The Knight's Fugitive Lady. Meriel Fuller
heavy sea taking its toll on their stomachs.
Mortimer rolled his eyes. ‘Not good. Isabella’s complaining about being hungry; they all are, in fact. Honestly, when you look at the way they’re carrying on, you’d think we were out on some day trip, not invading England.’
‘How much food do we have?’
‘The bread is soaked through with sea-water...and the milk has turned. We only brought enough provisions for the journey.’ His eyes swept the cliffs in desperation, as if they would provide the answer to their dire food situation. ‘Our compass bearing, when we set off from Flanders, should have brought us within sight of the Earl of Norfolk’s castle and estates. He supports the Queen and will give us board and lodging—’
‘The storm blew us off course,’ Philippe chipped in. He understood Queen Isabella’s predicament, for his own stomach growled in sympathy.
Mortimer’s gaze slipped over to the short, stocky man at Lussac’s side, his expression blank, diffident, before switching his attention back to Lussac. ‘As the first soldiers came ashore with their horses, I sent them out as a search party, to find out where we are, to find some food. But they seem to be taking for ever!’
Lussac glanced at the soldiers huddled together in large, sprawling groups on the gently shelving beach, waiting. They were tired and hungry, and in no position to push forwards, to march any long distances. The few horses belonging to the nobles stood behind the Queen’s tent, tails fanning out in the breeze. He had no wish to sit and wait with them, to chew over the tedious details of the journey, to stare dully at the sea. Or to think.
‘I will go and look for them. They can’t have gone far.’
‘Nay, you can’t do that!’ Mortimer looked horrified. Lussac was the same rank as himself and, beyond that, he was close friends with the King of France. They had grown up together, trained together; it simply wouldn’t do to send such a high-ranking nobleman out on a simple scouting expedition. His gaze switched to Philippe. Maybe...?
‘I want to go,’ Lussac explained. How could he explain the constant nagging restlessness coursing through his big frame, the inability to sit still and reflect, to stare at a bird in flight, or watch the waves crash on to the shingle? Nay, that might be for other men, but not for him. Not now. If he allowed his mind to think too much, then the full horror of the past came back to him, filling his head with images and pictures he would prefer to forget. Better to keep active, to throw himself into every battle and skirmish when the opportunities arose, rather than sit around and brood. Never that.
Chapter Two
Lussac kicked the heels of his stout leather boots into his horse’s side, urging the animal away from the beach. After the cramped, restrictive conditions on board ship, it felt good to be moving again. He stretched his legs out against the stirrups, the taut muscles in his thighs and calves relishing the movement as the saddle-leather creaked beneath his tall, muscular frame. As his horse climbed to the top of the narrow path that led up the low cliffs, the whole sweep of this hostile country spread out before him. To his left, through a patchy area of tidal creeks, the wide, flat ribbon of a river made its slow, meandering course towards the sea. Before him, a gently sloping area of rough grass dissolved into woodland up to his right. The place was deserted.
But then his gaze swung back, sharply. What had he seen? What has his mind registered that his eyes had not? A trace of colour, blotched on the horizon? He kicked his horse on, suspecting he might find the soldiers he was looking for. The animal cantered across the uneven plain, Lussac hunkered low in the saddle. As he approached, he realised it was one soldier, sitting on the bleached ground at the edge of the tussocky marshland, his head bowed. A dark-blue patch of colour in this pale, glittery, everlasting landscape. He had removed his helmet and his thick, sandy-coloured hair riffled in the slight breeze. Galloping across to him, Lussac reined his horse brusquely, jumping down almost in the same movement.
‘You, soldier, tell me what happened!’
The boy looked dazed, drugged even, as if he had woken from a dream. Seeing Lussac, recognising his authority, he placed one hand behind him and tried to push himself to his feet, but dizziness overwhelmed him and he fell back.
‘Stay where you are, boy,’ Lussac ordered, impatiently. ‘What happened to you?’ Behind him, his horse shifted constantly, as if aware of his master’s irritation, hooves pawing the ground.
‘An angel came,’ the boy murmured.
‘And she hit you on the head?’ Lussac mocked. The boy had obviously been unconscious, judging from his addled speech. What did he think he was saying?
‘Aye, she hit me on the head. And she took my horse.’
Lussac snorted in disbelief. The boy was clearly talking nonsense. ‘Can you not remember what really happened?’ he tried once more.
‘I tell you no lie, my lord, I promise you.’ The young soldier rubbed the back of his head, tentatively. A searing, uncomfortable ache was spreading through his skull. ‘I was following the others, at the back. And then, all of a sudden, I was pulled from my horse, backwards. She pulled me from my horse.’
‘She?’
‘An angel, I swear to you. Her face...like a pearl, gleaming it was. Beautiful. She was beautiful. I must have knocked myself out when I fell, despite wearing this...’ he gestured towards his helmet ‘...and she leaned over me, told me I would be all right.’
‘Did she indeed.’ Lussac didn’t believe one word of it. A face like a pearl? The lad was delusional, suffering from the after-effects of hitting his head, or he was deliberately making the whole story up to cover his own embarrassment at having his horse stolen. He had probably fallen off his animal of his own accord and the horse had run off, following the others.
‘The other soldiers—did they see any of this?’
The lad had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I was lagging behind, and they didn’t realise. I’m...I’m not used to riding with all this heavy armour.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Lussac replied tartly. ‘Which direction did they take? Can you remember that, at least?’
The boy lifted his arm, pointed towards the cloud of dark-green trees to the north. ‘That way, they went towards the forest.’ He lowered his arm, fixing Lussac with a resolute stare. ‘And the angel followed them.’
‘On your horse.’ Lussac threw the lad a tight smile as he swung himself back into the saddle. The leather creaked as he leaned forwards, gathering the reins, the split side-seam of his tunic falling open to reveal long legs encased in shining chainmail.
‘On my horse,’ the soldier repeated, staring up at him. ‘I know you don’t believe me, my lord, but it’s true. An angel stole my horse.’
* * *
Irritation clenched at Lussac’s gut as he raised one arm to push away a low, overhanging branch at the entrance to the forest. Where had Isabella found these mercenaries to fight on her behalf—in the madhouse? The only saving grace was that they had all gone in the same direction—north—Mortimer’s men, and the ‘stolen’ horse.
The forest was quiet, still, the thick belt of trees diffusing the power of the wind that had raced across the flat river plain. Sunlight, diluted, subdued, flickered down to the sandy mud of the forest floor. The half-light was easy on the eye, a welcome relief after the stark, searing light of the beach, the sunlight bouncing harshly off the sea. Lussac inhaled, deeply, rolling his shoulders back to ease the tension in his muscles, a clean, fresh scent rising from the ground as his horse’s hooves ground into the pine needles strewn across the track. The smell yanked him back, back to the southern pine forests of his youth, those carefree days when he had ridden bareback through the trees, laughing and joking with his friends, when he had swam in the cool lakes and eaten fresh walnuts from the trees, in those idyllic days, when he had had a family to go home to.
There