The Knight's Fugitive Lady

One of her flailing legs made impact with his shin, jabbing painfully above the thickness of his boot, dousing the unexpected flare of feeling. His grip tightened about her as she struggled, mean little fists coming forwards to pummel his chest, to push and strain against his greater strength. Desperate to escape him, to escape that dangerous, deepening blue of his eyes, Katerina flung her weight backwards, hoping to dislodge the iron manacles of his arms in the risky manoeuvre. Her only wish was to release herself from the imprisoning clutch of his arms; if she hurt herself, then so be it.

He didn’t let go.

They fell together, a coiling, thrashing bundle, through the whispering leaves, the pale branches. He clung like a limpet, his big body curved resolutely around hers, trapping her arms, her legs, in a vice-like grip. A moment before she hit the pile of leaves, before she smacked her head on the solid lump of dead wood hidden beneath, she screamed out in frustration, a vent of sheer fury at her inability to dislodge this insufferable man.

His tremendous weight knocked the breath from her body as pain began to spread around the back of her skull. His thick arms and legs formed a cage around her, strangely comforting as the forest dimmed before her eyes. The trees and leaves lost colour, becoming shadows, black and white on the edge of her vision, the birdsong faded, then nothing.

* * *

‘Now what are you going to do?’ Lussac murmured. Beneath the curving wing of her coppery hair, her ear was pink with cold. He could see the soft, downy hairs on the lobe. He couldn’t remember the last time he had lain next to a woman and found it such a pleasurable experience. Despite the maid’s leanness, the smooth curve of her hip nestled comfortably into his stomach and through the flexible chainmail of his sleeve the rounded curve of her breast pressed, softly.

No answer.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, so he could see her face. Her eyelids had shuttered down, spiky black lashes fanning the chalky whiteness of her cheeks. The stupid chit had knocked herself out. Sitting up, he ran practised hands over her head, ignoring the silken coolness of her hair, finding the lump at the base of her skull, the bleeding cut. She moaned softly as he lifted her head; guilt spiked through him. He laid the back of his hand across her satin cheek; her breath sifted over his fingers. He had done this, he had provoked it—why hadn’t he left her alone? But the sheer unusualness of the maid had goaded him, made him curious, made him pursue her when he should have walked away.

‘Come on, woman, wake up.’ Placing two hands on her shoulders, he shook her gently. All of a sudden, he yearned for the spitting, fighting termagant who had fallen from the tree with him, not this limp, lifeless doll.

‘Need any help with that one, my lord?’

Rising to one knee, Lussac twisted around at the guttural tone, hands flying instinctively to the jewelled hilt of his sword, ready to attack.

A group of soldiers, on horseback, had found a pathway through the undergrowth. Isabella’s soldiers. He sheathed his sword, rose to his feet in one swift movement.

‘I see you managed to deal with the other one.’ Bomal, the oldest in the group, nodded in the direction of the silent, fallen figure. ‘A right pair of deviant characters, stealing rabbits from right under the Earl’s nose!’

‘Pair?’ Lussac asked, frowning. Surely there wasn’t another one like her? Every bone in his body wanted to turn around and see her eyes opening, to see her lift her head. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge.

‘Aye, that’s correct, my lord. We caught the other lad, forced him to take us to the nearest village, then let him go. We found enough food there.’ Bomal grinned, showing crooked, stained teeth, then frowned. ‘Should we have let him go? He was poaching rabbits, after all.’

‘Nay, it’s not our concern,’ Lussac replied curtly.

‘That one was the worst, anyway.’ Bomal nodded in the direction of Katerina’s limp figure beyond Lussac’s broad shoulder. ‘He must have pinched young John’s horse as well; we found it wandering in the woods. The utter cheek of the lad! He deserves a good walloping if nothing more...’ Dismounting, he started to head towards the figure.

‘Nay.’ Lussac stopped Bomal’s forward gait, his gloved hand snaking around the soldier’s stocky forearm. ‘Nay. You go back to the camp and pick up John on the way. I’ll deal with this one.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’ Bomal eyed him suspiciously. ‘Make sure you rough him up good and proper.’

Lussac stood in the small clearing, watching the squat, stocky soldier mount up, and the rest of the group kick the flanks of their horses to funnel away through the trees, leading the horse that the maid behind him had stolen. He could see his own horse some distance away, through the serried trunks, cropping idly at the spindly grass.

Why had he not mounted up and gone back with them?

He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The stretched skin between his thumb and forefinger still bore a trickle of blood, the imprint of teeth marks. Why was he staying to see if this spitting wildcat came back to her senses? A wildcat who sent needles of desire, oddly, spiking through his broad frame. He had no wish to think about her, no wish to talk with her. He needed to recall why he had come to this country, not engage in cat-like brawls with foolish maids.

It was guilt. Pure, unadulterated guilt. He wasn’t in the habit of using his strength against women, overpowering them; it felt wrong, unnatural. He tried to tell himself that the maid had got what she deserved, with her constant attempts to escape him, to best him. Why had she not given up? Why had she persisted? Either she was very, very stupid, or very, very brave. Whichever it was, he hated to think of where her outlandish behaviour would land her next.

He turned around. In a puddle of filtered light, the maid was sitting up on a mattress of shining leaves, a ray of sunlight firing her hair to a dazzling gold, a jewel-like beacon that snagged his gaze. Lussac breathed out: one long, measured breath of relief. Striding over to her, he picked up her boot where it had fallen.

‘Here.’ Lussac shoved the boot across her field of vision.

Feeling his shadow move across her, Katerina jerked her head back, a faint sickening sensation lilting through her skull. She willed herself to remain calm. As she reached up, the baggy sleeve of her tunic falling back to reveal her thin wrist, she snatched the boot from him, shoving her bare toes back into the unwieldy leather. Tilting her head back once more, she fixed him with a bold, defiant stare.

‘What have your thugs done with Waleran?’ Her voice cracked slightly, eyes darkening to stormy grey.

‘Who?’

Katerina folded her arms tightly across her belly, drawing in a deep, unsteady breath. What was this knight planning to do with her? ‘Waleran.’ She raised her voice in consternation. ‘My friend, Waleran. The one your soldiers kidnapped... My God, they might have killed him by now!’

In response, he hunkered down beside her, his big body surprisingly graceful, balancing easily on his heels. ‘No, he’s safe. They let him go.’

She reeled back at his presence, fighting the peculiar wavering sensations in her stomach. Had the knock on her head affected her more than she thought? A heady mix of wood-smoke, the briny tang of the sea swept over her: the scent of him. His eyes, chips of sapphire, blazed out from his lean, tanned face. Shifting uncomfortably beneath his stark, steady gaze, she wiggled her hips to try to inch away from him, backwards, acutely conscious of her helplessness.

‘How do I know what you say is true?’ she blurted out. ‘How can I trust what you say?’

‘You can’t.’ He shrugged his shoulders, his dry, clipped tone cutting across her emotional outburst.

‘So, if your soldiers let Waleran go, you’ll let me go as well, then,’ Katerina reasoned, clutching at her opportunity to escape, and scrambling, too quickly, on to her feet. Her head dipped and swayed, and she clutched at the back of her head, suddenly.

Lussac placed one hand on her shoulder, steadying her, watching the slight colour drain from her face. He cleared his throat, unsure what to say. Beneath her pewter gaze he felt strangely tongue-tied, awkward. ‘Go easy now, maid,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve had a nasty fall.’ Beneath his muscular fingers, her bones were bird-like, delicate.

‘No thanks to you,’ she retorted, rolling her shoulder back angrily to release his grip. ‘And take your hands off me; I have no need of your help.’ The silvery skin of his chainmail wavered and shimmered in front of her eyes. Narrowing her gaze, she focused on one of the gold fleur-de-lys emblazoned across his chest.

‘Let me take you home,’ he offered, ignoring her rudeness. ‘Do you live around here?’

‘No, there’s no need for that!’ Her words gabbled out in a rush of protest. The last thing she wanted was to spend any more time in this man’s company! She backed away from him, shaking her head. ‘It’s not far; you needn’t concern yourself.’

‘Oh, I’m not concerned,’ he replied mildly. ‘But I can’t leave you here, a maid alone, in the forest.’ He eyed her stumbling retreat with curiosity. Her look of horror. Did she not realise how vulnerable she was?

‘Believe me...’ she fixed the knight with what she hoped was a convincing expression ‘...I will be absolutely fine without your help. Dressed like this, no one will give me a second glance.’

He glanced at the tightly braided mass of bronze hair around her head, the delicate curve of her lips, her pale, luminous skin, and frowned. Even with her hood up, her fine features were exposed for all to see. And although her tunic was baggy and hid the true outline of her shape, the braies served only to highlight the slenderness of her calves. If Bomal or any of his soldiers had worked out she was a woman, then the outcome of this morning would have been very different for her.

‘I doubt that very much,’ he replied. ‘Come on. We’re wasting time here.’ He glanced up at the sun, striking a diagonal shaft through the whispering trees. The dappled light filtered down, casting shadows across the carved, sculptured planes of his face, firing the glossy strands of his dark-brown hair.

‘Don’t you have somewhere else you need to be?’ Katerina glared pointedly at his dark-blue tunic, the golden fleur-de-lys.

‘Yes,’ he said bluntly. ‘And you’re holding me up.’ He crossed his arms across the broad planes of his chest, head tipped slightly to one side, waiting.

Her heart lurched. She couldn’t go with him, wouldn’t go! She had no wish for this stranger, this foreign knight with his hard, flinty features, to know any more about her life than was necessary. It was enough that he had caught her red-handed, but to take her back to the camp, to see where she lived? Nay, that was inconceivable. Positioning her feet more firmly on the ground, Katerina wound her arms snugly across her chest, sticking her chin proudly in the air.

At her defiant gesture, Lussac laughed out loud, a rippling, throaty sound. His teeth were white against the tan of his face. ‘So, we have a stand-off,’ he declared. Would she stamp her feet, like his sister used to do when she couldn’t gain her own way? The laughter died within him at the sudden thought, then shrivelled up, like a burnt crisp of parchment rising from the fire. Sadness, a shard of glass, pierced his heart.

‘I haven’t got time for this,’ he said, stern now, long boots covering the ground with a fast powerful stride. ‘I am not going to hurt you. Even you, with your foolish ways, must surely know when you are beaten. Let’s go.’ Snaring her sleeve, he tugged her towards the place where his horse tore at the scant grass.

‘I don’t want to go with you,’ Katerina protested, her heels deliberately dragging through the fallen leaves. ‘I’ve told you, I will be fine.’

‘And I’ve told you that I will take you home, to a place where you will be safe.’ He rounded on her. Through the frayed sleeve of her tunic, the warmth from his fingers penetrated her cold forearm, scissoring erratically up to her chest, tumbling her heart with unexpected emotion.

A place where she would be safe. His words banged around the confines of her head. When was the last time she had felt safe? When her mother had been alive? The camp where she lived now provided a refuge, a hiding place, but it was not safe. Even now, she kept her wits about her, hugging her secrets tight to her chest, guarding her privacy. Who knew when or where her father’s hired spies would catch up with her?

‘All right, you can let go now, I’ll come with you.’ Katerina sighed reluctantly. She wasn’t a fool and this man was not about to be convinced of her safety. She suspected he would stand there all day like a statue, following her every move until she agreed to let him take her home.

His fingers fell from her arm as they reached his horse. She waited as he swept up his helmet and attached it to the back of the saddle, before gathering up the loose reins. He grinned suddenly; her expression was one of utter dismay.

‘Whoever would have thought it?’ he said. ‘A woman wanting to roam around alone, with no one to keep her safe. You must be seriously lacking up there...’ he tapped the side of his skull derisively ‘...if you think you’ll survive unscathed. A man would have you down on that ground with your undergarments off before you even had time to think, or scream.’ He turned abruptly, heading for the track that ran towards the outskirts of the forest.

Fuming, her pale face flushed with embarrassment at the rough, unsettling image he painted, Katerina stumbled after him. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and she dashed them away. Horrible, horrible man! Who was this stranger who had intruded so abruptly, so violently into her life? Who shot massive holes through her hard-won sense of security? Hating him, she trudged in his wake, eyes burning resentment.

He hadn’t even turned around to see if she were following. He knew he had won.

Chapter Four

Beneath a vast bowl of cerulean sky, Lussac marched along, covering the ground with quick, long-legged strides. On the outskirts of his peripheral vision, he could see the bright blaze of the maid’s hair as she followed him, the wisps of amber silk curling out from beneath her hood. He knew he was walking too fast for her, but refused to curb his pace—let the chit suffer a little, for wasting his time, for giving him the run-around in the forest. But despite his speed, she seemed to have little difficulty in keeping up with him, her steps light and dancing across the stiff, dry grass.

The back of Katerina’s head ached as she squinted grumpily at the man’s broad back, his shoulders silhouetted against the sky. They were clear of the trees now, tracking back towards the coast, working their way alongside an immense flat area of tidal creeks and rivulets, a grid of shining ribbons empty of water now, but covered at high tide. Against her better judgement, she had given him scant details of the camp’s location, based at the Earl of Norfolk’s castle where they were due to perform the following night. Anything to be rid of him!

Lussac stopped, surveying the horizon. The shore and river estuary were to the east, the forest at his back to the north. The strong breeze from the east riffled the straight hair across his forehead, tousling the strands. The strong noon light cast shadows beneath his high cheek-bones, giving him a devilish appearance.

An icy shudder seized Katerina’s bones. She hunkered further down into her tunic, yanking her hood more securely around her head. The breeze sneaked beneath the sagging, extended hem, flowing up across her belly, her chest.

‘Are you cold?’ he said. Lifting one hand, he rubbed it against the back of his neck; the weight of his chainmail pressed against his fingers. He was certain that beneath her loose tunic she wore nothing but a thin chemise, and her feet had been bare, he remembered. And despite the sun, the breeze from the sea drove fiercely against their faces.

‘No. I’m not.’

He raised his eyebrows at the fragile stutter in her speech, frowning pointedly at her slight, trembling frame. A fiery pink blotched her cheeks, her pearl-white skin smacked into colour by the driving wind. He carried spare clothes in his saddle-bags, a woollen rug that he could offer her but, judging by her mutinous expression, her stubborn stance, he suspected she would refuse all offers of help. So be it.

‘Which way?’ he demanded.

‘Over there.’ Katerina pointed. ‘Can you see the turrets of the castle? It belongs to the Earl of Norfolk.’

He nodded, starting to walk again. ‘Do you work there?’

‘Yes,’ she lied. The less he knew about her working situation, the better. She fell into step beside him, not too close, and matched her pace to his. His horse plodded along behind them, docile on the rein.

‘And is your husband there? Your family?’

‘What?’ Unprepared for his question, the toe of her boot snagged on a protruding tussock of grass and she pitched forwards, stumbling into Lussac’s left flank. Seeking balance, she snaked her hand out, fingers hooking around his wide leather sword belt. Her knuckles pressed into his back, a flat wall of solid muscle. A wobbling excitement shot up her arm at the contact, bursting, visceral.

She snatched her fingers away, pressing them against her mouth, aghast. ‘Forgive me...’ she swallowed hurriedly ‘...I lost my footing.’

‘No matter.’ His mouth twisted up into a half-smile. ‘I was asking you about your family.’

‘Er, yes. Yes, they are there.’ She chewed anxiously on her bottom lip, reddening the flesh. How different it was to walk alongside this huge bear of a man, compared to the easy companionship of Waleran. All the nerve endings in her body seemed to turn in his direction, like flowers towards the sun, drinking in his vitality, his power, alert to his every move, the low sound of his voice. This man threw her off balance, in more ways than one, befuddling her mind with questions, undermining her hard-won confidence, security. She couldn’t think straight. How much longer could she keep this up? How much longer before she said something that would give herself away, reveal her secrets? Throwing a nervous glance forwards, she saw the white flash of the tents come into view and almost wilted with relief. Her salvation.

* * *

As the sun reached its zenith, the last remaining wisps of cloud vanishing in the heat of noon, Katerina tramped back into camp. Lifting her eyes to absorb the familiar scenes around her, she breathed out: a long, hard sigh. Her tense muscles eased. She had got rid of him, shaken off his overpowering presence. By the castle gatehouse she had convinced the dark stranger with his pitiless eyes of turquoise that she worked in the Earl of Norfolk’s castle, and that, yes, her family were within and she was safe. And he had turned away with a quick nod of instant dismissal. She was glad of it, welcomed it.

Katerina walked towards the circle of patched and stained canvas tents. The troupe, some twenty adults, had set up on a flattish patch of lumpy ground outside the perimeter walls of the castle. The soldiers, patrolling on top of the high wall, would stop and look down on them every so often, watching them practise their acts, or to listen to the music. Huge logs, ashy and blackened, smouldered fitfully within a rough boundary of stones; it was the children’s responsibility to collect up enough wood to keep the camp-fire burning day and night, but at the moment most of the children were rushing around, their screams high-pitched and giggling, trying to hide from each other in an extended game of tig.

Over to the right, nearest to the castle moat, the musicians of the troupe ran through their repertoire, Galen’s thin, reedy frame thumping the tight animal skin of his drum, the beat thumping solidly, rhythmically through the air. The other musicians joined in gradually with their pipes, whistles and fiddles. Thomas was on the bagpipes, with old Henry turning the clanking handle of the hurdy-gurdy. The resulting music was invigorating, overlaid with dramatic intensity, designed to excite the audience with the promise of the exhilarating entertainment to come.

Katerina’s heart lifted at the sight of them; within the troupe, she had a place, a valued role. Her act alone had gained the group a certain fame, and, instead of knocking on doors, they were specifically requested to perform for some of the highest-ranking nobles in the land. There was no chance she would be recognised; as long as she maintained a low profile during the day, her elaborate costume and mask would keep her true identity a secret.

And yet, today, she had been exposed, her disguise stripped bare in the most brutal way, beaten by a man and floored completely. A niggle of dissatisfaction lodged firmly in her gut. How had she let herself be caught like that? She never would have believed that he would scramble up the tree after her! A pair of twinkling turquoise eyes, smug, victorious, barged into her mind’s eye, and she closed her eyes, a futile attempt to rid herself of the unsettling image.

A tent flap, spotted with black mould, flapped back. The top of a greasy head appeared, followed by huge shoulders, a vast belly straining against the coarse weave of a tunic. It was John: the leader of the troupe, the man who doled out the coin at the end of every performance, the man who decided whether their skills were good enough, whether they stayed or left.

‘You took your time,’ he growled, spotting Katerina as he straightened up. ‘Get out of my way!’ he yelled at one of the children who sprinted, shrieking, pursued by another child across his feet. He kicked out, but the children were too fast to feel the imprint of his boot. ‘Waleran’s been back for ages!’ Set in the protruding dirty-white of his eyes, his dark-brown irises seemed very small.

‘Is he here? Is he all right?’ She glanced around the camp, seeking her friend. Waleran was safe!

‘Fine. The soldiers roughed him up a bit, but no harm done,’ John growled. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I went to look for him, became lost in the forest.’ She wriggled her shoulders unconsciously, remembering the press of the man’s body against her own as he grabbed her, held her. Warmth surged across her belly at the memory, stirred deep; she pressed cool palms to her hot cheeks.

‘Well, you’d better start practising,’ John said. The bluish-grey skin on his cheeks pulled slack, puffy around his jawbone. ‘We’re performing tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Katerina replied, shocked. ‘Surely we all need a day’s rest? Our last performance was only a night ago!’ She refused to be cowed by John’s bullying behaviour. He needed her, and her performance, and that knowledge gave her a semblance of power.

‘Aye, tonight, cloth-ears,’ John cackled at her. ‘For the Earl of Norfolk himself. He has unexpected guests, important ones, so you’d better start practising now. We can’t afford any mistakes; it has to be perfect.’ He turned away, going over to yell at one of the musicians who continually blew a wrong note.

Katerina wilted with exhaustion. Her whole body ached from the encounter in the forest; the last thing she wanted to do was perform this evening. But she had little choice in the matter; John was her employer, the man who paid out the wages and decided who was in, or out, of the troupe. It wouldn’t do to fall on the wrong side of his temper. She had no wish to be kicked out; the troupe was her livelihood, her life. Without it, she wouldn’t survive.

* * *

Lussac followed Philippe’s rounded shoulders up the spiralling staircase, the soles of his calf-leather boots making little sound on the worn limestone steps. A riot of gold banding against limpid blue, the glowing translucency of the evening sky pushed through the thin arrow slits set at intervals into the curve of the outer wall, shedding a feeble light into the stairwell. The day slunk quickly into twilight, but the hours of daylight would grow shorter still; they had yet to reach mid-winter.