet and veil at some point in the night and her hair was only held upright by the few pins driven into the plaited coils above each ear. One of the coils was beginning to work loose; she could feel the slipping hair across her ear.

  ‘I can fetch you some in a moment, if you wish…’ she began hesitantly.

  ‘Fetch me some now!’ John thumped his fist heavily on the table.

  Matilda stepped forwards, her spirit quailing at John’s slurred tones. A frozen lump began to form in the centre of her stomach. She stretched out one hand towards his shoulder, intending to touch him, but she changed her mind as his bloodshot eyes constricted, half closing, and his skin suffused with a dull red colour, obscuring the normal unhealthy grey pallor of his face.

  ‘Do it now!’ he barked again at her.

  ‘John!’ She raised her voice above his, cutting off his speech. ‘Have you forgotten what was happening last night? Katherine was in labour, don’t you remember?’

  He groaned, lifting one hand to his forehead, slumping back in his chair. ‘Tell me, then.’

  Matilda took a deep breath, feeling the hiss of air slide into her lungs. ‘You have a beautiful daughter, John, a beautiful, healthy baby.’ She clasped her hands together in front of her stomach, as if the physical barrier could ward off John’s next words, the inevitable blow.

  But John was staring at the wine-splattered table-cloth, seemingly fixated by it. She wondered if he had heard her. How much alcohol had he consumed last night? He could barely prop himself upright beside the table; his eyes roamed all over the place, unfocused.

  ‘John?’ she prompted. ‘Did you hear me?’

  He stood up so abruptly that she took a couple of steps backwards. He had half raised his fist, as if he were going to hit her for bringing the news. The news that he had no wish to hear.

  John’s eyes bulged dangerously, but his arm dropped to his side. He swayed.

  ‘You have a daughter, John,’ Matilda repeated, more loudly this time, forcing herself not to flinch in his presence. She would not, could not, be scared of this man, like her sister was. Such a pathetic figure was someone to be pitied, not frightened of. Once this was over, she could go home, back to the routines of her own life. If only John would hurry up and acknowledge the information she was telling him, then she could leave. She stood within a scant foot of his wobbling, unbalanced figure, his sour breath wafting over her.

  ‘I heard what you said, sister-in-law.’ John ground the words out. ‘But you’re not telling me what I want to hear.’

  Matilda’s shoulders sagged. Why was he making this so difficult? ‘Why don’t you go up and see her?’ she suggested, smoothing her palms down the front of her skirts, noting the small flecks of blood adhering to the silk.

  ‘Why don’t I go up and see her?’ he bellowed back at her, facing her now. Flecks of spittle landed on her face and she wiped them away with the back of her hand, disgusted. ‘Why don’t I go up and see her?’ John planted his hands on his hips, leaning forwards so his face hovered inches from Matilda’s. ‘Because I have no wish to see my little runt of a daughter, Matilda. A daughter is no good to me. I can’t pass on this castle, these lands, all my wealth to a stupid daughter! Don’t you understand, you foolish mare! A daughter is no use at all. I want a son. I only want a son!’ His straggling grey hair fell forwards across his pleated forehead and he swept it back again, in irritation.

  All our wealth, corrected Matilda silently. This castle had belonged to their mother before Katherine’s marriage and John made no secret of wanting to own all the property and land belonging to the two sisters.

  ‘I will have a son, Matilda! Mark my words. And if my own wife won’t provide one, then I’ll have to use other means!’ He was strutting about before her with rage, a few steps one way, before turning, taking a few steps the other way, like an outraged bantam cock.

  Matilda scarcely heard his words, almost staggering back under the weight of her fatigue. Why was no one happy about this birth except for her? She had successfully managed to turn the baby, encouraged those squalling limbs to emerge into the world. She had watched her niece take her first breath, outraged and indignant, her flesh pinking up quickly in the cloth across her lap. To her, the whole occasion had been so wonderful, so special, but everyone around her seemed intent on taking the joy out of the situation.

  She turned to go, a sense of wretchedness tugging at her heart. Her long skirts pursued her, slithering across the dusty wooden floor. She would go and bid farewell to her sister, and then leave.

  ‘Wait!’ John seized her arm, his grip pinching into her soft flesh.

  She arched her gaze back to him, outraged, pulling at his grip. ‘John! Let go of me. What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘No, not really. You’re obviously not happy.’ She frowned down at the pudgy fingers digging into her upper arm. ‘Would you let go of me, please?’ Her voice wobbled treacherously, the confidence suddenly leaching from her tone.

  ‘I will have a son by any means possible, I said.’

&nbs
p; ‘Fine, it’s no concern of mine,’ Matilda replied. Let him find some willing whore on whom to father a bastard son, so the line of succession could be maintained.

  ‘You, Matilda. I will beget a child by you. You share your sister’s lineage. You will come into a sizeable fortune on your mother’s death. My child, my son, shall be your son.’

  Shock ricocheted through her; her knees sagged. She stared into his sweaty, pallid face. ‘Have you truly lost your wits?’ she said, all the time tugging at her arm. John couldn’t be serious, could he? She glanced around the great hall, searching for help; the two servants from earlier had disappeared.

  ‘Come with me, now!’ He began to drag her across the high dais, towards the side door.

  ‘No, I shan’t go with you! I won’t! You can’t do this!’ She yanked at her arm, desperately trying to escape his hold. He was stronger than his portly stature implied. ‘John, you can’t do this!’ They had reached the curtained doorway. Yanking her arm down with a strong tug, she managed to break his hold, to turn away. But he seized the back of her dress, spun her round with such force that her head thumped against the wall.

  His hand closed around her neck, his elbow rammed into her shoulder, pinning her against the damp plaster ‘You will do this, Matilda, whether you like it or not. And we can do it here, in full view of the servants, with your skirts thrown over your head like a common whore, or we can do it in the privacy of my chambers. Your choice.’

  His breath was foetid, rancid with old wine. She closed her eyes, fear running through her like icy liquid, sapping the strength from her limbs, diluting her fighting spirit. Hot tears sprang beneath her eyelids. Was this how her life was going to be? Her innocence seized by her greedy brother-in-law because he wanted a son to inherit? Was this it?

  * * *

  For the second time that morning, Gilan strode across the cobbled courtyard and into the stables. The horses had been fed and the stable lads were busy running around following his earlier orders: to fit bridles and saddles in readiness for the journey ahead. He lifted his chin to the rafted ceiling of the stables, indicating the floor above, where Henry’s soldiers had been housed on simple truckle beds for the night. ‘Any sign? Any sounds at all?’ he asked one small boy, who darted past him, his arm loaded down with leather bridles.

  ‘Not a peep, my lord.’ A cheeky grin flashed out from the boy’s grimy face before he scampered on his way again.

  Gilan sighed. Scooping a handful of oats out of the wooden tub by the open doorway, he moved over to his own horse, who snorted at his approach, jerking his head up in welcome. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out his palm, feeling the animal’s warm push of breath, the soft muzzle against his skin. He patted the long nose and sighed again, a restlessness coursing through his veins. He was ready to go, to leave this place and head north. But Henry and his soldiers were not. Having drunk so much the night before, they remained in the depths of a deep alcohol-laced sleep and presumably would not rouse for another few hours.

  Gilan had woken early, gradually surfacing to full consciousness by listening to the birds twittering outside his window. Before climbing into the generous four-poster bed the night before, he had thrown open the glazed panel, finding the air in the chamber thick, oppressive with heat. His saddlebags containing his clothes had already been delivered to his room, sitting in a neat pile in front of an oak coffer. There was a jug of water and an earthenware bowl for washing. Linen towels had been provided, folded neatly on the chest, a new bar of lavender soap placed on top.

  It had taken him a long time to go to sleep, his mind alert, picking over the details of his journey with the puzzling Matilda. The ride across the mood-soaked countryside. Her mother, isolated, detached from society within a priory. Idly, he wondered who was looking after her? Was anyone responsible for her? A father, maybe? She had said she had a brother, but had been surprisingly vague as to his whereabouts. Maybe she had a poor, long-suffering husband locked up somewhere—it really wouldn’t surprise him. But then, she had been evasive in the extreme on his questioning.

  A pair of blue eyes, the colour of forget-me-nots, danced across his mind, imperious, taunting. He wondered what she was doing now, this woman who refused to behave as she was supposed to. Very early in the morning, before dawn, he had heard the cry of a newborn and had felt an insane desire to leap out of bed and go to her, to offer praise for her skill as a midwife. Instead, he had bunched his fists down by his bare thighs and stayed rigidly in his bed. He had been able to help her when she needed help, despite the fact that she didn’t want him to, and that was that. His role was to support Henry, to aid him in his campaign to overthrow King Richard, and he would do well to keep such thoughts at the forefront of his mind.

  He would go and see how Henry was faring, try to wake him. Brushing a length of straw from the blue linen of his tunic, he marched back to the main castle across the cobbled courtyard. The morning sun touched the glazed windows at the front, firing the glass to molten gold. Leaping up the main steps, two at a time, he moved through the main arch and up the stairs to the great hall. He blinked once or twice, his eyes adjusting to the shadowed gloom. Servants rustled through the freshly laid straw on the flagstones, setting out the pewter ware and long serving platters in anticipation of the midday meal. The smell of roasting meat filtered along the vaulted corridor from the kitchens. His mouth watered.

  He placed one hand on the door of the spiral staircase that led to Henry’s chamber in the south-west turret, intending to push it open.

  A scream. A woman’s scream broke through the silence of the hall. Then another, and another.

  Gilan’s head whipped around, instantly seeking the source, his hair blazing, a flame in the dim chamber. He turned, moving back into the centre of the hall. ‘Who is that? What is going on?’ he rapped out to the servants, who stood rigid, like statues, rooted to the spot with fear.

  ‘Who is that?’ he roared again, louder this time, grabbing one servant’s shoulder and shaking him. Tension gripped his solar plexus, pulling the muscles taut in anticipation of a fight—did he know already?

  One of the servants raised a shaking hand, pointed over to a corner of the high dais, then ducked his gaze, not wanting to become involved.

  Gilan sprinted across the flagstones, vaulting up onto the dais, then charged through the curtained archway set in the far corner. He fought through the muffling woven curtains, becoming impatient, almost ripping them off the thin iron rail in his efforts to push through. The screams had stopped; he moved into darkness, the fierceness of his breath thumping in his ears. His leather soles made no sound across the uneven floor; he trailed his fingers against the gritty stone wall to guide him along the passageway.

  He thought he heard breathing, a stifled sob.

  Then suddenly, barrelling out of nowhere, out of the darkness, a slight weight cannoned into him, fists pummelling at his chest, raining blows on his face, his head. He caught the sift of polished hair, the faintest smell of lavender, and grasped easily at the flailing arms.

  It was her. Matilda.

  Chapter Eight

  He pinioned her hands against his chest. Twisting and writhing in his easy hold, she reared back, eyes unfocused, wide with terror, heels skittering against the floor.

  ‘Matilda, stop! It’s me, Gilan.’

  The low, iron-threaded tone shot through the frantic pounding of her brain, the relentless waves of panic. Gilan? What was he doing here? Hadn’t he and Henry left hours ago?

  Against his light hold around her wrists, her body slumped with a shuddering sob. Up close, he could see the pearly luminescence of her face, the glimmer of tears on her long eyelashes, sparkles of light. A pulse beating frantically at her neck.

  ‘Let me through, please,’ she gasped, breath stumbling over the words. Wriggling one hand free, she clutched at her bodice, the fabric bunched
beneath her fingers, her knuckles straining white. Her face was ashen, a red mark circling the fragile bones of her neck.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ he demanded. ‘Is it your sister?’ As she swayed before him, his hands moved to tighten around her upper arms, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of muscle, holding her upright. The front of her gown had been ripped downwards, a gash of tattered, trailing threads, of sagging cloth that revealed the silky white slope of one breast.

  ‘Gilan, please!’ she said urgently, turning her head to check that the corridor behind her was empty, that no one pursued her. ‘Let me through! I cannot stay here!’ She hopped from one foot to another, her whole body jittery with nerves, her eyes huge with fear.

  ‘Who did this?’ he demanded, silvery eyes glittering dangerously in the half-light, searching her face for answers.

  She shook her head desperately, panic clogging her lungs, shoving ineffectually at him, trying to push him aside. ‘Gilan, I have to go… He’ll be after me in a moment.’ In the tight confines of the corridor he smelled the sweet fragrance of her hair, the clean scent of her skin. ‘It won’t be long before…’ Her hand fluttered in front of her mouth, agitated.

  ‘It won’t be long before…what?’ he asked, tilting his head on one side in question, his jawline square—cut, rugged.

  ‘Before he comes around,’ she whispered. ‘I hit him over the head with a candlestick, a heavy one. It was the only thing I could do!’ Her voice rose unsteadily. ‘Oh Lord, maybe I’ve killed him!’

  ‘Looks like he deserved it,’ Gilan replied, his voice rough, hoarse. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘It was John,’ Matilda murmured, her eyes half closing in despair. ‘The man who is married to my sister.’ She pursed her lips together, trying to stop the constant chattering of her teeth. ‘How could he have done this to me?’