Читать книгу Innocent's Champion - Meriel Fuller - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Matilda ran a slender finger between her neck and the high collar of her gown, trying to relieve the uncomfortable sensation of wet fabric against flesh: an unconscious movement. In the strong heat of the afternoon, her looped-up hair dried rapidly, curling tresses pulling against silver hairpins. She attempted to pat some of the pins back into place, to adjust the net that held her hair in place. She supposed she must look awful.

Lifting her chin, she called out to her sister. Her clear, bell-like tones cut across the torpid languor of the afternoon. ‘Katherine!’ she shouted, holding up her weighty skirts so she could manoeuvre over the stones. ‘You can come out now, we’re safe!’ Or safer than we were, she thought, casting a hunted, sideways glance at the stranger. The knight rode with Henry, Duke of Lancaster, a man who had the potential to make their situation far worse.

‘Do you think she might have run into the forest?’ Gilan suggested. The maid’s hair, silken and lustrous, sagged precariously. Hairpins stuck out at all angles from the plaited rolls on each side of her head. He wondered what her hair would look like when it was unpinned. Would those curling ends brush against the enticing swell of her hips?

Matilda twisted around to face him. ‘She is incapable of running anywhere... Katherine is pregnant, you see.’

‘Ah.’

She sensed the irritation running through his lean, muscled frame. He stood there with the stance of a fighter, legs planted firmly in the swishing grass, cloak spilling down over his shoulders, the dark blue fabric framing the burnished steel of his breastplate. Beneath the armour he wore a hooded tunic, a thin material that reached the middle of his thighs, split at the sides for ease of riding. Driven into a leather belt around his hips, the jewelled hilt of his sword flashed in the sun. The formidable power of his body was plain to see; she was in no doubt that he was a force to be reckoned with. She had to get rid of him before he realised they supported King Richard, before he had a chance to punish them for that loyalty.

Glancing across to the packhorse bridge, she saw with relief that all the servants were safe, the gang of ruffians driven away. Even the soldier who had fallen from his horse was propped up against the litter, conversing quietly with the other household knight, hand pressed up hard against his bloodied shoulder.

Matilda drew herself up to her full height, which annoyingly, seemed only a shade above this disquieting man’s shoulder. ‘Please don’t let me, let us, keep you from anything,’ she intoned formally. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded jerky, too precise. ‘I’m sure there is somewhere that you would rather be.’

‘There is.’ He inclined his head to one side, a gesture of agreement. ‘But the laws of chivalry prevent me from leaving a damsel and her sister in distress.’

His hair was quite an incredible colour, thought Matilda. Pale gold, like washed sand on a deserted shoreline. The strands glowed in the sun with a bright star’s incandescence. A heated flutter stirred her stomach, coiling slowly; she ducked her eyes, toeing the ground with the damp, squishy leather of her slipper.

‘Oh, I don’t believe in all that chivalry nonsense.’ She waved one white hand at him airily, attempting to keep her tone light, practical. ‘Katherine doesn’t, either. Look, our servants are fine, and I think our knights will live. So we really don’t need you any more. Thank you for what you’ve done, and...and everything.’ Her sentence trailed off at the end, lamely.

He was being dismissed. Gilan watched her hand flick through the air at him, as if she were shooing away a fly. A small, insignificant fly.

His eyes gleamed. ‘I’ll help you find her, at least.’

Matilda’s shoulders slumped forwards, a visible sign of defeat. Why did she object to his presence so much? Most women would be clinging on to him by now, weeping on his shoulder about the outrages of their attack, begging him to help, but this maid? Once she had realised he was no threat to her, her whole demeanour moved to the defensive, indicating in no uncertain terms that she wished him to disappear.

‘Don’t feel you have to,’ she tried once more. Her voice was limp.

‘I want to,’ he lied, knowing this would annoy her even more. Her abrasive manner intrigued him; he couldn’t remember a woman being quite so stubborn, so ungrateful, as this pert-nosed chit. His lips twitched at the disgruntled set of her shoulders as she turned away from him, intending to head into the woodland behind the tower. His fingers reached out, snaring the soft flesh of her upper arm, stalling her. ‘I suggest you remove your cloak. The wet fabric will slow you down,’ he said.

Matilda whisked around, glowering at him, then wordlessly raised both hands to the pearl-studded clasp at her shoulder. Her frozen fingers struggled with the intricate fixings.

‘Here, let me,’ he offered, exasperated, tough fingers dealing quickly, efficiently with the stiff fastening. One rough knuckle brushed the sensitive skin of her neck, below her ear, and she gasped out loud. A sweet, looping sensation plummeted straight to her belly. Astounded by her response, she staggered back, her mind draining of conscious thought. Her breath disappeared. The cloak slithered down her back, over her slim hips, pooling into loose folds around her ankles.

‘There,’ he announced. ‘Now we can get on with the business of finding your sister.’

Hating the man at her side, this stranger who dogged her steps, who refused to go away, Matilda strode into the woodland, her skirts swishing angrily through the drifts of spent cow parsley, across collapsed bluebell stalks, sweeping her gaze across the shadowed green beneath the spreading beech, searching for the blotch of colour that would be Katherine.

‘She’s wearing a red gown,’ she chewed out grudgingly. The sooner they found Katherine, the sooner this horrible man would be on his way. Her hand crept up to the spot below her ear, still throbbing from his touch, amazed at her reaction to him. Her fall into the river had obviously shaken her up more than she realised. Men did not often have the power to affect her in such an adverse manner.

‘Easy to spot, then,’ Gilan replied mildly. For some reason he could not explain, he was quite enjoying himself at the maid’s expense. Something about the chit drew him, her truculent manner maybe, the fact that she didn’t want him around. It intrigued him, made him determined to linger, despite knowing that Henry would be wondering where he was.

‘There!’ Matilda pointed.

Braced by a large trunk, Katherine’s ebony head lolled against the ridged bark. Her eyes were closed, her mouth partially open. A faint snore emerged from between her lips.

‘She’s asleep!’ Matilda blurted out in surprise, working her way steadily through the undergrowth towards her, arching brambles snaring the fine silk of her gown. How could her sister have possibly fallen asleep, with all that had been going on? ‘I think you should stay here.’ Matilda held up her arm to prevent Gilan moving any farther forwards.

A tightly buttoned sleeve, unbelievably tiny small pearl buttons, encased her narrow wrist, the material reaching to her knuckles. Her ringless fingers wagged bossily in front of his face and he wondered again at the temerity of the maid. What or who gave her the right to order him about like this? She was obviously unmarried, so had no protection or guidance from a husband. But maybe her father or a brother had been so lax or indulgent in her upbringing that it had given her a misguided sense of her own authority.

He shrugged his shoulders. It, or rather she, was none of his concern. Should the need arise, he was perfectly capable of putting the maid in her place. But at the moment, he relished her display of wilful bossiness, her grumpiness at his continued presence, enjoying the easy diversion to the afternoon and his normal rigid, constrained existence. His gaze slid to the woman at the base of the tree, endeavouring to keep his expression neutral. The girl had not been lying about her sister’s pregnancy. From the size of her stomach, she looked like she was about to go into labour there and then. He raised his eyes heavenwards, sent up a silent prayer.

‘Katherine! Wake up.’ Matilda bent over her sister, jogged her elbow carefully.

Katherine opened her eyes, a small smile crossing her face. ‘What?’ she murmured hazily. ‘I was having the most wonderful dream, about the baby...’ she smoothed one hand across her stomach ‘...and what he would be like when he was born and...’ her eyes drifted over to Gilan’s tall figure, standing in the shadows ‘...and...who is that?’

‘Don’t let him alarm you,’ Matilda said, as she helped Katherine to her feet. ‘He came to help, when we were attacked.’ She tried to keep her tone even, on the level. Any kind of shock at this stage could jeopardise her sister’s labour. Her mind scampered for a discreet way of alerting her sister to the fact that the man was riding with their enemy.

Katherine smiled at Gilan, lurching forwards with her arm outstretched, a pretty blush washing her face. Distorted by her vast belly, the pleated front of her gown rose up at the front, revealing her pink satin slippers. ‘My pleasure,’ she said, ‘Lord...?’

Gilan smiled, skin creasing either side of his mouth, teeth white in his tanned face. ‘No, not a lord, mistress. My name is Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles.’ He bowed low, deep from the waist.’ At your service.’

Katherine extended her hand towards him and he took her fingers, glittering with heavy gemstones and kissed the top of her hand, as was the custom.

‘Then you are from France?’ Katherine peeked coyly at him from beneath her long eyelashes. Matilda stared at the two of them in horror. Was it her imagination or was Katherine flirting? His display of courtly manners seemed so at odds with her own first encounter with this man, this Gilan, whatever his name was, only moments ago! Half drowned by him, then thrown down on the grass, shaken roughly back to consciousness, assaulted by those piercing, silver eyes. And now, her sister was patting him on the shoulder, thanking him profusely for all he had done! If only she knew!

‘I am English, but my mother is from France—my title comes from her family. I manage her manor and estates over there. In Cormeilles.’ Gilan crooked his arm and Katherine tucked her hand through it companionably, throwing a running stream of questions up to him. Matilda’s heart sank as she trailed after them, snatching up her sodden cloak on the way. She had hoped to walk with Katherine so she could have a quiet word, warn her about this man, about who he was. It was not to be.

* * *

As the three of them approached the spot where the sisters had been attacked, Katherine picking her way carefully down the cobbled slope of the bridge with Gilan’s help, Matilda saw that the numbers in their original entourage had swelled. Beneath the low, swaying branches of the beech trees, arching over the track, stood a stocky, russet-haired man, face ruddy with sunburn. He called out to Gilan, raised his arm in greeting. He wore a surcoat over chainmail, a dark blue surcoat emblazoned with a distinctive coat of arms: three gold lions on a red background, quartered with three gold fleur-de-lis on a blue background.

Henry of Lancaster.

He had brought knights with him, knights wearing the same livery: a dozen or so men on horseback. They stretched along the track, horses nose-to-tail in single file, men’s features impassive beneath steel helmets, lances pointed rigidly into the air, steel tips flashing in the sporadic rays of sunlight that slanted through the whispering trees.

‘Now I see what’s been keeping you!’ Strutting forwards to greet them, Henry clapped Gilan on the shoulder. ‘You had me worried back there!’

‘You, worried?’ Gilan raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. He escorted Katherine to the side of the litter and she clutched on to one of the upright struts gratefully, clamping one hand to the small of her back as she leaned over.

Henry laughed. ‘You’re right, I wasn’t worried, merely impatient at your tardiness. But now—’ he swept his gaze over the two women ‘—it all becomes clear. Ladies,’ he addressed them both with a short, sharp bow, ‘may I have the honour of knowing your names?’ Removing his mail gauntlet, the individual iron links glittering like fish scales, he handed it to his manservant, who hovered nervously at his side.

‘I am Katherine of Neen.’ Katherine performed a small, wobbling curtsy, extending her hand. ‘And this is my sister, Matilda of Lilleshall.’ Henry kissed the top of both their hands in turn. If he noticed Katherine’s advanced pregnancy at all, then he made no indication, no comment.

‘Delighted,’ he pronounced, clapping his hands together. ‘Your knights have explained what has happened to you. I understand that you were on your way back home from a shrine?’

Katherine nodded.

‘Then allow me...us—’ he waved his stubby fingers in the direction of his knights ‘—to escort you home...’

‘There’s really no need...’ Matilda protested.

Henry laughed. ‘Forgive me, madam, but it’s no trouble. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. My men and I seek board and lodging for the night.’

‘Oh, yes! Yes!’ gushed Katherine. She wasn’t too sure exactly who Henry of Lancaster was, but she did know his grandfather was King Edward III and that was good enough for her. More than good enough—why, he was royalty! What a feather in her cap, to entertain such a person! ‘John will want to see you rewarded for what you have done for us today.’ She flicked her eyes appreciatively in Gilan’s direction.

Oh, Lord, thought Matilda, hitching her shoulders forwards in her damp gown. Things seemed to going from bad to worse. Katherine obviously had no idea of Henry of Lancaster’s true intentions in this country. In fact, Matilda doubted that her sister really knew who he was.

* * *

Once Katherine was comfortably installed in her litter, her entourage—swelled in ranks with Henry’s knights—began its slow progress eastwards once more. The servants who carried the wooden struts on their shoulders had emerged from the attack relatively unscathed; the youngest manservant dabbed sporadically at a split lip, but apart from a few bumps and bruises, no great injuries had been sustained. The household knight with the injury to his shoulder had to be helped up into his saddle but seemed to be holding his seat tolerably well, following Henry’s knights, who rode up front, the rumps of their muscled warhorses glossy, shiny.

The track was dry and flat; they would make good progress now. John and Katherine’s home lay only a mile or so farther up the expansive, fertile valley. In the strip of rough, uncultivated land between the river and the path, white hogweed grew, proliferated: great lacy umbels like dinner plates reaching up beyond the mess of inferior weeds, frilled flower heads against the deep blue of the sky. A brilliant green-backed beetle ambled across one of the flowers, black whiskered legs crawling slowly.

As they emerged from the dimness of the woodland, and into the scorching radiance of the open fields running either side of the river, Katherine sank back on her cushions, a smug, self-satisfied look on her face. ‘John will be so pleased with me,’ she announced, stretching her hand out limply to Matilda, who walked alongside the litter. ‘Such important guests that I am bringing home to him! How fortunate we are that they turned up.’

Ignoring her sister’s hand, Matilda scuffed her leather boots along the track, deliberately kicking up dust. Hanging across the path, a teasel head, brown and withered from the year before, scraped along the fine blue wool of her sleeve. A pair of brilliant pewter eyes danced across her vision. She pursed her lips, determined to scrape the memory from her brain. He was nothing, not important.

‘And such a lot to prepare, if they are to stay tonight!’ Katherine’s eyes widened. ‘What do you think, Matilda, should we put Henry in the south tower—you know, the one with the gold brocade hangings around the bed? Will he think it too shabby?’

Keeping pace with the litter’s progress, Matilda folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Katherine, do you have any idea who these men are?’ She nodded up ahead, indicating the broad, stocky back of Henry, Gilan’s tall, muscular frame riding alongside him. His dark blue cloak spread out over the rump of his horse, the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered along the length of cloth twinkling like tiny stars.

A deep shuddering breath burst from her lungs at the sight of them; individually, these men were formidable enough, but together as a group, with plate armour burnished and shining and helmets obscuring their features, their horses with hooves the size of a man’s head, they presented an intimidating force. Her heart flailed, searching for purchase, for direction, the memory of that stranger’s tanned handsome face, Gilan’s face, so close to her own she could still smell the musky woodsmoke on his skin. In the face of such powerful masculinity, such strength and vigour, she was at a momentary loss as to what to do next. Fear had emptied her mind.

She turned away, back to her sister, a wave of panic pulsing through Matilda’s veins. The thought of these men in her sister’s home, that they would discover where John and Katherine’s true loyalties lay, not with them, but with the king, made her legs shake.

‘Do you have any idea?’ she repeated, her voice low, insistent.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Katherine replied, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Of course I know who they are. Henry is the grandson of King Edward III...’

‘...and he’s been exiled, Katherine. King Richard exiled him to Paris. He’s not even supposed to be in this country.’

Katherine frowned, her mind trying to make sense of the information. ‘But...but I didn’t know that!’ she protested. ‘Why would I have known that?’

Matilda shook her head. Why, indeed. Her sister showed little or no interest in the politics of the country. Henry had been exiled on the death of his father, John of Gaunt, simply because, as sole inheritor, he would have become more powerful than King Richard himself. And Richard resented that, viewed his cousin as a threat, confiscating Henry’s lands for no good reason.

‘What can we do?’ cried Katherine.

‘We must keep quiet,’ advised Matilda, trying to remain calm for her sister’s sake. ‘And hope that John keeps his wits about him when he sees their colours riding towards the castle. If we are careful, then they won’t find out that John is a staunch supporter of the king. And serve them horrible food—that will send them on their way a bit quicker.’

‘Mother of Mary! What’s John going to say?’

‘Hopefully, he will say nothing, at least while they are in the castle.’

* * *

The Castle of Neen rose up in the middle of the valley, at the point where two gentle slopes intersected at the river: a silver ribbon cutting through fields thick with a ripening wheat crop. Cattle and sheep grazed on the upper slopes, the poorer ground, before the land rose into a steep escarpment, blotched with yellow gorse. The castle was unusual, built in the French style, a rectangular building with round towers on the four corners, each topped with a conical roof in slate. Great carved corbel stones supported projecting parapets, protecting any knight who stepped out onto the narrow ledge surrounding the roof above. In the dropping sunlight, the polished limestone walls, studded with shells from prehistoric times, glowed pale and luminous.

‘Enchanting,’ breathed Henry, raising gingery eyebrows in appreciation at the pretty building, as they slowed their horses to clatter through the gatehouse and into the bailey. The river they had been following flowed beneath the outer walls and into the deep moat surrounding the castle before disappearing out the other side, providing a constant supply of fresh water.

Henry turned in the saddle, leather creaking beneath his burly thighs. ‘We should allow the ladies to go in first, announce our presence.’ With one touch of his knee he shifted his horse out of the way, Gilan performing the same manoeuvre. The litter was carried past them, Matilda striding alongside, head held high, eyes fixed straight ahead. Her wet gown had picked up all the dry dust of the road, and the blue material was now coated in a clay-coloured paste almost up to her knees. The silken ebony of her hair drooped forlornly in its inadequate pins, her circlet and veil set askance on her head.

‘What has happened to that maid?’ Henry said pointedly, beneath his breath. ‘She looks like she’s been dragged through the mire.’

She looks beautiful. The words strove, unbidden, into Gilan’s brain. He snatched up the reins in surprise, angry at his own musings. Why was he even thinking such a thing? The girl was a mess, plain for all to see.

‘She’s had a busy day,’ Gilan replied drily, bunching his reins into one fist as his horse sidled beneath him. ‘She almost took my head off with an arrow, then fell into the river when I went to stop her.’ He grimaced, guilt flooding through him at the memory: outraged blue eyes, firing hostility; the sweet curve of her bosom as she lay, unconscious, in the warm grass.

‘Impressive,’ murmured Henry, his eyes narrowing on the diminutive figure as she helped her sister alight from the litter.

‘More like misguided,’ replied Gilan, watching as Katherine sagged dramatically against Matilda, making her stagger. ‘The stupid chit made the situation far worse for herself than if she had just stayed put.’

‘One can’t help but admire such bravery in a woman,’ Henry said.

‘Perhaps.’ Gilan shrugged his shoulders. ‘But sometimes it can lead them into greater danger.’