Meriel Fuller - Her Battle-Scarred Knight

‘Giseux,’ she said loudly. ‘Giseux, wake up!’

In response, his fingers clawed into his upper thigh, the sinews in his hand rigid, straining. Snaring the muscular bulk of his shoulders between her hands, she tried to shake him, tried to lift his upper body from the ground. But to no avail: he was too heavy. In desperation her eyes searched the cottage interior, the uneven walls, for something that might help, before a sudden bizarre idea touched her.

Blood hurtled through her veins, blossoming in the skin of her face.

Hands on his shoulders, she dipped her head. Kissed him.

Her soft lips touched his firm mouth in a last attempt to hush the demons of the night that claimed him. A dangerous warmth stole over her, melting her limbs, turning the muscles in her knees to useless mush; she shuddered, striving to hold her body away from him. It was only a kiss, she told herself. A simple device to alleviate his distress. Yet the touch of his mouth spiralled each nerve in her body to a singing desire, a yearning for more.

MERIEL FULLERlives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history—particularly the early medieval period—makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.

Novels by the same author:

CONQUEST BRIDE

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Her Battle-Scarred Knight

Meriel Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Sefanoc, Wiltshire, England—January 1193

Brianna leaned her cheek against the cow’s yielding flank, fingers reaching under the animal to squeeze blood-warm milk from the udder. In the early morning stillness of the byre, the liquid squirted noisily against the sides of the wooden pail, steaming in the chill air. She heard William, the farmer, talking softly to one of the cows at the other end of the byre, imagined him budging one animal out of the way, so he could start milking the next cow in line. He was much faster than her, milking two cows to her one. But his wife was ill this morning and Brianna had offered to help when he’d come knocking at the door of the manor house, blowing on his hands to warm them, his breath puffing white in the darkness. They couldn’t afford to lose the milk; it was a vital source of income in these hard times. As with other estates, most of their money had been taken by King Richard to fund his crusade to the Holy Land. The manor was earning very little; she had enough coin to pay the farmer and his wife, who maintained the land and livestock, and Alys, who had served her family since Brianna was a child. ‘Mistress! My lady!’

Brianna jumped at the shrill, tremulous warning, startled from the soporific rhythm of the milking. Her maidservant stood in the doorway, her face white, body quivering with fear.

‘Alys, what is it?’ Brianna twisted around on the milking stool, her auburn braids gleaming in the dim light of the byre.

Alys’s eyes grew wide, the thin skin of her face stretched over her bony cheeks. ‘They’ve come back. Count John’s men; they’re looking for you.’

Brianna grinned. ‘Well, they won’t find me at home, will they, Alys?’ She patted the cow’s flank, extricating the half-full bucket from beneath the pink udders. ‘I’ll put this in the churn, William. Butter sells quickly at the market.’

William stood, resting one hand on a cow’s rump to lever himself up. ‘Aye, you do that, mistress. Martha can churn, if she’s feeling better. If not, I’ll do it myself.’ He tipped his head, topped with a mop of grizzled grey hair, in the direction of the manor. ‘Do you want me to go and see what’s happening?’

Brianna shook her head, clutching the pail of slopping milk to her middle as she rose to her feet.

‘Oh, but, mistress, you’re never going to go yourself?’ Alys gabbled, her breath coming in short little pants. ‘There’s more of them this time, with torches, circling around, one of them banging on the door.’ She shuddered. ‘I slipped out the back of the kitchen … came to find you. What if they do something to our home? What if they … torch it?’

Brianna laid a hand on Alys’s shoulder. ‘Alys, you must calm down … they wouldn’t do such a thing. It’s the manor and lands that the Count wishes, remember. And they can’t have it because I’m in their way.’

‘They’re stronger than you, mistress.’

‘But I’m cleverer than most of their thick skulls put together.’

‘Count John won’t stop until he has what he wants, my lady.’

Brianna put one hand to her forehead, smiling. ‘Please don’t remind me, Alys. But I have no intention of being forcibly married off to one of those thugs, as I’ve made perfectly clear in several letters to Count John himself.’

Alys bit her lip. ‘That Count is the devil himself, mistress, and he’ll stop at nothing to give the manor of Sefanoc, and you, to one of his men.’

Brianna’s light blue eyes blazed in the dimness of the byre. ‘The manor of Sefanoc is not his to give away. It belongs to Hugh.’

Doubt flickered across the maidservant’s face.

‘Hugh will be back soon,’ Brianna reassured her. ‘Everything will be fine once he returns.’

‘But …’ The servant’s voice faltered.

‘Alys, I forbid you to look like that! Hugh will be back. He’s obviously been delayed on the journey in some way.’

‘The Somervilles have returned, and the de Laceys,’ Alys reminded her.

‘And they remember seeing Hugh waiting for the boats on the beach in France,’ Brianna replied, plucking at a loose thread on her girdle. ‘My brother will be back soon. Now, come on, Alys, you can help us finish this milking.’

A crack of sunlight appeared across the eastern horizon as Brianna emerged from the warmth of the barn, drawing the hood of her short woollen cape securely over her head, covering the bright red-gold of her hair. She stepped lightly across the cobbles in the direction of her home. Her hands ached from the effort of milking so many cows; flexing her fingers, she tried to relieve the stiffness. Alys had stayed behind to churn the butter, the wan, exhausted face of the farmer’s wife indicating to Brianna that she would be in no fit state to do anything today.

Rather than return home by the shorter route, through the forest, she decided to cut through the flat fields to the north—hopefully the open ground would enable her to spot Count John’s men if they had decided to linger. It had been some time since Alys had raised the alarm, so it was entirely possibly that they had returned to Count John’s castle at nearby Merleberge to break their fast. As her feet skipped across the frosted grass, she prayed they had become bored and hungry with the wait. Men like that, with no self-discipline, no stamina, couldn’t last for long without food in their bellies.

Ducking through a gap in the stubby hawthorn hedge that divided two fields, she bit her lip. Despite her solid, confident smile in front of Alys and the farmer, she wondered how long she could hold out against the King’s powerful younger brother. How long would it be before her own brother came home from the Crusades? A tight coil of fear began to unravel in her gut; she clamped it down fiercely before it gained momentum. She would hold out for as long as it took, she told herself sternly, she must protect and defend the manor of Sefanoc in Hugh’s name. Instinctively her fingers moved towards the thick belt slung low around her neat waist, checking the knife in its scabbard that hung from it—the knife that would keep her safe.