Her feet broke through the thin layer of ice covering the standing water spread out in patches on the low-lying field, and squelched into the cold mud beneath, water seeping between the thick leather sole and uppers of her stout boots. The river, its course marked by an occasional stubby willow, the bright orange branches shining bright and straight in the rising sun, had flooded regularly this winter. The cattle had been restricted in the amount of grass they had to eat and the farmer had been forced to dig into their precious supplies of stored hay in order to supplement their diet. For a moment, she paused, sweeping her eye back over the field, assessing the amount of damage the most recent flood had wrought, and how much grass there was left for her dairy herd.
‘Good morning, my lady Brianna.’
Her heart leapt in fright; the voice shocked through her, low and dangerous, a slick ripple of fear. She raised her eyes reluctantly to the man on the horse, a man, it seemed, who had appeared from nowhere. And behind him, two other soldiers on horseback, their surcoats bearing the colours of Count John.
‘Lord Fulke.’ She nodded with the briefest deference to the older man who had first addressed her. His buff-coloured tunic strained across his round belly as he adjusted his position in the saddle, the split sides revealing fleshy thighs stuffed into brown woollen braies. His iron-grey hair was thick, a greasy mat against his scalp.
‘What an unexpected pleasure!’ Lord Fulke exclaimed, his voice a sarcastic falsetto. He nudged his horse so that his booted foot in the stirrup moved on to a level with her chest. The other two soldiers, one darkly scowling, one a fresh-faced youth, manoeuvred their horses around to box her in at her back. She was surrounded. Her chest tightened, but she would not, nay, could not, panic. They would not harm her, they wouldn’t dare! They had been sent to harass her, to force her to agree to Count John’s ridiculous plan. They hoped to wear her down by their constant intimidation, but it wouldn’t work!
‘Let me pass, Lord Fulke.’ Brianna fought to keep her voice level, calm. ‘You have nothing to gain from
this.’
Lord Fulke snorted with laughter, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, some streaked with black, others a particularly nasty yellow hue. ‘On the contrary, my dear lady, we have everything to gain. If only you would agree to the alliance with Hubert of Winterbourne, life would be so much easier for you.’
‘And I’ve told you before—’ Brianna tossed her head back ‘—Sefanoc is not mine to give away.’ Crossing her arms over her middle to disguise her actions, Brianna clasped her fingers around the hilt of the knife.
Lord Fulke’s heavy frame thumped down before her as he dismounted. Up close, he was about the same height as her, wide and thickset. His foul breath wafted over her as he spoke. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, my lady,’ he continued silkily. ‘Your brother is most certainly dead; he will not return now from the Crusades. All our men are home.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘And the manor of Sefanoc needs a lord in charge.’
‘Over my dead body.’ Brianna expelled the words in a hiss of breath. ‘You have no right to do this; you know I have the protection of King Richard …’
‘But King Richard isn’t here, is he?’
‘He will return, just like my brother! Now let me pass!’ In one swift, neat movement, she pulled the knife from its scabbard, holding the point to Lord Fulke’s chest. Shock clogged the man’s face; the two soldiers behind her moved in. One grabbed her shoulders to jerk her back sharply, the other knocked the knife away with a short, painful chopping motion, the side of his hand against her wrist.
Lord Fulke cleared his throat, adjusted his belt self-consciously on his padded hips. ‘You’ve been without a man in charge for too long, it seems.’ He licked his lips in a curious half-smile, eyes running lecherously over Brianna’s diminutive figure, the perfect oval of her face. ‘Your conduct is unseemly, wilful. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated in a lady; it seems we need to teach you a lesson. You will soon come to your senses, young lady. We will make sure of it.’
Count Giseux de St-Loup urged the muscled flanks of his stallion up the narrow sheep track to the brow of the ridge, leaning his tall frame forwards in the saddle to hasten the animal’s ascent. His chainmail hauberk glinted dully in the morning sun, the bright orb partially obscured by wisps of white cloud. Halting the animal at the top of the escarpment, Giseux let the reins drop, lifting both hands to remove his iron conical helmet to reveal a lean, tanned face, bruises of exhaustion dabbed beneath grey eyes. Flapping open his leather saddlebag, he grabbed his water bottle, pulling the cork stopper to drink deep. The cool, sweet-tasting water poured down his throat like an elixir, driving back the waves of tiredness, reviving him. Wiping his mouth on the leather pad sewn against the palm of his chainmail mittens, he replaced the water bottle, then swept his gaze across the soft countryside below him, one hand unconsciously kneading at the dull ache in his upper
thigh.
From this high vantage point, he could see the castle at Merleberge rising up out of the river mist as if it floated on air; a castle that Count John had made his own whilst his older brother, King Richard, was away on crusade. The valley fell away in gentle scoops of green, ridges rolling away into the distance, fading blue. Even the jagged nakedness of the deciduous trees in winter—the scrappy hawthorn, the majestic oak—all served to enhance, not detract, from the beauty of this winter landscape. His eye was unaccustomed to such sights and his mind baulked against it, resented it. Such exquisiteness made him restless, irritable, after the years he had spent on crusade: savage days spent marching endlessly through the scorching sand, pushing his men through inhospitable rocky valleys, a constant craving for water. But strangely, whilst all of his soldiers were relieved to be home, he wanted to be back there, back in those wretched conditions, pitting the strength of his mind and body against the elements, the sheer effort of keeping himself alive driving his mind from deeper, darker thoughts. He craved the harsh light of Jerusalem, needed it, deserved it.
But the crusade was finished, over; the agreement had been signed between King Richard and Saladin. Both sides, both Christians and Saracens, had won. In his heart, the victory seemed hollow, pointless, after so many lives had been lost in the process. The lives of his men in one of the last raids on Narsuf. And the life of … His hands tightened around the reins, seeking balance as the familiar rage, the guilt that haunted his days and nights, rose within him … nay, he would not think of that now. Soon enough he would find the traitor who had turned against them, avenge his soldiers’ deaths … and hers. But now, he had to fulfil a promise to a fellow knight. He hoped it wouldn’t take him too long.
‘Will you agree?’ Lord Fulke yanked Brianna’s head from the water trough once more, podgy fingers snarled in her wet, dripping hair, twisting the strands tight, like a rope, pulling viciously against her scalp. She fought the urge to yelp with pain, gritting her teeth in determination; she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. Her short-lived marriage to Walter had taught her that, at least. Bracing her knees against the wooden trough, lined with puddled clay to provide drinking water for the cattle, she clutched at the rim with red-raw fingers, steeling herself for the next onslaught. Her wide blue eyes, lashes spiked darkly wet, blazed with fury.
‘How dare you do this to me?’ she managed to stutter out through lips purplish-blue with cold. ‘The King will hear of this!’
‘But nobody knows where he is, my lady,’ Fulke reminded her. ‘And until we know, we can do what we
like.’
Her heart plummeted as he shoved her head beneath the water once more. They had broken the ice on the surface after they had manhandled her over to the corner of the field where the trough was situated. The water was freezing, instantly numbing the skin on her face, driving nails of ice into her ears, her eyes, her nose. Brianna