Innocent's Champion. Meriel Fuller

I have to tell you, it wasn’t easy, was it, Gilan?’

      Matilda sensed, rather than saw, Gilan’s slight shake of his head. Then saw her sister’s face, her profile clenched, delicate jaw rigid with pain.

      ‘Katherine...?’

      Henry’s story faltered to silence as he turned to observe his hostess. Katherine’s face was set in an expression of sheer horror, her mouth screwed up, as if braced against an unknown onslaught, her eyes squeezed tight. The blood had drained from her lips.

      ‘Katherine...!’ Matilda shot up from her seat, turning abruptly to push past Gilan in a desperate attempt to reach her sister. Her hip brushed against him, the soft curve of flesh beneath her gown yielding against his upper arm. He drew a sharp unsteady breath.

      ‘For God’s sake, woman! What’s the matter with you?’ John shouted at his wife, at her rounded eyes that stared unseeing straight ahead, at her skin: red and sweating. He threw down his napkin into the middle of the table, a flare of annoyance crossing his portly face. ‘I’m so sorry about this, my lord...’ he inclined his head towards Henry ‘...she’s not normally like this. It must be the shock of today.’

      Rushing to Katherine’s side, Matilda saw the growing puddle of water beneath her sister’s seat, the sopping hem of her gown, watched her hands grip the armrests of the chair. ‘She’s in labour, John,’ Matilda bent down to murmur in John’s ear, laying one hand on her brother-in-law’s forearm.

      ‘What? What are you talking about? It’s too soon, isn’t it?’ John babbled, his fetid breath wafting over her, his face contorting into a look of sheer horror. His lips curled at the water spreading across floorboards, staining the wood. ‘What on earth is that horrible mess?’

      ‘Her waters have broken, John. We need to carry her upstairs!’ Matilda’s voice was more urgent now. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, forcing herself to think logically, clearly, against the brimming tide of fear pushed around the edges of her consciousness, a push of bulging breath expanding her lungs. She couldn’t, wouldn’t panic!

      ‘Take her away, then!’ John hissed at her. ‘This is so mortifying! Get her out of here!’ He fluttered his hand at Matilda, in the manner of dismissing a servant. A dull red flooded his pouched cheeks.

      Aghast at his lack of assistance, Matilda gawped at him, her arm slung across Katherine’s back. Her sister was panting now, fingers fixed around the edge of the table, trying to subdue the cramping waves of pain.

      ‘John, you need to carry her!’ Matilda squeaked at the bullish back of his neck, hating him, horrified by his ignorance, his sheer stupidity. Did he truly mean for Katherine to deliver her baby here, in the great hall, in front of all these men? ‘There’s no way she can walk!’

      ‘With the state my leg’s in at the moment? You know I’m injured! Ask one of the servants to do it!’ John raised his eyebrows at Henry in mute apology, who was observing the whole proceedings with a bemused, drunken demeanour. ‘Women, eh?’ John burped loudly, shaking his head with a nonchalant, unconcerned air. ‘What can you do with them? Always some little problem to deal with!’

      ‘Let me help you.’ A low, velvety voice cut across Katherine’s stifled gasp. Gilan appeared at Matilda’s side, bending down over her sister, bright hair falling across his forehead, wayward. Katherine made no demur as he shifted her rounded body up into his arms, levering her easily out of her chair.

      ‘I...er...no, we have no need of your help,’ Matilda protested, agitated, her hands flapping towards him as if to ward him off. How had he managed to lift her pregnant sister so swiftly? Gilan shifted Katherine’s body so she rested easily against his chest, her head rolling back against his shoulder.

      ‘Why, were you intending to carry her yourself?’ His sparkling eyes swept over Matilda’s diminutive stature, the close-fitting sweep of her dress, immediately mocking. ‘Which way?’

      ‘Follow me, then,’ she replied, stalking off in front of him, her head held high. Her long hem trailed treacherously across his leather boots as she swept past him and she flicked the material away, huffily, annoyed that she had no choice in this matter. Despite her reluctance, she would have to accept his help, as Katherine’s husband was demonstrating, once again, the whole wretched expanse of his uselessness. John’s behaviour had forced her to accept a stranger’s help. At the door, she turned, fixing her sister’s husband with a cold, hard look. ‘Send someone to fetch a midwife, John, and do it now!’

      ‘Good luck, my lady Katherine!’ Henry called out, lifting his pewter goblet in a toast, his speech slurred and warbling.

      * * *

      Gilan followed Matilda’s neat figure through an arched doorway in the corner of the dais which lead directly on to the circular stair. Her hips swayed seductively beneath the twinkling gown, the whispering train of the overdress slipping across the floorboards. At once they were plunged into a dank shadowy space, lit only by one flaming torch slung into its iron holster on the cramped landing. Steps curved away from them, down as well as up.

      Seizing the torch from its holder, Matilda thrust the spitting flame aloft, bunching her skirts in the other hand. ‘This way,’ she murmured tersely, climbing up the narrow, curved steps. Behind her, Gilan carried her sister’s pregnant form effortlessly, and surprisingly gently, as if it were a manoeuvre he performed every day. They climbed steadily, with only Katherine’s moaning gasps breaking the silence; suddenly, she arched over, letting out a long, low howl of pain. Caught unawares, Gilan staggered forwards at the jerking violence of the movement. Instinctively, Matilda reached down and grabbed his upper arm, attempting to steady him.

      But he had no need of her bracing hand; his feet were already planted firmly again, one step below her. Beneath the dancing flame of the torch, his carved features were inches from her own, his eyes mineral dark.

      ‘I have her.’ He glanced at Matilda’s hand clamped around his upper arm, not steadying now, but clinging to him, as if for support. Beneath his tunic sleeve, the roped muscle was hard, like an iron bar. She snatched her hand away, face flaming, speech stalled. Why couldn’t John have carried his own wife upstairs? She had no wish for this man, this stranger, to be involved with her family affairs. He seemed too close to her, too intimate in this confined, shadowed space, scattering her senses, befuddling her.

      ‘Hurry, this way!’ Matilda whisked away from him, climbing the circular steps two at a time, pushing through the planked door of Katherine’s chamber. In a moment, Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting were all around them, like colourful butterflies, clustering around Gilan as he carried Katherine to her bed.

      He laid her down with infinite gentleness.

      Stuck in the doorway, Matilda watched the scene with growing incredulity, still holding the sparking, spitting torch. The light arched over her, casting flickering shadows down across her cheeks. Who was this man, his body built for a life of fighting, of soldiering, to perform such an act of kindness? His tough, muscular frame looked out of place, all angles and hard lines in this lady’s bedchamber. He towered over Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting. He had helped, where John had not. She frowned, unable to untangle her reasoning.

      ‘Matilda!’ Katherine screeched, hunching over in a foetal position on the bed furs, clutching dramatically at her belly. ‘Matilda, come here! I need you!’

      Starting at the sound of her sister’s voice, Matilda shook her head: a quick movement, wanting to rid herself of these troubling thoughts. She moved towards Gilan as he straightened up from the side of Katherine’s bed. Against the blood-red of the velvet bedcurtains, his hair shone out like spun gold, glimmering fire.

      ‘Fetch linens, towels, hot water...now!’ she ordered the women fussing about the bed. They sprang away from their mistress at the sound of Matilda’s voice, following her commands without question. ‘And you,’ she said, tipping her chin towards Gilan, ‘you can go now.’ She thrust the flaming brand towards him, as if to emphasise her point. Her tone was brusque, dismissive.

      ‘Careful with