Мериел Фуллер – Her Battle-Scarred Knight (страница 3)

‘Why, you little …!’ Fulke roared, clutching at the gash on his forehead. The purpling cut oozed blood, startlingly red against the white slab of his forehead. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ Before Brianna had time to anticipate his next move, the weight of his fist crashed into her jaw and her small frame crumpled to the ground, this time for real.

‘We’ve got her now,’ Fulke murmured, almost to himself. ‘We’ve got her now.’ He rose to his full height, jubilant, smug victory painted on his face, expecting to meet the smirking expressions of his younger henchmen.

But the soldiers’ faces were turned away, fixed on the open gateway, slack-jawed, staring at something, someone. One of the men stumbled back, catching the back of his leg on the trough.

Alongside the scrubby hawthorn hedge, a huge black destrier flew across the marshy field, snorting impatiently, wildly, rearing its glossy head in a restless jangle of bit and bridle as it approached the three men, the fallen maid. Sprays of water flicked out from behind the horse’s heavy hooves, loose droplets forming sparkling arcs in the weak sunlight.

A nervous laugh punched from Fulke’s mouth; he licked his lips.

A black woollen tunic covered the horseman’s chainmail; his shield was black, decorated with a raised silver lattice. No markings gave away his identity, no gilded family crest on the shield, no embroidery across his tunic; a bright steel helmet obscured his features. Hauling deftly on the reins, the unknown rider brought the animal slewing to a stop before the men, shuffled into a guilty line in front of Brianna, trying to hide the horrific extent of their intimidation with the bulk of their bodies. The warm air emerging from the horse’s widening nostrils ghosted the air, steam rising from the very pit of hell.

‘What the devil is happening here?’ Through the slits of his helmet, the knight’s voice was muffled, grim. He jumped off the horse in one easy, graceful movement, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached Fulke.

‘Nothing to concern yourself about, I’m sure, my lord.’ Fulke bowed obsequiously, spreading his hands flat before him, as if to physically reassure the newcomer there was no harm done. He cowered beneath the stranger’s superior height, trying to step back before realising that the huddled form of Brianna lay behind his heels, checking him. ‘This ignorant maid simply refuses to do as she’s told. She needed to learn a lesson.’

‘Then it looks like she’s learned it,’ the stranger remarked tautly, sweeping his gaze over Brianna’s forlorn frame, tumbled against the trough. From her appearance, the maid was still unconscious; her face was pale, deathly pale, a livid bruise darkening rapidly across her jawline.

Fulke had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘Aye, well, we best be on our way.’ He nodded significantly at his two soldiers, rubbing his gloved hands together in an industrious way. ‘Lots to do, lots to do.’ He paused, staring with curiosity at the plain, unadorned wool of the knight’s tunic, trying to discern the man’s features through the forbidding slits in his helmet. ‘I … er … are you from hereabouts?’

‘Nay. I am looking for someone.’

‘Mayhap I could help you.’ Fulke squeezed his hands together, kneading his fingers. He felt the need to make amends, to distract this stranger from the unconscious maid at his back. ‘Whom do you seek?’

‘Brianna of Sefanoc. Lady Brianna. I was told that she lives hereabouts.’

The colour washed from Fulke’s face; he touched a hand to his chin, a self-conscious gesture. It was all he could do to stop himself looking over at the girl; he prayed fervently that his soldiers would keep their mouths shut. If certain parties heard a whisper of their actions, their treatment of a noblewoman, they would be punished severely. His name, Fulke, would be linked back to Count John, his lord and master, who would be highly displeased at the exposure, especially now. These were troubled times, the whole country jittery with the news that King Richard had been taken prisoner on his return from the Crusades. Only Count John, the King’s younger brother, was rubbing his hands with glee, for if Richard failed to return, then he would surely be crowned King of England.

Fulke screwed the thicket of his eyebrows together in a semblance of thinking. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her,’ he lied casually, carefully. ‘It’s not a name I know.’ He began to sidle off towards the horses. ‘I wish you luck in your venture, sire. Good day to you.’ Fulke levered himself onto his animal, raising an arm in farewell as he kicked the animal into a fast canter, clods of frozen earth kicking up in his wake as he followed his men.

The maid appeared barely alive, Giseux thought, as he approached the spot where she lay. Crouching down beside her, he pulled off his chainmail mittens, pushing two fingers efficiently against the side of her neck, checking, reassuring himself. Her face was so white, devoid of any colour, with such a sickening blueness about her lips that he could have believed she were dead, yet to his relief her blood beat strongly beneath his fingers. He removed his helmet, then his shield, held against his chest with a worn leather strap, placing both on the grass, and pushed back the hood of the chainmail protecting his head. The metallic links, bound together to form a flexible material, fell in loose, snake-like folds at the nape of his neck; the light brown strands of his hair sprung free from their confinement, vigorous.

She lay flat on her back, sprawled across the ice-encrusted mud, one arm slung across her body, the other stretched out, her hand curled, small and white. Her unusual amber-coloured hair, darkened by the water, straggled across her bodice like ripples in the sand. A peasant girl, from the look of her clothes, he thought; her coarse woollen gown had been mended in several places with crudely cut patches. The garment hung like a sack about her frame, bunching in thick gathers at her waist; her creased leather boots, scuffed and caked in mud, stuck out from beneath the hem of her skirts. The shiny soles were almost worn through. He’d interrupted a domestic dispute, no doubt, a fight between servant and master.

The girl opened her eyes.

Chapter Two

Giseux’s heart knocked against the wall of his chest. Sudden. Unexpected. Sounds diminished, fell away into the background: the incessant chirruping of a robin, diving under the blackthorn; his horse ripping up the frosted grass with massive teeth, chewing steadily. The maid’s eyes were wide, bright blue, ice blue, luminescent as the sky at dawn. They snared him, sucked him into their amazing depths, a whirlpool so fast and strong that he had no time to think. His mind reeled within their power as he leaned forwards, amazed.

As he dropped to his knees, Brianna cried out—a long wavering wail of panic, the bundled-up fear bursting from her chest, fear that she had fought to keep under control throughout Fulke’s mauling. And now he’d sent someone else to deal with her. Her vision hazed with fright as the huge soldier hulked over her, silver eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam; he would surely kill her! Broad shoulders blocked out the light, cast her in shadow, as her knuckles scraped desperately against the rough wooden trough, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of stability as she screamed and screamed. Would no one come for her, would no one help her? Her shrieking rent the still air, piercing, pitching up a notch as firm hands curled about her shoulders, steadied her.

‘Stop!’ a low voice ordered, a rippling burr of sound close to her ear. ‘Do you want to bring them back?’ The warmth of the man’s breath fanned her cheek, before he lowered his hands.

Her mouth shut abruptly. Pain in the left side of her jaw chewed into her, relentless, an ache beginning to spread up the side of her cheek. Blood tasted like rust against her tongue. Tears sprung from her eyes, her body trembling, as she hoisted herself up awkwardly, flinging her arms out to push the stranger away. Her fingers flailed outwards, skittering over the black wool across his immense chest; her pathetic attempts failed to shift him. Exhausted by unravelling fear, she let her arms fall limply to her sides.

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Brianna stuttered out, her voice a weak thread; her lips were dry, bruised. Energy seeped from her body, her small frame slumping back against the trough, her breathing rapid, truncated, puffing clouds of white in the cold air. The leather lace securing her braid had loosened; now the curling end was beginning to unravel, the magnificent amber hair shining against the sagging weave of her brown bodice. ‘But I’d rather be locked up, or dead, than do what you want me to do.’ The man’s intimidating grey eyes glittered over her, incisive, piercing, as if they drilled down into her very soul. Another wave of panic lurched up, pushing out the sides of her chest, and she dug her heels into the mud, intending to scrabble backwards if he came for her.