Meriel Fuller - Her Battle-Scarred Knight

Giseux’s knee brushed against her leg; she flinched at the contact. His voice, when it came, was low, slipping velvet. ‘I can make you do anything I want.’ His eyes bored into hers, darkening gimlets of granite. ‘Don’t kid yourself that I, or any other man for that matter, could not … it’s dangerous to think like that.’

‘I’ve managed up to now,’ she spat back weakly. ‘And I’m still not going back with you.’

Giseux sighed. The woman was a complete fool. Of course he could make her return to Sefanoc—he could simply grab her spindly frame and dump her on his horse, kicking and screaming. Surely she realised that? He was twice the size of her, with muscle power to match. But he was awake now, and in no mood to wrangle any longer. Turning away, he walked over to his destrier, tightening the girth, before throwing himself up into the saddle. ‘Mount up,’ he ordered, kicking the shining stirrup free from his booted foot.

‘Wh-what?’ She stared up at him aghast. Vivid images piled chaotically into her brain, images of herself tucked up comfortably in the arms of Giseux, her back against his chest, her arms cradled within his. No! She couldn’t do it! ‘I can’t!’

‘You seem to manage perfectly well when you stole my horse.’ He stared down haughtily at her. Beneath him, his horse pawed the ground, dry leaves rustling against its hoof.

‘I borrowed your horse,’ she corrected him. ‘Not that it helped much; he refused to move faster than an ambling walk.’

‘He’s trained only to respond to me,’ he replied, disparagingly, holding out his hand towards her. ‘Now, come on, mount up.’

This is wrong, she thought, as she grasped his hand and stuck her slender foot in the stirrup. A quivering coil of excitement licked along her veins as he hoisted her in front of him; she bounced up as if she weighed nothing. Her hips bumped back uncomfortably into the edge of the leather saddle; she scissored one leg over the horse’s neck to ride astride. Leaning forwards, she grabbed a bunch of mane between her fists to maintain her balance.

‘Lean back.’ It was a command, not a request. His warm breath puffed over her veil; the material wafted against the nape of her neck making her shiver at the close contact. ‘At the speed we’ll be going, you’ll fall off. Lean back.’ His repeated order was terse, clipped.

I’m doing this for Hugh, she reminded herself over and over again as she moved gingerly against the solid wall of chest. Every nerve ending in her body sprang alive at the contact; beneath her layers of clothing, beneath the thick wool cloak, the gown of linen, she could feel his chest muscles ripple against her shoulder blades. The bunched muscle of his thighs pillowed her hips, rocking her intimately from side to side as the horse picked up speed. One arm snaked around her middle, the iron band yanking her more securely inwards as the horse kicked up clods of earth in its wake. She had never been this close to a man, this intimate, nay, not even with Walter; what she did now went against every promise she had made herself when she had left that horrible man. Against all inclination, she was thrown back into him, again and again. Brianna pressed her eyes together in shame, cheeks lit with flags of red.

The maid felt so fragile within his arms, her slim frame light against his chest, thought Giseux. Her appearance belied her inner strength, the innate courage that flowed within her. Like a delicate flower stem rocked by a fierce breeze, it would take a great deal to break her. He sensed she had come close that morning, that he had witnessed her teetering on the edge of total fear, of utter desolation. When those men had laid into her she had fought back like one possessed. Above the silken brush of her hair, his mouth tightened—no woman deserved such harsh treatment, whatever they had done, however they had behaved. Imperceptibly, his arms strengthened around her. Her shoulders rocked back into his chest; he grimaced as his body responded to the delicate press, the drifting lavender scent of her hair. He knew better than to become involved. Since that unspeakable time with Nadia, women, for him, had been reduced to a means of physical solace. He never asked their names in the darkness, never engaged in conversation. It suited him that way and, after what had happened, he preferred it. Without thinking, he rubbed at the aching muscle in his thigh, the single physical reminder of the woman he had loved in the East, the woman who had died trying to help him and his men. She had been on their side and had paid with her life for that loyalty. His wound was a small price in comparison, a continual ache eating into him, reminding him of his guilt, his culpability day after day. That, and the cavernous black void that was his heart.

Once clear of the creaking depths of the forest and the maze of tracks within, the land rose in a series on undulating folds: gentle flat-topped plains, with pale tussocks of grass rippling violently in the wind, like hair under the water. The moon, its glowing orb travelling fast behind lacy wisps of cloud, bathed the landscape in a spectral light, accentuating the deep shadows, the brittle branches of a solitary hawthorn, contorted and bent over like an old man.

Giseux knew his location now, recognised the wide, open spaces of his childhood, or at least, his childhood before he had gone to the court of Queen Eleanor in Poitiers to train as a knight. In the forest, in the confusing bundle of trees and trackways, he had been reliant on the maid’s direction, silently following her outstretched pointing arm, until the trees grew thin on the outer boundaries.

Touching his heels to the horse’s flanks, he urged the animal up the steep sheep trail to gain the plateau above, his body leaning forwards with the altered gait. With the movement, Brianna shifted her position, arching her spine to break any contact with him. Giseux’s mouth twisted into a grimace. The stubborn little chit was doing her utmost to make this journey as awkward as possible, acting as if he were inflicted with some horrible disease, not doing her a favour.

Gaining the top of the plateau, saddle creaking under the combined weight of both riders, Giseux kicked the horse swiftly to a gallop. Now she had no choice, she had to lean back into him or risk falling off. Winding one arm tight in front of her, he winched her into his chest, sensing every muscle in her body protesting with rigid, outraged hostility. Even through the layers of her clothes, the fragile bones of her rib cage pressed against his forearm, her heart fluttering chaotically against his wrist, a moth’s wing of sensation. Despite her wilfulness towards him, she was afraid. The thought made him uncomfortable; she had no reason to be fearful of him.

The wind whipped around them as they rode, snaring Brianna’s skirts, flattening them over Giseux’s legs. It tore at her veil, sending the flimsy cloth flying across his face, in front of his eyes, blinding him. Hauling sharply on the reins, he clawed at the silk that filled his nose and covered his eyes, finally pulling it from his face and, in the same movement, tearing it from Brianna’s head. The gold circlet spun out into the darkness, landing with a soft rustle in one of the tussocks of grass.

‘My circlet!’ she gasped in surprise. Before he had time to anticipate her movement, she slid haphazardly, chaotically, from the horse as it slowed to a trot, stumbling down on to the uneven ground, tipping forwards on her hands and knees. Momentarily winded, she sat back on her heels on the damp grass, casting her eyes about for the sparkle of circlet. A raft of weariness flooded over her, sapping her strength.

‘Why didn’t you wait?’ Giseux shouted down at her, the fierce wind tugging at his words. ‘I would have fetched your circlet.’