‘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.

AUTHOR NOTE

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Summer 1399—south-west England

‘What is that? On the bottom of your gown? Actually, my gown.’ Katherine’s peevish tones emerged, shrill, from the shadowed interior of the covered litter. Striding alongside, Matilda slackened her brisk pace at the sound of her sister’s voice, glancing down at the hem of her skirts. In the cloying heat of the afternoon, the heavily pleated silk bodice stuck to the skin around her chest and shoulders; the high neck, buttoned tightly around her throat to the pale curve of her chin, made her feel constricted, trapped. Her sister had insisted she wear the elaborate gown, with a light-blue cloak to match, indicating with turned-down mouth that none of Matilda’s clothing were suitable for visiting the Shrine of Our Lady at Worlebury.

‘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. Let him laugh, thought Matilda. She was used to being told off by her older sister and paid little heed to it. Katherine was suffering greatly in this late stage of pregnancy and this heavy, torpid heat wasn’t helping matters.

‘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.

‘My lady...?’ One of the knights dismounted. ‘I should come with you...’ he offered dubiously, his gaze sliding quickly over Katherine’s stomach bulging out beneath the waistband of her gown.

Honestly, these men, thought Matilda, noting the young soldier’s reddening features. They treated pregnancy as if it were a disease! Something to be ashamed of, despite the fact it was the most natural thing in the world. She knew that the growing baby increased the amount of times Katherine needed to visit the garderobe, and when there was no garderobe available...well, the shelter of the trees and shrubs would have to do.

Leaning into the litter, Matilda seized her bow, shouldering the quiver full of arrows. She caught the glancing grin of a servant as he eyed the curved wood of her weapon. Let them think what they like, she thought irritably. It never hurt for a lady to know how to defend herself, especially one with her own precarious domestic arrangements.

‘No need, we’ll not be long. We’ll go over that little bridge, into that ruin behind the trees.’ Matilda pointed out a low-lying packhorse bridge spanning the river’s swift flow and the tumbled stones of a collapsed tower. She tucked her arm through Katherine’s and the two sisters walked together with a laboured, ambling pace through the soft, swaying grasses of the riverside.

Their progress up the steep cobbled surface of the bridge was slow; Katherine’s face reddened, sheened with sweat. ‘This heat, this heat affects me so,’ she gasped, as she reached the apex of the bridge. Pausing, she bent forwards, pressing one hand against the rickety parapet, her scalloped-edge sleeve falling in a graceful arc against the warm stone.

‘Why not take your cloak off?’ Matilda suggested, eyeing the rectangle of red silk-velvet that fell back from Katherine’s shoulders. It matched her own cloak of light blue, fastened across the neck with a fine silver chain and secured with a pearl clasp on one shoulder.

Katherine shuddered, fixing her sister with a horrified glance. ‘To be seen in public without a cloak? Are you out of your mind? Really, Matilda, you have no sense of propriety!’

Matilda shrugged her shoulders. ‘I only thought it would make you cooler,’ she replied. ‘You shouldn’t be travelling at all, at this stage of your pregnancy. I’m surprised that John—’

‘It was he that insisted upon it!’ Katherine interrupted. ‘You know what he’s like...’

Yes, thought Matilda. She knew what John was like. Arrogant and overbearing, with a short, irascible temper, he was unbearable at the best of times and ten times worse if things didn’t go the way he wanted. On his marriage to Katherine, he had made no secret of his joy at inheriting one half of the Lilleshall fortune: the castle at Neen and its vast tracts of fertile pasture. Now, it seemed, this was not enough for him; he had begun to drop very large hints about how he should be controlling the other half, the manor and estates of Lilleshall itself, still in the possession of Matilda and Katherine’s mother.

As Matilda steered her sister carefully down the other side of the bridge and into the shadowed privacy behind the toppled stones of the tower, Katherine clutched at her arm, her long fingers surprisingly strong. ‘You will stay with me, Matilda? Until I give birth? I need you to be there with me at Neen...do you promise?’

‘Katherine, you know I have to return to Lilleshall... I cannot promise that I will be there all the time.’

Lifting her skirts above the fallen stones to pick her way through the jumbled mass, Katherine pinned angry eyes on her sister. ‘Only because our useless mother refuses to do what she’s supposed to do!’

‘Katherine, that’s not fair! You know how she’s been since Father died.’ Matilda raised one hand to an errant curl of dark chestnut hair, tucking it back behind her ear. ‘I have to go back, to make sure the estate is running properly. You know that.’

‘Aye,’ Katherine whispered, her lumpy figure lurching with a curious side-to-side motion across the moss-covered stones. ‘I’m sorry, I know how our mother suffers. It’s only that I’m so worried about this baby...’

‘I will stay with you as much as I can.’ Matilda patted her hand. But to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow. There was so much to do at Lilleshall at this time of year; although the crops had been planted and were growing well in this hot weather, she now had to turn her attention to the early harvests.

‘Can they see me?’ Bunching her skirts about her knees, Katherine made her way awkwardly into the undergrowth behind the tower, bristly thistles scratching at the delicate embroidery of her skirts. Butterflies fluttered lazily through the wild, verdant growth: the feathery purple grass heads, red sorrel gathered in scrappy clusters, the yellow-fringed hawkbit flower.

‘Wait. Let me check.’ Leaving her sister, Matilda placed one foot on a crumbling staircase that ran diagonally upwards across a section of wall, and peeked out at their escort. Two of the servants had taken the opportunity to sit on the dried earth, setting their tired backs against the framework of the litter. One chewed idly at a piece of long grass, drawing the freshness from the end of the stem. She caught a ribald chuckle from one of the knights, his head bent as he listened to the other, no doubt telling some bawdy tale.

‘They can’t see us.’ Matilda laughed softly, tripping gracefully back down the steps. ‘We’re well hidden here.’

Squatting down, Katherine closed her eyes in relief.

Matilda helped her to her feet and Katherine adjusted her gown. ‘How do I look?’ Katherine asked once she had straightened up, her eyes narrowing across the bulk of her belly.

Matilda set her head on one side, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘How do you look? You’re asking me?’ she declared in mock horror. ‘Since when do you trust my judgement on appearance?’

Katherine drifted one wan hand across her forehead. ‘Don’t tease, Matilda. You know how John likes me to look my best. Is anything amiss?’

‘You look perfect, as always,’ Matilda reassured her. Her sister’s sable hair maintained a neat, rigid parting, twisted into two identical knots either side of her head. All the buttons that secured the tight neck of her gown were in place, straight. Not a speck of dirt, leaves or travel dust stained the finely woven red material of Katherine’s gown. It was a source of constant surprise to their mother that, despite being so physically similar, the two sisters could not have been more different in character and their approach to life. Where Katherine was neat, Matilda was messy, untidy. Where Katherine was demure, simpering, Matilda was argumentative, stubborn.

A shout split the air: the outraged roar of a man.

Shocked by the harsh, guttural sound, Matilda grabbed Katherine’s arm, listening intently.

Then came a sickening sound of splintering wood, of clashing metal. From the other side of the river, the knights cursed, rough voices raised in alarm.

‘Oh, God!’ Katherine sagged in Matilda’s hold, her eyes wide and fearful. ‘What’s going on?’

Through the dry, heavy air came the distinctive whirr of an arrow. Then another, travelling straight and true. Matilda knew the sound, was familiar with it. Icy fear slicked her heart.

‘Wait here!’ She skipped up the steps once more, cloak and gown trailing behind her, the lightweight silk dragging against the coarse-cut stone. From the vantage point at the top, leaves casting dappled shade across her pale, worried face, she watched in horror as one knight toppled sideways from his horse, gripping his shoulder in agony. Blood poured from between his fingers, soaking his surcoat. Wheeling his horse around, the other knight drew his sword, flicking his eyes around, searching for their attackers. The servants, realising what was happening, started shouting and running around haphazardly, delving frantically in the litter for the one or two weapons they had brought to defend themselves.

‘Matilda...? What is it?’ Katherine was on her feet now, standing at the bottom of the steps, one arm bent protectively around her stomach.

‘Ssh! Stay down!’ A horrible weakness sapped the strength in Matilda’s knees; her fingers drove into the shattered limestone of the tower, searching for purchase, for equilibrium. She spun away from the open space that had once been a window and flattened herself against the wall, heart thumping in her chest. ‘The knights... They’re being attacked!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Katherine, get away from here! You need to hide!’

‘But you...?’

Matilda held up her bow. ‘I will hold them off as long as possible. You must get away from here, Katherine. Now. Find somewhere safe.’

* * *

With a practised flick of the reins, Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles, slowed his gleaming destrier to a walk, urging the animal towards the group of knights gathered at the river’s edge. Beneath the heavy metal breastplate, his skin prickled with sweat. He longed to rip it off. Steel plates dragged at his muscled arms; his fingers itched within his gauntlets. Pulling them off, he threw them to the ground, then lifted his hands to unstrap his helmet, resting it on the horse’s neck. The quiet breeze sifted through his hair, lifting the bright, corn-coloured strands, cooling his hot scalp. His piercing, metallic gaze swept the area where they had stopped, eyes set deep within thick, black lashes.

‘Fancy a swim?’ Henry, Duke of Lancaster, strode towards him across the soggy, hoof-marked mud, his short, stocky body moving with an unexpected grace. Several knights had already divested themselves of their armour, the glinted steel discarded messily on the ground amidst the horses. Now they plunged into the fast-flowing river with shouts of glee, scooping up handfuls of clear, sparkling water and splashing each other, like children.

Gilan handed his helmet down to one of the soldiers. The burnished metal glowed in the afternoon sun. He frowned down at Henry. ‘Are you certain we have time? There are still several hours of daylight left.’

Henry grinned. ‘The men are tired, Gilan. Not everyone can keep going as long as you can. And by my judgement it will take only a couple of more days to reach our destination. Let’s rest here tonight and move on in the morning.’

Gilan shrugged his shoulders, nodded. Whatever Henry’s decision was, it made little difference to him. Eventually, he would have to go back to his parents’ home, but he was happy to delay that return as long as possible. Unconsciously, he kneaded the muscles in his thigh, trying to ease the ache in the scarred tissue. He swung his leg over the horse’s rump, dismounted.

‘You push yourself too hard,’ Henry said, clapping his friend on the back. ‘Most of my men are not in as good a shape as you. I have to make sure you don’t run them into the ground, so they are useless when it comes to finding King Richard.’

‘As long as we keep our wits about us, Henry.’ Gilan watched the knights in the water through narrowed silver eyes. ‘This is hostile country, remember.’

‘How can I forget?’ Henry replied, the smile slipping from his face. He stuck one hand through the russet-gold strands of his hair. ‘Banished to France by my own cousin, the king, just so he could grab at my fortune with his grubby little hands.’

‘Which is why we are here.’ Gilan grinned, white teeth flashing within his smile. ‘To grab it back.’ Gathering up his reins, he moved towards the water’s edge, pushing aside the jostling, sweating horseflesh to gain access. His stallion’s head nudged at his shoulder, keen to reach the water. Some of the knights had moved out into the middle of the river now, swimming properly in the stronger, deeper current, but others had climbed out, undergarments dripping around their knees, drying themselves on the large squares of linen extracted from their saddle-bags. Farther along the river, where the flow narrowed between higher banks to cut through the meadow, swallows flicked low, catching at the flying insects above the water.

The wet mud at the water’s edge darkened the travel-stained leather of Gilan’s calf-length boots, oozing up around the soles. Henry appeared at his side, barrel chest clad only in a white shirt, loose drawers flapping about his legs. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ he asked again.

Gilan shook his head. ‘Later.’ His arm jerked sharply down as the horse pulled against the reins, desperate to drink. A cluster of mosquitoes danced crazily above the water’s surface and he slapped at his neck, irritably.

A hoarse scream rent the sticky air. Then another. The sound barged incongruously into the torpid languor of the afternoon.

Gilan dropped his reins immediately, lean, tanned fingers seizing the jewelled hilt of his sword, drawing it with a long, steely hiss. ‘You, and you—’ he jabbed his finger at a couple of knights standing by the river, still fully clothed ‘—come with me, now.’

Henry had already turned, was clambering back out of the water. ‘No, you stay here,’ Gilan growled at him. ‘I am dispensable. You are not.’

* * *

Despite the significant weight of his breastplate, Gilan ran surprisingly quickly for a large man, the sturdy length of his legs pacing along the track with the strength and agility of a cat, his step fast and sure. Moving swiftly away from the sunlit bank where they had stopped, he and the two other knights followed the river upstream to the point where it ran into woodland: large beech trees trailed delicate branches into the water like brilliant hair braids, tickling the mirrored surface. With no time to seize his helmet, his thick golden hair shone out from the shadowed gloom beneath the trees, where the air pressed in choking layers, ominous, vaguely threatening.

Was it only a couple of months since he and Henry had forged their way through the frozen Lithuanian forests? Slashed back the impenetrable undergrowth where no horse could make progress, felled the brambles and the spent nettles, fixed in ice? Sometimes the snow had been so deep that their horses were forced to plough through man-made trenches, picking their way through towering walls of snow. He had relished that hardship, the impossible landscape that they had to work around, those icy, hostile conditions. They suited him, suited his current frame of mind after... He shook his head smartly, dispelling his thoughts. A wave of grief crested through him, but he clamped it down. Nay, he would not think of that now.

Crouching into the bank, Gilan rammed a broad, muscled shoulder into a bunch of glossy ferns growing high and indicated with a quick, decisive handsignal that his knights should do the same. Up ahead, he could see a covered litter set upon the ground, patterned curtains fluttering outwards in the warm air, like spent butterfly wings. A soldier lay sprawled in the dirt, his face white-grey, his hand pressed against his shoulder; despite his motionless appearance, Gilan could see his eyes were beginning to open. And beyond this fallen knight, other men were fighting, scuffling, hands at each other’s throats, swords swinging, their grunting efforts rising hoarsely.

Springing away from the bank, Gilan jumped towards them, raising the sparkling blade of his sword before him with a roar, and hurled himself into the writhing, spitting mass. Grabbing one man round the neck, he pulled him out of the fray, kicking him in the back of the shins so that he buckled easily.

‘Kneel. Hands on the back of your head where I can see them.’ He signalled to one of his knights to keep guard, his voice guttural, harsh, barking orders.

‘It was them, they attacked us!’ the man was babbling, as he fell to his knees in the soft dirt.

An arrow whistled past Gilan, quiver feathers whispering against his ear. It stuck into the earth opposite him, the shaft bouncing violently with the force of the shot. Too close! He whirled angrily, searching for the archer. A shot like that could only have come from some distance, so someone was watching them from afar. His eyes swept along the river, through the sibilant trees and bulky trunks to a small stone bridge, a crumbling wall of loose stones blotched with orangey-yellow lichen.

And the glint of an arrowhead, peeking out from a high spot on the ruined tower.

His knights were bringing the fight to a close. Already three men were on the ground, hands bound behind their backs, heads bent, subdued. One more man to bring down and his situation appeared increasingly precarious. Gilan sank back into the shadows, using the substantial tree trunks as cover. His boots made no sound as he crept through the waist-high cow parsley, his legs brushing against the delicate, white-lace flowers. Crossing by the bridge was no good, being in full view of the tower. He would slink back along the path, cross the river at a lower point. The element of surprise had always served him well.

Chapter Two

Bracing her body against the thick stone, Matilda reached up to extract another arrow from the narrow bag on her back. Adrenaline rattled through her veins; her hands shook so much she was finding it difficult to shoot straight. Her trembling limbs skewed her aim. But every time she peered around the wall, there seemed to be more men down there! The gang’s reinforcements had obviously arrived, armed with swords and short daggers, big and fearsome looking, some even wearing armour that they no doubt had filched from somewhere. For one tiny moment, she considered the possibility of running, of running and hiding with her sister. But the thought of cowering behind a tree trunk, waiting for the thugs to finally catch up with them, seemed a far worse situation than the one she was in right now, tackling the problem head-on. Fine, she might lose, but at least she had tried.

She had missed that last shot, but he wouldn’t be so lucky next time, that huge ruffian who’d appeared from nowhere, with his wild thatch of blond hair. Drawing air deep into her lungs, Matilda fought to control her breathing, the reckless thump in her chest. How many times had she practised, how many times had she drawn back the gut string and sighted an arrow on the target since her brother, Thomas, had given her this bow? But her days and days of endless practising had not prepared her for the real thing. How could she have known that her heart would beat in panic; that her knees would weaken and quiver with nerves at the sight of their household knights falling to the ground; that her fingers would shake uncontrollably as she fitted the arrow up to the bowstring? Her own cowardice conspired against her. Gritting her teeth, she prayed that Katherine had found a good hiding place.

Lifting the bow, she set the arrow in a horizontal line from the edge of her ear, training the point down into the chaotic scene of fighting below, moving her shoulder fractionally to pinpoint an enemy target. The arrow shaft was warm against her cheek.

‘You there! Stop!’ The harsh command hit her like a blow, a deep guttural voice slicing through the air.

In shock, she jolted forwards, the loosened arrow dropping, bouncing down across the tumble of stones to the deep water below. She whirled around, aghast, horrified. A man was running towards her, advancing swiftly. She staggered back in fright, her feet snagging in the bunched train of her gown, heels clipping the low edge of stone. Her bow clattered down on the rickety steps. In a vain attempt to balance herself, her slim arms flew out, like the wings of an angel, scrabbling futilely at the sides of the window to prevent herself falling.

‘No!’ Matilda wailed, a terrified, drawn-out howl, as her body tipped backwards, toes losing contact with the rubble-strewn step. She had the briefest impression of sunlit hair, diamond eyes, of a cloak billowing out from broad shoulders as the man sped up towards her.

She fell.

Gathered skirts rippled around her slender form as she flew gracefully through the air, her cloak spreading like a vast wing behind her, before she smacked the cold water below with a sharp, outraged cry. The bag of arrows loosened from her shoulder, drifted off in the current of water, downstream.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, turning and running back out of the tower. Momentarily blinded by the sun, all he had seen was the blurry outline of a figure poised to shoot, and the shining glint of the arrow. Shouting up, he had assumed the archer to be a man. But when the figure turned and screamed with high-pitched girlishness, he had realised his mistake. The archer was a woman.

Guilt flooded through him; he squashed it down as he vaulted the collapsed boundary wall. Man or woman, it didn’t change the fact that the archer had been determined to stick an arrow between his shoulder blades. Determined to kill him. He charged through the swaying grass at the edge of the river and waded in, eyes focused on the concentric circles of water where the maid had disappeared. Water soaked his boots, the dun-coloured wool of his chausses. Luckily, he chose not to wear plate armour on his legs, which would have weighed him down. Beneath the surface he could see blue cloth shimmering, swirling in the current, and the pale gleam of skin rising up. A neat head bobbed up in the warm, summer air, coughing and gasping, water sluicing across a sweet, heart-shaped face that shone like alabaster. Small hands flayed out, trying to float, to swim, before she sank again beneath the glittering water.

He propelled himself forwards, digging his arms down into the crystal-clear liquid, scooping his hands beneath the girl’s armpits and hauling up the spitting, screeching mass of femininity. The sound clashed in his ears, an ear-splitting caterwauling that made his brain ache. He winced as her screams crested over him, holding the maid’s lissom weight at arm’s length, wondering if she was ever going to stop. Coils of sable hair looped crazily on each side of her head, several silver pins threatening to dislodge; her dress and cloak clung to her like a second skin, emphasising the firm, delectable curve of her bosom, the narrow curve of her waist.

‘Let...go...of me!’ she spluttered, huge blue eyes scorched with fury. ‘You barbarian!’ She swung one bunched fist in his direction, her arm swinging woefully short of its intended destination. The gleam of his breastplate mocked her.

‘Stop this!’ he bellowed at her. The taut lines of his face were rigid, hard.

Hampered by great swathes of wet, sticky material, her arms flailed towards him, struck out at the tanned, handsome features, the grey-coloured eyes, as she wriggled violently, arching back against his hold.

‘Stop right now!’ he warned again, eyes darkening to smouldering pewter. ‘Otherwise I will drop you.’

Blood roared in her ears, blotting out his words. Oh, Lord, he’s going to kill me, Matilda thought, panic flooding her solar plexus. She had to get away from him! Thrashing about in his arms, churning her legs through the water as if she were running, she fought against the brute’s imprisoning grip. Who knew what this strong-armed bully had in store for her? Rape, or a knife in her side? She had no intention of finding out.

She lunged forwards, fear giving her strength. Her sharp fingernails made contact with one hard cheekbone, slicing across his skin. A single line of blood appeared, oozing down the shadowed cleft of his cheek.

‘Why, you little...’ Stunned by the maid’s temerity, unprepared for her attack, Gilan loosened his grip on the floundering, squirming woman.

He let her drop.

Watched as she sank below the surface once more, her screeching outrage silenced. So be it. Let the little spitfire learn her lesson the difficult way, he thought, arms crossed smugly across his breastplate. He would wait here until she ran out of breath, until she was forced to take in air. And he would be ready for her.

As the cool, limpid water closed over her head, Matilda held her breath, moving her arms in a wide arc in an attempt to swim away from him, underwater. But her extravagant gown, her cloak, with their yards and yards of fabric, dragged her down, the sodden material acting like lead weights on her legs, pulling at her feet, her hips, making any forward movement impossible. Her own clothes hobbled her. She wanted to weep at the sheer futility of her efforts.

Defeated, she drifted down, knees resting on the river’s stony bottom, the tiny, brilliant pebbles poking sharply into her shins. How long would he wait? A peculiar heat burned the lining of her lungs, eroding her capacity to breathe; through the clear water she could see the man’s legs encased in well-fitting chausses, brawny muscle roping his thighs, boots planted sturdily astride. He would grow bored soon, surely, and go away. The water flowed across her face and neck, soothing her skin, and her mind began to dance, strange flickering lights pulsing across the darkness of her inner mind.

‘God’s teeth!’ Gilan cursed, swiftly realising that the maid had no intention of surfacing again. He reached for her, big thumbs gouging into the soft flesh of her armpits as he hauled her up from the depths. ‘Do you truly want to drown?’ he shouted at her, his strong fingers gripping beneath her shoulders. What was the maid playing at?

Her body was limp, head hanging forwards so that it drooped towards his chest, her soaking hair dripping water across his breastplate. Her silver circlet tilted crazily, the net that secured the coils of her hair hanging down like limp lace, stuck to her ashen cheeks. ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’ he exclaimed, sweeping one hand beneath her knees so the length of her body was shoved up high against his chest. The faintest smell of lavender rose to his nostrils, the delicate scent of her wet skin. Her head lolled back crazily against his shoulder, loosened hair straggling down across the pleated fall of his cloak.

Sloshing towards the bank, the generous arc of her hem sweeping through the shallows, he carried the maid easily. Despite the amount of water absorbed by her clothes, she weighed nothing, fragile in his arms. Kneeling down carefully, he tipped her onto the bank, where the grass grew long and lush. He bent his head to her mouth, catching the flimsy shift of air against his cheek. So the chit was alive, in spite of her best efforts to drown herself.

Black lashes fanned down over pale cheeks, thick lashes spiked with delicate drops of water, diamonds clinging to velvet feathers. Her face was a delicate oval, devoid of any colour. A small sigh escaped her lips; she moved her head restlessly against the hot grass. Beside them, crickets clicked and whirred.

‘Come on,’ he ordered briskly, cupping his hand around one narrow shoulder, shaking her gently. Faced with the barely conscious maid, he felt awkward, at a loss as to how to treat her. He spent most of his time in the company of other soldiers, pitting his wits against the elements and the enemy. It was a harsh life, unforgiving, but infinitely preferable to lounging around at the royal courts, flirting with the ladies and eating sweetmeats.

But now, one of those ladies lay prone at his feet, her small-boned frame pillowed in the lush, verdant grass. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with her. She was of noble stock; her hair was elaborately styled and her clothes were of silk, intricately embroidered; expensive gemstones studded her jewelled belt. A couple of pearl buttons at her neck had come adrift; the gaping fabric exposed a frantic pulse beating against her throat: white skin, translucent, fragile. His eyes tracked down to her mouth, the beautiful full curve of her bottom lip, stained with a delicate rose colour. His senses jolted, a warm feeling curling across his midriff. He frowned.

‘Wake up!’ he said, louder this time. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ How had he even managed to become caught up in this mess? He should have ignored the shouts, turned his back on the situation. Henry would be along in a moment to see what was keeping him. He swallowed the thought that the maid was fortunate not to have been killed; if she hadn’t fallen, he would have run her through with his sword, thinking her to be a man. She was lucky to be alive.

Her eyelids fluttered open; she observed him hazily for a moment. Her eyes were blue, enormous in her oval face, the lilac-blue of forget-me-nots. Limpid eyes, stunning.

Desire surged through him. Shocked, he sat back abruptly on his heels, tamping down the lurch of pleasure, annoyed with himself, annoyed at his body’s response. With her hair dishevelled and her gown askew, the maid was a mess, with a shrewish tongue as well, if her reaction to him in the river was anything to go by. And yet his body had responded to her like a callow youth in the first flush of romance. He was at a loss to explain it.

Her gaze sharpened, turning to an expression of sheer terror, her pupils dilating in fright as she remembered where she was, who he was. She opened her mouth.

‘No!’ He held up his hands, palms flat. ‘No, please don’t scream. Not again. I told you I’m not going to hurt you!

Spine pressed back into lumpy ground, Matilda focused on the stern lines of the man’s face, the forbidding slash of his mouth, his tousled hair. He looked like a Viking of old, a barbarian who had waded in from the longships, raiding and ransacking everything in their path. An expanse of grey metal plate covered his huge chest; his arms were covered in flexible chain mail. Impenetrable eyes, the colour of rain-washed granite, bore into her.

Breath punched from her lungs in fear; she shook her head from side to side. ‘No, I...don’t...believe...you,’ she managed to stutter out. The cold stickiness of her clothes seeped into her bones. ‘You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’ Her voice rose, wobbling, on a wave of shrill hysteria.

To her surprise, the man lifted his chin and laughed. The sun caught the rich wheat colour of his hair, augmenting the vigorous strands to shining gold. ‘Believe me, if I was going to kill you, I would have done it by now.’

Well, that was reassuring. Lying prone and limp beneath his intimidating perusal, Matilda glared at him, chewing at her bottom lip, unsure. She needed to sit up, stand up and face him, eye to eye, but right at this moment, a debilitating weakness sapped her strength, made her muscles floppy. What was the matter with her?

‘What were you playing at, shooting at us like that?’ Kneeling at her side, the man spoke with the cool, modulated tones of the nobility, and his clothes, despite being travel-worn, were of good quality.

‘You attacked us!’ she hissed, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. Pressing her hands back into the grass, she struggled into a seated position. It was a mistake. With this hulk of a man right next to her, his rough-hewn features and exquisitely carved mouth were on a level with her own, too close! She shifted her hips, straining her body backwards to create a bigger space between them. His nearness unsettled her. ‘You attacked defenceless women, attacked our knights, our servants!’

‘Not me, not us.’ He shook his head, blond hair falling across his temple. The hood of his hauberk, which he wore beneath his breastplate, gathered in glittering metallic folds behind his head, emphasising the corded strength of his neck. ‘We heard the screams and came running. You’re fortunate that we did, otherwise something worse than falling in the river might have happened to you.’ His piercing grey eyes swept the length of her shuddering body, from her glossy silken hair, past her neat waist, to her diminutive feet in soft leather slippers peeking out from beneath her gown.

Matilda flushed, heated colour flooding her cheeks beneath his diamond stare. His eyes were like silver coins. She tilted her chin downwards, setting her mouth in a fixed stubborn line. The insinuation was unmistakable and she hated him for it. ‘It would never have come to that,’ she stated, trying to inject some confidence into her voice, drawing her spine up straight. ‘Someone would have stopped them, either our knights...or me.’

‘You?’ He tilted his head to one side, a small smile playing across his generous mouth. His tanned skin was flushed from the sun, emphasising the taut hollows beneath his high cheekbones. ‘But you were floundering in the river.’

‘Only because you made me fall!’ Her voice rang out with accusation. ‘You’re on my gown,’ she croaked out irritably, tugging at her skirts. ‘Can you move, please?’

Gilan looked down at his knees planted firmly in the expanse of blue, very wet, velvet silk. He didn’t move. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourself? Most people would be thanking me, and my men, for what we did back there.’

‘You nearly drowned me, or have you forgotten?’ She folded her arms high across her chest, trying to keep her shivers hidden from his predatory gaze.

He quirked one eyebrow at her. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but from the way you lurched back from my hold, I think you were trying to drown yourself.’

‘I thought you were one of them,’ she mumbled, plucking at a loose silver thread that had come adrift from the belt around her ribcage. Her fingernails were pale pink, like the polished interior of a shell.

‘What were you thinking of, shooting like that? You had a perfect hiding place, why did you not keep quiet? Wait until those men had gone?’

Her blue eyes flashed up at him. ‘Because I wanted to help. I could help. I can shoot as well as any man.’ Hands pooled in her lap, Matilda laced her fingers together, trying to stop them trembling.

Gilan raised his eyebrows at her bold words, surprised. Why, he had never heard a woman speak thus, with such a sense of pride in her own ability. She was a good shot, too, he thought grudgingly, remembering the hiss of the arrow past his head. He narrowed his eyes suddenly, noting the telltale shake of her shoulders beneath the countless pleats of her bodice, the blueness around her lips.

‘You’re freezing,’ he announced bluntly. ‘Do you live hereabouts?’ Rising swiftly to his feet, he stepped off her gown. Matilda pulled at it hurriedly, gathering the voluminous folds around her slim legs. Why did he not just go away? He made her feel vulnerable, exposed, as if her own efforts had all been in vain. He towered over her, big shoulders blocking out the sun, dark blue cloak swinging down to his knees, emblazoned with small golden fleur-de-lis.

Golden fleur-de-lis? Her heart flipped dangerously, warning her, a small pucker of skin pleating between her dark eyebrows. ‘Do you ride with the king?’

He grinned down at her pale, worried face. ‘No, the complete opposite. I ride with the man who intends to push him from the throne.’

‘Henry of Lancaster,’ she whispered.

‘Correct.’ Gilan nodded. Insects buzzed and whirred in the tall grass, the sound soporific in the pressing heat of the afternoon.

Matilda’s heart lurched, fear scything through her. She would have to be careful. They would all have to be careful. Katherine and her husband were staunch supporters of King Richard, and by association with them, so was she. She was certain Henry of Lancaster would not take kindly to such a kinship, so the sooner she was away from this man, this formidable stranger, the better. She lifted one hand to her forehead and pushed distractedly at the silver net which seemed to drag lopsidedly over one ear.

‘I said, do you live hereabouts?’

Really, he talked to her as if she were a dim-witted peasant! But with her flesh prickling uncomfortably with river water, and her mind fuddled by his overbearing presence, she was finding it difficult to concentrate. She breathed in deeply, trying to gain some control over her tattered senses. ‘Yes, yes, we do. We were on our way home when we were attacked.’

‘We?’ He raised one dark blond eyebrow.

‘My sister and I.’ She clapped her fingers over her horrified mouth. ‘Oh, Lord... Katherine!’

Gilan arched one thick blond eyebrow, the tanned skin around his eyes crinkling. ‘There’s another one of you?’

‘I have to fetch her!’ Bending her knees, Matilda struck both feet firmly against the ground, struggling against the wet, sticky material in an attempt to rise.

‘Allow me.’ His voice curled over her, a low, seductive rumble. Leaning down, he seized her icy fingers in his bearlike grip, catapulting her upwards in one swift movement. There was nothing gentle about his offer of help: one moment she was sitting on the ground, legs outstretched before her, the next she was on her feet, teetering dangerously at his side. His fingers remained around her hand, steadying her.

‘You can let go now,’ she said, her voice prim. Anything to remove his compelling touch from her body. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine.’ He studied the shadowed patches beneath her eyes, noted the rapid pulse beneath the skin of her neck. ‘You look like you’re about to collapse in a heap.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ she snapped, wrestling her hand away from his hold. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’ She caught the supercilious raise of his eyebrows; he didn’t believe her! ‘I need to find my sister, that’s all. I told her to hide when those men came and not to come out until I called her.’

‘Call her, then.’ His silver eyes scanned the tumbled-down tower, the lumps of stone covered with moss and lichen, the dense forest of trees behind, and he sighed. How long was this going to take?

Chapter Three

Matilda ran a slender finger between her neck and the high collar of her gown, trying to relieve the uncomfortable sensation of wet fabric against flesh: an unconscious movement. In the strong heat of the afternoon, her looped-up hair dried rapidly, curling tresses pulling against silver hairpins. She attempted to pat some of the pins back into place, to adjust the net that held her hair in place. She supposed she must look awful.

Lifting her chin, she called out to her sister. Her clear, bell-like tones cut across the torpid languor of the afternoon. ‘Katherine!’ she shouted, holding up her weighty skirts so she could manoeuvre over the stones. ‘You can come out now, we’re safe!’ Or safer than we were, she thought, casting a hunted, sideways glance at the stranger. The knight rode with Henry, Duke of Lancaster, a man who had the potential to make their situation far worse.

‘Do you think she might have run into the forest?’ Gilan suggested. The maid’s hair, silken and lustrous, sagged precariously. Hairpins stuck out at all angles from the plaited rolls on each side of her head. He wondered what her hair would look like when it was unpinned. Would those curling ends brush against the enticing swell of her hips?

Matilda twisted around to face him. ‘She is incapable of running anywhere... Katherine is pregnant, you see.’

‘Ah.’

She sensed the irritation running through his lean, muscled frame. He stood there with the stance of a fighter, legs planted firmly in the swishing grass, cloak spilling down over his shoulders, the dark blue fabric framing the burnished steel of his breastplate. Beneath the armour he wore a hooded tunic, a thin material that reached the middle of his thighs, split at the sides for ease of riding. Driven into a leather belt around his hips, the jewelled hilt of his sword flashed in the sun. The formidable power of his body was plain to see; she was in no doubt that he was a force to be reckoned with. She had to get rid of him before he realised they supported King Richard, before he had a chance to punish them for that loyalty.

Glancing across to the packhorse bridge, she saw with relief that all the servants were safe, the gang of ruffians driven away. Even the soldier who had fallen from his horse was propped up against the litter, conversing quietly with the other household knight, hand pressed up hard against his bloodied shoulder.

Matilda drew herself up to her full height, which annoyingly, seemed only a shade above this disquieting man’s shoulder. ‘Please don’t let me, let us, keep you from anything,’ she intoned formally. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded jerky, too precise. ‘I’m sure there is somewhere that you would rather be.’

‘There is.’ He inclined his head to one side, a gesture of agreement. ‘But the laws of chivalry prevent me from leaving a damsel and her sister in distress.’

His hair was quite an incredible colour, thought Matilda. Pale gold, like washed sand on a deserted shoreline. The strands glowed in the sun with a bright star’s incandescence. A heated flutter stirred her stomach, coiling slowly; she ducked her eyes, toeing the ground with the damp, squishy leather of her slipper.

‘Oh, I don’t believe in all that chivalry nonsense.’ She waved one white hand at him airily, attempting to keep her tone light, practical. ‘Katherine doesn’t, either. Look, our servants are fine, and I think our knights will live. So we really don’t need you any more. Thank you for what you’ve done, and...and everything.’ Her sentence trailed off at the end, lamely.

He was being dismissed. Gilan watched her hand flick through the air at him, as if she were shooing away a fly. A small, insignificant fly.

His eyes gleamed. ‘I’ll help you find her, at least.’

Matilda’s shoulders slumped forwards, a visible sign of defeat. Why did she object to his presence so much? Most women would be clinging on to him by now, weeping on his shoulder about the outrages of their attack, begging him to help, but this maid? Once she had realised he was no threat to her, her whole demeanour moved to the defensive, indicating in no uncertain terms that she wished him to disappear.

‘Don’t feel you have to,’ she tried once more. Her voice was limp.

‘I want to,’ he lied, knowing this would annoy her even more. Her abrasive manner intrigued him; he couldn’t remember a woman being quite so stubborn, so ungrateful, as this pert-nosed chit. His lips twitched at the disgruntled set of her shoulders as she turned away from him, intending to head into the woodland behind the tower. His fingers reached out, snaring the soft flesh of her upper arm, stalling her. ‘I suggest you remove your cloak. The wet fabric will slow you down,’ he said.

Matilda whisked around, glowering at him, then wordlessly raised both hands to the pearl-studded clasp at her shoulder. Her frozen fingers struggled with the intricate fixings.

‘Here, let me,’ he offered, exasperated, tough fingers dealing quickly, efficiently with the stiff fastening. One rough knuckle brushed the sensitive skin of her neck, below her ear, and she gasped out loud. A sweet, looping sensation plummeted straight to her belly. Astounded by her response, she staggered back, her mind draining of conscious thought. Her breath disappeared. The cloak slithered down her back, over her slim hips, pooling into loose folds around her ankles.

‘There,’ he announced. ‘Now we can get on with the business of finding your sister.’

Hating the man at her side, this stranger who dogged her steps, who refused to go away, Matilda strode into the woodland, her skirts swishing angrily through the drifts of spent cow parsley, across collapsed bluebell stalks, sweeping her gaze across the shadowed green beneath the spreading beech, searching for the blotch of colour that would be Katherine.

‘She’s wearing a red gown,’ she chewed out grudgingly. The sooner they found Katherine, the sooner this horrible man would be on his way. Her hand crept up to the spot below her ear, still throbbing from his touch, amazed at her reaction to him. Her fall into the river had obviously shaken her up more than she realised. Men did not often have the power to affect her in such an adverse manner.

‘Easy to spot, then,’ Gilan replied mildly. For some reason he could not explain, he was quite enjoying himself at the maid’s expense. Something about the chit drew him, her truculent manner maybe, the fact that she didn’t want him around. It intrigued him, made him determined to linger, despite knowing that Henry would be wondering where he was.

‘There!’ Matilda pointed.

Braced by a large trunk, Katherine’s ebony head lolled against the ridged bark. Her eyes were closed, her mouth partially open. A faint snore emerged from between her lips.

‘She’s asleep!’ Matilda blurted out in surprise, working her way steadily through the undergrowth towards her, arching brambles snaring the fine silk of her gown. How could her sister have possibly fallen asleep, with all that had been going on? ‘I think you should stay here.’ Matilda held up her arm to prevent Gilan moving any farther forwards.

A tightly buttoned sleeve, unbelievably tiny small pearl buttons, encased her narrow wrist, the material reaching to her knuckles. Her ringless fingers wagged bossily in front of his face and he wondered again at the temerity of the maid. What or who gave her the right to order him about like this? She was obviously unmarried, so had no protection or guidance from a husband. But maybe her father or a brother had been so lax or indulgent in her upbringing that it had given her a misguided sense of her own authority.

He shrugged his shoulders. It, or rather she, was none of his concern. Should the need arise, he was perfectly capable of putting the maid in her place. But at the moment, he relished her display of wilful bossiness, her grumpiness at his continued presence, enjoying the easy diversion to the afternoon and his normal rigid, constrained existence. His gaze slid to the woman at the base of the tree, endeavouring to keep his expression neutral. The girl had not been lying about her sister’s pregnancy. From the size of her stomach, she looked like she was about to go into labour there and then. He raised his eyes heavenwards, sent up a silent prayer.

‘Katherine! Wake up.’ Matilda bent over her sister, jogged her elbow carefully.

Katherine opened her eyes, a small smile crossing her face. ‘What?’ she murmured hazily. ‘I was having the most wonderful dream, about the baby...’ she smoothed one hand across her stomach ‘...and what he would be like when he was born and...’ her eyes drifted over to Gilan’s tall figure, standing in the shadows ‘...and...who is that?’

‘Don’t let him alarm you,’ Matilda said, as she helped Katherine to her feet. ‘He came to help, when we were attacked.’ She tried to keep her tone even, on the level. Any kind of shock at this stage could jeopardise her sister’s labour. Her mind scampered for a discreet way of alerting her sister to the fact that the man was riding with their enemy.

Katherine smiled at Gilan, lurching forwards with her arm outstretched, a pretty blush washing her face. Distorted by her vast belly, the pleated front of her gown rose up at the front, revealing her pink satin slippers. ‘My pleasure,’ she said, ‘Lord...?’

Gilan smiled, skin creasing either side of his mouth, teeth white in his tanned face. ‘No, not a lord, mistress. My name is Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles.’ He bowed low, deep from the waist.’ At your service.’

Katherine extended her hand towards him and he took her fingers, glittering with heavy gemstones and kissed the top of her hand, as was the custom.

‘Then you are from France?’ Katherine peeked coyly at him from beneath her long eyelashes. Matilda stared at the two of them in horror. Was it her imagination or was Katherine flirting? His display of courtly manners seemed so at odds with her own first encounter with this man, this Gilan, whatever his name was, only moments ago! Half drowned by him, then thrown down on the grass, shaken roughly back to consciousness, assaulted by those piercing, silver eyes. And now, her sister was patting him on the shoulder, thanking him profusely for all he had done! If only she knew!

‘I am English, but my mother is from France—my title comes from her family. I manage her manor and estates over there. In Cormeilles.’ Gilan crooked his arm and Katherine tucked her hand through it companionably, throwing a running stream of questions up to him. Matilda’s heart sank as she trailed after them, snatching up her sodden cloak on the way. She had hoped to walk with Katherine so she could have a quiet word, warn her about this man, about who he was. It was not to be.

* * *

As the three of them approached the spot where the sisters had been attacked, Katherine picking her way carefully down the cobbled slope of the bridge with Gilan’s help, Matilda saw that the numbers in their original entourage had swelled. Beneath the low, swaying branches of the beech trees, arching over the track, stood a stocky, russet-haired man, face ruddy with sunburn. He called out to Gilan, raised his arm in greeting. He wore a surcoat over chainmail, a dark blue surcoat emblazoned with a distinctive coat of arms: three gold lions on a red background, quartered with three gold fleur-de-lis on a blue background.

Henry of Lancaster.

He had brought knights with him, knights wearing the same livery: a dozen or so men on horseback. They stretched along the track, horses nose-to-tail in single file, men’s features impassive beneath steel helmets, lances pointed rigidly into the air, steel tips flashing in the sporadic rays of sunlight that slanted through the whispering trees.

‘Now I see what’s been keeping you!’ Strutting forwards to greet them, Henry clapped Gilan on the shoulder. ‘You had me worried back there!’

‘You, worried?’ Gilan raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. He escorted Katherine to the side of the litter and she clutched on to one of the upright struts gratefully, clamping one hand to the small of her back as she leaned over.

Henry laughed. ‘You’re right, I wasn’t worried, merely impatient at your tardiness. But now—’ he swept his gaze over the two women ‘—it all becomes clear. Ladies,’ he addressed them both with a short, sharp bow, ‘may I have the honour of knowing your names?’ Removing his mail gauntlet, the individual iron links glittering like fish scales, he handed it to his manservant, who hovered nervously at his side.

‘I am Katherine of Neen.’ Katherine performed a small, wobbling curtsy, extending her hand. ‘And this is my sister, Matilda of Lilleshall.’ Henry kissed the top of both their hands in turn. If he noticed Katherine’s advanced pregnancy at all, then he made no indication, no comment.

‘Delighted,’ he pronounced, clapping his hands together. ‘Your knights have explained what has happened to you. I understand that you were on your way back home from a shrine?’

Katherine nodded.

‘Then allow me...us—’ he waved his stubby fingers in the direction of his knights ‘—to escort you home...’

‘There’s really no need...’ Matilda protested.

Henry laughed. ‘Forgive me, madam, but it’s no trouble. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. My men and I seek board and lodging for the night.’

‘Oh, yes! Yes!’ gushed Katherine. She wasn’t too sure exactly who Henry of Lancaster was, but she did know his grandfather was King Edward III and that was good enough for her. More than good enough—why, he was royalty! What a feather in her cap, to entertain such a person! ‘John will want to see you rewarded for what you have done for us today.’ She flicked her eyes appreciatively in Gilan’s direction.

Oh, Lord, thought Matilda, hitching her shoulders forwards in her damp gown. Things seemed to going from bad to worse. Katherine obviously had no idea of Henry of Lancaster’s true intentions in this country. In fact, Matilda doubted that her sister really knew who he was.

* * *

Once Katherine was comfortably installed in her litter, her entourage—swelled in ranks with Henry’s knights—began its slow progress eastwards once more. The servants who carried the wooden struts on their shoulders had emerged from the attack relatively unscathed; the youngest manservant dabbed sporadically at a split lip, but apart from a few bumps and bruises, no great injuries had been sustained. The household knight with the injury to his shoulder had to be helped up into his saddle but seemed to be holding his seat tolerably well, following Henry’s knights, who rode up front, the rumps of their muscled warhorses glossy, shiny.

The track was dry and flat; they would make good progress now. John and Katherine’s home lay only a mile or so farther up the expansive, fertile valley. In the strip of rough, uncultivated land between the river and the path, white hogweed grew, proliferated: great lacy umbels like dinner plates reaching up beyond the mess of inferior weeds, frilled flower heads against the deep blue of the sky. A brilliant green-backed beetle ambled across one of the flowers, black whiskered legs crawling slowly.

As they emerged from the dimness of the woodland, and into the scorching radiance of the open fields running either side of the river, Katherine sank back on her cushions, a smug, self-satisfied look on her face. ‘John will be so pleased with me,’ she announced, stretching her hand out limply to Matilda, who walked alongside the litter. ‘Such important guests that I am bringing home to him! How fortunate we are that they turned up.’

Ignoring her sister’s hand, Matilda scuffed her leather boots along the track, deliberately kicking up dust. Hanging across the path, a teasel head, brown and withered from the year before, scraped along the fine blue wool of her sleeve. A pair of brilliant pewter eyes danced across her vision. She pursed her lips, determined to scrape the memory from her brain. He was nothing, not important.

‘And such a lot to prepare, if they are to stay tonight!’ Katherine’s eyes widened. ‘What do you think, Matilda, should we put Henry in the south tower—you know, the one with the gold brocade hangings around the bed? Will he think it too shabby?’

Keeping pace with the litter’s progress, Matilda folded her arms across her bosom. ‘Katherine, do you have any idea who these men are?’ She nodded up ahead, indicating the broad, stocky back of Henry, Gilan’s tall, muscular frame riding alongside him. His dark blue cloak spread out over the rump of his horse, the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered along the length of cloth twinkling like tiny stars.

A deep shuddering breath burst from her lungs at the sight of them; individually, these men were formidable enough, but together as a group, with plate armour burnished and shining and helmets obscuring their features, their horses with hooves the size of a man’s head, they presented an intimidating force. Her heart flailed, searching for purchase, for direction, the memory of that stranger’s tanned handsome face, Gilan’s face, so close to her own she could still smell the musky woodsmoke on his skin. In the face of such powerful masculinity, such strength and vigour, she was at a momentary loss as to what to do next. Fear had emptied her mind.

She turned away, back to her sister, a wave of panic pulsing through Matilda’s veins. The thought of these men in her sister’s home, that they would discover where John and Katherine’s true loyalties lay, not with them, but with the king, made her legs shake.

‘Do you have any idea?’ she repeated, her voice low, insistent.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Katherine replied, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Of course I know who they are. Henry is the grandson of King Edward III...’

‘...and he’s been exiled, Katherine. King Richard exiled him to Paris. He’s not even supposed to be in this country.’

Katherine frowned, her mind trying to make sense of the information. ‘But...but I didn’t know that!’ she protested. ‘Why would I have known that?’

Matilda shook her head. Why, indeed. Her sister showed little or no interest in the politics of the country. Henry had been exiled on the death of his father, John of Gaunt, simply because, as sole inheritor, he would have become more powerful than King Richard himself. And Richard resented that, viewed his cousin as a threat, confiscating Henry’s lands for no good reason.

‘What can we do?’ cried Katherine.

‘We must keep quiet,’ advised Matilda, trying to remain calm for her sister’s sake. ‘And hope that John keeps his wits about him when he sees their colours riding towards the castle. If we are careful, then they won’t find out that John is a staunch supporter of the king. And serve them horrible food—that will send them on their way a bit quicker.’

‘Mother of Mary! What’s John going to say?’

‘Hopefully, he will say nothing, at least while they are in the castle.’

* * *

The Castle of Neen rose up in the middle of the valley, at the point where two gentle slopes intersected at the river: a silver ribbon cutting through fields thick with a ripening wheat crop. Cattle and sheep grazed on the upper slopes, the poorer ground, before the land rose into a steep escarpment, blotched with yellow gorse. The castle was unusual, built in the French style, a rectangular building with round towers on the four corners, each topped with a conical roof in slate. Great carved corbel stones supported projecting parapets, protecting any knight who stepped out onto the narrow ledge surrounding the roof above. In the dropping sunlight, the polished limestone walls, studded with shells from prehistoric times, glowed pale and luminous.

‘Enchanting,’ breathed Henry, raising gingery eyebrows in appreciation at the pretty building, as they slowed their horses to clatter through the gatehouse and into the bailey. The river they had been following flowed beneath the outer walls and into the deep moat surrounding the castle before disappearing out the other side, providing a constant supply of fresh water.

Henry turned in the saddle, leather creaking beneath his burly thighs. ‘We should allow the ladies to go in first, announce our presence.’ With one touch of his knee he shifted his horse out of the way, Gilan performing the same manoeuvre. The litter was carried past them, Matilda striding alongside, head held high, eyes fixed straight ahead. Her wet gown had picked up all the dry dust of the road, and the blue material was now coated in a clay-coloured paste almost up to her knees. The silken ebony of her hair drooped forlornly in its inadequate pins, her circlet and veil set askance on her head.

‘What has happened to that maid?’ Henry said pointedly, beneath his breath. ‘She looks like she’s been dragged through the mire.’

She looks beautiful. The words strove, unbidden, into Gilan’s brain. He snatched up the reins in surprise, angry at his own musings. Why was he even thinking such a thing? The girl was a mess, plain for all to see.

‘She’s had a busy day,’ Gilan replied drily, bunching his reins into one fist as his horse sidled beneath him. ‘She almost took my head off with an arrow, then fell into the river when I went to stop her.’ He grimaced, guilt flooding through him at the memory: outraged blue eyes, firing hostility; the sweet curve of her bosom as she lay, unconscious, in the warm grass.

‘Impressive,’ murmured Henry, his eyes narrowing on the diminutive figure as she helped her sister alight from the litter.

‘More like misguided,’ replied Gilan, watching as Katherine sagged dramatically against Matilda, making her stagger. ‘The stupid chit made the situation far worse for herself than if she had just stayed put.’

‘One can’t help but admire such bravery in a woman,’ Henry said.

‘Perhaps.’ Gilan shrugged his shoulders. ‘But sometimes it can lead them into greater danger.’

Chapter Four

Matilda curved her arm beneath Katherine’s, and hauled her up and out of the litter. The main entrance to the castle was only a few steps away, across the uneven cobbles of the inner bailey. As Katherine reared upwards, her movements ungainly, awkward, she clung to Matilda for support.

‘Ugh! You’re all wet!’ Katherine exclaimed. Her gaze drifted down, noticing the grey dust adhering to the fabric. ‘Oh, Matilda, what have you done to my gown? I doubt it will ever be the same again!’

Matilda began to steer Katherine towards the studded-oak doorway, the muscles in her back pulled into a rigid line. Even though she couldn’t see them, she knew all eyes were on them. Henry and his men were watching, respectfully waiting to dismount. And he was watching her. Gilan. She could feel those silvery eyes following every detail of her movement, making her feel flustered, unsettled. In the damp dress, an involuntary shiver chased up her spine.

‘It will wash out, Katherine, don’t worry.’

Up the stone steps they went, one at a time, a slow progress. Matilda breathed out slowly, a long quiet sigh of frustration. She would be relieved when this baby finally made an appearance in the world, for it would make everyone’s lives a whole lot easier. At this time of the year, the work at her own home of Lilleshall was mounting up: the continual planting and maintenance of crops, care of the animals and the beginning of the harvest. Someone needed to supervise the work, and now that her mother had decided to withdraw from public life, and she had heard nothing from her brother in the past year, the role had fallen to her.

‘I hope so,’ grumbled Katherine, breathing heavily as she reached the top step, placing one hand on the carved stone surround of the door. ‘Hold for a moment, sister, I need to catch my breath.’

‘We’re nearly there,’ Matilda reassured her. Without thinking, she glanced back down in to the inner bailey, her eyes immediately drawn to a shock of blond hair, feathered across the tall man’s tanned brow. Threads of unravelling excitement shot through her veins. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t in her nature to be so disturbed by a masculine presence, even one as intimidating as Count Gilan of Cormeilles. Having grown up with a loving brother and father, she was not in awe of men, quite the reverse, in fact. Most of the time she ignored them. She simply couldn’t explain these odd feelings that roiled around her body, the way his company set her nerves on a jittery edge.

As the sisters moved into the hallway, Matilda blinked once or twice, adjusting her eyes to the dim interior, inhaling the damp, gritty scent of the thick stone walls. Above their heads, ribs of stone fanned out from a central boss: a carved-stone trefoil beset with finely chiselled leaves and flowers.

‘Good! Good! You’re back at last!’ John burst out from the curtain strung across the entrance to the main stairwell, pushing aside the weighty material with impatience. He was a stout man, small brown eyes set deep in a flabby face, the belt around his high-necked, pleated tunic straining across his portly waist. ‘You’ve been ages!’ Grabbing his wife’s hands, he squeezed them strongly. ‘You need to change, quickly, my dear. My guards tell me you have brought guests. Important guests.’

‘Yes, but...’ Matilda began to explain, to warn him. Had no one thought to tell John of the colours that these ‘important guests’ wore? But John had already walked past them, out through the arched doorway, out into the open air. Matilda sighed. He would know soon enough. ‘Come on,’ she said to Katherine, placing a protective arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘Let’s go upstairs to your chamber.’

* * *

Shielded by a heavily embroidered screen, Matilda sank deeper into the hot water, a small sigh of pleasure escaping her lips. She listened to the sounds of her sister’s maidservants, two of them, fussing around Katherine. They sounded like hens, clucking with their tongues, sympathising, commiserating, whilst they bustled and rustled around the chamber, placating her sister with their soothing words.

Matilda leaned back in the wooden tub, the water swilling across her exhausted limbs, easing her muscles. Katherine had insisted that she take a bath, practically ripping the destroyed dress from her shoulders, and for once, Matilda had agreed with her. The hot water, dried rose petals scattered across the surface, was gradually soothing her frazzled nerves, calming her. In the corner, coals glowed in a charcoal brazier, sending out more heat, and she welcomed it, rolling her tired shoulders forwards. Through the glazed window, swallows, wings like black knife blades, sliced across the deepening blue. A bright fingernail of a new moon appeared in the sky through the leaded grid of the window, the herald of evening.

There was enough daylight for her to return to Lilleshall, Matilda thought. That way she could meet with her bailiff this evening and make—

The door to Katherine’s chamber crashed back on its hinges, swinging back against the wood-panelled wall.

It was John.

‘Do you know who you’ve brought here, you stupid cow?’ he roared at his wife.

‘John! John? Whatever’s the matter with you?’ Katherine twisted up on to her side, half rising from her recumbent position on the feather mattress.

Her husband plonked his portly girth on to the side of the bed, stuck his hands in his grizzled hair, distraught. ‘You’ve only gone and brought Henry of Lancaster into our home! Henry, Duke of Lancaster! Have you any idea who he is?’

‘I...er...’

‘No, you don’t, do you? Because you have no idea about anything!’ Clenching one fist, he knocked the side of Katherine’s head, not gently. ‘Because you have nothing up there, do you, my sweet one? Nothing at all, just sawdust.’

Adrenaline thumping through her veins, blood rushing, Matilda rose quickly out of the water, grabbed at a voluminous chemise and pulled it swiftly over her head, down over her wet, bare body. She had no intention of John seeing her naked in her sister’s bathtub. The scum of soap adhered to her knees as she stepped out on to the curly sheep’s fleece that covered the bare floorboards and soaked up the wet trickles from her toes. Her breath snared; she knew what John was capable of, knew how he treated her sister when he was displeased. Catching up the thick, linen towel, she threw it over her shoulders, anxious that not an inch of flesh was on show for John to ogle at. She moved out from behind the screen, her unbound hair swinging in long, curling ropes down her back.

John turned, squinted nastily at her. His top lip curled down into a sneer. ‘Ah, you! I want to talk to you, too! What were you thinking?’

‘We were attacked, John,’ Matilda explained, keeping her voice low and calm. She would not allow John to rile her. ‘Those men saved us. If they hadn’t come along, then the outcome might have been a lot worse. We had to thank them somehow.’

He shook his head. ‘If it had been anyone else...’

‘I know, John,’ Matilda said, deflecting his attention away from her frightened sister, cowering back on the pillows with her eyes large, round, luminous with fear. ‘I know who they are. But they have no idea of your allegiances, where your loyalties lie. Keep quiet. Give them board and lodging for tonight, and by tomorrow morning, I’m certain they will be on their way.’

‘Spoken like a true diplomat,’ replied John. ‘Well, I praise the Lord that at least one sister has a head on her shoulders.’ He placed his tubby fingers flat on his bulging thighs, pressing down so that he rose from the bed, throwing a mocking glance down at his wife. Katherine hadn’t moved, pressed up in terror against the pillows, her mouth partially open, breathing shallowly. She looks like a wild animal, thought Matilda, an animal who is trapped and vulnerable, unable to move, or to think, for itself.

‘Get dressed, both of you. I want you downstairs to help me entertain our guests.’

‘Oh, but I need to...’ Matilda stepped forwards.

John pushed his face up close to his sister-in-law. He was about the same height as her; she could smell his fetid breath, see rotten teeth crowd the interior of his mouth. ‘No, Matilda, not this time. You cannot run away to your precious estate, to your mother. You brought these men here, you entertain them. And if they find out who we support, then God help you both.’

* * *

The great hall at Neen was situated unusually on the second floor, with the kitchens and servants’ quarters on the floors beneath. The dressed-stone walls, pale limestone, glowed in the evening light that spilled down from the huge windows, striking the swirling dust motes rising from the wooden floorboards.

‘Not bad,’ said Henry, reaching for another chicken leg, chewing hungrily. ‘Not bad at all.’ He looked around him appreciatively, at the fine tapestries hanging down from the walls, the expensive carved furniture, the plentiful food. His eye caught on two banners, hanging down from the wooden gallery at the opposite end of the hall, sweeps of blue-and-red cloth impaled with the golden arms of royalty. ‘Although a bit too much evidence of King Richard, I think.’ He smirked at Gilan, sitting next to him. ‘Do you think they’ll murder us in our beds tonight? Or clap us in arms?’

Gilan crossed his huge arms across his chest, leaning back into the oak chair. Then leaned forwards again as the ornately carved wood poked uncomfortably into his spine. ‘No, they wouldn’t dare. I’m sure John of Neen realises how weak King Richard’s rule has become. It wouldn’t be in his best interest to thwart us.’

‘No, I suspect he’s the type to change sides at the drop of a cloth,’ Henry mused. He leaned past Gilan, lifted a floury bread roll from an oval pewter platter. ‘I don’t think we have anything to fear from this household. And good food, too. Not quite like the fare we’re used to, eh?’

No, indeed, Gilan thought, staring out across the busy hall. Henry’s soldiers clustered along the ranks of trestle tables, talking, laughing, joking with each other, piling the food into their mouths. They deserved it, these loyal men. They deserved a taste of this good life. Having ridden on many of Henry’s crusades, they had endured all manner of harsh conditions, days on meagre food rations, days when the air was so raw it froze the tears in their eyes and turned their fingers black. He looked along the happy laughing faces, dishevelled hair released from helmets now resting by their feet, their faces ruddy and flushed from the strong sun. A sense of utter loss pierced his heart. There should have been another face amongst them. A face that looked like his, hair the same startling blond, the frame a little leaner and shorter. His older brother. Pierre.

Grief, bitter, unrelenting, scythed through him, and he wrenched his gaze from the men, glowering down at the table, his plate, the piles of food spread out along the pristine white cloth, anywhere that wouldn’t remind him of that horrible time. His heart tore at the rift so deep, he wondered whether it would ever heal. Guilt cascaded through him, a numbing black bile, clagging his chest. He gripped the stem of his pewter goblet. If only he hadn’t insisted, if only he hadn’t goaded his brother, pushed him on, teased him. Then the accident would never have happened.

‘Come on, Gilan, eat up!’ Henry jostled his elbow. ‘Once the lady of the manor arrives, we’ll be forced to talk, not eat. Get something down your throat at once! That’s an order!’ Henry began to pile food in front of his friend: a couple of slices of ham, some cooked vegetables, a hunk of bread. He raised his eyebrows towards the door, a flicker of movement catching his eye. ‘Too late.’

Gilan looked up.

Framed by the stone archway with Katherine at her side, Matilda hesitated, as if stunned by the crowds of men in the great hall. Her appearance arrested conversation, reduced the bursts of laughter to soft murmurs of appreciation. She ducked her head, a stain of colour creeping across her pale cheeks, not wanting the male eyes upon her, embarrassed. Her hair was dry now, coiled in intricate plaits on either side of her neat head, the wisps contained by a silver net, delicately wrought. Her circlet, etched silver, gleamed as she moved forwards tentatively, her sister hanging on her arm.

She wore a simple overdress cut from a rose-coloured fabric, shot through with threads of silver; the material shimmered against her slender frame as she walked. The wide, angular-cut neck exposed her collarbone, the shadowed hollow of her throat. As was the fashion, her sleeves were fitted on her upper arms, before hanging down loose from her elbows, revealing the tightly buttoned sleeves of her underdress, a rich scarlet.

‘My God!’ murmured Henry as the two women approached, John bustling up behind them, chivvying them up to the dais as if they were cattle. ‘What a beauty.’

‘My lords, both of you, so sorry to have kept you waiting...’ John practically shoved his lumbering wife up the wooden steps. Katherine clutched at the wooden bannister for support, dragging herself up. Matilda led her sister to the empty chair between Henry and Gilan, intending to help her into the seat.

‘No, no, what are you thinking?’ John protested, grabbing Katherine’s arm and forcing her down between Henry and his own place. A pained expression crossed his wife’s face; she paled suddenly, biting down hard on her bottom lip.

‘My lady?’ Gilan quirked one blond eyebrow up at Matilda, who hovered behind the backs of the chairs. ‘I believe this is your seat?’ He indicated the empty chair between himself and Henry.

Her toes curled reluctantly in her pink satin slippers, stalling any forward movement. Every muscle in her body, every nerve tightened reflexively at the sight of him, bracing, readying themselves for some further onslaught. She needed to arm herself against him, to shield herself from the devastating silver of his eyes, the implacable force of his body.

He read the reluctance in her face, and smiled. ‘Have no fear my lady, I’m not about to shove you into the nearest pond.’

‘No...I...’ Her voice trailed off, mind incapable of finding any explanation for her hesitation. He thought she was frightened of him, but that wasn’t it. She couldn’t identify the strange feelings that pulsed through her body. Odd feelings that flooded through her veins, making her heart race. Not fear. Excitement.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Matilda, sit down!’ John bawled at her from the other side of Henry, lines of strain stretching the fleshy skin on his face.

She slipped between the two chairs, carefully, avoiding any contact with the man on her right, sliding down on to the hard, polished seat, thinking she would rather be anywhere but here. Gilan lifted the heavy jug, pouring wine into her goblet.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, staring straight ahead.

‘Tell me, my lady, have you recovered from your ordeal this afternoon?’ Henry said conversationally on her left. ‘It sounds like you were extremely brave.’

‘Or extremely stupid,’ Gilan muttered under his breath, so that only Matilda could hear.

Eyes blazing with blue fire, she shot him an angry look, grazing the sculptured lines of his face, the corded muscles of his neck. He had dispensed with his breastplate and all other visible signs of armour, but the pleated tunic that he wore served only to emphasise the huge power of his shoulders, his chest.

She swallowed hastily, her mouth dry, arid, then turned back to Henry.

‘I didn’t have time to think about it,’ she replied, honestly, smoothing her hand across the white tablecloth. To her surprise her hand shook, fingers quivering against the soft fabric. The skin on the right side of her neck burned—was he staring at her? She clamped her lips together, annoyed with herself, with her unwanted reaction to him. Men meant little to her; scornful of their appreciative glances, mocking even, she was not in the habit of paying them any attention and had no wish to marry, especially after witnessing John’s treatment of her sister.

‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’ Henry took up his eating knife and began cutting thin slices of roast pork that he popped into his mouth at intervals. Grease slicked the sides of his mouth and he rubbed at his mouth with a linen napkin, throwing the crumpled fabric back into his lap.

‘My brother taught me.’ Matilda rubbed at an errant spot of spilled wine on the cloth, frowning.

‘Your brother?’ Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘And where is he?’

Where was he, indeed? Matilda fixed her eyes on the colourful banners at the end of the hall. As far as she knew, Thomas was with King Richard, fighting his cause in Ireland. Her brother had no idea that their mother had given up all intention of running the estate at Lilleshall, that the responsibility had fallen to his younger sister. He had been away for over a year now; she had heard nothing from him.

Bringing her hands into her lap, she twisted her fingers together. What could she say to Henry? She couldn’t tell him the truth, because that would underline John’s allegiance, their allegiance, to Richard. ‘My brother...er...he’s...at home.’ Her answer stumbled out. ‘Dealing with things,’ she added vaguely.

Beside her, Gilan shifted in his seat. His forearm lay along the wooden arm of the chair, his hand rounding the carved end, strong fingers splayed. She could see the raised sinew on the top of his hand, the lines of blue veins tracing beneath the skin, knuckles roughened, scratched. The hands of a working soldier, a knight.

‘My lady?’ Henry was speaking to her.

‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’ She blushed furiously, a wild scarlet chasing across her cheeks.

‘I asked you where your home is, my lady?’

‘Not far from here,’ she answered lamely.

The little chit’s lying through her teeth, thought Gilan, lifting his pewter goblet to his lips and taking a large gulp of wine. The heady liquid slid down his throat. Not that it was any of his business, but it was intriguing, all the same. Her shoulder was turned rigidly away from him, her manner overly attentive to Henry; it made him want to laugh. He wanted to tell her it didn’t matter, whatever she did would have no effect on him. She could be as rude or as coquettish towards him as she liked. She could fall all over him or slap him in the face. He was immune to the many wiles of women, to their tempers and their masquerades, his body remaining in a constant state of numbness, of bound-up guilt and grief, unable to love, unable to give. His brother’s death had removed the very spirit of him, driven out his soul so that only the shell of him remained. A husk of a man.

Chapter Five

As the sun dipped low in the sky, inching away from the long, rectangular windows, servants moved around silently with flaming tapers, lighting the thick wax candles in their iron holders, thrusting lit torches into the iron brackets secured around the walls. The cavernous chamber filled with a flickering luminescence, dreamlike, which cast odd shadows, illuminated chattering faces with rosy glows.

‘And our last crusade was up around the Baltic...’ Henry droned on, his nose reddened, cheeks flushed from too much wine. ‘And, oh Lord, I can’t even begin to tell you how cold it was...’

Crumbling a soft bread roll between her fingers, paddling the cooked dough into a smaller and smaller piece, Matilda forced herself to concentrate on the story Henry was telling her. She had smiled and nodded all through this interminable evening, aware that for the whole time Gilan sat to her right, silent, and that she was ignoring him. The muscles in her cheeks ached with the constant effort of maintaining an impressed, amenable expression towards Henry.

‘But how did you keep yourselves warm, if there was so much snow?’ To be fair, Katherine was doing a very decent job of listening to Henry, prodding him with a question now and again to show interest and keep his stories flowing.

Henry grimaced, lowering his eyebrows in an exaggerated frown. Coarse russet hairs straggled out from his brows, haphazard, messy, giving him the look of a farmhand, as opposed to a cousin of the king. A roar of ribald laughter broke out from the soldiers below and he paused, allowing the noise to die away before he answered, ‘Well, my lady Katherine, I have to tell you, it wasn’t easy, was it, Gilan?’

Matilda sensed, rather than saw, Gilan’s slight shake of his head. Then saw her sister’s face, her profile clenched, delicate jaw rigid with pain.

‘Katherine...?’

Henry’s story faltered to silence as he turned to observe his hostess. Katherine’s face was set in an expression of sheer horror, her mouth screwed up, as if braced against an unknown onslaught, her eyes squeezed tight. The blood had drained from her lips.

‘Katherine...!’ Matilda shot up from her seat, turning abruptly to push past Gilan in a desperate attempt to reach her sister. Her hip brushed against him, the soft curve of flesh beneath her gown yielding against his upper arm. He drew a sharp unsteady breath.

‘For God’s sake, woman! What’s the matter with you?’ John shouted at his wife, at her rounded eyes that stared unseeing straight ahead, at her skin: red and sweating. He threw down his napkin into the middle of the table, a flare of annoyance crossing his portly face. ‘I’m so sorry about this, my lord...’ he inclined his head towards Henry ‘...she’s not normally like this. It must be the shock of today.’

Rushing to Katherine’s side, Matilda saw the growing puddle of water beneath her sister’s seat, the sopping hem of her gown, watched her hands grip the armrests of the chair. ‘She’s in labour, John,’ Matilda bent down to murmur in John’s ear, laying one hand on her brother-in-law’s forearm.

‘What? What are you talking about? It’s too soon, isn’t it?’ John babbled, his fetid breath wafting over her, his face contorting into a look of sheer horror. His lips curled at the water spreading across floorboards, staining the wood. ‘What on earth is that horrible mess?’

‘Her waters have broken, John. We need to carry her upstairs!’ Matilda’s voice was more urgent now. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, forcing herself to think logically, clearly, against the brimming tide of fear pushed around the edges of her consciousness, a push of bulging breath expanding her lungs. She couldn’t, wouldn’t panic!

‘Take her away, then!’ John hissed at her. ‘This is so mortifying! Get her out of here!’ He fluttered his hand at Matilda, in the manner of dismissing a servant. A dull red flooded his pouched cheeks.

Aghast at his lack of assistance, Matilda gawped at him, her arm slung across Katherine’s back. Her sister was panting now, fingers fixed around the edge of the table, trying to subdue the cramping waves of pain.

‘John, you need to carry her!’ Matilda squeaked at the bullish back of his neck, hating him, horrified by his ignorance, his sheer stupidity. Did he truly mean for Katherine to deliver her baby here, in the great hall, in front of all these men? ‘There’s no way she can walk!’

‘With the state my leg’s in at the moment? You know I’m injured! Ask one of the servants to do it!’ John raised his eyebrows at Henry in mute apology, who was observing the whole proceedings with a bemused, drunken demeanour. ‘Women, eh?’ John burped loudly, shaking his head with a nonchalant, unconcerned air. ‘What can you do with them? Always some little problem to deal with!’

‘Let me help you.’ A low, velvety voice cut across Katherine’s stifled gasp. Gilan appeared at Matilda’s side, bending down over her sister, bright hair falling across his forehead, wayward. Katherine made no demur as he shifted her rounded body up into his arms, levering her easily out of her chair.

‘I...er...no, we have no need of your help,’ Matilda protested, agitated, her hands flapping towards him as if to ward him off. How had he managed to lift her pregnant sister so swiftly? Gilan shifted Katherine’s body so she rested easily against his chest, her head rolling back against his shoulder.

‘Why, were you intending to carry her yourself?’ His sparkling eyes swept over Matilda’s diminutive stature, the close-fitting sweep of her dress, immediately mocking. ‘Which way?’

‘Follow me, then,’ she replied, stalking off in front of him, her head held high. Her long hem trailed treacherously across his leather boots as she swept past him and she flicked the material away, huffily, annoyed that she had no choice in this matter. Despite her reluctance, she would have to accept his help, as Katherine’s husband was demonstrating, once again, the whole wretched expanse of his uselessness. John’s behaviour had forced her to accept a stranger’s help. At the door, she turned, fixing her sister’s husband with a cold, hard look. ‘Send someone to fetch a midwife, John, and do it now!’

‘Good luck, my lady Katherine!’ Henry called out, lifting his pewter goblet in a toast, his speech slurred and warbling.

* * *

Gilan followed Matilda’s neat figure through an arched doorway in the corner of the dais which lead directly on to the circular stair. Her hips swayed seductively beneath the twinkling gown, the whispering train of the overdress slipping across the floorboards. At once they were plunged into a dank shadowy space, lit only by one flaming torch slung into its iron holster on the cramped landing. Steps curved away from them, down as well as up.

Seizing the torch from its holder, Matilda thrust the spitting flame aloft, bunching her skirts in the other hand. ‘This way,’ she murmured tersely, climbing up the narrow, curved steps. Behind her, Gilan carried her sister’s pregnant form effortlessly, and surprisingly gently, as if it were a manoeuvre he performed every day. They climbed steadily, with only Katherine’s moaning gasps breaking the silence; suddenly, she arched over, letting out a long, low howl of pain. Caught unawares, Gilan staggered forwards at the jerking violence of the movement. Instinctively, Matilda reached down and grabbed his upper arm, attempting to steady him.

But he had no need of her bracing hand; his feet were already planted firmly again, one step below her. Beneath the dancing flame of the torch, his carved features were inches from her own, his eyes mineral dark.

‘I have her.’ He glanced at Matilda’s hand clamped around his upper arm, not steadying now, but clinging to him, as if for support. Beneath his tunic sleeve, the roped muscle was hard, like an iron bar. She snatched her hand away, face flaming, speech stalled. Why couldn’t John have carried his own wife upstairs? She had no wish for this man, this stranger, to be involved with her family affairs. He seemed too close to her, too intimate in this confined, shadowed space, scattering her senses, befuddling her.

‘Hurry, this way!’ Matilda whisked away from him, climbing the circular steps two at a time, pushing through the planked door of Katherine’s chamber. In a moment, Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting were all around them, like colourful butterflies, clustering around Gilan as he carried Katherine to her bed.

He laid her down with infinite gentleness.

Stuck in the doorway, Matilda watched the scene with growing incredulity, still holding the sparking, spitting torch. The light arched over her, casting flickering shadows down across her cheeks. Who was this man, his body built for a life of fighting, of soldiering, to perform such an act of kindness? His tough, muscular frame looked out of place, all angles and hard lines in this lady’s bedchamber. He towered over Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting. He had helped, where John had not. She frowned, unable to untangle her reasoning.

‘Matilda!’ Katherine screeched, hunching over in a foetal position on the bed furs, clutching dramatically at her belly. ‘Matilda, come here! I need you!’

Starting at the sound of her sister’s voice, Matilda shook her head: a quick movement, wanting to rid herself of these troubling thoughts. She moved towards Gilan as he straightened up from the side of Katherine’s bed. Against the blood-red of the velvet bedcurtains, his hair shone out like spun gold, glimmering fire.

‘Fetch linens, towels, hot water...now!’ she ordered the women fussing about the bed. They sprang away from their mistress at the sound of Matilda’s voice, following her commands without question. ‘And you,’ she said, tipping her chin towards Gilan, ‘you can go now.’ She thrust the flaming brand towards him, as if to emphasise her point. Her tone was brusque, dismissive.

‘Careful with that,’ he murmured, jerking his head back. ‘You’ll set my hair on fire.’

‘Have it,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ll need it to find your way back downstairs.’

He took the torch from her hand, strong fingers grazing against her own, reading the fear behind the veneer of bravado in her manner. ‘I can stay, if you need me.’ His voice was a low rumble of reassurance; for one tiny, inconceivable moment, she considered the possibility of him staying, of helping, wanting that implacable strength beside her as she assisted her sister through this ordeal.

She glared at him, astounded by her own thoughts, annoyed with such weakness, the weakness that would drive her to ask this man for support. When had she ever asked a man to help her? Her fingers moved swiftly along the row of pearl buttons that secured the fitted sleeve of her underdress, undoing them. ‘Are you mad? This is women’s business!’ She dropped her voice to a hush, so that Katherine wouldn’t hear. ‘Do you really want to stay—to witness all that blood and gore and screaming?’

No, he didn’t. But he didn’t want to give the bossy little chit the satisfaction of knowing that.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s nothing that I haven’t seen before.’ Not childbirth, admittedly, but blood, and gore and screaming? He’d seen enough of that to last him a lifetime.

She arched one dark eyebrow at him in disbelief, a perfect curve above her shimmering eyes, the soft blue of forget-me-nots. ‘Really? You do surprise me.’

Her caustic tone made no apparent impact. ‘Call me, if you need any help.’ Gilan strode towards the door, leather boots covering the distance in three big strides.

‘We won’t,’ she replied rudely, pivoting away from him with what sounded like a snort.

And she would make sure of that, he thought. The maid had done an excellent job of making him feel like he would be the very last man on earth to whom she would turn for help. As if she knew who he was; as if she had peeled back the vast wall of chest muscle and seen the dull, numb beat of his cold, black heart. As Gilan moved through into the stairwell, he glanced back through the open door. For all the chit’s bravado, for all her spurning, he knew she was scared. Her small hands trembled as she smoothed them down the front of her gown, delicate blue veins in her dainty wrists revealed by her loose flapping sleeves.

* * *

Perched up beside her sister on the big bed, Matilda raised one arm, wiped the gathering perspiration from her forehead, holding on to Katherine as she let out a long, wavering moan, a cry of despair. At her sister’s feet, crouched on a wooden stool, an old lady sat, her face wizened, crumpled with age: the midwife.

‘Open that window, there!’ Matilda pointed over to a small single-paned window set into the west wall. ‘We need more air!’ Mary, one of Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting moved swiftly across the room, twisting the wrought-iron handle set into the glazing bars. Now all the windows were open, set out as far as they could go on their hinges, yet the chamber was still muggy, hot, full of the heavy scent of sweat, of blood. Exhausted by her fruitless labouring, Katherine lay on a linen sheet, the fabric creased and crumpled beneath her. Between her screams that accompanied each tightening contraction of her womb, her ladies had managed to remove her dress, easing her into a loose nightgown, which had provided her with some temporary relief. But the baby refused to come. Her belly was rigid, the skin pulled tight as a drum, distended.

With every one of Katherine’s screams, the old midwife had nodded importantly, running her leathery hands across Katherine’s stomach, before plonking herself back down again.

‘What is happening?’ Matilda said. ‘Why does the baby not come?’

From the shadows at the base of the bed, the midwife smiled her toothless smile. ‘It’s all happening the way it should, mistress, do not fret. Some babies like to take their time.’

‘But she’s been labouring for hours. She’s exhausted.’

‘Sometimes, babies take days to arrive,’ the midwife supplied unhelpfully.

One hip hitched up on the bedclothes, Matilda leaned over her sister. Something was not right. She spread her palm across Katherine’s belly, feeling the various lumps and bumps of the baby beneath the distended skin. At the top of the high curve, pushing up into Katherine’s ribs, Matilda could feel a rounded shape. Was it the curve of the baby’s bottom, or, far worse, was it the baby’s head? Fear flowed through her instantly, like water. Leaping from the bed, she strode over to the midwife, eyebrows drawn into a worried frown.

‘Tell me, do you think the baby might be the wrong way around?’ Not wishing to alarm her sister, Matilda forced herself to keep her voice low, equable. ‘You might need to turn the child.’

The midwife cackled up at her, waving her hands in the air. ‘Nay, mistress, I think he’s pointing the right way. Don’t fret, he’ll arrive when he’s good and ready, mark my words.’

‘Matilda, where are you?’ Katherine yelled out, her mouth gaping, contorted with fear as another contraction gripped her body, her head thrashing from side to side on the flock-filled pillow. Two thick candles set either side of the canopied bed sheened the sweat on her skin. Her hair straggled across the gauzy embroidered fabric of her nightdress, rippling strings of seaweed across a sea of white. ‘Why does he not arrive?’

‘I’m not certain, Katherine,’ Matilda said, moving back to her sister’s side. ‘The midwife says all is well, everything is happening as it should be.’

‘Something’s wrong, I can see it in your eyes!’ Katherine screeched at her. Her hand flung out in desperation, clutching at one of the bed curtains, half hauling her body into a sitting position. ‘Get rid of her!’ she pointed with one shaking finger at the midwife, ‘and fetch our mother. She’ll know what to do!’

‘But Katherine, our mother...’

‘I don’t care. She’ll come for me, she’ll come out for my baby. She knows how important this child is to me, for John.’ The words stuttered out of her, barely coherent. She gave Matilda a little shove. ‘Go, go now! Mary will stay with me.’

* * *

Racing down the circular stairs, one hand sliding down the cool, curving banister, Matilda burst through the door into the great hall. Dismay flooded through her as she skidded to a sharp stop at the edge of the dais. There were men everywhere: drunken men, soldiers, knights, their snoring bodies heaped over tables, or lying prone beneath them. The thick, heady smell of wine, of mead, filled the air with a soporific stupor. She needed to find just one, one lowly knight who she could trust not to say anything of their destination, but would be willing to escort her to Wolverhill, the priory where her mother now lived. Her eyes scanned the hall, seeking, searching the snoring bodies.

But there appeared to be no one. Not one man visible who hadn’t drunk a vat full of John’s expensive French wine.

She sighed. On reflection, it might be safer if she went alone. She couldn’t risk John finding out that her mother had renounced her widow’s right to own and manage their family estate at Lilleshall, couldn’t risk one of his knights leaking the information back to him. John believed her mother still lived there, still believed that the strong bossy widow was in control.

Matilda sought out John’s portly frame, slumped over the top table next to a snoring Henry, a thin, sparkling line of drool dropping from his gaping mouth on to the tablecloth. If he discovered that Matilda, in her mother and brother’s absence, had picked up the reins of running one of the largest and most profitable estates in the country, he would seize it, claim it as his own. In the eyes of the law, unmarried women were not allowed to hold property in their own right. They were not allowed to do anything without the consent of a male guardian, be that father, brother or husband.

Pivoting sharply on her heel, she whisked away from the great hall in disgust. She would go alone. Wolverhill was not above four miles from here; she could walk it easily and still be back before the midnight bell rang out on the chapel in the village. But a horse would be faster.

No guard at the main door to the castle stopped her. The entrance hall was empty. It seemed everyone had decided to take advantage of the celebrations, to take part in the welcome of John’s important guests. As she heaved open the door, thick oak planks fitted with iron rivets driven into the grey wood at intervals, no one asked her where she was going.

The night air was cool, stirred by a faint breeze, a balm on her flushed face. The pale illumination from the moon, half risen in the dark blue nap of the sky, pooled down on the cobbles of the inner bailey. In the limpid sheen of the moon, she picked out the gable end of the stable block and sprang across the uneven yard towards it. No voice hailed her, no one shouted at her to stop, to halt; the whole place was deserted, cloaked in a deafening silence. Lord help John if someone decided to attack at this precise moment; the castle was completely defenceless. Her small feet covered the short distance quickly, and as she rounded the corner of the stable block, she glanced behind her, checking to see that no one was following.

And collided with something. Someone.

‘Oooh!’ she squeaked out in shock, pressing her palms against the tall, solid bulk, pushing herself backwards, away, away from whoever it was. But she knew who it was. Her heart thumped dangerously, excitement slicing through her, rivulets of fire.

In the moonlight, Gilan’s hair shone like silver thread. He stood before her, folding his arms across his massive chest, his head tilted to one side, assessing her quietly. His eyes gleamed out from the darkness, piercing, unreadable.

‘You!’ she breathed, clapping one hand over her mouth, trying to gather her scattered senses. ‘Why are you here?’ Her accusing tone echoed around the silent bailey; she frowned back at the lit windows of the castle, as if the power of her thought could place him back where he should be. Why wasn’t he in the great hall, snoring over the trestles with the rest of his companions?

‘You mean, why am I not drunk out of my skull?’ he replied drily.

‘Well...yes, I suppose. All the rest of your companions are,’ she said scathingly. His implacable regard bore into her, unnerved her. She toed the ground awkwardly with her soft leather slipper. ‘I mean...you can do what you like. I was surprised to see you here, that’s all.’ The brittleness of her own voice startled her, shamed her, but, in the face of his intimidating presence, her behaviour immediately became wary, aloof—her only defence.

‘I came to check on our horses,’ Gilan supplied by way of explanation. She had forgotten to button her sleeves again, he realised; the skin of her forearms was milk-white, like pouring cream. If he rubbed his thumb upwards, from her wrist to her elbow, would it feel like silk? Desire kicked him, sudden and unbidden, deep in his solar plexus.

‘Um, look, I’m sorry, would you excuse me?’ Matilda hopped anxiously from one foot to the other, tucking her fingers into her belt in a vague attempt to do something with her hands. The breadth of his body filled the entrance to the stables—would she have to push past him, or would he give way? ‘I have to fetch a horse...my sister...’

‘How is she?’

‘Not good...’ Tears gathered suddenly at the corners of her eyes. She jerked her head upwards, biting fretfully at her bottom lip, fighting the tremble of her mouth. ‘Not good at all...’ her voice wavered, emerging in a breathless rush ‘...and I have to fetch someone, someone who can help her.’

‘A midwife?’

‘No, she has one of those, a woman who is proving to be useless!’ Matilda began to edge around him, squeezing herself flat against the inner wall of the stable entrance, grazing her spine against the cool stone so that no part of her body came into contact with him. He turned, watching her. Once free of his disquieting stance, she moved along the stalls, her step quick and fleeting, gown skimming across the loose straw on the packed-earth floor. Where was the grey mare, the docile animal that she always rode when she stayed with her sister? Ah, there she was.

Aware of Gilan’s diamond gaze surveying her from the entrance, she lifted the bridle from the rusty hook and raised the iron latch on the wooden half door, pushing it open. Standing on tiptoe, she managed to slide the bridle over the horse’s head, settling the metal bit between the animal’s teeth. The mare whinnied softly, moving big teeth across Matilda’s hands, searching for the carrots, or apples that Matilda normally brought for her.

‘Sorry, I have nothing for you.’ Matilda patted the horse’s nose. With a gentle tug on the reins, she led the animal from the stall and out towards the entrance. There was no time to fit a saddle to the animal and she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to help

Gilan’s broad frame stood silhouetted in the arched entrance, long muscled legs planted firmly astride, blocking her path. His mouth was set in a firm, hard line.

‘Would you let me pass, please? I have to be quick!’ Urgency plucked at her voice.

‘Who is going with you?’

She gave a quick shake of her head, dismissing his question. She would pretend she hadn’t heard him; the less this man knew about her domestic circumstances, the better. Hitching up her dark pink skirts, she climbed the flight of steps that served as a mounting block inside the stables and slid herself over, astride, on to the horse’s back. Her feet poked out from the bottom of her dress, and to her dismay, one of her leather slippers peeled off the back of her heel and plopped to the ground.

Moving into the shadows of the stable, Gilan bent down and picked it up, holding the pink leather between his fingers. Matilda eyed him warily.

‘I said, “who is going with you?”’ His voice held an edge of steel.

‘Can I have my slipper back, please?’ she asked, her voice petulant. The thin leather of her slipper looked incongruous against the muscled strength of his fingers, pinpoints of fire streaking out from the diamond cluster decorating the toe. She held out her hand, but realised, in shock, that he had grasped her ankle, clad in a silk stocking. He slipped the shoe back over her foot, the heat from his hand travelling up her leg, driving every muscle in her body to rigid alertness. The breath drove from her lungs, she couldn’t speak, or protest...

Fury rose at his outrageous manhandling. Alarmed by her own response to his touch, she kicked out, toes colliding with his chest. His fingers twisted swiftly, almost as if he anticipated her movement, crushing both foot and slipper against a solid wall of muscle, one big thumb pressed up into the tender skin of her sole, sending sparks of...of what? Of sheer pleasure, scything up her leg? She glared at him, astounded, and tugged her foot once more, to no avail.

‘Let go of me!’ she hissed down at him. ‘Your behaviour is unspeakable!’

‘Not until you tell me who is going with you.’

His head was on a level with her chest, his glinting hair inches from the spot where her hands grasped the reins. The urge to sift her fingers through those glimmering strands surged up within her; she smashed down the scandalous thoughts, wondering at her own sanity.

‘They’re all drunk to the world up there! Completely wasted.’

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