The Maiden and Her Knight (10 page)

Lady Isabelle ran into the tent and halted confusedly. “Percival?”

With a stricken expression that tore at his heart, Lady Allis went to her sister. “Come away, Isabelle.”

Too stunned by the sight before her, the young woman didn't move. “What has happened? What's wrong with Percival?”

“Isabelle, please, come with me.”

Nearly as pale as the squire, the girl still stood motionless, staring with disbelieving eyes at the body on the litter and the other three men averting their gaze. “No, I want to stay and help.”

Death was never easy to look upon, and his heart filled with pity for her as he stepped forward. “Please, my lady, go with your sister. You cannot help him.”

Isabelle's mouth formed the silent word.

“Yes,” he gently confirmed. “He is dead.”

With a loud cry, the girl fell sobbing to her knees. Lady Allis put her arms around her, trying to help her stand even as she glared at him over her sister's head.

“She is old enough for the truth.” Although he believed that, he felt a stab of regret. He should have left that truth for her sister, who knew Isabelle far better than he did.

Lady Allis helped the sobbing Isabelle to her feet. “Come, Isabelle, come with me.”

“I should have given him my scarf,” she wailed. “I didn't and now he's dead.”

“Yes, I know. Come away, dear. There is nothing we can do here.”

Slowly, with Isabelle crying and Lady Allis supporting her, the two women left the tent.

Brother Jonathan covered the body with a blanket, then wiped his anxious, perspiring face, while Bob and Harry shuffled their feet awkwardly. “You two may go.”

“I pray there are no more serious injuries today,” he muttered to himself after the soldiers left and he sat heavily on one of the cots.

“What happened?”

With a heavy sigh, Brother Jonathan scratched his chin. “Young Edmond, who was watching with us, did say that Percival had not been feeling very well this morning, but felt fit enough to be in the melee. If I had heard that beforehand, I might have stopped him.”

“You think it was an illness than killed him?”

The little man slowly shook his head. “Not an ague or similar malady. I think it was his heart. Or apoplexy.”

“Surely he is too young to die from such a thing.”

“It is rare, but it does happen. With the excitement
of the melee, the heat from his armor and clothing…it is possible, especially if he had a weak heart before.”

“Did he?”

Brother Jonathan spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He may have. Often men have no idea of the weakness lurking within their own bodies.” He got to his feet. “I had better go tell the baron, if he doesn't already know.”

“The baron? Lord Montclair is the host.”

“Percival was the baron's squire, and the earl must be told carefully. He will surely be upset and agitated.” Brother Jonathan ran his hand over his tonsure. “Oh, sweet heaven. The burial.”

The church frowned on tournaments and had decreed that those killed in them should be denied ecclesiastical burial. Participants were supposedly condemned to suffer eternal torment in hell, including wearing armor nailed into their flesh, unremovable.

Despite his skepticism over these stories, Connor shivered. He had managed to subdue such fears for a long time, for no one had died in a tournament in which he had participated, but what if they were right, and he was killed? Would God take his reason for being in a tournament into account? Would He remember that he had tried to do good by going with the king on Crusade?

“Percival did not die fighting in the tournament, but afterward,” he noted.

Relief flooded over Brother Jonathan's round face. “Yes, that's true. So there is no reason he cannot be buried with the necessary rites. Or maybe the baron will decide to send the body home to his family for burial. His father is the earl of L'Ouisseaux.”

The earl of L'Ouisseaux was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and one whose exact loyalties were a mystery, even to the king and his brother John. It was an interesting alliance for the baron—now broken.

Brother Jonathan turned toward the entrance to the tent. “If you will excuse me.”

“May I walk with you, Brother? I am going to the armory.”

The little man nodded his acquiescence, and together they went to the castle. Once past the gate, Brother Jonathan bade him farewell and headed toward the hall, while Connor swiftly crossed the courtyard, noting as he did that all seemed quiet and subdued. The death of a man in a tournament was a serious matter; the death of one like Percival, from an important family, was even more momentous.

He glanced at the hall, wondering how Lady Allis and her family were faring. He hoped she did not assume any blame for what had happened. She already bore so much upon her slender shoulders.

He reached the keep of the castle and pushed open the door. Inside, it was like a combination carpenter's shop and smithy. It smelled like both—and something else besides. Along wooden bench covered in tools and bits of wood stood in the center. A hearth was at the far end and glowing hot. Near it lay metal for fashioning arrow tips and swords, and a pile of kindling. Plain shields and two painted lances leaned against the wall. Several swords, used by the garrison no doubt, were in stands near the door, held in racks by their hilts.

The man working at the bench was huge, the tallest man he had ever seen, and perhaps the most filthy. His dark, greasy hair hung lank about his shoulders, and his clothes looked as if they had never been washed.
The man's body odor explained the unusual scent of the room.

“Ya?” he growled in a German accent as he continued to repair the hilt of a sword.

“You are the armorer?”

“Ya.”

“I have come to find my lance, which was broken in the melee yesterday.”

“Ya?”

This was not going to be an easy conversation. “I understand the broken weapons are brought here.”

“Ya.” The man nodded toward the opposite wall.

The two lances there had broken ends. “Mine was shattered.”

“Ah. Ya.” This time, the man stopped working and gestured at the pile of kindling.

“The pieces are there?”

The man shook his head, then pointed into the hearth.

“You
burned
them?”

“Ya,” the armorer confirmed, going back to work.

Connor tried to keep calm and not betray any rancor. “On anyone's orders?”

The German glanced up, puzzled, as he shook his head before once more returning to his task.

Connor stalked out of the armory. Perhaps the armorer's fire was the usual fate for broken lances at Montclair, or perhaps someone was cleverly covering his tracks. Either way, now he would never have proof that his lance had been tampered with.

Lost in his rancorous thoughts, he walked right into Lord Oswald. “My lord! Forgive my haste!”

Lord Oswald reached out a broad hand to steady him. “You look upset, as we all are today.”

Connor forced away his frustration. “Although I didn't know the young man, a death in a melee is always disturbing.”

“The baron plans to take the boy's body home to his father. He says it is the least he can do.”

Connor tried not to betray any emotion, and certainly not even a hint of pleasure at the news that the baron would be gone from Montclair. “That is good of him.”

Lord Oswald nodded at the armory. “You had business with the talkative Attila?”

“He never said his name.”

“No, he wouldn't.”

“I was asking about my lance. It was broken in the melee yesterday.”

“Ah, yes. Can it be repaired?”

“It was burned.” He thought of telling Osric's brother what he suspected, but since he had no proof, he would pay heed to Lady Allis's warning and hold his tongue. After all, it had cost her something to caution him. He had seen the struggle in her beautiful eyes. “It was little more than tinder anyway, I suppose.”

Lord Oswald was obviously shocked. “Tinder?”

“Yes, it shattered when I struck the baron's shield.”

“How unfortunate! I have heard of such things happening, if the wood is old. Still, between your accident and the lad's death, I am beginning to think this tournament is cursed.”

L
ate that night, Rennick looked around the chapel, assuring himself that only he, Oswald and Auberan were there. Oswald stood near the statue of the Virgin, his large bulk partially in shadow.

Rennick's gaze lingered a moment on the Madonna, her hands folded in prayer and her head bowed. She looked like Allis, only much more submissive. Of course, Mary submitted herself to God, while Allis would have to submit to him.

Auberan hurried toward him. “How can you be smiling? This is terrible. Had you no notion the lad was weak?”

“Of course I didn't know he was ill. Otherwise, I would have prevented him from participating,” Rennick replied evenly.

“Albert L'Ouisseaux was a valuable ally,” Oswald remarked.

“There is no reason he cannot continue to be an ally,” Rennick said. “Brother Jonathan does not suspect foul play.”

“Then you…then you…”

Rennick glared at the stammering Auberan. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, not at all. I meant…then you think L'Ouisseaux will still be with us?”

“He hates the king as much as anyone, although he hides it better than most,” Oswald said. He smiled as he looked at Rennick, and it was not a pleasant smile. “He was not chosen to be in the king's retinue or given any position at court, either.”

Auberan stared at him, understanding dawning on his stupid face.

“Yet all have to pay to finance Richard's quests,” Rennick said. “That is our complaint against the king.”

“Oh, yes, nothing personal about it,” Oswald said with only the slightest hint of a sneer. “Still, a great pity about Percival. I had hopes for him and young Isabelle. If he married your sister-in-law, Rennick, that would have allied you with L'Ouisseaux even more. Now we must find another husband for the charming Lady Isabelle, and another alliance.” He looked pointedly at Auberan.

Rennick could barely keep a scowl off his face. Oswald wanted him united in a family alliance with Auberan de Beaumartre? Having that dolt, even though he was a rich dolt, chained to him by matrimony was not a pleasant prospect.

Auberan, however, fairly beamed at the suggestion.
No doubt the fool saw himself hitching his cart to Rennick's horse and being pulled along to power, just as he was using Oswald.

“The poor girl was naturally very upset,” Oswald continued. “Perhaps she is in need of comfort, Auberan. Why don't you go and see if you can speak to her? If you can, be sure to say nothing of yourself—only Percival. This is no time to make your goal clear, do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” he answered, fairly running to the door.

After he had gone, Oswald turned toward Rennick. “So tell me, how is it a man dies in the prime of his youth?”

He regarded Oswald steadily and lied easily. “His heart was weak and gave out. Or it was apoplexy, according to Brother Jonathan.”

Brother Jonathan was clever and learned, but he was young and the drug Rennick had obtained, made from foxglove, was not widely known to affect the heart. Indeed, he hadn't even been sure himself that it would have the desired result despite the assurances of the apothecary in London, a man who had made his reputation by experimenting on the destitute.

Unfortunately, he had not considered that perhaps Oswald knew something about substances that would mimic a natural death.

Oswald strolled back toward the statue of the Virgin Mary. Bending, he blew out one of the votive candles, then smiled with mischievous satisfaction. “I am likewise glad to think that Sir Connor's visit to the armory this afternoon did not produce embarrassing results. I understand he was asking about his lance.”

Although his heart raced, Rennick kept his expression as innocuous as Oswald's. “Surely he cannot believe he can fix it. It was shattered to pieces.”

Oswald blew out another candle before replying. “Yes. Whatever he wanted it for, it was not there. It was smashed into tinder, and as tinder it was used.” He slid Rennick a condemning glance. “I think it is time you stopped taking matters into your own hands, Rennick. I will not have my plans disrupted by childish schemes.” He sauntered toward his companion. “It is a lucky thing for you that even I cannot prove Percival's death was murder. We must be above reproach, and if there is any shred of proof that a man allied with me is guilty of a crime, I will cut him loose without hesitation. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord, I understand.”

“As for Auberan, I know better than you that he is a stupid fool who will soon prove to be more of a liability than an asset. I will see to him. In the meantime, we shall keep him happy by dangling pretty little Isabelle of Montclair before his nose.”

 

Two days later, Connor walked through the courtyard of Montclair Castle shortly after the evening meal had concluded, heading back to the ward where he was encamped.

Since Percival's death, Lady Allis had not appeared again in the great hall, nor had her father. The baron, who was to leave tomorrow to take the squire's body home, had taken the place of host in the interval. He acted as if Montclair belonged to him and seemed to forget it was his squire's death that had temporarily put him in the earl's carved chair.

Connor paused, looking up at the wall walk and the
sentries patrolling there, a habit born of long years at war. Clouds, thin and dark, raced swiftly across the moon, and the breeze was chill enough to make him shiver. Wrapping his right arm about his left in the sling, he hoped Lady Allis was taking a few moments for herself at this time, or she might become ill, too, from fatigue and worry. He had seen it happen thus. Perhaps there was some way he could suggest—

He walked briskly toward the wicket in the gate. He was in no position to suggest anything to the chatelaine of Montclair and had troubles of his own to deal with.

Nevertheless, as he went past the chapel, he paused once more and looked back at the hall. He had no doubt that Lady Allis was a competent, strong-willed woman, yet it must be difficult for her, with a father incapable of leading the family, a future husband she despised, and having to be a parent to two younger siblings. She had responsibilities the like of which he had never known. No one depended on him for their security or happiness. No one came to him for comfort when they were in pain, or to share their joy.

To be sure, Cordelia had begged him to stay at Llanstephan, but she didn't need him. The king had not needed him; he had cast him out as he might dismiss an unruly servant. Nobody needed him, except to earn money, like a common laborer, and only then because he himself had vowed to do so. Caradoc had not even asked that of him, probably because he could not believe his headstrong, selfish little brother could change.

Caradoc was wrong. He
could
change. Since his return from the East, he had done all he could to help, with the one exception of going to Richard himself, and given what had happened between them, that was
impossible. Yet what had he to show for it?

“Oh, God,” he whispered as wave after wave of desolate sorrow washed over him. What good was he to anybody? If he died tomorrow, who on this earth would miss or mourn him?

Cordelia, and his horse.

Humbled and ashamed, a great wave of loneliness and despair washed over him as he leaned against the wall, his head bowed with the weight of his pain. The last time he had felt truly needed or wanted was when he held Osric dying in his arms. And perhaps a little that night in the garden, when he had tried to make Lady Allis smile. Or maybe he had been deluding himself about that, too. Maybe she had just indulged him, as she might a child who amused her. Perhaps she had warned him not to accuse the baron, but simply because she had enough to deal with and didn't want an irate future husband on her hands, too.

On the wall walk above, two sentries exchanged greetings. His pride rebelled at being seen in such a state by even a sentry, so he slipped inside the chapel, where he tried to conquer his despair and regain his self-control.

Two candles burned upon the altar, and the votive candles beneath the Madonna added to the feeble light. A hint of incense lingered in the air.

He came farther inside and realized he was not alone.

A woman knelt before the Madonna, her back to him. Her head bowed, her hands covered her face and her shoulders shook as she wept, the sobs wracking her slender frame.

Who was it? Lady Allis? It was difficult to imagine her strength giving way to such heart-wrenching sobs, but not impossible.

Intending to offer some words of comfort, he took a few swift steps forward. Then he hesitated.

As he dreaded being seen in his moment of weakness, so would she. She was as much a warrior in her own right as he ever was or would be, and her battles were as terrible as any he had ever known. He must respect her as he would Osric, if Osric were in her place. He must not speak to her of her pain unless she gave him leave to do so.

The woman raised her head and glanced over her shoulder. It wasn't Lady Allis, but young Isabelle, her cheeks wet with tears and her eyes red with crying.

She jumped to her feet like a startled deer. “What do you want?”

As it was wrong to be alone with Lady Allis, it was wrong to be alone with her younger sister. “Forgive me for intruding—”

“It's…it's all right,” she stammered, coming toward him. “You don't have to go.”

“I must, my lady,” he said, turning.

“Please, I would like to talk to you a moment, if I may.”

“Your sister will not—”

“Allis is busy with our father. He took Percival's death very hard. She'll be lucky if she can get him to sleep tonight. She thinks I don't know how difficult he can be sometimes, but I do.” She sniffled and wiped her nose on her long, dangling cuff as she came closer. I thought…I thought I would come and pray to the Holy Mother to look after Percival.”

She looked very young and vulnerable, and very much in need of comfort, and he suspected she needed to give voice to her feelings. “And I will pray that he be taken into the glorious company of St. Michael the
Archangel. For an honorable young knight on the verge of manhood, that does not seem too much to ask.”

She made a tremulous smile. “Percival wanted to go on the Crusade, as you did, but he was too young. I suggested he ask you about the Crusade and being in the king's retinue.”

“You are a very wise young lady.”

She looked at him another moment, then burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. “I'm a fool. A selfish, stupid fool,” she wailed.

“You could not know he was going to die,” he said softly.

“But I might have been nicer to him. I was so horrid!” She began to cry in earnest, her shoulders shaking, her whole body trembling with sorrow. She reminded him of Cordelia, crying when he quarreled with Caradoc.

So he did what he should have done with Cordelia, instead of riding off like a pigheaded fool. He put his right arm around her and let her lay her sobbing head against his shoulder. “He was better off in England.”

“But he's dead!”

“He didn't suffer much, though. He might have suffered a good deal on the Crusade, and been dead just the same.”

“He would have died in a glorious cause,” Isabelle sobbed. “He would have been with the king, too.”

Connor clenched his teeth. This was not the time or place to tell the truth about Richard.

“Take your hands off my sister!”

Isabelle pushed him away, the sudden movement sending a pain shooting through his left shoulder. “Allis!”

The chatelaine of Montclair stood at the door of the chapel, her hands on her hips and ire in her eyes.

He stepped away from Isabelle, holding out his hand in a placating gesture. He could guess how their positions looked to her.

“I was crying and he—” Isabelle began.

“Go to bed, Isabelle.”

“Don't be angry will me, Allis,” the girl pleaded. “We weren't doing anything wrong.”

He stepped forward and spoke before there was another quarrel. “No, we were not.”

Paying no heed to him, Lady Allis's expression softened. “I'm not angry with you, Isabelle. Please go on to bed.”

“Sir Connor was only being nice to me. We were talking about Percival. You've been so busy with Father, I didn't want to disturb you, so—”

“I understand. Please leave us.”

With obvious reluctance, Isabelle obeyed. She glanced over her shoulder at Connor before she slipped out the door.

While Lady Allis might excuse her sister, he feared she would not be so quick to forgive him, so he hurried to explain. “I only sought to comfort her in her grief. Death is never easy, especially if you are full of remorse for things left undone and unsaid, or regret those things you have done and said. I merely offered her a shoulder to cry on.”

Unappeased, Lady Allis frowned and crossed her arms. “And a very broad shoulder it is, as I'm sure you know. Were you going to kiss her wrist, too, or do you save that for older women?”

“I've only done that once.”

She raised a skeptical brow.

“Whether you believe me or not, it's true. And I certainly don't try to seduce distraught girls.”

“Only older, betrothed women?”

“I wasn't trying to seduce you.” He had certainly wanted to kiss her and he wouldn't have refused had she indicated she was willing to do more, but it had not been his intention to woo her into his bed.

“Perhaps you think to win my love and marry an heiress of Montclair. Exactly which one makes no difference.”

Pride and indignation roared through him as he strode toward her. “I am not a harlot, willing to sell myself for gain, not while I have even one good arm to fight with.”

“So you say.”

“It is the truth.”

It was the fierce defiance in his eyes, the firm conviction of his voice and the very way he stood that made her believe him. He did not see her as a means to reduce his poverty. He did not crave her body only to assuage his lust. He had no evil designs on Isabelle.