His chest was a wall at her back—hard as tower stone and hot through the wet. Lili bucked against it, elbows driving, but his forearm only slid lower across her chest, over her ribs, then around her belly. Panic punched up through her throat. She kicked, feet skating in the shallows; the torch hissed; the dog barked—delighted, terrible.
"Peace, girl—hold still!" the man snapped over the roar of her breath. "Cease thy flailing—thou'lt drown us both."
She didn't stop. She shoved at his arm—not there, not there—and he cinched higher, trying to lift rather than squeeze. For a heartbeat she was off the ground, dangling in his grip, slick cloak draining river from its hem. She twisted and bit at air, fists beating uselessly at mail and wool.
"Foolish lass," he grated, harsh with urgency, "hold—still."
He backed them out of the water, step by heavy step, dragging her up the muddy bank. Pebbles bruised her calves. Reeds bent and sighed. When the ground leveled, he turned and—still keeping one arm hooked under her—sank to a crouch with her caged against him.
"Softly, now," he said, voice lower. "Softly. No hurt meant. Art thou calmed?"
She gulped air, still rigid, and heard nothing but heart and river. The dog circled, huffing steam, tail flagging. The man's arm did not tighten. His other hand—torch high—stayed away from her. Nothing else came. No blow. No rough shaking. Only a hard, steady hold and the rasp of his breath near her ear.
Her strength guttered. Struggling had nowhere to go. She stilled by inches, eyes fixed on the dark between reeds.
"Good," he said, feeling it. "Good." He loosened an inch. "Art thou good now?"
She cut him a sideways look—wet hair stuck to her cheek, jaw set—and said nothing.
"I'll take that for an aye," he muttered, and eased her onto her feet.
Her knees failed. She dropped to them, palms on the cold grit. For a moment her stomach heaved and the world pitched. He lowered the torch and blew out a long breath that trembled at the end.
"By the Rood, girl," he said—half a laugh, half a scold—"thou hadst near made a ghost of thyself. If I had not catched thee, and thou'd gone two more strides—dost know that current? It would ha' rolled thee under like a rug and borne thee to sea. I have seen a grown man—broad as a cart door and bragging of his stroke—tumble end over end in that very run. Near was he lost till a fisher hooked him with a boathook and hauled him out blue as a mackerel. D'ye hear me? No more of that. Never there."
She stared at the water, chest sawing; then, slowly, she nodded.
He scratched his beard with the knuckles that were not holding the torch, exasperation melting into relief. "Use the bridge, fool girl," he said, but the sting was worry, not contempt. "That's what it's for."
The words, so sharp, should have cut. Instead they slid past and left only surprise. Worried. The Albion man was…worried for her.
He shifted, then went down on one knee and turned his back to her. "Come, then," he said, practical as a carpenter. "Hop on. I'll see thee safe across, and we shall ask no more daftness of the night." He glanced over his shoulder, softer: "If thou need'st aught—ask. That's our charge—protect and serve this place and them in it."
The dog—Fenton—sat, tongue lolling, as if seconding the offer.
Lili's gaze flicked to the beast and back. Its bright eyes felt like coins again, but not hot—hopeful. A shiver ran through her; the river had salted her bones with cold. When she did not move, the man added, gentler still, "Come. I'll not harm thee."
She climbed, awkward with cloak and dress, and yelped when he stood—her arms hastily hooking his shoulders, her legs clamping his hips. He steadied her with a forearm over her shins, torch carried high in his free hand.
"There," he said, and chuckled, light as if to soothe a skittish foal. "See? Thou canst trust me. I'll do thee no ill, girl. Easy now. All shall be well. I promise."
She could not help it; she nodded against his shoulder. "…Okay," she breathed.
"I am Eamon," he offered as they started toward the bridge, boots finding the path by old memory. "And this stout fellow is Fenton. Pay him no mind—good sheepdog, this one. Wouldn't nip a lamb. Keeps the ewes from taking to the marsh or doing summat foolish—like thou wert set to do." His smile touched his voice. "He's keen as a knife for sniffing strangers and beasts, right use-ful."
Fenton trotted at heel, glancing up at her with a pleased little chuff. She glanced back, unsure what such creatures wanted, and found herself—absurdly—almost charmed.
"What's thy name then, lass—if thou'lt give it?" Eamon asked after a dozen quiet steps.
Silence hung. To give it felt like handing him a string to pull. To lie—like spitting in a hand that had not struck her. Trapped between, she chose the narrowest path.
"Lili," she said, small as a bead.
"A fair name," he said at once, as if to make the ground steadier under it. The torchlight read her face and he added, candid and kind, "And fair eyes, too. Now, don't tell our Duke I said't—him and his proud dark blues—but I'll wager thine are the rarer. Violet, like no sea I've seen. No need to hide that. Be thyself, girl. Be proud."
Heat rose to her cheeks, half from cold, half from shock at praise that asked for nothing. "Thank you," she said, barely sound.
They walked. His stride was easy under her, sure as a cart track; the torch's circle swung and returned, swung and returned. He talked to fill the dark—nonsense of marshland he swore should be drained to good wheat; of a cow that learned to open a gate with its tongue; of a piper in town who could charm coins from a stone. The string of his voice looped out and back, never tugging, never nosing at her secrets.
And yet, at the far end of the lane, the bridge waited with two more spears pacing its crown. Lili watched their lanterns wheel and thought of names, of eyes, of a lion banner cracking in sea wind. Perhaps they would see a prisoner where Eamon carried only a girl.
There was nothing to do but ride and let fate sort the next breath from the last.
Fenton sneezed contentment and brushed her ankle with his warm head. She did not pull away.
Soon enough they stepped out of the bushes and back onto the cobblestone road. Torchlight swung in the dark like little suns, painting wet stone and the rim of the bridge in wavering gold. The sentries turned—spears lifting on instinct, then easing when they saw Eamon with a girl on his back and Fenton trotting proud at heel.
"Well then!" called the taller, a grin already forming. "What prize is this, Eamon? Hast thou gone a-courting in the marsh?"
The shorter snorted. "A fair catch at midnight, eh? Leave some for the rest of us, old bull."
Eamon huffed, amused despite himself. "Peace, ye colts. This is Lili. She speaks little, and she's fierce as a hooked pike—near leapt the river in pitch dark. A wonder, mad as it is."
Heat climbed Lili's cheeks. She did not catch every word, but enough to know he teased her for the attempted swim. When Eamon bent, she slid down, landing soft on bare feet that flinched at the cold cobbles. Behind her the road breathed salt and tar and iron—the way back to the castle, to the door that locked. Ahead, the bridge breathed something else: a way out. She folded her hands at her middle beneath her heavy breasts, kept her eyes low, and tried to be small.
"Oh ho," said the tall one, lowering his spear and leaning on it. "Fierce, then. Name's Rob." He tapped his chest—young, broad-shouldered, eager. "An' this beanpole's Hugh. If thou need'st owt—ask. We ain't ghouls."
The young man named Hugh pushed his helm back to show kind eyes and wind-reddened ears. "Aye. We'll help, lass. You've but to say."
Rob—unable not to boast—added, "We've even faced lycans a time or two—were-wolves, you know? Bigger than men, teeth like a saw. We drove 'em off with nary a scratch." He flexed his fingers as if the memory still itched there. "So—wolves, leeches, marsh sprites—point 'em out. We'll shoo the lot."
Lili looked up, met the kindness, and blinked in slight wonder. She did not know the word lycan and did not wish to; if they were taller than these men, she wanted none of them. Already the armor, the height, the easy strength of the three pressed upon her—each one big enough to lift her like a bundle. They could have done as they pleased. They did not. Their eyes took in the veil, the bare feet, the strange vowels, the hour; curiosity, not cruelty, sat in their faces. Eamon drifted closer to her without seeming to, a sure, blue wall at her side. Gratitude rose hot in her throat.
"Th-thank you," she managed in careful, halting English. "No… I'm fine. Just using the bridge. Get to… other side."
"Right you are—use the bridge and not the waters," Eamon said gently, and set a warm hand upon her slender shoulder to steady her. At the touch she breathed, and the shiver in her spine eased.
Fenton came to her then, tail sweeping the cold air. He sniffed her hand, her skirts—and then, curious and curiously respectful, nosed toward her belly with a small, questioning whuff.
Lili went still. The torchlight made their shadows long; the river whispered under the arches. Rob and Hugh, by old habit, planted their spears and slid half a step forward, shoulder to shoulder at the bridge-mouth—not barring her, only holding the world gentle while she found breath. Lili's heart hammered; Eamon's hand gave a small, steady squeeze. "It's all right," he murmured.
She laid a tentative palm on Fenton's head as if testing whether such a creature might bite, her other hand drifting—without thought—to cover her stomach. "Good… dog," she whispered, unsure what one said to beasts with wise eyes.
The softness of his fur startled her. Her mouth found a small, shy smile; some part of her—frightened, hunted—loosened. The men saw it, and in the wavering light her face showed clear: a beauty too clean for the road, too proud for a scullery, with no mark of meanness upon it. Eamon opened his mouth to jest—Are you from the castle then?—and shut it again.
Fenton, delighted, leaned into her palm and pressed his brow to her middle like a hound greeting a long-lost second master. The only sound for a beat was the soft thump of his tail on stone and a breath of girlish laughter as he licked her fingers and—bold once—aimed for her cheek before thinking better of it.
Eamon's gaze dropped to the hand at her belly, then rose to her face. She was young—old enough for a child, yes—but what was she doing out here alone? Concern moved him before thought did. He shifted closer and dropped to one knee at her side so his eyes met hers.
Rob and Hugh read the moment at once. By old habit they slid a half-step forward, shoulder to shoulder at the bridge-mouth, spears planted—not to bar her, only to hold the world gentle while she found breath.
Lili, seeing Eamon now at eye level and the other two edging close, stilled her hand on Fenton's head and looked from face to face in wonder. Why were they studying her so?
"Art thou with child?" Eamon asked, softer than a torch's breath.
The question struck like a thrown stone. Caught. Lili's eyes snapped to his. For a heartbeat her fear showed nakedly—fear of being recognized, turned about, and carried back to the smiling Duke who locked doors and called it love. Heat rose unbidden to her cheeks at the thought of him; she swallowed hard and lowered her gaze.
"Aye," Eamon said quickly—honest, careful—understanding at once that the matter was wrapped in secrecy. "No need to name a father if it tangles thy life. Only—do not carry it alone. If kin won't have thy truth, seek neighbors. Here in Albion we hold our folk as one house: we build a thing that lasts by standing together."
"Aye," Rob added—the bravado gone, earnest now. "We mean it. Thy feet are bare, lass. If thou need'st boots, blanket, bread—thou ask. I'll fetch 'em." He tried a crooked grin. "And if thou must cross by night, take Hugh. He scares even the marsh geese."
Hugh snorted. "Geese fear naught under God." Then, gentler: "Any hour. Knock the gate. Say Hugh sent thee."
Kindness landed like a steady hand between Lili's shoulders—strange, warming, almost painful. She bowed her head. "Thank… you. I… am… alright." The few words she owned were small tools; she used them carefully. She dared not tell them what the blue lion on their tabards would require if they knew her name.
Eamon felt the tremor in her. He knew, too, that when a woman said she was fine, oft she was not. On instinct—and keeping it as light as a promise—he set the torch aside in the crook of his arm and drew her into a brief, steadying embrace. "It's all right, lass," he murmured. "Thou canst trust us. We'll find thee food and shelter if thou need'st. No one should walk this world alone. I've daughters of mine own; I ken it isn't easy."
Surprise lifted Lili's face, but she did not push him away. A father's warmth—it had been so long. Her hood slipped; a pale spill of hair showed in the torchlight. None of the men spoke of it. A single tear slid; she brushed it and found her voice again. "Th… thank you. Truly. But… I am alright."
Reluctantly, he let her go. "As thou wilt," he said. "If thou must go, then go. But know we are here, shouldst thou call."
Touched, Lili leaned and kissed Eamon's cheek—a swift, grateful brush that startled him into a blink. Color rose in her face. She turned and bowed once to Rob and Hugh as well. Fenton's ears pricked; Lili patted his head. Then she made to pass between the younger men toward the dark road beyond the bridge.
A hand lifted—not to stop, but to offer. Rob knelt, tugged loose the pouch at his belt, and held it up. "Here. Rations for the road."
Lili stared, startled, then took it with both hands and bowed anew.
Hugh had already gone to one knee. He drew a small sheathed fish-knife from his side and offered it, hilt first. "And this. Can't let thee walk without a sting at thy belt, this hour."
She accepted, astonishment plain on her face, and—seeing the youth and goodness in Hugh—pecked his cheek as well. Rob, grinning and not to be outdone, tilted his head; she laughed despite herself and obliged him with a quick kiss. The two flashed broad, foolish smiles that showed more heart than polish.
Lili tucked the little knife beneath her cloak and slung the pouch's thong across her shoulder, settling its weight against her hip. Then she stepped past.
Fenton rose, pressed to her leg, and looked up as if asking leave to escort.
"No, dog," she whispered, voice a thread. "I'm sorry. I must go… alone."
"Stay till dawn," Hugh urged behind her. "There's ale at the watch-fire. And good company afore the dark road."
"And meat pies," Rob added hopefully. "Well—half a pie. A quarter. But I'll split mine fair."
Lili's mouth tugged—almost a smile. "Kind. But… no. I go."
Eamon searched her face one last time. Whatever he read there—fear of being known, of being turned about and walked back to a door that locked—made his jaw work once. He lifted the torch so its circle walked before her as far as it could. "As thou wilt," he said, and raised his voice a little. "God keep thee on the road."
Fenton paced at her heel for the first steps, then checked and looked back.
"Stay, lad," Eamon murmured, half-amused at how swiftly the dog had chosen a new heart to follow.
At the far end of the bridge the dog sat, tail slow-waving, and watched her go. Behind Lili, the cobbles ran back toward the port and the blue roofs and the lion's hall; ahead lay a darker road of ruts and woods. The torches at her back painted her shadow long among the first trees.
"Come by the gate if thou need'st owt!" Rob called, hands cupped. Hugh added, "Mind the marsh path!" Eamon said nothing—only raised the torch in a small benediction, as a priest might bless a traveler he could not keep.
Lili lifted her fingers in a shy wave. They waved back; Fenton barked once, low and hopeful. She turned away before they could see the tears brighten her strange eyes. Their hospitality ached. If they knew who she was, these same kind men would be bound to carry her straight to the lion's hall. Duty oft wins over the heart.
Yet the ache held wonder, too. Perhaps Albion was not a land of brutes—only people with other banners and other bread.
She set a palm to her belly, nodded to the small warmth within, and went on: bare feet quick over the dirt road, pouch snug, knife secure, into the thick of the mainland trees where the night took the path and did not give it back. Behind her, three men in blue stood in their pool of light—worried, unwilling to press her—and hoped, in their simple way, that Providence would walk beside her where they could not.