Книга - The Knight’s Fugitive Lady

The Knight's Fugitive Lady
Meriel Fuller


Runaway lady Katerina of Dauntsey has disguised herself amongst a traveling dance troupe—concealing her secrets beneath an elaborate mask. But when her dazzling act attracts the attention of Queen Isabella, Katerina’s past begins to catch up with her.Lussac de Belbigny can’t help but admire the flame-haired acrobat’s courage. A knight in the Queen’s rebel army—and consumed by thoughts of revenge on his family’s killers—Lussac will let nothing threaten his iron-clad self-control.Yet something about the mysterious Katerina touches his damaged heart…









‘For God’s sake, lean against me,’ he growled in her ear. ‘I’m going to drop you at this rate.’


She gritted her teeth, refusing to give in, to relax against him, every nerve-ending in her body fighting him, refusing to acknowledge the tantalising closeness of his touch. The muscles along her spine strained with the effort. She sighed with relief as he threw her up onto his horse, then tensed once more as he jumped up behind her.

‘Fighting me will merely slow us down,’ Lussac pointed out slowly. ‘Do you really want those … whoever they are … to catch up with you?’

Who did she prefer? she wondered. The soldiers hired by her father and uncle at great expense to bring her back home, or this knight at her back, handsome and dangerous, whose very nearness spiked her body into ever-increasing spirals of desire? With Lussac behind her, solid thighs cradling the soft roundness of her hips, his arms pressed heavily against her shoulders, Katerina questioned whether she was in even greater danger than she had been before.




AUTHOR NOTE


My story of Lussac and Katerina was inspired by the tales of travelling entertainers who toured the country in Medieval times. I wanted to capture those long, glittering evenings by candlelight, the audience gasping in delight at the daring feats of the acrobats, or roaring with laughter at the jesters’ antics.

With her amazing skills, Katerina unwittingly becomes the person everyone desires to see, despite her wanting to hide from a past that threatens to catch up with her every day.

For the history buffs among you, the invasion of Queen Isabella of England in 1326 on the Suffolk shores provides the historical context and brings our hero, Lussac, to England. Fed up with the constant philandering and mismanagement of the country by her husband the King, Isabella raises an army to overthrow him. She succeeds in a world controlled by men, where women are very much regarded as second-class citizens—no mean feat!

I hope the Queen’s bravery and strength of character are reflected in my heroine, Katerina, who has to fight, with Lussac’s help, against her own impossible situation. And I hope you enjoy the story!


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.

Previous novels by the same author:

CONQUEST BRIDE

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR

HER BATTLE-SCARRED KNIGHT

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


The Knight’s

Fugitive Lady

Meriel Fuller






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my children, Fin and Verity.


Contents

Chapter One (#ub93aa79e-a16d-58ab-a19c-fdf8c9ebdcda)

Chapter Two (#u285affb6-bd9d-553a-bb97-ad20cb784197)

Chapter Three (#u37da3492-dc35-5866-a225-c3da7a52c820)

Chapter Four (#u0089a237-5698-52d5-abce-8aeb7873e14f)

Chapter Five (#u47da5965-8185-5d04-8b17-61cc85bd0469)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

East coast England—September 1326

‘Success?’ Waleran called up, softly, inching forwards on his stomach.

From the top of the slope, Katerina smiled down at her friend, mouth curving generously in her pale, heart-shaped face, and held up her heavy satchel. ‘Success,’ she answered, tucking her catapult back into the bag. She moved down through the trees, the drab colours of her boy’s clothes blending in with the surrounding vegetation, loose, flapping garments that camouflaged her true sex. Her stomach growled at the prospect of eating roast rabbit for breakfast; the last time she had eaten meat had been three days ago. Since then, they had been ekeing out the last dusty contents of a sack of oats, watered down and cooked to make a sloppy gruel. John would be pleased with them; the rabbit was fat enough to feed at least half the circus troupe.

‘Come, let’s go.’ Waleran pulled his thin, wiry frame upwards, heavy dew darkening his patched tunic.

‘It’s still early.’ Katerina cocked her head on one side, grinning; her grey eyes sparkled. The sun peeked above the horizon, a crack of golden light firing the white birch trunks, touching the wisps of tawny hair that poked out from beneath her hood. She patted the bulge in her bag. ‘These rabbits will feed only half of us.’

Waleran shifted uncomfortably, hunching his shoulders. ‘I don’t want to risk it, Katerina. Even at this hour, the Earl’s men could be about; I don’t want to be caught poaching.’

Katerina snorted. ‘And when have we ever been caught? I doubt he’ll miss a couple of rabbits from his vast estates.’

‘Why not return to the camp along the beach?’ Waleran suggested. ‘At least the fish are free.’

‘All right, Waleran—’ Katerina tucked her arm through his ‘—we’ll do it your way this morning. Roast rabbit and fish, what could be better?’ She lifted small hands to pull her hood more firmly forwards, obscuring the brilliant colour of her hair.

An amused look crossed Waleran’s narrow features. ‘Have you forgotten?’ He stared pointedly at their linked arms. ‘Two boys, arm in arm, would certainly draw attention.’

‘Oh!’ Katerina clapped a hand to her mouth. Her laughter echoed out, sweet and clear, amongst the trees, against the slight breeze dislodging the occasional leaf from the branches spanned above their heads. ‘Forgive me, I forget sometimes.’

‘It’s for your own safety, Katerina.’ Waleran grinned at her, his gaze soft. Who could have known? he thought, as they walked through the forest, lapsed into a friendly silence, calf-length boots scuffing through the fallen leaves, kicking up the desiccated papery shapes. The daughter of a lord, no less, now sunk to the level of a common acrobat. None of the other entertainers, the jugglers and the jesters, the other acrobats, not one of them in the troupe had a clue about who she was, where she came from. All she wanted was a place to hide, to disappear.

Nearer the shore, the woodland trees grew sparser; the sound of waves breaking against shingle, then sucking back to lurch themselves forwards once more, reached their ears. The bent pines on the edge of the forest turned to scrubby blackthorn, bramble patches sprawling across shifting sands. The wind blew in from the east, keen and nippy, straight from the vast plains of the northern countries and Katerina hugged her arms about herself, against its cruel bite knifing painfully through her threadbare tunic, her worn chemise. Eyes watering against the wind, she turned towards the expanse of river estuary, salt marshes bisected by deep, muddy creeks, an immense sweep of mudflats, peppered with scores of pale-grey birds, yellow beaks bright against the dun-coloured mud.

Descending towards the salt marsh, they began to pick their way across, heading for the beach, the suck and crash of waves that landed on the shore in a boiling froth of foam. To their left, shallow cliffs, grass-topped, began to rise: sandy, amber-coloured flanks striated with clay. The wind snatched at Katerina’s cloak as they rounded the base of the cliff into the next bay, Waleran walking a little in front of her, playing the role of her protector, as always. He stopped suddenly, abruptly, staggering back, swinging one arm back to stop Katerina.

‘What...?’ she blurted out, confused by his unexpected halt.

And then she saw.

Further up the coast, bathed in the pinky-orange glow of morning, a fleet of maybe thirty ships clustered to the shore, coloured square sails flapping in the wind. Horses, muscled, shiny warhorses, their eyes rolling in fright at the prospect of entering the water, were being led down wooden ramps, pulled by their bridles through the foaming surf to the shore. Men, hundreds of men dressed in glittering chainmail, helmets obscuring their features, swarmed over the sides of the ship, running through the shallow sea to gather on the beach. Already, some had mounted up, swinging their horses about with a look of intent, orders shouted in a harsh guttural language.

‘Lord in Heaven!’ breathed Waleran. ‘Who are they?’

In the rising sun, the metallic shields of the soldiers shot back the light; it was difficult to decipher the colours. Heart thumping, Katerina screwed up her eyes, forced herself to focus on one shield only. Dark-blue background, gold fleur-de-lys. A gold crown above. Her stomach dropped, hollowed out in panic, and her legs began to shake.

‘It’s the Queen, Waleran,’ she managed to judder out. ‘Queen Isabella...of England.’ She touched a hand to her face, unsure, confused. ‘But I don’t understand. Those are not English knights...’

Waleran paled. He grabbed her hand. ‘This bodes ill, Katerina. We must run...and run fast, away from this place. It’s not safe.’

Heeding the wavering panic in Waleran’s voice, the warning, Katerina spun on her heel, leaping the ditch behind them with the easy agility of a deer, her tunic’s loose hem fluttering out over slim legs encased in woollen braies. Waleran paused, assessing the creek’s wide gap, wondering if he would make it.

‘Got you!’ a gruff voice echoed in his ear.

Something, someone, hauled roughly at his belt, dragged him unceremoniously backwards. All he could see was Katerina’s expression, white and stricken on the other side, the safe side of the creek, her mouth falling open in horror at whoever was behind him. Fear crawled in his gut; he had no intention of turning around.

A group of four or five soldiers clustered around her friend, the oldest and burliest of the group holding on to Waleran. There was no doubt as to their identity: gold fleur-de-lys glinted dully on their dark-blue cloaks and on their shields. Steel helmets obscured their faces, shining silver, the rest of their bodies clad in chainmail.

‘What’s in the bag, boy?’ The lead soldier indicated Katerina’s satchel, his eyes glinting out, narrow and mean, from the shadowed confines of his helmet.

‘Let my friend go and I tell you,’ Katerina replied. An angry helplessness swept over her as she watched Waleran’s futile struggles within the soldier’s burly grip. There was little point in her going to him; she hadn’t the physical strength to wrest him away, but every instinct in her body wanted to do it, to go there.

The soldier’s features darkened; he shook Waleran, but kept his eyes on Katerina. ‘Don’t play games with me, lad. You’re in no position to bargain. I ask you again, what’s in the bag?’ His voice was threatening.

One of the other soldiers, a younger one, shuffled uneasily. ‘Hey, Bomal, take it easy. We weren’t sent out to torture the locals, remember?’

‘Keep out of it!’ Bomal snarled back. Katerina lifted one hand self-consciously, making certain that her hood was pulled over her fine features. If they worked out she was a woman, the situation could develop into something far more serious for her.

The soldier set his head to one side, waiting for her answer.

‘A couple of rabbits,’ she relented, finally, remembering to keep her voice pitched low.

‘Been poaching on the lord’s land, eh?’ the soldier jeered at her. ‘Hand them over, then.’

Despite the spurt of fear in her veins and Waleran’s soft brown eyes imploring her, beseeching her to follow the soldier’s instructions, her fingers clutched more firmly around the bag-strap.

‘Let my friend go and then I’ll chuck over the bag.’

The soldier scowled, pulling a short knife from a leather scabbard attached to his belt. The steel blade glinted, the light bouncing off the shiny metal. He held the blade to Waleran’s throat.

‘What do I need to do to convince you?’ he shouted over to her.

Katerina was convinced. Body quaking with fear, she threw the bag over. Sheathing his knife, the soldier caught the bundle in his meaty fingers. ‘Thanks very much, young squire,’ he addressed her, his tone mocking, false. ‘And now you, young man—’ he kept a firm grip on Waleran’s upper sleeve ‘—you’re coming with us. We need someone to lead us to the nearest village.’

‘Let him go!’ Katerina’s voice rose perilously close to a screech. Stop playing with us! she wanted to shout out loud. We are nothing, nobody. We are just humble travellers, trying to earn a living, trying to find a morsel of food to fill our stomachs from one day to the next. And now these fat-bellied soldiers had stolen them, stolen the rabbits that they had spent all morning trying to catch. They couldn’t, they wouldn’t get away with this!

She watched dismally as Waleran was boosted up into the saddle behind the youngest-looking soldier, endeavouring to smile at her friend as he looked back at her, eyes pitiful. She refused to succumb to helplessness, to a wavering vulnerability that threatened to encroach her, to weaken her. A few stupid soldiers wouldn’t beat her! Without a doubt, she would find the means to outwit them.

‘Don’t worry, Waleran,’ she whispered, as the horses’ glossy rumps retreated, heading northwards to a dark stretch of trees. ‘I will come for you.’

* * *

Lussac, Count of Belbigny, leaned his elbows against the wooden rail of the forecastle and watched, through narrowed turquoise eyes, as the last of the soldiers, a jumbled mix of hired mercenaries and exiled English lords, made their way to the shore, dutifully following their Queen. Some were fortunate enough to clamber into the few rowboats brought with them across the North Sea from Hainault; others were not so lucky, splashing and stumbling in their heavy armour through the knee-deep waves, raucous curses splitting the morning air. Behind him, taut stay ropes now released, the huge square sail hung limp, ineffectual, beneath the crow’s nest, flapping dismally in the breeze. It had taken two days to sail from the Flanders coast, two long days and nights of churning seas, and an unexpected storm that had thrown the ships off course. Their exact location was unknown; it could be anywhere on the east coast of England north of the wide mouth of the river that led to London.

‘Lussac, come now, you are the last!’ A shout from one of the row-boats drawn alongside the high-sided wooden cog hailed him. He peered over the side, straight chestnut hair falling over his tanned forehead, trying to locate the owner of the familiar voice who shouted to him from the shadows of the vessel.

‘Come on, man! Do you want to go back? The ships will leave directly.’

Lussac smiled tersely, a muscle leaping in the shadowed hollow of his cheek. He had no intention of going back. After four years of battling the demons, of never being able to rid himself of the black bile that clagged his heart, King Charles of France, his friend, had offered him a life-line, a way out. When Queen Isabella, Charles’s younger sister, had announced her intention to overthrow her husband, King Edward II of England, by way of an invasion commanded by Roger Mortimer, Charles had suggested that Lussac travelled on the ships to England, to seek revenge and heal his tattered soul.

Lussac had agreed readily to Charles’s proposition. The passing years had failed to wash away the pain, to dull his memory. The scenes burst into his brain again and again, as if they had happened yesterday, vivid colours etched with dreadful clarity: the pall of smoke rising above his home, the charred rafters collapsing around him in plumes of hot ash. And the running, the breathless sprinting up the steps to find his family... The slipping time seemed only to intensify his feelings of loss, of desperation, of anger. Revenge burned, deep in his solar plexus, coursing through his veins like a sour, bitter liquid; he could taste it on his tongue. Around the bare skin of his wrist, the leather cuff wrapped tight, chafed at his skin, reminding him. Scooped up from the scene of the crime, the only clue to the identity of the English knight who had killed his family.

Ignoring the rope ladder, Lussac placed one lean, muscled hand on the side of the ship and jumped down into the rowboat, planting his feet out to steady himself against the inevitable rocking from his weight. His substantial frame tilted the smaller vessel from side to side, threatening to tip them both into the sea.

‘Careful! You’ll have us over, fooling around like that!’ Philippe clutched at the oars as they threatened to slide, pulling them back into the row-locks.

‘Philippe?’ Lussac sprawled opposite his friend, tilting his head in a quizzical look. He stretched out his long legs, encased in the fine silver mesh of chainmail. The sturdy boots that covered his calves were made of thick Spanish leather and stained with sea-water, each toe carrying a wavering line of white, drying salt. ‘Am I’m seeing things? A nobleman rowing a boat?’

Philippe grimaced, pushing a strand of fair hair out of his eyes. Sweat plastered his fleshy face, mottled cheeks flushed with a greasy sheen. He wore no helmet and the hood of his chainmail hauberk gathered at the back of his neck.

‘Do you think I have a choice?’ he hissed, although they were still some considerable distance from the shore. He wrangled tetchily with an oar, trying to angle it so he could manoeuvre them away from the ship. ‘I don’t think the Queen has any idea who I am! Me! Philippe, Comte de Garsan! She ordered me to come and fetch you, like I was some low-born soldier! All the others are running around, trying to make her comfortable! Look, they’ve even constructed a tent for her, already.’

‘And a fire, too,’ Lussac commented drily. The smoke rose, billowing up from the white-grey shingle, fanning out against the low, ochre-coloured cliffs that lined the shore. ‘Let’s hope the smoke doesn’t draw any unwanted attention; we have no idea whether we are in a safe area or not.’

‘I said that!’ Philippe jabbed the air triumphantly, the woollen tunic that covered his chainmail pulling tautly across his rounded stomach. ‘I told them the exact same thing. But would they listen? Nay, says Mortimer, our Queen is freezing and her ladies are cold after such a horrendous journey and we need to warm them. Christ, I swear that man will do anything for that woman. I know that they want to keep their adultery a secret, but honestly, it’s plain for anyone to see!’ He turned his attention back to his friend, noting the familiar, bleak look in Lussac’s eyes, the shadowed expression. ‘Not that any of this concerns you.’

Lussac shrugged his shoulders, mouth tightening. Philippe was correct. The fact that Queen Isabella had fallen in love with Roger Mortimer, her campaign commander, mattered little. Nothing concerned him. Nothing, that was, except finding the man who killed his family. But the Queen’s campaign to overthrow her husband provided him with the means to travel to England, and for that, he was grateful.

‘Do you want me to row?’ Lussac offered. Beyond the deep shadow cast by the ship, the surface of the sea sparkled, as if studded with diamonds.

‘Gladly,’ Philippe said, wiping his forehead. ‘It took me an age to reach you.’

The two men swapped places, Lussac gripping the oars, dipping the blades rhythmically, easily, in the water. Strings of water glittered down from the pale wood. Philippe sighed, leaning back in the boat, closing his eyes and tipping his face up to the tepid heat of the September sun. The light danced off the water, shining, blinding; with a strange, keening cry, a raft of sea-birds curved in one sinuous movement towards the bouncing sea, before jerking away at the last moment, inexplicably, to head off in a different direction.

Philippe opened his eyes. ‘Thank Christ the weather has taken a turn for the better. I couldn’t imagine sleeping under canvas in the likes of that storm we went through.’

‘I suspect the Queen will call in some favours,’ Lussac replied, twisting around to see how near to the shore they were. ‘I’m sure she has no intention of sleeping under canvas either.’

Soon they were in the long swathes of white surf, shingle crunching and grinding along the bottom of the boat. Drawing the oars in to rest along the sides of the boat, Lussac climbed out into the shallow water, Philippe grumbling behind him about wet feet. The water soaked through their calf-length boots, their chainmail chausses, but Lussac scarcely noticed. He was used to harsh conditions, to being wet and damp and cold, being camped out for days and days in winter, fighting in the borderlands between the English-held Gascony and France. Fighting, battling—they were his modus operandi; without them, he would simply cease to be.

‘Ah, Lussac!’ Mortimer approached, his gait awkward across the sloping shingle. He was a tall, thin man with a rigid, angular frame and everything about him, from his jet-black hair, his brown eyes, to his grey tunic and black flapping cloak, was dark, crow-like. He slapped Lussac congenially on the back, his head making a strange bobbing motion into his shoulders.

‘How are the women faring?’ Lussac asked, the briefest of smiles on his face. Many of the Queen’s ladies had suffered on the journey, the rolling, heavy sea taking its toll on their stomachs.

Mortimer rolled his eyes. ‘Not good. Isabella’s complaining about being hungry; they all are, in fact. Honestly, when you look at the way they’re carrying on, you’d think we were out on some day trip, not invading England.’

‘How much food do we have?’

‘The bread is soaked through with sea-water...and the milk has turned. We only brought enough provisions for the journey.’ His eyes swept the cliffs in desperation, as if they would provide the answer to their dire food situation. ‘Our compass bearing, when we set off from Flanders, should have brought us within sight of the Earl of Norfolk’s castle and estates. He supports the Queen and will give us board and lodging—’

‘The storm blew us off course,’ Philippe chipped in. He understood Queen Isabella’s predicament, for his own stomach growled in sympathy.

Mortimer’s gaze slipped over to the short, stocky man at Lussac’s side, his expression blank, diffident, before switching his attention back to Lussac. ‘As the first soldiers came ashore with their horses, I sent them out as a search party, to find out where we are, to find some food. But they seem to be taking for ever!’

Lussac glanced at the soldiers huddled together in large, sprawling groups on the gently shelving beach, waiting. They were tired and hungry, and in no position to push forwards, to march any long distances. The few horses belonging to the nobles stood behind the Queen’s tent, tails fanning out in the breeze. He had no wish to sit and wait with them, to chew over the tedious details of the journey, to stare dully at the sea. Or to think.

‘I will go and look for them. They can’t have gone far.’

‘Nay, you can’t do that!’ Mortimer looked horrified. Lussac was the same rank as himself and, beyond that, he was close friends with the King of France. They had grown up together, trained together; it simply wouldn’t do to send such a high-ranking nobleman out on a simple scouting expedition. His gaze switched to Philippe. Maybe...?

‘I want to go,’ Lussac explained. How could he explain the constant nagging restlessness coursing through his big frame, the inability to sit still and reflect, to stare at a bird in flight, or watch the waves crash on to the shingle? Nay, that might be for other men, but not for him. Not now. If he allowed his mind to think too much, then the full horror of the past came back to him, filling his head with images and pictures he would prefer to forget. Better to keep active, to throw himself into every battle and skirmish when the opportunities arose, rather than sit around and brood. Never that.


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.

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

He didn’t let go.

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

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

* * *

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

‘No. I’m not.’

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

‘Which way?’ he demanded.

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

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

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

‘And is your husband there? Your family?’

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

After leaving the maid at the gatehouse, Lussac hadn’t had to travel far to catch up with the Queen and her soldiers—she had already arrived at the castle with her entourage, the Earl of Norfolk welcoming her with open arms. As one of her strongest allies, he was as keen as the Queen to see the King deposed, and the King’s favourite, Hugh le Despenser, banished for good.

‘God’s teeth! How much further?’ Up ahead, in the gloom, Philippe caught his toe on a shallow step and stumbled. His voice carried the faint whine of irritation; the long day and lack of decent food were beginning to take their toll on Lussac’s companion.

‘Top floor.’ The servant, a boy of about twelve, turned and grinned down at them. ‘The chambers up here are the best in the castle.’

‘They’d better be,’ grumbled Philippe, a sheen of sweat over his florid cheeks. As the servant led the two men into the chamber, set at the top of one of the square towers, Philippe looked around in delight. Two beds, canopied with velvet, stood at opposite sides of the room, piled high with fresh linens and furs. The scent of clean straw from the newly stuffed mattresses filled the space, as did the ashy smell from the glowing charcoal brazier in the corner. The servant busied himself lighting the candles from the brazier, setting them into stone niches and metal candleholders around the walls.

‘This is Heaven.’ Philippe smiled, his gaze alighting on the wooden bath behind an embroidered screen.

The boy followed his look. ‘I’ll fetch the hot water for you, my lord.’

‘By God, we’ll sleep well tonight.’ Philippe clapped Lussac on the shoulder, throwing his leather bags down by one of the beds. ‘I can’t wait to rid myself of this infernal armour.’ He grabbed at the heavy buckle of his sword belt, flinging both sword and belt in a jumble at the side of the bed.

‘I suggest you take the first bath, you stink to high heaven,’ Lussac chuckled, moving over to the window. No arrow slits, but narrow, rectangular windows topped with a shallow arch, one pair set into each of the thick stone walls. Hand-blown glass, undulating, formed an effective barrier against the cold outside. Despite the dimming light, he could still discern several features of the landscape: the frothy white line of the surf out to the east, the forest to the south, the flat marshland, water-filled ditches gleaming in the half-light. Their ships had landed to the south of the vast tract of trees, the reason why, initially, they had no idea of their location. Lussac leaned forwards, palms flat on the damp stone window-ledge, his breath misting the glass. Behind him, the boy had returned, sloshing water liberally into the bathtub.

‘Last chance, Lussac?’ Philippe said. ‘Otherwise I’ll go first.’

‘Go ahead,’ Lussac murmured. He turned away from the window, a restlessness churning his body. His eye swept the room: the charcoal brazier, the fragrant steam rising from behind the embroidered screen, the lavender-scented linens. The domestic niceties burned into his soul, for everywhere he looked reminded him of the home he had no longer. It had been easier in France; the French king had constantly needed him to head up the battles and skirmishes along the borderlands of Aquitaine and Gascony. The canvas tent had become his refuge: no niceties, no luxury. He longed for it.

‘Where did you get to, anyway?’ Philippe called out from behind the screen. ‘Mortimer’s soldiers came back long before you did. Did you get lost?’ His chuckle was accompanied by a huge splosh of water. ‘Lussac?’

‘Aye, in a manner of speaking.’ His mind tacked back to the girl in the forest. The impact of her soft curves as they landed together in the pile of leaves. The touch of her fingers on his back as she stumbled and grabbed his belt. Fire leapt in his belly. A pulse of burning, outrageous desire.

Annoyed, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at his chainmail coif, yanking it over his head. What was the matter with him? The girl was nothing more than a minor distraction—and a puzzle. Her skin had been smooth like pouring cream, velvety. Not the coarse, weather-roughened skin of a peasant. She dressed as a boy, in rags, yet spoke with the high, modulated tones of the nobility. A patched and holed tunic clothed her slight body, baggy braies folded loosely around her slim legs. Her boots had been too big for her. He frowned, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with his hands. Would he see her again, here in the castle? He couldn’t quite believe she was a serving-girl. Her manner had been too arrogant and feisty, a bundle of contradictions, diamond-grey eyes assessing him disparagingly. She had truly believed she could best him. Where had she learnt such a misguided sense of self-reliance?

‘Go on in, the water’s still hot.’ Philippe emerged from behind the screen, his portly frame wrapped in linen towels.

Lussac lifted his face from his hands and began to pull his boots off. Why on earth was that foolish chit intruding on his thoughts at all? He had done his duty and brought her home. The maid had wasted his time by refusing his help, deluding herself by insisting she was safe. She was nothing to him—a mere irritant. He had bigger and more pressing concerns to deal with: a murderer to hunt down, not some will-o’-the-wisp who threatened his iron-clad self-control.

* * *

The Earl of Norfolk’s castle was constructed in a novel design: a central circular tower of five levels, surrounded by three square towers. The design had been hailed as revolutionary, removing all blind spots and making it difficult for attackers to creep up unnoticed. The double height of the great hall meant that it spanned two floors, allowing for large, wrought-iron chandeliers to be hung from the wooden-planked ceiling. Huge, elaborately embroidered tapestries draped from the pale, limestone walls interspersed with the shields and crossed swords from various members of the Earl of Norfolk’s family. The whole effect was one of glittering opulence, of luxury, the rich, glowing colours of red and gold reflected in the light from the candles, from the roaring fire in the grate.

Seated in the centre of the top table, behind an expanse of white-linen tablecloth laid with silver dishes, Queen Isabella laid her small, cool hand on that of her neighbour, Thomas, the Earl of Norfolk. The silk of her rose-pink gown, interwoven with silver thread, sparkled as she leaned a little closer to him. As in the fashion of France, the gown was closely fitted to her slim form, with a low, curving neckline and sleeves tight to her arms, fastened with a long row of tiny horn buttons.

‘I don’t know how to thank you, Thomas, for your hospitality, for your support.’ She raised her voice over the general hubbub of the hall, the usual numbers swelled by the influx of her entourage, her knights. The rest of the mercenaries were camped in the outer bailey, their supper cooked over open fires by the castle servants.

Thomas, his frame big and bulky next to the neat, precise form of the Queen, tipped his grizzled head down to catch her words. His hand squeezed hers. ‘You can thank me by ridding this country of your husband’s rule; him and that...that infidel Despenser! I fully support your cause, you and Mortimer, and will give you some of my knights, if it will help.’

Isabella tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear; the fine blonde strands had escaped from the confines of her white-satin wimple. The movement was studied, careful. She was fully aware of her effect upon men; indeed, she delighted in seeing Thomas’s eyes widen with attraction as the curve of her arm carried upwards. It was only when she caught Mortimer’s scowling features behind Thomas that she stopped her flirtatious affectations, letting her hands fall demurely to her lap. To lose Mortimer as a lover would be a mistake; he was instrumental in helping her overthrow the King, as well as being everything that Edward was not: courageous, possessive and ardent in his love for her.

‘You are so kind,’ she ventured, reaching for her silver goblet, sipping at her wine.

‘You and your ladies have suffered much in the journey from Hainault.’ Thomas nodded towards the group of whey-faced ladies clustered around a trestle table. ‘I will do my best to ensure they have every comfort after such an ordeal.’

‘They are exhausted,’ Isabella admitted tightly, tilting her head towards him. In the candlelight her skin seemed poreless, smooth perfection, emphasised by the brightness of the escaping wisps of her hair, her white, even teeth. ‘None of us slept much on the crossing. The weather was against us all the way, simply foul, unbelievable.’

‘Then we must thank the Lord that you are here safe and sound.’ Thomas’s tone was reassuring. ‘And now, you must eat.’ His hand swept over the laden table, the gleaming dishes groaning with roasted pheasant and partridge, yeasty bread rolls. ‘I have a spectacular show prepared for later in the evening—I hope you will stay to watch?’

Inwardly, Isabella groaned. She had been looking forward to an early night, a night spent in a proper bed that didn’t pitch and toss and roll. But one look at Thomas’s beaming, avuncular features indicated she couldn’t disappoint him. She threw him an encouraging smile, helping herself to a slice of roast chicken.

‘Who are your commanders?’ Thomas continued conversationally, chewing on a piece of pork crackling.

‘Obviously Roger has overall command.’ She smiled briefly at her lover; his eyes flicked upwards at the mention of his name, but his face remained neutral. It wouldn’t do to display their adultery for all to see; Isabella was still married to the King of England. The public would judge her harshly if she were seen to be embarking upon an adulterous affair. ‘Hugh de Fontainbleu, Sir John of Hainault, among others.’

‘What about Belbigny?’ the Earl of Norfolk asked. ‘You do not mention him, yet I see him at the end of the table.’ He indicated the tall, dark-haired man.

‘No, no. He is here...’ the Queen paused, delicately, picking at a loose thread on her linen napkin ‘...on other business. It’s a shame, he’s a skilled commander, but unfortunately, at the moment, he has other things on his mind.’ She sighed, staring out over the bobbing heads of the crowded hall.

‘I heard what happened to his family,’ the Earl replied. ‘His father was in charge of a garrison on the border, is that right? The whole family was slaughtered in the conflict?’

‘It was worse than that. The conflict had supposedly finished and a truce had been established, but someone held a grudge against Lussac’s father, returned to the garrison with a group of soldiers and fired the whole place.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘He will travel with us; he hopes to find someone who can shed light on the identity of whoever killed his family. I don’t suppose you have heard anything?’

The Earl of Norfolk shook his head.

‘Then let’s not speak of it further. I don’t want him to hear, not a breath of it.’ Beneath Isabella’s long white fingers, the gemstones on her rings winked in the candlelight as she crumbled a bread roll to tiny bits, scattering them across her silvered plate.

Thomas studied the man at the end of the table covertly, leaning back in his chair, sipping idly from his goblet. Lussac felt the touch of his gaze and turned, pinning the Earl with his hard, dark stare. Thomas raised his goblet in salute, noting the hollowed-out eyes, the lean, ravaged features. What a waste, he thought to himself, as he switched his attentions to Isabella once more. There’s a man who suffers, tortured by what happened to his family. But what man wouldn’t suffer after what he had been through?


Chapter Five

Gradually, the evening stretched into full night. The knights, noblemen and their ladies, the peasants in service to the Earl of Norfolk, pushed back from the tables, having eaten their fill of roasted meat, braised vegetables and crusty bread; servants scurried around, scooping up the debris. Trestles were pushed back against the circular walls of the great hall, clearing a large space in the middle of the swept stone floor. Bereft of the safety of their table, Isabella’s ladies stood in a miserable huddle, forlorn figures in their silks and satins, gaudy butterflies against the plainer attire of the peasants. Noting their plight, Isabella summoned them up to the high dais, where she ordered more benches to be placed behind her so her women could sit in relative comfort.

Through the curtained doorway, a group of musicians entered, setting themselves up with their instruments to one side, backs against the wall. Most of them looked like they hadn’t bathed in a year, a motley collection of scruffy itinerants, with ragged, drooping clothes, missing teeth and lank, greasy hair.

‘Christ in Heaven,’ Philippe whispered to Lussac, ‘where did the Earl find this lot?’

But then they began to play. And the music was beautiful: haunting, lilting, building slowly in rhythmic beats, faster and faster, until the sound reached a dramatic crescendo. A troupe of acrobats ran into the hall, running, cartwheeling, somersaulting, contorting their bodies with amazing flexibility, fast and skilled. Their costumes were fashioned from bold reds and yellows, fitted braies and tunics that allowed them to bend and stretch with ease. The watching crowd gasped in awe at the acrobatic feats, roaring with approval at each daring manoeuvre. Even the Queen, not known for praising any sort of entertainment, was smiling, turning and nodding with approval at the Earl.

The acrobats ran to the middle of the hall, gathering together to form a human pyramid: three men at the bottom, then two climbing up, one man vaulting deftly to the very top. His head was on a level with the wrought-iron chandelier that hung with chains from the ceiling. One by one, he extinguished the candles, pulling the waxy sticks from each holder and tossing them to a companion down below.

As the chamber plunged into dappled shadow, the crowd shifted, a palpable tension running through the room, a ripple of expectation. Isabella looked about her, an expression of curiosity on her face. The triangular formation of six acrobats moved carefully as a group to the other chandelier, dousing the flickering light once more. Now the hall was in darkness, lit only by the flickering firelight and the few candles set into stone niches around the walls.

The crowd began to stamp their feet, chanting; it seemed they had the advantage over the royal guests and knew what to expect. The noise of the chanting rose, swelled, filling the hall.

‘What are they saying?’ Philippe leaned forward, intrigued.

‘They’re chanting in Latin,’ Lussac narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the words from the jumble of noise. ‘It sounds like silver...silver bird?’ He shrugged his shoulders, sprawling back into his oak chair.

A sliver of light appeared in the doorway. A momentary hush fell upon the crowd; they held their breath, collectively. Then the roars and shouts returned, louder this time, insistent. The slip of light moved inwards, transformed into a figure, a girl dressed from head to toe in a white-satin garment, the top half of her face covered by a white, leather mask. Every inch of the satin was covered with tiny beads, faceted so they caught the light, shimmering in the dusky shadows of the hall. Tiny, sparkling beads even decorated the outside edges of her mask. Every movement, every fraction of movement was accompanied by a rippling, twinkling sparkle from the costume.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it before,’ Isabella breathed out, stunned, her eyes transfixed upon the pearly figure.

The girl raised her arms and the crowd went wild, the music hitching faster, dominated by a repeated drumbeat. Cut in a bell shape, the sleeves flowed downwards from her outstretched arms, like the spread wings of a bird.

‘Silver bird!’ Philippe thumped the table triumphantly. ‘Now I understand. You were right, Lussac. What a wonder she is, eh?’

Lussac’s piercing blue eyes studied the figure, the slender curves, the diminutive stature. His heart kicked up a beat. Despite her masked face, the maid looked remarkably familiar. Was it her, the girl from the forest?

From her demure, gentle entrance, the girl sprang into action, somersaulting in a series of forward flips to the pyramid of acrobats. As her hands hit the floor, her feet lifted upwards in precise, fluid harmony, travelling over to arch her spine in a graceful curve. Placing one small foot on the bent knee of her companion, she climbed the human pyramid to the chandelier. Hooking one leg over the iron loop, she held herself upright, balancing strongly on her hands and arms whilst the acrobats beneath tumbled away in all directions. The audience applauded them heartily as they ran out of the hall, laughing and waving, tumbling and springing.

She waited until the last man had exited, before swinging her body down, sharply, held on to the chandelier by her bent legs. The metal circle swung with her slight weight. In the time it had taken her companions to leave she had attached a short rope around one ankle, tying the other end to the chandelier. Her arms swept out, then one leg came down, forming a right angle with her other leg. She began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, faster, the magnificent cloth of her costume flowing around her like shining phosphorus.

‘Good Lord,’ Philippe jumped out of his seat, ‘she’s going to fall, that rope’s not going to hold her...’

‘I think she will be fine,’ Lussac reassured him drily. He was certain now of the girl’s identity and hated the way his heart tripped faster with the knowledge. The waif in the forest who had hoped to outsmart him with a jittery combination of bravado, luck and agility. Serving girl, indeed!

Half of Isabella’s ladies had covered their faces with their hands; they couldn’t watch. The rest of the audience stared upwards, open-mouthed, hearts thumping with anticipation. The girl spun faster and faster until her body became a glittering blur up in the rafters, before she stopped abruptly, shocking them, pulling herself up to release the rope, throwing it joyfully down into the crowd.

Then, dropping her body below the chandelier again, although this time hanging by her hands around opposite sides of the iron loop, she began to swing, the strong chains of the chandelier supporting her. The arc of the swing grew bigger and bigger, until she had sufficient momentum to let go, somersault once in mid-air, which carried her towards the other chandelier. The crowd went mad, an element of hysteria in their approval, a joyfulness that the girl had survived such a daring act. She repeated the swing back again, latching on to the first chandelier. She then swung that, audaciously, over the high dais, jumping down straight on to the top table, in front of the Queen and the Earl of Norfolk. For a moment, the Earl looked apoplectic, disbelieving that a common acrobat had possessed the sheer audacity to land, feet first, before royalty. But Isabella was laughing, exchanging appreciative comments with her ladies, and clapping this unknown acrobat as if her life depended on it. The Earl relaxed.

‘You’re amazing! Your name! What is your name?’ Isabella shouted at the girl above the roar of the audience, half-raising herself from her seat, her face flushed with excitement. But the acrobat sprung away, flipping backwards off the top table in one elegant, bouncing arc to cartwheel across the hall.

As the glittering wing of the acrobat’s sleeve vanished through the curtain, Lussac pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ Philippe quirked one eyebrow at his friend.

Lussac threw his linen napkin down on his empty plate. The pewter gleamed in the low candlelight. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘I’m going outside for a bit. Coming?’

Phillipe shook his head, indicating the food left on his plate with a half-hearted smile. ‘No, I’ll finish this. Besides, I think there’s more of the show to come.’ He nodded across the hall at the acrobats crowding back into the hall, amidst cheers and clapping from the audience.

‘I’ve had enough.’

As Lussac slipped through a low door at the side of the high dais, Isabella turned ecstatically to the Earl. ‘Do you know her name?’ she asked, her eyes alight with excitement. ‘Where does she come from, who is she with? I have never seen such skill, such flexibility!’

‘My bailiff hires the entertainment,’ Thomas replied, his hands fluttering forwards in apology. ‘I will ask him for you.’

‘What a treat!’ Isabella smiled over at Roger. ‘Wasn’t she stunning? She made me quite forget my true purpose here.’

* * *

Body prickling with sweat from the exertion of her performance, Katerina’s fingers fumbled in the heavy folds of the curtain that separated the great hall from the square entrance area to the castle. Applause roared in her ears, people stamping their feet, clapping their approval at her back. Noticing her struggles to exit, a young knight standing to one side pulled back the thick, double-lined fabric, allowing her to slip into the cooler shadows of the entrance hall.

Once through the curtain, her fellow acrobats clustered around her, congratulations rising into the air. Muscles trembling, the back of her head throbbing from the earlier fall, Katerina smiled at their happy faces, their joy at another successful performance, and grabbed their hands as they reached out towards her in gestures of support.

‘You were fantastic,’ whispered Waleran, at the front of the group. ‘The Queen loved you.’ His brown eyes darted over her slim figure encased in the shining costume, the white mask obscuring her face. Katerina squeezed his hand, grateful for his words.

‘It’s a bit too early to celebrate.’ Big shoulders propped up against the wall, John boomed at them, ‘Come on, you still have to go out there and perform the finale.’ With an exaggerated groan, he levered his vast bulk forwards and began to shove the acrobats back through the curtain, out again to rapturous applause.

As the acrobats left to perform their finale, Katerina moved across the freezing flagstones, her feet in soft, calf-skin slippers making no sound as she stepped towards the huge entrance door. The circular metal door handle glinted in the meagre light.

‘Katerina!’ A hand clamped on her shoulder. John!

She spun slowly on one heel, hampered by weighty fingers crushing the fragile bones in her shoulder. ‘What is it?’ she asked, annoyed. ‘Surely you don’t have a problem with my performance?’ Rolling her shoulder forwards angrily, she tried to dislodge his heavy hold.

‘Nay, the crowd loved you.’ John replied bluntly. ‘But I need you to do something else for me.’

She tilted her head up at him, wishing she could remove the mask so her employer could see the look of defiance on her face. ‘You ask too much of me, John. I can do no more.’ Her body wilted with fatigue, sinews wrung out by the intricate moves. She needed to push her body through a series of stretches in order to avoid the muscles seizing up.

‘Not to perform! Nay, you misunderstand me!’ he hissed down at her, a fleck of spittle landing on her sleeve. ‘But while most of the castle was riveted by our performance—’ he jerked his square-shaped head towards the noise coming from the great hall ‘—I managed to slip down to the cellar and pilfer.’

‘Pilfer?’

‘Aye, that’s right. Here, take these back to the camp, will you?’ He pushed a couple of hessian sacks into her stomach, forcing her to grab hold of them. She staggered back beneath the bulky weight. ‘There’s enough food in there to feed us all for a couple of days, at least.’ Shoving her towards the arched entrance, he thumped his fleshy hand against the vertical planks, pushing the door open. ‘Get going, will you! Before someone notices!’

Clutching at the gaping bags, the contents threatening to spill out from the loose, gathered tops, Katerina lurched her way through the gap and out into the cool night air. After the intense heat of the hall, the cold pierced through the gauzy satin of her costume. Perspiration chilled rapidly on her skin and she shivered.

A soldier stood guard outside the main door, pulling himself to attention as she appeared and nodded at her. ‘A fine show, miss,’ he congratulated her gruffly. ‘Do you need any help?’

‘Er, no, thank you,’ she muttered hurriedly, acutely aware of the lumpy goods shifting inside the sacks: the loaves of bread, the meat and vegetables that John had stuffed firmly down. Flushing beneath her white leather mask, she prayed the soldier wouldn’t look inside. The unwieldy bags filled her vision; unable to see her way down the steps, she inched forwards, her toes in their thin silk slippers seeking the edge of the top step. Carefully, unable to grasp at the iron hand-rail for support, Katerina edged her way down beneath the soldier’s watchful eye.

She almost made it.

Constructed with a deeper drop than the rest, the bottom step caught her unawares; she reeled to one side, her balance thrown out by the heavy load, her arm banging painfully against the gritty castle wall. A large glistening ham plopped out from the one of the bags, landing with a thump on the cobbles.

‘Hey! Stop! What have you got there?’ the soldier’s voice shouted down at her.

Heart plummeting, she threw both bags down. The incriminating contents spilled out across the ground: parsnips, turnips, floury rounds of bread. Even without them, she would fail to cover the length of the inner bailey before the soldier caught up with her; it was a wide open space and he would gain on her easily. She needed to find a hiding place and fast.

Plunging down along the castle walls, Katerina turned a corner, around one of the turrets, seeking the shadows. The beads decorating her white leather mask, her costume, twinkled in the softening glow of the September moon as she flew along, her feet barely touching the ground. She gained a second turret, spinning around another corner, and cannoned into a tall, bulky shadow leaning up against the walls.

She had the briefest impression of deep-set, sparkling eyes, of a sculptured jaw, before her hands rose instinctively, frantically, pushing against the soft cloth of a tunic, against a hard, unyielding chest beneath, trying to lever herself away from the impact, to create some distance between herself and this...this stranger.

‘Let me pass!’ she gasped with a sob. ‘Let me go on!’

‘In a hurry, Silver Bird?’ The sarcastic tone cut through her panic. A familiar tone.

Her mouth opened in a dry scream of shock, and disbelief. The knight from the forest! Katerina recognised him instantly. The bulk of him. The smell of him. She backed away, hands fluttering up to her mask self-consciously, checking her disguise was still in place. Why, oh why, did it have to be him? The full, creamy-coloured orb of the moon washed his face with a pearly gleam, striking the high, rigid slash of his cheekbones, the strong upward curve of his dark brows. He stared down at her, his expression incisive, predatory, silver embroidery sparkling around the collar of his cloak, like clusters of stars.

‘I need to go,’ she muttered, attempting to slip around his substantial frame, head turned stubbornly away, ignoring him, trying to clamp down on the rivulets of fear that coursed her body, the heightened bump of her heart. She could not allow his presence to deflect her escape and beyond him, around the back of the keep, the shadows were dark, intense. She would hide there, until the soldiers became bored of searching for her.

‘Nay.’ One lean hand snaked out, whipped around her forearm as she passed him. Her heart squeezed with trepidation; she stared in panic at the muscular fingers wrapped around her beaded sleeve, the cold causing her eyes to blur, shimmer.

‘Let go of me!’ Katerina hissed, jerking her arm downwards, to break his hold. Her feeble movement had no effect, merely ripping at the muscle in her shoulder.

‘That was quite a performance you gave in there.’ His voice, low and sensual, curled around her. Beneath the flimsy, slippery material, her soft flesh yielded beneath his strong grip.

‘I need to hide!’ She jogged her elbow angrily. She had to move out of view! Her costume gleamed out like a beacon of light, an iridescent bird pressed back against the dark towering walls.

‘Then you’re wearing the wrong clothes,’ he said. Before she could stop him, before she even had time to think, steady, decisive fingers pushed at the mask, peeling the leather back to reveal the full delicate beauty of her heart-shaped face, her alabaster skin, silky, exquisite. In the same movement, he plucked back the beaded hood of her tunic, dragging it from her neat, golden-spun hair.

‘So,’ Lussac breathed out slowly, ‘not just a serving girl after all. Is this your other job?’

She brought her hands upwards, slim fingers clutching around his with anguish, hot tears of frustration welling in her eyes. The warm muscle of his hands pressed into the sensitive curve of her palm; she dropped her hands immediately, stung by the intensity of his touch. A lick of heat curled oddly in the pit of her stomach.

‘I don’t have time for this!’ She glanced frantically behind her.

‘What are you running from?’ His tone was underscored with steel.

She heard the soldiers’ clustered shouts from around the corner, gathering momentum. Her heart sank. ‘It’s too late,’ she murmured, chewing nervously on the fullness of her bottom lip. ‘There’s no point in running now.’ Her body wilted, strength leaching from her limbs, but she raised her chin up, tilting her head proudly. ‘No matter. I’m sure I’ll manage to extricate myself from this situation. I usually do.’ Doubt clouded her tone, as if she couldn’t quite convince herself of that certainty.

A lock of hair, silvered in moonlight, had escaped from the mound of braids pinned tight against her scalp, falling across her cheek. Without thinking, Lussac smoothed the velvet coil back behind her ear, savouring the fine softness, a silken thread between the rough pads of his fingertips. Desire punched him, deep in his gut—powerful, swift.

‘Come here,’ he said roughly. He spun her around, swiftly, so her back was against the wall.

‘What are you doing?’ she squeaked, keenly aware that he had moved much, much closer. The heft of his shoulders blotted out the vast expanse of star-studded sky. The wall pressed into her spine, the lightweight fabric of her outfit rustling against the rough-hewn stone. Her arms dropped, hands flailing by her sides.

‘Saving your skin,’ Lussac murmured.

‘I can look after myself,’ Katerina shot back hurriedly, senses scrabbling as his head dipped. ‘Nay,’ she stuttered out, ‘this is not the way...’ Her breath emerged in truncated gasps, floundering; her heart fluttered...with fear?

‘It is the only way,’ Lussac muttered.

He told himself her expression alone had motivated him, for the maid possessed the appearance of someone who was utterly alone in the world, an overwhelming sadness tingeing her exquisite features. He had recognised that fleeting, haunted look, identified with it, the look of someone compelled to rely completely on their own resources, their own resilience. The maid was exhausted; even he could recognise the blue shadows beneath her eyes. Pity, not lust, propelled him to kiss her; in all honesty, she was the last person he would desire: a raging spitfire with a temper to match, scant flesh on her bones. He wanted to help her, he told himself, that was all. But since when had he wanted to help anyone?

At the implacable press of his lips, her hands whirled upwards, shocked, trying to push against his chest, to gain some distance between them. Her body squirmed. His big hands cradled her face, stilling her, thumbs pulsing warmly against her flaming cheeks. Heat surged through her chest, her stomach, her loins. As his lips played against hers, dancing along the delicate seam of her tightly closed mouth, she heard the soldiers call out to him and her cheeks flamed once more at the indecency of their shouts. This was outrageous! He’d reduced her to the level of a common whore!

The soldiers moved away from them, their bawdy teasing drifting on the breeze, but Lussac barely noticed. The faint awareness that he should end the kiss now, that the ruse had worked, tickled at his conscious mind. The thought was an unnecessary irritant; he dismissed it, flicking it away like a fly on the window-pane. The maid tasted of roses, this silver girl who could swing through the air with ease, a sweet powerful nectar that twisted around his senses, winching him in, stronger, closer. Bracing his sturdy frame against her, he curved his big arms around her back, lifting the lithe fragility of her body against him. At the intimate, shuddering impact of his body, Katerina gasped, hands clutching at his bulky shoulders for support. Her feet swung inches from the ground. Against her lips, he smiled, his tongue delving into the warm recesses of her open, unsuspecting mouth. Exhilaration, boiling, spiking, swept through her, a thrill of pleasure as his tongue entwined with hers; and for one single precious moment, she forgot who she was, and where she was, surrendering to the astonishing sensations coursing through her body.

And then it was over.

Wrenching his mouth from hers, Lussac stepped back, his breathing hoarse, ragged. Unsupported, her limbs strangely weak, fluid, Katerina flopped back against the solid stone, bracing herself against the wall with flat palms. Like a piece of linen cloth forced through the mangle, a strange, wrung-out sensation gripped her body. Her lips burned.

‘How dare you kiss me like that!’ she flung at him, across the tense, icy silence. But her accusation sounded feeble, pathetic, like a mewl of a half-drowned kitten.





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