Innocent's Champion

by Meriel Fuller

  A blood-curdling yell ripped the air, then another, and another. But the sound came from above, not from the top of the hill. Stunned, Matilda jerked her head up, searching through the high branches, fringed with dark green needles, drooping with clustered pine cones. And there they were. Men, dressed in ragged, dirty clothes, jumping from the trees, brandishing swords and arrows. Knife blades flashed between their teeth. Their faces were black, smeared with soil, and their teeth gleamed out from the darkness, leering with menace. They ran towards the soldiers in a straggling group, stretching out through the trunks in a jerky line.

  Higher up on the slope, Matilda had the advantage, being able to look down on them. She pushed her hood back, raising herself on her knees and took aim. Her arrow flew through the air, struck one man in the shoulder. With a howl, he clutched at the quivering shaft, falling to his knees. Matilda armed the bow once more, shot again, and again, each time hitting with deadly accuracy. Henry’s soldiers fought back with practised, seemingly effortless skill. As she shot, she could see the flashing blades through the trees and hear the scuffles, grunts and curses of hand-to-hand combat. The clash of swords, the shouts echoed up to the swathes of dark green fronds above. But where was Gilan? Believing herself to be unseen, Matilda raised herself up gingerly into a crouching position to give herself a better view.

  A rock smashed down on to the side of her skull.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Face slick with sweat, Henry watched the last of their attackers flee through the trees, the man scrambling down, down towards the river, knocking his shoulders against the gnarled trunks in his haste to escape. Sheathing his sword, Henry wiped his gauntlet across his brow, pushing back the damp hair from his forehead with stubby, leather-encased fingers.

  ‘Leave him!’ he bellowed out to one of his soldiers who seemed intent on pursuit. ‘I think they’ve learned their lesson for today.’ He swept a cursory glance on the fallen ruffians, lying face down with arrows in their shoulders, already beginning to groan from their wounds. ‘Only two casualties, on their side. And both of them shot in the back, from up there.’ He lifted his head, and nodded upwards along the track. ‘We have your guide to thank for that, Gilan.’ He twisted his head around, looking for the diminutive figure. ‘Where is the lad, anyway?’ He shrugged, the fine wool of his surcoat bunching around his thick shoulders.

  Aye, where was she? Rivulets of fear twisted in Gilan’s belly, icy threads. He raked his gaze across the scrub, scouring the trunks for a glimpse of her petite, lithe figure, a flash of her pale face.

  Henry slapped him on the back, grinning. ‘No need to look so worried, Gilan. He probably took this as an opportunity to run off. I suspect we made too many demands on him.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t do that,’ Gilan growled out. He sprang away from Henry, from the look of astonishment on Henry’s face, moving up the track in great loping strides, his big, blond head shifting constantly from left to right as he peered beneath the trees. The whole ruse of keeping Matilda’s identity secret faded to insignificance; all he wanted, all he prayed for, was to find her alive, unharmed.

  ‘She…?’ Henry spluttered out, shouting after him. ‘What do you mean…she?’ He shook his head, a look of consternation crossing his face. Had his friend taken leave of his senses?

  Gilan reached the point on the track where her horse had reared, saw the huge gouges in the earth where the hooves had plunged down. Now the animal cropped a patch of spindly grass farther up, bridle dangling forlornly. He hoped she was hiding somewhere; in the frenzied heat of the attack, he hadn’t been able to reach her, to make sure that she was safe.

  ‘Matilda? Matilda, where are you?’ he called out, swinging his body around so his voice boomed out across the forest in all directions.

  ‘Have you completely lost your mind?’ Henry powered up behind him, barrel chest flexing violently with the exertion. ‘Who is this “she”? Who are you calling to?’

  But Gilan failed to answer him. His keen eye spotted the broken brambles, the route that Matilda had taken away from the path. Henry grabbed Gilan’s forearm, stubby fingers clawing at his sleeve, stalling him. ‘What the hell is going on, Gilan? Perhaps you’d care to explain?’

  ‘Not now!’ With a short, sharp movement, Gilan wrenched his arm down, out of Henry’s grip and plunged into the thicket of brambles, forcing his way through the inhospitable, scratching mass of thorns, cruel points that tore at his tunic, his chausses, hacked at his face, his hair.

  And there she was. His sweet, kind Matilda. Flung on to her back, face stark white, a bloody gash marring the side of her forehead, skin purpling around the wound. Blood trickled down her cheek, staining her peerless cheek, running past the lobe of her ear and dripping on to the ground.

  Sound sucked away from him. The twitter of birds above, the stiff breeze through the high branches, Henry’s outraged questions booming out from the other side of the thicket.

  For one tiny stunned moment, his whole body stilled, strung with a horrible tension, a fear, a terror of what he might discover when he dropped to his knees and placed a hand to her neck. Pierre. Pierre had lain like this, his arms thrown out, and Gilan had thought him to be alive. But he had been dead. With a sharp, jerky movement, he threw the image from his head. Matilda needed him now. He sank on his knees into the pile of spent pine needles beside her.

  Moved his fingers against her neck.

  Her blood pulsed against his trembling fingers, powerful and strong.

  Joy, complete and utter joy, surged through him. ‘Lord in Heaven,’ he breathed shakily, relieved, pushing one arm beneath her slim shoulders and lifting her against him, against the sturdy ridges of his chest. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. ‘Thank God.’ Her hood slipped back, revealing the glossy beauty of her hair, as he ran one thumb across the fine silk of her cheek, then pressed a kiss to her brow, frowning at the puckered edges of the wound.

  Unconsciousness lifted away from her, pulling away like drifts of flimsy silk. The layers floated away into the bright, light air. Birds sang around her, sunlight dancing on her face. Someone held her, carefully, cradled against a broad, unyielding chest. She knew who it was. Who he was. His surcoat pressed against her left cheek, the soft wool tickling gently.

  ‘Gilan,’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye, it’s me.’ His voice, deep and resonant, wrapped around her like a swaddling blanket. She was safe. Just for a moment, she would keep her eyes shut,and savour the muscled cloak of his arms around her shocked limbs.

  ‘My head…?’ She lifted one arm, touching her slender fingers tentatively to the patch of blood. She couldn’t seem to stop trembling.

  ‘Someone hit you,’ Gilan replied softly. ‘You were doing such a good job, taking those ruffians down. I should have taken the bow and arrows away from you—that way no one would have realised you were here.’ Beneath the slick of blood on her forehead, he could see the edges of the wound gaping open and frowned. The cut would need stitches.

  ‘But you couldn’t do that,’ she stuttered out, unable to keep her chattering teeth under control, ‘because Henry would have asked too many questions.’

  Behind them, someone was thrashing through the thicket of brambles, cursing heavily, mostly cursing Gilan. And then Henry himself burst out into the small clearing, followed by two of his soldiers, mouths agape at the scene before them.

  ‘A maid!’ Henry gasped as he struggled to extricate himself from the last of the trailing brambles, his face bright red, eyes flaring wildly. ‘Our guide was a girl all along?’ His outraged expression swiftly observed the details of the maid in Gilan’s arms: slender legs encased in rough chausses, dark silky hair knotted to her head—how had he been so dense not to spot the deception earlier?

  Panic flickered through Matilda’s veins at Henry’s furious appearance; she struggled to heave hersel
f into a sitting position, intending to explain herself, but Gilan held her down, tucked securely in the circle of his arms. His fingers squeezed into her upper arm, sending her a silent message: let me deal with this.

  ‘Yes, Henry, she was, and she is. This is Matilda, lady of—’

  ‘I don’t give a fig who she is, Gilan! The fact is it’s unheard of, it’s preposterous, that a maid should travel into the company of men like this! And you knew! You knew all along—why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t have allowed it,’ Gilan replied. ‘You know what a stickler you are for rules.’ With one hand against Matilda’s ribcage, he could feel the flutter of her heart against the flat of his palm.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed on his friend. ‘She shouldn’t be here, Gilan.’ Fixing his hard gaze on Matilda, his mind worked rapidly. ‘She needs to be taken to safety, a manor where someone can tend to that wound. Do you know of such a place hereabouts?’ He directed the last question to Matilda, raising his voice as if she were hard of hearing.

  ‘I know of a place,’ Gilan said quietly. Keeping hold of her, he shifted his weight beneath Matilda to his knees, and then on to his feet. One arm swept firm beneath her hips and he swung her into the air, so that she landed with a faint squeak against his chest. ‘My home, or rather, my parents’ home. It’s not far from here.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Henry rubbed his hands together at the seemingly easy solution. ‘One of the soldiers can take her.’

  ‘I’ll take her.’

  Henry scowled at him, petulance dragging at the harsh lines of his face. ‘Out of the question. I need you with me when we tackle Richard.’

  Gilan shook his head. ‘You don’t need me, Henry. You are quite capable of handling Richard on your own. But Matilda…’ he swept sparkling granite eyes across the enchanting face cushioned against his chest ‘…Matilda needs me.’

  No, Matilda wanted to protest. I don’t need you. The words wavered through her aching brain as her head rolled against his shoulder. Why could she not speak them out loud? It was if a thick mist swirled in her brain, obscuring the power of speech, making her stupid, befuddled. Shivers rattled through her; she wound shaking fingers into the front lacing of Gilan’s tunic, clutching frantically, thinking she might fall. Her eyelids fluttered down as she succumbed to another wave of sinking, black unconsciousness.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Henry said slowly, pushing stubby fingers through his rusty hair. But he did. He understood completely. His friend’s tender glance towards the maid had explained everything. He folded his burly arms across his chest, creasing the gold fleur-de-lis embroidery on his tunic, frowning deeply.

  Gilan raised his eyes towards Henry, the man he had shared a lifetime with, and shook his head. ‘I’m not asking you to understand what is going on here, Henry, for in truth I scarce understand it myself. All I know is that I must care for Matilda. She is vulnerable and needs my protection.’

  ‘You’re in love with her…’ Henry breathed, so quietly that Gilan failed to hear. His expression lightened, a wide grin breaking across his face. He shook his head ruefully. ‘I’m being selfish, Gilan. I’m become too accustomed to you fighting at my side. Go now, with my blessing. Take the maid to your home and look after her. I will meet you there after I have dealt with my wayward cousin.’

  ‘But I will catch up with you,’ Gilan said, ‘once I am assured that Matilda is safe.’

  ‘Out of the question!’ Henry barked at him again. ‘I forbid it! You stay by her side, or you’ll have me to deal with. I will miss you, Gilan, but you’re right, I can challenge Richard alone. Now take your precious burden and be gone.’

  * * *

  ‘Matilda, wake up! You need to drink some of this.’ Gilan’s rough voice barged into her wadded cocoon of sleep, a wallowing tide of comfort that she was reluctant to give up. The mouth of a leather bottle was pushed up against her lips and she jerked back as a fiery, unpleasant liquid poured down her throat.

  She spluttered angrily. Her eyes sprang open; she batted the bottle away, hand flailing upwards. ‘Stop it, Gilan! Are you trying to make me drunk?’

  ‘I’m trying to keep you awake.’ He scowled at her grey, pinched features. After leaving Henry, Gilan had pushed his destrier as fast as he possibly dared, Matilda wedged securely before him, her shoulder tucked into the angle of his arm. Throughout the journey, she had lapsed in and out of consciousness, and now the wound was bleeding afresh. He reined in his horse at the top of a ridge, at a point where the land fell away in gentle slopes to a huge, low-lying plain of fertile pastureland. Above them, a pair of buzzards soared and circled, rising higher and higher in the warm uplift of wind on the edge of the land.

  ‘I need to bind it,’ he muttered, the breeze riffling the blond strands of his hair. ‘Matilda, hang on to the horse’s mane and, for God’s sake, don’t fall off!’

  ‘Why? What are you doing?’ Following his terse instruction, she lurched forwards, clutching fuzzily at the frothing chestnut mane, trying to counter the rising tide of sickness in her stomach. She stared miserably at the shining brass on the bridle—how in Heaven’s name had she ended up like this? The bash on her head had certainly complicated matters, for by now she had hoped to be far away from Gilan and licking her wounded pride in the company of her brother. But here she was, huddled in the sweet cradle of Gilan’s arms, craving his touch, vulnerable, exposed and hurt. Her mind loped crazily, skittering this way and that. She frowned—why was she finding it so difficult to gather her thoughts, to think her way out of this situation? Her head swam, a rising tide of cloudy befuddlement threatening to engulf her. A sour, metallic taste coated her tongue and she swallowed hastily. God forbid that she was ill in front of him!

  ‘I need to bind your wound.’ She jumped as his voice jarred into her. Lifting the hem of his surcoat, Gilan exposed the sun-bleached linen of his shirt beneath. Grabbing the flimsy material, he tore at it with strong, tanned fingers, ripping off a long length from the hemline.

  ‘Gilan, you’ve ruined your shirt,’ Matilda gasped, as she turned to see what he’d done. Her hood had fallen back and wisps of her shining hair tangled with the breeze. Her face was deathly white.

  It was worth it. He would give her all the clothes on his back if it meant he could heal her more quickly. Reaching up, he wound the strip of fabric across her forehead with infinite gentleness, his fingers grazing her forehead, the perfectly drawn uplift of her eyebrow. Ripping one end of the makeshift bandage, he tied the ragged tails of fabric into a knot above her ear.

  ‘There,’ he said, frowning critically at his handiwork. ‘That should last you until we reach home.’ Despite the heat of the day, he could see she was trembling. He pulled her hood forwards, hoping the gesture would warm her a little and stop her shivers. Against her will, her body sagged against him. She felt so frail, so feeble, and annoyingly, she couldn’t explain it. She had a bump on the head, not a sword through her chest. Heaviness dragged at her limbs, sapping her strength, her blood moving slowly, thickly through her veins. She lifted one hand to touch the tight bandage on her head; already the ache had subsided a little. ‘I…thank you, Gilan, I’m not sure what’s wrong with me at the moment…’ Her hands fluttered outwards, a gesture of consternation. A tiny frown puckered the space between her eyebrows.

  ‘Not sure…?’ He glared down at her. ‘For God’s sake, Matilda, someone nearly killed you! You have a gash the size of a horse’s hoof on your head and it’s a wonder that you’re even managing to stay upright!’

  ‘Is it really that bad?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘Yes!’ he said, then caught her worried expression. ‘No, not that bad,’ he lied.

  ‘I’m sure I could have ridden my own horse, saved your destrier this extra burden.’

  He glanced down; the fringe of her eyelashes curved over her cheek, black
velvet feathers. ‘You need to stop this, Matilda. Stop thinking about me, or my horse. Think about yourself for a change. My horse is perfectly capable of carrying both of us,’ he said. ‘Let me take care of you.’

  Matilda angled her head up, studied the determined line of his chin as he set his horse in motion once more. Her heart swelled with emotion at his words. How could she tell him there was nothing in the world that she craved more than for him to take her in his arms and care for her, love her? But he truly believed he was not capable of such a thing, not with her, anyway. In her vulnerable state, she would have to be careful, not allow herself to be drawn in by his compassionate manner. For if she did, her heart would surely break.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isabelle of Chesterham reached out thin, bony fingers to cup a full-blown rose, the pink velvet petals hanging heavy with sparkling dots of dew, inclining her body to inhale the scent. She pulled her head back quickly, narrow mouth twisting with disgust. The sweet smell made her nauseous. Everything seemed to make her feel sick these days: the yeasty bread in the mornings, her mother-in-law’s judgemental glances, the endless waiting. Above all, the endless waiting. She flattened one hand across her distended stomach. Waiting for this wretched baby to be born. Waiting for Gilan to return, to pick up the reins that Pierre, her husband, had dropped. Gilan would become her husband now, she would make certain of it. If only he would hurry up and come home.