Katherine failed to hear her. She seemed distracted, looking back up the slope. ‘Where’s Peter?’ Katherine’s oldest child had an annoying habit of scampering off and hiding at the most inconvenient times. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose, the note shrill and wavering.
‘Here, take these two.’ Eva handed Katherine her daughters, darting a concerned glance towards the figures on the far hillside, galloping at full pelt down from the ridge. Had they spotted them up here, colourful cloaks pinned against the drab-coloured grass? ‘Go now, run, and bolt the gates behind you. Don’t let those people in, whatever you do. I’ll find Peter.’
* * *
Dropping his reins on to the glossy neck of his destrier, Bruin, Count of Valkenborg, twisted his tall, lean body in the saddle and reached for the satchel strapped to his horse’s rump, extracting a leather water bottle. Sidling to a standstill, the huge animal pawed the ground impatiently, jerking its head upwards in irritation, iron bit rattling against enormous teeth. Bruin pulled off his helmet, giving it to a soldier riding alongside him, and pushed back his tight-fitting chainmail hood. Vigorous blond-red curls sprang outwards. He pushed one gauntleted hand through them, the icy air sifting against his sweating scalp. The leather glove rasped against his chin. There had been no chance to shave the short hairs from his face in these last few days of continual riding and now his beard glowed red, like the Viking beards of his ancestors. Dragging off his gauntlets, he slipped frozen hands through the chainmail openings across his palms to open his flagon.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ he murmured as he failed to undo the stopper. Clenching his fingers into his fist a couple of times, he encouraged the blood to run through his numb veins. ‘God, but it’s cold!’ Balancing the flagon on the saddle in front of him, he blew into his cupped hands, a hot gust of air, rubbing them together briskly.
Moving his horse alongside his companion, Gilbert, Earl of Banastre, laughed. ‘You, of all people, should be used to this kind of weather!’ With his face obscured by his helmet, his voice was muffled, an odd, hollow sound.
‘What, because I was born across the North Sea? It’s warmer over there, I swear. And definitely flatter.’ Bruin’s grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, finally removing the stopper with his teeth. Tipping his head back, he gulped the water down with relish, wiping stray drops from his mouth with his chainmail sleeve, the silvery links glinting in the low sun. ‘Is Melyn much further?’ Tucking the bottle away, he rolled his shoulders forward, trying to relieve the strained muscles across his back. ‘We’ve been riding for a long time.’ He yawned.
Gilbert tipped up the visor of his helmet. He sighed. ‘The journey would have been a lot quicker if the rebels hadn’t burned all the bridges over the river.’ White hair straggled out from beneath his chainmail hood. The metallic links, a few flecked with rust, gripped the fleshy folds of his cheeks in a perfect constricting oval. He inclined his head to one side, a questioning look crossing his face. ‘But I’m surprised you, of all the knights, should volunteer to accompany me,’ he chortled. ‘Surely such a task is beneath a soldier of your calibre? That’s why the King decided to drag me out of my comfortable retirement and send me to escort Katherine de Montague. Why did you not travel north with Edward? Flush out more of the rebel barons?’
‘The King wanted me to go with him,’ Bruin replied, shrugging his massive shoulders. ‘Even offered me double the normal amount of gold.’ His eyes darkened, glittering pewter. ‘He’s pleased to have me back after...’ A muscle flexed in his jaw.
‘After your year adrift with Lord Despenser.’ Gilbert threw him a brief smile.
Bruin scowled. ‘I swear you have the ability to make even the most awful things in life sound good. I was a mercenary, outside the law. Raiding and plundering merchant ships in the Channel.’ His mouth tightened, a wave of guilt coursing through him. ‘I was out of control after Sophie’s death and well you know it, Gilbert. I’m not proud of what I’ve done.’
Gilbert’s eyes flicked over to his younger companion, startled by his blunt admission, the raw desperation in his voice. He had heard that Bruin blamed himself for her death. ‘But the King has brought back Lord Despenser out of exile and forgiven him, just as he has forgiven you.’ Anxious not to dwell on the subject, Gilbert pushed at Bruin’s shoulder with a rounded fist, a friendly gesture. ‘It’s good to have you back, even if it is just to help me escort Lady Katherine and her children.’
‘I came with you for another reason. When my brother heard where you were going, he asked me to accompany you.’ Bruin paused. ‘He wants me to find someone for him.’ Staring out into the lattice of pine trees that clustered each side of the track, his grey eyes adopted a bleak, wintry hue. ‘Steffen seems intent on righting past wrongs, absolving himself of all his sins. He’s dying, Gilbert.’ His voice held little emotion, for he and his brother had never been close. Stronger at birth, Steffen had always been his parents’ favourite and indulged as such. Spoiled. As a sickly child, nobody expected Bruin to survive. But he had survived, and when he started to become well regarded for his prowess on the battlefield, drawing congratulations from all around, Steffen’s spoiled character seemed to spiral out of control, developing into a deep resentment towards Bruin. He wanted the accolades for himself.
‘I am sorry.’ The older man drew his grizzled brows together. ‘I forgot that you saw your brother at Deorham. He sustained a wound from the Battle of Durfield, I hear?’
Bruin shook his head to clear the memories clouding his mind. He sighed. ‘Yes, a head wound. It’s a bad one.’ He remembered the ragged gash above his brother’s ear, blood congealing in the blond-red strands of his hair. ‘The physician doesn’t expect him to survive much longer. I only hope I can find this woman before—well, in time.’ He kneaded idly at the bulk of his thigh, leg muscles bunched and heavy beneath the fawn wool of his leggings. A wave of guilt passed through him. How churlish of him to dwell on their troubled relationship. His brother was dying.
‘Someone he loved?’
‘I’m not certain. Maybe.’ Bruin frowned, a defined crease appearing between his copper-coloured brows. After their years apart, seeing Steffen again had been a shock. Racked with fever, his brother had thrown him a thin, wan smile from his sick bed. Scrabbling at Bruin’s arm, eyes rolling wildly, Steffen had begged his brother to find this woman to ease his troubled mind, to find peace in death. He talked of her dark brown hair, her blue eyes. He also talked strangely, incoherently, about a butterfly, the mark of a butterfly. And he had given him a name: the Lady of Striguil.
* * *
‘Peter, where are you?’ Eva called quietly. A drift of frost-coated leaves littered the twisting track through the woodland. Her feet crunched through them, purposefully. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she stopped for a moment, listening intently. Her face was rigid with cold, cheek muscles stiff, inflexible; the tip of her nose was numb. Where was the boy? Was he watching her from a hiding place, a smug smile pinned on his face as he heard her calling? The sun was dropping quickly now; soon it would be dusk and he would be much more difficult to find.
She hoped Katherine had reached the safety of the castle by now. A great shudder seized her body, catching her by surprise. The sight of those soldiers in the distance, the sun bouncing against swords and shields, aggressive and intimidating, danced across her vision, taunting her. She hugged her arms about her waist, clamping down on another wave of fear. Katherine was probably correct; they were men looking for bed and board for the night, nothing more.
A flash of red snared her vision. A glimpse of colour between the drab brown, silent trunks. Then a giggle, swiftly stifled, carried down on the scant breeze.
‘Peter, you
