A Knight's Vow (38 page)

“Did my lord Guillelm bring me here?” she asked, speaking his name like a charm.

If she hoped for some sign of shame or disquiet amongst the
half-dozen warriors loyal to Fulk, she was to be disappointed.
They regarded her gravely, unsmiling, one thoughtfully scratching at his beard, another addressing a remark to his closest companion that she did not understand.

Fulk thoughtfully translated. “Piers is from Brittany. He
says that now he can see you properly, he can understand how
you bewitched our lord.”

Piers added more, which made Fulk twitch like a horse
stung by a fly. Scowling, he made a cutting motion with his
hand and Piers fell silent.

“Do not try to dissemble to me, Alyson of Olverton.”
White spittle gathered at the corners of Fulk’s mouth as he
raised his voice. “You are sitting in a circle you yourself have
made, a witches’ circle. You came here many times this
summer, with the woman Eva and the woman Gytha, to make
your foul magic.”

Affirmative grunts of agreement issued from the other men
as Fulk named her supposed coven, although Alyson could not
be sure how much of her speech with Fulk was understood by
them. It made her task of argument that much harder, but she
had to attempt it. If she could only delay whatever Fulk had
planned for her until she could make an escape

“Really?” She tried to sound as bored as possible, while
she scanned the horizon. Where was the red-haired knight?
Had he perhaps had a change of heart and gone for help?
Even as she dared to consider that, her hopes were dashed.
She heard him beating back through the forest and a moment
later he too was in the clearing, taking his place in that ominous circle of men.

She used Guillelm’s name a second time, praying that she
might inspire a fear of retribution in these men, if not fealty.
“If you are sure of this, Fulk, then why do you not bring your
charge before our lord Guillelm?”

“And have you maze him again out of his wits? I think not”

“Does my lord dragon seem dull-witted to you, Fulk?”

Fulk’s face darkened. “Where you are concerned, he has shown neither wisdom nor seemliness. If you had not
interfered, my lord would have returned to the Holy Land to
fulfill his true destiny, fighting the infidel. He should be
there now, defending Outremer.”

Fulk took a step closer to her, his hands raised before him,
making a protective cross.

“I have a cross, too” Alyson lifted the small silver crucifix
that the abbess had given her from her neck, dangling it aloft on
its chain so that the men could see it. She kissed the cross and
wound the chain about her fingers. Still unsure if she rose that
she would be able to keep her feet, she knelt instead and began
to recite the Creed.

“Stop!” Fulk bawled. “You shall not profane such holy
words with your incantations! You are a witch! You have already done enough!”

“What have I done, Fulk?” Alyson goaded, aware, as Fulk
seemed not to be, of his men watching him, their faces carefully
blank.

“You!” In four strides, the Frenchman reached her and
yanked her upright by her hair, laughing as she screamed in
pain and insult. “Treacherous, foul, evil! Witch!”

His hands were in her hair, dragging and tearing, and still
the accusations poured from Fulk, each one blistering in its
rage and hurt.

“It is thanks to you I have lost my place! It is thanks to you
Guillelm told me to quit his service! It is thanks to you I have
no lord! You have done this to me!”

“No!” Alyson cried, grabbing Fulk’s wrists to stop him.
“You have achieved this yourself, by your own spite! Do you
not understand? We could have been friends, but you always
saw me as a rival.”

“Witch!” Fulk thrust her away and kicked out at her. His
men murmured, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other,
but none of them intervened, not even as she tottered.

Afraid to turn her back on Fulk, Alyson scissored two faltering strides and then regained her balance. Straightening,
she faced him. Between the time she had last encountered
Fulk and now, the man had lost weight. Already rangy, he was
now gaunt. His gray hair was lank, his hooded eyes bright
only when he berated her.

Despite what she had endured from him, Alyson felt a
shred of pity.

“Fulk, why did you not leave with Sir Michael?” she asked
softly. “I am certain he would have welcomed you into his
service.”

For an instant, Fulk seemed to recognize her sympathy, but
older, fiercer resentments and jealousies took hold. “You dare
to offer comfort, witch,” he snarled, “when it is you who have
sought to destroy me?” He pointed to the encircling men.
“Were it not for these stalwart warriors for Christ, who have
chosen to follow me into exile, I would be alone.”

“I am sorry,” Alyson said. Part of her ached to take Fulk
in her arms, to give him the kiss of peace. The man was in
such pain.

“Sorry? You shall be sorry! You shall be tried-and found
wanting!”

The veins in his throat and neck bulging, Fulk yelled a
series of orders in French and Alyson was seized again.

Her “trial” was brutally short, and painful. Slung between
a birch sapling and an elder bush, suspended between the two
trees by ropes attached to her wrists, Alyson was forced to
stand, half-hanging from her arms. Her toes scarcely brushed
the soil and within moments of being left in that degrading,
captive position, she began to shake. Tremors as fierce as a
fever ripped through her body. She was terrified for herself
and even more for her child but dare not confess her preg nancy to Fulk. In his maddened state who knew what further
atrocity he might conceive against a possible spawn of a devil?
He had already convinced himself that she was utterly evil.

His voice ran on, relentless and hard as an avalanche of
stones as he called on his loyal men to witness her depravity.
Breathless from being almost crucified between the two trees,
Alyson could hardly answer his hounding questions, much
less interrupt his tirade.

He spoke in a mixture of languages, English and French,
until she was completely bewildered. Lightheaded through
lack of water or food, her throat bone-dry, her chest aching,
her arms and legs burning with pins and needles, Alyson
struggled to retain consciousness and make some reply. She
knew she had to fight even though Fulk had said these men
were loyal to him, they must not be entirely sure, or he would
not be having this mockery of a trial. If she could only make
them see their commander was mad …

Please, a keening voice in her head pleaded. Please, God,
let Guillelm find me. But her thoughts were dark. He had not
said “I love you” If he found her now and heard Fulk’s accusations, whom would he believe? Please believe me. Please
believe in me.

“She is evil,” Fulk ranted, striding about the clearing, eloquent with malice. “She uses potions to bend men’s wills to
her own. Lord Robert died in her care. Who is to say he was
not poisoned by her? I have a witness who swears that she
killed him by such foul means”

“Where is this witness?” Alyson wheezed. “Produce him.”

“So that you may bewitch him, too? I think not”

“What does he look like?” Alyson took in the deepest
breath she could manage. “What is his name?”

Fulk hesitated. “Edwin, no Edmund. What does a name
matter? He saw you give Lord Robert poison! You admit your
maid bought a love potion and what is that, if not another kind of poison? The worst kind, for it manipulates the very hearts
of men. And there is more…”

Alyson lost the rest of what Fulk was saying. When she
came round again, Fulk was still accusing her.

“… As with the father, so with the son. My lord Guillelm
has already lost his place in Outremer, thanks to her. How
long will that female let him live?”

“The abbess allowed me to stay in her convent-“

“You lied to her! You fed her a potion and tricked her!”

“Which, Fulk?” Alyson gasped. “A lie or a potion?”

“So you admit it? You are condemned by your own
admission!”

“Not so!” Alyson cried, as Fulk said more in French, words
she did not understand but which had the men with him nodding and frowning. Where was the red-haired knight Eustace,
who had cut her bonds? Alyson attempted to find him, to
catch his eye, but she could not see him. Her sight was beginning to darken again.

She savagely bit her lower lip, straining to keep awake, and
almost screamed in horror. She had blacked out, and in that
brief time Fulk or his men or both had built a pyre about her.
Her feet rested on logs and twigs, branches and dry grasses
were stacked against her legs, rising up to her waist. Thrashing in her bounds, writhing and desperately kicking the
branches away, she cried out in Latin, “Before God and all the
saints I swear that I am innocent!”

“No, you are guilty!” Fulk yelled, piling kindling back
around her. “You shall burn!”

“Mother of God, help me,” Alyson prayed, her whisper
cracking as the dreadful nightmare of her plight overwhelmed
her. Surely not even Fulk would do this? Surely his men
would stop him?

Guillelm! Where are you?

“Send a thunderstorm, send rain.” Her mouth was trembling
so much she could hardly form the words.

Dragon! Save me!

“If you do this, you will forever lose Guillelm’s favor!”
Alyson panted, determined not to flinch as Fulk tried to set a
spark to the kindling. “You are not being true to your own
nature-you are a defender!”

Fulk, crouching amongst the kindling, raised his head.
“You are making the fire die!”

“God is with me,” said Alyson. She tried to say more but
could not; a chill of terror spiked through her head and heart and
vitals, freezing her. What have I ever done to you? she wanted
to say to Fulk, but she did not even know if he would hear her.

“Fulk, you must let me go” Desperate, she lied, “Fulk, you
must let me go, for I have more to confess!”

That cut through to the core of his obsession. In an instant he
was climbing over the rough fagots toward her, his lean, gaunt
face ablaze with a lust of curiosity. “What more? What?”

“Untie me!” In a fading effort, Alyson shook her arms, lashed
to the elder and birch trees that arched above her head. “If you
would have me speak”-she paused to suck in another awkward
breath-“you must let me breathe”

Dislike and greed warred in Fulk’s face. Greed won. A knife
flashed like two lightning bolts, and Alyson’s bonds were severed. She would have sprawled on the mess of kindling and
branches piled about her legs had Fulk not dragged her free.

“Tell me. Give me your confession, witch!”

He was sweating as much as she was; a rank foulness filled
her lungs and made her dry-heave.

“Need drink,” she whispered. “I thirst.”

A battered leather flask was held her lips and she drank,
the sweet, good water clearing her head. As her blurring
double vision cleared, she realized that another of Fulk’s men,
not the red-haired knight, had given her his water. She nodded her thanks and through his visor, a pair of bright, embarrassed
eyes blinked and would not meet her gaze. The knight shifted
slightly and she felt herself leaning against a braced leg and
flank. Without his support she would have fallen; as it was
she could just keep her feet.

Fulk knocked the flask from her shaking hands. “Speak! I
have waited long enough”

The man supporting Alyson suddenly shouted, lowering
her hastily to the ground. Still yelling at Fulk, he stepped over
her, drew his sword and pointed. “The dragon!” he screamed.
“Nous sommes tous morts!”

Trapped behind the man’s legs, Alyson looked where he
was pointing and understood. Sinking back on the earth, she
closed her eyes, letting her weariness take her where it would.

It was Guillelm. He had come for her. She would be safe now.

It was over.

Guillelm saw her fall and vented a bellow of rage. There were
five scampering stick figures between him and Alyson and he
wanted there to be more; more to mow down and destroy.

If they had hurt her, if they had harmed her in any way, they
would know such agony before he had finished with them!

Slash them, cut them, kill them, trample them, they shall
not escape, they will burn in hell and still know my anger.

The stick figures, tiny, pale, moving as jerkily as puppets,
are huddled together. I can ride them down, gore them into
the dirt. ButAlyson would not want that. She is a healer.

Guillelm leaped from his horse and drew his sword.
Behind him, now a long way off, he heard the red-haired follower of Fulk call out, as the man had done earlier, when he
had been combing these woods. Tom would deal with that;
Guillelm had to reach his wife.

He advanced, brushing aside the other men’s feeble challenges like chaff. They struck at him and once he felt a sharp
tear in his arm, a gash that stung and filled his head full of
angry bees.

“Alyson!” Using her name as a paean, he rushed forward
again, his pace quickening as he saw Fulk draw his own
blade.