Her Banished Knight's Redemption: The follow-up to award-winning story The Rebel Heiress and the Knight

Prologue

AD 1206—the remote outskirts of La Rochelle, Poitou region, Aquitaine. A region still part of the English Crown.

She was going to die today. Now, at this very moment...

Isabel opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. It was as if her voice had frozen, owing to the unspeakable horrors she had just witnessed. She wanted her mother to comfort her, soothe her and make this all go away, but that was not possible.

Mama was far away from here.

Her whole body shook violently as she lay on the ground, gawping at the bad man hovering over her. He had caught her easily as she had run away into these woods, trying to get away from the carnage that he, along with the other bandits, had inflicted. It had all come to this: staring death in the face. Isabel drew in a shaky breath and screwed her eyes shut, thinking that she had let her father down, through no fault of her own.

Oh, please, God in heaven, let it not hurt...please let it be over quickly, she said over and over again in her head like a prayer, as she wrapped her small hand around the pendant dangling from her neck.

But nothing happened. Instead, the man made strange, unexpected noises. Isabel slowly opened her eyes and saw the bad man swaying from side to side, his eyes rolling to the back of his head before he fell with a thud on to the ground. It was then that she saw him...a boy, several years older than her, eyes wide and holding the blade of a sword, the hilt pointing down. He must have surprised the bad man and struck him from behind using the heavy metal hilt. The boy had hit him well because the man was lying motionless.

‘Are you all right, miss?’ he said gently. ‘My name is Will Geraint and I’m here to help. He didn’t hurt you, did he?’

It was a nice voice, with so much warmth that she was instantly put at ease after what she had witnessed and almost endured.

Not that she knew whether the voice belonged to someone that she should readily trust. Isabel cautiously shook her head as the boy moved forward to help her on to her unsteady feet.

‘You’re safe now, but it’s best if you don’t look back there,’ he said, pointing towards the smouldering wagons, which were shrouded by an eerie silence. All the people she had been travelling with were now dead, as she would have been, if it had not been for this boy.

‘Do you know what happened here?’ He was watching her. ‘Who did this?’

He seemed to be about the same age as her eldest brother, twelve or possibly thirteen, and his eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen. They were kind eyes.

But she couldn’t answer. She dared not.

‘Was it an ambush?’

She nodded slowly, suddenly shaking uncontrollably.

‘Can you tell me your name?’

Again, she said nothing as she tried to compose herself.

He exhaled as he dragged his fingers through his matted hair. ‘Very well, but you can’t stay here. You’ll have to come with me and I will ask Sir Percy what is to be done with you.’

She stilled before taking a step back. She couldn’t go with him! Who was his lord? For all she knew he could be another enemy of her father’s.

As though he sensed her apprehension, he tried again, ‘Whoa, easy now. Sir Percy is a good man and he’ll help, I know he will. Besides, you really can’t stay here. It’s not safe.’

No, she really couldn’t stay in this place, with the carnage all around her, the repugnant smell of burning flesh. Oh, God, it was all too much. She turned and retched violently, emptying the contents of her stomach on the ground. The boy patted her gently on the shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing for you here any more, miss,’ he whispered. ‘Come, I’ll take you to safety.’

She hesitated for a moment before grabbing her satchel, which had fallen beside her, and tentatively took his outstretched hand. His lips curled into a friendly, placid smile. He nodded and led her through the woods to his horse, which had been tethered far away from it all. They mounted the huge animal, riding away from that horrible scene. She nestled against his shoulder, feeling a huge sense of relief as anxiety slowly drained from her body to be replaced with overwhelming exhaustion.

The drum of his beating heart and the pounding of hooves against the ground lulled her into a deep sleep, one that she did not wake from until much later.

It was dusk and Isabel was no longer on the back of a horse, but instead lying on a hard, lumpy pallet.

She opened her eyes and sat up, looking around the small crypt to see a fire crackling in the hearth. She rubbed her eyes, her vision adjusting to the darkness and it was then she saw him—the boy, Will. His back was to her as he stood at the doorway, leaning against a stone wall, talking to someone, but he turned, as if sensing she was no longer asleep. He took two big strides into the room and knelt beside the pallet.

‘I waited until you were awake to take my leave and wish you well before I go.’

No, please don’t leave me here!

She threw herself against him, clutching on to him as tears streamed down her face.

‘You must be brave, little maid, and stay here with Father Clement. He’ll take you to a convent nearby where you will be looked after and...’

Was she to be abandoned again? She thought she could trust the boy, she thought she was safe but, no...she had no one to rely on except for herself. She sobbed desperately as Will Geraint grimaced.

‘Come on, miss, I’m sure you will do well here.’

Isabel shook her head, unable to get the words out.

‘You could tell me your name?’ He raised a brow. ‘We could then find your kin and send a message so that they could come for you?’

She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it firmly. No, she couldn’t tell him her name. She had promised Papa not to tell anyone about who she was and where she was going, no matter what the circumstance. Father had made her swear on the holy bible.

Will Geraint’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, God, unless they were the ones who perished back there.’ He pulled his fingers through his hair, looking uneasily at her. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

They might not have been her blood relatives, but the people she had travelled with had all been part of her father’s household retinue, accompanying her to France, where they had met their grisly demise.

She shook her head again, wordlessly pleading with him as she tightened her grip on his arm.

‘I cannot take you with me, miss. Sir Percy only allowed a little time for me to bring you here,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘And anyway, I’m only a squire, but I am training hard to be soldier and, one day, God willing, a knight.’ He smiled at her. She stopped crying and sniffed as he untangled himself, pulling her up to her feet. ‘I must go, but promise me you’ll be brave. As much as I will have to be.’

She nodded slowly as more tears dropped on her cheek. He brushed them away and sighed.

‘Have faith and courage, miss. One day you will overcome this. I know it. And don’t forget that you will always have a friend in me,’ he said, thumping his chest. ‘In William Geraint.’

Please don’t leave me here! she wanted to scream.

Isabel knew there was nothing she could say or do to stop Will Geraint from leaving her here, unless she informed him of who she was. Yet she had made a vow to her father and he would be so disappointed if she let him down again. She hated that she always seemed to disappoint him...

Papa had specifically told her not to trust anyone.

‘There are too many enemies circling around us. Trust no one. Do you hear me, girl?’

‘I do, Papa.’

‘Good, now don’t forget. A vow is a solemn promise. One that can never be broken.’

Her shoulder sagged in resignation. Yes, it seemed her destiny was to stay here, wherever that was. Anyway, her father would likely come looking for her and then she could go back home.

Oh, to be back home...

Isabel looked about the sparse, cold room. How everything had changed for her in a matter of days, in a matter of moments. The boy was probably right and she would be safe here, but before he left there was something she wanted to give him.

A symbol of her gratitude.

As he turned to leave, she quickly unfastened the leather cord from the back of her neck and allowed the heavy pendant to fall into her lap. She pulled the sleeve of his tunic a couple of times and dropped her silver and ruby pendant into his hand.

He shook his head. ‘You really don’t have to give me anything.’

No, but she liked giving things to people. And he did have kind eyes. Besides, it was dangerous to keep the two identical pendants together and, since she had found the other one in her satchel earlier, this one could be given away. She hoped her father would be proud that she had thought of it all by herself, but he was so difficult to please. She wrapped her small hand around Will’s and squeezed it, nodding in encouragement when he hesitated. He had to keep it. The pendant was her present and no one ever said no to a gift. Mama would say that it was bad manners.

Mama... Oh, Mama...

She gulped and sniffed, hoping she would not start crying again. Her brothers always used to get annoyed if she cried.

‘Very well, if you want me to have this,’ he said dangling the pendant from his hands, ‘then I will thank you and always treasure it. I must leave now. Good luck, little one.’

She kept her eyes fixed on the stone floor, but knew that the boy had quietly left the chamber. With no one now there, she covered her face with her hands and started to weep once more.

Chapter One

Spring 1218

Will Geraint spotted him the moment the old peacock stepped inside the tavern. The older man was not the usual customer who frequented the dirty, dubious establishment that Will liked to call his home away from home.

Instinct made Will lean back and sink into the shadows, clasping the hilt of his dagger underneath the wooden table as he watched the man scan the room. His beady eyes settled near the area where Will was sat and he gave a decisive nod before walking over.

Who the hell was he? And, more importantly, what did he want?

Will tightened his grip around the hilt as the man flung his feathered hat on the table and sat opposite him, his eyes studying Will closely. There was something about the man’s presumptuous manner that he didn’t particularly like.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ The stranger spoke French, but Will realised instantly that he was English. A fellow countryman—a courtier, no less. His senses were further alerted to the man’s every movement, aware that he might not be here alone, might have any number of accomplices waiting somewhere outside.

The fact the older Englishman had come to this godforsaken tavern in a remote part of France made it obvious he had meant to seek Will out, especially since the tavern wasn’t particularly busy and he could have sat anywhere else.

Will ascertained the various ways he could leave expeditiously without using the front entrance and without the man being able to follow him in any capacity.

He shrugged without betraying any of his internal calculations. ‘I don’t care where you sit, stranger, as long as you don’t disturb me.’

‘That is not my intention. However, I was told that I would find a man here whose talents with a sword were—and still are—legendary,’ he said, brushing non-existent dirt off his shoulder. ‘A man whose reputation precedes him, even if he does seem to prefer living in such obscure places, as he has these past two years.’

‘There is no man of that description. Not here.’

‘No? What if I could give this man a chest full of silver and a pardon so he could return home to England?’

Hell’s teeth!

Will had to tread carefully here. He had been living in France as a mercenary, a sword for hire, in the shadow of exile for the past few years. The truth, however, was that since King John’s death he had worked tirelessly for England’s new regent and Lord Protector, William Marshal, gathering important information for the Crown under the guise of being a disgraced man. A disgraced rogue knight. Not that many knew. Not that this man knew.

‘And what would you want with such a man? If one were to exist.’

‘I’d need him to find something—rather, someone. Urgently.’

Will smirked dismissively. ‘I cannot think of who you would mean. You have the wrong place.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I have been making a lot of enquiries, both here and in England and I’m certain I am in the right place, talking to the right person. You are Sir William Geraint,’ the man said as his lips curled into a sneer.

Will tightened his grip on his dagger and spoke in a low voice. ‘If I were you, stranger, I’d leave and go back the way you came. That is, if you want to hang on to your life.’

‘Peace, Sir William, peace.’ The man held out his hands, palms facing outwards, and swallowed. ‘You have not been at court and so have not been privy to the whispers and rumours about how you, along with the knight you squired for, Sir Percival of Halsted, saved a young girl’s life more than ten years ago.’

‘What of it? It was our duty and not of any consequence.’

Except for the lasting memories of the young girl, of course...

Will had often thought of the frightened little girl with unusual eyes whom he had once helped rescue when he was still a young lad himself. He had wondered from time to time since that fateful day what had happened to the girl. He remembered her looking so desolate, so hopelessly alone and so reluctant to stay in that cold, foreboding place. He’d felt sorry for her and hoped the intervening years had treated her kindly.

Although the incident had been harrowing, Will had been commended and rewarded by Sir Percy for his perceptive quick thinking in the situation. It had led to a time when life seemed like an endless adventure, full of possibilities.

Not like the shadowy, dark world he inhabited now.

Will dragged the leather cord out from under his tunic and absently wrapped his fingers around the silver and ruby pendant that dangled from his neck. A pendant the little girl had gifted him and which he had always worn since.

The other man’s eyes narrowed and he murmured something under his breath, no doubt recognising the jewel. Damn, that was short-sighted of Will, but he could hardly hide it now.

The man pressed his lips into a thin line before speaking again. ‘Neither of you ever knew the girl’s identity—not that I’m surprised. Her family were out of favour with King John and never came to court. With Sir Percival having only just returned from the Holy Land, my mistress has only now learnt of this girl’s existence, when she had been presumed dead all this time.’

‘And who are you and who is your mistress?’

‘Eustace Rolleston at your service, Sir William.’ He inclined his head. ‘And my mistress is Lady Adela de Clancey.’

‘So, Eustace Rolleston, let me comprehend this. You want to commission me to find a girl, who is, if she is still alive, a fully-grown woman?’ He smirked, shaking his head. ‘Apologies, but you have the wrong man for this.’

‘Oh, I have the right man. Sir Percy confirmed it as much but his memory is hazy now and he cannot remember anything about the incident other than your gallant rescue of the girl somewhere outside of La Rochelle.’

The fact that the old knight Will had once served had told this man the barest of information about the incident, however hazy his memory, sent darts of warning through him. Sir Percy was sending him a message of caution regarding the man sat opposite him.

Will narrowed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t believe you understand, stranger. I am hired for many reasons, but finding lost people is outside my remit, especially when I have no idea where they may be.’ He leaned forward. ‘And no amount of silver would tempt me to stray from that.’

That was not strictly true, but Will wanted to ascertain how far he could bargain, how large that chest of silver was...and how desperate this man’s cause.

‘I thought you might need a little convincing,’ Rolleston scoffed. ‘I carry with me a sealed document from the Lord Protector himself as well as a letter from Lady de Clancey regarding the particulars of this commission. As for the silver, I’m sure we can negotiate a sum that would satisfy even you. Besides... I know you can find her.’

Will ignored his last comment. This was not a situation he wanted to embroil himself in. ‘As I said to you, this is not the sort of work that I accept.’

Rolleston raised his brow. ‘Find the girl, bring her back and get a full pardon for what happened at Portchester, your honour restored. The silver you’ll be paid could help re-establish you and your family. Your sisters, your widowed mother. Even your young apprenticed brother. Find the girl and get your life back.’

A muscle leapt into Will’s jaw. God, but the man was insidious! He had certainly investigated Will’s past. Yet, interestingly, Rolleston had not been informed by William Marshal, the Lord Protector, that his honour had been restored, his pardon had been given. It had been at Will’s behest that it was not acknowledged publicly, of course—a mutual agreement that had suited them both—yet this man who claimed to be here in the name of the Lord Protector’s didn’t know. He had not been taken into Marshal’s confidence.

Another note of caution...

‘You want me to find a lost girl—a woman who could be married with children at her feet for all you know.’ He sipped ale from his cup. ‘Presumably you’d have me drag her away to hand her to you?’

There were endless other possibilities of what had happened to the girl and none of them were good.

‘Yes, Sir William. We are prepared to deal with any possible situations, if the lost girl is whom we believe her to be.’

‘And who is that, Rolleston?’

He watched Will for a moment before he answered. ‘The heiress of Castle de Clancey and its environs. Her father and her brothers have passed, God rest their souls.’ The man made a sign of the cross. ‘So, it’s imperative that the girl is found and brought home to her mother. If the girl is whom we believe her to be, then she will rightfully take her place beside Lady de Clancey. And at this difficult time, Lady de Clancey is greatly helped and supported by Geoffrey Fitzwalter—her cousin by marriage.’

Will waited a moment, tapping a tattoo with his fingers on the wooden table, watching the other man. ‘You didn’t answer me, Rolleston. Who is the girl?’

‘Didn’t I say...? She’s the lost heiress—Lady Isabel de Clancey.’ Rolleston nodded at the pendant dangling around Will’s neck. ‘And that is an important family heirloom. She probably meant for you to take it back to them and it’s high time you did, Sir William.’

Chapter Two

Sometimes, just sometimes, Isabel could happily throttle Heloise! It was one the biggest and most important feast days of the church year with much to do in the village of St Jean de Cole and yet her sister had spent the whole day preening herself for the evening festivities instead. Leaving everything, as always, for Isabel to do. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as she settled the big basket of her mother’s warm bread rolls and sweet honeyed breads on the ground and took a deep breath.

Isabel absently crossed herself and pushed such thoughts out of her head. They were inappropriate, especially on a holy day, but really...sometimes Heloise’s behaviour was intolerable.

The truth was that there was still so much to do and she could do with another pair of hands to help, but it was useless to think that they could belong to her sister.

Ever since they had been little girls and plucked from a local convent by her new family, the Meuniers, their roles had been clearly defined. Isabel was the one who was sensible, assiduous and conscientious, whereas Heloise was...well, she had been a beautiful little girl then and was an acclaimed local beauty now. She was indulged and indolent, but exceptionally beautiful with it.

The girls had been adopted into the family to help Madame Meunier, as her eyesight had been getting progressively worse and she needed help with tasks around the mill. They had only the need for one girl, but Heloise had kicked up such a fuss that the couple had acquiesced and taken Isabel as well, which she was thankful for.

She loved her life at St Jean de Cole. Every little thing about it.

Except this. Except today.

Isabel strolled across the small humpback bridge over the River Cole that separated the mill from the main part of the pretty village tucked away in the north of Aquitaine, exchanging greetings with a few of the villagers she passed.

‘Good afternoon, Blanche, how do you fare?’

‘Much better. Your salve was wonderful, very soothing.’ She leaned forward. ‘And it worked. My skin no longer feels itchy!’

‘I’m so glad. That would be the calendula, chamomile and mint to help soothe the skin.’ Isabel noticed the woman’s awkwardness. ‘But, of course, we did say prayers as well, so I’m sure that helped, too.’ This was added quickly, with an understanding of the piety and superstition that most people held on to.

‘Well, be sure to pass on my thanks to Sibylla, my dear.’

‘I shall and I hope to see you at the feast later.’

Sibylla, the local wise woman who was instructing Isabel on the healing properties of plants and herbs, would be thrilled to know that her protégée’s salve had worked. Apart from the back-breaking work Isabel did at the mill, mixing salves and ointments was what she truly loved.

And to heal people.

Isabel wondered, as she sometimes did, what her life would have been had she arrived safely on that fateful journey she took when she was just a little girl. But her new life in St Jean de Cole was nothing short of an unexpected blessing.

Her life was simple and uncomplicated compared to what it could have been. And