Commanded By The French Duke. Meriel Fuller
lose anyway.’ Guilhem’s blue eyes regarded Edward calmly. He was used to his friend’s moods, the excitable energy that few men could match, the intense, determined stamina on the battlefield.
‘I could fight now,’ Edward muttered sulkily, ‘and so could you.’
Yes, he could fight, Guilhem thought. But then he could always fight, night or day. He never seemed to feel the cold, or to experience hunger or fatigue. Fighting suited him, suited his personality—to be in the fray, driving onwards relentlessly, to have no time to think or feel. It was better that way.
‘We both could, Edward, but I suspect we’re in the minority. The soldiers need to rest.’ He flicked his head around to watch the remainder of the men gather behind them at the edge of the clearing; knights on horseback stretched back in single file into the shadows of the forest, Edward’s royalist army. Exhaustion etched their faces. ‘I suggest you take the men to your mother’s palace at Knighton and beg some board and lodging. The rebels can wait.’ He tilted his head on one side. ‘What do you say?’
‘You suggest I take the men? Why, what are you going to do?’
Guilhem sighed. ‘I promised my mother I would visit my sister. She has travelled over to be married to an English noble and I believe his castle is not far from here.’ He grinned as Edward’s mouth turned down sulkily. ‘It’ll only be one night and then I’ll join you at Knighton.’
“You need to rest as well. Why not come with us now and see your sister on the morrow?”
“Alright.” Guilhem nodded, then tilted his head, listening intently. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said softly, drawing out his long sword from the scabbard. The steel blade rasped along the leather, a sibilant hiss. His eyes searched the area swiftly, body poised, tense and alert in the saddle. The sound of twigs breaking, of horse’s hooves thumping heavily, came from the other side of the clearing. One of Edward’s outriders came flying towards them, his helmet gone, face red and excited. He pulled so violently on the reins that his horse skidded to a stop, the whites of its eyes rolling back wildly. ‘There’s a problem!’ he managed to gasp out.
The only problem, as far as Guilhem could gather, seemed to be a diminutive nun dressed in what looked like a grey baggy sack and holding a large sword which he suspected did not belong to her. The substantial blade dwarfed her neat frame, semi-precious stones winking dully at the leather-bound helm. The maid stood at the apex of a packhorse bridge, legs planted wide, a laden ox-cart tilting precariously behind her; at intervals she would swish the sword from left to right in a vaguely threatening manner. From what he could work out, not one soldier had made any attempt to overthrow her; instead, they stood in a miserable group on the river bank, helmets off, horses plucking in desultory manner at the spindly grass. Why were they holding back? Surely it was a simple matter to take her down?
‘What is going on here?’ Edward said, dismounting swiftly, reddish-blond brows held together in a deep frown.
‘Er...well, this...this lay sister...’ one of the soldiers began to explain, clutching at his hand. The other men collected around him, shuffling their feet, nodding encouragement to their companion.
‘Are you bleeding?’ Edward demanded roughly, snatching at the man’s hand and opening the stubby fingers. Blood trickled slowly from a deep cut across the soldier’s palm.
The soldier flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘She did it.’ He nodded in the direction of the bridge.
Edward glared at him, pale blue eyes narrowing to slits. ‘She did it? Are you trying to tell me that a nun attacked you? God in Heaven, call yourself knights?’
‘Look at her, sire. She’s giving us the evil eye, muttering godforsaken words at us. Words of the Devil. We tried to make her move the cart, but she slashed at my hand and took my sword! Then she raised her cross and...and put a curse on us! I swear, it’s the truth, sire. We daren’t touch her.’
‘What utter nonsense,’ Edward shot back. ‘Let me deal with this.’
‘Allow me,’ Guilhem said, stalling Edward’s forward step with a burly arm across his friend’s chest. Shoving his helmet towards a soldier, he pushed back his chainmail hood so it settled in loose folds across his shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t do to have the King’s son cut down by a woman.’
‘As if!’ Edward snorted. But he stopped, sweeping his arm out with mock courtesy. ‘However, I have no wish to be cursed, either. Be my guest.’
* * *
The knight who walked towards her was tall, a red woollen surcoat covering his muscled torso and broad shoulders. Despite his height, he carried his body with graceful athleticism, like an animal: powerful, self-assured. Beneath his surcoat, glittering chainmail covered his massive arms, but, in contrast to the other soldiers, he wore no plate armour on his shins. Instead, calf-length leather boots and woollen trousers covered his long legs. His head was bare, chainmail hood pushed back to reveal a thatch of burnished hair, more dark blond than brown, strands thick and wayward, framing a lean, tanned face, prominent cheekbones dusted with sunburn.
Alinor licked her lips rapidly, desperate for a drink of water, for something to calm her, to quell the rising tide of fear that filled her chest, that channelled her breathing into short, quick gasps. Her wrists were weak, fatigued from holding up the cumbersome sword. Her left arm ached, the scar pinching painfully. Where had he come from? Suddenly the short, rotund soldier who had first accosted her seemed infinitely preferable to this approaching barbarian! Everything about him frightened her: those fierce, glinting eyes of midnight blue; his stern mouth set in a grim, intimidating line and that imposing height—all made her innards quail, leap with terrified anticipation. Her heart fluttered incoherently. Have courage, she told herself. You’ve managed to hold them off so far, you can do it again. This is not your grain in the cart and the nuns need the income from it in order to survive. If you let it go now, they will have nothing.
The knight had reached the head of the oxen.
Blood thrummed in her ears. ‘Go away!’ she stuttered out, waving the sword threateningly in the direction of his chest. The heavily embroidered gold lions danced before her eyes. ‘Olim erat urbs magna, nomine altum est!’ The Latin speech poured out of her, nonsensical.
To her utter surprise, the knight laughed, his wide mouth breaking into a smile. Small lines crinkled at the side of his eyes. ‘Your curses don’t scare me, Sister. I don’t believe in God, or the Devil either. We have no intention of hurting you; we merely want to cross the bridge, but you seem to be blocking it.’
‘The wheel is broken,’ Alinor explained. Her voice juddered out, high-pitched. ‘Your men know that already! And that one over there...’ she jabbed the sword point in the direction of the first soldier who had come across to her ‘...started cutting at the sacks, spilling the grain, pouring it into the river!’
Guilhem stuck his thumbs into his sword belt. The supple leather around his slim hips emphasised the bunched muscle in his thighs. He frowned, blue eyes sweeping across the damaged sacks behind her. A lock of burnished hair fell across his brow, blond tips grazing his tanned forehead. ‘And for that I can only apologise,’ he replied. ‘The man overstepped the mark, but I think he has paid the price; you’ve cut him quite badly.’
‘He deserved it!’ A vivid colour flushed Alinor’s cheeks. ‘I thought he was going to help me and then...to waste the grain like that!’
Her eyes were truly the most astonishing colour, Guilhem thought. The wimple wrapped around the perfect oval of her face seemed only to enhance the clear, brilliant green of the irises, glowing like huge emeralds, translucent glass. His heart lurched suddenly, unexpectedly.
‘Just give me the sword, Sister,’ he demanded gruffly, annoyed at the unwelcome nudge in his groin. A nun, for God’s sake! What had got into him? She was nothing to look at: short, no doubt with a vast mountain of flesh beneath