Meriel Fuller - Her Battle-Scarred Knight

‘What did those men want with you this morning?’ he demanded, ignoring the pewter plate at his side.

‘I … er …’ She hesitated, sweeping over to the shutters, checking the latches were secure, away from his heated perusal.

‘What did they want with you?’ Her spine shivered beneath the low rumble of his voice.

The metal hasp of the shutters felt cool beneath her fingers; she yearned to press her flaming face against the solid wood, to regain some solidity, some stability in her current situation.

‘Count John’s men?’ Brianna tried to keep her voice light, even. She couldn’t allow this man to know how much their beating had affected her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she moved back to the fireside, perched tentatively in the seat opposite Giseux.

He bit into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, silent.

Brianna shifted uncomfortably, stared at the floor, knowing he was waiting for an answer. ‘Count John wants me to marry one of his noblemen, so that Sefanoc comes within his jurisdiction. He sent his soldiers to persuade me.’

‘Their methods of persuasion leave a lot to be desired,’ he murmured, taking a swig of mead, running the tip of his tongue along the generous curve of his bottom lip to catch a wayward drip.

Brianna touched one finger to her throbbing jaw. ‘That’s why bringing Hugh home to Sefanoc is so important,’ she offered, tentatively. ‘When Count John sees he’s alive, well, then they’ll stop tormenting me.’

‘Then it’s fortunate he is home.’ Giseux steepled his fingers in front of his chest. ‘Otherwise you might have ended up in a marriage against your will.’

Her expression was bleak. ‘It would never happen; I told you before, I would rather die than have that happen again.’

His eyes flicked up at her final word; she clapped her hands to her mouth, startled, dismayed at her stupid mistake. Again. The word that gave away her past.

‘Again?’ Giseux queried, adjusting his position to lean forwards, elbows resting on his knees.

She sprang from her seat, mouth trembling, flustered, sweat clagging her palms. ‘You need to finish your meal,’ she announced briskly, ‘and I must change out of these clothes. Please excuse me.’

So that was it, Giseux mused idly, as he watched the flick of her skirt, the shining coin of her hair disappear through a door at the end of the great hall. She had been married before, and not happily, judging from her reaction to his question. Where was her husband now? Had she finished him off with her crossbow, with a swipe from the knife at her belt? His lips twitched at the thought—she was perfectly capable. In fact, he doubted he had met another woman who fought with such drive, such ferocity, to hold on to the things she held most dear. It appeared she was paying a high price.

Seizing the mud-encrusted hem of her loose peasant gown, Brianna struggled with the coarse material to pull it over her head. Why, why on earth had she said such a stupid thing? And to him, of all people: a complete stranger! Blood bolted through her veins, rattling her; she forced herself to breathe more slowly, to calm down. The sooner she was away from him, the better. Leaving her chemise and woollen stockings on, and still wearing her stout leather boots, Brianna moved to the oak coffer at the foot of the bed. The carved lid opened with a protesting creak as she riffled inside. She only had two suitable gowns and one, she knew, had a long rip along a seam that she had been meaning to repair. The green wool gown was presentable, if a little threadbare. She settled the material over her head, smelling the dried lavender that Alys placed in the oak coffers every year to keep the clothes sweet. As the folds fell down about her shoulders, the wool prickled a little against her linen chemise, damp from her earlier dunking.

Pushing her head through the round slash neck, her fingers brushed against the silver embroidery that decorated the collar, the design raised, intricate. Her mother had done this, her beautiful mother who had spent many hours working her fine needlework on all the family’s clothes. Brianna could see her now, sitting by the south window in the solar, the bright sunlight picking up the shining thread on her lap, the gold filaments in her burnished hair. Her breath emerged in a long, stuttering sigh. How she wished her parents could be here now, instead of succumbing to that horrendous, debilitating illness. They would be proud of her, she hoped, proud of the way she had kept the estate going in Hugh’s absence, proud of the way she had scrimped and saved, so that there was something of worth, something of value for him to come home to. How could that man be so insensitive as to keep her from her brother, when she had waited for so long for him to return?

She smoothed the skirts of the gown down over her thighs, shaking out the creases and bringing in the waist with a woven girdle that settled over her slim hips. The woodenness of her fingers vexed her as she fumbled with the intricate ties of the belt. She placed her knife-belt and cloak across the bed, not wanting to alert Giseux’s suspicions if she carried them out to the great hall now. Soon enough she and Alys would have him settled in the guest chamber and she would be able to slip away. Knotting her long braids together to form a loose bun, she jabbed the vibrant mass with several long hairpins in an effort to secure it, before covering her head with a gauzy veil. This she jammed into place with a golden circlet, the only one she hadn’t sold, the metal cold and tight against her forehead.

She padded on silent feet towards the door, the hem of her gown a muffled whisper against the wide elm floorboards. Clicking the latch open, Brianna drew her spine up, preparing to face her rescuer once more.

Giseux’s substantial frame spread out from the chair, his whole body polished in the light of the feeble fire. One arm hung out over the armrest, strong, tapered fingers suspended in mid-air.

He was asleep.

A curious flickering curled around her stomach, subtle, delicious, as she studied the man. For the first time she noticed the grey shadows beneath his eyes, hollows of smudged ash, crinkled lines fanning out from the corners. A hot, heavy sensation speared her feet to the floor; it was as if she were mesmerised. He looked uncomfortable, his big frame wedged into the narrow corner of the chair, and, with a rush of realisation, Brianna knew she should have offered him some of her brother’s clothes. Hugh could never wait to dispense with his armour once he arrived home, always complaining how intolerable it was.

His chest rose and fell steadily, slowly, evidence of a deep sleep, the wool of his surcoat flattening taut over his chest and stomach, revealing the solid indentations of his muscles. He had loosened the leather laces that held together the slash neck of his hauberk; as the chainmail edges gaped, they revealed the strong, corded muscles of his neck, the tanned hollow of his throat. Brianna bit her lip; the temptation to touch, to test the honed perfection of his skin, was overwhelming. Her fingers burned with awareness.

She twisted her hands together, agitated, trying to dispel the tantalising craving, annoyed by her strange reaction to him. Was she in her right mind? Had the attack today left her so befuddled that she had forgotten her lonely path in life? Remember Walter, she told herself sternly, remember Walter controlling her to the point where she had wanted to scream in frustration, trapped in that bitter, loveless marriage. It had become his main amusement, deciding what she ate, what she wore, what she did all day, so that at some point in that hideous time, she truly believed she was losing the ability to think for herself. And she was not about to let that happen again.