A Knight's Vow (7 page)

“The pickings have been scanty, certainly,” Etienne muttered in French. “Not what I was promised.”

Giving the mercenary another moment to reflect on that
self-interested thought, Guillelm returned to his main point.
“You can give Walter the same message: he leaves or fights.
My men are fresh and seasoned from the Crusades. I suggest
you both leave.”

Recalling Etienne’s widening eyes as the Fleming imagined
the likely outcome of such a contest, his stammered word of
honor as a knight that he would stop the siege and leave the district, Guillelm permitted himself a grim smile. He had gauged
the courage of the two men correctly. After he had stunned the
Fleming with a deft blow and walked slowly through the stirring camp in the same easy way as he had come, he watched
Etienne and Walter turn tail and leave without further struggle.

Men he could always deal with, he thought. Perhaps that was
how he should treat Alyson, as a kind of youth. He snorted,
knowing the idea was impossible; she was too feminine. Yet
brave. He had seen the end of her clash with Fulk-she had
stood up to an armored knight and flung back just, round answers to Fulk’s arrogance and all for the sake of a stray lamb.

In those moments, he had been so proud of her, and so furious at Fulk. If the man had actually hit her, he would be spitting teeth or worse by now, Guillelm thought, his hands
tightening into fists. As he had closed with Fulk and Alyson
in the yard, he had found his sword hand going straight to his
belt, and if he had been armed, things might have gone very
badly for Fulk. Yet Fulk was a man whom he trusted with his
life, whom he had fought beside in the Holy Land, who had
been his own second-in-command for six of his seven years in
Outremer. Fulk would be his seneschal here, a reward for true
service, and he could not have the man humiliated because of
one sorry misunderstanding. That was why he had taken Fulk’s
part in the bailey and remonstrated Alyson on her dress, an act
he now regretted, for Alyson was right: Were she only a cottar’s
child, Fulk should not have treated her as he did.

He had been wrong himself, Guillelm admitted. She had
not started the incident but, after his relief that she was unharmed, he was unfairly angry with Alyson also, and scolded
her without cause. “She has bewitched me,” he growled under
his breath.

Yet he was not wrong to have offered her marriage. Her
kiss had stirred him as the embrace of no other woman had
ever done, even the voluptuous Heloise. The thought of her
even smiling at another man acted like poison in a wound; he
had to possess her or he would have no peace. And the people
here loved her. He had been unjust when he called the Lady
of Hardspen idle-Alyson was none such, and her servants
repaid her with loyalty. Everywhere he went in the castle he
had heard the same words, “The little mistress helped with
that; she is a good, true lady.” He had seen her own weariness
for himself, when he looked in on her sleeping in her chamber just after her maids had risen. She had not stirred when
he placed his cloak over her, except to sigh and curl the fingers of one hand about the collar.

When he thought of those same narrow, workworn hands
touching him, he marveled at the idea. She was still unafraid
of him, fighting him even in the stable, where for a dreadful
moment she had seemed confounded, genuinely terrified,
before she rallied, tossing words at him as if they were spears.
He had been torn between amusement, a guilty shame at the justice of her complaints, and irritation at being so wrong-footed
by a girl of one-and-twenty. Perhaps with her he would prove
Juliana and Heloise wrong; perhaps he might even be able to
woo her, as he had thought of doing ever since seeing her again.

But only if you can quench your own envy of your father,
Guillelm’s conscience warned. “I know that,” he said under his
breath, anger stirring in him again. Dressing to please his father,
that miserly, crabbed old man! “She will do the same for me and
more,” he vowed darkly, trying to put all thought of Alyson from
his mind as he walked up through the lines of his own men to a
glowering but distinctly nervous Fulk.

Stalking into her chamber, Alyson was disconcerted to find
her nurse kneeling at one of the store chests, lifting out bolts of
cloth, belts, gloves and other clothes. Two cloaks, three veils, a
linen apron and a dark woolen gown were heaped across the
bed as Gytha plunged a plump arm into the depths of the oak
chest, murmuring, “I knew I kept these as more than a keepsake! I think the new lord will be very pleased, especially if
Osmoda can find a matching veil for the blue-green gown …”

Had Guillelm spoken to her servants already, given them
orders? Alyson put down the spark of anger that bloomed within
her; if he had there was little she could do about it. But no, it
seemed she had done her soon-to-be-betrothed an injustice-Gytha chattered on, oblivious to her mistress’s entrance.

“At last I will robe my lady as she deserves! The new lord
will surely not be as wretched and miserly as the old “

Alyson gave a gentle warning cough and Gytha swung
round, giving her former charge a gap-toothed smile.

“There you are, my bird! Come, help me; my eyes cannot
see so well these days and I do not want this material to tear.”

Crouching, Alyson did as she was bid and together she and Gytha lifted out two gowns, spreading them on top of a
second, flat-topped chest.

“You remember them,” Gytha remarked quietly, as Alyson
trailed a fingertip over the flowing skirts.

Alyson nodded. “Tilda never wore these,” she said, and at
once her head was full of memories for her troubled elder
sister. She missed Tilda-her slow smile, the shy way she
ducked her head before answering a question, her kindness.
When they were small, she and Tilda had slept together;
Alyson still missed her sister’s warmth and scent.

“The convent was the best place for her,” Gytha said softly,
“with her … unease around men”

Terror of men was the more accurate, Alyson reflected
bleakly, recalling how Tilda had shrunk back even from their
father. Given their mother’s tragic history, Alyson understood
it but it made her acceptance of Tilda’s final choice no easier.
She had relinquished the world gladly, entering the closed
order of nuns seemingly without a thought for those she was
leaving behind.

She is safe in a holy place and you should be pleased for
her, Alyson told herself sternly, while she shook her head violently at Gytha’s suggestion that she try on the two gowns.

“Your sister would be happy if you wore them,” her nurse
coaxed, “and you surely cannot grace your betrothal ceremony in that ghastly, plain attire,” she went on, tugging on
Alyson’s homespun for emphasis. “Your hair is so pretty and
that dull veil does nothing for it, and yet I have seen how the
new lord looks at your raven locks.”

“Raven!” Alyson scoffed, giving herself away when she
asked, “Guillelm has noticed, you say?”

Her red-cheeked nurse gave her a knowing glance. “Your
hair will be prettier still when it is washed. I saw that your
lord has set some of his men to clearing out and preparing the
bathhouse. Do you think you will bathe each other tomorrow? No?” Gytha chuckled at Alyson’s scalding blush. “Perhaps
later, when you are truly married.”

If only to silence her nurse, Alyson swooped hastily on the
nearest gown, of rich blue wool, hemmed with vermilion. Fumbling with the ties of her rough gown, she muttered, “I will wear
this today and the other tomorrow.” The green-blue of that gown
would look well against Guillelm’s bright golden coloring.

“A good choice, my lady,” her nurse soothed. “It shows off
the color of your eyes, and I have found a gold belt that Lord
Robert did not know you had, else no doubt he would have
taken that from you, as well as your other jewels-“

“Gytha!”

“These things should be admitted, my lady.” Her voice faded
and she busied herself with helping Alyson unpin her veil.

Alyson said nothing. At tomorrow’s ceremony she would
have no family due to circumstances but no female friends
either, because of Lord Robert. His grasping jealousy had
made it impossible for her to keep any friends.

Almost as an echo to her thought, Gytha said, “There will
be few folk to attend your betrothal, not with your lord so lately
returned from Outremer and knowing so few nobles hereabouts. I cannot remember if he has a large family, but even if
he has, they will not be able to come at such short notice.”

“No,” Alyson said faintly, blushing afresh as she now considered the haste of their match. “Guillelm has few close kindred; no brothers or cousins. His only sister is married and
settled far off, somewhere in the north”

“No need to catch your breath, my bird; I’ve done the
lacing up as tight as it will go ” Gytha stood with her head on
one side and then clapped her hands. “We need a fresh veil.”

“The old will have to do for today,” Alyson said hastily,
recollecting the many tasks she had yet to do and oversee.
“Quickly, Gytha! Help me reorder my hair a little.”

“All done,” said her nurse a few moments later, catching Alyson’s arm before she sped from the chamber. “Look at
yourself. You have not taken one peep at your reflection.” She
pointed to the deep basin standing on a low table close to the
bed washing water left from the morning, Alyson recollected guiltily. With most of the maidservants in the castle
still recovering from the sweating sickness it had become her
habit to empty the basin herself. Now, however, at Gytha’s insistent prodding she leaned over the bowl, seeing a murky,
blue-gowned stranger.

“My thanks,” she said, and hurried off.

Her mind once more on strewing herbs for the great hall,
Alyson found herself drawn to the bailey. “I have to find my
broom,” she murmured, although that was only part of the
truth. If she was honest, she was also hoping to see Guillelm
and that he would see her.

With his height and breadth and dazzling hair she spotted
him at once, the sight quickening her breathing and already
hurrying steps. Working in the increasing warmth of the sun,
he had stripped his brown wool mantle down to his waist, revealing a linen undershirt so fine as to be almost transparent.
She could see the hard, sinewy contours of his back, the mat
of chest hair that she suddenly longed to touch, teasingly running her fingers through those fine gold strands while tracing
the pattern of his muscles …

Blushing, Alyson shook herself and tried to concentrate on
what Guillelm was doing. He was dismantling the stranded cart
with the shattered axle, while at the same time shouting orders
to his men who were distributing bread and ale to the tented
poor who had crowded for shelter within the bailey. As he
roared out an incomprehensible mixture of French, Arabic and
English to his seasoned followers, he was hammering at the
cart-even as Alyson watched, he dropped the hammer and lifted the entire planked floor of the cart free of the broken axle,
hefting it into the waiting, eager arms of two men whom she
recognized as farriers from one of Hardspen’s nearby hamlets.

“That should serve as a new door for your mother’s house,”
Guillelm called, while the farriers braced themselves to receive their gift. They were panting with effort, but Guillelm
was scarcely out of breath. Straightening, he surveyed the
milling crowds within the bailey, picking Alyson out at once.
His dark eyes gleamed and he beckoned.

“Still no attendants with you, I see,” he remarked, as she
approached.

“The sickness, my lord,” she began, aggrieved that he
should fault her for something she could not help.

He grinned, as if sensing her irritation. “Peace, brighteyes,” he said, giving Alyson the nickname he had coined for
her years earlier, when he had been a gangling, big-jointed
youth. “Have you seen a saw anywhere close?”

Silently, Alyson deftly scooped up a saw from beneath the
cart’s wheels and held it out.

“My thanks” Taking the tool, his fingers brushed against
hers, their brief touch deepening the luster in his eyes, as he
added, in a voice only she could hear, “The gown is fine.”

Was that a stain of color in his tanned face? Alyson scarcely
dared hope that it was; if he was shy of her that was worth more
than polished compliments, although for him to say so little

“You approve, my lord?” Heartened by the fact he was no
longer angry with her, she twirled on the spot for him.

“Greatly.” His lips quivered. “If the Empress Maud could
see you now, doubtless she would be envious. I have sent
word to her this morning of our betrothal.”

As a fact, Alyson noted, and not in any way to ask Maud’s
permission. She nodded and recollected her manners. “Thank
you for sharing your men’s rations with my people.”

Guillelm inclined his head. “My people, also,” he observed, regarding the ordered handing out of foodstuffs for a moment
before saying, “Food is as good a way as any to ensure loyalty.”

“Is that your only reason?” Alyson burst out, realizing by
Guillelm’s expression that he was teasing. “You tricked me!”

“Only to check if you still wrinkled your nose when you do
not approve-which you do”

“And your eyebrows still meet when you frown,” Alyson
replied, deliberately baiting. “You are doing it now!”

“Enough of your pretty insolence, my girl. I have work to do”

“Yes, and I have a great many fresh strewing herbs to collect
and a great hall to make ready and one of the cooks to find, but
you only say that because you have lost the argument,” Alyson
rejoined, stepping back swiftly in a swirl of skirts.

She had been taunting a little but did not expect the speed
or power of his reactions: Guillelm dropped the saw and
snatched her into his arms, jerking her right off her feet. “Was
that a challenge, my lady?”