Her Battle-Scarred Knight

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘I…I’m not sure.’ Crumpling her napkin on to the table, she rose, hesitating, wanting to extricate herself from Giseux’s oppressive presence, his questions. If she admitted that she knew this man, who knew where it would lead.

  Giseux’s hand clamped around her shoulder as she twisted around, trying to free herself from the confines of the table. ‘You know him.’

  ‘I…I might do.’ Brianna rolled her shoulder angrily beneath his grip, clenching her jaw. ‘Let me out of here!’ she hissed at the broadness of his chest, refusing to look up into the dark angles of his face. The weight of his fingers fell from her shoulder and she tilted her hip sideways, manoeuvring her way out from between the two chairs. Arms folded across his chest, legs astride, he blocked her way.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Brianna. You know who he is. Tell me.’

  ‘Giseux…I really think…’ Lady Mary’s protest died on her lips at the raw, flinty expression on her son’s face. Scrunching her napkin between pale fingers, she glanced at her husband, wanting him to alleviate the situation, to remonstrate with Giseux for his treatment of Brianna. A small shake of Jocelin’s head, barely noticeable, warned her to keep quiet.

  ‘His name is Almeric of Salis, he holds land to the north of Merleberge.’ Brianna spoke quietly. ‘Now let me pass.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  Brianna shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s well known in Merleberge, he’s lived there all his life—one of Count John’s cronies.’

  ‘You know what he looks like.’

  ‘Aye, he has the scar you talked of, here, on his cheek.’ Brianna lifted one pink-tipped fingernail, traced a crescent shape on the side of her cheek.

  ‘Take me to him.’

  Aghast, her mouth sagged in horror. ‘Wh-what?’ ‘You heard.’

  ‘I’ve told you where he is, you can identify him yourself,’ she muttered rudely, hurriedly, pursing her lips in a mutinous line, acutely conscious of Giseux’s parents following their conversation with undisguised interest.

  ‘I want to make sure I have the right man.’ Giseux tilted his head down so she could hear the low, velvet throb of his voice, his lips inches from her face. Heat flooded her skin.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea!’ Jocelin pushed back his chair and moved to stand beside his son, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. ‘You can’t afford to waste any time, Giseux, not with Queen Eleanor on your back about travelling to Germany.’

  ‘I can’t!’ she protested, cheeks bright. ‘Hugh wants me to…’ How could she even begin to reveal the enormity of the task her brother had set her? Her words failed as Giseux’s blistering gaze devoured her. ‘Hugh needs me,’ she finished limply.

  Lady Mary rose from her seat, her step graceful, fluid. ‘You know he’s well cared for, my child; in his present state, he will not miss you.’ Giseux’s mother laid a reassuring hand on her arm.

  A wave of powerlessness swept over Brianna as she stared at the three people ranked around her, crowding her. Giseux’s parents had been so kind, so generous with their home and their time; as she stared into their smiling faces, her brain failed to conjure up any other viable protest. They were right; they could look after Hugh, but, as her gaze swept over Giseux, over the sensuous curve of his top lip, the diamond glitter of his eyes, she wondered if she had lost the ability to look after herself.

  ‘Have you any idea where this Almeric might be?’ Hauling back on the reins, Giseux called across to Brianna as the pace of his destrier slackened. The golden-brown strands of his hair flattened upwards in the freshening north-east breeze, the taut skin of his high cheekbones chafing red. His semi-circular blue cloak billowed out from his broad back, revealing the glossy lining, as the stalled horse sidled beneath him.

  A name…he finally had a name for the faceless traitor who, along with the dying screams of his men, the image of Nadia sliding down to the ground, had haunted his nights and days. A traitor who deserved everything he had coming to him. His only clue to finding him had been Nadia’s final words: Find the man with the sickle-shaped scar, carrying the colours of King Richard. Her tapered finger had traced the shape of the scar into his own tanned cheek as she lay slumped against the door at the end of the narrow alleyway, the door that had been purposely locked against him and his men. They had gone there, thinking they would gain access to the city of Narsuf, to infiltrate the city and break the long siege. Nadia believed she was helping him and his men by giving them the information; as she had rattled the handle of the locked door, she realised she had been tricked. They had been caught, like rats in a trap.

  Giseux’s mouth set in a grim, immutable line; the thought of revenge had been the only thing that had kept him going in the year after Nadia’s death, the only thing that had made him feel barely alive as he went through the hollow motions of living. And now, now, revenge was so close he could taste its bitter sweetness on his tongue; justice would be done.

  Brianna gasped with relief as Giseux drew his horse to a halt; it seemed as if they had been riding for hours, when in reality Merleberge was not above ten miles from Sambourne. At first she had welcomed Giseux’s unceasing pace, wanting the journey to be over as soon as possible, but now her muscles ached from continually gripping the rounded flanks of the horse. She hated being away from Hugh. Guilt swamped her like a cloak; she should be travelling to fetch Matilda at this very moment, but instead she rode in the company of an uncommunicative knight of short acquaintance who ordered her about as if she were a foot soldier. A knight who had kissed her.

  ‘He’ll be at the castle.’ Brianna’s diminutive grey palfrey carefully picked its way over the parched grass, bleached pale yellow by the weak, wintry sunlight, before they began to descend into the wide river valley that held the town of Merleberge. A mist hung in the valley, suspended a few feet above the sinuous curve of water, a swathe of ghostly material.

  The cold had stained Brianna’s cheeks a deep rose, the vivid brilliance of her eyes dancing with exhilaration. The hood of her cloak had fallen back on the ride, the fine wool gathering around the nape of her neck, warming her. Lady Mary had leant her some gloves, fine stitched leather lined with squirrel fur, but even with their protection, Brianna’s fingers felt stiff, numb around the reins. Against the backdrop of the washed-out blue sky, the hazy circle of the moon lying high out to the east, the gauzy silk of veil floated out about her head, framing her face. The fading bruise on her jawline did little to diminish the flawless perfection of her skin.

  ‘I’m sorry…?’ Snared in her beauty, Giseux failed to hear her next words.

  ‘The castle—how are we going to get in?’ she repeated the question, frowning at him, steering her horse towards the start of a narrow chalk path leading down the ridged side of the hill. The slope faced north, and even at this hour of the afternoon, when the sun had been on the land for hours, the white frost still clung to the grass, a pearl-like sheen.

  Giseux nudged the flanks of his horse, following her, cursing his inability to focus on the task in hand. Where was the rage, the anger that had kept him awake night after night, the guilt that plagued him? In a moment, it seemed to have vanished. A picture of Nadia budged into his consciousness: the sleek darkness of hair, wide brown eyes, the sensual dusky curves of her body. Remember, he told himself, remember who this is for.

  He laughed sourly at her back. ‘They know who I am. Count John doesn’t see me as a threat.’

  The horses skittered down over the loose stones of the path, reaching the boggy ground along the river. Both riders kicked the horses to an easy canter, aiming for the main trackway that led to the town gate of Merleberge. The muscles in the animals’ shoulders rippled as they powered up to the road.

  ‘I hope this isn’t going to take too long.’ Brianna jogged forwards in the saddle, urging her palfrey up the steep slope to gain the road.

  Giseux flicked his steely gaze over her. ‘It will be faster with your help. But I do realise you have no wish to be here.’


  ‘Merleberge is not my favourite place, for obvious reasons.’ She fingered her bruised jawline self-consciously.

  Leather-covered fingers touched her arm. ‘Stay by my side, Brianna, and nothing will happen to you.’

  Her heart warmed, blossomed under the note of protection in his voice. She told herself not to be foolish, to pay no heed to it. Giseux meant nothing by it; she was of use to him, that was all.

  ‘And I have my knife,’ she added, patting the embossed leather sheath on her hip.

  He scowled at the jewelled hilt resting against her cloak. ‘I should chuck that in the river, for all the use that will do us.’ Squeezing his bulky thighs against the embossed saddle, he began to negotiate a passage across the stone bridge that crossed the ditch to the town gates. People scurried all around them, some visiting the town to sell their wares, others riding out on horseback. Ladies wearing colourful gowns huddled against the cold in their covered litters carried by puffing servants, their husbands riding patiently alongside. The crowds parted as Giseux and Brianna made their way through, side by side, then joined again at the rear of their horses, like a river running around an island. A couple of people recognised Brianna and waved at her, before they vanished beneath the shadow of the gates.

  Lord Almeric was easy to find. Peering down from the high wooden gallery down into the great hall of Count John’s castle, keeping behind the folds of a massive brocade curtain that hung from the ceiling, Brianna pointed down to the group of men at the top table.

  ‘Look, there he is, to the right of Count John.’ With Giseux at her back, a strange exhilaration flooded her limbs, giving her courage.

  Looking over the top of Brianna’s head, Giseux tracked along the direction of her pointing finger, moving along the row of portly, and obviously drunk, noblemen. Count John was in the middle; he recognised the petulant pout of the youngest son of Queen Eleanor, his soft features containing little of the hard determination that marked King Richard’s demeanour.

  ‘Do you see him?’ Brianna whispered. The warmth of Giseux’s chest at her back radiated through her cloak, the thin weave of her dress.

  ‘Aye.’ Giseux narrowed his gaze on a shorter man, a big belly rounding out the contours of his tunic, a cruel-looking scar on the side of his face. ‘I see him.’

  ‘What do you want with him?’ Brianna turned, her eyes alert with curiosity. Her shoulder nudged into the rigid muscle of his chest and she inched away, heat rushing through her, coiling precariously.

  In the shadows, his eyes glimmered, dangerous. ‘He owes me.’

  ‘What? Coin? Is that it?’ Her questions sounded falsely bright. Somehow, Giseux didn’t strike her as the sort of man who would chase after money.

  ‘Nay, Brianna.’ A muscle jumped in the chiselled slash of Giseux’s cheek. ‘He owes me a life. More than one.’

  ‘How?’ she breathed.

  Giseux’s bleak expression raked her face. ‘Do you really want to know?’ She nodded.

  ‘Count John will stop at nothing to be King, even if that means killing his own brother. He sent Almeric to Jerusalem to set up an ambush. And he killed the girl I loved to do it.’

  Brianna’s heart went cold, plunged steeply downwards at his revelation. Regret wrapped her chest; so, he had loved another. Still loved her, judging from the depth of his emotion, the bitter desolation in his eyes, the despair. ‘What are you going to do?’ Her voice faltered, aware of a curious jealousy crawling through her veins. Why, she was acting as if he belonged to her!

  In reply, he drew a curved, lethal-looking blade from behind his back; he must have carried it in a leather sheath beneath his cloak. The silver steel glinted in the half-light, ominous, frightening.

  ‘Nay! Giseux, you cannot! You cannot!’ she hissed at him, clutching the fine wool of his tunic, as if by holding on to the material she could stop him and physically hold him back.

  His free hand crushed around her fingers. ‘I will avenge Nadia’s death, Brianna.’

  Nadia. The woman he loved had a name. She sucked in a deep, angry breath, scrabbling for balance, for logic. ‘I would never have shown you who Almeric was if I’d known this was what you were about to do!’ she blazed at him. ‘Do you think murdering will make you feel better? The blood will stay on your hands for ever.’ Furious, she wrestled her hand from his grasp.

  ‘Nadia’s death is on my hands.’ Giseux’s voice was so low, so devoid of emotion, that Brianna had to nudge closer to hear his words, catching the masculine smell of him: an intoxicating mixture of woodsmoke and spice mingling in the confined air of the gallery. ‘If we hadn’t been in love, then she would never have been compromised by that man…’ he jabbed his finger down into the great hall ‘…and she would be alive now. As would several of my men.’

  ‘If you do this, you will never be free of it. It will haunt you for ever.’

  ‘Nay,’ he disagreed, the shadowed cleft beneath his mouth emphasising the fullness of his bottom lip, ‘it will be over, at last.’ He glanced briefly down into the great hall, reassuring himself that Almeric still sat there. ‘Go and wait with the horses, Brianna, I will meet you there.’ His command was clipped, brutal.

  She whipped around to the end of the gallery, blocking the only exit with her slender body, one hand on each side of the open archway. Against the thick grey stone, the knuckles on her clenched hands gleamed white. He couldn’t do this, she couldn’t let him do it! It was so wrong.

  ‘Move out of the way, Brianna.’ His voice was deep, a husky request. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘I brought you here, I will be culpable too.’ She tipped her chin up to him, openly challenging. ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier, I suppose. Killing must come naturally.’ Her voice held the thread of mockery, her slim frame swaying with emotion as she held on, clinging tightly, to the curving stones. ‘You condemn Almeric for being a murderer, yet you are about to do the same, in cold blood. You will be a murderer too. You’re all the same.’ Tilting her head to one side, her mouth twisted in derision. ‘How can you live with yourself?’

  In the shadowed light, her skin adopted the sheen of creamy alabaster, shining eyes, deep blue glass, imploring him to change his mind, to change the single action that had driven him on, had kept him in a semblance of life for the last few months. How could he tell her of his inability to live with himself now, in the present day? He already had blood on his hands; a little more would make no difference.

  ‘Out of my way, Brianna.’ His big arms roped around her, lifting her easily aside. ‘Go to the horses, as I told you, and wait outside the town gates. This will not take long.’ A roar of laughter lifted from the hall below, a sound of clinking glasses, of merriment.

  Brianna planted her hands firmly on her hips, bracing herself, eyes spitting fire. ‘I’ll not take orders from a killer! I’ll do what I want. I can’t believe you brought me here, to help you…do this, do this terrible thing.’ Her voice rose, shaky with outrage, with emotion.

  Raw despair clagged his eyes. ‘What would you have me do? It’s the only way, Brianna, the only way I can avenge Nadia’s death.’

  ‘It won’t bring her back, though, will it?’ she replied bluntly. ‘And you’ll have that man’s blood on your hands.’

  He leaned into her, the silver soot of his eyes wild, dangerous. ‘I want his blood on my hands, Brianna. Don’t you understand? He deserves to die.’

  ‘Nobody deserves to die, Giseux.’

  But he had gone.

  A bridle looped in each gloved hand, Brianna marched furiously through the fallen leaves, boots kicking up layers of golden yellow, russet, crimson-edged foliage. Blood pumped through her chest, burned in her ears, raging; she wanted to hit out at something, someone: him. An enormous sense of failure leached through her veins; she had failed to persuade Giseux, failed to change his mind against something she was certain he would regret for ever. Why had she even expected him to listen to her? He barely knew her, the younger sister
of a Crusader knight, had met her only one day ago. She was nothing, a nobody to him. Yet, in the dim confines of that upper gallery, she had witnessed the look of anguish, of loss in his eyes, and knew that killing was not the answer; at least she had tried.

  She had ridden the docile palfrey up to the fringes of the woodland, but her arm, angled awkwardly behind her, had begun to ache as she clutched on to the bridle of Giseux’s destrier. She could have sworn that brutish stallion dragged its feet once more, it had literally bared its large oblong teeth at her when she had led the animal away from Merleberge. In a fit of pique, she had taken Giseux’s horse, wanting to punish him—let him walk back, she thought angrily, if he escaped unscathed. But he would walk out of that castle in one piece, safe; he was that sort of man, invincible, relentless, utterly irresistible.

  Irresistible? Had she completely lost her mind? Stalled in the swirling leaves, daylight gradually fading, she clutched on to the bridles like a lifeline, in horror. Since when had she started thinking of him as irresistible? He was a stranger, a rough, arrogant soldier, who’d broken through the tough, outer shell of her numb, cloistered life, and flipped it upside-down. He asked her questions she had no wish to answer, scrutinised her with a searching gaze she was unable to interpret and pulled her along with him into things she had no wish to be involved; she hated it, she welcomed it. She felt alive.