Her Battle-Scarred Knight

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Why, you little…!’ Fulke roared, clutching at the gash on his forehead. The purpling cut oozed blood, startlingly red against the white slab of his forehead. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ Before Brianna had time to anticipate his next move, the weight of his fist crashed into her jaw and her small frame crumpled to the ground, this time for real.

  ‘We’ve got her now,’ Fulke murmured, almost to himself. ‘We’ve got her now.’ He rose to his full height, jubilant, smug victory painted on his face, expecting to meet the smirking expressions of his younger henchmen.

  But the soldiers’ faces were turned away, fixed on the open gateway, slack-jawed, staring at something, someone. One of the men stumbled back, catching the back of his leg on the trough.

  Alongside the scrubby hawthorn hedge, a huge black destrier flew across the marshy field, snorting impatiently, wildly, rearing its glossy head in a restless jangle of bit and bridle as it approached the three men, the fallen maid. Sprays of water flicked out from behind the horse’s heavy hooves, loose droplets forming sparkling arcs in the weak sunlight.

  A nervous laugh punched from Fulke’s mouth; he licked his lips.

  A black woollen tunic covered the horseman’s chainmail; his shield was black, decorated with a raised silver lattice. No markings gave away his identity, no gilded family crest on the shield, no embroidery across his tunic; a bright steel helmet obscured his features. Hauling deftly on the reins, the unknown rider brought the animal slewing to a stop before the men, shuffled into a guilty line in front of Brianna, trying to hide the horrific extent of their intimidation with the bulk of their bodies. The warm air emerging from the horse’s widening nostrils ghosted the air, steam rising from the very pit of hell.

  ‘What the devil is happening here?’ Through the slits of his helmet, the knight’s voice was muffled, grim. He jumped off the horse in one easy, graceful movement, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached Fulke.

  ‘Nothing to concern yourself about, I’m sure, my lord.’ Fulke bowed obsequiously, spreading his hands flat before him, as if to physically reassure the newcomer there was no harm done. He cowered beneath the stranger’s superior height, trying to step back before realising that the huddled form of Brianna lay behind his heels, checking him. ‘This ignorant maid simply refuses to do as she’s told. She needed to learn a lesson.’

  ‘Then it looks like she’s learned it,’ the stranger remarked tautly, sweeping his gaze over Brianna’s forlorn frame, tumbled against the trough. From her appearance, the maid was still unconscious; her face was pale, deathly pale, a livid bruise darkening rapidly across her jawline.

  Fulke had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘Aye, well, we best be on our way.’ He nodded significantly at his two soldiers, rubbing his gloved hands together in an industrious way. ‘Lots to do, lots to do.’ He paused, staring with curiosity at the plain, unadorned wool of the knight’s tunic, trying to discern the man’s features through the forbidding slits in his helmet. ‘I…er…are you from hereabouts?’

  ‘Nay. I am looking for someone.’

  ‘Mayhap I could help you.’ Fulke squeezed his hands together, kneading his fingers. He felt the need to make amends, to distract this stranger from the unconscious maid at his back. ‘Whom do you seek?’

  ‘Brianna of Sefanoc. Lady Brianna. I was told that she lives hereabouts.’

  The colour washed from Fulke’s face; he touched a hand to his chin, a self-conscious gesture. It was all he could do to stop himself looking over at the girl; he prayed fervently that his soldiers would keep their mouths shut. If certain parties heard a whisper of their actions, their treatment of a noblewoman, they would be punished severely. His name, Fulke, would be linked back to Count John, his lord and master, who would be highly displeased at the exposure, especially now. These were troubled times, the whole country jittery with the news that King Richard had been taken prisoner on his return from the Crusades. Only Count John, the King’s younger brother, was rubbing his hands with glee, for if Richard failed to return, then he would surely be crowned King of England.

  Fulke screwed the thicket of his eyebrows together in a semblance of thinking. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her,’ he lied casually, carefully. ‘It’s not a name I know.’ He began to sidle off towards the horses. ‘I wish you luck in your venture, sire. Good day to you.’ Fulke levered himself onto his animal, raising an arm in farewell as he kicked the animal into a fast canter, clods of frozen earth kicking up in his wake as he followed his men.

  The maid appeared barely alive, Giseux thought, as he approached the spot where she lay. Crouching down beside her, he pulled off his chainmail mittens, pushing two fingers efficiently against the side of her neck, checking, reassuring himself. Her face was so white, devoid of any colour, with such a sickening blueness about her lips that he could have believed she were dead, yet to his relief her blood beat strongly beneath his fingers. He removed his helmet, then his shield, held against his chest with a worn leather strap, placing both on the grass, and pushed back the hood of the chainmail protecting his head. The metallic links, bound together to form a flexible material, fell in loose, snake-like folds at the nape of his neck; the light brown strands of his hair sprung free from their confinement, vigorous.

  She lay flat on her back, sprawled across the ice-encrusted mud, one arm slung across her body, the other stretched out, her hand curled, small and white. Her unusual amber-coloured hair, darkened by the water, straggled across her bodice like ripples in the sand. A peasant girl, from the look of her clothes, he thought; her coarse woollen gown had been mended in several places with crudely cut patches. The garment hung like a sack about her frame, bunching in thick gathers at her waist; her creased leather boots, scuffed and caked in mud, stuck out from beneath the hem of her skirts. The shiny soles were almost worn through. He’d interrupted a domestic dispute, no doubt, a fight between servant and master.

  The girl opened her eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Giseux’s heart knocked against the wall of his chest. Sudden. Unexpected. Sounds diminished, fell away into the background: the incessant chirruping of a robin, diving under the blackthorn; his horse ripping up the frosted grass with massive teeth, chewing steadily. The maid’s eyes were wide, bright blue, ice blue, luminescent as the sky at dawn. They snared him, sucked him into their amazing depths, a whirlpool so fast and strong that he had no time to think. His mind reeled within their power as he leaned forwards, amazed.

  As he dropped to his knees, Brianna cried out—a long wavering wail of panic, the bundled-up fear bursting from her chest, fear that she had fought to keep under control throughout Fulke’s mauling. And now he’d sent someone else to deal with her. Her vision hazed with fright as the huge soldier hulked over her, silver eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam; he would surely kill her! Broad shoulders blocked out the light, cast her in shadow, as her knuckles scraped desperately against the rough wooden trough, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of stability as she screamed and screamed. Would no one come for her, would no one help her? Her shrieking rent the still air, piercing, pitching up a notch as firm hands curled about her shoulders, steadied her.

  ‘Stop!’ a low voice ordered, a rippling burr of sound close to her ear. ‘Do you want to bring them back?’ The warmth of the man’s breath fanned her cheek, before he lowered his hands.

  Her mouth shut abruptly. Pain in the left side of her jaw chewed into her, relentless, an ache beginning to spread up the side of her cheek. Blood tasted like rust against her tongue. Tears sprung from her eyes, her body trembling, as she hoisted herself up awkwardly, flinging her arms out to push the stranger away. Her fingers flailed outwards, skittering over the black wool across his immense chest; her pathetic attempts failed to shift him. Exhausted by unravelling fear, she let her arms fall limply to her sides.

  ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Brianna stuttered out, her voice a weak thread; her lips were dry, bruised. Energy seeped from
her body, her small frame slumping back against the trough, her breathing rapid, truncated, puffing clouds of white in the cold air. The leather lace securing her braid had loosened; now the curling end was beginning to unravel, the magnificent amber hair shining against the sagging weave of her brown bodice. ‘But I’d rather be locked up, or dead, than do what you want me to do.’ The man’s intimidating grey eyes glittered over her, incisive, piercing, as if they drilled down into her very soul. Another wave of panic lurched up, pushing out the sides of her chest, and she dug her heels into the mud, intending to scrabble backwards if he came for her.

  Sitting back on his heels, Giseux watched the trails of sparkling liquid track down her puffy, mottled cheek, heard the great, gasping sobs seize at her chest. The girl obviously believed him to be in league with the thugs who had just roughed her up. A tiny pulse beat frantically at her neck, beneath the white, fragile skin in the hollow of her throat; her fear of him was palpable, radiating from her body in waves of tension. The sight of her tears bit into him, tugged cruelly at his memory, but he clamped down firmly on the encroaching vision. He had no wish to remember.

  ‘Easy, maid,’ he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The words of comfort felt untested, awkward, like dusty rocks in his mouth. The battle for Jerusalem had been long and relentless; there had been little opportunity or time to offer solace to others—had he forgotten how? Or had the ugliness, the cruelty of fighting driven it from his soul? The hard frozen earth jagged into his knees; as he shifted, trying to ease his cramped calf muscles, she reared backwards, abruptly, like a wild, cornered animal. A rueful smile twisted his mouth as he shook his head, shook out the gold-tipped fronds of his hair: a lion’s mane, the blunt ends like spun gold around the rugged angles of his face. ‘Nay, nay, I will not hurt you.’

  Brianna eyed him blankly, disbelieving, driving the flats of her hands and feet into the hard mud to hitch away from him. Where was her knife? She had to protect herself! As she raised herself up from the ground, every muscle in her body aching, protesting, the voluminous gown that she wore pressed against her body, revealing her high, rounded bosom, the golden-red weave of her hair falling like spun net across her chest. She managed to make a small space between them, heart racing beneath his steely perusal before the heel of her boot snared in the trailing hem of her gown, preventing any further escape.

  ‘Let me help you up. Can you stand?’ Impatient not to prolong the episode, Giseux stretched out one hand, tanned and sinewy, to help her up.

  She slapped at his fingers, catching the side of his palm. The sharp smack reverberated in the confined corner of the field, bouncing between the thorny hedgerows, studded with bright berries. ‘Get away from me! Go! Leave me alone!’ The shrillness of her voice screeched into his ear, scraping at the limits of his patience. ‘You need to go away!’

  ‘And you need to mind your manners!’ Deep within him, the short rope of his temper began to fray; the girl’s behaviour was ridiculous, unnecessary. It wasn’t the physical blow—that had been nothing, a mere moth’s touch from her slim fingers—but the girl’s complete failure to comprehend that he was not her enemy. His initial intention to offer her comfort, to help her in some way, as any passing stranger would do, had gone seriously awry. He didn’t have the time to squander on such foolish conduct, and at this rate, his act of mercy was threatening to take all day. It would be so much easier to walk away. But he couldn’t leave her here, hunched, pathetic, like a half-drowned kitten that spat and snarled at him whenever he approached. It went against every code he had been brought up to believe.

  ‘I am not going to leave you here, sitting on the frozen ground. I am not going to hurt you.’

  ‘How do I know?’ she threw back at him, her body rigid and hostile, cerulean eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘How do I know that this isn’t another trick? The words emerged in jerky fashion, her voice wobbling with the cold. She wrapped her arms firmly about her chest, trying to stop the violent shudders that racked her body.

  He set his lips in a firm forbidding line, a ripple of irritation lacing his big frame. ‘I’m not one of them. You have to trust me.’

  ‘Trust?’ Laughter burst from her lips, a spray of jangled sound couched with a bubble of hysteria. ‘Surely you jest? It’s obvious you are one of Count John’s men, sent to pick up the pieces.’ Brianna wriggled her feet, attempting to move her frozen toes. She needed to find the strength, the determination, to stand up, to walk away. A cloying weakness dragged at her legs; this last attack had surely been the worst. And it appeared that it wasn’t over yet.

  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?’