A Knight's Vow (27 page)

“At least there are no jugglers,” Petronilla remarked when
Alyson felt compelled to apologize.

“We could hold a court of love,” Alyson suggested, blushing deeply as she spoke. “My lord told me that in southern
France and also in Outremer, the ladies of the courts there encourage the young knights to speak of ideal love, to make
music and compose poetry in honor of their chosen beloved.”

“What else did he say?” Petronilla asked, sitting up and becoming more animated than she had been for the past hour.

“I forget,” Alyson answered. She would not admit to Petronilla that only yesterday evening, dozing in the great bedchamber after her bath, Guillelm had sent her a single white rose by
way of a smirking Gytha and the carefully written note: To my
brighteyed wife, whom I miss and who misses nothing.

“What do you think?” Alyson went on, rousing herself from
her pleasant reverie. “If I instruct the servants to move back the
trestles, arrange the benches around the fire space, I think your
maids would be interested,” Alyson added, seeing one of
Petronilla’s ladiesin-waiting valiantly trying to stifle a yawn.

“I am sure they would be ”” Petronilla drummed her fingers
sharply on the high table. “Yet I think we both know that only
one woman here is the ideal of beauty.”

“Yes, I am beginning to understand that,” said Alyson, wishing Guillelm was with her to catch eyes with, share the moment.

Or would he? As the long night continued, Alyson heard a
dozen or more chants she could not, even at her most charitable, call them songs-to high, cruel beauties, with golden
locks, green eyes, skin as white as ivory, bodies as tall and
shapely as that of the Roman goddess Venus, all dressed in
silver and white with bracelets and fillets of gold. Petronilla, in
a pale primrose-colored gown and white veil, took the young
knights’ fumbled “prayers” to their ideal lady as no more than
her due, turning her own gold bracelets on her wrists. Her
maids, trim and pretty in gowns of light green, whispered
behind their hands to each other and pointed at one slim young
warrior or another. Feeling both ignored and conspicuous with
her blood-red gown and black river of hair, Alyson sat small on
Guillelm’s great chair, only waiting for the “love court” to be
done as she watched the smiling Petronilla and wondered
afresh about the courted, desired and unattainable Heloise.

The next time Alyson saw Guillelm was the following morning at the first joust. Sir Tom came to escort her to the tilting
ground and was remarkably closemouthed about what was
planned.

“You will see soon enough, Alyson,” he said, tapping the side
of his mangled nose. “Guido says he wants it to be a surprise a pleasant surprise”

“Men trying to batter each other to the ground?”

Sir Tom gave an amused cough. “Aye, well, Guido did say
your views on tournaments were unusual. I suppose with your
being a healer…” He smiled at her and offered her his arm.
“I think this first event is more of a pageant, a kind of acted
story, as is seen with the mystery plays.” Through the mesh
of facial scars his eyes were wary yet bright. “It is your lord’s
own idea. Some of the ladies may be taking part, to bestow
favors and prizes.”

Petronilla would enjoy that attention, Alyson thought. She
turned back, looking the way she and Sir Tom had come.
They were walking steadily to an area on the downs enclosed
by a long series of ropes draped at regular intervals with Guillelm’s own standard and circled by onlookers and hawkers. On the most sheltered side of the down, out of the gusting
breeze, a stand had been erected, with benches and chairs.
Beneath the bright awning and canopy, she spotted Petronilla
and her ladies, seated with goblets of mead, beckoning first
to one hovering page and then another.

“The distribution of favors seems to be in full swing,”
Alyson remarked. “Have they been here long?”

“No, but my lord wished you to appear last; he wants to
bring you to the high seat himself, as a mark of honor.” Sir
Tom scratched at the long scar zigzagging through his black
beard. “I suppose you have a favor for him?”

“I have” A certain wistfulness to his question made Alyson
add, “One for you, too, Sir Tom, if you will wear it.”

She expected thanks, or shy pleasure, or even polite acceptance. Instead, her strapping escort said quietly, “No thank
you, my lady,” without quite looking at her.

“As you wish.” Hurt by his refusal, Alyson glanced about
rapidly for something to remark upon, to heal this sudden rift
between them. “There are no horses”

“No, my lord instructed that the knights should fight on
foot. He wants no mounted battles ranging from village to village. He says the country is wrecked enough already, from the
king’s and empress’s skirmishes. Here he is,” Sir Tom added,
in obvious relief.

Alyson’s spirits leapt at the sight of the tall, sinewy figure
striding away from the shadow of the stand toward her.
Dressed in plain battle armor, carrying his helmet in one fist
and with the fingers of his other hand drumming against his
sword belt, Guillelm was grimly solemn.

His mouth in that line is like his father’s, Alyson thought.
Despite her bold intentions, she quailed a little as she stepped
ahead of Sir Tom.

“How now, my lord?” She sucked in her stomach and
flicked her hands along the waist and flanks of her gown, making the skirt billow in a shimmering red tide. Heartened
by Guillelm’s dark eyes ranging over her, she was poised to
offer him her own, deliberately original favor-very different
from the scraps of cloth, trinkets or gloves usually given, hers
was a letter on parchment, steeped in lavender, wishing him
good fortune in the jousts.

Then she saw them. A finger ring on a cord, tied onto the
shoulder of his mail. A ribbon, threaded round his belt. Another ribbon, pinned to his cloak.

Alyson closed her fingers round the parchment till it crackled. She wanted to rip these other favors off him, demand he
wore none but hers. Do not say anything, she thought, but she
snapped her fingers and heard her treacherous tongue saying,
“That ring will surely cut your face, dangling on that cord”

Guillelm turned his arm this way and that. “It may.” He answered as if indifferent to her concern, and he did not say who
had given him the ring.

“Why accept it, then?” Alyson persisted, aware of Sir Tom
frowning, knowing she was probably making too much of the
matter.

“A knight is very discourteous if he does not take what is
offered to him, especially if it is from a lady,” Guillelm answered, still reasonable.

But this issue of accepting favors is more than being
polite what of my feelings? Alyson tried to think of a prayer
to stop her temper. But she could do better than blind anger.
Focusing her hurt, she unclipped a key from her belt.

“Here is my favor, sir, the key to the great bedchamber.”

Guillelm’s eyes narrowed. “I need no key but I will take
it, and that other offering in your hand”

“It is mine to give, or not”

Guillelm hooked his thumbs into his sword belt. “Before God,
you are still a thoroughly provoking wench. Why can you not
hand it across? You know you wanted to only a moment ago”

Was this in jest or earnest? Reminding herself he was not
Lord Robert, Alyson wet her lips with her tongue and plunged
on. “I, too, know how to tilt and joust, my lord.”

“Indeed you do” Ignoring Sir Tom’s muffled exclamation,
Guillelm dropped to his knees before her and removed a long,
slim knife from his belt.

“This blade I took from Hasim of the black rock fortress. I
would that you receive it into your care, my lady, as my favor
to you.”

His face was open, young-looking, his dark eyes without
guile. He meant it as an honor, Alyson realized, as a sign that
she was his equal. Hoping her eyes would not blur with foolish tears, she clasped the smooth handle of the knife.

Guillelm lifted his hand again, palm upward. “I have a
splinter-“

Alyson touched the dark needle of wood embedded in the
broad base of his thumb. “So I must be like Saint Jerome with
the lion and remove this man-made thorn from your paw, yes,
dragon?” As she spoke, Alyson noted the bruising round the
base of his thumb and the reddening of the skin close to the
splinter. It would hurt, but she knew to say nothing as she began
to cut out the wood, her fingers deft but slow, to reach all of it.

“Sir Tom, will you find me a cup of wine?” she asked.

“Mother of God, I need no numbing draught,” Guillelm
protested, holding his hand steady as a rock as she pricked
and eased the gleaming tip of the Arab blade under the core
of the splinter.

“It is to cleanse the wound,” Alyson replied, flicking the
shard of wood off the knife. “There! I have it out. Thank you,
Sir Tom” She poured the cup of wine over the gash, which
though shallow scarcely bled. “‘Tis done”

Aware of Guillelm’s closeness, his living warmth and
scent, the strange intimacy that drawing out a mere splinter
had evoked between them, she kissed his hand and raised her eyes to his. “I would suck the wound if I suspected poison.
Should I do so?”

“A tempting offer.” Still kneeling, he leaned forward and
kissed her healing shoulder. “I fear I must decline, brighteyes. I would not have you endanger yourself any more, especially for the sake of a splinter off the chapel door.”

He was smiling, but mention of the chapel reminded
Alyson of the nuns. Priests she knew disapproved of the violence of tournaments and jousts; she could well imagine her
sister’s icy comments on what was happening at Hardspen.

Guillelm’s words confirmed her fears. “I tried to speak with
your sister but she would have none of me. The prioress did
not even allow me to cross the threshold of my own chapel.”

“If that door had been a man’s throat, it would have been
crushed,” said Sir Tom under his breath, and Guillelm agreed.
“I admit my temper was not of the best, especially since your
sister-“

He broke off, but Alyson finished the rest in her mind. Her
sister had not asked after her, had shown no interest. Suppressing a sigh, she asked, “Are my sister and her companions well?”

“They sing heartily enough,” answered Guillelm sourly,
“so I think it is safe to assume that they are in excellent
health.” He gave a low whistle. “Truly, the scarlet suits you,
Alyson. You are as perky as a bird.”

Perky, Guillelm thought, groaning inwardly in despair the
instant the words escaped from between his teeth. Can I do
no better than that?

Perky. She had never been called that before. Alyson
smiled and removed the crumpled parchment favor from her
pocket. “For you, my lord.”

“Will you tie it on for me?” Guillelm tapped the middle of
his chest. “Here?”

Silently, Alyson untied one of her blue hair ribbons and
knotted it about the parchment. As she fastened the whole to Guillelm’s mail she felt his breath on her forehead and sensed
the rigidity of his hands, stock-still against his sides.

“What is that scent?” he asked. “Lavender?”

“It is.” Alyson patted the parchment and raised her head,
almost starting when she realized how close Guillelm’s lips
were to hers. “Is there anything else, my lord?”

Guillelm patted the parchment in turn, giving a grunt she
hoped was one of approval. “In Outremer, as you know, the
rose is for healing and for love,” he murmured. “What of
lavender, here? I think it may be the same” His voice grew
softer still. “I hope it is.”

Sir Tom cleared his throat. “Guido, the joust. Everyone
awaits your presence”

“They will wait a little longer.” Guillelm traced a finger
lightly across Alyson’s bottom lip, the small caress deepening
the gleam in his eyes. “Why no red ribbon for me, sweet?”

“Blue is the color of the blessed Virgin Mary, the color of
protection,” Alyson said quickly, her mouth aching and tingling from Guillelm’s touch. She did not want to admit her
wary superstition of red and blood, did not want to confess
her feeling of ill luck about his wearing her favor almost as a
target right above his heart. “Should we not make haste?”

“For certain we must” Absently straightening a crease on
his parchment favor, Guillelm climbed to his feet and offered
Alyson his hand.

With Sir Tom limping a step or so behind, they made their
way to the jousting ground, Guillelm lifting the rope enclosing the area so that Alyson need not duck. From the stand she
caught the glitter of gold as Petronilla turned her head, switching her attention from the milling squires to the lord and lady
of Hardspen. Today, Petronilla and her ladies were clothed in
white and gold, their long veils edged with golden thread. Alyson sensed Petronilla’s probing eyes assessing her red
gown and quickly suppressed an impulse to brandish her new
dagger; Petronilla would consider such a token unfeminine.
Besides, Guillelm was now addressing the spectators in the
stand, the traders, servants and villagers sitting three to four
lines deep around the roped-off ground, and the knights clustered within it, checking their weapons.

“Fellow knights, ladies, gentlemen and women of the road,
villagers and woodmen of the downs, I, Guillelm de La
Rochelle bid you welcome to these jousts on behalf of myself
and my lady Alyson. I hope you enjoy this day. May God and
all his saints keep you and your champions safe. May they
capture many prizes, with courage and skill.”

There was a brief patter of applause, swiftly dying away as
Guillelm stalked across the flat open ground toward the
middle of the jousting area. Feeling his hand gripping as
tightly as a snare about hers, rushing and almost missing her
footing to keep pace, Alyson found herself too breathless to
protest at his speed and too preoccupied with avoiding the
cattle and sheep dung and the various stacks of weapons gathered at several points throughout this roped-off space to ask
why a tent had been erected in its center.