Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2) (17 page)

“The child,” Devon defended lamely, “knows much about passion.”

“But only what it has heard in English alehouses.”

As had become his habit, Elias drew silently behind Drake and Hugh
. “You do not find her alluring?” he said. “You do not find her exotic? You do not find her charmingly aloof? Just look at her. Cheekbones designed for caresses. Eyes that enchant. And a mouth made for long, moist kisses. That dog Eble. It is only because he is cousin to Eleanor that he is rewarded with such a woman.”

Drake turned his head. “Queen Eleanor?”

“Ah, didn’t you know?” Hugh said. “Eble’s mother is Sybilla, the daughter of Ralph de Faye, Eleanor’s uncle.”

The Ventadorns
had finally made their way toward the d’Ussel party, and after exchanging brief courtesies, moved on. Gui, Peire, and Eble crowed with delight, but it was Gui who said, “She loathes you, Grendel of Poitiers. The woman would rather bed a wild boar—tusks and all—than take you under her silk chemise.”

“Grace be to God,” Drake said, and toasted the departed Maria de Torena de Ventadorn with his raised goblet, “since I’d sooner bed an ox.”

* * *

“
In Poitou,” Gui declaimed blithely as they congregated at one of the trestle tables, “they are tough and warlike, skilled with lance, bow, and arrow, brave on the battlefield, swift in the chase, elegant in dress, and to top everything off, handsome, articulate, generous, and hospitable. I despise them all.” He drained his goblet and reach for more drink.

The feasting had begun
, and while platters were delivered with precision and wine dispensed with care, Gui continued with his prattling.

“In Saintonge, they speak in a rustic fashion. In Bordelais
, the language is still worse. As for the Gascons, they are gossipy, licentious, and poorly dressed.” He nodded politely toward his companion, saying, “Alamanda excluded,” which she received with a curt nod and sparkling eye.

Grendel of Poitiers had the distinct distaste of being seated beside the
comtesse of Ventadorn while her husband had been paired off at the dais with Aimery’s dispossessed daughter. Eble’s eyes darted jealousy now and then toward his wife, who ignored his supplications as if he were a lowly footman.

“
Although they eat and drink far too much, they don’t sit at a table but squat around a fire, sharing the same cups and bowls. And when they go to sleep, they sleep on the same rotting straw, master, mistress, children, and servants.”

Sitting on the
other side of Drake, Elias occasionally stole mooning glances at Maria de Torena. Drake elbowed him in the gut. Elias grunted and rubbed his rib. “You are pensive, Grendel. The tournament did not hold all you expected. I hear you lost everything, or should I say, everything you did not wish to transport. I understand. You wish to travel light. It is the climate.”

“The Basques and Navarrese
,” Gui went on as before, “are much like the Gascons, only worse. They eat out of one big pot like pigs at the trough, and when they speak, it sounds like dogs barking. The women bow and scrape, and partake of the leftovers using fingers instead of utensils. And when they warm themselves in front of a fire, they are not ashamed to lift up their kirtles and display private parts. They fornicate with animals, run with wolves, and bay at the moon. You wouldn’t want to get into a fight with any one of them unless castration is your desire.”

Sitting on the other side of Elias,
Peire said to his brother, “I don’t believe a word.”

“It’s true, every last word. And of course you know,” he said, casting Drake a devilish eye, “English wine can be drunk only with closed eyes and through gritted teeth.”

“Now
that
,” said Peire, “I believe.”

E
veryone laughed and slapped their thighs.

P
erfume rising from her skin with every subtle motion, Maria said nary a word as the platters came and went and servers filled her goblet more than once. Yet she watched every movement as Drake tore apart a breast of capon and dipped the succulent flesh into a delicious honey and saffron sauce, his ravenous feasting only occasionally interrupted by bread and wine. When she could stand it no more, a look of disgust rose on her usually bland features. She did not look at him when she said, “You seem gay hungry, Grendel of Poitiers, even for a knight of large appetite.”

A wing poised at his lips, Drake pondered her comment, and said
in low tones, “An appetite, yes, but not for food.” His eyes were fixed on a hound gobbling up table scraps.

She
whispered into his ear, “
Oc
, for food and for nothing else.” And receiving a platter of leche Lumbard, spooned a small portion onto her trencher, tapped him on the arm, and offered him the dish.

When he turned, he was graced only with her twisted profile as she spoke to
a lady seated at the next table. After relieving her of the dish, he passed the pork loaf down the line. “On the other hand,
ma dame
,” he said, while dipping the same wing into the same sauce, “what man needs food when a beautiful woman sits beside him?”

She deigned to blink in his general direction
, but then raising her chin in the direction of her husband, blew a smile toward him. “Even though her hand,” she said, still smiling at the comte of Ventadorn, “belongs to her husband?”

Conversation, loud and clamorous, buzzed about them as Drake put the wing to his teeth and chewed thoughtfully. “
It depends on whether her heart also belongs to her husband.”

“Such,” she said with
out looking at him, “is only a matter between her and her passions. For her heart is hers first. And men who wish to seek her favors must do so by also seeking her heart.”

“
It appears that this woman of which we speak does not have just one
amador
.”

She wiped her hands on the table linens
and pristinely picked up her knife. “Why ask you?”

“
Only that I have heard that some women court many men and grant to each her favors, but only for a single night.”

“A woman such as that would have to be a
discontented woman who knows not her mind.”

“Or
she could be a woman who knows her mind but cannot promise her body, for her body belongs by law and God to the other of which we speak.”

She spooned a dainty portion of
leche Lumbard into her mouth. “You are bold, Grendel of Poitiers. You delve where no
bel ami
has dared broach before.”

“We are only speaking in generalities and not specifics.”

“Ah,” she said. “That is a different matter. For to speak in specifics invites censure.”

“Then in generalities, if you please,
ma dame
, since many a man yearns for that which he cannot have but nightly dreams of the rewards.”

She
became distracted by one of their dining companions seated at the end of the trestle and smiling politely, passed the saltcellar. Addressing her barely touched leche Lumbard, she said, “
Aladonc
, if a man were to be so bold as to broach forbidden subjects, then the woman must be a wanton. Because a man who has no care for the woman beneath him or of her needs must seek a likeminded woman who would give her body for nothing but pleasure and a brief word of gratitude.”

Drake wiped his mouth with the table linen
and reached for a portion of breast meat. “But when the man is a sweet lover, both win in the bargain. Or is it because his wandering eyes would insult a woman pure in mind but wanton of body that you suspect his motives?”

Hiding her lips behind the wine goblet, she said, “
Such a man does not measure any worse or better against other men. No, what shapes the key to a woman’s dungeon is the inherent rank of woman and the inborn nature of man. One supreme, the other subjugated, rôles neither has chosen but God in His ignorance has ordained.” From then on, she had neither words nor casual glances for Grendel of Poitiers.

The feast was devoured to the last sweetmeat by man and hound alike, but not the last cup. The trestle tables were pushed out of the way. Arranging themselves on stools or cushions, the troubadours brought out their instruments: the lute and citole; the rebec and tabor; the flute and recorder.

Alamanda and Guiraut played nakers and shawm in a gay tune that invited dance. Being early in the evening, no one danced but everyone heeded the call. Gathering around the minstrels, the enrapt audience occupied the rush-strewn floor, neatly covered with cushions and clean table linens, while reed instruments and drums wove an enchanting spell. Cresset lamps and candelabra were extinguished. Figs and dates, thickly coated with honey and cinnamon, were scooped up by the handful. Flasks of ypocras were available with a stretching reach or the tap of a shoulder.

When the tune end
ed, Alamanda took up her lute and sang a song of her own verse. Her voice pure and melodic, she captivated every listener from the opening note. The story was a sad one, of a valiant knight off to join his king on crusade but destined never to return to his fair lady, who vowed to marry none but him. When the chanson ended, not a dry eye was to be found.

Drake had taken an isolated spot against the wall. His knees raised and his head thrown watchfully back, he idly stroked a
half-full goblet.

As for Maria de Torena, she occupied a cushion near enough to the troubadours as to be reflected in their lutes and regaled with their voices unimpeded.
She was instantly surrounded by courtly suitors who kneeled at her feet as before the throne of a queen.

Gui d’Ussel
claimed a lute and lovingly plucked the strings. The devoted words that poured from his mouth winged dulcetly toward the object of his desire.

Lady Maria,
tensons and all manner of song I thought I’d given up, but when you summon, how can I refuse to sing?

My reply is that the lady ought to do exactly for her lover
as he does for her, without regard to rank; for between two friends neither one should rule.

Maria hid tears beneath the veil of her lashes. His head canted to one side, Eble de Ventadorn probed his wife’s face.

Lady, here the people say that when a lady wants to love she owes her lover equal honor since they’re equally in love.

And if it happens that she loves him more,
her words and deeds should make it show; but if she’s fickle or untrue she ought to hide it with a pretty face.

Blinking, she shifted her glance and smiled diffidently up at her husband.

Lady, it’s embarrassing to argue that a lady should be higher than the man with whom she’s made one heart of two.

Either you’ll say (and this won’t flatter you)
that the man should love the lady more, or else you’ll say that they’re the same, because the lover doesn’t owe her anything that doesn’t bear love’s name.

When at last she lifted her lids, the dark gaze, fleet as a wink, was meant for only one man. Getting up, she went to Gui d’Ussel, his blazing hair standing up like cowlicks, and
delivered a chaste kiss to his forehead.

The drums beat on.
Voices rose and fell. Fiddle and flute interlaced. Cup after cup of Gascony wine was poured and consumed. The knights came to their feet, kicking in cadence to the quickening tempo and sweat running in rivulets down their faces and necks. One by one, they went to the ladies, sitting coyly but moving unwittingly to the throbbing music, and entreated them in courtly fashion.

In no time skirts were rippling amidst dark linen hose. Dance partners joined for the briefest of turns before one or the other was twirled into the arms of another. The instruments sang on, swelling in momentum and increasing in volume. Soon everyone was on his feet or her toes, joining hands and sliding merrily across the floor.

Drake watched from his low perch as the bodies swirled above him. Gui came to get him. “Drake! Do not sit there counting your toes. Come and dance!”

Soon he was spinning and laughing with the rest. Once he was paired off, briefly, with the
vicomtesse of Ventadorn, their hands touching at the fingertips. Her mouth flew open with laughter, and then she spun into the light embrace of Hugh de Lusignan.

Drake stepped out of the dizzying throng and watched from the side. Taking a brief rest, Alamanda came abreast of him. She glanced first at Drake, then subtly toward the
vicomtesse.

Soon after that, he slipped out.

* * *

A rush of brisk spring air swept inside the little chapel. On a rustling of skirts, the lady went into the sanctuary, her cloak billowing like a sail behind her and her face shrouded by a flowing hood.

Mass
had been held earlier that morning, but the supplicants had long since departed and their prayers instantly forgotten. The altar was set aglow by two beeswax candles. A musty ages-old scent permeated the walls. Every feature but the stark granite plinth was plunged into darkness. Dropping to her knees before the altar, she bent her head and prayed. The hood slipped back from her hair and revealed the nape of her neck, gloriously white in the flickering candlelight.

“Do you think you are committing a sin before God?”
the voice of a man asked.

She twisted around. Her brows joined at a sharp angle. She was not surprised to find him here. “Is this not God’s house?” Distraught with misgiving yet flushed with excitement, she rose to her feet.

Pushing himself away from the near wall, he crossed the breach in five easy strides. “Unfortunately for man, He does not need a special house to see all and know all.” He cupped the side of her face within his palm. Leaning into his touch, she let her eyes drift close, eyelashes fluttering. He said her name.

Her
dark eyes opened. They were wet with tears. “Tonight you may call me Iseut.”

“The fair Irish maiden?”

“—Who betrayed her husband with a forbidden lover. A tragic name that begets a tragic end.”

Her cloak was dewed with rainwater. He undid the ties for her and let it drape into gentle folds at their feet. “Then I am Tristan, your valiant knight.” And smiling brashly, bent to kiss her.