Innocent's Champion. Meriel Fuller
labour. Her mind scampered for a discreet way of alerting her sister to the fact that the man was riding with their enemy.
Katherine smiled at Gilan, lurching forwards with her arm outstretched, a pretty blush washing her face. Distorted by her vast belly, the pleated front of her gown rose up at the front, revealing her pink satin slippers. ‘My pleasure,’ she said, ‘Lord...?’
Gilan smiled, skin creasing either side of his mouth, teeth white in his tanned face. ‘No, not a lord, mistress. My name is Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles.’ He bowed low, deep from the waist.’ At your service.’
Katherine extended her hand towards him and he took her fingers, glittering with heavy gemstones and kissed the top of her hand, as was the custom.
‘Then you are from France?’ Katherine peeked coyly at him from beneath her long eyelashes. Matilda stared at the two of them in horror. Was it her imagination or was Katherine flirting? His display of courtly manners seemed so at odds with her own first encounter with this man, this Gilan, whatever his name was, only moments ago! Half drowned by him, then thrown down on the grass, shaken roughly back to consciousness, assaulted by those piercing, silver eyes. And now, her sister was patting him on the shoulder, thanking him profusely for all he had done! If only she knew!
‘I am English, but my mother is from France—my title comes from her family. I manage her manor and estates over there. In Cormeilles.’ Gilan crooked his arm and Katherine tucked her hand through it companionably, throwing a running stream of questions up to him. Matilda’s heart sank as she trailed after them, snatching up her sodden cloak on the way. She had hoped to walk with Katherine so she could have a quiet word, warn her about this man, about who he was. It was not to be.
* * *
As the three of them approached the spot where the sisters had been attacked, Katherine picking her way carefully down the cobbled slope of the bridge with Gilan’s help, Matilda saw that the numbers in their original entourage had swelled. Beneath the low, swaying branches of the beech trees, arching over the track, stood a stocky, russet-haired man, face ruddy with sunburn. He called out to Gilan, raised his arm in greeting. He wore a surcoat over chainmail, a dark blue surcoat emblazoned with a distinctive coat of arms: three gold lions on a red background, quartered with three gold fleur-de-lis on a blue background.
Henry of Lancaster.
He had brought knights with him, knights wearing the same livery: a dozen or so men on horseback. They stretched along the track, horses nose-to-tail in single file, men’s features impassive beneath steel helmets, lances pointed rigidly into the air, steel tips flashing in the sporadic rays of sunlight that slanted through the whispering trees.
‘Now I see what’s been keeping you!’ Strutting forwards to greet them, Henry clapped Gilan on the shoulder. ‘You had me worried back there!’
‘You, worried?’ Gilan raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. He escorted Katherine to the side of the litter and she clutched on to one of the upright struts gratefully, clamping one hand to the small of her back as she leaned over.
Henry laughed. ‘You’re right, I wasn’t worried, merely impatient at your tardiness. But now—’ he swept his gaze over the two women ‘—it all becomes clear. Ladies,’ he addressed them both with a short, sharp bow, ‘may I have the honour of knowing your names?’ Removing his mail gauntlet, the individual iron links glittering like fish scales, he handed it to his manservant, who hovered nervously at his side.
‘I am Katherine of Neen.’ Katherine performed a small, wobbling curtsy, extending her hand. ‘And this is my sister, Matilda of Lilleshall.’ Henry kissed the top of both their hands in turn. If he noticed Katherine’s advanced pregnancy at all, then he made no indication, no comment.
‘Delighted,’ he pronounced, clapping his hands together. ‘Your knights have explained what has happened to you. I understand that you were on your way back home from a shrine?’
Katherine nodded.
‘Then allow me...us—’ he waved his stubby fingers in the direction of his knights ‘—to escort you home...’
‘There’s really no need...’ Matilda protested.
Henry laughed. ‘Forgive me, madam, but it’s no trouble. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. My men and I seek board and lodging for the night.’
‘Oh, yes! Yes!’ gushed Katherine. She wasn’t too sure exactly who Henry of Lancaster was, but she did know his grandfather was King Edward III and that was good enough for her. More than good enough—why, he was royalty! What a feather in her cap, to entertain such a person! ‘John will want to see you rewarded for what you have done for us today.’ She flicked her eyes appreciatively in Gilan’s direction.
Oh, Lord, thought Matilda, hitching her shoulders forwards in her damp gown. Things seemed to going from bad to worse. Katherine obviously had no idea of Henry of Lancaster’s true intentions in this country. In fact, Matilda doubted that her sister really knew who he was.
* * *
Once Katherine was comfortably installed in her litter, her entourage—swelled in ranks with Henry’s knights—began its slow progress eastwards once more. The servants who carried the wooden struts on their shoulders had emerged from the attack relatively unscathed; the youngest manservant dabbed sporadically at a split lip, but apart from a few bumps and bruises, no great injuries had been sustained. The household knight with the injury to his shoulder had to be helped up into his saddle but seemed to be holding his seat tolerably well, following Henry’s knights, who rode up front, the rumps of their muscled warhorses glossy, shiny.
The track was dry and flat; they would make good progress now. John and Katherine’s home lay only a mile or so farther up the expansive, fertile valley. In the strip of rough, uncultivated land between the river and the path, white hogweed grew, proliferated: great lacy umbels like dinner plates reaching up beyond the mess of inferior weeds, frilled flower heads against the deep blue of the sky. A brilliant green-backed beetle ambled across one of the flowers, black whiskered legs crawling slowly.
As they emerged from the dimness of the woodland, and into the scorching radiance of the open fields running either side of the river, Katherine sank back on her cushions, a smug, self-satisfied look on her face. ‘John will be so pleased with me,’ she announced, stretching her hand out limply to Matilda, who walked alongside the litter. ‘Such important guests that I am bringing home to him! How fortunate we are that they turned up.’
Ignoring her sister’s hand, Matilda scuffed her leather boots along the track, deliberately kicking up dust. Hanging across the path, a teasel head, brown and withered from the year before, scraped along the fine blue wool of her sleeve. A pair of brilliant pewter eyes danced across her vision. She pursed her lips, determined to scrape the memory from her brain. He was nothing, not important.
‘And such a lot to prepare, if they are to stay tonight!’ Katherine’s eyes widened. ‘What do you think, Matilda, should we put Henry in the south tower—you know, the one with the gold brocade hangings around the bed? Will he think it too shabby?’
Keeping pace with the litter’s progress, Matilda folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Katherine, do you have any idea who these men are?’ She nodded up ahead, indicating the broad, stocky back of Henry, Gilan’s tall, muscular frame riding alongside him. His dark blue cloak spread out over the rump of his horse, the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered along the length of cloth twinkling like tiny stars.
A deep shuddering breath burst from her lungs at the sight of them; individually, these men were formidable enough, but together as a group, with plate armour burnished and shining and helmets obscuring their features, their horses with hooves the size of a man’s head, they presented an intimidating force. Her heart flailed, searching for purchase, for direction, the memory of that stranger’s tanned handsome face, Gilan’s face, so close to her own she could still smell the musky woodsmoke on his skin. In the face of such powerful masculinity, such strength and vigour, she was at a momentary loss as to what to do next. Fear had emptied her mind.