Her Battle-Scarred Knight

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‘Fighting words, my lady! Yet I suspect even you know that you lie to yourself. A woman alone is vulnerable, especially one who is stupid enough to believe she can best a man!’ She reminded him of a wild animal, cornered and vulnerable, the display of viciousness masking its puny strength.

‘I can—Hugh taught me how to use the crossbow … and the knife!’ The pitch of her words notched upwards, emerging in a spiral of rising anger and, yes, fear as well. How dare he challenge her methods of self-preservation, her hard-won skill? Instinctively her fingers moved to the jewelled knife hilt on her belt.

Giseux’s sparkling grey eyes honed in on her movement, his mouth twisting to a derogatory sneer. ‘That knife is more a hindrance than a help; it can so easily be wrested from your hands and turned against you. You would be better off not having it at all.’ The horse sidled beneath him; his big thigh muscles tensed as he maintained his upright position on the animal.

Hugh had given her the knife, before he went away. It was he who had taught her to use it properly, even though her brother could only guess at what she had experienced at the hands of her husband. She had told Hugh the barest details of her ordeal, not wanting to give voice to her time with Walter, not even with her brother. This knife, its heavy weight bumping against her hip, made her feel safe; now this man, this stranger, had the temerity to undermine its power!

‘You have no idea of what you are talking about!’ she flared up at him, long eyelashes fanning out around her blue eyes. ‘You scarce know me, yet you criticise and condemn me! How dare you?’

In a single, graceful movement he slid down from the horse, from that treacherous animal that had refused to move faster than a snail for her, and stood before her, his angled face leaning down into hers. ‘You’re living in a dream world, thinking you can protect yourself with that blade.’ He was so close that he stood within the folds of her skirts.

Instinctively, she backed away, throwing back the sides of her cloak as her fingers tightened around the hilt, sliding the knife from the leather scabbard. His arm flashed out, a lightning speed honed from years of fighting, muscular fingers upon hers, crushing, squeezing. An intense pain shot through her wrist, the knife slipping from her weakened grip. ‘You’re not being fair …’ she gasped as it fell. Giseux’s quicksilver reflex snared the blade as it flew downwards; in a trice, he turned the gleaming point, the blade a hairbreadth away from her frantically beating heart. For an endless moment they stood there, tense, taut, breathing rapidly, the moon highlighting the stillness of their bodies.

‘See how easy it was?’ His voice looped over her, dry, taunting. His hulking frame loomed so close that she caught the scent of him, a tantalising mix of spice and woodsmoke. A surge of adrenalin pulsed through her, exciting, wicked. She stepped backwards, appalled at the speed of the manoeuvre, appalled by his glittering proximity, then realised she could go no further, her heel kicking uncomfortably against the nubbled back of a trunk. Above them, an owl hooted, its call eerie within the confines of the trees.

‘Give me my knife back!’ Her voice, brittle, trembled with confusion. Palms pressed against the immovable oak, her slender body felt exposed to him, vulnerable. ‘I should have shot you when I had the chance!’

He laughed, a short bark of sound, teeth white in the shadowed tan of his face, flipping the knife back so that she could take the jewelled hilt. ‘Death by crossbow might have been preferable to escorting you.’

Brianna glared at him, hostile, stabbing the blade back in its sheath. ‘I’m not going back to Sefanoc with you,’ she announced firmly. ‘I’m carrying on to Winchester, whether you like it or not. You can’t make me go back with you.’

Giseux’s knee brushed against her leg; she flinched at the contact. His voice, when it came, was low, slipping velvet. ‘I can make you do anything I want.’ His eyes bored into hers, darkening gimlets of granite. ‘Don’t kid yourself that I, or any other man for that matter, could not … it’s dangerous to think like that.’

‘I’ve managed up to now,’ she spat back weakly. ‘And I’m still not going back with you.’

Giseux sighed. The woman was a complete fool. Of course he could make her return to Sefanoc—he could simply grab her spindly frame and dump her on his horse, kicking and screaming. Surely she realised that? He was twice the size of her, with muscle power to match. But he was awake now, and in no mood to wrangle any longer. Turning away, he walked over to his destrier, tightening the girth, before throwing himself up into the saddle. ‘Mount up,’ he ordered, kicking the shining stirrup free from his booted foot.

‘Wh-what?’ She stared up at him aghast. Vivid images piled chaotically into her brain, images of herself tucked up comfortably in the arms of Giseux, her back against his chest, her arms cradled within his. No! She couldn’t do it! ‘I can’t!’

‘You seem to manage perfectly well when you stole my horse.’ He stared down haughtily at her. Beneath him, his horse pawed the ground, dry leaves rustling against its hoof.

‘I borrowed your horse,’ she corrected him. ‘Not that it helped much; he refused to move faster than an ambling walk.’

‘He’s trained only to respond to me,’ he replied, disparagingly, holding out his hand towards her. ‘Now, come on, mount up.’

This is wrong, she thought, as she grasped his hand and stuck her slender foot in the stirrup. A quivering coil of excitement licked along her veins as he hoisted her in front of him; she bounced up as if she weighed nothing. Her hips bumped back uncomfortably into the edge of the leather saddle; she scissored one leg over the horse’s neck to ride astride. Leaning forwards, she grabbed a bunch of mane between her fists to maintain her balance.

‘Lean back.’ It was a command, not a request. His warm breath puffed over her veil; the material wafted against the nape of her neck making her shiver at the close contact. ‘At the speed we’ll be going, you’ll fall off. Lean back.’ His repeated order was terse, clipped.

I’m doing this for Hugh, she reminded herself over and over again as she moved gingerly against the solid wall of chest. Every nerve ending in her body sprang alive at the contact; beneath her layers of clothing, beneath the thick wool cloak, the gown of linen, she could feel his chest muscles ripple against her shoulder blades. The bunched muscle of his thighs pillowed her hips, rocking her intimately from side to side as the horse picked up speed. One arm snaked around her middle, the iron band yanking her more securely inwards as the horse kicked up clods of earth in its wake. She had never been this close to a man, this intimate, nay, not even with Walter; what she did now went against every promise she had made herself when she had left that horrible man. Against all inclination, she was thrown back into him, again and again. Brianna pressed her eyes together in shame, cheeks lit with flags of red.

The maid felt so fragile within his arms, her slim frame light against his chest, thought Giseux. Her appearance belied her inner strength, the innate courage that flowed within her. Like a delicate flower stem rocked by a fierce breeze, it would take a great deal to break her. He sensed she had come close that morning, that he had witnessed her teetering on the edge of total fear, of utter desolation. When those men had laid into her she had fought back like one possessed. Above the silken brush of her hair, his mouth tightened—no woman deserved such harsh treatment, whatever they had done, however they had behaved. Imperceptibly, his arms strengthened around her. Her shoulders rocked back into his chest; he grimaced as his body responded to the delicate press, the drifting lavender scent of her hair. He knew better than to become involved. Since that unspeakable time with Nadia, women, for him, had been reduced to a means of physical solace. He never asked their names in the darkness, never engaged in conversation. It suited him that way and, after what had happened, he preferred it. Without thinking, he rubbed at the aching muscle in his thigh, the single physical reminder of the woman he had loved in the East, the woman who had died trying to help him and his men. She had been on their side and had paid with her life for that loyalty. His wound was a small price in comparison, a continual ache eating into him, reminding him of his guilt, his culpability day after day. That, and the cavernous black void that was his heart.

Chapter Four

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.