Almost Innocent (13 page)

His cheeks burned with anger and mortification as he was slowly released from the great plates of iron that had encased his body. “Fetch my palfrey,” he ordered curtly, belting his surcote at the hip over the leather tunic. If he could not take part in the jousting, then he would leave the tournament altogether.

“Shall I accompany you, my lord?” the squire asked, holding the bridle as de Bresse swung astride his riding horse.

“No, I go alone.” He touched spur to the stallion, and the horse pounded away from the field, the sounds of clashing steel and the roar of the crowd coming from the lists adding spur to his own desire to leave the scene of his present shame.

Two men in brown leather jerkins, daggers at their belts, heavy staves in their hands, moved away from the massive trunk of a copper beech behind the de Bresse tent. Their horses, already saddled, were tethered a few yards away. It was a matter of a moment before they
were mounted and cantering off on the heels of Edmund de Bresse.

Edmund veered away from the riverbank and toward the forest. He was in no mood to consider the dangers attendant upon solitary riding through a forest crawling with outlaws, fugitive serfs, petty thieves, and not-so-petty murderers with whom the land was riddled. He heard branches snapping behind him as he rode along a broad path in the dappling light thrown by the sun through the umbrella of leaves over his head, but the first prickle of unease did not disturb him until he had ventured away from the well-trodden path and into the green dampness of the inner wood.

The prickle of unease prepared him, however. He turned, drawing his sword, as the first of the two men jumped his horse out of the trees to the right of Edmund’s path. His assailant’s dagger swept down in a wicked curve, slashing Edmund’s shoulder, penetrating the leather gambeson, and he cursed his stupidity for not wearing his mailshirt. But the sword was in his hand, and he parried the next blow with sufficient force to unhorse the man. Then the other one came at him out of the trees, dagger poised, and he was locked in silent, vicious combat. The palfrey went down beneath him, screaming with a severed tendon, and he jumped clear just in time. On foot, he was hard pressed, embattled by the two men, one of whom remained mounted and wielded his stave from his superior position with bone-shattering, deadly accuracy. His head reeled from a massive blow, blood trickled into his eyes and poured from a gash in his sword arm. His breath came achingly from his chest, and he felt the cold, deadly certainty of imminent defeat. Backed up against a tree trunk, he parried blow after blow from the heavy staves, until agony rent his shoulder and the black cloud took him.

I
N THE LISTS
, Magdalen looked in vain for her husband’s black and gold jupon embroidered with the falcon
of de Bresse. She recognized de Gervais’s blue and silver, and immediately her husband’s puzzling absence took second place to her interest in the other’s prowess. Despite her professed scorn for the entire exercise, she was inordinately pleased and proud when Guy was one of the few remaining knights still mounted on the field at the end of the melee.

She leaned over the edge of the loge, applauding with the rest, trying to catch his eye. He rode over to make his reverence to the duke, and she hastily plucked another rose from the bouquet, intending to toss it to him. In her haste, she pricked her finger, the thorn driving beneath her nail. With a little whimper, she sucked her finger, and by the time she had recovered, the moment was past. He had received his lord’s congratulations and those of the ladies in the box, most of whom had showered him with their own flowery favors. Magdalen, seeing his attention now diverted to one of the duchess’s ladies, disconsolately dropped her rose to the floor of the booth.

She observed from beneath her lashes the elegant play between Guy de Gervais and the Lady Maude Wyseford. The latter was not much older than Magdalen herself and had been recently widowed. She was a matrimonial prize in the gift of the Duchess Constanza, and Magdalen regarded her this afternoon with great disfavor.

Guy saw the pout and ascribed it to her husband’s unexplained absence. There was little pleasure for a lady in watching a joust when her own knight was not participating. It was not for him to tell her of the duke’s decree, at least not in public. Indeed, rightfully, it was her husband’s prerogative, unless John of Gaunt chose to enlighten her. Dismissing the issue as being none of his business, he rode out of the lists, back to his own tent to divest himself of the burden of armor.

Magdalen waited for her husband to escort her back to the Savoy Palace. The tournament had taken place in
the lists at Westminster and the crowd was dispersing quickly, anxious to be off the roads before sundown. The duchess, on being informed that Magdalen’s husband had told her to await his escort, left with the duke and those of her ladies who had not been claimed by their knights.

Magdalen waited for a very long time. The two pages in attendance tried not to fidget as the shadows lengthened and the men at work within the stockade completed their tasks. At last, she sent a page to seek out her husband in his tent while she remained in the loge in seething resentment, too angry and generally disgruntled to reflect that such lack of chivalry where she was concerned was most unlike Edmund.

The page found the Sieur de Bresse’s tent deserted. All around was bustle as the tents were struck and the pennants furled, but the knightly combatants had all dispersed. He stood in a quandary. His orders to attend the lady until Sieur de Bresse came for her had been most explicit, and his lord had a short way with disobedience, but at the same time he had a duty to the lady, who must be conveyed home with all speed before the sun finally sank beneath the horizon. It was with a surge of relief that he saw Lord de Gervais emerging from his own tent, a jeweled goblet in his hand. This lord held the duke’s authority over Edmund de Bresse and would know how to advise.

De Gervais listened to the boy’s anxious tale, then nodded and sent him back to Lady Magdalen, instructing him to wait with her until he came to the loge. He drank off the wine in the hanap, tossed the cup to his own page, and strode off to the duke’s loge. He guessed that Edmund had ridden off under such a burden of hurt pride and sense of injustice that he had completely forgotten about his arrangement with Magdalen. It was a perhaps understandable omission in the circumstances, but it was inexcusable nevertheless, reflecting poorly on de Gervais’s training of his nephew.

De Gervais found Magdalen in exceeding ill humor. She turned her anger upon him as if he were in some way responsible for her husband’s humiliating neglect.

He waited patiently until the tirade subsided for want of further fuel, then stated calmly, “If you have said your piece, madame, I suggest we take the road. It grows dark, and I have no men-at-arms.”

“Where is Edmund?” she said, deflated by his tone. “I do not understand why he would do this.”

Guy told her of Lancaster’s prohibition as they left the loge. “He was deeply distressed,” he said. “I would imagine he took his distress elsewhere and forgot all else.”

“He will not forget again,” Magdalen said grimly as de Gervais lifted her onto her horse. “And if he is forbidden to sup in the great hall, I am not. I shall do so, and he may take his supper where he can.”

“That is hardly wifely,” Guy chided, but without much conviction. Edmund certainly deserved some censure.

“Why did he wish to fight the Sieur de Lambert
a l’outrance?”
she asked suddenly as they took the road, her two pages and Guy’s squire their only attendants.

Guy shrugged. “A private squabble that had no place in a public tourney. They should both have known better.”

“But de Lambert was permitted to joust in the melee.” Her anger had died, and she began to find herself allied with her husband in his sense of injustice.

“So he was,” her companion agreed. “But if you dare to question his grace’s decisions in such an instance, I do not.” To what extent had he stilled her curiosity? It was to be hoped that Edmund would offer her something other than the truth if she questioned him. The technical nature of her legitimacy was known to them both by now, but she would be deeply distressed if she thought her husband could believe himself dishonored by it.

The attack came when they reached a stretch of road winding between thickets of bramble and laurel. The scent of bay hung in the evening air, mingling with the rich loamy smell of the luxuriant undergrowth.

There were six of them in the jerkin, hose, and boots of the peasant, but they were armed with the staves and knives of the outlaw robber. On foot, they set upon the horses with their knives, aiming for artery and tendon. Guy and his squire were armed with sword and knife, but the pages had only their daggers with which to fend off the murderous assault, leaning down to slash wildly as their assailants ran at the horses, dodging hither and thither, evading all attempts to ride them down. Guy, wielding his sword with deadly calm, noticed on the periphery of his awareness that they seemed less interested in the human prey than in the destruction of the horses. He supposed it made some kind of sense. Unhorsed, Guy’s party would be four against six. But none of the attacking rabble would be a match for his great sword, or even his squire’s, and the pages had months of discipline and combat training behind them. Such a disorganized attack was self-destructive madness. One of the horses went down, the page leaping clear, his knife flashing. A heavy stave swung at the lad’s wrist. Bone crunched, and the boy screamed. The next instant, his assailant crumpled, his head cleaved in two by de Gervais’s great sword.

Magdalen sat her trembling horse, desperately trying to think of some way of helping. She carried only her little jeweled hip knife and could not imagine it doing the least good, except in close quarters. So far, the robbers had ignored both her and her horse, and then with shocking suddenness one of the brigands ran toward her and sprang up behind her with an agile, twisting leap. He kicked the mare’s flank viciously, lashing the horse with a thorny bramble, and the animal bolted down the road, leaving the bloody turmoil behind them.

It was Magdalen they had been after! That was why they had been interested in unhorsing Guy’s party, who without mounts could not hope to pursue. Their assailants must have been well paid to venture such an assault against superior fighting power when death for some of them was inevitable.

Guy realized all this with a bolt of self-directed fury. He should have been ready for something. The de Beauregards had already shown their hand; they would not delay in following up. He set his horse in pursuit, but one of their attackers had firm hold of the bridle now and was slashing upward. The horse kicked, reared, screamed in fear and pain, all but unseating his rider, who was forced to waste precious minutes eliminating the stabbing brigand at his bridle.

Magdalen was initially so stunned by what had happened that she sat like stone on the saddle, feeling the hot, sweaty weight of the man behind her, holding her against him as he reached to wrest the reins from her hands. Her mount was a lot more powerful than little Malapert had been and seemed to be eating up the ground beneath them. She realized the truth with sudden terror. She was being abducted by this villein, and no one seemed to be coming after her.

Terror and desperation galvanized her. She drove her elbows backward into the man’s ribs and heard with grim satisfaction his grunt of pain as the breath whistled through his lips and his hold loosened. She did it again, immediately, aiming lower for his belly, then, hardly knowing what she was doing, she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and tumbled sideways off the plunging horse, catching at an overhanging branch. The horse careened down the path, its rider now hauling back on the reins. At any minute, he would halt the mare’s bolt and would turn back for his quarry. She dropped to the ground, preparing to run into the undergrowth, when Guy de Gervais hurtled toward her. His horse was bleeding profusely from a gashed neck, foam
flecked around the bit, and the whites of his eyes rolled wildly. Guy charged straight past her, intent on the destruction of her would-be abductor, who was now off balance, struggling to turn the frantic mare.

The man had no time for his prayers. He would have been aware only of blue eyes, pinpricks of death, and a massive form rising in the saddle above him, the hilt of the great sword clasped between both hands. The sword took off his head.

Magdalen was still standing by the roadside, staring at the carnage around her. To her shocked gaze, there seemed to be dead men and horses everywhere. It took her a minute to realize that all members of their party were still standing, and that one of the fallen horses was struggling to its feet. The page whose wrist had been shattered was leaning against a tree, barely conscious.

Guy rode back, sheathing his bloody sword. He dismounted when he reached Magdalen, his expression grave as he took in her deathly pallor and the gray eyes blank with shock. “You’ve a mind as nimble as your body, pippin,” he said, taking her hands. “But it’s finished now.”

With a gasping sob, she flung herself against his chest. For a minute, he resisted, feeling her soft and warm against him, pliant and graceful. He could smell her skin, the slight tang of fresh sweat, the rich scent of her hair. But she was quivering like a frightened kitten, and he could not deny her the comfort he had offered her as a child. He enfolded her in his arms, and her sob became a sigh of contentment. His body stirred at her closeness.

Abruptly, he put her from him. “Come, there is no time for this, Magdalen. You have done well, and you are unharmed, but we must hurry to the Savoy. Dick has urgent need of the physician.” Turning from her, he led his palfrey back to the little troop waiting with the two relatively unharmed horses.

Magdalen watched as he spoke gently to the injured
Dick, bound his arm in a handkerchief, and helped him onto the back of the squire’s horse. The squire mounted behind; the other page mounted his own horse again. She supposed she should be helpful and reclaim her own mare, still standing, head hanging uneasily, along the road. But the headless corpse of her abductor lay close by, and she found she was feeling rather sick.