Her Battle-Scarred Knight

Alys touched her arm, halting her stride. ‘Brianna … my lady … you can’t keep going on like this … It’s too hard for you to do alone.’

‘I prefer to be alone, Alys, you know that.’

Brianna dropped her eyes, a silky curl of burnished hair looping over her cheek. Why did Alys constantly allude to her solitary life, her single status? Surely she, of all people, knew that Brianna could never be with a man, never trust a man, ever again? She drew in a deep breath, willing the faint tightness of panic in her chest to leave, to dissolve. This attack had frightened her, reminding her of that past she craved to forget. Clasping her hands together, she turned around, pulling her features into an expression, she hoped, of supreme confidence. ‘Alys, if there’s one good thing that came out of that ill-fated marriage, it was the ability to defend myself!’ She picked her skirts up to continue striding in the direction of the solar.

Alys nodded dubiously, her face stricken. Brianna never talked about her short marriage to Walter of Brinslow; all she knew was that the kind, happy girl who had left Sefanoc to wed had returned just six months later as a broken woman. Five winters on and Brianna had sprung back to her old self, although the scars of whatever that man had done to her still lingered, in the shadows behind her eyes, in certain mannerisms. It was why she had insisted that Hugh, before he left on the crusade, had taught her how to defend herself. Her gaze touched on Brianna, now hefting her unwieldy crossbow from the solar, her brows drawn together in concentration, trying to remember how to use the weapon. Both women deluded themselves, both knew that Hugh’s tuition was not enough. It could never be enough against Count John’s men.

The fine silver arc of a new moon hung low in the sky as Giseux approached Sefanoc. At least he hoped it was Sefanoc. The directions from the local people in the nearby town of Merleberge had been hazy, reluctant to divulge too much information to a stranger. It was only when he told them the purpose of his visit that they opened up, nodding and smiling at Lady Brianna’s name. It seemed that Hugh of Sefanoc’s sister was something of a heroine in these parts.

Over to his right, amidst the rustlings and twitterings of a forest, a vixen shrieked. Trees threw jerky angles up against the reddish streaks of the western sky, daylight fading rapidly. Under the trees, the light grew so dim that he dismounted, leading his horse along the barely visible track. As the cold mud seeped through the chainmail covering his feet, he regretted the haste with which he’d travelled to Merleberge. He hadn’t given himself time to change into civilian clothes; his full armour was designed for riding, not for walking any great distance. The smell of smoke mingled with the chill evening air, the fresh scent of burning apple wood wafting over him; he could see lights in the windows up ahead, an encouraging sign, flooding down to reveal the stone steps leading up to the wide front door on the first floor.

Something whistled past his ear, barely an inch away from the steel helmet protecting his head. In an instant he had drawn his sword and ducked behind a tree, all his instincts poised, alert. Near to the spot where he had been walking, a crossbow bolt, quiver still vibrating with the force of the shot, stuck into the mud where his feet had been.

A woman’s voice shouted down from the manor, across the darkness, ‘Go away!’ The clear, bell-like voice was delivered in an imperious high-handed tone.

Grimacing, he rested his back against the tree, stretching out the muscles in his long legs, easing out the tight spot on his upper thigh. He hadn’t anticipated any antagonism and, after the shenanigans with that peasant woman today, this hostile behaviour was unexpected and annoying. Pulling up the visor of his helmet, he inched his head round the ridged trunk to project his response towards the house. ‘My name is Giseux de St-Loup. I was told that Lady Brianna lives here. I need to see her, about her brother, Hugh.’ His powerful voice reverberated around the stillness of the forest, echoed up into the trees. Through the branches above his head, against the velvet nap of the sky, the evening star glowed, a diamond pinprick.

Silence.

Irritation rose in his gullet—what in the devil’s name was happening now? Sneaking another look round, he could see the silhouette of a woman at the upper window; to his surprise, he realised it was she that held the crossbow. He smiled to himself. She wouldn’t be so lucky with her shot the next time; ladies were not known for their prowess with weapons. Leaving his horse by the tree, he moved out into the open ground, covering the space between the manor and the forest with long-legged strides.

Another bolt flew through the air, thudded next to him, surprisingly close.

‘I told you to go away.’ The modulated tones assailed him from the window, cutting briskly through the night air.

Caught halfway in the open grassy area between the edge of the trees and the house, Giseux tilted his head towards the window. All he could see was the woman’s dark outline and the glint of metal from the crossbow cradled in her arms. ‘And I told you,’ he delivered the words slowly, patiently, ‘that I have come about Hugh of Sefanoc. He is very ill and needs to see his sister. So I suggest you stop playing games and let me in. You’re wasting precious time with this nonsense.’

At his back, an owl hooted, eerie, piercing.

‘I don’t believe you. It’s another trick.’

‘I have no idea to what you are referring.’ Giseux narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the lady’s face. ‘Hugh said you’d be like this; he said you’d ask for proof.’

‘Do you have any?’

Gisuex cleared his throat. ‘He said, “Remember Big Belly Oak”.’

He heard a gasp and what sounded like a rising sob. The figure retreated from the window, crying out an urgent command, before the iron bolts on the main door were drawn back. By the time the last one grated from its metal hasp, Giseux had sprinted to the top of the steps, was waiting when the door nudged slowly inwards.

‘Take me to Lady Brianna,’ he rapped out at the maidservant behind the door, giving her no more than a cursory glance. Yanking off his helmet, he pushed back his chainmail hood and shoved the unwieldy metal headgear into the servant’s hands. His shield slid to the floor in the process. ‘Here, take this.’

His gaze snagged.

He looked again, closer, scrutinising the pale oval face in the dimness of the entrance hall. Bright hair in plaits, translucent blue eyes, shoddy woollen dress. ‘You! It’s you!’ Big hands reached out, tapered fingers snaring her shoulders. ‘You little wretch! Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Lady Brianna? You’ve done her no favours by protecting her!’ In the corner of the entrance hall, another, older servant trembled, twisting her hands nervously, ineffectually, lined face taut with fright.

‘I don’t work for Lady Brianna …’ the girl replied softly. Her small hands clutched around his helmet, as if in support. The bruise at her jaw seemed to have spread, darkening to a frightening array of reddish-purple blotches.

‘You could have saved me a whole day of pointless riding about!’ he blazed at her. ‘Do you realise how much time I’ve wasted? Hugh, your lord, could be dead by now.’ The harsh words felt good on his tongue; he said them deliberately to frighten her, to make her pay for his whole tiresome, wasted day.

A deathly white washed her face. He wondered whether she might faint, the hold he maintained on her shoulders changing to one of support. ‘Tell me where he is,’ she whispered, raising her beautiful blue eyes to his. ‘I am Hugh’s sister. I am Brianna of Sefanoc.’

His wolfish look plundered her, dark brows drawing into a frown, eyes hardening to chips of granite. ‘You … are … Brianna?’ he pronounced slowly, incredulous, drawing his gaze at a leisurely pace from the top of her flame-coloured hair, over the tented and patched sack of her gown, to the tips of her toes. Her face grew hot beneath the deliberateness of his examination; she twisted away, all but throwing his helmet on to an oak bench in the entrance hall.

‘I realise I’m not quite as you would expect,’ Brianna explained briskly. In the confined space of the entrance hall, a restless energy rolled from him in waves, vital, pulsating, resonating through her body, making her shiver. The diamond chips of his eyes glittered in the sepulchral gloom.

‘You can say that again,’ he murmured. The luminous quality of her skin gleamed from the shadows. His fingers tingled, itched to touch, to test the alluring softness, and he frowned.

‘I had to help out with the milking this morning, hence the clothes.’

‘Help with the milking? Surely you have servants to do such work?’ Giseux threw a penetrating glance over at Alys, who quailed visibly into the corner.

Brianna shook her head faintly, dismissing the subject; she had no wish to discuss her domestic arrangements with a complete stranger. She reached out her hand to touch Giseux’s arm, then obviously thought better of it, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘Tell me about Hugh, please. I have spent so many days waiting, wondering. I can’t believe he’s still alive.’

Giseux sincerely hoped that he was. The loose sleeve of her gown had slipped back when she reached up as if to touch him; the skin of her wrist was limpid, fragile as parchment, covered with a network of blue veins; her fingernails were pale pink, delicate shells, against the raw skin of her work-roughened fingers. He swallowed, a sudden dryness catching his throat.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ He glanced archly at the sheathed knife in her belt. ‘Or am I still considered a danger?’

He saw her take a deep, shuddering breath, saw the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. The tip of her tongue licked nervously at the rose-bud fullness of her bottom

lip.

‘Am I a danger?’ he repeated. The low, husky tones enveloped her. An odd, teetering sensation spiralled in her belly, coiling slowly, blossoming.

‘No,’ she croaked. Indecision swamped her. She knew he had been sent by Hugh; how else would he have known of the ‘Big Belly Oak’ of their childhood, their secret hiding place? She looped her arms defensively across her stomach. There was something else about this man that caused every last nerve ending in her body to dance with … Was it fear? She couldn’t be certain, at a loss to identify the feeling.

‘Follow me.’ Her lips compressed as she grasped the spitting torch proffered by Alys, holding the guttering flame aloft, showing the way.

He followed the rigid line of Brianna’s back into the great hall, enjoying the tempting sway of her hips as they brushed against the inside of her gown. Who would have thought that she could be Hugh’s sister, dressed in those torn, work-stained garments, her rippling coppery hair, like beech leaves in autumn, falling down past her waist in simple braids? Hugh of Sefanoc never wasted the slightest opportunity to boast about the substantial income he gained from his estates, from the farming as well as the forest. So why was his sister dressed in rags, working her fingers to the bone, courting the violent attentions of Count John’s men?

Slinging the torch into an iron ring alongside the imposing stone fireplace, Brianna gestured abruptly to a high-backed armchair. Giseux folded his large frame gratefully into the hard wooden seat; after a day in the saddle it felt good, despite the inflexibility of his armour. He glanced at the fire, a pathetic business made up of a few damp sticks, spitting and smouldering in the enormous grate. The tiny heat thrown out by the feeble flames made little impact on the cavernous space; against the skin of his face, Giseux could feel the penetrating cold radiating out from the grey-stone walls. Up above him, the high ceiling was constructed of thick oak trusses, huge arches that spanned the length of the hall. The high windows had been shuttered against the winter weather, although he doubted it made much difference to the inside temperature.

‘Tell me! Tell me how Hugh is, please!’ Brianna rested one hand on the stone mantel to steady herself. She wanted to lay her head against the carved stone and weep tears of sheer gratitude, but she would be damned if she showed any further weakness before this dark stranger. Why, oh, why did it have to be him to bring the news? The man who had witnessed her humiliation by Count John’s men, who had moved too close in his efforts to help her; even now, she could feel the burning imprint of his fingers from this morning. Her heart skittered.

Giseux sprawled back in the chair, stretching out his legs, his toes almost touching Brianna’s hem. The dancing flames from the torchlight turned the brilliant colour of her hair to burnished gold. A wry smile crooked his lips as she twitched her skirts away from his encroaching feet, her nose crinkling a little in distaste at his nearness.

‘Hugh is at my parents’ castle, near Winchester,’ Giseux explained. ‘His sickness began as we waited for the ships to bring us back to England. He is very ill, sometimes delirious with fever, but always, always, asking for you.’

Brianna placed her palms flat over her face, physically trying to stop the tears from running down, emotion clawing in her belly. If only she’d known this morning, she would be with Hugh by now. ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ she blurted out, her voice holding the sting of accusation, ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were this morning, why you were here?’ She flung herself into the chair opposite him, perching on the edge, scuffed leather boots poking out from beneath her sagging hemline.

‘If I remember rightly, it was you who denied all knowledge of Brianna of Sefanoc,’ he replied scornfully. ‘If you hadn’t, we would be with him now.’

‘Then let’s go!’ She sprang out of the seat, headed towards the solar. ‘All I need is my cloak.’

Giseux’s deep voice halted her nimble stride. ‘Lady, if you think I’m travelling anywhere tonight, then think again. I need food and I need some sleep before I climb into that saddle once more.’

‘But Hugh …?’

‘… is in safe hands,’ he finished the sentence for her. He was reluctant to point out that if Hugh were dead now, then one night would make no difference. ‘We’ll ride on the morrow, in daylight. It’ll be safer and we’ll be able to see our way, which will make the journey quicker.’