Meriel Fuller - Innocent's Champion

* * *

Once Katherine was comfortably installed in her litter, her entourage—swelled in ranks with Henry’s knights—began its slow progress eastwards once more. The servants who carried the wooden struts on their shoulders had emerged from the attack relatively unscathed; the youngest manservant dabbed sporadically at a split lip, but apart from a few bumps and bruises, no great injuries had been sustained. The household knight with the injury to his shoulder had to be helped up into his saddle but seemed to be holding his seat tolerably well, following Henry’s knights, who rode up front, the rumps of their muscled warhorses glossy, shiny.

The track was dry and flat; they would make good progress now. John and Katherine’s home lay only a mile or so farther up the expansive, fertile valley. In the strip of rough, uncultivated land between the river and the path, white hogweed grew, proliferated: great lacy umbels like dinner plates reaching up beyond the mess of inferior weeds, frilled flower heads against the deep blue of the sky. A brilliant green-backed beetle ambled across one of the flowers, black whiskered legs crawling slowly.

As they emerged from the dimness of the woodland, and into the scorching radiance of the open fields running either side of the river, Katherine sank back on her cushions, a smug, self-satisfied look on her face. ‘John will be so pleased with me,’ she announced, stretching her hand out limply to Matilda, who walked alongside the litter. ‘Such important guests that I am bringing home to him! How fortunate we are that they turned up.’

Ignoring her sister’s hand, Matilda scuffed her leather boots along the track, deliberately kicking up dust. Hanging across the path, a teasel head, brown and withered from the year before, scraped along the fine blue wool of her sleeve. A pair of brilliant pewter eyes danced across her vision. She pursed her lips, determined to scrape the memory from her brain. He was nothing, not important.

‘And such a lot to prepare, if they are to stay tonight!’ Katherine’s eyes widened. ‘What do you think, Matilda, should we put Henry in the south tower—you know, the one with the gold brocade hangings around the bed? Will he think it too shabby?’

Keeping pace with the litter’s progress, Matilda folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Katherine, do you have any idea who these men are?’ She nodded up ahead, indicating the broad, stocky back of Henry, Gilan’s tall, muscular frame riding alongside him. His dark blue cloak spread out over the rump of his horse, the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered along the length of cloth twinkling like tiny stars.

A deep shuddering breath burst from her lungs at the sight of them; individually, these men were formidable enough, but together as a group, with plate armour burnished and shining and helmets obscuring their features, their horses with hooves the size of a man’s head, they presented an intimidating force. Her heart flailed, searching for purchase, for direction, the memory of that stranger’s tanned handsome face, Gilan’s face, so close to her own she could still smell the musky woodsmoke on his skin. In the face of such powerful masculinity, such strength and vigour, she was at a momentary loss as to what to do next. Fear had emptied her mind.

She turned away, back to her sister, a wave of panic pulsing through Matilda’s veins. The thought of these men in her sister’s home, that they would discover where John and Katherine’s true loyalties lay, not with them, but with the king, made her legs shake.

‘Do you have any idea?’ she repeated, her voice low, insistent.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Katherine replied, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Of course I know who they are. Henry is the grandson of King Edward III...’

‘...and he’s been exiled, Katherine. King Richard exiled him to Paris. He’s not even supposed to be in this country.’

Katherine frowned, her mind trying to make sense of the information. ‘But...but I didn’t know that!’ she protested. ‘Why would I have known that?’

Matilda shook her head. Why, indeed. Her sister showed little or no interest in the politics of the country. Henry had been exiled on the death of his father, John of Gaunt, simply because, as sole inheritor, he would have become more powerful than King Richard himself. And Richard resented that, viewed his cousin as a threat, confiscating Henry’s lands for no good reason.

‘What can we do?’ cried Katherine.

‘We must keep quiet,’ advised Matilda, trying to remain calm for her sister’s sake. ‘And hope that John keeps his wits about him when he sees their colours riding towards the castle. If we are careful, then they won’t find out that John is a staunch supporter of the king. And serve them horrible food—that will send them on their way a bit quicker.’

‘Mother of Mary! What’s John going to say?’

‘Hopefully, he will say nothing, at least while they are in the castle.’

* * *

The Castle of Neen rose up in the middle of the valley, at the point where two gentle slopes intersected at the river: a silver ribbon cutting through fields thick with a ripening wheat crop. Cattle and sheep grazed on the upper slopes, the poorer ground, before the land rose into a steep escarpment, blotched with yellow gorse. The castle was unusual, built in the French style, a rectangular building with round towers on the four corners, each topped with a conical roof in slate. Great carved corbel stones supported projecting parapets, protecting any knight who stepped out onto the narrow ledge surrounding the roof above. In the dropping sunlight, the polished limestone walls, studded with shells from prehistoric times, glowed pale and luminous.

‘Enchanting,’ breathed Henry, raising gingery eyebrows in appreciation at the pretty building, as they slowed their horses to clatter through the gatehouse and into the bailey. The river they had been following flowed beneath the outer walls and into the deep moat surrounding the castle before disappearing out the other side, providing a constant supply of fresh water.

Henry turned in the saddle, leather creaking beneath his burly thighs. ‘We should allow the ladies to go in first, announce our presence.’ With one touch of his knee he shifted his horse out of the way, Gilan performing the same manoeuvre. The litter was carried past them, Matilda striding alongside, head held high, eyes fixed straight ahead. Her wet gown had picked up all the dry dust of the road, and the blue material was now coated in a clay-coloured paste almost up to her knees. The silken ebony of her hair drooped forlornly in its inadequate pins, her circlet and veil set askance on her head.

‘What has happened to that maid?’ Henry said pointedly, beneath his breath. ‘She looks like she’s been dragged through the mire.’

She looks beautiful. The words strove, unbidden, into Gilan’s brain. He snatched up the reins in surprise, angry at his own musings. Why was he even thinking such a thing? The girl was a mess, plain for all to see.

‘She’s had a busy day,’ Gilan replied drily, bunching his reins into one fist as his horse sidled beneath him. ‘She almost took my head off with an arrow, then fell into the river when I went to stop her.’ He grimaced, guilt flooding through him at the memory: outraged blue eyes, firing hostility; the sweet curve of her bosom as she lay, unconscious, in the warm grass.

‘Impressive,’ murmured Henry, his eyes narrowing on the diminutive figure as she helped her sister alight from the litter.

‘More like misguided,’ replied Gilan, watching as Katherine sagged dramatically against Matilda, making her stagger. ‘The stupid chit made the situation far worse for herself than if she had just stayed put.’