Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  His eyes pierced through her like silver daggers; she had his attention. Binding her arms across her chest, the loose sleeves of her gown fell back; the flesh creased on her forearms with the ferocity of the movement. Behind her, a long trailing bramble snaked out from the hedge, threatening to snag her head cloth. Green, unripe berries clustered along its length.

  ‘He’s not here, is he? Your brother isn’t here.’ His voice was stern but not unkind.

  Sighing with resignation, she traced the firm outline of his lips with her gaze, the surprising upward tilt at each side of his mouth which lightened the hard, sculptured lines of his face. Had he known all along? She nodded, dumbly, head lowered, unclasping her arms to fiddle with the double strings of her girdle, the fraying tassles bouncing against the folds of her dress. ‘No, he’s not.’ She arched her head up at him, eyes flashing, as if expecting him to argue with her, to remonstrate and tell her what a fool she was.

  Above them, swallows sliced and danced through the balmy air, diving suddenly, screeching.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said into the lengthening silence. The linen cloth around her hair cast shade across the top half of her face, the sprinkle of freckles across her pert nose. Her eyes blazed out from the darkness.

  ‘Go on then…what?’ His shaggy blond eyebrows drew together.

  ‘Tell me what a fool I am for living here alone, for keeping the whole thing going. John doesn’t know that I’m on my own at Lilleshall, did you realise? He thinks my mother is here, still in charge—as a widow, she has that right by law. But she has given up, Gilan, she went to pieces when my father died—well, you saw what she was like. If John finds out that I am here on my own, I would be in that nunnery with my mother as fast as this—’ she snapped her fingers in front of his face ‘—and, with Thomas away, he would appoint himself as my legal guardian. He is desperate to get his hands on this place…’ she glanced around briefly, taking in the vast sweep of fertile fields burgeoning with ripening crops ‘…and I am desperate not to let him. He cannot know that I am here alone.’

  She turned away suddenly, head bowed, clapping a shocked hand across her mouth. She had said too much, her mouth running away with her like some old fishwife! What must Gilan think of her? He had no interest in her domestic minutiae, and here she was, pouring out the gory details. Where had her pride gone, her own self-restraint? She hoisted her shoulders up, stuck her chin in the air. ‘But of course, this is no concern of yours. You don’t want to know all of this.’

  * * *

  But he did. He wanted to know everything about her. Matilda intrigued him, made him curious, questioning. Here was a woman who had fought the odds, defied convention by running her own estate, with no male guardian to help her. He couldn’t imagine many women, any other woman, in fact, taking on such work, such responsibility. That she had managed to do such a thing for so long was incredible and brave; her intelligence and quick wit had served her well, giving her the means to hoodwink her powerful brother-in-law. He hated to think what John would do when he found out what Matilda had been up to, but he surely would; it was only a matter of time.

  ‘You’re not a fool, Matilda,’ Gilan said slowly. Her linen wimple had begun to slip back from her forehead; his fingers itched to bring it forwards, to shield her delicate skin from the hot, burning sun. ‘But you are vulnerable.’

  ‘Everything was fine until…until…’ She closed her eyes, unwilling to recall the events of the morning…

  ‘…until John attacked you,’ Gilan supplied.

  She nodded shakily, chest gripping with a renewed surge of fear. ‘He thinks my mother is here, so he never bothers to come to Lilleshall, but now—’ her voice rose tremulously ‘—now, he might come here after all.’ A huge wave of loss, of vulnerability, swept over her. Everything that she had built up on the estate over the past years, the energy she had expended, all could be taken away by a single point of law: the fact that women had no right to own property, unless they were a widow. ‘Katherine knows, but she also knows how important Lilleshall is to our family. She had no wish for John to seize it.’ She chewed idly at a knuckle. ‘Oh Lord, I hope she’s all right. I hated leaving her like that, in the state she was in…’

  ‘You had no choice after what happened with John, Matilda.’ Gilan watched the anxiety play across her exquisite features, the desolation. The urge to sweep her into his arms and tell her that all would be well swept through him so strongly that he almost lied. But that would make him the fool. Who was he to offer her comfort, security? He couldn’t even protect his own brother, let alone a maid he had met only yesterday!

  ‘Where is Thomas now?’ Gilan asked calmly, a slender muscle quirking in his cheek. ‘Is he nearby? Can he come home?’

  Hoisting her sagging shoulders upwards, she shifted miserably, from one foot to another, shaking her head. ‘Thomas is with the king,’ she whispered, the coarse fabric of her wimple sliding back to reveal curling damp wisps on her hairline, ‘which, seeing as you ride with Henry, Duke of Lancaster, makes us, makes me, your enemy.’

  He lifted one eyebrow, grey eyes glinting. ‘Hardly,’ he replied. ‘Henry has no quarrel with the English people. After all, he is one himself. But Richard has confiscated all of Henry’s estates and lands, in what seems purely a fit of jealousy. That’s why we’ve come back to England—to track down the king and force him to return what Henry is rightfully owed.’

  The meaning of his words, and their importance, percolated through Matilda’s brain. Hope, a sinuous, gathering thread, trickled through her. ‘And where are you and Henry going to find King Richard?’ Beneath her subdued demeanour, her heart began to race.

  He frowned. ‘The messages we have received indicate that Richard is heading towards Wales on a ship from Ireland and is aiming to land on the north coast…which is where we should be…now.’ He cast an irritated look at the sun, beginning to slide down from its zenith.

  ‘And do you think he will be there?’ she asked eagerly, despair dropping away from her like a cloak. Her mind worked furiously, a vague, haphazard plan forming in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, Gilan had provided her with the answer to her problems. ‘How certain can you be that Richard will be there?’ She reached out instinctively, laid one hand on his arm, roped muscle iron-hard beneath her fingers.

  His eyes flicked down; she snatched her hand away, cheeks crimson. She hadn’t known what she was doing; if she wasn’t careful, her eagerness would betray the progression of her thoughts. But Gilan peered down at her anyway, pewter eyes dark with suspicion. With the sun behind him, the shadows beneath his cheekbones seemed more pronounced, giving him a lean, predatory look. ‘Why are you so interested? Surely you have more pressing problems to think about?’

  ‘Because this is it!’ Matilda blurted out. Why shouldn’t he know her plans? He had wanted to make sure she was safe before he left—surely this way was the safest she could be? ‘You have given me the answer. I can’t stay here, obviously, because John will likely come after me at some point, and then who knows what might happen.’ She shuddered with revulsion, clasping her hands together in front of her. ‘But Thomas is the key. I need him to be here, but I haven’t known how to contact him for this past year. Nobody knew where he was. But now I do,’ she spoke happily, hopping from one foot to the other with excitement, ‘because he’s with King Richard, and you know where King Richard is.’

  Gilan groaned. He thrust his chin up to the sky, his burnished lashes closing momentarily, spiky against the sunburn of his cheek. ‘Please don’t say what I think you are about to say, Matilda.’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  He glared down at the perfect oval of her face, so full of hope, so full of determination, the downy hairs beneath her earlobe catching the sunlight, silky soft. He was about to ask her if she were mad, but for some strange reason, he found he knew her character well enough to know t
hat she was completely serious—the question would be wasted on her. Her chin thrust up stubbornly into the air, tilted slightly, her arms laced defensively across her bosom as if to deflect any refusal he was about to deliver.

  Which he was.

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ he said, firmly. A woman on campaign! He could almost hear Henry laughing into his boots from here.

  ‘But, I wouldn’t be any trouble. Gilan, please! I can ride and I can shoot. You know I can look after myself. No one would even notice me.’

  His heart flipped over, a treacherous squeezing of desire. His eyes roved over her sweet, delicate features, the full rosebud mouth he had so recently kissed, the neat indent of her waist. He thought of Henry’s men, some of them rough and uncouth, desperate for a bit of female comfort after the long arduous winter. ‘Oh, but I think they would.’ The hoarseness of his voice surprised him.

  ‘I would dress in boy’s clothes…’

  Why, it was as if she hadn’t heard his words! ‘Matilda, stop!’ he said, placing his hands firmly on top of her shoulders as if trying to clamp down on her crazy ideas. ‘I’ve told you, it’s out of the question…’

  ‘…and I haven’t got anyone to look after me here!’ She raised her voice, hating his cool, modulated tones, his reasoning. The warmth from his fingertips flooded through her, delight knifing direct to her heart, but she was determined to ignore it. She would ignore it. ‘John will come after me, and that will be that—’

  ‘Don’t try to make me feel guilty for not taking you,’ he interrupted. But even as he said the words, a vast sense of remorse swept over him. Who would take care of her? Who would look out for her when John came hammering on the castle door, coming to finish what he’d started?

  From the shimmer on the horizon, a tall figure straightened up from the line of workers moving steadily across the wheat field and squinted over to the two figures on the track. The vague outline broke away from the pack, striding through the cut wheat, stubble grating on the threadbare wool of his trousers. Shoving open the flimsy field gate, he stepped up on to the dusty track, heading towards Matilda and Gilan.

  ‘My lady!’ the man called out as he approached the pair. ‘My lady Matilda, you are back!’ He raised a muscled arm in greeting.

  Gilan chucked a swift glance over the man: thick-set and burly, with grizzled grey hair and fierce, intelligent eyes. His whiskery cheeks were tanned, leathery; his hands scratched and calloused.

  ‘Good day, Ansel.’ Matilda flicked a brief smile at her bailiff, annoyed that he had chosen this moment to appear. Surely she had only needed a few more minutes with Gilan, to make him feel bad enough about her situation to take her along with him?

  ‘Good day to you, my lady.’ Ansel bowed deeply from the waist. ‘And to you, my lord.’ He peered at Gilan through narrowed eyes, gimlet sharp.

  ‘Er, yes, this is Gilan de Cormeilles,’ Matilda stuttered over his name. ‘He…he escorted me home from Neen. And this is Ansel, my bailiff,’ she added by way of explanation to Gilan.

  Ansel bowed towards Gilan, who inclined his head, watching the interchange between Matilda and her bailiff with interest.

  ‘I trust all is well at Neen?’ Ansel asked. ‘Has Lady Katherine had her baby?’

  ‘She has.’ Matilda bit down hard on her bottom lip, unwilling to go into details. ‘And everything is fine,’ she added with an edge of finality, to stop Ansel asking any more questions. The less she remembered about that horrible night at Neen, the better.

  ‘Everything is going well here, mistress, as you can see.’ Ansel swept his arm back across the fields. ‘The weather has been kind to us this year.’

  Matilda nodded. ‘Did you manage to fix that cart?’

  ‘The wheel was completely warped, but the blacksmith has fitted a new rim. It’s running much better now. The hay is almost stacked up to the roof of the new barn—’

  ‘Do you live in the village?’ Gilan interrupted, noting the sturdy set of the man’s shoulders.

  Slightly puzzled, Ansel smiled, revealing a row of blackened teeth, some missing. ‘No, my lord, we all live in the manor…’

  Matilda’s heart sank; she knew what Gilan was doing. He couldn’t wait to shove the responsibility of her plight into someone else’s hands—it was plain to see.

  ‘How many of you?’

  ‘Why, I’m not sure…about fifty of us, I suppose?’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Too many!’ Ansel laughed. ‘No, I jest, there’s probably about fifteen women.’

  Gilan nodded, satisfied, and turned to Matilda. ‘Nobody to look after you, eh?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘First you do your level best to rid yourself of me, and then, once you realise I could be useful to you, you beg me to take you with me!’

  ‘I—’

  ‘No, enough now. You will be safe here with your bailiff. He looks like he could take on anyone in a fight, even your brother-in-law.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I said, “enough,” Matilda. Keep yourself away from John, hide out at your mother’s nunnery if you have to, and keep yourself safe. When we meet up with the king, I promise to seek out your brother and send him home.’ Face set in harsh, grim lines, he bowed smartly from the waist, a brief, perfunctory movement towards herself and Ansel.

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Matilda stared after Gilan, his back ramrod straight and rigid, as he strode back down the track, long legs kicking up the grey dust, his bright head shining in the sun, like the halo of an angel. A huge knot of disappointment, of sadness, gathered slowly in her chest, beneath her ribs, coagulating and spreading. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t fathom this extreme feeling of desertion that swept over her, driving deep through her solar plexus. She would never see him again. This handsome stranger who had barrelled into her life with such dramatic intensity, who had touched his lips to hers and pressed a lingering mark on her soul, like a brand upon her heart. She closed her eyes, fighting to dispel the evocative image, willing her heart to close up over the bitter loss. She would do well to shove the romantic images from her mind and concentrate on her own self-preservation. This man was useful to her, nothing else. He was riding to a place where her brother was, but she knew Thomas would only come home if she went to him and begged him to return, to do his duty by the estate. She turned to her bailiff, who was surveying the whole proceedings with a bemused smile on his face.

  ‘Where’s your son, Ansel? I need to borrow some clothes.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Thank the Lord we are away from that place,’ Henry remarked to Gilan as he followed the knot of his soldiers along the banks of a small, slow-moving stream. Two knights led the way, holding flapping banners aloft, the horses slowing to a walk as they negotiated the deep dried-up ruts of the track. ‘I swear I shall never have another drink as long as I live.’ Lifting one hand into a fist, he scrubbed furiously at his forehead, trying to alleviate the thick, pulsing headache that cracked his skull, driving needles into the back of his eyes. His tongue seemed too big for his mouth, dry and fusty, cleaving uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. He shifted around in the saddle, barely able to hold his body upright, and fixed Gilan with a curious look. Reddish-blue blotches sat in deep pockets beneath the duke’s bloodshot eyes, his jawline coated in a rusty fuzz of unshaven beard. ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere when I finally made it out to the stables. Where did you go?’

  The stream meandered along the flat, wide bottom of a valley; shallow slopes stretched up from its base, the upper levels topped with groups of trees: spreading oaks, ashes heavy with bunches of green seeds that would soon turn to brown as the summer ended. The grass was lush on the sides of the valley, grazed by russet-brown cows, their strong teeth ripping at the fertile growth. The sunlight touched everything with a hazy, golden ligh
t; the armour, the heavy helmets and breastplates of the escort knights shone, sparking fire, but Henry had decided he couldn’t bear the weight and was clad in only tunic and leggings, as was Gilan.

  ‘I was making myself useful,’ Gilan replied, vaguely. A sear of…what? A sense of betrayal, maybe, flooded his veins, making him want to turn back, to defend Matilda against her lout of a brother-in-law. As he had ridden away, he had convinced himself that she would be safe, tucked up in the manor house with her bailiff, Ansel, and his men to ward off any attack. But doubt plagued him and he questioned his thoughts constantly, wondering, wishing he could have stayed a while, wishing that maybe, just maybe, he should have let her come along with Henry, to find her brother. At least that way, he would have known she was safe. But who was he to think he was any better than the next man to protect her? He had let his own brother die—Matilda was probably better off without him.

  ‘Useful? How?’ Henry rapped out. The headache rapped incessantly on his skull.

  ‘Lady Matilda needed to return home. I escorted her.’

  Henry peered at him, brows drawn close. ‘She’s a pretty piece. I envy you. You must have had a pleasant morning.’

  Gilan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, unwilling to divulge his own uncouth behaviour. The treacherous dip of his head. Matilda’s upturned mouth, plush as a feather cushion, so trusting, so innocent, troubled his conscience. Lord, surely he was no better than her brother-in-law, taking advantage of her like that!

  ‘It was fine,’ he replied, his tone curt. ‘There was no one else to take her.’ He hunched sideways to avoid the overhanging branches of a rowan tree, growing out at an odd angle from the edge of the field. Bunched between the serrated leaves, clustering red berries, a herald of autumn, brushed across the top of his tunic, vivid orange-red against the blue.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders, grinning broadly. Gilan’s explanation was tenuous; there was always somebody around on a big estate who could escort a lady homewards; he wouldn’t have considered Lord John’s household to be any different. Why would Lady Matilda let a complete stranger take her home, when she was surrounded by her family? Leaning over, he punched Gilan’s shoulders, a friendly, jostling contact. ‘Have you taken a shine to the lady, Gilan? After all these months, I must say, it’s good to see.’