she felt very, very alone.
* * *
‘Where in the Devil’s name are we?’ Edward, son of Henry III of England, thrashed petulantly at the arching brambles with his sword, eventually pushing his horse into a small, shadowed clearing in the beech forest. He pulled his helmet off with an angry movement; sparse strands of pale blond poked out from around the edges of his chainmail hood. ‘And where are my outriders? I thought they were scarcely half a mile ahead? They’re supposed to come back and lead us through!’ He scowled, thin mouth rolling down at the corners like a spoiled three-year-old.
Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens, shrugged his massive shoulders as he reined in his glossy destrier to stop beside Edward’s horse. The three golden lions embroidered across his surcoat gleamed in the sunlight as he drew off his leather gloves and tucked them beneath his saddle front, lifting off his own helmet and pushing back his chainmail hood to reveal a shock of vigorous dark-blond hair. He shook his head roughly, relishing the kiss of balmy air against his hot scalp.
‘Well?’ Edward regarded him irritably, swatting at a fly buzzing lazily around his face.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Guilhem replied, rolling his shoulder forward, trying to relieve the itch beneath his chainmail. ‘Although as we’ve been riding half the night, I suspect they might have taken the opportunity to grab a short rest.’
‘We haven’t got time for a rest!’ Edward spluttered, yanking on the reins as his horse skittered nervously beneath him. ‘There are rumours that de Montfort might have crossed the River Severn; if that is the case, then they’ll be heading east as we speak!’
‘I know. But they are only rumours, Edward. If the men are tired, they’ll be in no position to fight and we’ll lose anyway.’ Guilhem’s blue eyes regarded Edward calmly. He was used to his friend’s moods, the excitable energy that few men could match, the intense, determined stamina on the battlefield.
‘I could fight now,’ Edward muttered sulkily, ‘and so could you.’
Yes, he could fight, Guilhem thought. But then he could always fight, night or day. He never seemed to feel the cold, or to experience hunger or fatigue. Fighting suited him, suited his personality—to be in the fray, driving onwards relentlessly, to have no time to think or feel. It was better that way.
‘We both could, Edward, but I suspect we’re in the minority. The soldiers need to rest.’ He flicked his head around to watch the remainder of the men gather behind them at the edge of the clearing; knights on horseback stretched back in single file into the shadows of the forest, Edward’s royalist army. Exhaustion etched their faces. ‘I suggest you take the men to your mother’s palace at Knighton and beg some board and lodging. The rebels can wait.’ He tilted his head on one side. ‘What do you say?’
‘You suggest I take the men? Why, what are you going to do?’
Guilhem sighed. ‘I promised my mother I would visit my sister. She has travelled over to be married to an English noble and I believe his castle is not far from here.’ He grinned as Edward’s mouth turned down sulkily. ‘It’ll only be one night and then I’ll join you at Knighton.’
“You need to rest as well. Why not come with us now and see your sister on the morrow?”
“Alright.” Guilhem nodded, then tilted his head, listening intently. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said softly, drawing out his long sword from the scabbard. The steel blade rasped along the leather, a sibilant hiss. His eyes searched the area swiftly, body poised, tense and alert in the saddle. The sound of twigs breaking, of horse’s hooves thumping heavily, came from the other side of the clearing. One of Edward’s outriders came flying towards them, his helmet gone, face red and excited. He pulled so violently on the reins that his horse skidded to a stop, the whites of its eyes rolling back wildly. ‘There’s a problem!’ he managed to gasp out.
The only problem, as far as Guilhem could gather, seemed to be a diminutive nun dressed in what looked like a grey baggy sack and holding a large sword which he suspected did not belong to her. The substantial blade dwarfed her neat frame, semi-precious stones winking dully at the leather-bound helm. The maid stood at the apex of a packhorse bridge, legs planted wide, a laden ox-cart tilting precariously behind her; at intervals she would swish the sword from left to right in a vaguely threatening manner. From what he could work out, not one soldier had made any attempt to overthrow her; instead, they stood in a miserable group on the river bank, helmets off, horses plucking in desultory manner at the spindly grass. Why were they holding back? Surely it was a simple matter to take her down?
‘What is going on here?’ Edward said, dismounting swiftly, reddish-blond brows held together in a deep frown.
‘Er...well, this...this lay sister...’ one of the soldiers began to explain, clutching at his hand. The other men collected around him, shuffling their feet, nodding encouragement to their companion.
‘Are you bleeding?’ Edward demanded roughly, snatching at the man’s hand and opening the stubby fingers. Blood trickled slowly from a deep cut across the soldier’s palm.
The soldier flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘She did it.’ He nodded in the direction of the bridge.
Edward glared at him, pale blue eyes narrowing to slits. ‘She did it? Are you trying to tell me that a nun attacked you? God in Heaven, call yourself knights?’
‘Look at her, sire. She’s giving us the evil eye, muttering godforsaken words at us. Words of the Devil. We tried to make her move the cart, but she slashed at my hand and took my sword! Then she raised her cross and...and put a curse on us! I swear, it’s the truth, sire. We daren’t touch her.’
‘What utter nonsense,’ Edward shot back. ‘Let me deal with this.’
‘Allow me,’ Guilhem said, stalling Edward’s forward step with a burly arm across his friend’s chest. Shoving his helmet towards a soldier, he pushed back his chainmail hood so it settled in loose folds across his shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t do to have the King’s son cut down by a woman.’
‘As if!’ Edward snorted. But he stopped, sweeping his arm out with mock courtesy. ‘However, I have no wish to be cursed, either. Be my guest.’
* * *
The knight who walked towards her was tall, a red woollen surcoat covering his muscled torso and broad shoulders. Despite his height, he carried his body with graceful athleticism, like an animal: powerful, self-assured. Beneath his surcoat, glittering chainmail covered his massive arms, but, in contrast to the other soldiers, he wore no plate armour on his shins. Instead, calf-length leather boots and woollen trousers covered his long legs. His head was bare, chainmail hood pushed back to reveal a thatch of burnished hair, more dark blond than brown, strands thick and wayward, framing a lean, tanned face, prominent cheekbones dusted with sunburn.
Alinor licked her lips rapidly, desperate for a drink of water, for something to calm her, to quell the rising tide of fear that filled her chest, that channelled her breathing into short, quick gasps. Her wrists were weak, fatigued from holding up the cumbersome sword. Her left arm ached, the scar pinching painfully. Where had he come from? Suddenly the short, rotund soldier who had first accosted her seemed infinitely preferable to this approaching barbarian! Everything about him frightened her: those fierce, glinting eyes of midnight blue; his stern mouth set in a grim,
