Meriel Fuller - Her Battle-Scarred Knight

Gathering the last scraps of courage from her body, she tipped her head defiantly, meeting his pewter gaze. ‘I’ll not go back with you. I’ll not go back to Merleberge.’

‘I have no intention of making you go anywhere,’ he replied, his tone brimming with contempt. Sunburn dusted his high cheekbones, a reddish-brown colour that spoke of distant lands. His mouth was generous, top lip narrow, well defined, in stark, shocking comparison to the sensual fullness of his bottom lip. Brown hair, gilded, fell forwards in thick strands over his brow, ruffled by the breeze. ‘But it would help if I could take you somewhere, to a place of safety. Sooner, rather than

later.’

He propelled himself up in one sinuous, graceful movement; she instinctively raised her hands, as if to ward off further attack, but to her surprise he ignored her, heading towards his horse. Her heart eased as she watched him, noting that he limped—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a pause, as his right foot moved forwards. His chainmail, glinting like fish scales, fitted his tall frame like a second skin, revealing the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his long legs. The fine cloth of his surcoat held a dull sheen in the fragile sunshine, secured to his slim hips with a wide leather sword belt.

‘Here, have this, you’re freezing.’

She cast a cursory glance at the bundle of cloth between his hands: a cloak, of midnight blue, the collar edged in fur.

‘I’ve told you, leave me. I want nothing from you.’ She tried to inject some strength into her voice. Clutching valiantly at the trough with clenched, icy fingers, she pushed her body weight upwards. A raft of dizziness swept through her head as she stood up straight and she swayed, nausea boiling in her stomach. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘For the love of God, go away.’ Her lids, blue-veined and pale, fluttered down, spiky black lashes fanning her cheeks. She wanted to recover from her humiliating ordeal in her own time, at her own pace, without this man, this stranger, witnessing her every move.

He assessed her wilting figure critically, the hint of a mocking smile playing across his lips; a large bear-like hand curled around her shoulder. ‘Mayhap you should stay sitting for a while?’

Brianna wrested her shoulder furiously from his grasp, from the unwanted contact, eyes caged, fiery breath caught in the trap of her throat. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she lashed at him, ‘don’t you dare touch me!’ She turned, stumbling a little over the tussocky grass, spotting the gleam of her knife in the rough vegetation. Her head swam as she crouched to pick it up, to secure the blade once more in its scabbard at her waist. Then, without a backward glance, the blurry horizon line teetering before her, she took one step tentatively back towards the farm. Somehow, the thought of returning to her own cold, empty home failed to fill her with confidence.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ The stranger’s voice boomed out over her, a snare of exasperation.

Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. Brianna focused on the gateway, forcing her wooden, unwilling legs to move forwards, aware that her gait was unbalanced, wobbling even. If she could just stretch her fingers out to reach the gatepost …

A hand grasped her upraised forearm, strong tapered fingers snaring the point where the wide cuff of her rough sleeve had fallen back, exposing the limpid marble of her skin. Beneath the loose hold of his fingers, her pulse scurried along, too fast. Legs buckling, Brianna staggered against the oak gatepost, the wood split and grey, speckled with a frothing mat of sage-green lichen.

He was at her back, the rounded bulk of his shoulder curving into hers, the heat from his body burning her spine. The silken strands of her hair stirred with his breath … no, too close! Vexed, she squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the hot threat of tears at his continued, unwanted presence.

‘I swear you are the rudest, most ungrateful chit I have ever met.’ His voice curled into her, hardened by iron-clad threads of irritation. ‘Now, tell me where you live and I will take you there.’ From his lofty vantage point, he traced the elegant arch of her dark copper brow, the creamy curve of her cheek. Her skin was fine, polished: the rich, sleek lustre of a pearl. Up close, the purpling bruise on her jawline looked savage; it must hurt like hell, he thought, suddenly.

‘Nay,’ she responded quickly. Her frozen skin tingled beneath the pads of his fingers. She tried to jerk away, to take one more tottering step, but he held firm. ‘I don’t want your help.’

‘Oh, but I think you do,’ Giseux responded calmly. He hadn’t realised how small she was; if he leaned forward a notch, the top of her head would brush his chin. ‘You can scarce take a step without nearly falling down. However near your home might be, it would take you all day to reach it.’

‘But I would reach it … eventually,’ Brianna threw back, tilting her chin up with determination, ‘without your help.’ A rising anxiety fluttered in her chest at his proximity, clawing at her innards. He was like a solid, immovable wall, glittering, formidable. His hand fell from her arm and she clung to the post for support. She bit her lip, humiliated, furious at her own pathetic weakness, beset with a flooding sense of her own vulnerability.

Giseux sighed, folding his arms high across his chest. ‘I don’t understand you. For all you know, those men could be waiting for you in the next field over. Are you really that stupid?’

Lips set in a mutinous line, Brianna glared dully at the horizon, defeat clogging her heart. The man gave her no choice; she suspected he would dog her steps until he saw her to a place of safety. Then, and only then, would she be rid of him.

‘I live over there.’ She gestured vaguely towards the low roofs of the farm on the horizon, not trusting him with the truth. ‘It’s not far.’

‘Then let’s go.’ Giseux gathered up his shield from the spot where she had fallen, slinging the glossy black armour across his body, securing his helmet and cloak to the rump of his horse, before catching up the reins.

A shout from the field beyond forced Brianna to lift her head. Spotting the round, familiar figure of the farmer trotting alongside the hedge, hefting a heavy iron mace between his thick hands, she almost collapsed with relief. The sides of William’s leather jerkin flapped out from his hips as he jogged along, his normally jovial face red with exertion, his eyes wide with concern.

‘William!’ she called over to him. ‘Over here!’ Whirling around, she noted that the knight tracked the farmer’s advance with interest. ‘No need to escort me now.’ She expelled her pent-up breath in a long gasp, her relief evident in the sag of her body, the brightness of her features. ‘William can take me home.’

Granite eyes narrowed. ‘You know this man?’

She nodded. ‘He’s my father.’ The lie tripped easily from her tongue; she felt the need for some protection, however fictitious.

‘He needs to keep a closer eye on you.’ Swinging up into the saddle, a surprisingly lithe, efficient movement for such a big man, the stranger pulled up the reins, his stance relaxed, easy as the horse sidled beneath him.

‘Tell me, do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’

Breath punched from her lungs at the astonishing question, toes curling in her boots as she glared blankly at the broad expanse of blue sky, patched by fluffy white clouds coasting along in the breeze. She edged her gaze around, unsure whether she had heard him correctly. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’ he repeated, slowly, witheringly, as if she were a halfwit.