Innocent's Champion

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Racing down the circular stairs, one hand sliding down the cool, curving banister, Matilda burst through the door into the great hall. Dismay flooded through her as she skidded to a sharp stop at the edge of the dais. There were men everywhere: drunken men, soldiers, knights, their snoring bodies heaped over tables, or lying prone beneath them. The thick, heady smell of wine, of mead, filled the air with a soporific stupor. She needed to find just one, one lowly knight who she could trust not to say anything of their destination, but would be willing to escort her to Wolverhill, the priory where her mother now lived. Her eyes scanned the hall, seeking, searching the snoring bodies.

But there appeared to be no one. Not one man visible who hadn’t drunk a vat full of John’s expensive French wine.

She sighed. On reflection, it might be safer if she went alone. She couldn’t risk John finding out that her mother had renounced her widow’s right to own and manage their family estate at Lilleshall, couldn’t risk one of his knights leaking the information back to him. John believed her mother still lived there, still believed that the strong bossy widow was in control.

Matilda sought out John’s portly frame, slumped over the top table next to a snoring Henry, a thin, sparkling line of drool dropping from his gaping mouth on to the tablecloth. If he discovered that Matilda, in her mother and brother’s absence, had picked up the reins of running one of the largest and most profitable estates in the country, he would seize it, claim it as his own. In the eyes of the law, unmarried women were not allowed to hold property in their own right. They were not allowed to do anything without the consent of a male guardian, be that father, brother or husband.

Pivoting sharply on her heel, she whisked away from the great hall in disgust. She would go alone. Wolverhill was not above four miles from here; she could walk it easily and still be back before the midnight bell rang out on the chapel in the village. But a horse would be faster.

No guard at the main door to the castle stopped her. The entrance hall was empty. It seemed everyone had decided to take advantage of the celebrations, to take part in the welcome of John’s important guests. As she heaved open the door, thick oak planks fitted with iron rivets driven into the grey wood at intervals, no one asked her where she was going.

The night air was cool, stirred by a faint breeze, a balm on her flushed face. The pale illumination from the moon, half risen in the dark blue nap of the sky, pooled down on the cobbles of the inner bailey. In the limpid sheen of the moon, she picked out the gable end of the stable block and sprang across the uneven yard towards it. No voice hailed her, no one shouted at her to stop, to halt; the whole place was deserted, cloaked in a deafening silence. Lord help John if someone decided to attack at this precise moment; the castle was completely defenceless. Her small feet covered the short distance quickly, and as she rounded the corner of the stable block, she glanced behind her, checking to see that no one was following.

And collided with something. Someone.

‘Oooh!’ she squeaked out in shock, pressing her palms against the tall, solid bulk, pushing herself backwards, away, away from whoever it was. But she knew who it was. Her heart thumped dangerously, excitement slicing through her, rivulets of fire.

In the moonlight, Gilan’s hair shone like silver thread. He stood before her, folding his arms across his massive chest, his head tilted to one side, assessing her quietly. His eyes gleamed out from the darkness, piercing, unreadable.

‘You!’ she breathed, clapping one hand over her mouth, trying to gather her scattered senses. ‘Why are you here?’ Her accusing tone echoed around the silent bailey; she frowned back at the lit windows of the castle, as if the power of her thought could place him back where he should be. Why wasn’t he in the great hall, snoring over the trestles with the rest of his companions?

‘You mean, why am I not drunk out of my skull?’ he replied drily.

‘Well...yes, I suppose. All the rest of your companions are,’ she said scathingly. His implacable regard bore into her, unnerved her. She toed the ground awkwardly with her soft leather slipper. ‘I mean...you can do what you like. I was surprised to see you here, that’s all.’ The brittleness of her own voice startled her, shamed her, but, in the face of his intimidating presence, her behaviour immediately became wary, aloof—her only defence.

‘I came to check on our horses,’ Gilan supplied by way of explanation. She had forgotten to button her sleeves again, he realised; the skin of her forearms was milk-white, like pouring cream. If he rubbed his thumb upwards, from her wrist to her elbow, would it feel like silk? Desire kicked him, sudden and unbidden, deep in his solar plexus.

‘Um, look, I’m sorry, would you excuse me?’ Matilda hopped anxiously from one foot to the other, tucking her fingers into her belt in a vague attempt to do something with her hands. The breadth of his body filled the entrance to the stables—would she have to push past him, or would he give way? ‘I have to fetch a horse...my sister...’

‘How is she?’

‘Not good...’ Tears gathered suddenly at the corners of her eyes. She jerked her head upwards, biting fretfully at her bottom lip, fighting the tremble of her mouth. ‘Not good at all...’ her voice wavered, emerging in a breathless rush ‘...and I have to fetch someone, someone who can help her.’

‘A midwife?’

‘No, she has one of those, a woman who is proving to be useless!’ Matilda began to edge around him, squeezing herself flat against the inner wall of the stable entrance, grazing her spine against the cool stone so that no part of her body came into contact with him. He turned, watching her. Once free of his disquieting stance, she moved along the stalls, her step quick and fleeting, gown skimming across the loose straw on the packed-earth floor. Where was the grey mare, the docile animal that she always rode when she stayed with her sister? Ah, there she was.

Aware of Gilan’s diamond gaze surveying her from the entrance, she lifted the bridle from the rusty hook and raised the iron latch on the wooden half door, pushing it open. Standing on tiptoe, she managed to slide the bridle over the horse’s head, settling the metal bit between the animal’s teeth. The mare whinnied softly, moving big teeth across Matilda’s hands, searching for the carrots, or apples that Matilda normally brought for her.

‘Sorry, I have nothing for you.’ Matilda patted the horse’s nose. With a gentle tug on the reins, she led the animal from the stall and out towards the entrance. There was no time to fit a saddle to the animal and she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to help

Gilan’s broad frame stood silhouetted in the arched entrance, long muscled legs planted firmly astride, blocking her path. His mouth was set in a firm, hard line.

‘Would you let me pass, please? I have to be quick!’ Urgency plucked at her voice.

‘Who is going with you?’

She gave a quick shake of her head, dismissing his question. She would pretend she hadn’t heard him; the less this man knew about her domestic circumstances, the better. Hitching up her dark pink skirts, she climbed the flight of steps that served as a mounting block inside the stables and slid herself over, astride, on to the horse’s back. Her feet poked out from the bottom of her dress, and to her dismay, one of her leather slippers peeled off the back of her heel and plopped to the ground.

Moving into the shadows of the stable, Gilan bent down and picked it up, holding the pink leather between his fingers. Matilda eyed him warily.

‘I said, “who is going with you?”’ His voice held an edge of steel.

‘Can I have my slipper back, please?’ she asked, her voice petulant. The thin leather of her slipper looked incongruous against the muscled strength of his fingers, pinpoints of fire streaking out from the diamond cluster decorating the toe. She held out her hand, but realised, in shock, that he had grasped her ankle, clad in a silk stocking. He slipped the shoe back over her foot, the heat from his hand travelling up her leg, driving every muscle in her body to rigid alertness. The breath drove from her lungs, she couldn’t speak, or protest...

Fury rose at his outrageous manhandling. Alarmed by her own response to his touch, she kicked out, toes colliding with his chest. His fingers twisted swiftly, almost as if he anticipated her movement, crushing both foot and slipper against a solid wall of muscle, one big thumb pressed up into the tender skin of her sole, sending sparks of...of what? Of sheer pleasure, scything up her leg? She glared at him, astounded, and tugged her foot once more, to no avail.

‘Let go of me!’ she hissed down at him. ‘Your behaviour is unspeakable!’

‘Not until you tell me who is going with you.’

His head was on a level with her chest, his glinting hair inches from the spot where her hands grasped the reins. The urge to sift her fingers through those glimmering strands surged up within her; she smashed down the scandalous thoughts, wondering at her own sanity.

‘They’re all drunk to the world up there! Completely wasted.’