A Knight's Vow (16 page)

Alyson waited and after a pause, during which the unearthly shriek of a nightjar filtered through the only window
in the chapel-a simple three-lancet affair but with rare colored glass he picked up his tale.

“There is a story attached to this jewel. It is said that if the
lady of the castle does not wear it on her wedding day, the
marriage will be barren.”

“Guillelm told you this?”

“On the first night we returned to Hardspen, my lady.” Fulk
inclined his gray head, his fierce blue eyes narrowed into slits as he considered the diadem. “He looked for it himself after
he had made his suit to you, and when he did not find it he
sought to laugh off the story, saying it was naught but superstition. But I could tell he was disquieted.” Fulk flung her a
cool, assessing glance. “When Guillelm was in his cups, the
night before we rode to St. Foy’s-“

“The evening of our betrothal,” Alyson dropped in coolly.

“-he spoke of it a second time. He said it was an evil loss.
I do not think he would have spoken so had he not been made
unguarded with drink, but it is certain that it has preyed upon
his mind, do you not agree?”

“Perhaps. Is there more to the legend?” Alyson thought it
sounded bald and a thread of suspicion wound about her
mind. She was little reassured when Fulk shrugged.

“Something of two crossed lovers-a womanish fancy. I
forget”

Reluctantly, Alyson put her empty goblet on the stone flags
and held out her hands. “May I?”

Fulk gave her the diadem and stood back a pace with legs
apart and arms folded-a curious stance for a pious man in
a holy place. She would certainly not take just Fulk’s word on
this. She would ask Gytha to question the old servants of
Hardspen, see if this “legend” was more than a product of
Fulk’s devious head. Yet if that were so, for what purpose?

The diadem could not be poisoned; he had handled it too
freely. It was a plain, heavy device in gold, very much like her
betrothal ring. The gold was as yellow as the yolk of an egg.
There were no markings on it yet she guessed that Fulk was
correct. It seemed old, an heirloom.

“Thank you, Fulk,” she said.

He bowed, recovered the goblet and took his leave without
asking if she would wear it on the morrow. Alyson waited
until she was certain he was gone on the dim stairway, then
slipped out of the chapel to find Gytha.

Later that evening, in the modest chamber that after tonight
would no longer be hers, her nurse was reassuring. The
diadem was indeed a family heirloom, from the maternal line.
Guillelm’s mother had worn it at her wedding. It was claimed
by all the old retainers of the castle that any Hardspen bride
who wore it would have a supremely fortunate marriage and
bring forth many living sons.

Her lord dragon, with his great size and strength, surely
was the equivalent of many sons, Alyson thought, and she
smiled. “And the story of the lovers?” she asked.

Gytha patted the bed that she and Alyson were sharing for
the last time, encouraging her former charge to snuggle down
beneath the sheets to listen.

Somewhere in a story of a young Norman prince and a
Saxon lady, who had met on pilgrimage to Rome and then
been parted by fate, with the lady kidnapped by a wicked
uncle and the prince searching for her, undergoing travails
through marshes and being guided to his true love by miraculous speaking birds, Alyson fell asleep. She stirred once,
when Gytha reached the climax of her tale, saying that although the lady had been bewitched into the likeness of an
old hag by her uncle, the prince recognized her by the golden
diadem and kissed her, breaking the spell.

“So they were wed, my bird, and very merry. The lady wore
a gown of cloth of gold and a veil of gold and shoes of …”

Alyson slept again and heard no more.

For what felt to be the thousandth time, Guillelm stared at
his bride. Where had she found it? He had thought it well
hidden, but here she was in her best gown and her silk veil
and that. Someone must have gone looking for it. Was it in
innocence that she wore the diadem, or did she know? Had
she heard some whisper? Yet if she had heard and she knew
the full history of his mother’s jewel, how could she appear
before him, wearing it? Sporting it, even? How dare she?

It was always a favorite of his father’s, Guillelm remembered. Did she wear it for him, in memory of him? Did she
miss Lord Robert? Did she wish she was marrying the father
instead of the son?

Round and round, like a child’s spinning top, the thoughts
tormented Guillelm through his marriage vows. He watched
Alyson at their wedding feast, haunted by the fact that she ate
little and said less. Nerves or more?

Soon they would be together, once her maids had finished
preparing the main bedchamber. Guillelm had never used it,
preferring to sleep with his men in the great hall, below the
great long sword and round gold-embossed shield of his famous Viking ancestor, Thorkill of Orkney. To him, the main
bedchamber still felt like his father’s, rather than his.

Tom said something and Guillelm answered, thinking that
although his friend had made a special effort to attend their
marriage, his own sister had not, sending instead a modest
gift of bedding and the excuse, delivered by the shamefaced
messenger, that she could not come because of “women’s
troubles”-whatever those were. None of Juliana’s family had
attended, either, which saddened but did not surprise Guillelm. He and his elder sibling had never been close.

Down on one of the lower tables, Thierry made a ribald
comment and several knights grinned. Thierry and the others
would expect to witness the bedding of bride and groom, but
Guillelm had already spoken to Tom. He and Alyson would
climb the stairs to the bedchamber alone, and Tom would
guard their backs. Once, he might have asked Fulk to do the
same service, but he knew that Fulk and Alyson were still cool
with each other. Again, he was saddened but not surprised.

“That is a battle face for your wedding night! Do you think
your bride be so hard to conquer?” Thierry bawled, at which
Guillelm clenched his fist so hard that he bent the handle of
his eating dagger, brooding on Lord Robert, and Alyson’s
diadem, and the night to come.

The diadem hurt her head, it was so heavy. How had Guillelm’s mother been able to wear it? thought Alyson, wondering if she was somehow lacking. She longed to take it
off-that and her shoes, which were new and pinched her toes.

She stretched a smile at Thierry’s comment, tired of the expectant faces. It was her wedding day and all she wished to
do was find a quiet corner to sleep. The blazing joy she had
expected had come earlier, in snatches: when Guillelm said
his vows to her; when he placed the wedding band on her finger; when he kissed her, saying softly against her hair,
“You are mine now.”

You are mine now Flexing her aching toes inside her shiny
new shoes, she glanced at Guillelm beside her, close enough
for her to brush his leg under the table, if she was so bold, or
to feed him, but so far in other ways! She sensed a gulf between them, widening with each hour and the lengthening
shadows of evening. What Thierry called his battle face was
also his unreadable face, taut and blank as new parchment. He
would not look at her directly, but all through this long feast
she had felt his eyes on her. Such scrutiny was scarcely the
behavior of a loving groom.

You think too much, Alyson scolded herself, but dread
churned in her belly. She snatched at her cup and drank the
sweet wine, wondering if she should have more.

Guillelm had noticed. He leaned toward her, coming close
but careful that their shoulders did not touch. “I trust you
do not drink so readily in order to numb yourself for the rest
of tonight.”

Shock, hurt and indignation warred in Alyson. She had
never expected such a comment from him, would not have
thought him capable of such crassness. There was no teasing
in his eyes or voice, merely chill accusation. We are going
wrong again, she thought in despair, while she forced herself
to utter a sprightly, “Indeed not!” tapping his foot with hers
to make good her words.

He withdrew as if she was a monster, jerking back on his
chair and lurching to his feet.

“Dragon-” she whispered, but Guillelm was addressing
the company.

“My excellent lady and I will now say goodnight, my
friends. Enjoy the rest of the feast! You have earned it.”

It was a brief, terse speech, and as if he recognized this,
Guillelm began to applaud his own men and the servers. When they in turn began to clap their hands, he scooped her
straight off her chair into his arms and raced for the stairs.
There were good-natured shouts, snatching hands, highpitched laughter from the few women present, as it was realized where he was heading. Breathless from Guillelm’s speed
and the force of her abduction, Alyson heard a general clatter
and scrape of stools as some of the younger men left the
tables and tried to follow. She could see little, pressed tight
against Guillelm’s mantle, but Sir Tom was calling, “Easy
there! Let them go!” and she caught a glimpse of Tom’s
scarred, kind face, creased with concern, as she was carried
from the great hall. There were flashes of torchlight and
shadow, shouts, ever more distant, a dizzying twist from Guillelm as he turned from one stair onto a second, one she knew
led to Lord Robert’s former chamber.

Despite her best intentions, her courage began to falter. She
had known they would come here, so why was she not more
prepared? What had happened here between Guillelm’s father
and herself-that was the past. It had no place between her
and Guillelm.

She was able to suppress a shudder, but her teeth chattered.

“Here we are,” Guillelm said unnecessarily, setting his
shoulder to the door and pushing.

` Ah!” The exclamation was out before Alyson could stop it.

“You like it?”

“This is wondrous, dragon!”

“Mother of God, you are right. They have done well for me”

“Who?” Alyson recollected and understood. “Sericus and
your question about furniture! It was for here”

“Clever creature” He tickled her under the arms before
he let her down, play that delighted Alyson. With renewed
hope she started round the chamber, touching everything.

She ran her fingers over the great carved bed, pressed her
hands into the soft mattress, peeping at him swiftly through shy,
half-lowered eyes. She raised and lowered the lid of a chest,
blushing as she saw it contained his clothes. She kicked off her
shoes and walked onto the sheepskin rug. “That feels good,” she
said with a sigh.

He stared at her delicately arched feet because they were
pretty and because he did not want to look at the diadem
again. Her words “The flowers are beautiful” snapped his
head up, and for the first time he noticed the great sprays of
lavender, hyssop, marigold, poppy and sweet violet wound
about the canopy of the bed and draped on the window sill.
Their scent perfumed the whole room and that, more than
anything, finally put the malign influence of Lord Robert out
of his head. The chamber was exorcised; it would never be
his father’s again.

“I must give the maids some gift on the morrow,” he said
with a smile.

Alyson nodded. For her the room was superficially changed,
the dark aged dresser and sagging bed gone, the flags made
warm and human with rugs, but shadows remained. She was
glad of the flowers. She was glad, but also wary of Guillelm.
Wondering which of them would make the next move, and too
shy to approach the great bed, with its crisp linen sheets, she
knelt on the sheepskin to spare her aching feet. “Thank you,”
she said, bowing her head as a sign of respect.

“No!” the cry broke from Guillelm. “You never kneel to me!
I am not-“

He broke off, but Alyson knew what he was about to say. I
am not my father: