scowling at the mass of purple bruising on the woman’s cheekbone. Blood trickled down towards her wimple, staining the white cloth, blooming steadily across the fabric like a blossoming flower. Her eyes were closed, long velvet lashes fanning her cheeks. But her breath puffed against his jawline, warm and regular. Thank God. Ignoring Edward, he carried her over into the shade of a beech tree and laid her down, carefully, on the ground.
He walked over to help the other soldiers unload the grain sacks, stacking them neatly at the side of the bridge. Unhitching the oxen, they led the animals over to the trees, securing their reins to the lower branches. Watched by Edward, grim and unsmiling on his horse, they managed to half-drag, half-carry the ailing cart from the bridge, depositing it safely on the river bank.
‘What I can’t understand is, what was the stupid chit doing on her own?’ Edward said suddenly, exasperated, trying to mitigate his guilt, as if he were less likely to hit a woman if she had a man with her. ‘I mean, what woman travels alone, these days? It’s unheard of. Foolish. Stupid.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Guilhem said. ‘But apparently she told the soldiers she had sent her man to fetch help with the broken axle.’ He flicked his gaze over to the spreading beech tree, at the prone, motionless figure, the stark white face.
‘My mother would tear a strip off me if she found out that I’d hit a woman,’ Edward said, his narrow mouth turning down ruefully.
‘I doubt it,’ Guilhem replied. ‘The Queen adores you and well you know it. She would blame the girl for bringing it upon herself.’
Edward threw him a curious lopsided smile. ‘Well, her behaviour was completely out of order...’
‘It was certainly...unusual,’ Guilhem replied. Most women would have run away at the first sight of the soldiers, rather than guarding the cart with its mediocre haul of grain. She had been horribly frightened, but had held her ground, hitting out like a cornered animal. Admiration threaded through him, a grudging praise; although she had been foolish, it had taken a great deal of courage to do what she had done.
‘Anyway...’ Edward adjusted his leather gauntlets around his wrists ‘...let’s move; we’ve wasted enough time in this godforsaken place. Let’s rideto Knighton. To the palace.’ He looked around the clearing, satisfied that the other soldiers were mounting up. ‘Where’s your horse?’
‘I’ll catch you up,’ Guilhem said bluntly.
‘Wh-what? Please don’t tell me you intend to shilly-shally around a common nun? Her manservant will be back in a moment!’
Guilhem patted the neck of Edward’s horse, rubbing his calloused thumb against the soft pelt. ‘I want to make sure she’s all right.’
‘An attack of conscience, Guilhem? What’s the matter, feeling guilty on my behalf?’
Guilhem shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, merely concerned.’ The feeling of guilt was nothing new to him, hanging constantly from his shoulders like a grey shroud. ‘She’s vulnerable lying there like that, unconscious; any woman would be.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, leave her! Get on your horse and come with me’
‘I’ll follow on.’
Edward’s mouth drooped with disappointment. ‘You’ve gone soft, Guilhem,’ he said bitterly. ‘Ever since that day at Fremont—’
Guilhem shook his head, a swift, decisive moment, stopping Edward’s speech. He had no wish to be reminded of that awful day. Remorse lurched through his heart. The burning castle. That child...
Edward eyed his friend’s stony expression. ‘Don’t let it affect you so, Guilhem. You paid the price.’
‘I set the fire that killed him,’ Guilhem replied tonelessly. A child’s life lost through his thoughtless actions. ‘I’ll follow on.’
Edward slumped in the saddle. Hazy shadows cast by the beech trees dappled his skin, sunburnt and freckled. Guilhem was indispensable, his best commander. But he had no authority over him: Guilhem was not a knight in Edward’s pay, he was a rich man in his own right, a man who chose to ride by the Prince’s side from a sense of loyalty, of friendship. Because Edward had helped him. Saved him.
‘Oh, if you insist,’ Edward said finally, resigned. Raising his arm, he gave the order for his soldiers to mount up and follow him. Kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, he rode away, clattering across the flat square stones of the bridge, horse’s tail swishing in his wake.
* * *
The sun had moved behind the clouds again. Beneath the tree the light was dim, streaked in shadow. Ducking his head beneath the low swaying branches, Guilhem crouched beside the girl’s prone figure, pillowed in a mass of spent beech leaves, her gown billowing out from a girdled waist, the cloth sinking down around her limbs to display the rounded curve of her hips, slender thighs. Leather boots poked out from a rickety hemline. And hanging from her belt, a dagger, carried in a leather scabbard! Surprising, for a lay sister to carry a blade; he thought they believed that prayers and the Cross would protect them in all circumstances. Obviously, this one had other ideas.
He knelt in down in the spongy ground, shins sinking into the mess of decaying coppery vegetation. A single leaf, burnt orange, fluttered down from above, landing on the coarse cloth covering her midriff, the concave hollow of her stomach. His nails dug into his palms, resisting the urge to brush it away.
‘Come on,’ he said brusquely, stroking the side of her cheek. His breath hitched at the silky sensation spiralling upwards through his blood. Her skin was like goose down, delicate, milk-white, a single freckle above her top lip. His big body hulked over her fragile frame, awkward, graceless, like some giant about to devour its prey. Most of his life had been spent bawling at soldiers, training them to fight, to battle harder, faster, longer. He’d been fighting for so long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent in the company of a woman, had forgotten how to treat them. ‘Come on!’ he repeated, more loudly this time. Moving closer, his knees snaring her skirts, he seized her shoulders, shaking her gently. Her head rolled back against the leaves; she moaned softly.
Her eyes opened slowly.
* * *
At first, Alinor’s vision was hazy, clouded; above her head, a trembling latticework of leaves, yellow, brindled, scuffing gently in the breeze. Where was she? Why was she lying here? Damp seeped upwards from the ground, soaking through the thin fabric of her gown. She wriggled her shoulders, trying to reduce the uncomfortable feeling. Her cheek ached incessantly; she examined the smarting skin with tentative fingers.
‘No,’ a gruff voice said, ‘leave it.’ Firm, decisive fingers pushed away her hand.
Alinor’s stomach lurched in recognition. Oh, God, not him again! The man knelt above her, face tough and brutal, slanted grooves carving down from his cheeks to the square angularity of his jaw. Fear whispered through her veins. She pushed her hands down into the ground, trying to push back from him. ‘You, go away!’ she stuttered out. His knees pinned her skirts; she was trapped. ‘Get away from me, you...you barbarian!’
To her surprise, he laughed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ His voice was low, melodious, curling through her veins like velvet smoke.
‘You hit me!’ she spat out weakly, eyes flaring with accusation.
‘Not
