The Warrior's Damsel In Distress

Eva’s eyes narrowed to a sapphire glint. ‘I don’t like it; they wear the King’s colours and yet they are bothering with the likes of us. Why?’

Katherine shivered. ‘Do you think my uncle has plans for me?’ She glanced up at the front of the castle, at the warm glow of light spilling out from the open door, and chewed worriedly on her bottom lip. ‘I should hate it—’ her breath caught ‘—if we were taken away from this place.’

‘Just be careful what you say in front of them. At least until we know why they are here. Despite our lack of menfolk, they will regard us as rebels to the Crown.’

A sift of vulnerability crossed Katherine’s face. ‘I hope you are wrong, Eva.’ She shook her head decisively, as if dismissing the unwelcome thoughts. ‘Now, can you manage, or shall I fetch someone?’

Eva pursed her lips together, staggering awkwardly to the steps. Snow whirled around her, driven into the sheltered bailey on a sharp little breeze. Bruin’s cloak dragged on the cobbles, hampering her movement. She swung the wool from her shoulders, dumping the cloak into Katherine’s arms. ‘Here, have this; I can’t move at all!’ Placing her uninjured leg on the bottom step, gripping the rail, Eva pulled herself up with grim determination, slowly, one step at a time.

‘Eva, this is impossible! This will take all night. Let me fetch someone to carry you.’

‘No! You go ahead, Katherine. It won’t take long,’ she replied stubbornly. She could not allow herself to be carried into the great hall, in full view of everyone, in full view of Lord Bruin’s mocking gaze! Sweat gathered along her hairline with the effort of hauling herself up. Katherine remained alongside her, matching Eva’s pace until they finally climbed the one shallow step into the great hall.

The raftered chamber was full of people, eating, talking and laughing. Fresh straw covered the flagstone floor; dogs trotted up and down between the trestle tables, scavenging for scraps of food, the occasional bone flung in their direction. A huge fire roared beneath the thick limestone lintel of the fireplace, situated halfway along one white-plastered wall. Giant, ornate tapestries decorated the plain plaster, each one a riot of coloured thread, depicting scenes of hunting, or great battles. Katherine’s family crest, the golden falcon of the Montagues, was everywhere: in the ornate bosses set into the curving ends of the rafters, above the windows, embroidered extravagantly across the door curtains, gold thread against blue velvet.

Katherine’s hand on her elbow, Eva slumped on to the nearest bench, the peasants alongside nodding briefly at her without ceasing to shove food into their mouths. Their eyes paused momentarily on her wan face, gazes shifting away immediately. A nursemaid was of no interest; she was one of them, a servant of the Montagu family. Peering across the rows of bobbing heads, the faces flushed with mead, Eva checked the knights seated at the top table at the other end of the hall, making sure that he, Bruin, was as far away as possible. Sitting next to the older knight, his gold-red hair shone out like a beacon. He was laughing at something, tipping his head back. The sinews in his neck wrapped powerfully around the shadowed hollow of his throat, up into his bristly beard. An extraordinary sensation unfurled in her belly, a flickering pang of longing. She couldn’t explain it.

‘You’d better go up there, Katherine. Leave me now, otherwise it will look strange that you fuss over me so much.’

‘If you’re sure...?’ Katherine hesitated, bundling Bruin’s cloak against her middle. ‘I’ll send someone to fetch Martha; she can help you to your chamber.’

‘I’ll eat first,’ Eva said. ‘Please, don’t fuss. Just go. And try to find out why those men are here.’

Chapter Four (#u82f3086d-98f3-5441-803a-e0a1d07e1d96)

Gilbert watched Katherine’s stately figure move through the great hall. Her progress across the uneven stone floor was slow, as she stopped to engage in conversation along the way: she chatted with the peasants who worked in the fields, the soldiers who kept the castle safe from intruders. She smiled and listened with attention, dropping her head considerately if an older person spoke too quietly, the gemstones on her long fingers flashing in the candlelight as she reached out to touch a shoulder or cup an elbow, before moving on.

‘The perfect lady of the manor,’ Gilbert said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘What a shame I have to take her away from all this.’ Reaching for the earthenware jug of red wine, he poured himself another goblet. A bead of liquid spilled from the mouth of the jug as he set the heavy vessel back down clumsily; it landed on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading out in a crimson circle.

‘When are you going to tell her?’ Bruin speared a slice of pork with his eating knife, depositing it on his pewter plate. The meat was well roasted, crispy. His belly growled; he was hungry after the full day of riding.

‘Tonight. But after I’ve eaten. She’ll take the news badly and I have no intention of missing such a fantastic spread of food!’ Gilbert patted his stomach. ‘But I’ll give her two or three days to pack, which means I can avail myself of this wonderful hospitality for a little longer.’

‘Two or three days?’ Bruin grinned at him. ‘Is the King not waiting for her?’

‘Edward will meet me at my castle in a sennight.’ Gilbert wiped his greasy mouth with a square linen napkin. ‘That gives me enough time to travel there with her and the children. Goodness knows how many wagons she’ll need. You know what these women are like.’

A wisp of memory snaked out, gripping Bruin by the throat; the sparkling granite in his eyes dulled instantly. No, he thought, no, he did not know what these women were like. He crushed the stem of his goblet, the angular pewter work pressing into the coarse pads of his fingers. He had pushed his own chance away and then it had been too late. His heart pleated in on itself, folding tighter and tighter. For the last year, by his own choice, his world had been reduced to a solely masculine one, harsh and brutal.

‘But...of course...’ Gilbert spluttered into his goblet, suddenly realising the insensitivity of his words, remembering, too late, what had happened to Bruin. ‘I mean...’ His kind-hearted voice trailed away, bereft of words.

‘It’s fine, Gilbert.’ Bruin stared bleakly out across the great hall, seeing nothing. Sophie’s death, her tragic, pointless death, was well known amongst the circles of nobility, both here in England and across the Channel. After what had happened, unable to deal with the mantle of guilt that hugged his shoulders, the judging glances, Bruin had abandoned King Edward and followed the exiled Lord Despenser into the relentless life of a mercenary, living on his wits, fighting and battling on the open sea, uncaring whether he lived or died. But when King Edward summoned Despenser back to England, he had persuaded Bruin to come back and fight for him again. And he had come, for he had realised that fighting was the same, anywhere. It gave his black soul a reason for existence, even if that existence was as barren and cold as his heart. There was no softness in his life, no feminine fripperies or tinkling laughter. Those things were not for him. Not now. Not ever.

‘Did you hear me?’ Gilbert’s voice nudged Bruin from his thoughts.

‘Sorry. What did you say?’ He gulped his wine, dragging his mind away from his memories.

Gilbert smiled. ‘I see you found the maidservant. What happened to her?’

Bruin forced his mind to concentrate on the present, staring at the food steaming slowly on his plate: roast pork, parsnips, a hunk of crusty bread. ‘She was caught in an animal trap and hurt her leg.’

‘Unlucky.’ Gilbert drew his breath in, sharply. ‘But why did she run when she saw us?’

Bruin shrugged his shoulders. ‘She says she mistook me for someone else.’ He remembered her beautiful eyes, fear dilating the pupils as he approached her. ‘Someone who looked like me, apparently.’

‘Who could possibly look like you?’ Gilbert teased, thumping his pewter goblet down on the white damask tablecloth, chuckling at his own wit. Then his stubby eyelashes flew upwards as he looked at Bruin. ‘Apart from—’

‘My twin brother,’ Bruin finished for him. He rubbed at the coppery bristles on his chin. ‘I did think that. It’s possible they have seen each other, I suppose,’ he continued slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought they moved in the same circles. And besides, I don’t think Steffen even ventured into Wales; he always had his sights set firmly on the English castles. But it doesn’t explain why she reacted as she did.’

Gilbert grinned. ‘I hate to say it, but it sounds like you completely terrified her. And frankly, I’m not surprised. You’re in full chainmail, you haven’t shaved...’

Bruin held his hand up. ‘Enough,’ he said, laughing. ‘I know—I’ll make an effort for the morrow.’ Disquiet threaded through him. He had no wish to go around scaring women; Gilbert’s words hung on his shoulders like a chastisement. Had his time as a mercenary changed him that much? Fighting and plundering had given him a warped sense of satisfaction; at the time, he was out for revenge, but against whom? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Sophie was dead and that it was his fault.

Gilbert raised his goblet in welcome as Katherine climbed up to the dais. Half-rising from his seat, he bowed his head respectfully as she approached the table. Bruin and the other knights followed suit. She slipped in beside Gilbert, handing Bruin’s cloak across to him. ‘Here, my lord. Thank you for bringing my nursemaid back to me.’

‘It was nothing,’ Bruin murmured. Eyes, as blue as a kingfisher’s wing, leapt across his vision. His heart jumped at the memory. He scanned the hall, the throng of heads and bodies. He had watched her limp through the door, leaning heavily on her mistress, but then she had disappeared into the throng of people. He would have noticed if she had left; the only way out of this hall was by the main door, or through a curtained alcove set opposite to him, presumably leading to bedchambers above. Every woman in the place seemed to be wearing identical white wimples, drab-coloured dresses.

‘Now, my lords,’ Katherine said, as a servant pushed the heavy oak chair beneath her and she snapped a linen napkin across the red velvet of her gown. ‘Mayhap you would like to tell me what you are doing in such a remote corner of Wales.’

* * *

A dryness scraped Eva’s throat; her tongue, big and unwieldy, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had been chewing a lump of bread for what seemed like hours, unwilling to swallow, worried that she might choke. Her eyelids drooped; all she wanted to do was climb the stairs to her bedchamber and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber. And forget.

‘Hey, Eva!’ A young lad to her right elbowed her sharply in the arm, laughing. ‘You should go to bed! You’re falling asleep at the table!’

She jolted her lolling head into an upright position, staring hazily at her plate of uneaten food. ‘Help me, then,’ she said to the boy. ‘I’ve hurt my leg; I need to lean on you to reach the stairs.’

He jumped up with a puppy-like willingness, springing back over the low bench. Eva eased herself up carefully, grabbing at the boy’s fragile-boned shoulder. She kept her actions deliberately slow, gradual, not wanting to draw any attention from the top table. The last thing she wanted was for Katherine to come rushing down to help. Or him.

Her movements seemed laboured, unwieldy. The long trestle tables, the flaring torches, swam before her vision. Objects seemed hazy, edges blurred and undefined. What was the matter with her? All she had to do was reach that curtain across the doorway. The boy moved forward and she hopped to keep up with him, pressing down on his shoulder, injured leg raised up behind her.

Pushing the curtain aside, she dismissed the boy. A thick rope curved up along the wall of the spiral stairs; that would serve her now. She would crawl on her hands and knees if need be. Her progress was painfully slow, but at last she reached the next floor, hopping along the corridor to the bedchamber she shared with Katherine and the children.

Clicking up the iron latch carefully, she pushed inside, lurching clumsily across the polished elm floorboards to her truckle bed, tucked neatly against Katherine’s large four-poster bed. The chamber was dim, lit only by a single candle in an iron sconce, the flickering flame casting uneven shadows across the bumpy plaster. Over by a charcoal brazier, glowing with hot coals, Katherine’s three children slept, their small bodies bundled beneath huge furs. Angling herself down awkwardly, Eva lowered herself on to her bed, checking the bandage around the wound. Much as she hated to admit it, her leg seemed much better after Bruin’s deft handling. His cool, strong fingers grazing her skin.

There was a muted tap at the door and Martha came in, carrying a jug of hot water. ‘The mistress bid me bring this to you.’ Her eyes flicked to the lone guttering candle and she clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘Ah, I should have brought you another light.’ An earthenware bowl sat on an oak coffer; she poured the steaming water into it, glancing at Eva. ‘What happened to you? They’re saying in the hall that the big knight hunted you down.’

Her heart lurched at Martha’s choice of words. The girl was young, with a sense of the dramatic. Her plump hands dunked a linen washcloth into the bowl; it swirled around, absorbing the water. ‘I hurt my leg, that’s all,’ Eva replied shortly, an involuntary shiver coursing her slim frame. Hunted down. It had certainly felt like that, to hear that man’s shouts, the bulk of his body thrashing through the undergrowth, pursuing her. If it hadn’t been for that wretched trap, she would have escaped him easily.

Martha’s eyes rounded. ‘They’re saying he was an outlaw, at sea with the exiled Lord Despenser.’

Her heart jolted. Lord Despenser. A knight known for his cruelty, his barbaric methods. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ And yet, this knowledge of his past did surprise her, for although the knight had treated her in a brusque, matter-of-fact manner, he had been considerate. Up to a point.

‘Let me look.’ Martha approached the bed. ‘Lift your leg up on to the coverlet, so I can see it more clearly.’ Eva raised her leg. Martha eyed the stocking bound around Eva’s calf, the limp fringes of moss poking out. ‘Did you do this?’

‘He did,’ she admitted reluctantly. A pair of silver eyes startled her vision; she hunched forward uncomfortably. How could that man, that stranger, affect her thus, when he wasn’t even near her?

Martha untied the knot, unravelling the woollen stocking with care. Three wounds gouged Eva’s pale flesh. ‘Mother of God,’ Martha said, ‘it looks like you have been bitten by a dog. I bet it hurts.’