Her Battle-Scarred Knight

‘Giseux,’ she said loudly. ‘Giseux, wake up!’

In response, his fingers clawed into his upper thigh, the sinews in his hand rigid, straining. Snaring the muscular bulk of his shoulders between her hands, she tried to shake him, tried to lift his upper body from the ground. But to no avail: he was too heavy. In desperation her eyes searched the cottage interior, the uneven walls, for something that might help, before a sudden bizarre idea touched her.

Blood hurtled through her veins, blossoming in the skin of her face.

Hands on his shoulders, she dipped her head. Kissed him.

Her soft lips touched his firm mouth in a last attempt to hush the demons of the night that claimed him. A dangerous warmth stole over her, melting her limbs, turning the muscles in her knees to useless mush; she shuddered, striving to hold her body away from him. It was only a kiss, she told herself. A simple device to alleviate his distress. Yet the touch of his mouth spiralled each nerve in her body to a singing desire, a yearning for more.

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has 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.

Novels by the same author:

CONQUEST BRIDE

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Her Battle-Scarred Knight

Meriel Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Sefanoc, Wiltshire, England—January 1193

Brianna leaned her cheek against the cow’s yielding flank, fingers reaching under the animal to squeeze blood-warm milk from the udder. In the early morning stillness of the byre, the liquid squirted noisily against the sides of the wooden pail, steaming in the chill air. She heard William, the farmer, talking softly to one of the cows at the other end of the byre, imagined him budging one animal out of the way, so he could start milking the next cow in line. He was much faster than her, milking two cows to her one. But his wife was ill this morning and Brianna had offered to help when he’d come knocking at the door of the manor house, blowing on his hands to warm them, his breath puffing white in the darkness. They couldn’t afford to lose the milk; it was a vital source of income in these hard times. As with other estates, most of their money had been taken by King Richard to fund his crusade to the Holy Land. The manor was earning very little; she had enough coin to pay the farmer and his wife, who maintained the land and livestock, and Alys, who had served her family since Brianna was a child. ‘Mistress! My lady!’

Brianna jumped at the shrill, tremulous warning, startled from the soporific rhythm of the milking. Her maidservant stood in the doorway, her face white, body quivering with fear.

‘Alys, what is it?’ Brianna twisted around on the milking stool, her auburn braids gleaming in the dim light of the byre.

Alys’s eyes grew wide, the thin skin of her face stretched over her bony cheeks. ‘They’ve come back. Count John’s men; they’re looking for you.’

Brianna grinned. ‘Well, they won’t find me at home, will they, Alys?’ She patted the cow’s flank, extricating the half-full bucket from beneath the pink udders. ‘I’ll put this in the churn, William. Butter sells quickly at the market.’

William stood, resting one hand on a cow’s rump to lever himself up. ‘Aye, you do that, mistress. Martha can churn, if she’s feeling better. If not, I’ll do it myself.’ He tipped his head, topped with a mop of grizzled grey hair, in the direction of the manor. ‘Do you want me to go and see what’s happening?’

Brianna shook her head, clutching the pail of slopping milk to her middle as she rose to her feet.

‘Oh, but, mistress, you’re never going to go yourself?’ Alys gabbled, her breath coming in short little pants. ‘There’s more of them this time, with torches, circling around, one of them banging on the door.’ She shuddered. ‘I slipped out the back of the kitchen … came to find you. What if they do something to our home? What if they … torch it?’

Brianna laid a hand on Alys’s shoulder. ‘Alys, you must calm down … they wouldn’t do such a thing. It’s the manor and lands that the Count wishes, remember. And they can’t have it because I’m in their way.’

‘They’re stronger than you, mistress.’

‘But I’m cleverer than most of their thick skulls put together.’

‘Count John won’t stop until he has what he wants, my lady.’

Brianna put one hand to her forehead, smiling. ‘Please don’t remind me, Alys. But I have no intention of being forcibly married off to one of those thugs, as I’ve made perfectly clear in several letters to Count John himself.’

Alys bit her lip. ‘That Count is the devil himself, mistress, and he’ll stop at nothing to give the manor of Sefanoc, and you, to one of his men.’

Brianna’s light blue eyes blazed in the dimness of the byre. ‘The manor of Sefanoc is not his to give away. It belongs to Hugh.’

Doubt flickered across the maidservant’s face.

‘Hugh will be back soon,’ Brianna reassured her. ‘Everything will be fine once he returns.’

‘But …’ The servant’s voice faltered.

‘Alys, I forbid you to look like that! Hugh will be back. He’s obviously been delayed on the journey in some way.’

‘The Somervilles have returned, and the de Laceys,’ Alys reminded her.

‘And they remember seeing Hugh waiting for the boats on the beach in France,’ Brianna replied, plucking at a loose thread on her girdle. ‘My brother will be back soon. Now, come on, Alys, you can help us finish this milking.’

A crack of sunlight appeared across the eastern horizon as Brianna emerged from the warmth of the barn, drawing the hood of her short woollen cape securely over her head, covering the bright red-gold of her hair. She stepped lightly across the cobbles in the direction of her home. Her hands ached from the effort of milking so many cows; flexing her fingers, she tried to relieve the stiffness. Alys had stayed behind to churn the butter, the wan, exhausted face of the farmer’s wife indicating to Brianna that she would be in no fit state to do anything today.

Rather than return home by the shorter route, through the forest, she decided to cut through the flat fields to the north—hopefully the open ground would enable her to spot Count John’s men if they had decided to linger. It had been some time since Alys had raised the alarm, so it was entirely possibly that they had returned to Count John’s castle at nearby Merleberge to break their fast. As her feet skipped across the frosted grass, she prayed they had become bored and hungry with the wait. Men like that, with no self-discipline, no stamina, couldn’t last for long without food in their bellies.

Ducking through a gap in the stubby hawthorn hedge that divided two fields, she bit her lip. Despite her solid, confident smile in front of Alys and the farmer, she wondered how long she could hold out against the King’s powerful younger brother. How long would it be before her own brother came home from the Crusades? A tight coil of fear began to unravel in her gut; she clamped it down fiercely before it gained momentum. She would hold out for as long as it took, she told herself sternly, she must protect and defend the manor of Sefanoc in Hugh’s name. Instinctively her fingers moved towards the thick belt slung low around her neat waist, checking the knife in its scabbard that hung from it—the knife that would keep her safe.

Her feet broke through the thin layer of ice covering the standing water spread out in patches on the low-lying field, and squelched into the cold mud beneath, water seeping between the thick leather sole and uppers of her stout boots. The river, its course marked by an occasional stubby willow, the bright orange branches shining bright and straight in the rising sun, had flooded regularly this winter. The cattle had been restricted in the amount of grass they had to eat and the farmer had been forced to dig into their precious supplies of stored hay in order to supplement their diet. For a moment, she paused, sweeping her eye back over the field, assessing the amount of damage the most recent flood had wrought, and how much grass there was left for her dairy herd.

‘Good morning, my lady Brianna.’

Her heart leapt in fright; the voice shocked through her, low and dangerous, a slick ripple of fear. She raised her eyes reluctantly to the man on the horse, a man, it seemed, who had appeared from nowhere. And behind him, two other soldiers on horseback, their surcoats bearing the colours of Count John.

‘Lord Fulke.’ She nodded with the briefest deference to the older man who had first addressed her. His buff-coloured tunic strained across his round belly as he adjusted his position in the saddle, the split sides revealing fleshy thighs stuffed into brown woollen braies. His iron-grey hair was thick, a greasy mat against his scalp.

‘What an unexpected pleasure!’ Lord Fulke exclaimed, his voice a sarcastic falsetto. He nudged his horse so that his booted foot in the stirrup moved on to a level with her chest. The other two soldiers, one darkly scowling, one a fresh-faced youth, manoeuvred their horses around to box her in at her back. She was surrounded. Her chest tightened, but she would not, nay, could not, panic. They would not harm her, they wouldn’t dare! They had been sent to harass her, to force her to agree to Count John’s ridiculous plan. They hoped to wear her down by their constant intimidation, but it wouldn’t work!

‘Let me pass, Lord Fulke.’ Brianna fought to keep her voice level, calm. ‘You have nothing to gain from

this.’

Lord Fulke snorted with laughter, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, some streaked with black, others a particularly nasty yellow hue. ‘On the contrary, my dear lady, we have everything to gain. If only you would agree to the alliance with Hubert of Winterbourne, life would be so much easier for you.’

‘And I’ve told you before—’ Brianna tossed her head back ‘—Sefanoc is not mine to give away.’ Crossing her arms over her middle to disguise her actions, Brianna clasped her fingers around the hilt of the knife.

Lord Fulke’s heavy frame thumped down before her as he dismounted. Up close, he was about the same height as her, wide and thickset. His foul breath wafted over her as he spoke. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, my lady,’ he continued silkily. ‘Your brother is most certainly dead; he will not return now from the Crusades. All our men are home.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘And the manor of Sefanoc needs a lord in charge.’

‘Over my dead body.’ Brianna expelled the words in a hiss of breath. ‘You have no right to do this; you know I have the protection of King Richard …’

‘But King Richard isn’t here, is he?’

‘He will return, just like my brother! Now let me pass!’ In one swift, neat movement, she pulled the knife from its scabbard, holding the point to Lord Fulke’s chest. Shock clogged the man’s face; the two soldiers behind her moved in. One grabbed her shoulders to jerk her back sharply, the other knocked the knife away with a short, painful chopping motion, the side of his hand against her wrist.

Lord Fulke cleared his throat, adjusted his belt self-consciously on his padded hips. ‘You’ve been without a man in charge for too long, it seems.’ He licked his lips in a curious half-smile, eyes running lecherously over Brianna’s diminutive figure, the perfect oval of her face. ‘Your conduct is unseemly, wilful. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated in a lady; it seems we need to teach you a lesson. You will soon come to your senses, young lady. We will make sure of it.’

Count Giseux de St-Loup urged the muscled flanks of his stallion up the narrow sheep track to the brow of the ridge, leaning his tall frame forwards in the saddle to hasten the animal’s ascent. His chainmail hauberk glinted dully in the morning sun, the bright orb partially obscured by wisps of white cloud. Halting the animal at the top of the escarpment, Giseux let the reins drop, lifting both hands to remove his iron conical helmet to reveal a lean, tanned face, bruises of exhaustion dabbed beneath grey eyes. Flapping open his leather saddlebag, he grabbed his water bottle, pulling the cork stopper to drink deep. The cool, sweet-tasting water poured down his throat like an elixir, driving back the waves of tiredness, reviving him. Wiping his mouth on the leather pad sewn against the palm of his chainmail mittens, he replaced the water bottle, then swept his gaze across the soft countryside below him, one hand unconsciously kneading at the dull ache in his upper

thigh.

From this high vantage point, he could see the castle at Merleberge rising up out of the river mist as if it floated on air; a castle that Count John had made his own whilst his older brother, King Richard, was away on crusade. The valley fell away in gentle scoops of green, ridges rolling away into the distance, fading blue. Even the jagged nakedness of the deciduous trees in winter—the scrappy hawthorn, the majestic oak—all served to enhance, not detract, from the beauty of this winter landscape. His eye was unaccustomed to such sights and his mind baulked against it, resented it. Such exquisiteness made him restless, irritable, after the years he had spent on crusade: savage days spent marching endlessly through the scorching sand, pushing his men through inhospitable rocky valleys, a constant craving for water. But strangely, whilst all of his soldiers were relieved to be home, he wanted to be back there, back in those wretched conditions, pitting the strength of his mind and body against the elements, the sheer effort of keeping himself alive driving his mind from deeper, darker thoughts. He craved the harsh light of Jerusalem, needed it, deserved it.

But the crusade was finished, over; the agreement had been signed between King Richard and Saladin. Both sides, both Christians and Saracens, had won. In his heart, the victory seemed hollow, pointless, after so many lives had been lost in the process. The lives of his men in one of the last raids on Narsuf. And the life of … His hands tightened around the reins, seeking balance as the familiar rage, the guilt that haunted his days and nights, rose within him … nay, he would not think of that now. Soon enough he would find the traitor who had turned against them, avenge his soldiers’ deaths … and hers. But now, he had to fulfil a promise to a fellow knight. He hoped it wouldn’t take him too long.

‘Will you agree?’ Lord Fulke yanked Brianna’s head from the water trough once more, podgy fingers snarled in her wet, dripping hair, twisting the strands tight, like a rope, pulling viciously against her scalp. She fought the urge to yelp with pain, gritting her teeth in determination; she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. Her short-lived marriage to Walter had taught her that, at least. Bracing her knees against the wooden trough, lined with puddled clay to provide drinking water for the cattle, she clutched at the rim with red-raw fingers, steeling herself for the next onslaught. Her wide blue eyes, lashes spiked darkly wet, blazed with fury.

‘How dare you do this to me?’ she managed to stutter out through lips purplish-blue with cold. ‘The King will hear of this!’

‘But nobody knows where he is, my lady,’ Fulke reminded her. ‘And until we know, we can do what we

like.’

Her heart plummeted as he shoved her head beneath the water once more. They had broken the ice on the surface after they had manhandled her over to the corner of the field where the trough was situated. The water was freezing, instantly numbing the skin on her face, driving nails of ice into her ears, her eyes, her nose. Brianna held her breath for as long as she could, before allowing the air from her lungs to leak out slowly, hoping, praying that they would pull her out before … before she ran out. Desperation plucked at her chest, a scythe of panic. Surely they wouldn’t kill her? Doubt crept into her mind, whispering, insidious, forcing her to acknowledge her vulnerability; she sagged momentarily as her chest began to burn. Then the cruel yank of Fulke’s fist at the back of her head pulled her up again, and she gasped, sucked greedily, filling her lungs with fresh air.

‘There is an easier way, my dear,’ Lord Fulke commented smoothly, throwing a disparaging bloodshot glance over her dripping face, her sodden braids. ‘You need to agree … agree to this marriage.’

‘Never,’ she vowed. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’ She crossed her arms over her chest, clutching at her arms in an effort to stop the incessant shivering. Threads of water trailed down her neck, beneath the collar of her cloak, wetting the rough fabric of her gown.

Lord Fulke mangled his thick lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘Let’s hope that it won’t come to that.’ The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

Fear coursed through her body, firing bolts of adrenalin straight to her heart. So they would kill her! She needed time, time to think, time to plan! But judging from the menacing look in Fulke’s eyes, time was one thing she did not have. Closing her eyes, she pretended to faint, falling in a crumpled heap to the ground, up against the edge of the trough, her hand scrabbling about behind her in the mud for something, anything, that might be able to help her. A stone! Her fingers grazed against its roughness, cupped it swiftly into her palm. She hoped it would be enough.

Fulke cursed, eyes flicking moodily over the slumped figure.

‘She’s had enough, now, hasn’t she, my lord?’ one of the other soldiers remarked.

‘Don’t let the chit fool you, Stephen. She’s a clever piece.’

Brianna smelled the wash of Fulke’s noxious breath as he leaned down to her. Tightening her grip on the stone, she brought it round to smash it against his head with all the force she could muster. Only it wasn’t enough. The gritty stone dropped from her fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nay. I am looking for someone.’

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

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

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

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

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