The Knight's Fugitive Lady. Meriel Fuller
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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