A Knight's Vow (3 page)

And yet this dainty, dark-haired serving maid had given him such a smile of welcome, and of sympathy, that he had
been comforted. She had not mocked him or flinched, she
had given him instead a look of recognition, as if she knew
him. She was familiar to him, he felt; as familiar in some
ways as the breath in his body, but his mind was moving
slowly tonight, trying to take in the loss of his father and his
own sudden coming into his inheritance. He had responsibilities to face; the fate of many lives had been placed by God
into his hands, and he must be equal to it, not distracted by
this girl who reminded him of what? Something he had put
aside long ago, with pain and regret, as being out of his reach.

But what was the use of these thoughts? he reflected, trying
to fight off a well-worn, familiar despair. Women feared
him-his elder sister Juliana had been proved right about
that. What had Heloise of Jerusalem said to him when she
had dismissed his suit? “You are too big and brutal, my lord
Guillelm,” she had drawled, her hazel eyes widening as she
reveled in his frozen expression of shame and distaste. “They
call you dragon on the field of battle-you would burn a
woman to ashes in your marriage bed.” He had stumbled out
of Heloise’s hot, airless chamber, the sight of her opulent,
silk-draped body, artfully arranged blond curls and beautiful,
mocking face burning like a brand into his memory, her
scornful voice singeing his ears.

“My lord! Only kiss the creature and let us all return to
our ale!”

Thierry again-damn the man to hellfire! Guillelm thought,
scowling at the interruption and his men’s laughter, swiftly stifled as they registered his anger.

“My lord!” The small, skinny seneschal was starting to say
something but he was cut off by the maid herself, who observed
in a low, swift voice, “Do not be concerned. All is well, Sericus .”

To Guillelm there seemed to be a challenge in her words. He
took a step closer, amused when she stood her ground. Again, a strange sense of recognition shot through him, an instinct that
he knew her very well.

Or was it merely that he found her pleasing? the cynic in
Guillelm asked him. Even when she had been standing in the
shadowy stairwell, sequestered like a nun by that drab gown and
veil, her beauty had shone through, brighter than any torch. She
was more than a head shorter than him, small and fine-boned,
so that he felt clumsy beside her, and yet she moved and carried
herself as boldly as a warrior, as though she had no fear of him.

As she stood before him now, he could smell the perfume of
her hair, the scent of rosemary filling his nostrils as he quelled
a sudden, powerful desire to tug off her veil. From the few stray
tendrils escaping the edges of that plain cloth to frame her flawless, heart-shaped face, Guillelm knew that her hair was black:
very black and fine and straight. He guessed it would be long,
reaching as far as her slender waist-fine shimmering tresses
that a man could lay his head on for comfort, love.

“My lord?” she inquired softly as he took her hand in his.
It was a work-roughened hand, resting in his as lightly as thistledown. This close, he could see the dark shadows under her
eyes, the taut, bleached look of her cheeks, and was pierced
by pity for her weariness. This little maid had clearly done
much in this castle but where was her mistress, the new lady
of Hardspen? he thought, caught in that instant between anger
at the unseen chatelaine and protectiveness for her maid. He
had heard rumors tonight that had set his teeth on edge: that
his father had married again, that there was a widow in this
keep, but he had seen no sign of such a woman.

“Mother of God, why are you alone with this?” he murmured, running a thumb gently down the side of her cheek.
He felt her palm, still trapped in his right hand, tremble
against his. The heat of her fingers and the warm silk of her
skin stirred him afresh, making him forget all else.

Telling himself he was doing this only because his men would otherwise consider him soft, he lowered his head and
kissed her full on the lips.

Only a few moments had passed since Guillelm had saved
her from the odious Thierry and claimed his reward of a kiss.
In the final instant, Alyson feared to allow him anything more
than the most chaste of embraces, afraid of revealing too
much of her own feelings, but now his mouth came down on
hers and she was lost. As his lips brushed hers, she felt a
shock of feeling tingle down her body in an astonishing wave
of heat. She felt his arms clamp around her slender middle,
gathering her closer, lifting her to him.

The great hall and the men gathered in it fell away to her,
there was only Guillelm and the strong yet tender embrace of
his mouth. She knew that she would probably regret it, but it
was a wish come true. Sighing, Alyson swayed against him,
closing her eyes as the voluptuousness of his kiss overcame
all thought of her duty.

Guillelm, no more aware of the raucous catcalls of his men
than Alyson was, made himself break from their embrace.
After Heloise he had a horror of forcing himself on any girl
he had not had a woman for some time but now this slender
black-haired maid was storming his defenses. Her lips were
so generous and sweet, and the way her hands brushed shyly
against his chest and shoulder as if she were learning him was
so fearless that he did not want to let her go. He caught her
back and swung her into his arms, conscious of a terrifying
instinct to bear this woman away somewhere private and
alone and have his way with her. He reached the staircase
without knowing it, the questions and comments from the
men and soldiers in the hall bouncing off him like rainwater.

She laid her head in the crook of his arm, her eyes still closed, as if this was a dream for her. “Dragon,” she whispered. “My golden dragon”

And then he knew her. By her nickname for him and her
total fearlessness and, when she opened her eyes, almost as if
she had sensed his recognition, by her solemn dark blue eyes.
Eyes he had seen fixed on a patch of herbs in her father’s
kitchen garden, or on the stained glass windows in church, or
on his own hands and arms as she soothed his various cuts
and bruises from the practice field with her potions. He remembered her as a studious child, quiet and serious, passionate about healing and wishing to tend all living things, yet
with a smile brighter than gold. He remembered a day in the
forest, when she had saved his life.

She was here with him again, in Hardspen, and in that
moment of realization, Guillelm forgot all other grief and
concern in a burst of possessive pride and joy.

He kissed her again-he could not help himself. She was
the best part of his past and to see her now, safe and adult and
even more lovely, made him want to laugh out loud in mingled astonishment and delight.

“Alyson,” he said, remembering as he named her how he
had loved to make her laugh. “How excellent is this! Alyson!”

She had been so still when concentrating on her herbs and
healing and yet so quick and nimble when they had run off together, racing each other to the meadows and woods. As a
tall, gangly lad of nineteen he had hoped to make his fortune,
earn renown throughout Christendom and then return to her
father’s manor at Olverton Minor to marry her. But in the end
that had been a hopeless quest. Alyson’s father, Sir Henry, had
seen to that.

The memory of his meeting with Sir Henry blazed through
Guillelm. Even after seven and a half years it was a bitter thing
that left him sickened inside. All his years in the Holy Land he had fought to put the memory behind him. He had thought he
had succeeded, until tonight.

“I will never give my daughter to you, Guillelm de La
Rochelle,” Sir Henry had told him. “She is a thoughtful, clever
girl who, before she knew you, spoke of a sincere desire to
enter the church as a nun. Until she knew you, Guillelm,
Alyson’s steadfast goal was to be a second Hildegard of Bermersheim: a scholar and sacred mystic, a healer. You have almost
driven that noble aim from her head, with your endless talk of
quests and chivalry. My reeve tells me that you are much in her
company, and often without the presence of her nurse. Alyson
is on the brink of womanhood. These outings between you
must stop-yes, I know they have been so far innocent but I
have my child’s reputation to consider, and my own.

“Not only that, but I have seen you on the practice field
you are entirely too rash and wild. You will leave my sweet
Alyson a widow within six months and your reckless head rotting on a pike. You cannot have her, and must never ask again.”

Soon after that painful and disastrous encounter, Guillelm
had announced his intention to go with Raymond of Poitiers
to Outremer.

“Alyson of Olverton.” Guillelm now gave the grown-up
Alyson her title, at once entranced and saddened that she
should be here. She was glad to see him-but how long
would that last? How long would her innocent fearlessness of
him last? He could not bear to think of her turning from him
with fear in those dark blue eyes, the same blank-eyed fear he
had seen in women’s faces while on campaign in Outremer.

Slowly, with regret and no lessening of his own desire for her,
he left the small landing and, crouching slightly to avoid the low
roof-space, he carried her up the narrow spiral staircase to the
chapel, where a small candle was burning. He set her down
carefully on the stone floor and, so that his fingers would not linger too long on her, or give in to the violent temptation to
touch her again, he put his hands behind his back.

“Alyson” He swallowed the urgent questions that he
wanted to ask-was she well, had she ever thought of him
while he had been away in Outremer, was she still unmarried?-and asked just two things, both equally pressing.

“Alyson, how is it that you are here? And why is there an
army pitched outside this castle?”

Alyson saw the delight in Guillelm’s eyes fade and almost
cried aloud at its passing. When he had recognized her on the
stairs, he gave her then such a look-of glory, she thought, recalling how his whole face, rather grave in repose, had lightened and how his smile had driven all signs of grief from him.
She had been carried off by him, amazed by his easy strength,
pressed tight against his chest and torso, so close that she could
feel his tough leather tunic under his woolen cloak. He smelled
of rain, damp wool and his own sharp scent, and she had been
torn between a desire to touch him and a wish to rest her aching
head on him and sleep within the broad circle of his arms.

But that was not to be. Guillelm, grim-faced again and
looming above her with his fists thrust behind his back, had
asked questions that needed prompt and ready answers, no
matter how painful it would be for her to explain, especially
about her near-betrothal to Lord Robert. Putting that hard and
tangled matter aside for the moment, she spoke first of the
hostile forces ranged against Hardspen.

“The soldiers and mercenaries camped outside the gate appeared seven days ago, as soon as it became known that your
father had died,” she said, staring down at the chapel floor so that she did not have to watch the growing disappointment
and likely horror in Guillelm’s face when she told him what
she had done to delay an attack from these troops. “They are
the liege men of Sir Walter of Enford and the Flemish mercenary Etienne the Bold, who has joined Sir Walter on this …
enterprise,” she finished bitterly.

“I see little evidence of boldness in preparing to lay siege
to the holding of a lord who has just died,” Guillelm remarked in clear distaste, adding, “I could not see their standards in the rain and darkness tonight, although I think I
know something of this Walter of Enford. A local man, is he
not? I recall a fat and swarthy roundfaced creature who could
not manage his sword or his horses”

“Yes, that is Walter. He is a neighbor to your estate,”
Alyson confirmed, with a small smile at Guillelm’s accurate
description, “and lately grown very ambitious. He is still not
warlike, but the man he has hired, Etienne-” A gust of wind
blowing through the keep made the chapel candles flicker and
Alyson shivered. “He has raided farms and manor houses
hereabouts. There are many homeless peasants sheltering in
the castle bailey because of the burning and pillaging of the
Fleming and his troops”

“Then he must be stopped,” Guillelm said at once. “And I
will stop him.” Clearly marking her distress, he took her hand
in his again, looking startled at his own action but saying
smoothly enough, “But this is not a fit subject for a house of
God. Shall we move on?”

“Where do you wish to go?” Alyson asked, blushing as she
wondered if she should have called Guillelm “lord,” even
though he now knew she was no serving maid.

If Guillelm noticed any lack of courtesy he said nothing of
it. “I have already spoken to the watchmen and the men manning the battlements tonight. I have other duties to fulfill,
other people I must see before this night has ended ” His voice tightened and he broke off. “Where are the womenfolk
of this castle? Aside from yourself, of course. Are they all in
the kitchen?”

Alyson looked up at him and smiled. “At this hour I should
think they and the children will all be asleep in the store room
downstairs-it is warm and dry there, and is one of the safest
places in this keep. As you know,” she added hastily.

He gave her fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Then
lead me on very quietly past the store room. I have no wish to
alarm them or disturb their rest. I am still hungry, so a visit to
the kitchen will do very well.”

He always had been famished, Alyson thought fondly,
before her wits caught up with the rest of what he was saying.
“There has been no real cooking for the last few days,” she
said hastily. “All food has been moved within the keep-there
will be nothing for you to eat”