A Knight's Vow (25 page)

Alone on the roof, Alyson listened to the nuns singing in
the chapel below and after a while picked up her quill again.
She hummed as she wrote, happy at the task. It was a sweet,
secret pleasure to confess her thoughts.

To myself, Alyson of Olverton and Hardspen,

Today by the grace of God I am stronger. My shoulder gives me less pain, although it itches greatly. I would scratch myself like an old boar against a young oak tree!
I dare not tell Guillelm of this, though every day when
he comes he asks how I am faring.

I wonder if I may see Tilda? It is strange to think of her
as Sister Ursula. Sometimes I wonder if I recognize her
high, shrill voice issuing from the chapel, where the nuns
seem to spend most of their time and sing the holy offices.
I wish she would visit me. Perhaps I should ask Guillelm
if I might go down to the chapel and see her instead.

I wonder when Guillelm will come? I pray it be soon!
This paradise he has made me is so lovely. He says that in
the gardens of Outremer there is running water, and many
small fountains. That the air is full of spices and the very
trees have fragrant leaves. Two days ago, he carried a
great cauldron up to this garden and filled it with water
and sprays of lime, so that I might have my own scented
shade. I laughed when he used a ladle to water the tubs of
lavender and marigolds, and he flicked water at me. Yesterday he brought the merlin up to this place and flew
her from the battlements. He tells me that Sericus has
taken over her daily care and that he seems to have an
aptitude for the art of the falconer. I spoke to Sericus
again about the wolf that is terrorizing the country and he
told me that there have been no more sightings. Perhaps
it has died, or perhaps the villagers and cottars have been
able to scare it off. I am glad of this, for the threat of the
wolf has been preying on my mind.

My lord sleeps in the great hall with his men. Every
day, it is a grief to me. I would ask that we both sleep
here, in our private Eden, with the stars as our roof, but
I lack courage, or perhaps it is strength. Often I am so
tired by sunset that I do not even know that Guillelm has
carried me down to the great bedchamber until I find
myself waking indoors the following morning.

But enough of sadness. It is the duty of a wife to
accept the wishes and actions of her husband. In many
ways, my lord dragon is attentive and winning. He
courts me in many ways. I know that I repeat myself,
that writing this again is perhaps a waste of precious
parchment, but the memories are also precious to me.

I wonder what he might bring to me today? On the first
day he carried me to this paradise, he bathed my hands and
face with rosewater. He said the ladies of Outremer used
rosewater to add bloom to their complexions. I wanted to
ask him then about Heloise but was too cowardly. He said
I smelt sweeter than the rosewater, and he kissed me. I
teased him by asking if I should wash him first before I
kissed him and he lightly tugged my hair, then drew back
as if I was as lethal as wolfsbane. I thought I had lost him
again to his strange dread of women, that he would leave
me stranded on the roof of Hardspen for the rest of the day.
But he did not! My lord did not. Instead, he showed me a
wonder of Arabic learning, an astrolabe. Stargazers use
them to track the motions of the heavens. He also showed
me new ways of counting, far easier than tallies. He
learned the numbers from an Arabic farrier in Nazareth, a
man called Unur. The Arabs count in batches of ten and
have a wonderful empty number, called zero. It is a perfect
round circle. I drew one with my quill on Guillelm’s palm,
and he drew one on mine. I did not wash my hand for the
rest of that day.

Alyson stopped writing and rubbed her aching shoulder,
then her wrist. After a drink of her tisane she resumed her letter.

My lord has played me songs from France and the
Holy Land, on a small harp that looked like a child’s toy in his huge hands. He plays well and sings clearly,
though he says his voice is too deep to be truly excellent.

My lord has promised to teach me some dances from
Outremer, when I am allowed to rise from my sickbed.
Yesterday we played chess. He told me that he and
Unur of Nazareth often played chess together. The piece
we call a queen, Unur called a vizier. I won our game
and Guillelm has asked me for a rematch.

Once, when my stomach rumbled with hunger and he
heard, Guillelm laughed and sent down to the kitchen
for meat. He cooked a dish himself, on a brazier of
coals. Pieces of lamb threaded onto a thin stick, flavored
with mint and onions. He said such cooked meat could
be bought from street cooks in any large town in the
Holy Land. It was delicious.

I think Guillelm is planning something, though he will
not answer my questions when I ask after the heralds and
messengers that I see pounding out on horseback from
Hardspen throughout the day. I would ask Sir Tom, but
he only wants to play chess with me. As for Fulk

Alyson brushed the end of her quill thoughtfully against her
forehead. By one single, violent act, Fulk had regained Guillelm’s approval and he now strolled about Hardspen with the
mercenary’s crossbow as if it were a personal badge of honor.
He was careful to visit her every day, always at the beginning
of Guillelm’s own time with her and always asking after her
injury. He brought her a gift: a flute she had not quite enough
breath to play.

Fulk had also found her herbal, which Lord Robert had
taken from her.

“Mother of God, I have been scouring the store rooms for
days for this!” Guillelm said, highly gratified and taking the leatherbound volume from Fulk with a grin of pure delight.
“Where was it?”

“In a grain bin in the stables, my lord,” Fulk answered quietly, bowing to Alyson as a faithful retainer to his lady. “I am
glad to be of service.”

That had been two days ago and since then, the leatherbound book lay untouched on the low table. To Guillelm,
Fulk was a changed man, his gift and attentions to Alyson
proof of that change. “He is capable of great loyalty, once he
chooses to give it,” he said, adding quickly, “If he is involved
in some malice or deceit, I shall discover it. Fulk was ever a
poor liar.”

Alyson sensed that Guillelm was not as confident as he
wanted to appear over his seneschal, but mindful of his and
Fulk’s long years together in Outremer, she did not voice her
suspicions. True, Fulk had found the herbal, but how long
ago? The pages did not carry the scents of the stable. She considered it much more likely that Fulk had discovered her book
somewhere within the castle and had hidden it within his own
personal things, waiting for the perfect opportunity to produce it, the very moment when Guillelm would be most likely
to be pleased.

Perhaps I am too wary of Fulk. He is in my lord’s
favor not as high as Fulk himself might wish, but Guillelm is no longer sharp with him. Fulk makes himself
busy with whatever plan Guillelm is hatching and is
amiable with me. I only wish that it was not Fulk who
had found my book. I wish his sly, creeping fingers had
never touched it. I wish Guillelm had not told him about
my lost book.

No, I am being unfair, Alyson thought, and deliberately
scored through the last sentence. Above the scratch of the quill, she heard voices. Swiftly, hoping the ink would not
smudge, she rolled up the parchment and placed it under her
pillow, preparing to greet her maids.

Gytha and Osmoda helped her out of bed and down the
stairs to the bathhouse. “Your lord wanted to bathe you himself,” Gytha was saying, “but I told him no ””

“Gytha, you had no right.”

Her nurse clicked her tongue. “You would have him see
you with a pus-filled shoulder?”

“It is not pus-filled!” Alyson panted. She was rapidly
growing weary with even this brief outing and her legs trembled and ached. Supporting her under her right elbow, Gytha
shook her head.

“Believe me, my lady, a little mystery is just what you
need,” she said. “Think of the ladies of Outremer, with their
veiled faces. Think of the womenfolk of the infidel, hidden
behind the latticed shutters of their harems, courted by pining
musicians and poets who fall in love with their very shadows ”” Gytha had also listened to Guillelm’s tales.

Alyson was too breathless to answer.

Later, in the bath, she asked, “Has my lord seen me?”

Osmoda, more simple than Gytha, said, “What do you
mean?” but Gytha understood. “He has seen and he knows
all, my lady,” she answered firmly. “I told him.”

“Gytha!”

“It needed to be said,” her nurse responded, folding her
arms across her broad bosom and tapping her foot. “He saw
the marks! Would you have Guillelm think it was your father
who had treated you so?”

Alyson cowered in the tub. “Does he think me ugly?” she
whispered, dreading the answer.

“No,” said Osmoda, too quickly.

“We should wash your hair. There is still blood on it,” said
Gytha.

“Gytha?”

Her nurse lifted a kitchen ladle and gestured for Alyson to
bow her head. Alyson sighed as the warm water streamed
over her hair and bounced on her shoulder. The water made
the wound itch less and for that she was glad, but not for
Gytha’s stubborn silence. “Gytha, please.”

“I swore to my lord that I would not tell you, but if you
knew what he was doing for you, you would put such foolish
ideas out of your mind.” Gytha poured another ladleful of
water over Alyson’s back. “Wait and see, my lady,” she said,
relenting a little. “Have faith.”

Word had gone out: Lord Guillelm de La Rochelle was hosting jousts at Hardspen. The peddlers arrived before the
knights-such travelers always seemed to catch the news
first-and when they had pitched their tents and stalls within
the bailey and laid out their wares, Guillelm sought out Alyson
on her roof garden.

He found her clipping the lavender and frowned. She clicked
her fingers at him. “I am strong enough to do this, my lord. You
need not scowl.”

Guillelm snorted and threaded his thumbs through his belt,
wanting to kiss her and more. She was not quite her nimble self
and her face still had a pale, gaunt cast, but she was healing.

He took the pouch from his belt and swung it before her puzzled eyes. “You need to keep your strength so that you can carry
this,” he said, dropping the pouch into her free hand.

“This is heavy, dragon”

“As is any bag of gold. Are you going to put that knife down
and come with me?”

Her eyes sparkled. “To where? Why do I need a bag of gold?”

He grinned. “To visit the traders” Guillelm rippled his fingers at her. “Shall we go shopping, sweetheart?”

She smiled, tilting her head to one side in that endearing
way that always made his stomach flutter and his heart race.
“Will one bag of gold be sufficient?” she teased.

“It had better be, wench”

Walking steadily so as not to overtire her, Guillelm wandered about the bailey with Alyson. The traders had indeed
come, and more of them than he had hoped: lithe, brightly
clad folk with marvelous goods and news. Barter for local
wool, leather and beer for flint, cooking pots and salt was in
full swing. Children darted amongst the crowds of cottars and
villagers, hawking beads and linen ribbons.

Arm in arm, like any other young couple, Guillelm and
Alyson strolled about. Clutching the bag of gold made her
fingers ache after a while and so Guillelm took it back, joking
that now he had the purse strings again. Alyson meanwhile
took a lively interest in everything, pausing to admire the
goods spread over the grass. She stood for a time watching
the sun on new cups and basins-so long that Guillelm was
taken from her side by some matter of land rights.

Alyson walked on, shaking her head at a woman who offered her armloads of furs. She passed Sericus, head down in
the thick of haggling for pepper, then quickened her step,
drawn by a mass of people round one trader.

Even at the rear of the crowd she could see over most heads
if she stood on tiptoe. The trader, recognizing the small, dark
beauty as the lady of the castle, pointed with a slim hand.
“Lady, if you will, I shall show you gems worthy of your
breeding. For you, there is nothing more fitting than garnets”
He spread a necklace like a magic mist over his fingers and
showed a brooch in the palm of his hand.

Alyson moved in slowly through the crowd. Though she had
longed to find a bookstall where perhaps she would discover a manuscript that would please her sister-Guillelm would have
this brooch; the dark fire of the gemstones matched his eyes.

The necklace of red stones was given to her to touch, the
trader holding a pair of looped earrings beside her hair. Too late,
as he placed the jewelry on her open palm, Alyson jerked back
her hand. The garnets dropped on the ground between them.

“Forgive me, I cannot take them,” she said, dry mouthed.
She was too ashamed to admit that although she was lady of
Hardspen, she had no means to reward the trader.

Alyson swung round and moved back into the crowd,
almost trampling Edwin the shepherd in her haste. She begged
his pardon and would have gone, but the man called her back.

“I owe you for helping me,” he said, dark eyes sharp, and
with no further words to her, Edwin began bargaining. He got
both brooch and necklace for a lamb, shrugging off Alyson’s
thanks. “Give them to the lady,” he told the trader and turned
his back on the affair.

Warily, the trader dropped the pieces into her hands. The
crowd applauded, and Alyson felt a change amongst those
watching. She looked up into Guillelm’s face and smiled, and
he held out his hand to her.

“I have something to show you that will match those jewels,”
he said. “In that large tent close to where the juggler is performing.” His eyes crinkled in private amusement. “Come”