Мериел Фуллер – Innocent's Champion (страница 1)
‘I think maybe you were right, Gilan,’ she spluttered out. ‘I’ve made a mistake. I should go home.’
‘You’re changing your mind?’ he said, incredulous. ‘After all that effort you put into persuading me to bring you along? Why?’
She flinched slightly. How could she tell him? How could she tell him that being this close to him sent her whole body into a flutter of excitement, of anticipation?
‘I…er…well…’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I thought it was better if we carried on…that’s all.’
‘That’s not it. You were the one who suggested we find shelter,’ he pointed out.
She pursed her lips and sighed. ‘If you must know, I’m not in the habit of doing things like this. Sleeping in a cave with a man I hardly know.’
He smiled, teeth flashing white in the gloom. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep well away; you’re safe from me.’
Turning away from her, he returned to his horse, unbuckling the saddlebags. The lie scorched through his conscience—a flare of brilliant light.
My story of Matilda and Gilan originated in a medieval tale of two sisters—wealthy heiresses in their own right, who were ultimately manoeuvred out of their fortune by the powerful men surrounding them. This was a fact of life for most medieval women: to have their lives controlled by their fathers or their husbands.
I wanted my heroine to fight against these male constraints: to be a strong, feisty woman who breaks with convention and attempts to forge her own path. Despite her wayward behaviour and his own initial reluctance Gilan, a knight who has travelled to England with the exiled Henry of Bolingbroke, is the man who helps her. She achieves her goal—and wins a handsome knight at the same time!
Innocent’s Champion
Meriel Fuller
MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon, England, with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion… A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past and has made her research a special treat.
Contents
Summer 1399
‘What
‘Well?’ Katherine addressed her shrewishly, peering out from between the patterned curtains. ‘Oh, God Lord, stop bouncing me so!’ she snapped at the servants who each shouldered a wooden strut of the litter, one on each corner, endeavouring to carry their lady as carefully as possible along the rutted track. Katherine sank back into the padded cushions, her face grey-toned and wan, the rounded dome of her stomach protruding upwards into the gloom.
Matilda twisted one way, then the other, trying to spot the problem with the gown. The smooth blue silk of the skirts billowed out from below a jewelled belt set high on her narrow waist. One of the knights in the service of her brother-in-law, riding up front on a huge glossy destrier, smirked beneath his chain-mail hood, before he snapped his gaze smartly forwards once more.
‘It’s nothing,’ she called to Katherine. ‘A lump of sticky burr, snagged on the hem.’ Reaching down, she pulled at the clump of green trailing weed, throwing it to the side of the track. The dark chestnut silk of her hair, firmly pulled into two plaited rolls on either side of her neat head, gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the trees. A fine silver net covered her intricate hairstyle, secured with a narrow silver circlet.
‘Come and sit in with me, Matilda, please.’ A nervous desperation edged her sister’s voice as she stuck her head out between the thick velvet curtains that afforded her some privacy within the litter. Her face looked puffy, skin covered with a waxy gleam that emphasised the violet shadows beneath her eyes. Matilda glanced at the sun’s position, thick light pouring down through the beech trees lining the route. The fresh green leaves bobbed in the slight breeze, lifting occasionally to send brilliant shafts of illumination straight down to touch the hardened earth of the track. It hadn’t rained for weeks.
‘If I climb in, it will only slow us down, Katherine,’ Matilda answered. One of the servants carrying the front of the litter mopped his face with his sleeve. ‘We’re almost at the river now. It’s not far from there.’ Guilt scythed through her as she saw the panic touch Katherine’s worried blue eyes. ‘Here, I’ll walk closer, alongside you.’ Matilda reached out and grasped her sister’s hand, shocked by how cold and limp it felt. ‘Are you quite well?’ she said sharply.
The jewelled net covering Katherine’s hair sparkled as she nodded slowly. ‘I can feel the baby kicking inside me,’ she whispered. ‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Matilda replied, with more conviction than she felt. The cold sweat from Katherine’s fingers soaked her palm. From the haunted look in her eyes, Matilda knew her sister was remembering that awful time before. And the time before that.
‘Do you think our prayers will work? Do you think I’ve done enough?’
Matilda nodded, throwing her sister a quick reassuring smile. She certainly hoped so. She wasn’t sure Katherine could endure another fruitless labour, another baby born that failed to live, to breathe. John, Katherine’s husband, had insisted they visit the shrine as often as possible, providing them with a litter, servants and two household knights as escort. He was determined that this pregnancy would be successful. He needed an heir. A male heir.
Worry trickled through her; she kicked at a loose stone beneath her leather boot, sending it spinning into the long grass at the side of the track. Although Katherine was four years older, and a married woman, Matilda often felt as if she were the more mature sibling, looking out for her sister, protecting her. All day she had watched Katherine, crouched awkwardly on the hard, iron-coloured stone of the chapel, muttering her prayers, calling on the Virgin Mary to grant her a successful labour, tears running down her perfect, beautiful face. Matilda had had to help her to her feet, almost dragging her away from the carved wooden effigy; it was as if Katherine wanted to stay there for ever, as if the longer she stayed, the more chance she would have of a successful labour.
Matilda reached out and touched Katherine’s shoulder, a gesture of support. The raised embroidery of her sister’s gown rubbed against her fingertips. ‘Your baby will be born soon and he will be fine. You must stop fretting, Katherine...’
‘What will John do to me if...?’
‘You mustn’t think like that.’ Matilda gripped Katherine’s fingers tightly. She must say the things that Katherine wanted to hear, even if she didn’t believe them herself. ‘John loves you...’
‘I need to stop...now.’ Katherine’s voice had taken on a new urgency, her eyes flicking up, searching Matilda’s face for understanding. She hunched forwards over her swollen stomach. ‘Earlier...I had too much to drink.’
Matilda signalled to the servants to lower the litter, then grabbed Katherine’s upper arm to haul her out. ‘No, stay here,’ she ordered the men, who, relieved of the heavy weight on their shoulders, stretched out their arms to alleviate the soreness in their tired muscles.