Her Battle-Scarred Knight. Meriel Fuller
Desperation plucked at her chest, a scythe of panic. Surely they wouldn’t kill her? Doubt crept into her mind, whispering, insidious, forcing her to acknowledge her vulnerability; she sagged momentarily as her chest began to burn. Then the cruel yank of Fulke’s fist at the back of her head pulled her up again, and she gasped, sucked greedily, filling her lungs with fresh air.
‘There is an easier way, my dear,’ Lord Fulke commented smoothly, throwing a disparaging bloodshot glance over her dripping face, her sodden braids. ‘You need to agree … agree to this marriage.’
‘Never,’ she vowed. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’ She crossed her arms over her chest, clutching at her arms in an effort to stop the incessant shivering. Threads of water trailed down her neck, beneath the collar of her cloak, wetting the rough fabric of her gown.
Lord Fulke mangled his thick lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘Let’s hope that it won’t come to that.’ The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
Fear coursed through her body, firing bolts of adrenalin straight to her heart. So they would kill her! She needed time, time to think, time to plan! But judging from the menacing look in Fulke’s eyes, time was one thing she did not have. Closing her eyes, she pretended to faint, falling in a crumpled heap to the ground, up against the edge of the trough, her hand scrabbling about behind her in the mud for something, anything, that might be able to help her. A stone! Her fingers grazed against its roughness, cupped it swiftly into her palm. She hoped it would be enough.
Fulke cursed, eyes flicking moodily over the slumped figure.
‘She’s had enough, now, hasn’t she, my lord?’ one of the other soldiers remarked.
‘Don’t let the chit fool you, Stephen. She’s a clever piece.’
Brianna smelled the wash of Fulke’s noxious breath as he leaned down to her. Tightening her grip on the stone, she brought it round to smash it against his head with all the force she could muster. Only it wasn’t enough. The gritty stone dropped from her fingers.
‘Why, you little …!’ Fulke roared, clutching at the gash on his forehead. The purpling cut oozed blood, startlingly red against the white slab of his forehead. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ Before Brianna had time to anticipate his next move, the weight of his fist crashed into her jaw and her small frame crumpled to the ground, this time for real.
‘We’ve got her now,’ Fulke murmured, almost to himself. ‘We’ve got her now.’ He rose to his full height, jubilant, smug victory painted on his face, expecting to meet the smirking expressions of his younger henchmen.
But the soldiers’ faces were turned away, fixed on the open gateway, slack-jawed, staring at something, someone. One of the men stumbled back, catching the back of his leg on the trough.
Alongside the scrubby hawthorn hedge, a huge black destrier flew across the marshy field, snorting impatiently, wildly, rearing its glossy head in a restless jangle of bit and bridle as it approached the three men, the fallen maid. Sprays of water flicked out from behind the horse’s heavy hooves, loose droplets forming sparkling arcs in the weak sunlight.
A nervous laugh punched from Fulke’s mouth; he licked his lips.
A black woollen tunic covered the horseman’s chainmail; his shield was black, decorated with a raised silver lattice. No markings gave away his identity, no gilded family crest on the shield, no embroidery across his tunic; a bright steel helmet obscured his features. Hauling deftly on the reins, the unknown rider brought the animal slewing to a stop before the men, shuffled into a guilty line in front of Brianna, trying to hide the horrific extent of their intimidation with the bulk of their bodies. The warm air emerging from the horse’s widening nostrils ghosted the air, steam rising from the very pit of hell.
‘What the devil is happening here?’ Through the slits of his helmet, the knight’s voice was muffled, grim. He jumped off the horse in one easy, graceful movement, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached Fulke.
‘Nothing to concern yourself about, I’m sure, my lord.’ Fulke bowed obsequiously, spreading his hands flat before him, as if to physically reassure the newcomer there was no harm done. He cowered beneath the stranger’s superior height, trying to step back before realising that the huddled form of Brianna lay behind his heels, checking him. ‘This ignorant maid simply refuses to do as she’s told. She needed to learn a lesson.’
‘Then it looks like she’s learned it,’ the stranger remarked tautly, sweeping his gaze over Brianna’s forlorn frame, tumbled against the trough. From her appearance, the maid was still unconscious; her face was pale, deathly pale, a livid bruise darkening rapidly across her jawline.
Fulke had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘Aye, well, we best be on our way.’ He nodded significantly at his two soldiers, rubbing his gloved hands together in an industrious way. ‘Lots to do, lots to do.’ He paused, staring with curiosity at the plain, unadorned wool of the knight’s tunic, trying to discern the man’s features through the forbidding slits in his helmet. ‘I … er … are you from hereabouts?’
‘Nay. I am looking for someone.’
‘Mayhap I could help you.’ Fulke squeezed his hands together, kneading his fingers. He felt the need to make amends, to distract this stranger from the unconscious maid at his back. ‘Whom do you seek?’
‘Brianna of Sefanoc. Lady Brianna. I was told that she lives hereabouts.’
The colour washed from Fulke’s face; he touched a hand to his chin, a self-conscious gesture. It was all he could do to stop himself looking over at the girl; he prayed fervently that his soldiers would keep their mouths shut. If certain parties heard a whisper of their actions, their treatment of a noblewoman, they would be punished severely. His name, Fulke, would be linked back to Count John, his lord and master, who would be highly displeased at the exposure, especially now. These were troubled times, the whole country jittery with the news that King Richard had been taken prisoner on his return from the Crusades. Only Count John, the King’s younger brother, was rubbing his hands with glee, for if Richard failed to return, then he would surely be crowned King of England.
Fulke screwed the thicket of his eyebrows together in a semblance of thinking. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her,’ he lied casually, carefully. ‘It’s not a name I know.’ He began to sidle off towards the horses. ‘I wish you luck in your venture, sire. Good day to you.’ Fulke levered himself onto his animal, raising an arm in farewell as he kicked the animal into a fast canter, clods of frozen earth kicking up in his wake as he followed his men.
The maid appeared barely alive, Giseux thought, as he approached the spot where she lay. Crouching down beside her, he pulled off his chainmail mittens, pushing two fingers efficiently against the side of her neck, checking, reassuring himself. Her face was so white, devoid of any colour, with such a sickening blueness about her lips that he could have believed she were dead, yet to his relief her blood beat strongly beneath his fingers. He removed his helmet, then his shield, held against his chest with a worn leather strap, placing both on the grass, and pushed back the hood of the chainmail protecting his head. The metallic links, bound together to form a flexible material, fell in loose, snake-like folds at the nape of his neck; the light brown strands of his hair sprung free from their confinement, vigorous.
She lay flat on her back, sprawled across the ice-encrusted mud, one arm slung across her body, the other stretched out, her hand curled, small and white. Her unusual amber-coloured hair, darkened by the water, straggled across her bodice like ripples in the sand. A peasant girl, from the look of her clothes, he thought; her coarse woollen gown had been mended in several places with crudely cut patches. The garment hung like a sack about her frame, bunching in thick gathers at her waist; her creased leather boots, scuffed and caked in mud, stuck out from beneath the hem of her skirts. The shiny soles were almost worn through. He’d interrupted a domestic dispute, no doubt, a fight between servant and master.
The girl opened her eyes.
Chapter Two
Giseux’s