The Knight's Fugitive Lady

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Astride?’ Waleran teased in mock-horror, wanting to break the sombre mood between them. ‘I’m not sure Queen Isabella would approve, if she caught you riding like that.’ He busied himself by spreading the bulk of her cloak across the rump of the horse.

  Nor my father either, Katerina thought. She tucked her gown down around her ankles, the blue linen falling in soft folds from her neat waist. For a brief moment, the haunted look left her eyes. ‘It’s the only way I know how,’ she replied.

  ‘The way I taught you,’ Waleran said.

  ‘Waleran, you will always be a true friend to me.’ She leaned down, placing one hand on his shoulder, her bound, plaited hair shining like gold embroidery. ‘I will come back, you know. After I’ve sorted things out with my father.’

  ‘Nay, you won’t. Once you have a taste of the high life again, you’ll forget us all. ‘

  ‘The high life would bore me rigid. Can you imagine me sitting in a woman’s solar, embroidering all day?’

  He laughed. ‘You have a point. Mayhaps we will see you again, after all. We’re sad to see you go. We all are.’ He lifted his arms to give her a friendly hug and felt her pull back slightly, ligaments inflexible against the hard curve of his arms. For the hundredth time, he wished he had never declared his love for her. It had changed everything between them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The trio of riders made good speed on their journey north-west. Lussac rode up front on his sleek muscled destrier, maintaining a fast-paced gait, while Philippe and Katerina rode behind. The earlier storm had cleared the air, the gusting wind driving the clouds away to the east, and now, even at this late hour of the afternoon, the sun shone fiercely, beating down on their necks, their faces. Katerina stared at the back of Lussac’s head, miserable, heart clouded in grief. He had barely spoken two words to her since they had stood together in the slashing rain and he had told her what had happened to his family. It was if he had fenced himself off from her, shuttered down; as if, by revealing the truth about his family, he had nothing else to give.

  But at least, now, Katerina understood. Understood the heartache, the pain that beat beneath his solid chest. The pain of losing everything.

  She welcomed Philippe’s congenial presence which acted like a balm, effectively soothing the icy tension strung like iron net between the two of them. Despite his portly stance, he demonstrated practised skill as a rider, sitting low and graceful in the saddle, and was happy to chat about this and that, whenever the horses slowed to a walk.

  * * *

  As the four o’clock bell rang out across the land, tolling sonorously, they had passed through the market town of Ditton, hazy in mist as the heat slowly sapped from the day. Now they followed a wide grassy drove, a man-made track banked high above the low-lying marshland. The landscape was flat, boggy, stretching into a shimmering horizon as far as the eye could see, a vast area thick with reeds and sedge, alive with the piercing call of the sparrow-hawk. Willows and alders hugged areas of visible water, drooping tendrils of thin leaves stirring the shallow pools; insects chirruped and whirred in meadows thick with flowers and grasses.

  The narrowness of the drove forced their horses to walk. Seizing the opportunity, Philippe reached into the leather pouch dangling from his belt, extracting a large linen square. His sparse hair stuck chaotically to his scalp. ‘Phew!’ He glanced over at Katerina, strands of tawny hair floating about her flushed face, copper filaments glowing in the sun. ‘I thought it was supposed to be autumn? Where did this heat come from?’ He mopped his sweating face with the handkerchief, crumpling the used linen into a mass of creases.

  ‘I’m feeling it, too.’ Katerina made an effort to be friendly. But in truth she felt cold, numb, inside.

  ‘Is the pace too fast for you? I can ask Lussac to slow down.’ He nodded at the powerful, chainmail clad figure up ahead, shimmering, the silhouette blurring slightly in the heat haze.

  She shook her head, violently. Her horse took advantage of the slow pace to crop at the lush, long grass of the drove, big teeth making loud, ripping noises as it tore at the vegetation.

  ‘You’re a fine horsewoman,’ Philippe complimented her, his eye straying to the delectable flash of ankle on the stirrup. He grinned, his voice teasing. ‘Even if you do insist on riding astride.’

  Katerina adjusted her skirts so that the hem covered her slipper, smiling. Philippe was an easy companion, friendly and courteous, the ideal antidote to her lurching heart. She allowed herself to be distracted by his affable manner, welcomed it, for it drew her mind away from the man who rode up front, his manner grim and formidable. ‘I’m so glad it was you who came with us,’ she said, pulling on the bridle so that her palfrey walked in step beside Philippe’s muscled destrier.

  ‘I’m glad too,’ Philippe replied. ‘Anything to escape from the constant demands of that royal harridan.’ He swivelled his head around, as if expecting to see the whole of the Queen’s entourage approaching out of the hazy vista behind. ‘No one said this campaign would be easy, but I’m convinced she makes it ten times more complicated.’

  Katerina scarcely heard his words. Every step of their horses brought them closer to Longthorpe, closer to the inevitability of what Lussac planned to do. ‘Has he told you?’ She turned smoky eyes on Philippe. ‘Has Lussac told you what he intends to do?’

  ‘He plans to hand the writ to your father and tell him in no uncertain terms that any wedding to your uncle is null and void.’

  Katerina raised her chin, feeling the warmth in the breeze that skittered across the land, bathing her face. ‘Not that. The other thing.’ She shivered, pulling her cloak more tautly around her shoulders.

  ‘He’s told you?’ Philippe jerked his head back, grizzly blond eyebrows drawing together in surprise. ‘Did he tell what happened? To his family?’ He flicked his gaze towards Lussac, who had turned now, frowning at the distance between himself and his companions. Philippe and Katerina were lagging behind.

  Below the drove, the stiff stakes of reed grass shifted, plumed heads riffling like purple feathers. ‘Yes, yes, he did,’ whispered Katerina. ‘And I’m so sorry for it, my lord Garsan, so sad about what happened to him. But killing isn’t the answer...’

  ‘Philippe, please. You must call me Philippe. Katerina, you must speak to Lussac about this, talk to him.’ He tried to pull the bulk of his hood away from his perspiring neck.

  She laughed sourly, the sound breathy, truncated. ‘Me? He wouldn’t listen to me...’ Her voice trailed off forlornly.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘He scarce holds me in high regard, Philippe.’ What could she say? That the man who rode up front, who was now riding back towards them, lay with me in the hot baking sun of an afternoon and made love to me so thoroughly that I forgot who I was, or who I had ever been. He loved me in such a way that I now cannot think straight, my senses rattled. I cannot bear it. I want to be with him, but he cannot stand the sight of me. I want to hate him, but all I can do is love him.

  Love. The word knocked against the side of her brain like a bell, shocking, vivid and inexplicable. Was that what she truly felt towards him? Was it love?

  A brimstone butterfly snagged her gaze; she followed its haphazard, illogical flight, the yellow wings glowing, sulphurous against the dull green reeds, her mind ripe with memories, crowded with questions. How could she put into words how she felt? For to speak of it would make it a reality and that would make it all the harder to bear.

  ‘I think you are wrong, Katerina. I think he would listen to you.’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘For years he’s been locked up in a circle of filthy, black guilt,’ Philippe explained gently. ‘He was due home on leave from the French court, but he stayed a while, dallying with friends. He was young, enjoying the life of a single man. He blames himself for not return
ing home earlier, for he feels if he had done so, then his family would still be alive. He would have been there to help them defend the castle against the English. He would have been able to save them.’ Philippe squinted, his stubby blond lashes spiking against the baggy hollows beneath his eyes, his gaze travelling across the horizon. ‘But for the first time since that terrible thing happened, I have seen a change in Lussac. We only landed a few days ago, but already there’s something different about him.’

  Excitement coiled slowly in Katerina’s chest. What was he saying?

  ‘In what way?’ she spoke carefully. She was tempted to push the flicker of hope away.

  Philippe shrugged his shoulders, grinned over at her. ‘You’re asking me, a man, to describe such a thing? It’s only a feeling I have, a tiny shift in his behaviour.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It has everything to do with you.’

  * * *

  ‘Come on, you two! Why are you lagging behind?’ Lussac barked at them as he rode up at a fast gallop. His horse slid to a stop in front of them, snorting fitfully from rounded nostrils, enormous hooves carving great gashes in the dry earth. Despite wearing chainmail, Lussac’s head was bare and fronds of his chestnut hair spiked wayward. Like Philippe, he was wearing the Queen’s colours once more, the dark-blue tunic emblazoned with gold fleur-de-lys, which hugged his powerful shoulders and smoothed down over his lean, flat stomach, before the cloth split at mid-thigh. Gripping his bulky thigh muscles to control the horse, he swept his gaze immediately to Katerina.

  Her small face was pale, features tight and closed. Her bound hair looked uncomfortable, as if it pulled too tight against her scalp. His fingers itched to release those glowing locks, to scatter those cruel long hairpins to the ground and allow the rose-scented tresses to spill over her shoulders, tumble down her spine. Her hair would be like cool silk against his fingers. He took a breath, feeling his lungs shudder with the effort. Dark smudges beneath her eyes mocked him; he had promised her a decent meal and a proper bed for the night at Bury St Edmunds, but what had he done instead? Propelled by his own guilt, he had whisked her away from the scene of the crime, the scene of his crime, when he had taken her innocence by a slow-flowing river.

  She didn’t deserve this; she didn’t deserve him. Not after everything else she had been through.

  ‘You need some rest,’ he muttered in Katerina’s direction. ‘We need to find somewhere to stop.’

  ‘What? Really?’ Philippe piped up. ‘I thought we would have a solid roof over our heads tonight. Surely Longthorpe cannot be that far away?’ He glanced at Katerina, wanting her to supply the finer details, to fill in the blanks of the route.

  ‘It isn’t far, Lussac,’ she agreed with Philippe, tucking a wayward strand of gilded hair behind her ear. The dropping sun highlighted the fine porcelain of her skin, the silver fire of her eyes. Sitting astride her horse, the skirt of her gown had gathered in soft folds around her legs, emphasising the rounded muscles of her thighs beneath.

  ‘How far exactly?’ he asked.

  Katerina looked about her, trying to pinpoint any recognisable parts of the countryside. It had been so long since she had been home that the landscape now felt unfamiliar to her. Up ahead, a church spire loomed into view. Possibly the village at Hambridge? she wondered. ‘About ten miles, I think,’ she replied, finally.

  ‘Ten miles!’ Lussac narrowed his eyes on her; under his close scrutiny she shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. ‘Have you any idea how long that will take us? We won’t reach there before midnight, at least. Katerina, you need to sleep and to have something to eat... I can’t even remember the last time you ate anything.

  ‘Since when have you been so concerned about my well-being?’ she flashed back at him, frowning, one thumb rubbing inadvertently along the reins.

  Since I met you. Since I followed your darting, quicksilver figure through the forest on that very first day. Since I flipped you over on to your back and stared into your frightened, furious expression.

  Lussac ducked his head, away from the vivid intensity of her haughty stare, scowling at the frothing black mane of his horse. ‘You need something to eat, Katerina. So do I. I’m sure Philippe does as well.’ He glanced over meaningfully at his friend. ‘And I’m tired,’ he added, for good measure.

  Katerina stared at him, suspiciously.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Philippe agreed, dampening down any thought of a comfortable bed for the night after reading the intention in Lussac’s eyes. ‘Ten miles is far too long to ride. We need to find a place to stop. In fact, my stomach is rumbling as we speak.’

  Lussac was doing it for her, Katerina thought. He was doing it to be kind, nothing more, nothing less. And Philippe, bless his heart, was playing along for her benefit. She was certain neither of them were actually hungry. And Lussac couldn’t have looked less tired if he tried. His long, lean body shed energy as he sat in the saddle, every muscle tense, alert, as if poised for action.

  * * *

  As the rosy hues of evening deepened to twilight, the sun sinking slowly towards the western horizon, Lussac rode towards a copse of beech, situated oddly on a shallow rise. ‘This will do,’ he called out across the flat expanse of field, indicating with his raised arm that Katerina and Philippe should join him. Behind the fiery colour of the beech leaves, a new moon, a narrow sliver against a dark-blue sky, rose gradually.

  ‘Is it damp?’ Philippe asked doubtfully, as he reined his horse in next to Lussac’s under the trees and jumped down, thick boots sinking into the thick carpet of fallen leaves. He turned around, intending to help Katerina dismount, but she had jumped down already.

  ‘No, but we need to build a shelter,’ Lussac announced, his turquoise gaze trailing over Katerina’s wan features, before switching back to Philippe.

  She caught the look between the two men. ‘There’s no need to build anything on my account,’ she announced, looking up at the sky. The vast dome of midnight blue was gradually filling with stars, tiny piercing diamonds of light. ‘It’s not going to rain tonight and it’s not cold. I’ll be fine with a blanket in front of a fire—you forget, I am used to this, sleeping outside.’

  Sleeping outside, like a common vagrant. Lussac hated the thought of this delicate girl living rough, vulnerable to every kind of miscreant that happened along. He wanted her to be safe, in a stone-walled chamber, with a charcoal brazier burning snugly in the corner. He wanted to do that for her. To protect her from harm. But how could he do that when he had failed to protect his own family?

  ‘We’ll light a fire then,’ he replied, agreeing with her. Katerina was right; she would be warm enough with a blanket. He moved around the space, collecting a few spindly sticks, a heap of dried moss to act as kindling, his graceful stride sweeping the deep waves of dark gold leaves in his wake. Katerina stood by her horse, unsure, feeling the animal’s warm breath fan out over her shoulder as she watched him. He crouched down in front of the collected pile and took out a flint, striking a spark, holding it quickly within his curved hands to light the dry kindling. Immediately a flame took hold, growing fast, eating greedily into the dry sticks.

  The firelight bathed the carved beauty of his face in an amber glow: the high cheekbones, clefted beneath with shadow, the curved upward flick of his eyebrows. He began to pile bigger pieces of wood on; lumpy, knobbled pieces covered in pale-green lichen sizzled and spat as he placed them over the flames in a criss-cross fashion.

  ‘Here, I managed to filch some food from the monastery,’ Philippe declared, bustling over from where he had been rummaging in his saddle-bags. ‘Enough to fill our bellies, at least.’ He spread a large woollen rug out beside the fire. ‘Katerina, come and sit, please.’

  She moved woodenly, stumbling through the drift of leaves, to sink down gratefully on to Philippe’s rug. Across the flames, Lussac shifted h
is position, leaning against the tree trunk at his back, one arm resting on his upraised knee. His eyes glittered, searching her face.

  ‘Have some bread, some cheese.’ Philippe gestured across the spread of food that he’d laid out on the rug. ‘Here...’ He handed a parcel of food to Lussac.

  ‘You seem to have filched quite a lot,’ Lussac remarked drily, a smile touching the corners of his lips. His friend’s ability to find food was renowned.

  ‘At least enough for tonight and tomorrow morning as well,’ Philippe announced proudly. ‘And then once we reach Longthorpe, we might have a decent meal?’ He raised his eyebrows in question towards Katerina.

  She swallowed a knob of bread hurriedly, the doughy mass sticking to the sides of her gullet. ‘I’m not entirely sure what will happen when we reach Longthorpe,’ she admitted, an edge of doubt creeping into her voice. To her utter dismay, her hand shook as she reached out for a chunk of cheese and she drew her fingers back quickly, hoping no one had seen.

  Lussac watched as Katerina snatched her hand back, hiding her trembling fingers in her lap. Something shifted within him, something deep and primeval. She was scared stiff of going home, frightened at what lay ahead.

  ‘The Queen’s writ carries a lot of weight,’ Philippe commented benignly. ‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think.’ He munched contentedly on an apple.

  Katerina filled her lungs with woody, moss-scented air. ‘It will be if Lussac intends to kill a member of my family, Philippe. It will be very bad.’ She glared pointedly at Lussac’s sword, gleaming out from the cushion of leaves.

  Philippe cleared his throat.

  Caught in the silver magic of Katerina’s eyes, snared by that silken net of glorious hair, Lussac jumped at her sharp words. They scoured into him, flaying his skin. He sprang up, moving swiftly over to his horse, guilt coursing over him in waves, black, churning waves. Lost in the enchantment of Katerina’s beauty, he had forgotten, forgotten the iron-clad promise uttered over the fallen bodies of his family; now, his own words creaked and loosened, like the shedding of stiff, tight armour. Was it her? Had she done this to him?