The Knight's Fugitive Lady

Chapter Two

Lussac kicked the heels of his stout leather boots into his horse’s side, urging the animal away from the beach. After the cramped, restrictive conditions on board ship, it felt good to be moving again. He stretched his legs out against the stirrups, the taut muscles in his thighs and calves relishing the movement as the saddle-leather creaked beneath his tall, muscular frame. As his horse climbed to the top of the narrow path that led up the low cliffs, the whole sweep of this hostile country spread out before him. To his left, through a patchy area of tidal creeks, the wide, flat ribbon of a river made its slow, meandering course towards the sea. Before him, a gently sloping area of rough grass dissolved into woodland up to his right. The place was deserted.

But then his gaze swung back, sharply. What had he seen? What has his mind registered that his eyes had not? A trace of colour, blotched on the horizon? He kicked his horse on, suspecting he might find the soldiers he was looking for. The animal cantered across the uneven plain, Lussac hunkered low in the saddle. As he approached, he realised it was one soldier, sitting on the bleached ground at the edge of the tussocky marshland, his head bowed. A dark-blue patch of colour in this pale, glittery, everlasting landscape. He had removed his helmet and his thick, sandy-coloured hair riffled in the slight breeze. Galloping across to him, Lussac reined his horse brusquely, jumping down almost in the same movement.

‘You, soldier, tell me what happened!’

The boy looked dazed, drugged even, as if he had woken from a dream. Seeing Lussac, recognising his authority, he placed one hand behind him and tried to push himself to his feet, but dizziness overwhelmed him and he fell back.

‘Stay where you are, boy,’ Lussac ordered, impatiently. ‘What happened to you?’ Behind him, his horse shifted constantly, as if aware of his master’s irritation, hooves pawing the ground.

‘An angel came,’ the boy murmured.

‘And she hit you on the head?’ Lussac mocked. The boy had obviously been unconscious, judging from his addled speech. What did he think he was saying?

‘Aye, she hit me on the head. And she took my horse.’

Lussac snorted in disbelief. The boy was clearly talking nonsense. ‘Can you not remember what really happened?’ he tried once more.

‘I tell you no lie, my lord, I promise you.’ The young soldier rubbed the back of his head, tentatively. A searing, uncomfortable ache was spreading through his skull. ‘I was following the others, at the back. And then, all of a sudden, I was pulled from my horse, backwards. She pulled me from my horse.’

‘She?’

‘An angel, I swear to you. Her face...like a pearl, gleaming it was. Beautiful. She was beautiful. I must have knocked myself out when I fell, despite wearing this...’ he gestured towards his helmet ‘...and she leaned over me, told me I would be all right.’

‘Did she indeed.’ Lussac didn’t believe one word of it. A face like a pearl? The lad was delusional, suffering from the after-effects of hitting his head, or he was deliberately making the whole story up to cover his own embarrassment at having his horse stolen. He had probably fallen off his animal of his own accord and the horse had run off, following the others.

‘The other soldiers—did they see any of this?’

The lad had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I was lagging behind, and they didn’t realise. I’m...I’m not used to riding with all this heavy armour.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Lussac replied tartly. ‘Which direction did they take? Can you remember that, at least?’

The boy lifted his arm, pointed towards the cloud of dark-green trees to the north. ‘That way, they went towards the forest.’ He lowered his arm, fixing Lussac with a resolute stare. ‘And the angel followed them.’

‘On your horse.’ Lussac threw the lad a tight smile as he swung himself back into the saddle. The leather creaked as he leaned forwards, gathering the reins, the split side-seam of his tunic falling open to reveal long legs encased in shining chainmail.

‘On my horse,’ the soldier repeated, staring up at him. ‘I know you don’t believe me, my lord, but it’s true. An angel stole my horse.’

* * *

Irritation clenched at Lussac’s gut as he raised one arm to push away a low, overhanging branch at the entrance to the forest. Where had Isabella found these mercenaries to fight on her behalf—in the madhouse? The only saving grace was that they had all gone in the same direction—north—Mortimer’s men, and the ‘stolen’ horse.

The forest was quiet, still, the thick belt of trees diffusing the power of the wind that had raced across the flat river plain. Sunlight, diluted, subdued, flickered down to the sandy mud of the forest floor. The half-light was easy on the eye, a welcome relief after the stark, searing light of the beach, the sunlight bouncing harshly off the sea. Lussac inhaled, deeply, rolling his shoulders back to ease the tension in his muscles, a clean, fresh scent rising from the ground as his horse’s hooves ground into the pine needles strewn across the track. The smell yanked him back, back to the southern pine forests of his youth, those carefree days when he had ridden bareback through the trees, laughing and joking with his friends, when he had swam in the cool lakes and eaten fresh walnuts from the trees, in those idyllic days, when he had had a family to go home to.

There was no one there now. His family home was empty, half-burned to the ground. His mother and father and sister were dead, dead from smoke inhalation, their prone bodies clasping, reaching out to each other to die on the floor of the locked solar. Where he had found them.

A sudden sweep of wind brought down a shower of leaves, beech leaves, spinning around his helmet like burnished feathers, adding to the undulating carpet of dark-green pine needles across the ground, jolting him back to the present, to the quiet stillness of the forest.

A sound—a single sound carried towards him on the breeze.

The jangle of a bridle. Amidst the startled shriek of a blackbird, the sough of the wind high in the tree canopy, and the slow whisper of leaves dropping to the ground, he heard it. And heard it again. He spurred his horse on, pushing the animal from a trot to a canter, hooves flying over the soft ground, in pursuit of that delicate sound. The sound of an angel? He smiled, but the smile failed to reach the steely turquoise depths of his eyes.

* * *

Fortunately for Katerina, only one clear track was discernible through the trees: the only path that could possibly have been taken by those brutish soldiers. She prayed Waleran wasn’t too frightened and would realise that she had every intention of rescuing him. As he had rescued her. The other members of the circus troupe joked about Waleran and her being joined at the hip, and maybe it was true. Her friend since childhood, he had taught her the tricks and turns which, at that time, she had never realised she would come to rely on. Waleran had offered her freedom and she had seized it as a drowning man grips on to a floating raft.

Following the path with an easy trot, she held her seat comfortably in the rigid, upright saddle, fingers slack around the bridle. Every now and again, the horse would shake his head violently, mane fanning out like a chicken’s-tail feathers, the bit between his teeth jangling. It was almost as if he were protesting at having a woman on his back! But all the head shaking and eye rolling didn’t worry her; she had grown up around horses and could handle them without fuss, however temperamental they wished to be.

Katerina could have moved faster; the track was wide enough, but she had no wish to barge straight into those thugs. Nay, she would have to be more cunning, for they would overpower her in a moment and the element of surprise would be lost. She intended to spring Waleran from their clutches by a far more subversive method. At this precise moment she had no idea what exactly that method was. Caught in her musing, she failed to hear the thump of galloping hooves until they were almost upon her.

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve!’ A low, powerful voice struck her in the back.

Panic shot through her, hot, visceral, sucking the strength from her limbs. Instinctively she crouched forwards, as if expecting a blow, at the same time digging her heels sharply into the horse’s sides to speed him away from any attack. Seizing the reins, she felt her hands shake with fear, adrenalin hurtling at breakneck speed around her body.

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ From behind, two massive arms clamped viciously around her shoulders, wrenching her slight weight up and off the horse. The treacherous animal moved away from under her and she was left dangling in mid-air, her attacker, unseen, at her back. Almost immediately she began to struggle, to kick her legs this way and that, feet flailing, trying to make her attacker drop her, trying to twist her body out of that hateful grasp. Fear spurred her on, forcing her to fight, for her freedom, for her life. Would these strangers kill you, for stealing a horse? She had no wish to find out. Katerina thrashed out, heels catching back into the soft flank of his horse, as she used all the muscles in her body to throw it to and fro, trying to break the fearsome grip.

‘Let go of me!’ she shrieked, her voice rising with hysterical anger. She had to force him to drop her and then she could run. She was fast, she could outrun any man. Her captor’s arms were like iron bands around her upper body, squeezing the air from her lungs, but his bare hands, lean and sinewy, were inches from her chin, fingers linked. Bare. Skin. Inches from her mouth. Inches from her teeth. She bent her head down and sank her little white teeth into the fleshy part of his hand, between thumb and forefinger. Drew blood.

‘Why, you little...!’ For a tiny moment, the moment that she expected, his grip eased by a fraction. This slight loosening was enough, all she needed to wriggle violently from his grasp, to slip from those brawny arms, to hit the leaf-strewn forest floor and take off. And then she ran, ran with every last ounce of strength in her frame, away from the path, snaking through the densely packed trees with her light, dancing step. The horse would be unable to follow and the lumbering soldier, slowed by his cumbersome armour, would simply give up. He would never catch her now.

Lussac plunged from his horse, angry now. The little brat had bitten him! And now the bobbing hood and coarse-woven tunic disappearing through the trees mocked his sword and shield, his armour, the trappings of war. The varmint obviously thought he had the means to outwit him, Lussac. Just wait until he clamped his hands once more around his scrawny little neck! The wretch might think he was nippy on his feet, but Lussac was much, much faster. The advantage of greater muscle power and longer legs. He kept his eye focused on the dun-coloured tunic darting through the solid trunks, his long strides powering through the piled drifts of fallen leaves, scattering them. The silvery skin of his chainmail glittered in the faint sunlight. Yard by yard, he gained on the thief, steadily, inexorably, until he was a mere body’s length away.

As he launched himself full-length through the air, he could hear the boy’s breath, ragged, quick, before he crashed down against the narrow back, bringing him down, flat, hard, beneath him. A muffled squeak of shock escaped his quarry before his face was buried in the leaf litter of the forest floor. Let the scamp try to escape now!

For one horrible moment, Katerina lay stunned, groping in the threatening blackness, her mind struggling with the details of what had just happened to her. A tremendous weight pressed down on her back; her mouth, and nose and eyes were full of dead leaves, wet and musty against her skin. Hot tears of anger flooded from her eyes at the dreadful realisation: she had been caught, after all. Panic rose in her chest, an unstoppable surge; the force of the impact had pressed all the air from her lungs. Now she found it impossible to lift her head! Stretched out before her, her arms, her fingers, flailed against the earth, trying to find purchase, struggling to push her body away from the muffling, constricting ground, to find some air, to breathe.

Then suddenly, the weight lifted. She was flipped over, unceremoniously, on to her back.

Immediately she launched upwards into a sitting position, spitting bits of decaying leaf mould from her mouth. Her eyes blurred with tears; she was unable to focus clearly on her attacker, a huge shadowy outline against the trees. ‘How dare you!’ she spluttered, drawing her knees up close to her chest. ‘How dare you treat me so!’ In anger, in humiliation, she whacked both palms against the earth, as a child would.

Standing over the thief, legs astride, and ready to snag a sleeve or a bunch of tunic should the boy decide to run once more, Lussac stared in astonishment. The hood of the lad’s tunic had fallen back, revealing a mass of amber hair, a curious colour, bronze flecked with gold. The long locks had been plaited tightly, pinned up, but a few loose strands drifted down, shining threads lying across the rough tunic. Huge, silver-coloured eyes glared at him, hostile, mutinous. Outraged.

He had found the soldier’s angel.

Temporarily winded, her anger simmering, Katerina dashed the hot tears from her eyes to clear her vision, hands smarting from where she had whacked them on the ground. Her fingers touched the fallen hood and she yanked it viciously into place, hoping her attacker hadn’t noticed. The voluminous cloth settled comfortably around her head once more. Keeping her gaze down, she studied the piles of leaves beneath her feet, the torn hem of her braies, threads hanging, drawing the air back into her lungs, steadying her erratic breathing. One soldier, one measly soldier, had managed to catch her, to bring her down, she thought. How had she managed to let that happen?

She tilted her head upwards, carefully. And she had her answer.

A man, a knight, towered above her, his large frame encased in chainmail, silver-meshed, glittering. Although he stood very still, she sensed every muscle in his body was poised, alert, ready to bear down on her once more, should she choose to run. And she wanted to run; every nerve-ending in her body was telling her to flee, to hare off into the woods again. But it was madness to think she could ever outpace a man like this. He would catch her every time. Below the shadow of his steel-grey helmet, a wide mouth was set in a firm, dangerous line. His broad shoulders were encased by the sweep of his dark-blue tunic, which fell to his knees. Gold fleur-de-lys had been embroidered down the length of cloth. So, he was one of them, one of the soldiers on the beach.

Her confidence leached from her, sank into the ground beneath her hips. Exhaustion swept through her small frame; she wanted to turn, lie on her side and howl in the face of such physical masculine strength. To give up. But, no, she told herself sternly, Katerina of Dauntsey never gave up. Bunching her hands into small fists at her sides, she drew her spine up to its full length. She didn’t trust herself to stand, not yet. Shock had weakened her legs; at this precise moment, they possessed all the strength of wet, flapping cloth.

‘What have you done with him?’ she demanded, with as low a voice as she could muster. ‘Where have you taken him?’

‘Get up.’ The soldier ignored her question, nudging her leg with one toe of his scuffed boot.

In response, her mouth set tight with annoyance; she wrestled with the notion of remaining where she was.

‘Do it.’

His brusque tone forced her to shuffle her legs awkwardly beneath her, tipping her body to one side so she could lever herself to her feet. Although his eyes were hidden, she felt the power of his gaze upon her and she flushed, humiliated that he could control her like this. Resentment boiled within her. Standing upright, she kept her head rigidly lowered, then swayed as a faint wooziness spiralled through her head.

A large hand wrapped around her upper arm, steadying her.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

‘I could ask the same of you,’ she spat back, viciously, drawing her elbow down sharply to shake off his grip. His hand stayed, clamped firmly to her arm. Hostility shimmered in her eyes, darkening them to sparkling granite. ‘You attacked me, wrenched me from my horse and then pursued me, bringing me down like a common vagrant! How dare you!’ Her rage had made her forget that she was supposed to be speaking with a boy’s voice; she growled the last three words out, in an effort to keep up the semblance of masculinity.

Gritty leaf-matter, like flecks of peat, stuck to the alabaster smoothness of her cheek. She wiped her face angrily, with a brisk shake of her head. Perched on her tip-toes, edgy, volatile, she reminded him of a nervous cat, ready to spring, or take off, at any moment.

‘You are a common vagrant,’ Lussac pronounced slowly. ‘You stole a horse.’ He studied the face beneath the hood, the hint of rippling, amber-coloured hair. Did she really believe she could hide the fact she was a woman?

‘I wasn’t going to keep it!’ she flashed back at him. ‘It was your soldiers, ignorant brutes, who took my friend! What was I supposed to do?’

Her wavering tone, one moment high and shrewish, the next almost growling when she remembered her charade, made him want to laugh. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. She obviously believed he thought she was a boy. And to be fair, seeing her ride that stolen horse like the devil himself, then pursuing her through the woods on foot, he had truly believed she was. But now, the game was up.

He ripped the hood back from her face.

‘Nay!’ she howled out loud, reaching up and back to grab the collapsing folds, gathering in soft layers around the base of her neck.

‘Leave it,’ he barked, reaching up to pull off his helmet. A shock of chestnut hair sprung out around his head, a few strands falling over his tanned forehead. ‘You’re not fooling anybody. Any idiot can see that you’re a maid.’ He cast a disparaging eye over her diminutive frame, the patched, baggy tunic disguising any curves that she might possess. ‘Although there’s not much of you.’

‘Enough of me to steal a horse, though,’ she retorted, unthinking, then met the astonishing turquoise scorch of his eyes and immediately regretted her words. Her toes curled, preventing an involuntary stagger backwards. She ducked her gaze, unwilling to meet that bold, determined stare, the colour of the sea on a cold, frosty day, and fixed instead on a neutral spot on his tunic.

‘Tread carefully, maid. You are too bold with your words.’ His speech flooded over her, a dark warning. ‘In my country the punishment for thieves is severe.’ Who did this maid think she was, to address him so? From the look of her, she was a low-born wench, no more, with the lean, hungry look of someone who didn’t have enough to eat. Yet her voice, when she spoke normally, held the modulated tones of a noblewoman, albeit one who was truculent, confrontational.

At his words, her heart clenched with fear, her large grey eyes widening as she stared up again at his rigid, tanned features. Her skin paled, a sprinkle of tiny freckles standing out across her small, tip-tilted nose. A pulse beat frantically in the shadowed hollow of her neck. She took one large step backwards, so she stood beyond the sweep of one of his long, muscular arms. Would he punish her for what she had done? Would he drag her back to the beach, cast her on her knees before the Queen?

She had no intention of waiting around to find out.

Chapter Three

Fear, laced with anger, a volatile combination, spurred her on. The athleticism in her body would provide her only defence against this man; she prayed it would be enough. As she sprung to her left, a quicksilver movement, she acknowledged the snaking reflex of his arm in the corner of her vision. She flinched away, evading his outstretched fingers. She had two advantages: she was small and she was light; he was not. Within a moment, she had plunged into the undergrowth, reaching her hands up to grab, then pull herself up on to a low branch. With all her training, the task proved easy; the muscles in her arms and legs were strong, practised. A sense of bravado, of success, drove her on; that horrible, arrogant man would be too heavy to climb this tree, this spindly birch with its frail, waving branches, with its few silvery, elegant leaves still clinging.

Below, a branch cracked beneath his weight. Scrambling upwards, Katerina smirked to herself. He would never catch her now. She stopped, scissoring her legs to secure her position on the thin branch, and peered down.

He was climbing. Undeterred by the broken branch, he had tried another, more secure, and was heading her way, threatening the safety of her high perch. His glossy chestnut head moved inexorably closer.

‘Go away!’ she shouted down. ‘You have your horse back, take it, and be gone! I have done nothing wrong!’

He reached up and, before she had time to draw her foot away, his hand grabbed the toe of her boot. She jerked her leg upwards, roughly, to dislodge his grip, but instead, the boot slid from her foot and came off in his hand. Cursing, he threw the leather to the ground, then seized her dangling ankle before she had time to whip it away, fingers digging into the fine bones. She wore no stockings; her skin was pearly-cold, icy beneath his touch.

‘Give up.’

‘Never. I’d rather die.’

‘Then remind me to kill you personally.’ His response was dry, sarcastic. ‘But first you need to come out of this tree.’

Warmth flowed from his fingertips into the marble coldness of her ankle, her leg; her belly shivered. She tried to ignore the odd, fluttery sensation and concentrate instead on how to extricate herself from the situation. Her choices had been severely curtailed.

‘You need to come out of this tree,’ he said. ‘Now.’ Truly, he couldn’t remember meeting a maid quite as stubborn as this! And the way she had climbed the tree had been remarkable; he had watched the lithe body pull up and up the branches, bright hair glinting, every movement graceful and precise. Strong. More than anything else, he had noticed that. The strength held that small frame.

But he was stronger.

Lussac yanked on the fragile ankle, none too gently. He had dallied far too long in these woods, chasing this she-devil, this hostile, tree-climbing wood-sprite. He was wasting time on her—he should be searching for the other soldiers, curse them, and then return to the beach. The day had almost reached its zenith and Mortimer would be thinking about finding a suitable location for his Queen to spend her first night in England.

His yank effectively dislodged her and she fell into his arms, a screaming, spitting bundle of femininity. Her constant noise, her yells of outrage, clamoured in his ears, reverberating. Her hands flew out to rake against his face, as he clutched her awkwardly around her waist, the other hand grabbing at a branch, fighting to keep their combined balance.

‘Stop that! You’ll have us both down!’ His order cut into her, sharp.

‘Get your hands off me! I don’t care!’ she shouted back, the peerless skin of her face mere inches from his. He caught the sweetness of her breath, the indignant flash of her smoke-grey eyes, the delicate rosebud curve of her upper lip. Desire burst through him: hot, powerful...and unwanted.