The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘This is Heaven.’ Philippe smiled, his gaze alighting on the wooden bath behind an embroidered screen.

  The boy followed his look. ‘I’ll fetch the hot water for you, my lord.’

  ‘By God, we’ll sleep well tonight.’ Philippe clapped Lussac on the shoulder, throwing his leather bags down by one of the beds. ‘I can’t wait to rid myself of this infernal armour.’ He grabbed at the heavy buckle of his sword belt, flinging both sword and belt in a jumble at the side of the bed.

  ‘I suggest you take the first bath, you stink to high heaven,’ Lussac chuckled, moving over to the window. No arrow slits, but narrow, rectangular windows topped with a shallow arch, one pair set into each of the thick stone walls. Hand-blown glass, undulating, formed an effective barrier against the cold outside. Despite the dimming light, he could still discern several features of the landscape: the frothy white line of the surf out to the east, the forest to the south, the flat marshland, water-filled ditches gleaming in the half-light. Their ships had landed to the south of the vast tract of trees, the reason why, initially, they had no idea of their location. Lussac leaned forwards, palms flat on the damp stone window-ledge, his breath misting the glass. Behind him, the boy had returned, sloshing water liberally into the bathtub.

  ‘Last chance, Lussac?’ Philippe said. ‘Otherwise I’ll go first.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Lussac murmured. He turned away from the window, a restlessness churning his body. His eye swept the room: the charcoal brazier, the fragrant steam rising from behind the embroidered screen, the lavender-scented linens. The domestic niceties burned into his soul, for everywhere he looked reminded him of the home he had no longer. It had been easier in France; the French king had constantly needed him to head up the battles and skirmishes along the borderlands of Aquitaine and Gascony. The canvas tent had become his refuge: no niceties, no luxury. He longed for it.

  ‘Where did you get to, anyway?’ Philippe called out from behind the screen. ‘Mortimer’s soldiers came back long before you did. Did you get lost?’ His chuckle was accompanied by a huge splosh of water. ‘Lussac?’

  ‘Aye, in a manner of speaking.’ His mind tacked back to the girl in the forest. The impact of her soft curves as they landed together in the pile of leaves. The touch of her fingers on his back as she stumbled and grabbed his belt. Fire leapt in his belly. A pulse of burning, outrageous desire.

  Annoyed, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at his chainmail coif, yanking it over his head. What was the matter with him? The girl was nothing more than a minor distraction—and a puzzle. Her skin had been smooth like pouring cream, velvety. Not the coarse, weather-roughened skin of a peasant. She dressed as a boy, in rags, yet spoke with the high, modulated tones of the nobility. A patched and holed tunic clothed her slight body, baggy braies folded loosely around her slim legs. Her boots had been too big for her. He frowned, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with his hands. Would he see her again, here in the castle? He couldn’t quite believe she was a serving-girl. Her manner had been too arrogant and feisty, a bundle of contradictions, diamond-grey eyes assessing him disparagingly. She had truly believed she could best him. Where had she learnt such a misguided sense of self-reliance?

  ‘Go on in, the water’s still hot.’ Philippe emerged from behind the screen, his portly frame wrapped in linen towels.

  Lussac lifted his face from his hands and began to pull his boots off. Why on earth was that foolish chit intruding on his thoughts at all? He had done his duty and brought her home. The maid had wasted his time by refusing his help, deluding herself by insisting she was safe. She was nothing to him—a mere irritant. He had bigger and more pressing concerns to deal with: a murderer to hunt down, not some will-o’-the-wisp who threatened his iron-clad self-control.

  * * *

  The Earl of Norfolk’s castle was constructed in a novel design: a central circular tower of five levels, surrounded by three square towers. The design had been hailed as revolutionary, removing all blind spots and making it difficult for attackers to creep up unnoticed. The double height of the great hall meant that it spanned two floors, allowing for large, wrought-iron chandeliers to be hung from the wooden-planked ceiling. Huge, elaborately embroidered tapestries draped from the pale, limestone walls interspersed with the shields and crossed swords from various members of the Earl of Norfolk’s family. The whole effect was one of glittering opulence, of luxury, the rich, glowing colours of red and gold reflected in the light from the candles, from the roaring fire in the grate.

  Seated in the centre of the top table, behind an expanse of white-linen tablecloth laid with silver dishes, Queen Isabella laid her small, cool hand on that of her neighbour, Thomas, the Earl of Norfolk. The silk of her rose-pink gown, interwoven with silver thread, sparkled as she leaned a little closer to him. As in the fashion of France, the gown was closely fitted to her slim form, with a low, curving neckline and sleeves tight to her arms, fastened with a long row of tiny horn buttons.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Thomas, for your hospitality, for your support.’ She raised her voice over the general hubbub of the hall, the usual numbers swelled by the influx of her entourage, her knights. The rest of the mercenaries were camped in the outer bailey, their supper cooked over open fires by the castle servants.

  Thomas, his frame big and bulky next to the neat, precise form of the Queen, tipped his grizzled head down to catch her words. His hand squeezed hers. ‘You can thank me by ridding this country of your husband’s rule; him and that...that infidel Despenser! I fully support your cause, you and Mortimer, and will give you some of my knights, if it will help.’

  Isabella tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear; the fine blonde strands had escaped from the confines of her white-satin wimple. The movement was studied, careful. She was fully aware of her effect upon men; indeed, she delighted in seeing Thomas’s eyes widen with attraction as the curve of her arm carried upwards. It was only when she caught Mortimer’s scowling features behind Thomas that she stopped her flirtatious affectations, letting her hands fall demurely to her lap. To lose Mortimer as a lover would be a mistake; he was instrumental in helping her overthrow the King, as well as being everything that Edward was not: courageous, possessive and ardent in his love for her.

  ‘You are so kind,’ she ventured, reaching for her silver goblet, sipping at her wine.

  ‘You and your ladies have suffered much in the journey from Hainault.’ Thomas nodded towards the group of whey-faced ladies clustered around a trestle table. ‘I will do my best to ensure they have every comfort after such an ordeal.’

  ‘They are exhausted,’ Isabella admitted tightly, tilting her head towards him. In the candlelight her skin seemed poreless, smooth perfection, emphasised by the brightness of the escaping wisps of her hair, her white, even teeth. ‘None of us slept much on the crossing. The weather was against us all the way, simply foul, unbelievable.’

  ‘Then we must thank the Lord that you are here safe and sound.’ Thomas’s tone was reassuring. ‘And now, you must eat.’ His hand swept over the laden table, the gleaming dishes groaning with roasted pheasant and partridge, yeasty bread rolls. ‘I have a spectacular show prepared for later in the evening—I hope you will stay to watch?’

  Inwardly, Isabella groaned. She had been looking forward to an early night, a night spent in a proper bed that didn’t pitch and toss and roll. But one look at Thomas’s beaming, avuncular features indicated she couldn’t disappoint him. She threw him an encouraging smile, helping herself to a slice of roast chicken.

  ‘Who are your commanders?’ Thomas continued conversationally, chewing on a piece of pork crackling.

  ‘Obviously Roger has overall command.’ She smiled briefly at her lover; his eyes flicked upwards at the mention of his name, but his face remained neutral. It wouldn’t do to display their adultery for all to see; Isabella was
still married to the King of England. The public would judge her harshly if she were seen to be embarking upon an adulterous affair. ‘Hugh de Fontainbleu, Sir John of Hainault, among others.’

  ‘What about Belbigny?’ the Earl of Norfolk asked. ‘You do not mention him, yet I see him at the end of the table.’ He indicated the tall, dark-haired man.

  ‘No, no. He is here...’ the Queen paused, delicately, picking at a loose thread on her linen napkin ‘...on other business. It’s a shame, he’s a skilled commander, but unfortunately, at the moment, he has other things on his mind.’ She sighed, staring out over the bobbing heads of the crowded hall.

  ‘I heard what happened to his family,’ the Earl replied. ‘His father was in charge of a garrison on the border, is that right? The whole family was slaughtered in the conflict?’

  ‘It was worse than that. The conflict had supposedly finished and a truce had been established, but someone held a grudge against Lussac’s father, returned to the garrison with a group of soldiers and fired the whole place.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘He will travel with us; he hopes to find someone who can shed light on the identity of whoever killed his family. I don’t suppose you have heard anything?’

  The Earl of Norfolk shook his head.

  ‘Then let’s not speak of it further. I don’t want him to hear, not a breath of it.’ Beneath Isabella’s long white fingers, the gemstones on her rings winked in the candlelight as she crumbled a bread roll to tiny bits, scattering them across her silvered plate.

  Thomas studied the man at the end of the table covertly, leaning back in his chair, sipping idly from his goblet. Lussac felt the touch of his gaze and turned, pinning the Earl with his hard, dark stare. Thomas raised his goblet in salute, noting the hollowed-out eyes, the lean, ravaged features. What a waste, he thought to himself, as he switched his attentions to Isabella once more. There’s a man who suffers, tortured by what happened to his family. But what man wouldn’t suffer after what he had been through?

  Chapter Five

  Gradually, the evening stretched into full night. The knights, noblemen and their ladies, the peasants in service to the Earl of Norfolk, pushed back from the tables, having eaten their fill of roasted meat, braised vegetables and crusty bread; servants scurried around, scooping up the debris. Trestles were pushed back against the circular walls of the great hall, clearing a large space in the middle of the swept stone floor. Bereft of the safety of their table, Isabella’s ladies stood in a miserable huddle, forlorn figures in their silks and satins, gaudy butterflies against the plainer attire of the peasants. Noting their plight, Isabella summoned them up to the high dais, where she ordered more benches to be placed behind her so her women could sit in relative comfort.

  Through the curtained doorway, a group of musicians entered, setting themselves up with their instruments to one side, backs against the wall. Most of them looked like they hadn’t bathed in a year, a motley collection of scruffy itinerants, with ragged, drooping clothes, missing teeth and lank, greasy hair.

  ‘Christ in Heaven,’ Philippe whispered to Lussac, ‘where did the Earl find this lot?’

  But then they began to play. And the music was beautiful: haunting, lilting, building slowly in rhythmic beats, faster and faster, until the sound reached a dramatic crescendo. A troupe of acrobats ran into the hall, running, cartwheeling, somersaulting, contorting their bodies with amazing flexibility, fast and skilled. Their costumes were fashioned from bold reds and yellows, fitted braies and tunics that allowed them to bend and stretch with ease. The watching crowd gasped in awe at the acrobatic feats, roaring with approval at each daring manoeuvre. Even the Queen, not known for praising any sort of entertainment, was smiling, turning and nodding with approval at the Earl.

  The acrobats ran to the middle of the hall, gathering together to form a human pyramid: three men at the bottom, then two climbing up, one man vaulting deftly to the very top. His head was on a level with the wrought-iron chandelier that hung with chains from the ceiling. One by one, he extinguished the candles, pulling the waxy sticks from each holder and tossing them to a companion down below.

  As the chamber plunged into dappled shadow, the crowd shifted, a palpable tension running through the room, a ripple of expectation. Isabella looked about her, an expression of curiosity on her face. The triangular formation of six acrobats moved carefully as a group to the other chandelier, dousing the flickering light once more. Now the hall was in darkness, lit only by the flickering firelight and the few candles set into stone niches around the walls.

  The crowd began to stamp their feet, chanting; it seemed they had the advantage over the royal guests and knew what to expect. The noise of the chanting rose, swelled, filling the hall.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Philippe leaned forward, intrigued.

  ‘They’re chanting in Latin,’ Lussac narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the words from the jumble of noise. ‘It sounds like silver...silver bird?’ He shrugged his shoulders, sprawling back into his oak chair.

  A sliver of light appeared in the doorway. A momentary hush fell upon the crowd; they held their breath, collectively. Then the roars and shouts returned, louder this time, insistent. The slip of light moved inwards, transformed into a figure, a girl dressed from head to toe in a white-satin garment, the top half of her face covered by a white, leather mask. Every inch of the satin was covered with tiny beads, faceted so they caught the light, shimmering in the dusky shadows of the hall. Tiny, sparkling beads even decorated the outside edges of her mask. Every movement, every fraction of movement was accompanied by a rippling, twinkling sparkle from the costume.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before,’ Isabella breathed out, stunned, her eyes transfixed upon the pearly figure.

  The girl raised her arms and the crowd went wild, the music hitching faster, dominated by a repeated drumbeat. Cut in a bell shape, the sleeves flowed downwards from her outstretched arms, like the spread wings of a bird.

  ‘Silver bird!’ Philippe thumped the table triumphantly. ‘Now I understand. You were right, Lussac. What a wonder she is, eh?’

  Lussac’s piercing blue eyes studied the figure, the slender curves, the diminutive stature. His heart kicked up a beat. Despite her masked face, the maid looked remarkably familiar. Was it her, the girl from the forest?

  From her demure, gentle entrance, the girl sprang into action, somersaulting in a series of forward flips to the pyramid of acrobats. As her hands hit the floor, her feet lifted upwards in precise, fluid harmony, travelling over to arch her spine in a graceful curve. Placing one small foot on the bent knee of her companion, she climbed the human pyramid to the chandelier. Hooking one leg over the iron loop, she held herself upright, balancing strongly on her hands and arms whilst the acrobats beneath tumbled away in all directions. The audience applauded them heartily as they ran out of the hall, laughing and waving, tumbling and springing.

  She waited until the last man had exited, before swinging her body down, sharply, held on to the chandelier by her bent legs. The metal circle swung with her slight weight. In the time it had taken her companions to leave she had attached a short rope around one ankle, tying the other end to the chandelier. Her arms swept out, then one leg came down, forming a right angle with her other leg. She began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, faster, the magnificent cloth of her costume flowing around her like shining phosphorus.

  ‘Good Lord,’ Philippe jumped out of his seat, ‘she’s going to fall, that rope’s not going to hold her...’

  ‘I think she will be fine,’ Lussac reassured him drily. He was certain now of the girl’s identity and hated the way his heart tripped faster with the knowledge. The waif in the forest who had hoped to outsmart him with a jittery combination of bravado, luck and agility. Serving girl, indeed!

  Half of Isabella’s ladies had c
overed their faces with their hands; they couldn’t watch. The rest of the audience stared upwards, open-mouthed, hearts thumping with anticipation. The girl spun faster and faster until her body became a glittering blur up in the rafters, before she stopped abruptly, shocking them, pulling herself up to release the rope, throwing it joyfully down into the crowd.

  Then, dropping her body below the chandelier again, although this time hanging by her hands around opposite sides of the iron loop, she began to swing, the strong chains of the chandelier supporting her. The arc of the swing grew bigger and bigger, until she had sufficient momentum to let go, somersault once in mid-air, which carried her towards the other chandelier. The crowd went mad, an element of hysteria in their approval, a joyfulness that the girl had survived such a daring act. She repeated the swing back again, latching on to the first chandelier. She then swung that, audaciously, over the high dais, jumping down straight on to the top table, in front of the Queen and the Earl of Norfolk. For a moment, the Earl looked apoplectic, disbelieving that a common acrobat had possessed the sheer audacity to land, feet first, before royalty. But Isabella was laughing, exchanging appreciative comments with her ladies, and clapping this unknown acrobat as if her life depended on it. The Earl relaxed.

  ‘You’re amazing! Your name! What is your name?’ Isabella shouted at the girl above the roar of the audience, half-raising herself from her seat, her face flushed with excitement. But the acrobat sprung away, flipping backwards off the top table in one elegant, bouncing arc to cartwheel across the hall.