Her Battle-Scarred Knight. Meriel Fuller
sunlight picking up the shining thread on her lap, the gold filaments in her burnished hair. Her breath emerged in a long, stuttering sigh. How she wished her parents could be here now, instead of succumbing to that horrendous, debilitating illness. They would be proud of her, she hoped, proud of the way she had kept the estate going in Hugh’s absence, proud of the way she had scrimped and saved, so that there was something of worth, something of value for him to come home to. How could that man be so insensitive as to keep her from her brother, when she had waited for so long for him to return?
She smoothed the skirts of the gown down over her thighs, shaking out the creases and bringing in the waist with a woven girdle that settled over her slim hips. The woodenness of her fingers vexed her as she fumbled with the intricate ties of the belt. She placed her knife-belt and cloak across the bed, not wanting to alert Giseux’s suspicions if she carried them out to the great hall now. Soon enough she and Alys would have him settled in the guest chamber and she would be able to slip away. Knotting her long braids together to form a loose bun, she jabbed the vibrant mass with several long hairpins in an effort to secure it, before covering her head with a gauzy veil. This she jammed into place with a golden circlet, the only one she hadn’t sold, the metal cold and tight against her forehead.
She padded on silent feet towards the door, the hem of her gown a muffled whisper against the wide elm floorboards. Clicking the latch open, Brianna drew her spine up, preparing to face her rescuer once more.
Giseux’s substantial frame spread out from the chair, his whole body polished in the light of the feeble fire. One arm hung out over the armrest, strong, tapered fingers suspended in mid-air.
He was asleep.
A curious flickering curled around her stomach, subtle, delicious, as she studied the man. For the first time she noticed the grey shadows beneath his eyes, hollows of smudged ash, crinkled lines fanning out from the corners. A hot, heavy sensation speared her feet to the floor; it was as if she were mesmerised. He looked uncomfortable, his big frame wedged into the narrow corner of the chair, and, with a rush of realisation, Brianna knew she should have offered him some of her brother’s clothes. Hugh could never wait to dispense with his armour once he arrived home, always complaining how intolerable it was.
His chest rose and fell steadily, slowly, evidence of a deep sleep, the wool of his surcoat flattening taut over his chest and stomach, revealing the solid indentations of his muscles. He had loosened the leather laces that held together the slash neck of his hauberk; as the chainmail edges gaped, they revealed the strong, corded muscles of his neck, the tanned hollow of his throat. Brianna bit her lip; the temptation to touch, to test the honed perfection of his skin, was overwhelming. Her fingers burned with awareness.
She twisted her hands together, agitated, trying to dispel the tantalising craving, annoyed by her strange reaction to him. Was she in her right mind? Had the attack today left her so befuddled that she had forgotten her lonely path in life? Remember Walter, she told herself sternly, remember Walter controlling her to the point where she had wanted to scream in frustration, trapped in that bitter, loveless marriage. It had become his main amusement, deciding what she ate, what she wore, what she did all day, so that at some point in that hideous time, she truly believed she was losing the ability to think for herself. And she was not about to let that happen again.
Whisking back to her chamber, Brianna snatched up her cloak and knife-belt from the bed. Her mind rattled with details; she had to seize her chance to travel to Winchester now, whilst Giseux slept. As she tiptoed past him, a sudden nausea roiled in her belly at her daring and she trembled with the horrible notion of him leaping up suddenly, catching her red-handed. He could not, must not, catch her. She kept her gaze pinned to the door at the far end of the great hall, taking deliberate, considered steps, picking up her hem so she didn’t trip. Every muscle in her body strained, held taut in the moment, alert to the slightest movement, the slightest sound from the chair. After what seemed like an eternity, her hand lifted the latch and she slipped into the entrance hall like a ghost, closing the door behind her. Her suppressed breath released; she sagged against the wall in relief.
Alys emerged from the stair that led to the guest chamber above the kitchens, eyes wide in her pale, wizened face. ‘My lady? What’s happening?’ she whispered, frowning at Brianna’s change of clothes, her cloak.
‘Shh.’ Brianna put a finger to her lips, seizing the maidservant by the hand and pulling her through the main entrance door, out, out into the frosty air, down the steps, down to the vaulted stables below the first floor. The smell of crushed straw, of faint, stale horse filled the air.
‘Oh, mistress, nay, you cannot!’ In the white slant of moonlight that poured through the archway into the stables, Alys brought her gnarled, arthritic hands to sunken cheeks when Brianna told her of her plans.
‘It’s the only way,’ Brianna announced briskly, heart knocking against her chest, the image of the big man sprawled upstairs, asleep, tripping dangerously around the edges of her consciousness.
‘At least let me come with you, mistress.’
In the startling brightness of the moon, Alys suddenly looked old, her gaunt frame bent over with exhaustion. Guilt surged through Brianna and she placed two hands on Alys’s shoulders. ‘Nay, Alys, I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve put up with so much from me, you need to rest now. Go to bed, sleep. Lord Giseux can take care of himself.’
‘But …?’
‘Winchester is not above twenty miles from here … I know the way.’ Well, most of it, Brianna added silently.
‘But how will you travel?’ Alys’s gaze swept the empty stable. ‘We have no horses left to ride.’
Brianna grinned, the metal bosses on her cloak glinting in the dim light. ‘Aye, we don’t,’ she pointed out towards to fringes of the forest, where Giseux’s large destrier was patiently cropping the grass, the reins conveniently looped around a low branch, ‘but he does.’
It was the cold that finally woke him, digging into his bones like icy fingers, relentlessly, endlessly, so at last after a great deal of tossing and turning and trying to will his exhausted body back to sleep, Giseux reluctantly opened his eyes. The barest trickle of moonlight squeezed through the gaps in the long wooden shutters, enough to see by. The fire had burnt out, but not long ago, ashes smouldering dismally in the grate.
The chair cradled his body at a stiff, unyielding angle, compressing his bones. His right hand had gone numb; he gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers as the blood returned with a painful prickling. Shaking off the shrouds of sleep, his mind jumped into action, remembering, remembering the task that Hugh had set him. He recalled the spark of determination in Lady Brianna’s eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth when he had informed her that they would not leave until morning.
Propelling himself from the chair, he strode over to the door of the solar, wrenching the door open. In normal circumstances, he probably would have knocked, but up to this point everything about Lady Brianna had been anything but normal. He knew, he just knew, before he’d even looked at the bed and saw that the furs lay flat, unused, that she had gone. Little witch! He had offered to come to Sefanoc as a favour to Hugh; in reality it was turning out to be an ordeal.
Stepping over to the bed, he hauled the covers back; the spotless, empty white sheet shone back at him, the slight indentation in the mattress where she would have slept mocking him. The scent of crushed lavender rose from the bedlinens, delicious, seductive, reminding him of those long, hot summers in Poitiers, and his heart jerked in memory. That all seemed so long ago now.
A small sound on the other side of the bed caught his attention.
‘She’s not here, my lord.’ Alys sat up on low pallet bed, clutching the covers to her bony chest. Her frizzled hair stuck out from her head like grey lace. Her veins traced blue ridges on the backs of her hands.
‘I can see that,’ Giseux replied bluntly, his cheeks sculptured hollows in the sepulchral light. ‘And against my better judgement I’m about to go after her.’
Big fat tears welled up in the maidservant’s eyes.