Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  Wrists released, Matilda bunched her hands, pushing them up against the implacable wall of his chest, intending to shove him away. She had watched the iron glitter of his eyes darken almost to black, and even in the midst of her tirade had known what he had been about to do. As his hands framed her face, warming her tear-soaked cheeks, his mouth playing along the fragile seam of her mouth, her mind told her to back away as her body clamoured for more. More of him.

  Warmth curled, deep in her belly; his mouth on her mouth, strong and insistent. Hungry. Blood hammered around her veins, picking up speed. Unwittingly, she sagged against him, her mouth opening beneath his in a surprised gasp of delight, hand splaying against the fine blue wool of his tunic, cleaving to the hard, ridged muscles beneath. Beneath her palm, his heart beat solidly, thudding against her skin. His tongue delved, and an unbearable sensation of longing gripped her, like a thousand butterflies let loose in her stomach, dancing, driving her higher…to what? She had no idea.

  High above them, the circling buzzard cried, a low, mournful sound that penetrated the sensual fug of her brain, the liquid softening of her body, driving a sense of sanity back into her brain. What in Heaven’s name did she think she was doing? Throwing herself into Gilan’s kiss like a wanton doxy, her bosom on show for all to see! She twisted her head to the side, wrenching her lips away, lifting the back of her hand to scrub savagely at her mouth. Her breath emerged in short truncated bursts, punched from her lungs. A warm sensation, dark and melting, swirled in her belly, whispering a promise of how things might have been.

  ‘Mother of Mary,’ she bawled at him, reeling back in her saddle, tugging the sides of his cloak angrily over her chest. ‘Why did you do that?’ Her breath scuffled, fought for evenness, for balance.

  He reared back from her, jerking so violently on the reins that his horse threw up its head, then paced round in a circle, away from Matilda. What on earth had possessed him to do such a thing? His mind was empty; he simply couldn’t think of the words to explain his actions. She had been there, so close to him, so beautiful, that the physical side of him had taken over, damn it, ridden roughshod over his self-restraint, punched through his threadbare resistance. The chit stirred feelings within him that he hadn’t felt for a long, long time, and certainly not since his brother’s death—the resulting grief had been enough to cap any desire. But now?

  He cleared his throat. ‘You looked so miserable, so sad, sitting there.’

  ‘So you kissed me because you felt sorry for me!’ she lashed back at him. ‘I was fine until you started talking about John, about what happened! Your words made me miserable, and then you thought you’d try and make amends? With a kiss?’ A betraying flush flooded her cheeks, moving down the graceful column of her neck.

  He shrugged his shoulders. Self-loathing filled his heart; he was not proud of what he had done. Better for her to believe he was an uncouth soldier, someone who treated such things lightly. ‘It was just a kiss, Matilda.’ His voice ground into her, hurtful, mocking.

  It was just a kiss, Matilda, she repeated his words to herself sternly. She shrank down in the saddle, huddled into his cloak. Her heart folded in on itself, rapidly covering up the delicious, rippling sensations that coursed through her slight frame. She wanted to hide away from him, to flee that glittering silver stare that pierced her hard-won confidence, to escape the tantalising curve of his lips. He could not see what he had done to her, must never know what feelings he had engendered deep within her belly, for obviously such a kiss meant nothing to him. He would laugh in her face, mock her, and she would look a fool.

  Her heart closed up in shame.

  Chapter Nine

  Lilleshall Manor seemed to float on a puddle of hazy air as Matilda, followed by Gilan, approached the gatehouse, horses’ hooves crunching over the dusty gravel. The pleasing jumble of buildings, built of a coarse, purple-hued stone, was reflected in the vast moat that surrounded the manor. Dragonflies played across the water’s surface, pausing briefly in one spot, before scooting off in another direction, gauzy wings rainbow-transparent in the golden light. Swallows, wings like knife blades, screamed fast and furious up above, occasionally dipping down to skim the pond, catching up unsuspecting flies.

  Matilda tapped her heels to the mare’s sides, steering her across the small bridge crossing a narrow part of the moat, and halted in front of the gatehouse. Muscular ropes of glossy ivy clung to the front of the building, thick, suckering tendrils reaching up and around the narrow pair of arched windows on the second floor, glossy, heart-shaped leaves stirring briefly in the still air. Through the generous span of the arched gateway, she could see the cobbled path lined with lavender bushes, bees and butterflies quivering above the pale violet flower heads.

  Her heart dipped in sadness. How many times had she seen her father and mother emerge from that shadowed doorway, laughing and smiling up in greeting, her mother’s skirts brushing against the lavender and sending a burst of delicious fragrance up into the air? She remembered her brother, Thomas, clambering onto his first pony, and Katherine, too, in front of this very gatehouse, and her younger self in her mother’s arms, watching them. Like another lifetime.

  Gilan’s horse snorted behind her and she hitched round in the saddle. ‘This is it,’ she said bluntly. ‘This is my home.’ She tried to keep her tone neutral, detached. The rest of their journey had continued in stark, frozen silence; a silence which she suspected affected her far more than it affected him. Her shoulders ached from the effort of keeping herself staunchly turned away from him; she had no wish to look at him, for to look at him was to see that devastating mouth and remind herself of his kiss, that kiss that had plundered the very depths of her soul and left her rigid with longing.

  With a slow gaze, Gilan surveyed the diminutive gatehouse, the mirrored moat and the cluster of rambling white roses that scampered across one of the outside walls. ‘Very pretty,’ he pronounced. One look at her closed features told him she would not forgive him easily for his kiss. He had transgressed a boundary, trampled in a place where he should never have gone. No matter. The taste of her lips had been enchanting, wonderful, a touch that he would remember for a long time; he could easily weather Matilda’s annoyance. After today, he would never see her again. Henry would demand his company on the quest to find Richard, and after that? After that he would have to go home and face his parents. His heart shivered with regret.

  Matilda shifted uncomfortably on the top of her horse. She supposed she ought to thank him for his help, his escort home. ‘Would you like a drink…or something?’ she asked, grudgingly, hoping, praying that he would decline. She had no wish to invite him into her home, for him to see the details of how she lived, to possibly work out her solitary living arrangements and condemn her, judge her, for them.

  Gilan paused. He should go back. Henry would be expecting him, no doubt ranting as to his whereabouts at this very moment. But Matilda intrigued him, both the woman and her situation. This was her house, her home, holding more clues as to her wayward personality, to her bold behaviour. Besides, the place seemed curiously deserted; no servants had run out at their arrival, which was customary, and he hadn’t seen a stable lad. Yet, at first glance, the manor appeared well kept, the stonework maintained, the courtyard gardens tended. Someone must be working here.

  He would stay, just for a while, to make sure there was someone else here to protect her. He strongly suspected that John would not allow his sister-in-law to emerge unscathed from this morning’s incident. He wouldn’t be surprised if John rode over to Lilleshall himself to punish Matilda for what she had done to him that morning. ‘I could do with something to eat,’ Gilan said. He swung one leg over the rump of his stallion, jumped to the dry earth, chalky pink dust flying up to coat his leather boots.

  ‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened, startled. ‘I thought you would want to go back? Surely the duke will be up and about by n
ow?’

  He patted his horse’s neck, amused by her ungracious behaviour. He supposed he deserved it. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’d better tie your horse up there, then.’ Matilda indicated an iron ring set deep in the ivy ‘One of the grooms will fetch the horses, make sure they are fed and watered. The stables are over there.’ She nodded across to a couple of low-roofed barns.

  ‘Outside the castle walls,’ he noted, looping the reins around the ring. ‘Aren’t you worried that someone might steal your horses?’

  Matilda shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that really happens around here.’ Nibbling unconsciously at her bottom lip, she kicked one slipper loose of the stirrup to bring her leg over the horse’s neck, then wondered how on earth she was going to dismount without her flesh being exposed. Checking covertly that Gilan’s head was turned away before she slid down the horse’s side, she plunged to the ground without using her hands for balance. Her feet hit the ground, hard, the shock waves from the impact ricocheting up her calves. But the cloak remained intact.

  ‘Come in then,’ she said testily, barely pausing as she swept past him to enter the gatehouse, her skirts brushing against the overhanging clumps of lavender, and up to the front door. She had left her horse untied, standing patiently, so Gilan fastened the reins around the iron loop and followed her in.

  The hallway was empty. No servant came out to greet them, no voices called in the distance. Gilan could hear nothing other than the soft whinny of his own horse from the other side of the gatehouse, the constant drone of bees as they worked their way across the lavender.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ he asked, blinking. After the strong sunlight outside, the passageway was dark, and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Shapes began to emerge: a low carved chest set upon the flagstone floor, the gloss of dark-oak panelling running the length of the passageway to another door at the far end. A heavily embroidered curtain pulled back across a generous opening to his right, and he glimpsed the serrated ceiling rafters of a great hall, white plastered walls, and rich, sumptuous tapestries.

  ‘We’ll have to fend for ourselves today,’ Matilda explained, clutching the cloak even more tightly around her shoulders. ‘Everyone will be out in the fields, bringing in the harvest.’ She led the way into the kitchen, to the left of the hallway. Again, the place was deserted, cold. No fire burned in the grate and the long trestle table used for food preparation was scrubbed clean. Pots and pans hung on the whitewashed walls, wooden spoons and other cooking implements were stacked neatly in earthenware pots along a shelf.

  Gilan’s stomach growled noisily as he looked around the bare kitchen. ‘Are you telling me that even the cook has gone to gather in the harvest?’

  ‘Everyone,’ replied Matilda firmly. In truth, she could only afford to pay two servants at the moment to live in the house with her and she had instructed both of them to help with the harvest whilst she was away with Katherine. She walked over to a cupboard set in the wall at one end of the kitchen, clicked up the latch and sighed with relief as she viewed the shelves stacked with food. There would be enough here to offer Gilan: hunks of cheese, a round of bread, possibly only a day old, and a ham, hanging on an iron hook at the back.

  ‘What about your brother?’ he asked suddenly, remembering Henry asking her the question on the previous evening. ‘Is he out there, too?’

  His words stabbed into her—how much could she tell him and remain safe?

  ‘Of course!’ She laughed quickly to cover the lie, but the sound bounced around the cavernous space, brittle, hollow.

  Gilan frowned. ‘Surely such a role would be beneath his status?’

  Matilda hitched one shoulder towards her ear. ‘He enjoys it.’ A rosy stain crept across her cheeks. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change. Help yourself to any food.’

  Before he could answer her, she had ducked away into the passageway, a flash of pink skirts against the plastered wall, drab white, and he stood in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the whisper of her dress on the flagstones until the sound died away.

  * * *

  Cheeks flaming, she scuttled along the passageway. Did he realise she was lying about her brother? Had he heard the false tone in her voice? She had seen the searching look in his grey eyes as she spoke; he seemed a little too interested in her answers. She doubted he was the sort of man to rush back and tell John the precise nature of her living arrangements for he had helped her, not once, but twice now. Even so, the fewer people who knew about how she lived, the better.

  Pushing through the curtained doorway, she strode across the great hall. The high-ceiling chamber had a damp, unlived-in feel, for she barely used this room now, living and working mainly in the kitchen. The spiral staircase was set in a circular tower at the far end; she raced up the steps, gaining her own bedchamber on the first floor.

  Once inside, she slammed the door shut quickly, heart pounding, and leaned back against the panels, as if she could keep the world out simply by using her body weight. Why did she even think Gilan was interested in her and the way she lived anyway? He had made that perfectly clear after…after he had kissed her. Almost in wonder, she lifted one finger to her lips, the flesh still tingling in the aftermath of his mouth against hers. How could she, an innocent in the ways of men, have known a kiss could be so? Her only experience of men was what she had witnessed of her sister’s marriage, and John’s despicable behaviour this morning. And yet, John had hardly touched her compared to…compared to this. She dropped her fingers, angry, shamed by her own behaviour with Gilan, and tipped her head back against the wooden door panel.

  She was so tired. Tilting her head down, she stared longingly at her bed, her beautiful four-poster bed with its serge hangings embroidered in thick colourful crewel work by her mother. The mattress was stuffed with sweet-smelling straw, the sheets were of bleached linen, the blankets woven out of the wool from the sheep on the estate. Her mother’s busy fingers had spun and woven the wool herself, thought Matilda, remembering the constant click of the loom from her childhood. A coverlet of fur was flung across the bottom of the bed, to be used on the coldest nights. How blissful it would be to throw herself full length onto the bed and crawl into that downy fur.

  But, no, she must stay awake, she told herself sternly. Once Gilan was on his way, she would go out into the fields and help with the harvest. Her servants, and the rest of the peasants on the estate, had been toiling away for days, under the instruction of her bailiff, and she wanted to see what progress had been made. The forecast had been for an excellent harvest this year; yet she knew that this hot weather would break soon, crumble down into heavy rain and storms, flattening the crops.

  Lifting both hands, she fiddled with the clasp of Gilan’s brooch, cradling the heavy silver in her palm once it was released. The jewels set in the elaborately wrought silver winked and sparkled; she set it carefully on the coffer at the end of the bed. The cloak dropped from her shoulders, pooled to the floor, and she bent down, folding it carefully, smoothing her hands across the expensive wool, before placing it next to the brooch in a neat pile. His clothes spoke of a noble rank, she thought, and it was obvious that Henry, cousin to King Richard, held him in high regard. Who was he? Who was this Gilan, she wondered, this man who had sprung to help her out of nowhere?

  Slithering out of the wrecked gown, she bunched the shimmering fabric between her hands and threw it into a corner of the room. Katherine’s favourite gown, loaned for the evening’s feasting. Guilt cut through her, a pang of loss and anxiety at the image of her sister alone, defenceless against that boor of a husband. Dare she go back and find out how Katherine fared? Facing John’s wrath after what he had done, after what she had done to him, sent an arrow of fear piercing through her. She couldn’t do it—not yet, anyway. She would send a messenger over to Neen instead.

  She switche
d her gaze sharply away from the gown, the fabric crumpled against the plastered wall. She never wanted to see that dress again. She would ask the servants to burn it on the kitchen fire when they came in from the fields. Her fingers stumbled, clumsy over the long rows of buttons securing the fitted sleeves of her underdress, but at last she managed to undo them, along with the laces holding the material into her waist.

  Clad only in her linen shift, her stockings and slippers, Matilda rummaged around in the oak coffer beneath the window, pulling out a floppy-necked working gown made of practical fawn linen, with a surcoat to match. She closed the lid. Through the wobbly glass panes of the window, small figures bent over the ripe wheat in the golden fields, sickle blades flashing as they worked methodically along the rows. The women stacked the crop into sheaves behind them. Impatience swung through her—what was she doing, idling away in here? She needed to be out there, helping them.

  Stuffing the dress over her head, the fabric whispered over her polished skin, the hem dropping to the floor. She adjusted the ties, pulling the fabric into her neat waist. The surcoat, which acted more like an apron, had no sleeves and hung loosely from her shoulders, sides open to her hips, from which point the seams were joined like a normal gown. It meant she could bend and stretch her arms with more movement, ideal for working in the fields, or in the kitchens.

  Legs suddenly weary, she plopped on the edge of the bed, fingers raising to check her hair. Her circlet and veil lay abandoned in Katherine’s chamber; in the rush to leave Neen, she had travelled with her hair uncovered. She hadn’t realised how many hairpins had been lost out of the coils on each side of her head; she would have to redo them. Yanking out the last of the pins, she allowed each braid to fall down into her lap. Undoing the leather laces that secured the ends, she sifted her fingers through the loosening hair, half closing her eyes at the wonderful sensation. The pads of her fingers moved up through the silky tresses, lifting the hair away from her heated scalp, and she tipped her head back, enjoying the cool air, delicious against her skin. She would plait her hair into one simple braid and wear a wimple, she decided, a long length of linen that wrapped around her head and protected her face and scalp from the strong sun. Her mother’s scolding tones echoed in her head, chastising her for spending too long in the open air, pointing out with long fingers the freckles sprinkled across Matilda’s cheeks and nose. She sighed heavily, yawning after her sleepless night. The air in the chamber was soporific. Maybe she should open a window.