by Laura Martin
Gilbert tipped up the visor of his helmet. He sighed. ‘The journey would have been a lot quicker if the rebels hadn’t burned all the bridges over the river.’ White hair straggled out from beneath his chainmail hood. The metallic links, a few flecked with rust, gripped the fleshy folds of his cheeks in a perfect constricting oval. He inclined his head to one side, a questioning look crossing his face. ‘But I’m surprised you, of all the knights, should volunteer to accompany me,’ he chortled. ‘Surely such a task is beneath a soldier of your calibre? That’s why the King decided to drag me out of my comfortable retirement and send me to escort Katherine de Montague. Why did you not travel north with Edward? Flush out more of the rebel barons?’
‘The King wanted me to go with him,’ Bruin replied, shrugging his massive shoulders. ‘Even offered me double the normal amount of gold.’ His eyes darkened, glittering pewter. ‘He’s pleased to have me back after...’ A muscle flexed in his jaw.
‘After your year adrift with Lord Despenser.’ Gilbert threw him a brief smile.
Bruin scowled. ‘I swear you have the ability to make even the most awful things in life sound good. I was a mercenary, outside the law. Raiding and plundering merchant ships in the Channel.’ His mouth tightened, a wave of guilt coursing through him. ‘I was out of control after Sophie’s death and well you know it, Gilbert. I’m not proud of what I’ve done.’
Gilbert’s eyes flicked over to his younger companion, startled by his blunt admission, the raw desperation in his voice. He had heard that Bruin blamed himself for her death. ‘But the King has brought back Lord Despenser out of exile and forgiven him, just as he has forgiven you.’ Anxious not to dwell on the subject, Gilbert pushed at Bruin’s shoulder with a rounded fist, a friendly gesture. ‘It’s good to have you back, even if it is just to help me escort Lady Katherine and her children.’
‘I came with you for another reason. When my brother heard where you were going, he asked me to accompany you.’ Bruin paused. ‘He wants me to find someone for him.’ Staring out into the lattice of pine trees that clustered each side of the track, his grey eyes adopted a bleak, wintry hue. ‘Steffen seems intent on righting past wrongs, absolving himself of all his sins. He’s dying, Gilbert.’ His voice held little emotion, for he and his brother had never been close. Stronger at birth, Steffen had always been his parents’ favourite and indulged as such. Spoiled. As a sickly child, nobody expected Bruin to survive. But he had survived, and when he started to become well regarded for his prowess on the battlefield, drawing congratulations from all around, Steffen’s spoiled character seemed to spiral out of control, developing into a deep resentment towards Bruin. He wanted the accolades for himself.
‘I am sorry.’ The older man drew his grizzled brows together. ‘I forgot that you saw your brother at Deorham. He sustained a wound from the Battle of Durfield, I hear?’
Bruin shook his head to clear the memories clouding his mind. He sighed. ‘Yes, a head wound. It’s a bad one.’ He remembered the ragged gash above his brother’s ear, blood congealing in the blond-red strands of his hair. ‘The physician doesn’t expect him to survive much longer. I only hope I can find this woman before—well, in time.’ He kneaded idly at the bulk of his thigh, leg muscles bunched and heavy beneath the fawn wool of his leggings. A wave of guilt passed through him. How churlish of him to dwell on their troubled relationship. His brother was dying.
‘Someone he loved?’
‘I’m not certain. Maybe.’ Bruin frowned, a defined crease appearing between his copper-coloured brows. After their years apart, seeing Steffen again had been a shock. Racked with fever, his brother had thrown him a thin, wan smile from his sick bed. Scrabbling at Bruin’s arm, eyes rolling wildly, Steffen had begged his brother to find this woman to ease his troubled mind, to find peace in death. He talked of her dark brown hair, her blue eyes. He also talked strangely, incoherently, about a butterfly, the mark of a butterfly. And he had given him a name: the Lady of Striguil.
* * *
‘Peter, where are you?’ Eva called quietly. A drift of frost-coated leaves littered the twisting track through the woodland. Her feet crunched through them, purposefully. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she stopped for a moment, listening intently. Her face was rigid with cold, cheek muscles stiff, inflexible; the tip of her nose was numb. Where was the boy? Was he watching her from a hiding place, a smug smile pinned on his face as he heard her calling? The sun was dropping quickly now; soon it would be dusk and he would be much more difficult to find.
She hoped Katherine had reached the safety of the castle by now. A great shudder seized her body, catching her by surprise. The sight of those soldiers in the distance, the sun bouncing against swords and shields, aggressive and intimidating, danced across her vision, taunting her. She hugged her arms about her waist, clamping down on another wave of fear. Katherine was probably correct; they were men looking for bed and board for the night, nothing more.
A flash of red snared her vision. A glimpse of colour between the drab brown, silent trunks. Then a giggle, swiftly stifled, carried down on the scant breeze.
‘Peter, you little wretch!’ Eva bounded forward. ‘Come here!’ She could see him now, darting in and out of the oak trees, his sturdy nine-year-old legs skipping over mossy rocks, red tunic flying upwards as he jumped down into a shallow ditch. But Eva was faster, stronger, than the small boy. The past had taught her, taught her how important it was for a woman to be fit and strong, to at least attempt to try to match the physical power of men, although she knew it was impossible. Katherine had mocked her gently, but understood: Eva’s need to take herself off every day, to walk and run, to keep her body strong. Now, her feet sprang across the solid ground, nimble and fast, the toned muscle in her thighs and calves powering her forward. Flying along the track, she advanced on the boy’s sprinting figure, stretching out her arm towards the bobbing tunic, the tuft of blond unbrushed hair.
‘Got you!’ Grabbing the frail bones of the boy’s shoulder, she spun him around, cheeks flaring with anger. ‘For God’s sake, Peter, why do you not come when we call you? Do you think this is a game? There are strangers about; we need to return to the castle!’
‘I’m sorry, Eva.’ Peter hung his head at her sharp tone, shivering slightly. Tears welled up in his eyes, leaking slowly down the side of his face. ‘I was having so much fun; I didn’t think.’
‘Nay, don’t cry.’ Eva wrapped her arms about his bird-boned shoulders, hugging him. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted. Let’s go back.’ Her linen head covering had come adrift as she had run; now she rewound the coarse material about her head and neck, throwing the loose end back over her shoulder.
‘Come,’ she said to Peter, extending her arm towards him.
He threw her an unsteady smile and took her fingers, gripping strongly. The shadows of the forest deepened steadily: individual trees losing their definition, trunks blurring together into one dark mass. Soon they would be unable to see without a light. Heart thumping, Eva lengthened her stride, dragging Peter along with her, the thistly undergrowth scratching at their clothes. At last they reached the fringes of the forest, the castle lights and town fires twinkling in the valley below. She sagged with relief at the welcoming sight. Of the horsemen, there was no sign.
They scampered haphazardly down the slope, leather-shod feet slipping on the icy grass. Eva lost her footing only once, sliding down on to her side, but quickly rolled to spring up into a standing position once more, pulling Peter with her. He was grinning, loving the adventure. She smiled back, reassuring, but inside her heart was tense, stricken with anxiety. She had had enough adventures to last her a lifetime; she had no need of any more.
A stone wall, four feet thick, encompassed Melyn Town and Castle, an extra line of defence constructed by Katherine’s ancestors out of hefty sandstone blocks. As far as most people knew, the only way through this wall was via the town
gatehouse, manned day and night by Katherine’s house knights. But Eva knew differently. She headed for a clump of hawthorns clustered together at the point where the wall ended at the cliff edge, high above the churning river. Behind these thorny shrubs, laden with red berries, was a narrow door, a secret entrance known only to Katherine’s closest confidants.
Pushing back the curtain of ivy, Eva twisted the handle, forcing the stiff iron latch to rise. She clutched Peter’s hand. The castle was before them, a short walk away. The moat gleamed with glossy blackness, surface like grease-covered silk, weed-strewn depths treacherous even to the strongest swimmer. Eva’s stomach gave a queasy flip; she looked away. A guard walked along the battlements, his burning torch flaring down on to the water, a wavering light. The gatehouse with its two circular turrets loomed up before them, a wooden drawbridge crossing the inky waters of the moat. Even in this crepuscular gloom, Eva saw that the drawbridge was down. Katherine had chosen not to listen to her after all.
‘Careful,’ she whispered to Peter, crouching down so that her face was on a level with his. ‘I would stay here, out of sight for the moment. Only come when I call you.’
‘And if you don’t call?’ A faint whine laced his voice. He was tired and hungry, Eva knew that. But those knights might have come through the town gate already; she had to make sure the castle was safe.
‘Then run and hide,’ she replied, trying to keep her tone light, jolly. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you and I don’t want your mother coming after me in a rage if something happens to you.’
Peter grinned. One of his top teeth was missing, giving him an impish air. ‘All right,’ he agreed, poking the toe of his boot into a tussock of grass. ‘I’ll stay here.’
Eva walked slowly up the path towards the gatehouse, heart thumping erratically. The stone walls rose before her, studded with moss, giving the façade a lumpy, diseased appearance. A climbing rose straggled out over the low, pointed arch, bobbing, adrift, ripped from its moorings in a previous gale and never secured again. The silence of twilight crowded around her; only the rippling sound of water from the moat and an owl’s lonely hoot hollowed out the dusk.
Fingers brushing stone, she rounded the bottom of one circular turret. The portcullis was up. She peered into the narrow entrance, slightly irritated by her over-vigilant behaviour; she had managed to frighten everyone, both Peter and his mother. Lit by a single torch, the cobbled passageway was empty, leading to two closed wooden gates at the far end that gave access to the drawbridge. A single guard leaned against the sturdy criss-crossed planks, chin hunkered down to his chest and his arms folded tightly, so that his gloved hands could tuck beneath each armpit for warmth.
‘John,’ she said, recognising him, stepping forward into the torchlight.
His head jerked upwards in surprise. ‘Eva,’ he exclaimed. ‘Finally. The Lady Katherine was concerned. She said you were looking for Peter. Did you find him?’
‘I did. He’s waiting outside until I call him.’ Her shoulders slumped in relief. ‘There’s no one else here?’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Those horsemen probably found an inn in the town. Or perhaps they were travelling further, maybe to Dodleigh.’
‘I’ll fetch Peter.’ Happiness, coupled with relief, bubbled up in her chest. Spinning on her heel, she strode out of the gatehouse.
Stopped. A hand flew up to her mouth in horror.
A group of knights clustered before the gatehouse, reining in their mounts. Metal bits and stirrups gleamed in the feeble light; chainmail shone. Their approach had been silent, stealthy; they must have slowed the animals to walking pace for the last few yards over the spongy grass. So they had come here, after all.
‘John!’ Eva called out, her voice stricken with panic. ‘John, come here, now!’
The lead horseman lifted his visor, his face lined with tiredness. White hair clung to his creased, sweating forehead. ‘Don’t be frightened, maid,’ he spoke slowly. ‘We come in peace.’ The three golden lions of the King decorated his red woollen surcoat, gleaming threateningly.
John moved alongside her, holding the flaring, spitting torch aloft. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’
The knight leaned forward in his saddle, gingerly, as if trying to ease some pain. The saddle creaked beneath his weight. ‘I trust we have reached Melyn Castle? The home of Lady Katherine de Montagu? The niece of King Edward?’
‘Aye, my lord, that is correct,’ John answered.
‘In that case, I have a message for the lady, written by the King, her uncle, and I have orders from him to deliver it only to her. No one else.’ The old knight produced a scroll of parchment from his saddlebag, and waved it at them.
His huge destrier snorted, canting to the right impatiently, revealing the five or six other horsemen behind him. The other men were much younger, bodies sitting lithe and easy in the saddles, not showing any of the aches and pains displayed by their leader. Eva watched as another knight lifted off his helmet, resting it on the saddle before him, turning to murmur something to his companion.
Silver eyes shone below slashing eyebrows; a shock of brindled hair, wayward, vigorous. And the shadow of bronze stubble across a square-cut jaw. She recognised him instantly. A low cry, unbidden, ripped from her. Her heart smashed in fear against the wall of her chest.
It was the man who had made her life pure hell. The man who had stripped her of all her worldly goods, all her possessions, her livelihood. He had returned.
Copyright © 2017 by Meriel Fuller
ISBN-13: 9781488021596
A Ring for the Pregnant Debutante
Copyright © 2017 by Laura Martin
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