Innocent's Champion

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Innocent's Champion Page 2

by Meriel Fuller


  ‘Matilda…? What is it?’ Katherine was on her feet now, standing at the bottom of the steps, one arm bent protectively around her stomach.

  ‘Ssh! Stay down!’ A horrible weakness sapped the strength in Matilda’s knees; her fingers drove into the shattered limestone of the tower, searching for purchase, for equilibrium. She spun away from the open space that had once been a window and flattened herself against the wall, heart thumping in her chest. ‘The knights… They’re being attacked!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Katherine, get away from here! You need to hide!’

  ‘But you…?’

  Matilda held up her bow. ‘I will hold them off as long as possible. You must get away from here, Katherine. Now. Find somewhere safe.’

  * * *

  With a practised flick of the reins, Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles, slowed his gleaming destrier to a walk, urging the animal towards the group of knights gathered at the river’s edge. Beneath the heavy metal breastplate, his skin prickled with sweat. He longed to rip it off. Steel plates dragged at his muscled arms; his fingers itched within his gauntlets. Pulling them off, he threw them to the ground, then lifted his hands to unstrap his helmet, resting it on the horse’s neck. The quiet breeze sifted through his hair, lifting the bright, corn-coloured strands, cooling his hot scalp. His piercing, metallic gaze swept the area where they had stopped, eyes set deep within thick, black lashes.

  ‘Fancy a swim?’ Henry, Duke of Lancaster, strode towards him across the soggy, hoof-marked mud, his short, stocky body moving with an unexpected grace. Several knights had already divested themselves of their armour, the glinted steel discarded messily on the ground amidst the horses. Now they plunged into the fast-flowing river with shouts of glee, scooping up handfuls of clear, sparkling water and splashing each other, like children.

  Gilan handed his helmet down to one of the soldiers. The burnished metal glowed in the afternoon sun. He frowned down at Henry. ‘Are you certain we have time? There are still several hours of daylight left.’

  Henry grinned. ‘The men are tired, Gilan. Not everyone can keep going as long as you can. And by my judgement it will take only a couple of more days to reach our destination. Let’s rest here tonight and move on in the morning.’

  Gilan shrugged his shoulders, nodded. Whatever Henry’s decision was, it made little difference to him. Eventually, he would have to go back to his parents’ home, but he was happy to delay that return as long as possible. Unconsciously, he kneaded the muscles in his thigh, trying to ease the ache in the scarred tissue. He swung his leg over the horse’s rump, dismounted.

  ‘You push yourself too hard,’ Henry said, clapping his friend on the back. ‘Most of my men are not in as good a shape as you. I have to make sure you don’t run them into the ground, so they are useless when it comes to finding King Richard.’

  ‘As long as we keep our wits about us, Henry.’ Gilan watched the knights in the water through narrowed silver eyes. ‘This is hostile country, remember.’

  ‘How can I forget?’ Henry replied, the smile slipping from his face. He stuck one hand through the russet-gold strands of his hair. ‘Banished to France by my own cousin, the king, just so he could grab at my fortune with his grubby little hands.’

  ‘Which is why we are here.’ Gilan grinned, white teeth flashing within his smile. ‘To grab it back.’ Gathering up his reins, he moved towards the water’s edge, pushing aside the jostling, sweating horseflesh to gain access. His stallion’s head nudged at his shoulder, keen to reach the water. Some of the knights had moved out into the middle of the river now, swimming properly in the stronger, deeper current, but others had climbed out, undergarments dripping around their knees, drying themselves on the large squares of linen extracted from their saddle-bags. Farther along the river, where the flow narrowed between higher banks to cut through the meadow, swallows flicked low, catching at the flying insects above the water.

  The wet mud at the water’s edge darkened the travel-stained leather of Gilan’s calf-length boots, oozing up around the soles. Henry appeared at his side, barrel chest clad only in a white shirt, loose drawers flapping about his legs. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ he asked again.

  Gilan shook his head. ‘Later.’ His arm jerked sharply down as the horse pulled against the reins, desperate to drink. A cluster of mosquitoes danced crazily above the water’s surface and he slapped at his neck, irritably.

  A hoarse scream rent the sticky air. Then another. The sound barged incongruously into the torpid languor of the afternoon.

  Gilan dropped his reins immediately, lean, tanned fingers seizing the jewelled hilt of his sword, drawing it with a long, steely hiss. ‘You, and you—’ he jabbed his finger at a couple of knights standing by the river, still fully clothed ‘—come with me, now.’

  Henry had already turned, was clambering back out of the water. ‘No, you stay here,’ Gilan growled at him. ‘I am dispensable. You are not.’

  * * *

  Despite the significant weight of his breastplate, Gilan ran surprisingly quickly for a large man, the sturdy length of his legs pacing along the track with the strength and agility of a cat, his step fast and sure. Moving swiftly away from the sunlit bank where they had stopped, he and the two other knights followed the river upstream to the point where it ran into woodland: large beech trees trailed delicate branches into the water like brilliant hair braids, tickling the mirrored surface. With no time to seize his helmet, his thick golden hair shone out from the shadowed gloom beneath the trees, where the air pressed in choking layers, ominous, vaguely threatening.

  Was it only a couple of months since he and Henry had forged their way through the frozen Lithuanian forests? Slashed back the impenetrable undergrowth where no horse could make progress, felled the brambles and the spent nettles, fixed in ice? Sometimes the snow had been so deep that their horses were forced to plough through man-made trenches, picking their way through towering walls of snow. He had relished that hardship, the impossible landscape that they had to work around, those icy, hostile conditions. They suited him, suited his current frame of mind after… He shook his head smartly, dispelling his thoughts. A wave of grief crested through him, but he clamped it down. Nay, he would not think of that now.

  Crouching into the bank, Gilan rammed a broad, muscled shoulder into a bunch of glossy ferns growing high and indicated with a quick, decisive handsignal that his knights should do the same. Up ahead, he could see a covered litter set upon the ground, patterned curtains fluttering outwards in the warm air, like spent butterfly wings. A soldier lay sprawled in the dirt, his face white-grey, his hand pressed against his shoulder; despite his motionless appearance, Gilan could see his eyes were beginning to open. And beyond this fallen knight, other men were fighting, scuffling, hands at each other’s throats, swords swinging, their grunting efforts rising hoarsely.

  Springing away from the bank, Gilan jumped towards them, raising the sparkling blade of his sword before him with a roar, and hurled himself into the writhing, spitting mass. Grabbing one man round the neck, he pulled him out of the fray, kicking him in the back of the shins so that he buckled easily.

  ‘Kneel. Hands on the back of your head where I can see them.’ He signalled to one of his knights to keep guard, his voice guttural, harsh, barking orders.

  ‘It was them, they attacked us!’ the man was babbling, as he fell to his knees in the soft dirt.

  An arrow whistled past Gilan, quiver feathers whispering against his ear. It stuck into the earth opposite him, the shaft bouncing violently with the force of the shot. Too close! He whirled angrily, searching for the archer. A shot like that could only have come from some distance, so someone was watching them from afar. His eyes swept along the river, through the sibilant trees and bulky trunks to a small stone bridge, a crumbling wall of loose stones blotched with orangey-yellow lichen.

  And the gl
int of an arrowhead, peeking out from a high spot on the ruined tower.

  His knights were bringing the fight to a close. Already three men were on the ground, hands bound behind their backs, heads bent, subdued. One more man to bring down and his situation appeared increasingly precarious. Gilan sank back into the shadows, using the substantial tree trunks as cover. His boots made no sound as he crept through the waist-high cow parsley, his legs brushing against the delicate, white-lace flowers. Crossing by the bridge was no good, being in full view of the tower. He would slink back along the path, cross the river at a lower point. The element of surprise had always served him well.

  Chapter Two

  Bracing her body against the thick stone, Matilda reached up to extract another arrow from the narrow bag on her back. Adrenaline rattled through her veins; her hands shook so much she was finding it difficult to shoot straight. Her trembling limbs skewed her aim. But every time she peered around the wall, there seemed to be more men down there! The gang’s reinforcements had obviously arrived, armed with swords and short daggers, big and fearsome looking, some even wearing armour that they no doubt had filched from somewhere. For one tiny moment, she considered the possibility of running, of running and hiding with her sister. But the thought of cowering behind a tree trunk, waiting for the thugs to finally catch up with them, seemed a far worse situation than the one she was in right now, tackling the problem head-on. Fine, she might lose, but at least she had tried.

  She had missed that last shot, but he wouldn’t be so lucky next time, that huge ruffian who’d appeared from nowhere, with his wild thatch of blond hair. Drawing air deep into her lungs, Matilda fought to control her breathing, the reckless thump in her chest. How many times had she practised, how many times had she drawn back the gut string and sighted an arrow on the target since her brother, Thomas, had given her this bow? But her days and days of endless practising had not prepared her for the real thing. How could she have known that her heart would beat in panic; that her knees would weaken and quiver with nerves at the sight of their household knights falling to the ground; that her fingers would shake uncontrollably as she fitted the arrow up to the bowstring? Her own cowardice conspired against her. Gritting her teeth, she prayed that Katherine had found a good hiding place.

  Lifting the bow, she set the arrow in a horizontal line from the edge of her ear, training the point down into the chaotic scene of fighting below, moving her shoulder fractionally to pinpoint an enemy target. The arrow shaft was warm against her cheek.

  ‘You there! Stop!’ The harsh command hit her like a blow, a deep guttural voice slicing through the air.

  In shock, she jolted forwards, the loosened arrow dropping, bouncing down across the tumble of stones to the deep water below. She whirled around, aghast, horrified. A man was running towards her, advancing swiftly. She staggered back in fright, her feet snagging in the bunched train of her gown, heels clipping the low edge of stone. Her bow clattered down on the rickety steps. In a vain attempt to balance herself, her slim arms flew out, like the wings of an angel, scrabbling futilely at the sides of the window to prevent herself falling.

  ‘No!’ Matilda wailed, a terrified, drawn-out howl, as her body tipped backwards, toes losing contact with the rubble-strewn step. She had the briefest impression of sunlit hair, diamond eyes, of a cloak billowing out from broad shoulders as the man sped up towards her.

  She fell.

  Gathered skirts rippled around her slender form as she flew gracefully through the air, her cloak spreading like a vast wing behind her, before she smacked the cold water below with a sharp, outraged cry. The bag of arrows loosened from her shoulder, drifted off in the current of water, downstream.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, turning and running back out of the tower. Momentarily blinded by the sun, all he had seen was the blurry outline of a figure poised to shoot, and the shining glint of the arrow. Shouting up, he had assumed the archer to be a man. But when the figure turned and screamed with high-pitched girlishness, he had realised his mistake. The archer was a woman.

  Guilt flooded through him; he squashed it down as he vaulted the collapsed boundary wall. Man or woman, it didn’t change the fact that the archer had been determined to stick an arrow between his shoulder blades. Determined to kill him. He charged through the swaying grass at the edge of the river and waded in, eyes focused on the concentric circles of water where the maid had disappeared. Water soaked his boots, the dun-coloured wool of his chausses. Luckily, he chose not to wear plate armour on his legs, which would have weighed him down. Beneath the surface he could see blue cloth shimmering, swirling in the current, and the pale gleam of skin rising up. A neat head bobbed up in the warm, summer air, coughing and gasping, water sluicing across a sweet, heart-shaped face that shone like alabaster. Small hands flayed out, trying to float, to swim, before she sank again beneath the glittering water.

  He propelled himself forwards, digging his arms down into the crystal-clear liquid, scooping his hands beneath the girl’s armpits and hauling up the spitting, screeching mass of femininity. The sound clashed in his ears, an ear-splitting caterwauling that made his brain ache. He winced as her screams crested over him, holding the maid’s lissom weight at arm’s length, wondering if she was ever going to stop. Coils of sable hair looped crazily on each side of her head, several silver pins threatening to dislodge; her dress and cloak clung to her like a second skin, emphasising the firm, delectable curve of her bosom, the narrow curve of her waist.

  ‘Let…go…of me!’ she spluttered, huge blue eyes scorched with fury. ‘You barbarian!’ She swung one bunched fist in his direction, her arm swinging woefully short of its intended destination. The gleam of his breastplate mocked her.

  ‘Stop this!’ he bellowed at her. The taut lines of his face were rigid, hard.

  Hampered by great swathes of wet, sticky material, her arms flailed towards him, struck out at the tanned, handsome features, the grey-coloured eyes, as she wriggled violently, arching back against his hold.

  ‘Stop right now!’ he warned again, eyes darkening to smouldering pewter. ‘Otherwise I will drop you.’

  Blood roared in her ears, blotting out his words. Oh, Lord, he’s going to kill me, Matilda thought, panic flooding her solar plexus. She had to get away from him! Thrashing about in his arms, churning her legs through the water as if she were running, she fought against the brute’s imprisoning grip. Who knew what this strong-armed bully had in store for her? Rape, or a knife in her side? She had no intention of finding out.

  She lunged forwards, fear giving her strength. Her sharp fingernails made contact with one hard cheekbone, slicing across his skin. A single line of blood appeared, oozing down the shadowed cleft of his cheek.

  ‘Why, you little…’ Stunned by the maid’s temerity, unprepared for her attack, Gilan loosened his grip on the floundering, squirming woman.

  He let her drop.

  Watched as she sank below the surface once more, her screeching outrage silenced. So be it. Let the little spitfire learn her lesson the difficult way, he thought, arms crossed smugly across his breastplate. He would wait here until she ran out of breath, until she was forced to take in air. And he would be ready for her.

  As the cool, limpid water closed over her head, Matilda held her breath, moving her arms in a wide arc in an attempt to swim away from him, underwater. But her extravagant gown, her cloak, with their yards and yards of fabric, dragged her down, the sodden material acting like lead weights on her legs, pulling at her feet, her hips, making any forward movement impossible. Her own clothes hobbled her. She wanted to weep at the sheer futility of her efforts.

  Defeated, she drifted down, knees resting on the river’s stony bottom, the tiny, brilliant pebbles poking sharply into her shins. How long would he wait? A peculiar heat burned the lining of her lungs, eroding her capacity to breathe; through the clear water she
could see the man’s legs encased in well-fitting chausses, brawny muscle roping his thighs, boots planted sturdily astride. He would grow bored soon, surely, and go away. The water flowed across her face and neck, soothing her skin, and her mind began to dance, strange flickering lights pulsing across the darkness of her inner mind.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, swiftly realising that the maid had no intention of surfacing again. He reached for her, big thumbs gouging into the soft flesh of her armpits as he hauled her up from the depths. ‘Do you truly want to drown?’ he shouted at her, his strong fingers gripping beneath her shoulders. What was the maid playing at?

  Her body was limp, head hanging forwards so that it drooped towards his chest, her soaking hair dripping water across his breastplate. Her silver circlet tilted crazily, the net that secured the coils of her hair hanging down like limp lace, stuck to her ashen cheeks. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’ he exclaimed, sweeping one hand beneath her knees so the length of her body was shoved up high against his chest. The faintest smell of lavender rose to his nostrils, the delicate scent of her wet skin. Her head lolled back crazily against his shoulder, loosened hair straggling down across the pleated fall of his cloak.

  Sloshing towards the bank, the generous arc of her hem sweeping through the shallows, he carried the maid easily. Despite the amount of water absorbed by her clothes, she weighed nothing, fragile in his arms. Kneeling down carefully, he tipped her onto the bank, where the grass grew long and lush. He bent his head to her mouth, catching the flimsy shift of air against his cheek. So the chit was alive, in spite of her best efforts to drown herself.

 

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