Meriel Fuller - Her Battle-Scarred Knight

Silence.

Irritation rose in his gullet—what in the devil’s name was happening now? Sneaking another look round, he could see the silhouette of a woman at the upper window; to his surprise, he realised it was she that held the crossbow. He smiled to himself. She wouldn’t be so lucky with her shot the next time; ladies were not known for their prowess with weapons. Leaving his horse by the tree, he moved out into the open ground, covering the space between the manor and the forest with long-legged strides.

Another bolt flew through the air, thudded next to him, surprisingly close.

‘I told you to go away.’ The modulated tones assailed him from the window, cutting briskly through the night air.

Caught halfway in the open grassy area between the edge of the trees and the house, Giseux tilted his head towards the window. All he could see was the woman’s dark outline and the glint of metal from the crossbow cradled in her arms. ‘And I told you,’ he delivered the words slowly, patiently, ‘that I have come about Hugh of Sefanoc. He is very ill and needs to see his sister. So I suggest you stop playing games and let me in. You’re wasting precious time with this nonsense.’

At his back, an owl hooted, eerie, piercing.

‘I don’t believe you. It’s another trick.’

‘I have no idea to what you are referring.’ Giseux narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the lady’s face. ‘Hugh said you’d be like this; he said you’d ask for proof.’

‘Do you have any?’

Gisuex cleared his throat. ‘He said, “Remember Big Belly Oak”.’

He heard a gasp and what sounded like a rising sob. The figure retreated from the window, crying out an urgent command, before the iron bolts on the main door were drawn back. By the time the last one grated from its metal hasp, Giseux had sprinted to the top of the steps, was waiting when the door nudged slowly inwards.

‘Take me to Lady Brianna,’ he rapped out at the maidservant behind the door, giving her no more than a cursory glance. Yanking off his helmet, he pushed back his chainmail hood and shoved the unwieldy metal headgear into the servant’s hands. His shield slid to the floor in the process. ‘Here, take this.’

His gaze snagged.

He looked again, closer, scrutinising the pale oval face in the dimness of the entrance hall. Bright hair in plaits, translucent blue eyes, shoddy woollen dress. ‘You! It’s you!’ Big hands reached out, tapered fingers snaring her shoulders. ‘You little wretch! Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Lady Brianna? You’ve done her no favours by protecting her!’ In the corner of the entrance hall, another, older servant trembled, twisting her hands nervously, ineffectually, lined face taut with fright.

‘I don’t work for Lady Brianna …’ the girl replied softly. Her small hands clutched around his helmet, as if in support. The bruise at her jaw seemed to have spread, darkening to a frightening array of reddish-purple blotches.

‘You could have saved me a whole day of pointless riding about!’ he blazed at her. ‘Do you realise how much time I’ve wasted? Hugh, your lord, could be dead by now.’ The harsh words felt good on his tongue; he said them deliberately to frighten her, to make her pay for his whole tiresome, wasted day.

A deathly white washed her face. He wondered whether she might faint, the hold he maintained on her shoulders changing to one of support. ‘Tell me where he is,’ she whispered, raising her beautiful blue eyes to his. ‘I am Hugh’s sister. I am Brianna of Sefanoc.’

His wolfish look plundered her, dark brows drawing into a frown, eyes hardening to chips of granite. ‘You … are … Brianna?’ he pronounced slowly, incredulous, drawing his gaze at a leisurely pace from the top of her flame-coloured hair, over the tented and patched sack of her gown, to the tips of her toes. Her face grew hot beneath the deliberateness of his examination; she twisted away, all but throwing his helmet on to an oak bench in the entrance hall.

‘I realise I’m not quite as you would expect,’ Brianna explained briskly. In the confined space of the entrance hall, a restless energy rolled from him in waves, vital, pulsating, resonating through her body, making her shiver. The diamond chips of his eyes glittered in the sepulchral gloom.

‘You can say that again,’ he murmured. The luminous quality of her skin gleamed from the shadows. His fingers tingled, itched to touch, to test the alluring softness, and he frowned.

‘I had to help out with the milking this morning, hence the clothes.’

‘Help with the milking? Surely you have servants to do such work?’ Giseux threw a penetrating glance over at Alys, who quailed visibly into the corner.

Brianna shook her head faintly, dismissing the subject; she had no wish to discuss her domestic arrangements with a complete stranger. She reached out her hand to touch Giseux’s arm, then obviously thought better of it, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘Tell me about Hugh, please. I have spent so many days waiting, wondering. I can’t believe he’s still alive.’

Giseux sincerely hoped that he was. The loose sleeve of her gown had slipped back when she reached up as if to touch him; the skin of her wrist was limpid, fragile as parchment, covered with a network of blue veins; her fingernails were pale pink, delicate shells, against the raw skin of her work-roughened fingers. He swallowed, a sudden dryness catching his throat.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ He glanced archly at the sheathed knife in her belt. ‘Or am I still considered a danger?’

He saw her take a deep, shuddering breath, saw the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. The tip of her tongue licked nervously at the rose-bud fullness of her bottom

lip.

‘Am I a danger?’ he repeated. The low, husky tones enveloped her. An odd, teetering sensation spiralled in her belly, coiling slowly, blossoming.

‘No,’ she croaked. Indecision swamped her. She knew he had been sent by Hugh; how else would he have known of the ‘Big Belly Oak’ of their childhood, their secret hiding place? She looped her arms defensively across her stomach. There was something else about this man that caused every last nerve ending in her body to dance with … Was it fear? She couldn’t be certain, at a loss to identify the feeling.

‘Follow me.’ Her lips compressed as she grasped the spitting torch proffered by Alys, holding the guttering flame aloft, showing the way.

He followed the rigid line of Brianna’s back into the great hall, enjoying the tempting sway of her hips as they brushed against the inside of her gown. Who would have thought that she could be Hugh’s sister, dressed in those torn, work-stained garments, her rippling coppery hair, like beech leaves in autumn, falling down past her waist in simple braids? Hugh of Sefanoc never wasted the slightest opportunity to boast about the substantial income he gained from his estates, from the farming as well as the forest. So why was his sister dressed in rags, working her fingers to the bone, courting the violent attentions of Count John’s men?

Slinging the torch into an iron ring alongside the imposing stone fireplace, Brianna gestured abruptly to a high-backed armchair. Giseux folded his large frame gratefully into the hard wooden seat; after a day in the saddle it felt good, despite the inflexibility of his armour. He glanced at the fire, a pathetic business made up of a few damp sticks, spitting and smouldering in the enormous grate. The tiny heat thrown out by the feeble flames made little impact on the cavernous space; against the skin of his face, Giseux could feel the penetrating cold radiating out from the grey-stone walls. Up above him, the high ceiling was constructed of thick oak trusses, huge arches that spanned the length of the hall. The high windows had been shuttered against the winter weather, although he doubted it made much difference to the inside temperature.