Henry had looked on, aghast, as Pierre had died in Gilan’s arms, almost obscured by whirling flakes of snow. Clutching his brother, Gilan had howled, cried up to the Heavens, cursing God, the universe, but above all, himself, for what had happened. The broken bits of the scaling ladder scattered around them, and still, the flaming arrows had rained down from the battlements. Eventually Henry had managed to drag his friend away. Such grief had been terrible to see. He had witnessed first-hand the effect Pierre’s death had wrought upon the other man—months in which Gilan had moved around like a shadow. Nothing seemed to matter to him; he had hurled himself into battle as if he wanted to die, wanting to join his brother. But now, now he seemed changed, easier, with a brightness around him that Henry had not seen for a long time.
‘It’s not like that.’ Warmth coiled in Gilan’s belly.
‘No, of course not.’ Henry smirked. ‘I must say, I was quite taken with her myself.’
Gilan sighed, hitching forwards in his saddle. ‘For God’s sake, Henry, if you must know, her brother-in-law attacked her. I had to get her out of there. She could hardly speak, let alone stand! Anyone else would have done the same.’
‘My God, I had no idea!’ Henry’s coarse red hair glimmered like rusty iron. ‘Why on earth would he do such a thing?’
‘Because he’s a bastard, of the highest order,’ Gilan ground out. ‘He is desperate for a male heir. After his wife delivered a daughter last night, he was not happy.’
‘So he thought he’d try the sister,’ Henry supplied. He shuffled around in his saddle, reaching for his leather water bottle. Pulling the stopper, he took a long, deep swig.
‘Precisely.’
How long would it take John to muster the men he needed to attack Lilleshall? Gilan wondered. Did the manor house have a portcullis, or a thick set of gates they could close against attack? Why couldn’t he remember? Because he’d been fixated on the seductive sway of her hips as she’d led the way into the house, that’s why, damn it! She would do better to leave the manor entirely and hide out in the village or, better still, the nunnery with her mother. But that would mean she would have to hide for ever, or at least until she was past childbearing age. And with her away from Lilleshall, John would simply commandeer the place for himself.
‘Gilan! Did you hear me?’
‘Sorry.’ His thoughts bounced chaotically around his skull. Every step his horse took away from Matilda seemed to scour at his conscience, send a fresh leap of guilt through his veins. He should never have left her. Henry didn’t need him; he had enough soldiers to protect him, enough soldiers to contest Richard when they finally caught up with the king. He should go back.
‘Things like this happen in families all over the country, Gilan. She’s not your concern now.’ Henry touched his heels to his destrier, encouraging the animal to start the long, slow climb from the valley bottom to the top of the ridge, where the stunted hawthorns clung to the skyline like a fence of broken bones. His bridle jangled as he picked up speed, moving in front of Gilan to negotiate the path that snaked through the whispering grass. ‘You have more important things to deal with.’
The icy water of Henry’s speech sloshed over him. His mouth tightened to a straight, stern line, compressed. Providing a beautiful, wilful distraction, Matilda’s plight had driven all thoughts of Pierre from his mind, of the obligation to his parents who awaited his return, his explanation of events, to them, and to his brother’s wife, Isabelle. He had sent them only one letter, dashed off hurriedly for the messenger in his thick, unruly scrawl, providing them with the barest of facts about Pierre’s death, promising that he would tell them everything in more detail when he returned home. When he returned home. Which, at the moment, he was doing everything in his power to avoid.
Up ahead, the lead soldiers had stopped on the top of the ridge, their horses surrounded by a froth of yellow gorse. Henry’s horse gained the ridge, closely followed by Gilan. The stiff breeze fanned the tails of the horses, sending them flying sideways, like a drift of pale seaweed.
‘We’re not certain of our direction, my lord.’
The landscape was curious. They had reached an upland plateau, expecting to gain far-reaching views, yet all they could see were more ridges of grassland stretching away from them, expanding in all directions, cut through with lumps of limestone outcrop, casually scattered, as if by a giant hand. Black-faced sheep roamed free, cropping the coarser grass, trailing amongst the rounded clusters of oak and sycamore, the lumps and bumps of prehistoric mounds. The sun was sinking slowly now, casting long shadows across the land; soon, it would be necessary for them to find shelter for the night.
Henry frowned, hunching around to look at Gilan.
Gilan shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, Henry. This part of the country is a mystery to me.’
‘Then, we need to find ourselves a guide. On the morrow. Now, let’s find some shelter.’
* * *
Matilda prided herself on her navigation skills. Where most of her female contemporaries had no idea how to travel from one place to another and were content to sit dumbly in a litter, or be led on a docile palfrey, she would instead take an active interest in a route. The clues were everywhere in the landscape: church spires on the horizon would take you to the next village or town, or a knot of trees on a prominent hillock would signpost the main route west, or east, for example. With a knowledge of the sun’s position in the sky, taught to her by her father, and taking note of the way the shadows fell on the ground, it was relatively easy to work out one’s direction.
At least that was what she told herself, now, trotting gamely in a vague north-westerly direction. Ansel had remonstrated with her, of course, about going, but she had overridden his concerns, demanding that his son lend her some clothes, insisting that a horse be made ready. She had been cantankerous and irritable, she thought now, regretting her earlier bossy behaviour, but she had been anxious not to waste any time.
For, if she wasted time, then she might miss Gilan, might miss Henry and his men riding towards Wales. By her reckoning, if she rode in a diagonal line north-west, and they followed the only route north from Neen, she would not miss them. Her plan would be to find them on the road, and follow them, at a discreet distance. She didn’t think the north coast of Wales was far away, maybe a couple of hours’ ride, but she couldn’t be sure. Henry and Gilan would lead her straight to King Richard…and by association, her brother, and they would be none the wiser.
Dressed in itchy woollen trousers, folded over several times at the waist and secured with a makeshift belt made of rope, a linen shirt and an ill-fitting tunic, laced up to the throat, she was able to maintain a reasonably fast pace through the forests that lay to the north-west of her home. A hood, with its scalloped edge resting over her shoulders, covered the glossy brightness of her hair and kept her face in shadow. She had wound the plait around and around into a simple coil at the back of her head, now hidden by the hood. Without her bow and arrow, she felt vulnerable; no doubt her weapon of protection still lay at the bottom of the river where she had first met Gilan.
Emerging from the rustling forest, the smooth bark of the tree trunks glowing in the setting sun, she kicked her heels into her horse to climb up on to the limestone plateau, the only ridge of high ground that sat between her home and the huge river that divided England from Wales. It stretched from her sister’s home at Neen all the way to the remains of an old settlement at Uphill, on the coast.
She gained the level ground through a scrubby copse of larch and holly, her horse picking a fastidious path through fallen branches, rotten and bare of leaves, and thin twigs, fragile, desiccated, poking up to scratch against the horse’s legs. Lichen, pale green, frilled vigorously on the sickly wood. There was little water on the plateau, she remembered her father saying, which was why no one had made a home up here in this bleak, desolate land. The
falling rain dropped straight through the limestone surface, forming hollows and fissures within the porous rock.
Drawing on the reins, Matilda screwed her eyes up, scanning the bulbous pockets of yellow gorse, the solitary hawthorns.
Her lungs stilled, breath trapping in her throat.
There. Silhouetted against a sky striped with the colours of the setting sun, a riot of pinkish-red, suffused with an almost transparent yellow, Henry and his soldiers huddled in a group on the far edge of the plateau, plate armour reflecting the dying sunlight, banners flapping, narrow triangles of fabric, the gold of Henry’s coat of arms emblazoned on each one. One blue tunic covering a tall frame, straight-backed, set a little apart from the main group. Gilan.
Her heart plummeted, constricting with a looping panic. Instinctively, she nudged her horse into the scant shadows of the copse from which she had just left, seeking invisibility within the rickety trees. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To find Henry and his men, to track them to her brother? Her situation at home was untenable and this was the only solution. So why did she feel so scared?
It was him. Of course, it was him.
What would he do, if he discovered she had defied him? She shook her head sharply, dispelling any further thought. No. It would not do to dwell on something that might never happen. It made her fearful, and when fear arrived, fault would follow. She could not afford to make any mistakes; her whole future was a stake and she was not about to let the man with diamond eyes ruin her only chance of a solution.
* * *
‘Someone is following us,’ Gilan said quietly.
They had ridden for what seemed like hours across the endless, unrelenting ground, but at last, they seemed to have reached the end, to a point where the view opened up, spectacularly. The landscape dropped away, flattening out into low-lying marshland, cut by man-made drainage channels set into a grid system. And there, in the distance, the shining line of the river that they would have to cross. The track they were following began to descend; first, through a band of short, wind-blasted oaks, then as the sides of the valley rose up, huge cliffs of vertical limestone appeared.
‘Who?’ Henry bent round in his saddle, but the curve and steepness of the track obscured whoever it was that followed them.
‘I’m not sure, I only glimpsed him. One man, on horseback.’
‘Could be anyone.’
‘Or someone,’ Gilan said. ‘It’s almost dark. Who would be travelling at this hour? You’re vulnerable, Henry, and Richard’s supporters are everywhere. It pays to be cautious.’
‘Well, I’m glad I have you to watch my back,’ Henry said.
Gilan glanced up at the craggy limestone that towered over them as they descended into the gorge, casting swathes of shade as the sun inched downwards. Scrappy hawthorns poked out from the vertiginous rock face, clinging on wherever they could find a hold—spiky, angular branches reaching out like crooked fingers against the strip of sky above.
‘You go on ahead and take the soldiers with you,’ Gilan said. ‘Find somewhere farther down to spend the night.’ His eyes gleamed with silvery intent.
‘But what are you going to do?’ Henry’s eyes narrowed.
Gilan jumped down from his destrier. ‘Surprise him.’ He grinned, but the smile did not reach the hard glitter of his eyes. He led his horse beyond the next outcrop of rock, making sure he was well hidden from the track, securing the reins.
He waited until Henry and his men had disappeared, then began to climb the rock face with the speed and agility of a much smaller man. Using the long, roping muscles in his arms, he levered himself up, strong legs powering him over the steep, slippery rock, slick with damp. Ferns sprung out from angled crevices, bright green in the dusky light; his hands reached up and sought gaps into which he could dig his fingers and pull himself higher. About twelve feet from the ground, he found the perfect spot: a flat ledge dotted with loose scree and shallow depressions that provided him with an ideal hiding place from which to pounce on their follower. And he was certain the rider was following them. What other person would take their haphazard route across the countryside? Haphazard only because Henry and his men were unsure of their direction. And yet the rider had dogged their tails, turning when they turned, doubling back when they doubled back. He grinned to himself, splaying his big body across the ledge, lying flat and stealthy, unmoving, like an animal awaiting its prey.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The shadows were lengthening quickly now, creeping inexorably across the tall fingers of rock, across the jagged vertical chasms; a shadowy twilight filled the valley. Trees and shrubs sank into the greying background, edges blurring slowly, the fine details of branches and leaves vanishing as the light fell. And, from the top of the gorge, the distinct clip-clopping of a horse on the loose scree.
He raised his head, the thick blond strands of his hair riffling in the breeze. The rest of his body was still, poised, ready to spring down.
The rider negotiated the uneven track slowly, carefully, a pale silhouette. The neat forelegs of the horse flashed white as they moved against the dark rock.
Gilan shifted, a tiny movement. His right knee was damp; water had seeped through his woollen trousers from one of the shallow depressions in the rock. As the horse and rider drew level with him, he propelled himself forwards, leaped out and down with blood-curdling roar, slamming into the shoulders and flanks of the rider and falling with him in a tight bundle to the stony ground, twisting his body in one sinuous movement to sit heavily astride his victim, who lay face down on the track.
‘Who are you?’ he bellowed down at the inert body. ‘Why do you follow us?’
Stunned by the force of the attack, Matilda lay prone, her forehead ground into gritty damp stones, her mind scrabbling to comprehend what had just happened. One minute she had been riding along easily, believing she was reasonably safe, and the next, why, it was like the Devil himself had burst out of nowhere!
But she was in no doubt as to the identity of this devil.
Her unconscious mind had known almost immediately: the flash of gilt hair, the heft of a big body, the short cloak flying out like wings, the press of solid thigh muscles snug against her own backside. In the darkness she flushed with shame at the intimacy of the contact and the rapidly accelerating beat of her heart. What was he doing here? Why had he not stuck with the others?
‘Who are you?’ Gilan demanded once more.
She shifted her head to one side, one ear grazing against the stony ground. ‘For God’s sake, it’s me!’ she managed to gulp out frantically, sucking in air in order to speak. Her voice sounded like the pathetic mewl of a kitten. Had he even heard her? She tried to wriggle beneath him, to no avail. His superior weight was simply too heavy for her, the rocklike muscles of his inner thighs clamped hard around her hips. Her mouth went dry at the closeness of his body and she immediately chastised herself. How could she even think of such things, when she was stuck fast beneath this monster of a man?
He lifted her shoulders off the ground, shook her roughly. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he said. His voice held a taunting, menacing tone.
‘Gilan! Get…off…me! Now!’ she yelled.
That voice. Her voice. The sweet tone plucked at something deep within him, screwing it round like a piece of wet rag between two meaty fists. A wave of pure disbelief swept over him. Knees punched cruelly into his captive’s slender flanks, as he stared down, incredulous, at the slim back clad in a padded tunic, at the head covered by a coarse, woollen hood.
He ripped the hood back.
Shiny, glossy strands, wound into a bun at the nape of her neck, mocked him. Her neat head, the delicate set of her shoulders.
Damnation!
He scrambled back, away, on to his feet. ‘What in hell’s teeth are you doing here?’ he bellowed down, glari
ng at the prone form sprawled beneath him. To his surprise, his voice wavered. My God, I could have killed her, he thought. It was only a matter of luck that he hadn’t chosen to jump out with a knife in his hand.
‘Get up,’ he said, sternly, compressing his lips into a forbidding line.
Her heart fluttered at his steely tone. She had an overwhelming desire to suddenly keep lying there, face down in the dirt, until he had gone away.
‘Come on,’ he said. One hand spread across her shoulder, rolling her over. She sat up, a little woozily, legs outstretched. Her head swam and the back of her shoulders ached where he had slammed into her. Her cheek was impregnated with grit and she brushed at the tiny granules, dislodging them. Drawing her knees up, she tilted her face up towards her captor.
He stood above her, long legs planted a pace apart, arms folded high across his muscle-bound chest. In the twilight his eyes shone down like diamond chips. ‘I thought I told you to stay put,’ he growled. The bulky fabric of the hood she wore billowed in soft gathers at the base of her neck, revealing the delicate creamy column of her throat. He wanted to verbally lash out at her, be angry at her foolishness, yet all he could feel was a tremendous sense of relief. She was here and she was safe. For now.
‘And wait like a sitting duck for John to turn up and attack me again!’ she flashed back at him. ‘Not likely!’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t run you through with my sword,’ he said. ‘I could have killed you!’
She lifted slim shoulders towards her ears. ‘It was a chance I was willing to take. I didn’t think you’d see me following you.’
He frowned down at her. ‘Either you’re extremely brave or extremely foolish,’ he said. ‘And right now I can’t work out which one it is. Surely your bailiff, Ansel, would have given you protection at your manor? John wouldn’t have been allowed to come near you.’ His words sounded hollow, unconvincing, even to his own ears.
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