Innocent's Champion
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Meriel Fuller
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Chapter One
Summer 1399—south-west England
‘What is that? On the bottom of your gown? Actually, my gown.’ Katherine’s peevish tones emerged, shrill, from the shadowed interior of the covered litter. Striding alongside, Matilda slackened her brisk pace at the sound of her sister’s voice, glancing down at the hem of her skirts. In the cloying heat of the afternoon, the heavily pleated silk bodice stuck to the skin around her chest and shoulders; the high neck, buttoned tightly around her throat to the pale curve of her chin, made her feel constricted, trapped. Her sister had insisted she wear the elaborate gown, with a light-blue cloak to match, indicating with turned-down mouth that none of Matilda’s clothing were suitable for visiting the Shrine of Our Lady at Worlebury.
‘Well?’ Katherine addressed her shrewishly, peering out from between the patterned curtains. ‘Oh, God Lord, stop bouncing me so!’ she snapped at the servants who each shouldered a wooden strut of the litter, one on each corner, endeavouring to carry their lady as carefully as possible along the rutted track. Katherine sank back into the padded cushions, her face grey-toned and wan, the rounded dome of her stomach protruding upwards into the gloom.
Matilda twisted one way, then the other, trying to spot the problem with the gown. The smooth blue silk of the skirts billowed out from below a jewelled belt set high on her narrow waist. One of the knights in the service of her brother-in-law, riding up front on a huge glossy destrier, smirked beneath his chain-mail hood, before he snapped his gaze smartly forwards once more. Let him laugh, thought Matilda. She was used to being told off by her older sister and paid little heed to it. Katherine was suffering greatly in this late stage of pregnancy and this heavy, torpid heat wasn’t helping matters.
‘It’s nothing,’ she called to Katherine. ‘A lump of sticky burr, snagged on the hem.’ Reaching down, she pulled at the clump of green trailing weed, throwing it to the side of the track. The dark chestnut silk of her hair, firmly pulled into two plaited rolls on either side of her neat head, gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the trees. A fine silver net covered her intricate hairstyle, secured with a narrow silver circlet.
‘Come and sit in with me, Matilda, please.’ A nervous desperation edged her sister’s voice as she stuck her head out between the thick velvet curtains that afforded her some privacy within the litter. Her face looked puffy, skin covered with a waxy gleam that emphasised the violet shadows beneath her eyes. Matilda glanced at the sun’s position, thick light pouring down through the beech trees lining the route. The fresh green leaves bobbed in the slight breeze, lifting occasionally to send brilliant shafts of illumination straight down to touch the hardened earth of the track. It hadn’t rained for weeks.
‘If I climb in, it will only slow us down, Katherine,’ Matilda answered. One of the servants carrying the front of the litter mopped his face with his sleeve. ‘We’re almost at the river now. It’s not far from there.’ Guilt scythed through her as she saw the panic touch Katherine’s worried blue eyes. ‘Here, I’ll walk closer, alongside you.’ Matilda reached out and grasped her sister’s hand, shocked by how cold and limp it felt. ‘Are you quite well?’ she said sharply.
The jewelled net covering Katherine’s hair sparkled as she nodded slowly. ‘I can feel the baby kicking inside me,’ she whispered. ‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Matilda replied, with more conviction than she felt. The cold sweat from Katherine’s fingers soaked her palm. From the haunted look in her eyes, Matilda knew her sister was remembering that awful time before. And the time before that.
‘Do you think our prayers will work? Do you think I’ve done enough?’
Matilda nodded, throwing her sister a quick reassuring smile. She certainly hoped so. She wasn’t sure Katherine could endure another fruitless labour, another baby born that failed to live, to breathe. John, Katherine’s husband, had insisted they visit the shrine as often as possible, providing them with a litter, servants and two household knights as escort. He was determined that this pregnancy would be successful. He needed an heir. A male heir.
Worry trickled through her; she kicked at a loose stone beneath her leather boot, sending it spinning into the long grass at the side of the track. Although Katherine was four years older, and a married woman, Matilda often felt as if she were the more mature sibling, looking out for her sister, protecting her. All day she had watched Katherine, crouched awkwardly on the hard, iron-coloured stone of the chapel, muttering her prayers, calling on the Virgin Mary to grant her a successful labour, tears running down her perfect, beautiful face. Matilda had had to help her to her feet, almost dragging her away from the carved wooden effigy; it was as if Katherine wanted to stay there for ever, as if the longer she stayed, the more chance she would have of a successful labour.
Matilda reached out and touched Katherine’s shoulder, a gesture of support. The raised embroidery of her sister’s gown rubbed against her fingertips. ‘Your baby will be born soon and he will be fine. You must stop fretting, Katherine...’
‘What will John do to me if...?’
‘You mustn’t think like that.’ Matilda gripped Katherine’s fingers tightly. She must say the things that Katherine wanted to hear, even if she didn’t believe them herself. ‘John loves you...’
‘I need to stop...now.’ Katherine’s voice had taken on a new urgency, her eyes flicking up, searching Matilda’s face for understanding. She hunched forwards over her swollen stomach. ‘Earlier...I had too much to drink.’
Matilda signalled to the servants to lower the litter, then grabbed Katherine’s upper arm to haul her out. ‘No, stay here,’ she ordered the men, who, relieved of the heavy weight on their shoulders, stretched out their arms to alleviate the soreness in their tired muscles.
‘My lady...?’ One of the knights dismounted. ‘I should come with you...’ he offered dubiously, his gaze sliding quickly over Katherine’s stomach bulging out beneath the waistband of her gown.
Honestly, these men, thought Matilda, noting the young soldier’s reddening features. They treated pregnancy as if it were a disease! Something to be ashamed of, despite the fact it was the most natural thing in the world. She knew that the growing baby increased the amount of times Katherine needed to visit the garderobe, and when there was no garderobe available...well, the shelter of the trees and shrubs would have to do.
Leaning into the litter, Matilda seized her bow, shouldering the quiver full of arrows. She caught the glancing grin of a servant as he eyed the curved wood of her weapon. Let them think what they like, she thought irritably. It never hurt for a lady to know how to defend herself, especially one with her own precarious domestic arrangements.
‘No need, we’ll not be long. We’ll go over that little bridge, into that ruin behind the trees.’ Matilda pointed out a low-lying packhorse bridge spanning the river’s swift flow and the tumbled stones of a collapsed tower. She tucked her arm through Katherine’s and the two sisters walked together with a laboured, ambling pace through the soft, swaying grasses of the riverside.
Their progress up the steep cobbled surface of the bridge was slow; Katherine’s face reddened, sheened with sweat. ‘This heat, this heat affects me so,’ she gasped, as she reached the apex of the bridge. Pausing, she bent forwards, pressing one hand against the rickety parapet, her scalloped-edge sleeve falling in a graceful arc against the warm stone.
‘Why not take your cloak off?’ Matilda suggested, eyeing the rectangle of red silk-velvet that fell back from Katherine’s shoulders. It matched her own cloak of light blue, fastened across the neck with a fine silver chain and secured with a pearl clasp on one shoulder.
Katherine shuddered, fixing her sister with a horrified glance. ‘To be seen in public without a cloak? Are you out of your mind? Really, Matilda, you have no sense of propriety!’
Matilda shrugged her shoulders. ‘I only thought it would make you cooler,’ she replied. ‘You shouldn’t be travelling at all, at this stage of your pregnancy. I’m surprised that John—’
‘It was he that insisted upon it!’ Katherine interrupted. ‘You know what he’s like...’
Yes, thought Matilda. She knew what John was like. Arrogant and overbearing, with a short, irascible temper, he was unbearable at the best of times and ten times worse if things didn’t go the way he wanted. On his marriage to Katherine, he had made no secret of his joy at inheriting one half of the Lilleshall fortune: the castle at Neen and its vast tracts of fertile pasture. Now, it seemed, this was not enough for him; he had begun to drop very large hints about how he should be controlling the other half, the manor and estates of Lilleshall itself, still in the possession of Matilda and Katherine’s mother.
As Matilda steered her sister carefully down the other side of the bridge and into the shadowed privacy behind the toppled stones of the tower, Katherine clutched at her arm, her long fingers surprisingly strong. ‘You will stay with me, Matilda? Until I give birth? I need you to be there with me at Neen...do you promise?’
‘Katherine, you know I have to return to Lilleshall... I cannot promise that I will be there all the time.’
Lifting her skirts above the fallen stones to pick her way through the jumbled mass, Katherine pinned angry eyes on her sister. ‘Only because our useless mother refuses to do what she’s supposed to do!’
‘Katherine, that’s not fair! You know how she’s been since Father died.’ Matilda raised one hand to an errant curl of dark chestnut hair, tucking it back behind her ear. ‘I have to go back, to make sure the estate is running properly. You know that.’
‘Aye,’ Katherine whispered, her lumpy figure lurching with a curious side-to-side motion across the moss-covered stones. ‘I’m sorry, I know how our mother suffers. It’s only that I’m so worried about this baby...’
‘I will stay with you as much as I can.’ Matilda patted her hand. But to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow. There was so much to do at Lilleshall at this time of year; although the crops had been planted and were growing well in this hot weather, she now had to turn her attention to the early harvests.
‘Can they see me?’ Bunching her skirts about her knees, Katherine made her way awkwardly into the undergrowth behind the tower, bristly thistles scratching at the delicate embroidery of her skirts. Butterflies fluttered lazily through the wild, verdant growth: the feathery purple grass heads, red sorrel gathered in scrappy clusters, the yellow-fringed hawkbit flower.
‘Wait. Let me check.’ Leaving her sister, Matilda placed one foot on a crumbling staircase that ran diagonally upwards across a section of wall, and peeked out at their escort. Two of the servants had taken the opportunity to sit on the dried earth, setting their tired backs against the framework of the litter. One chewed idly at a piece of long grass, drawing the freshness from the end of the stem. She caught a ribald chuckle from one of the knights, his head bent as he listened to the other, no doubt telling some bawdy tale.
‘They can’t see us.’ Matilda laughed softly, tripping gracefully back down the steps. ‘We’re well hidden here.’
Squatting down, Katherine closed her eyes in relief.
Matilda helped her to her feet and Katherine adjusted her gown. ‘How do I look?’ Katherine asked once she had straightened up, her eyes narrowing across the bulk of her belly.
Matilda set her head on one side, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘How do you look? You’re asking me?’ she declared in mock horror. ‘Since when do you trust my judgement on appearance?’
Katherine drifted one wan hand across her forehead. ‘Don’t tease, Matilda. You know how John likes me to look my best. Is anything amiss?’
‘You look perfect, as always,’ Matilda reassured her. Her sister’s sable hair maintained a neat, rigid parting, twisted into two identical knots either side of her head. All the buttons that secured the tight neck of her gown were in place, straight. Not a speck of dirt, leaves or travel dust stained the finely woven red material of Katherine’s gown. It was a source of constant surprise to their mother that, despite being so physically similar, the two sisters could not have been more different in character and their approach to life. Where Katherine was neat, Matilda was messy, untidy. Where Katherine was demure, simpering, Matilda was argumentative, stubborn.
A shout split the air: the outraged roar of a man.
Shocked by the harsh, guttural sound, Matilda grabbed Katherine’s arm, listening intently.
Then came a sickening sound of splintering wood, of clashing metal. From the other side of the river, the knights cursed, rough voices raised in alarm.
‘Oh, God!’ Katherine sagged in Matilda’s hold, her eyes wide and fearful. ‘What’s going on?’
Through the dry, heavy air came the distinctive whirr of an arrow. Then another, travelling straight and true. Matilda knew the sound, was familiar with it. Icy fear slicked her heart.
‘Wait here!’ She skipped up the steps once more, cloak and gown trailing behind her, the lightweight silk dragging against the coarse-cut stone. From the vantage point at the top, leaves casting dappled shade across her pale, worried face, she watched in horror as one knight toppled sideways from his horse, gripping his shoulder in agony. Blood poured from between his fingers, soaking his surcoat. Wheeling his horse around, the other knight drew his sword, flicking his eyes around, searching for their attackers. The servants, realising what was happening, started shouting and running around haphazardly, delving frantically in the litter for the one or two weapons they had brought to defend themselves.
‘Matilda...? What is it?’ Katherine was on her feet now, standing at the bottom of the steps, one arm bent protectively around her stomach.
‘Ssh! Stay down!’ A horrible weakness sapped the strength in Matilda’s knees; her fingers drove into the shattered limestone of the tower, searching for purchase, for equilibrium. She spun away from the open space that had once been a window and flattened herself against the wall, heart thumping in her chest. ‘The knights... They’re being attacked!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Katherine, get away from here! You need to hide!’
‘But you...?’
Matilda held up her bow. ‘I will hold them off as long as possible. You must get away from here, Katherine. Now. Find somewhere safe.’
* * *
With a practised flick of the reins, Gilan, Comte de Cormeilles, slowed his gleaming destrier to a walk, urging the animal towards the group of knights gathered at the river’s edge. Beneath the heavy metal breastplate, his skin prickled with sweat. He longed to rip it off. Steel plates dragged at his muscled arms; his fingers itched within his gauntlets. Pulling them off, he threw them to the ground, then lifted his hands to unstrap his helmet, resting it on the horse’s neck. The quiet breeze sifted through his hair, lifting the bright, corn-coloured strands, cooling his hot scalp. His piercing, metallic gaze swept the area where they had stopped, eyes set deep within thick, black lashes.
‘Fancy a swim?’ Henry, Duke of Lancaster, strode towards him across the soggy, hoof-marked mud, his short, stocky body moving with an unexpected grace. Several knights had already divested themselves of their armour, the glinted steel discarded messily on the ground amidst the horses. Now they plunged into the fast-flowing river with shouts of glee, scooping up handfuls of clear, sparkling water and splashing each other, like children.
Gilan handed his helmet down to one of the soldiers. The burnished metal glowed in the afternoon sun. He frowned down at Henry. ‘Are you certain we have time? There are still several hours of daylight left.’
Henry grinned. ‘The men are tired, Gilan. Not everyone can keep going as long as you can. And by my judgement it will take only a couple of more days to reach our destination. Let’s rest here tonight and move on in the morning.’
Gilan shrugged his shoulders, nodded. Whatever Henry’s decision was, it made little difference to him. Eventually, he would have to go back to his parents’ home, but he was happy to delay that return as long as possible. Unconsciously, he kneaded the muscles in his thigh, trying to ease the ache in the scarred tissue. He swung his leg over the horse’s rump, dismounted.
‘You push yourself too hard,’ Henry said, clapping his friend on the back. ‘Most of my men are not in as good a shape as you. I have to make sure you don’t run them into the ground, so they are useless when it comes to finding King Richard.’
‘As long as we keep our wits about us, Henry.’ Gilan watched the knights in the water through narrowed silver eyes. ‘This is hostile country, remember.’
‘How can I forget?’ Henry replied, the smile slipping from his face. He stuck one hand through the russet-gold strands of his hair. ‘Banished to France by my own cousin, the king, just so he could grab at my fortune with his grubby little hands.’
‘Which is why we are here.’ Gilan grinned, white teeth flashing within his smile. ‘To grab it back.’ Gathering up his reins, he moved towards the water’s edge, pushing aside the jostling, sweating horseflesh to gain access. His stallion’s head nudged at his shoulder, keen to reach the water. Some of the knights had moved out into the middle of the river now, swimming properly in the stronger, deeper current, but others had climbed out, undergarments dripping around their knees, drying themselves on the large squares of linen extracted from their saddle-bags. Farther along the river, where the flow narrowed between higher banks to cut through the meadow, swallows flicked low, catching at the flying insects above the water.
The wet mud at the water’s edge darkened the travel-stained leather of Gilan’s calf-length boots, oozing up around the soles. Henry appeared at his side, barrel chest clad only in a white shirt, loose drawers flapping about his legs. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ he asked again.
Gilan shook his head. ‘Later.’ His arm jerked sharply down as the horse pulled against the reins, desperate to drink. A cluster of mosquitoes danced crazily above the water’s surface and he slapped at his neck, irritably.
A hoarse scream rent the sticky air. Then another. The sound barged incongruously into the torpid languor of the afternoon.
Gilan dropped his reins immediately, lean, tanned fingers seizing the jewelled hilt of his sword, drawing it with a long, steely hiss. ‘You, and you—’ he jabbed his finger at a couple of knights standing by the river, still fully clothed ‘—come with me, now.’
Henry had already turned, was clambering back out of the water. ‘No, you stay here,’ Gilan growled at him. ‘I am dispensable. You are not.’
* * *
Despite the significant weight of his breastplate, Gilan ran surprisingly quickly for a large man, the sturdy length of his legs pacing along the track with the strength and agility of a cat, his step fast and sure. Moving swiftly away from the sunlit bank where they had stopped, he and the two other knights followed the river upstream to the point where it ran into woodland: large beech trees trailed delicate branches into the water like brilliant hair braids, tickling the mirrored surface. With no time to seize his helmet, his thick golden hair shone out from the shadowed gloom beneath the trees, where the air pressed in choking layers, ominous, vaguely threatening.
Was it only a couple of months since he and Henry had forged their way through the frozen Lithuanian forests? Slashed back the impenetrable undergrowth where no horse could make progress, felled the brambles and the spent nettles, fixed in ice? Sometimes the snow had been so deep that their horses were forced to plough through man-made trenches, picking their way through towering walls of snow. He had relished that hardship, the impossible landscape that they had to work around, those icy, hostile conditions. They suited him, suited his current frame of mind after... He shook his head smartly, dispelling his thoughts. A wave of grief crested through him, but he clamped it down. Nay, he would not think of that now.
Crouching into the bank, Gilan rammed a broad, muscled shoulder into a bunch of glossy ferns growing high and indicated with a quick, decisive handsignal that his knights should do the same. Up ahead, he could see a covered litter set upon the ground, patterned curtains fluttering outwards in the warm air, like spent butterfly wings. A soldier lay sprawled in the dirt, his face white-grey, his hand pressed against his shoulder; despite his motionless appearance, Gilan could see his eyes were beginning to open. And beyond this fallen knight, other men were fighting, scuffling, hands at each other’s throats, swords swinging, their grunting efforts rising hoarsely.
Springing away from the bank, Gilan jumped towards them, raising the sparkling blade of his sword before him with a roar, and hurled himself into the writhing, spitting mass. Grabbing one man round the neck, he pulled him out of the fray, kicking him in the back of the shins so that he buckled easily.
‘Kneel. Hands on the back of your head where I can see them.’ He signalled to one of his knights to keep guard, his voice guttural, harsh, barking orders.
‘It was them, they attacked us!’ the man was babbling, as he fell to his knees in the soft dirt.
An arrow whistled past Gilan, quiver feathers whispering against his ear. It stuck into the earth opposite him, the shaft bouncing violently with the force of the shot. Too close! He whirled angrily, searching for the archer. A shot like that could only have come from some distance, so someone was watching them from afar. His eyes swept along the river, through the sibilant trees and bulky trunks to a small stone bridge, a crumbling wall of loose stones blotched with orangey-yellow lichen.
And the glint of an arrowhead, peeking out from a high spot on the ruined tower.
His knights were bringing the fight to a close. Already three men were on the ground, hands bound behind their backs, heads bent, subdued. One more man to bring down and his situation appeared increasingly precarious. Gilan sank back into the shadows, using the substantial tree trunks as cover. His boots made no sound as he crept through the waist-high cow parsley, his legs brushing against the delicate, white-lace flowers. Crossing by the bridge was no good, being in full view of the tower. He would slink back along the path, cross the river at a lower point. The element of surprise had always served him well.
