Innocent's Champion. Meriel Fuller
discover where John and Katherine’s true loyalties lay, not with them, but with the king, made her legs shake.
‘Do you have any idea?’ she repeated, her voice low, insistent.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Katherine replied, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Of course I know who they are. Henry is the grandson of King Edward III...’
‘...and he’s been exiled, Katherine. King Richard exiled him to Paris. He’s not even supposed to be in this country.’
Katherine frowned, her mind trying to make sense of the information. ‘But...but I didn’t know that!’ she protested. ‘Why would I have known that?’
Matilda shook her head. Why, indeed. Her sister showed little or no interest in the politics of the country. Henry had been exiled on the death of his father, John of Gaunt, simply because, as sole inheritor, he would have become more powerful than King Richard himself. And Richard resented that, viewed his cousin as a threat, confiscating Henry’s lands for no good reason.
‘What can we do?’ cried Katherine.
‘We must keep quiet,’ advised Matilda, trying to remain calm for her sister’s sake. ‘And hope that John keeps his wits about him when he sees their colours riding towards the castle. If we are careful, then they won’t find out that John is a staunch supporter of the king. And serve them horrible food—that will send them on their way a bit quicker.’
‘Mother of Mary! What’s John going to say?’
‘Hopefully, he will say nothing, at least while they are in the castle.’
* * *
The Castle of Neen rose up in the middle of the valley, at the point where two gentle slopes intersected at the river: a silver ribbon cutting through fields thick with a ripening wheat crop. Cattle and sheep grazed on the upper slopes, the poorer ground, before the land rose into a steep escarpment, blotched with yellow gorse. The castle was unusual, built in the French style, a rectangular building with round towers on the four corners, each topped with a conical roof in slate. Great carved corbel stones supported projecting parapets, protecting any knight who stepped out onto the narrow ledge surrounding the roof above. In the dropping sunlight, the polished limestone walls, studded with shells from prehistoric times, glowed pale and luminous.
‘Enchanting,’ breathed Henry, raising gingery eyebrows in appreciation at the pretty building, as they slowed their horses to clatter through the gatehouse and into the bailey. The river they had been following flowed beneath the outer walls and into the deep moat surrounding the castle before disappearing out the other side, providing a constant supply of fresh water.
Henry turned in the saddle, leather creaking beneath his burly thighs. ‘We should allow the ladies to go in first, announce our presence.’ With one touch of his knee he shifted his horse out of the way, Gilan performing the same manoeuvre. The litter was carried past them, Matilda striding alongside, head held high, eyes fixed straight ahead. Her wet gown had picked up all the dry dust of the road, and the blue material was now coated in a clay-coloured paste almost up to her knees. The silken ebony of her hair drooped forlornly in its inadequate pins, her circlet and veil set askance on her head.
‘What has happened to that maid?’ Henry said pointedly, beneath his breath. ‘She looks like she’s been dragged through the mire.’
She looks beautiful. The words strove, unbidden, into Gilan’s brain. He snatched up the reins in surprise, angry at his own musings. Why was he even thinking such a thing? The girl was a mess, plain for all to see.
‘She’s had a busy day,’ Gilan replied drily, bunching his reins into one fist as his horse sidled beneath him. ‘She almost took my head off with an arrow, then fell into the river when I went to stop her.’ He grimaced, guilt flooding through him at the memory: outraged blue eyes, firing hostility; the sweet curve of her bosom as she lay, unconscious, in the warm grass.
‘Impressive,’ murmured Henry, his eyes narrowing on the diminutive figure as she helped her sister alight from the litter.
‘More like misguided,’ replied Gilan, watching as Katherine sagged dramatically against Matilda, making her stagger. ‘The stupid chit made the situation far worse for herself than if she had just stayed put.’
‘One can’t help but admire such bravery in a woman,’ Henry said.
‘Perhaps.’ Gilan shrugged his shoulders. ‘But sometimes it can lead them into greater danger.’
Matilda curved her arm beneath Katherine’s, and hauled her up and out of the litter. The main entrance to the castle was only a few steps away, across the uneven cobbles of the inner bailey. As Katherine reared upwards, her movements ungainly, awkward, she clung to Matilda for support.
‘Ugh! You’re all wet!’ Katherine exclaimed. Her gaze drifted down, noticing the grey dust adhering to the fabric. ‘Oh, Matilda, what have you done to my gown? I doubt it will ever be the same again!’
Matilda began to steer Katherine towards the studded-oak doorway, the muscles in her back pulled into a rigid line. Even though she couldn’t see them, she knew all eyes were on them. Henry and his men were watching, respectfully waiting to dismount. And he was watching her. Gilan. She could feel those silvery eyes following every detail of her movement, making her feel flustered, unsettled. In the damp dress, an involuntary shiver chased up her spine.
‘It will wash out, Katherine, don’t worry.’
Up the stone steps they went, one at a time, a slow progress. Matilda breathed out slowly, a long quiet sigh of frustration. She would be relieved when this baby finally made an appearance in the world, for it would make everyone’s lives a whole lot easier. At this time of the year, the work at her own home of Lilleshall was mounting up: the continual planting and maintenance of crops, care of the animals and the beginning of the harvest. Someone needed to supervise the work, and now that her mother had decided to withdraw from public life, and she had heard nothing from her brother in the past year, the role had fallen to her.
‘I hope so,’ grumbled Katherine, breathing heavily as she reached the top step, placing one hand on the carved stone surround of the door. ‘Hold for a moment, sister, I need to catch my breath.’
‘We’re nearly there,’ Matilda reassured her. Without thinking, she glanced back down in to the inner bailey, her eyes immediately drawn to a shock of blond hair, feathered across the tall man’s tanned brow. Threads of unravelling excitement shot through her veins. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t in her nature to be so disturbed by a masculine presence, even one as intimidating as Count Gilan of Cormeilles. Having grown up with a loving brother and father, she was not in awe of men, quite the reverse, in fact. Most of the time she ignored them. She simply couldn’t explain these odd feelings that roiled around her body, the way his company set her nerves on a jittery edge.
As the sisters moved into the hallway, Matilda blinked once or twice, adjusting her eyes to the dim interior, inhaling the damp, gritty scent of the thick stone walls. Above their heads, ribs of stone fanned out from a central boss: a carved-stone trefoil beset with finely chiselled leaves and flowers.
‘Good! Good! You’re back at last!’ John burst out from the curtain strung across the entrance to the main stairwell, pushing aside the weighty material with impatience. He was a stout man, small brown eyes set deep in a flabby face, the belt around his high-necked, pleated tunic straining across his portly waist. ‘You’ve been ages!’ Grabbing his wife’s hands, he squeezed them strongly. ‘You need to change, quickly, my dear. My guards tell me you have brought guests. Important guests.’
‘Yes, but...’ Matilda began to explain, to warn him. Had no one thought to tell John of the colours that these ‘important guests’ wore? But John had already walked past them, out through the arched doorway, out into the open air. Matilda sighed. He would know soon