Читать книгу Her Battle-Scarred Knight - Meriel Fuller - Страница 8

Once clear of the creaking depths of the forest and the maze of tracks within, the land rose in a series on undulating folds: gentle flat-topped plains, with pale tussocks of grass rippling violently in the wind, like hair under the water. The moon, its glowing orb travelling fast behind lacy wisps of cloud, bathed the landscape in a spectral light, accentuating the deep shadows, the brittle branches of a solitary hawthorn, contorted and bent over like an old man.

Giseux knew his location now, recognised the wide, open spaces of his childhood, or at least, his childhood before he had gone to the court of Queen Eleanor in Poitiers to train as a knight. In the forest, in the confusing bundle of trees and trackways, he had been reliant on the maid’s direction, silently following her outstretched pointing arm, until the trees grew thin on the outer boundaries.

Touching his heels to the horse’s flanks, he urged the animal up the steep sheep trail to gain the plateau above, his body leaning forwards with the altered gait. With the movement, Brianna shifted her position, arching her spine to break any contact with him. Giseux’s mouth twisted into a grimace. The stubborn little chit was doing her utmost to make this journey as awkward as possible, acting as if he were inflicted with some horrible disease, not doing her a favour.

Gaining the top of the plateau, saddle creaking under the combined weight of both riders, Giseux kicked the horse swiftly to a gallop. Now she had no choice, she had to lean back into him or risk falling off. Winding one arm tight in front of her, he winched her into his chest, sensing every muscle in her body protesting with rigid, outraged hostility. Even through the layers of her clothes, the fragile bones of her rib cage pressed against his forearm, her heart fluttering chaotically against his wrist, a moth’s wing of sensation. Despite her wilfulness towards him, she was afraid. The thought made him uncomfortable; she had no reason to be fearful of him.

The wind whipped around them as they rode, snaring Brianna’s skirts, flattening them over Giseux’s legs. It tore at her veil, sending the flimsy cloth flying across his face, in front of his eyes, blinding him. Hauling sharply on the reins, he clawed at the silk that filled his nose and covered his eyes, finally pulling it from his face and, in the same movement, tearing it from Brianna’s head. The gold circlet spun out into the darkness, landing with a soft rustle in one of the tussocks of grass.

‘My circlet!’ she gasped in surprise. Before he had time to anticipate her movement, she slid haphazardly, chaotically, from the horse as it slowed to a trot, stumbling down on to the uneven ground, tipping forwards on her hands and knees. Momentarily winded, she sat back on her heels on the damp grass, casting her eyes about for the sparkle of circlet. A raft of weariness flooded over her, sapping her strength.

‘Why didn’t you wait?’ Giseux shouted down at her, the fierce wind tugging at his words. ‘I would have fetched your circlet.’

Brianna smoothed one hand over the wrinkled puddle of her skirts, pins and needles beginning to prickle in her foot as she remained in the kneeling position, sitting back on her calves. She felt safer on the ground. The prolonged nearness of his body, the strong warmth of his chest at her back, had made her leap from the saddle at the slightest excuse. She chewed at her lip, frowning; already she missed the close contact of his hard frame. The cold wind whipped at her cloak, flipping back the dark edges to reveal the shimmer of lining.

‘We’re wasting time.’ Against the faded backdrop of the moon-soaked land, Giseux swung down from the horse, black surcoat glimmering with traces of silver flattened against his tall frame.

‘You’re the one who threw my veil away,’ she chided, clambering to her feet, grimacing as the blood rushed back into her toes. She wiggled her foot, trying to reassemble her scattered thoughts. When was the last time she had wanted to be this close to a man?

‘Only to prevent a more serious accident,’ Giseux reminded her. He scooped up the white scrap of silk, the loop of gold, tucking them against his chest, behind the surcoat. ‘I have them.’

Her mouth dropped open in surprise at his action and she held out her hand, skirts blowing out wildly behind her. The wind dragged at her hair, threatening to dislodge the silken bundle at the nape of her neck; hastily she lifted her fingers to push the pins back in. ‘I’ll have my veil now,’ she demanded, attempting to retain a modicum of control in the situation.

Giseux shook his head as he paced back to the horse. ‘Nay, it’s too windy; the same thing could happen again.’

She opened her mouth to disagree once more, but her words were abruptly cut off as he seized her waist and threw her easily up into the saddle. ‘You’re delaying things by arguing,’ he murmured, moving in behind her on the saddle. ‘I thought you were desperate to see your brother!’

‘I am,’ she squeaked back, trying to wriggle her hips forwards, away from him.

‘Then stop arguing with me, stop fighting me and let me take you there!’ he rumbled back at her. ‘And for God’s sake, stop wriggling!’

The castle at Sambourne loomed impressively out of the wide river valley, old stones draped in a drifting mist. Holding a flaming torch aloft, a soldier stepped forwards from the archway of the gatehouse, taking hold of Giseux’s bridle. He nodded, smiled, as he recognised the knight, standing aside to let them pass. After the flaring brightness of the torch, Brianna blinked rapidly in the darkness of the gatehouse, the horse’s hooves clattering loudly in the confined space.

‘My lady?’ Giseux was already standing on the greasy cobbles of the inner bailey, holding one hand out to her. Her natural instinct, the safer instinct, was to refuse his help, to slide to the ground unaided. ‘I …’ She hesitated.

‘Oh, come on,’ he berated her impatiently, diamond eyes challenging. ‘Accept my help for once; it would make your life much easier.’

She placed her hand in his, allowing her smaller fingers to be swallowed up by his burly grip as she swung her leg over. His other hand came around her waist, and, unbalanced, she fell against him, her cheek brushing fleetingly against his. A rush of awareness pulsed through her at the scrape of day-old beard against the soft swell of her cheek, the potent smell of him.

‘Here.’ Giseux dug her veil and circlet out from the depths of his surcoat and handed them to her.

Fingers trembling from the unexpected contact, she jammed the circlet on her head, securing the veil. ‘Take me to Hugh, please.’

The gold band gleamed lopsidedly at him. His fingers propelled towards her head, rustling against the silk as he adjusted the circlet, setting it straight. Unprepared for his gesture, Brianna flinched backwards, eyes wild with alarm.

Giseux frowned. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Brianna’s reaction had been exactly as if he had been going to hit her. ‘You need not to be frightened of me.’

Oh, but I am, thought Brianna dully, as she dogged the substantial breadth of his back up the stone steps to the main doorway. I am afraid … afraid of all men, and the things of which they are capable. That’s why I hide myself away from them, shun all acts of kindness, recoil against any tenderness. What happened in the past could not, would not happen again.

Giseux led her to Hugh’s chamber, high in the north turret of the castle, up three steep flights of a spiral staircase. He pushed against a heavily planked wooden door, stepping aside to allow her to precede him. As she crossed the threshold, a solid wall of heat hit her in the face. At first, she could see nothing, only the glow of coals from a charcoal brazier in the corner, throwing their reddish light along the oak-panelled wall. She searched the gloom, saw the bed, found her brother.

His head was cushioned on an enormous linen pillow, his hair matted, stuck to his scalp. His face was chalk-white, apart from two spots of vivid colour on his cheekbones, the skin grown thin and gaunt. Blood-encrusted scabs flecked his dry, cracked lips; beads of shiny perspiration peppered his forehead. A linen nightshirt covered his frame, his forearms and wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves, stretched on the fur coverlet, palms facing upwards. Every now and again, a spate of shivering seemed to take hold of him, like some unknown presence shaking his body like one possessed.