‘I will. But there’s no point lowering it with you, is there? You know who I am.’
Yes, I do, he thought, thinking of that delicious body pressed against him, the yielding cushion of her limbs tangled with the hard muscle of his legs. Even now, dressed as she was in the disguise of her boy’s clothes, her slim legs encased in fitted leggings, his body responded as if she were naked. He focused grimly at the horizon—why, in Heaven’s name, why could he not find the power to resist her?
He cleared his throat. ‘Try it. Try speaking like a boy.’
‘Like this, you mean?’ she croaked gruffly, lowering her voice as much as possible.
‘You sound like a strangled cat.’ He laughed, a smile pinned briefly to his face, laughter lines crinkling out from the corners of his eyes. ‘But I suppose it will have to do. Let me do most of the talking. Act dumb. And for God’s sake, keep your head covered.’
A sense of relief surged through her at his easy camaraderie, a lightness easing her chest. This would be all right, she told herself. It had to be, because Gilan was her only hope of bringing her brother back home. His outright rejection of her last night had made her even more determined to build her self-restraint; he must never know how the closeness of his body made her blood race, her heart pound. If only, she thought, if only he hadn’t shouted out like that; then she would never have gone to him, never would have found herself in such a mortifying situation. But no one with any heart could have resisted such a cry of wretchedness and pain.
She glanced across at the tall figure riding alongside her, his stern profile softened by the sun shining through the gold filaments of his hair. She watched as he kneaded one hand into the top of his thigh, the fawn fabric of his leggings puckering beneath his fingers.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked suddenly, breaking the silence between them.
‘Do what?’ He glanced over at her.
‘Rub your leg like that—are you hurt?’
He snatched his hand away. ‘No, it’s an old wound. It aches sometimes.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember,’ he replied lightly. ‘One of the many battles I’ve been in.’ His hands had clutched towards his lifeless brother as the hot, flaming gobs of tar had rained down around him, one splashing on to his leg, burning through his trousers. He hadn’t felt the pain of it until much, much later.
As their horses trotted together over the short, bleached grass, Matilda scrutinised the lean lines of his face, trying to penetrate the reflective surface of his eyes, wanting to read his mind. ‘Battles with Henry?’ she questioned.
His shoulders slumped forwards, fractionally. ‘Yes, always with Henry. We’ve been friends for years.’ He lowered his eyebrows at her, eyes twinkling. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Last night…’ She hesitated, then, emboldened by his relaxed manner, she plunged forwards with her question. ‘Last night, when you were dreaming…you shouted out.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘You shouted out a name.’
‘What name?’
‘Pierre.’
The air between them hesitated, paused. Even the swallows that dipped and swung against the blue, shimmering sky seemed slowed, somehow.
His chin reared upwards, diamond eyes pinning her like a rapier.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly devoid of liquid, shaking her head briskly. ‘Sorry, I should never have said.’ Ducking her gaze, she shuffled her hips uncomfortably in the saddle.
The pewter in his eyes turned to black, a gouged-out, cavernous look. ‘Pierre is…was my brother.’ Regret smudged the shadowed patches beneath his eyes.
‘Last night…’ She paused. ‘…you said…you said he was gone. What happened to him?’
Tension strained his neck muscles as he looked down into her sweet face, the perfect arch of her eyebrows, dark wings above periwinkle-blue eyes. Could he tell her everything? In all those cold, aching months after his death, he had never spoken about Pierre to anyone. But, like yestereve, he noticed how the flare of grief tamped down when he spoke to her about him. ‘Pierre was my brother, Matilda, and he died on our last campaign, because of me.’ His sombre eyes flicked over her horrified face, before he squeezed his knees against his horse’s flanks and rode off towards Brinsea.
* * *
The town was small: one church, its spire looming up into the bowl of clear blue sky; ramshackle cottages clustered around a market place, huddled; roofs butted up close to each other, teetering and sagging at different levels. Raucous music rose from the centre, a grinding hurdy-gurdy clashing with the high-pitched screech of a violin. The sound of drunken singing, even at this time of the morning.
The impressive three-arched bridge that led into the town over a shallow river was crammed with people, carts, animals, all pushing their way into town, calling, gesticulating to each other. As if by unspoken agreement, Gilan and Matilda reined their horses in, allowing the animals to drink from the river, waiting for the bulk of the crowd to squeeze their way across the bridge.
‘Looks like it’s market day,’ said Matilda, her voice a bright falsetto. ‘The town will be busy.’ Peeking over at Gilan’s uncompromising stance, she wondered if he would even answer her. He had said nothing since she had asked about his brother. For the hundredth time she wished she had never opened her mouth.
‘Gilan?’ she ventured. She took a deep breath, searching his implacable profile for some sign of leniency. He stared straight ahead, brows drawn together at the crowds of people gathering to funnel over the bridge into the town centre. This was ridiculous! He would have to speak to her at some point. Irritation flashed through her; she leaned over and grabbed at his rein, shaking it so the bit between the horse’s teeth jingled sharply. He turned his head swiftly, his eyes filled with sadness.
‘Gilan! Look, I’m sorry about…about your brother. But how was I to know it was something you didn’t want to talk about? You were having a really horrible nightmare—was it so unreasonable of me to ask what caused it?’
She held his gaze, refusing to quaver beneath his glittering appraisal. Her words were outspoken, bold, but she didn’t care. She had nothing to lose by speaking to him like this; he would be angry, but then he had been angry with her before and she had survived. She watched in surprise as his mouth softened, tilted up into a slight smile.
‘You think I’m angry with you for asking, but I’m not, truly.’ He crossed his arms across the pommel of the saddle, eased forwards slightly. The thick leather saddle squeaked beneath his weight. ‘When you asked about Pierre it was a shock. I didn’t realise I had shouted out his name last night.’ His voice lowered and he hesitated.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied, relief coursing through her. ‘I should never have asked. I wanted to establish that you’re still speaking to me, that’s all.’ She released his bridle and straightened up in the saddle, biting her lip with consternation.
His heart cleaved towards her; she thought she had done the wrong thing by him, gone too far. He could read the worry, the flicker of concern in her face. Little did she know that if there was anyone in the world he could talk to about his brother, it was her. The realisation hit him in the gut like a crossbow bolt. Matilda wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t condemn; she simply didn’t possess such character traits. She would understand. Breath pulled from his lungs, fledging, unsteady.
‘Pierre was…’ He paused, wondering how to even put into words what had happened out in the Baltic.
‘Truly, Gilan, you don’t have to tell me.’ She hitched forwards in the saddle, touched his forearm with a gesture of reassurance.
He covered her hand with his own. He wanted to tell her. ‘Pierre died only about a month ago, on our last campaign to the Baltic. He fell off a scaling ladder trying to break a siege.’ He pushed o
ne hand through his hair, separating the thick blond strands. ‘I should have been on that ladder, not him.’ Remorse thickened his voice, the pitch becoming guttural, low.
‘But why?’ she asked, tentatively. The desolation in his expression scraped her heart, nipped at her.
‘Because Pierre was ill that morning,’ he replied tonelessly, ‘but I didn’t realise, and he…he didn’t tell me. Too proud, I suppose, like he always was. And I was too stupid not to see it! I teased him, for Heaven’s sake! It was my goading him that forced him up that ladder.’ He turned towards her, eyes red-rimmed, bleak. ‘If only I could turn back time, Matilda. If only it had been me who had gone up.’
His mouth twisted as he caught the spangle of tears in her eyes. ‘No!’ he barked at her, grabbing her wrist with strong fingers. ‘Don’t waste your tears on me! I don’t deserve them. His death is my fault.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Matilda shook her head vehemently, aghast at the bitterness of his tone. ‘Surely he was an experienced soldier. Why did he not tell you he was ill, that someone else must go up?’
‘Because he was too proud to admit that he was feeling ill. To him, it would be a sign of weakness.’ Gilan’s shoulders slumped. ‘He was always too proud.’
‘Then you would have been unable to stop him, even if you had tried,’ Matilda said, softly.
Her eyes, periwinkle orbs, were fringed with lush, black lashes. He wished with all his heart that he could believe her, allow her words to act upon him like a balm, absolve his sin. But he knew it was useless. Self-reproach hovered above him, like a great black raven, vicious beak ready to peck at any moment, to jab at him and remind him of what he had done.
‘Did you hear me, Gilan?’ Suddenly she realised how imperative it was that he believed her. He was not at fault, yet she could see from his expression that the guilt was eating him up inside. ‘It is not your fault.’
He smiled grimly. ‘No matter how many times you say it, Matilda, it won’t scrub away the truth of what happened. Believe me. It won’t. It’s something I have to live with, for the rest of my life.
Dismounting, leading their horses, they joined the cluster of people crossing the bridge over the slow-flowing river, stinking with effluent, and almost immediately found themselves in the marketplace, lined with colourful stalls. Bolts of cloth—silk, cotton, linen—were stacked up in teetering heaps, groups of women fingering the fabric, testing the fineness before raising their voices to barter with the traders. Rounds of floury bread balanced on a wooden table next to a stall selling kegs of ale. Hawkers pushed through the crowds, carrying aloft huge trays of hot, steaming pies, keeping up a steady chant of sales patter as they walked. It seemed like the world and his wife had descended on Brinsea on that day.
Despite the hubbub around her, all Matilda could think of was what Gilan had told her. How his brother had died; the relentless, scouring remorse that he carried within him. She wanted to reach out and wind him in her arms, comfort him, but knew such an act was impossible. She watched his big body move with agile grace across the dry, dusty cobbles, looping the bridle with practised efficiency around the post-and-rail fence, and her heart creased with sadness at the thought of the hurt that he carried within.
‘Matilda? Are you coming?’ He reached out his hand for her bridle.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, she shook her head at him, a warning look in her eyes. ‘Gilan, remember! I must do it myself!’
He grinned, his hand dropping away, and patted the side of her mare’s head. As she secured her bridle, he flipped a coin to a small boy to keep an eye on their horses, asking directions to the two inns.
‘One to the south and one to the north,’ he said once he had his answer. ‘I’ll wager Henry is at the more costly one.’ He plunged into the crowd, the heft of his body surging through the tightly packed crowd with ease. Being smaller, Matilda found it difficult to follow him. Realising she was falling back, he reached his arm behind, seizing her fingers. ‘Hold on to me,’ he growled at her, ‘otherwise I’ll lose you.’
His fingers were strong, cool around her own as he all but dragged her through the press of people. She followed the heft of his shoulders, muscle-bound beneath the blue tunic, the flare of his golden hair above the crowds, her fingers laced tightly with his. Soon, they were out of the marketplace, plunging down an alleyway and faced with the carved wooden angel hanging across the street that signified the more expensive inn.
Diving into the cobbled courtyard, Gilan stopped, looking up at the two-storey building on either side of him, the stables in front, then banged on the oak door. A short man answered, a stained linen apron covering the girth of his stomach, the dirty hem almost touching the ground. Remembering their linked hands, Matilda swiftly tugged her fingers from Gilan’s grip before the innkeeper spotted them, her cheeks flaring with colour.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, his tone guttural. The stink of stale ale wafted past him into the yard. Matilda wrinkled her nose up at the acrid smell.
‘Is Henry, Duke of Lancaster, here?’ asked Gilan. ‘He and his men?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I am Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles. I am one of Henry’s commanders. We became separated on our journey north.’
The innkeeper’s face broke into a smile, stepping back into the murky depths of the inn. ‘Then you are welcome, sire. Your lord is indeed here, breaking his fast.’
* * *
At the river’s edge, frothy wavelets breaking against the sandy shore, Matilda contemplated the sparkling stretch of water in misery. The frilly oak trees on the opposite bank seemed a great distance away, and, despite the shallowness of the water at the edge, a powerful current churned and whirled in the middle of the river, thick silver ropes of water that would drag a man down in an instant. Farther downstream, mudflats glistened: thick, treacherous mud, a stinking, oozy mixture of soil and sand. Beneath the hot sun, a weird cracking, squeaking sound emerged as the mud slowly dried out, stalked on by long-legged sea birds, picking their way delicately across. Despair flooded through her. Having travelled this way with her father, she had hoped some distinctive landmark would jog her memory, but nothing was familiar.
Despair turned to fear. They were all behind her, horses stationary in the stretch of sand dunes: Henry and his men. Gilan. Waiting for her to point them in the right direction. She chewed anxiously on her bottom lip, watching a flight of geese arrow their way through the brilliant sky, honking loudly. She never believed this bit of the journey would be the most difficult part. When Gilan had led her into the inn, this morning, Henry had barely blinked at her, accepting Gilan’s explanation that he had found a guide who would lead them to Wales. Standing in the dim, fuggy confines of the hostelry, the air thick with the smell of stale beer, Matilda had held her breath, waiting for one of the soldiers to denounce her, to rip the hood off her head and expose her femininity. It hadn’t happened.
But now, her own memory had failed her, stripping away the one trump card that was the key to finding her brother. If she couldn’t remember the way, then they would dismiss her, Gilan insisting that she returned home. Her heart twisted, sadness digging in like a knife blade, surprising her. Was it that, the thought of being away from him, rather than the fact that she couldn’t remember the way, that caused such unhappiness to cascade through her body?
‘What’s the matter?’ Dismounting, Gilan had broken away from the group and now stood at her side. His large boots pressed down into the soft, wet sand, creating indents.
She jumped, unnerved by his sudden appearance, the low rumble of his voice. Her heart skipped, jolted at the beauty of his tanned features, the firm line of his mouth tilted up at the corners. ‘It’s not as easy as it looks,’ she answered him vaguely. Her face puckered with worry, fine skin taut across the high, delicate bone of her cheeks.
‘We can’t cross here
, if that’s what you were thinking.’ Gilan nodded significantly across the deep expanse of water, the swirling force. A white mass of seagulls swirled in the balmy air above the estuary, screeching, indignant, as they wheeled and flapped.
‘No!’ she snapped at him under her breath. ‘I wasn’t thinking that at all.’
‘Then why have we stopped?’ Beneath the fawn-coloured fabric of his trousers, his thighs were lean and strong, the fabric stretching across the bulging muscle.
She sucked in her breath, folding her arms tightly across her chest, as if her limbs’ constricting brace could control the reckless knocking of her heart. ‘I needed to get my bearings!’ Her tone was defensive, shrill.
‘Don’t screech at me, they’ll hear you,’ he warned quietly. The breeze from the river whipped at the blond strands of his hair; he pushed them back from his forehead. ‘Do you know the way, or not?’
She glanced behind her. The bright surcoats, the shining armour of the soldiers, stood out against the bleached sand of the endless dunes, the stiff dull marram grass that riffled in the wind. The horses’ tails fanned behind their shining rumps, feathered, glossy. Henry’s horse pawed at the ground, agitated, and she saw one soldier lean across to the other and mutter something under his breath while looking straight at her. Her heart plummeted.
Gilan followed her worried glance. ‘We need to keep going,’ he said. ‘What about if we carry on upriver? Surely there’ll be a causeway, or a narrower stretch?’
Her shoulders sagged forwards, confidence draining from her. She longed to lean into the softness of his blue tunic, to cling to his solid chest and draw comfort from this man who had made her heart sing. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied truthfully. ‘I’m not sure I can remember the way.’ Her wide eyes met his with candour. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be much use to you, after all.’
He traced the downward tilt of her lips, wanting to touch her face, her shoulder, to offer her some small gesture of comfort. But with Henry watching, that was out of the question.
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