Authors: Lindsay Townsend

To Touch The Knight (6 page)

BOOK: To Touch The Knight

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“What kind of help?” Ranulf pretended an interest she was convinced he did not feel.

“Whatever is seemly for a princess to undertake,” she replied, and now she turned to Lady Blanche. “May I see the stitching on your sleeves, my lady? I do not think I have ever seen finer.”

The crisis passed. Lady Blanche was content to talk of fashions, tugging and tweaking at her gown and chatting of the courts of southern France and the wondrous gowns of Queen Philippa of England.

Her adversary, though, would not be diverted. “Beg pardon, ladies, but what is this quest of the princess? I burn to know.”

I have you!
Edith leaned forward, allowing the slight breeze to flutter the ribbons of her cloak across her breasts. “When we go to the field of battle, all will be ready, and all will be revealed then, Sir Ranulf.”

She had summoned, spoken to, and paid the servants of the castle, and since she always paid well, she knew it would be done. They might even have enjoyed bringing the things she had asked for to the high field.

“Do we walk there?”

“We do,” she answered automatically, inwardly cursing as she realized that by that unguarded reply he had already learned that her “quest” was not one to be accomplished from horseback: a score for him.

“You will not need your men, either,” she added, choosing to tease him a little. “I have a most particular task for you, Sir Ranulf. If you refuse it, then you must pay a forfeit.”

She expected him to bridle, but instead, he startled her and everyone else by bursting into laughter. “Princess, if all will be revealed later, I am well content.”

Ranulf collected a shield, a club, and a large flask of ale from his squire Edmund. “You can wear that?” he asked, seeing the lad sagging under his own chain mail.

“Of course!” Edmund was instantly straight again and ready to stride up the field. The mail coiled and pouched on his rather scraggy frame and he had gone as red in the face as a bullfinch while pulling it over his head, but the exercise would strengthen him. All squires had to become accustomed to wearing armor. Ranulf remembered how the mail had seemed to itch across his shoulders and back until he became used to it.

There was another reason he had Edmund carry his armor in this way: he suspected the princess's quest would involve a contest, but not wholly one of armsânot when she plainly intended to best him and, no doubt, ask for the return of her favors as a prize. Hiding a smile, he addressed the youngest, newest member of his traveling household. “Ready to carry my helm, Gawain?”

The fair-haired, curly-headed page nodded. He was still shy and avoided looking at Ranulf directly with those large gray eyes of his, but his bruises were fading and he was eating well now: two bowls of pottage a day, if he could get them.

“Excellent!” Ranulf hung a small flask about the page's slender neck. “There is your ale for the afternoon, and Edmund has food. Stay with him when you watch the contest. Do not eat any herring pies and do not let the damsels stuff you with sweets.”

Gawain nodded again. Edmund had assured him that the child could speak, so Ranulf left it at that. Hefting his shield across his back, he stalked out of his small camp and prepared to encounter the princess again.

Chapter 7

Word had spread of her quest. There was a goodly crowd at the top of the tourney field, standing amidst the deserted strips and a broken, discarded plow. Teodwin, leaning on her arm in the guise of “guiding” her, clicked his tongue.

“This could be unruly,” he warned.

“Or amusing,” Edith answered. Behind them, plodding on as he had done in the fields five seasons before, Martin of Warren Hemlet chuckled.

“I wonder how these grand knights will fare, drawing a bow?” he asked, in the old dialect.

“We shall soon discover,” Edith replied in the same tongue. “After the battle of the hay. That is, if Sir Ranulf comes.”

Teodwin stroked his purple silk. “Perhaps he will not come.” His voice quivered with hope.

“He is coming now,” said Edith, “carrying a shield on his back and looking very tall and grim.”

Her spirits soared at the sight of him, at his dazzling white tunic, his kingly features, his rangy strength, even his bear temper. She could scarcely wait for their next encounter.

Ranulf was lateâthe rest of the company was here, the knights standing fretfully about, glowering at the archery butts and bows, many clearly ill at ease. Heads turned and faces looked accusingly at himâno noble, however minor, thinks he should ever wait. Standing under makeshift awnings at the corners of the great field, the damsels looked hot and thirsty. Only the Eastern little princess, standing on tiptoe to whisper into the ear of Lady Blanche, seemed at ease. Lady Blanche was smiling, too: bad news.

“Forgive me for being tardy, ladies.” He bowed and nodded to Edmund, who began to writhe out of the chain mail with Gawain hovering with his flask of ale. “Are we to be archers this afternoon?”

“It is a worthy sport,” Lady Blanche replied. “But first there is another contest for you, my lord.” She stretched her arm and pointed to the uncut mass of hay and flowers in the middle of the next field. A straggle of haymakers, no doubt fewer than in the years before the pestilence, had already started, moving slowly in the bright sunlight and rising heat.

“The princess tells me that in Cathay it is considered a rich game for the nobles to cut and gather many flowers for their ladies.”

“Armloads of lilies,” said the princess, “but here cornflowers and daisies will suffice.”

“Armloads? Not a posy, then?” Ranulf kept his face still; she must not know this would be easy for him.

“Armloads, sir knight,” repeated the princess firmly. “A task for you alone, my quest for you.” Laughter bubbled in her voice.

“What of the other knights?” he asked, still straight-faced.

“They will now begin the archery contest,” Lady Blanche replied. “The knight who first makes threescore best hits of the target shall have my especial favor today.”

“A contest which you will join only after you have completed your first task,” the princess added, with a nod to Lady Blanche.

The two women had clearly devised it between them.

Ranulf grunted, to hide his amusement. No doubt the haughty Eastern female assumed he would fall way behind with his task, but he would show her. “Will you walk with me to the western field, Princess?”

“With my lady's leave.”

She nodded to Lady Blanche, who said at once, “But of course, Princess. I would see the beginnings of the archery contest first, but you and whoever of my damsels that wish to watch Sir Ranulf battle with flowers . . .”

She trailed off, leaving the other knights smirking and the younger women giggling when the Lady of Lilies spoke up.

“It will be my pleasure.” She sounded as if she was smiling, but Ranulf knew he would be laughing later.

He glanced at her feet as he offered his arm, she accepted and they fell into step together. For a moment he savored her sweet perfume, liking the golden cloud of her cloak and the way she came just to his shoulder. An image of her resting her head against his rib cage surprised him with its pleasing force. “Not bare-shod today, Princess?”

Her veil flickered as she looked down at her neatly booted feet. “It is no joy to walk so in a wheat or hay field, sir.”

“I thought the people of the East did not eat bread?” He had recalled that from somewhere and was not even sure if it was true.

“I have walked in other places than Cathay,” she said quickly. “Why were you late, Sir Ranulf? Lady Blanche was reluctant to agree to my contest, but when you were so tardy, she grew out of temper and changed her mind.”

“I needed to speak with someone, a good friend of mine.” He had sought out Giles, to see if Giles wished to take part in the contest with him, but Giles was hawking that afternoon with the heiress Maud and had left the camp with no word to anyoneâtypical Giles, really.

“It is good to have friends.” The princess glanced behind as she spoke, to see if her gaudy steward was keeping pace with them. (He was, a dignified step or so behind.)

“I think so.”

“I know so.” She clapped her gloved hands together lightly, to emphasize her point.

She always appeared in gloves, Ranulf recalled, and he wondered why. To disguise work-worn hands, perhaps? No one about the camp had any memory of his maid of the stream, but he still had an idea on that; a wild idea to be sure, but one which fit all points. She was as small as the brown maid, as slender . . .

Intending to test more, he said, “Perhaps we have traveled to the same places at different times. Have you been to Calais? No? But then where did you take ship to England?”

“Venice,” she said crisply, which could be true.

“Is your father a great warrior?”

The change of subject startled her. Surprise shone in her eyes.

“Why do you ask?”

“Sir Tancred has a new kind of sword with him, and the men whom you favor do well. It is said the knowledge of the East is greater than ours, and I thought perhaps they do well because of you.”

He stopped, allowing her to speak, hoping to tempt her to an indiscretion, a moment of pride. All she said was, “I am pleased if I inspire the knights.”

“Because you enjoy bloodshed?”

“Not so!” That stung her. She lengthened her stride and would not look at him as he drew alongside.

“My lady?”

“Why do you fight?” she demanded, still without looking at him.

He could have said for honor, glory, prizes, but instead the words tumbled out, “Why do you think I do?”

They strode on in silence for several paces. She waved at someone in the crowd. He heard the distant
chok!
and
thump
of arrows hitting targets and knew the archery contest had begun. His breath snagged in his chest, coiling hot and twisted, as he hung upon her answer. Suddenly he had to know what she thought of him, truly.

“In these times of death, some feast and make merry, wringing all sweetness from their days,” she said, her voice low and hard. “You hit out, fast and hard, seeking respite for grief through battle.”

He let go the breath he had been holding, relieved that she did not see him as a killer for sport.

“Some pray to God and the heavens, though I cannot understand why.” She stared up at the cloudless vault of the sky, and added, “Have you ever seen an angel?”

“Not all that is in the world can be touched, seen, surely?” he protested. “Consider music, the wonders of painting, story, where men are inspired by the unknown and strive for it.”

She kicked a dried cow pat to pieces as they passed it. “Only a knight would have the luxury to be such a dreamer.”

“You think life nothing more than eating and sleeping?” He was aghast at her attitude. “What of the friendship we spoke of only a moment ago?”

“Or love? You knights are full of love, are you not?”

“Princess,” said her steward behind them, and his voice was steely with warning.

The Lady of Lilies dropped her head. For an instant Ranulf wondered if she might put her veiled face in her gloved hands, but then she stared at her hands as if they were unknown to her. “Forgive me,” she said throatily, “it is the day. These bright days put me in mind of my homeland, and I wonder how my people fare. Or perhaps I am too warm.”

Angered by her lack of self-control and alarmed by her sudden rageâ
where did that come from? Never has my sense of injustice at Gregory's death bitten into me, driven me, more sharply
âEdith sought to gain an advantage. She dropped off her cloak, knowing that Teodwin would gather it. Remembering what her grandfather had said of the maids of the East she walked proudly, sucking in her bare gut, feeling her long hair plait bounce against her bottom, aware that Ranulf would see her plait beneath her short head-veil, and her silk-clad hips and garlanded middle.

“Ropes of grass, Princess?” he asked, seeming as cool as frost as other bystanders gasped and pointed.

Edith smiled, feeling a little more in control again. Speaking of dress and sparring with a man was nothing new to her; there was no danger here. She did not sport ropes of grass and he knew it. Teodwin had gathered grass and wheat and oats to make into a garland that she had wound about her middle and across her breasts. Her short jerkin today was pale cream, to match her flowing long skirts, and she wore many necklaces of polished copper. She knew she looked well in it, and the copper matched the gleams in Ranulf's hairâ
No! In my own hair.

“It is a sign of harvest in my land,” she replied, breaking off a head of wheat and offering it to him. “For maids to dress so brings good luck to the crops. As you see.” She stretched out her other arm and pointed to the tall hay and mingled purple corncockle, poppies, ox-eyed daisies, and cornflowers.

“And there is my task.”

“And so you may begin it, Sir Ranulf.” He was indeed very quick, and she wished he was more confounded. Did he not like her costume?

“Armloads of flowers, Princess? You do not fear bee stings, then?”

“You may place them by my feet,” she said, acknowledging that with a nod. “A seat of flowers.”

“And if I do this, and win the archery, I will keep your favors, Princess, and demand a forfeit.”

“As you wish,” she said easily, for she did not think he would achieve it. “Pray, Sir Ranulf”âshe wanted him to be clear on this final instruction: this was a contest between them, but she would not have others affected by themâ“be pleased not to disturb the other haymakers. They have only begun today”âat a quiet suggestion from herselfâ“and my Lady Blanche would not be happy if you did.”

“I will keep to the southeast side of the field, where none are working. It is poor grass there, anyway.”

“Thank you.” Surprising her by such close knowledge of crops, he startled her afresh by dropping his shield in the same languid way that she had cast aside her cloak and by striding up the field to the hay reeve. Handing the man a tall flask, he returned by the same path and, before she could remonstrate, said, “I do not trouble them, Princess, but the haymakers will take a rest now, and one has loaned me his scythe.”

The best and sharpest scythe, she noticed, and he carried it as deftly as he handled a sword.

“Excuse me.”

He confounded her anew. Leaning the handle of the scythe against himself, he stripped to his linen leggings, appearing as lightly clad as one of the haymakersâor her.

He thinks he has beaten me at my own game, but I will not stare at him
, Edith determined. Behind her, the damsels trudging up the field on their heeled shoes and dragging their long trails and sleeves after them now clapped and shouted, instantly excited and energized.

“Look at his scars!”

“Look at those muscles!”

BOOK: To Touch The Knight

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