The Warrior's Damsel In Distress. Meriel Fuller

       Chapter Four

      Gilbert watched Katherine’s stately figure move through the great hall. Her progress across the uneven stone floor was slow, as she stopped to engage in conversation along the way: she chatted with the peasants who worked in the fields, the soldiers who kept the castle safe from intruders. She smiled and listened with attention, dropping her head considerately if an older person spoke too quietly, the gemstones on her long fingers flashing in the candlelight as she reached out to touch a shoulder or cup an elbow, before moving on.

      ‘The perfect lady of the manor,’ Gilbert said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘What a shame I have to take her away from all this.’ Reaching for the earthenware jug of red wine, he poured himself another goblet. A bead of liquid spilled from the mouth of the jug as he set the heavy vessel back down clumsily; it landed on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading out in a crimson circle.

      ‘When are you going to tell her?’ Bruin speared a slice of pork with his eating knife, depositing it on his pewter plate. The meat was well roasted, crispy. His belly growled; he was hungry after the full day of riding.

      ‘Tonight. But after I’ve eaten. She’ll take the news badly and I have no intention of missing such a fantastic spread of food!’ Gilbert patted his stomach. ‘But I’ll give her two or three days to pack, which means I can avail myself of this wonderful hospitality for a little longer.’

      ‘Two or three days?’ Bruin grinned at him. ‘Is the King not waiting for her?’

      ‘Edward will meet me at my castle in a sennight.’ Gilbert wiped his greasy mouth with a square linen napkin. ‘That gives me enough time to travel there with her and the children. Goodness knows how many wagons she’ll need. You know what these women are like.’

      A wisp of memory snaked out, gripping Bruin by the throat; the sparkling granite in his eyes dulled instantly. No, he thought, no, he did not know what these women were like. He crushed the stem of his goblet, the angular pewter work pressing into the coarse pads of his fingers. He had pushed his own chance away and then it had been too late. His heart pleated in on itself, folding tighter and tighter. For the last year, by his own choice, his world had been reduced to a solely masculine one, harsh and brutal.

      ‘But...of course...’ Gilbert spluttered into his goblet, suddenly realising the insensitivity of his words, remembering, too late, what had happened to Bruin. ‘I mean...’ His kind-hearted voice trailed away, bereft of words.

      ‘It’s fine, Gilbert.’ Bruin stared bleakly out across the great hall, seeing nothing. Sophie’s death, her tragic, pointless death, was well known amongst the circles of nobility, both here in England and across the Channel. After what had happened, unable to deal with the mantle of guilt that hugged his shoulders, the judging glances, Bruin had abandoned King Edward and followed the exiled Lord Despenser into the relentless life of a mercenary, living on his wits, fighting and battling on the open sea, uncaring whether he lived or died. But when King Edward summoned Despenser back to England, he had persuaded Bruin to come back and fight for him again. And he had come, for he had realised that fighting was the same, anywhere. It gave his black soul a reason for existence, even if that existence was as barren and cold as his heart. There was no softness in his life, no feminine fripperies or tinkling laughter. Those things were not for him. Not now. Not ever.

      ‘Did you hear me?’ Gilbert’s voice nudged Bruin from his thoughts.

      ‘Sorry. What did you say?’ He gulped his wine, dragging his mind away from his memories.

      Gilbert smiled. ‘I see you found the maidservant. What happened to her?’

      Bruin forced his mind to concentrate on the present, staring at the food steaming slowly on his plate: roast pork, parsnips, a hunk of crusty bread. ‘She was caught in an animal trap and hurt her leg.’

      ‘Unlucky.’ Gilbert drew his breath in, sharply. ‘But why did she run when she saw us?’

      Bruin shrugged his shoulders. ‘She says she mistook me for someone else.’ He remembered her beautiful eyes, fear dilating the pupils as he approached her. ‘Someone who looked like me, apparently.’

      ‘Who could possibly look like you?’ Gilbert teased, thumping his pewter goblet down on the white damask tablecloth, chuckling at his own wit. Then his stubby eyelashes flew upwards as he looked at Bruin. ‘Apart from—’

      ‘My twin brother,’ Bruin finished for him. He rubbed at the coppery bristles on his chin. ‘I did think that. It’s possible they have seen each other, I suppose,’ he continued slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought they moved in the same circles. And besides, I don’t think Steffen even ventured into Wales; he always had his sights set firmly on the English castles. But it doesn’t explain why she reacted as she did.’

      Gilbert grinned. ‘I hate to say it, but it sounds like you completely terrified her. And frankly, I’m not surprised. You’re in full chainmail, you haven’t shaved...’

      Bruin held his hand up. ‘Enough,’ he said, laughing. ‘I know—I’ll make an effort for the morrow.’ Disquiet threaded through him. He had no wish to go around scaring women; Gilbert’s words hung on his shoulders like a chastisement. Had his time as a mercenary changed him that much? Fighting and plundering had given him a warped sense of satisfaction; at the time, he was out for revenge, but against whom? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Sophie was dead and that it was his fault.

      Gilbert raised his goblet in welcome as Katherine climbed up to the dais. Half-rising from his seat, he bowed his head respectfully as she approached the table. Bruin and the other knights followed suit. She slipped in beside Gilbert, handing Bruin’s cloak across to him. ‘Here, my lord. Thank you for bringing my nursemaid back to me.’

      ‘It was nothing,’ Bruin murmured. Eyes, as blue as a kingfisher’s wing, leapt across his vision. His heart jumped at the memory. He scanned the hall, the throng of heads and bodies. He had watched her limp through the door, leaning heavily on her mistress, but then she had disappeared into the throng of people. He would have noticed if she had left; the only way out of this hall was by the main door, or through a curtained alcove set opposite to him, presumably leading to bedchambers above. Every woman in the place seemed to be wearing identical white wimples, drab-coloured dresses.

      ‘Now, my lords,’ Katherine said, as a servant pushed the heavy oak chair beneath her and she snapped a linen napkin across the red velvet of her gown. ‘Mayhap you would like to tell me what you are doing in such a remote corner of Wales.’

      * * *

      A dryness scraped Eva’s throat; her tongue, big and unwieldy, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had been chewing a lump of bread for what seemed like hours, unwilling to swallow, worried that she might choke. Her eyelids drooped; all she wanted to do was climb the stairs to her bedchamber and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber. And forget.

      ‘Hey, Eva!’ A young lad to her right elbowed her sharply in the arm, laughing. ‘You should go to bed! You’re falling asleep at the table!’