The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Go on. Ask you what?’

  Saskia’s fingers twisted busily. ‘No, I’ve said too much.’

  ‘If I were to ask you? I am doing,’ Eloise prompted.

  ‘Well, he didn’t go to them because he knew he’d stand less of a chance with them than with you.’

  ‘That’s not what you were going to say.’

  ‘No. I was going to say that it sounds more like payments than loans to me. Payments they both wanted no records of.’

  ‘Something illegal, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, love. But it makes more sense than unlimited unrecorded loans, doesn’t it?’

  The intricate hair-braiding continued in silence, with Saskia baring Eloise’s long graceful neck by looping her plaits back up on to her head and coiling the ends cleverly into a golden cord fixed on top. Eloise would have chosen to wear a fine white linen wimple and a sleeveless brocade surcoat to conceal her contours, but Saskia had ambitions for her mistress. Instead, she suggested a heavy gold chain set with amber, which she knew would lead a man’s eyes towards the firm roundness of the breasts beneath the topaz silk. And that was how Eloise went to supper in the great hall, joined by Jolita, Sir Henry Lovell and his parents, Lord and Lady Pace.

  Expecting the antagonism between her daughter and celebrated neighbour to continue, Lady Francesca had placed Lord Pace between them at the high table from where the full extent of the decorations could be seen.

  ‘You look lovely,’ whispered Lady Francesca to Eloise. ‘Feeling a little calmer now?’ She noticed with some anxiety how Eloise caught the corner of her lip between her teeth and let it go again. ‘There’s no reason to worry, child. The men will talk about themselves as they always do, and all you have to do is to smile and agree with them. There now, go along to your place and pretend that all’s well.’

  The midsummer solstice had now been adopted as the feast day of St John the Baptist and, although the traditional festivities were frowned upon by the church, they were still dished up each year with a strong pagan flavour and celebrated with enthusiasm. By St John’s Eve, the hall was dripping with birch boughs and garlands of pine, vervain and rue to protect those within from the spirits of evil. The high table shone with Sir Crispin’s most costly glass and silver, reflecting the light from clusters of candles that burned with the sweet aroma of honey.

  Placed by no choice of her own so near to Sir Owain, Eloise was made well aware of his popularity, both men and women attempting to draw him into their conversations from several places away, to seek his opinion and attention, to share their laughter with him. Eloise was among a minority who did not, being content to give her attention to Lord Pace whose trencher she shared, and to accept the food he presented to her on the point of his knife. This gave her the perfect chance to study Sir Owain whilst appearing not to, an activity she preferred far more than talking to him.

  His teeth were one of the first details she noticed, for it was a wonder that any soldier these days should have a perfect set, especially so white and even. His lips were mobile and quick to smile, and now she wondered unwillingly what his kisses would be like, pushing the thought aside guiltily while watching the keen eyes that she knew had flickered more than once in her direction. Through her eyelashes she was able to observe how his dark hair curled sleekly into his neck and lifted over his ears with no hint of silver, how his face was firmly muscled, fine-lined around mouth and eyes. Hugged by black velvet, his hands were sinewy and strong, his fingernails well manicured and clean, his gestures spare and steady. The gold velvet that skimmed his deep chest was belted low on slim hips with gem-studded enamelled links, and wide bands of gold embroidery on his sleeves winked in the light. Compared to many of the guests his dress was simple, but not one was more elegant.

  There had been times, since their first brief meeting two years ago, when she had wondered how her life would have been different if Sir Owain had won her instead of Sir Piers. She had usually consoled herself with the assumption that it would have been remarkably similar in many respects and, as consolations go, that had usually worked quite well. In the peace of the nights, she would darkly ponder about what might have been hers until she was almost able to convince herself that she didn’t want it. Never had. Never would. The tragedy that had made a widow of her seemed to underscore that conviction; the man was the same as all the rest and it had only been a girlish infatuation that had made her believe otherwise. But none of this prevented his image from returning to her daydreams more often than was comfortable.

  The conversation eventually came dangerously close as Sir Henry, Jolita’s future husband, leaned across to speak to Sir Owain whose fame clearly impressed him, declaring himself only partly sorry that he was not being allowed to joust during the celebrations ‘for obvious reasons’. That had made the three men laugh, which alone was enough to convince both sisters that perhaps Henry was not after all as un-loverlike as Jolita had supposed, especially when he tenderly covered her hand with his own as she blushed.

  His father, Lord Pace, had a reputation as formidable as Sir Owain’s as an experienced jouster. Sir Owain leaned across him to speak to Sir Henry, his eyes gravely mischievous. ‘Can you give me any words of advice, Sir Henry? Does his lordship’s horse squint, or pull to one side, by any chance? Does Lord Pace aim high? Or low? Just in case we should be drawn against each other, you understand.’

  Sir Henry wiped his mouth on his napkin, refusing to catch his father’s eye. ‘Do you know, Sir Owain,’ he replied, ‘that my father put the very same questions to me about you before supper?’ With a wink at Eloise, Henry’s droll sense of humour was established, and this time even Eloise was drawn into the laughter.

  Lord Pace was determined to have a contribution from her. ‘And who will be wearing your favour on his sleeve tomorrow, my lady?’ he asked her. ‘I wager you’ll be begged for both of these.’ He picked up the fur-lined tippets that hung from her elbow to the floor.

  ‘No, my lord.’ She smiled. ‘I think not. None of the contestants will be so short of a maiden’s favours that they need seek a widow’s.’ She knew Sir Owain to be listening to this exchange, but not for the world would she acknowledge it.

  ‘Rubbish!’ the older warrior snorted. ‘There’s not a man here who’d be anything but proud to wear one of these in the lists. Here’s Sir Owain now. He’ll be looking for your favour, I’ve no doubt. Eh, lady?’

  ‘I do not share your confidence, my lord. Sir Owain’s helm and sleeves will be festooned with ladies’ favours, but not mine. Men of Sir Owain’s reput—er, fame don’t need to look so far, or indeed to exert themselves at all in that direction. My future champion is one who will gladly devote himself to my affairs rather than to a dangerous sport.’ Her reply had begun with a smile, but her last words divulged the reason for her cynicism that threatened to put a halt to what had begun as lighthearted cajolery. Women were, after all, to be begged for favours, and some show of reluctance, even coldness, was an integral part of the sophisticated game of chivalry with which men learned to contend.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Lord Pace. ‘Your steward, your father tells me. A rather unorthodox choice, my lady, if I may say so.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Unorthodoxy has never concerned me as much as my parents would have liked it to, but my reasons are sound enough.’

  ‘In which case,’ said a familiar voice from Lord Pace’s other side, ‘your lack of convention is in danger of cladding you with a layer of ice. Beware that it doesn’t freeze you solid, or your steward will find life at Haughton Manor somewhat chilling.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Owain. That’s the second piece of unwanted advice you’ve offered me regarding my future, but I’ll pass it on to Master atte Welle for our mutual amusement,’ said Eloise.

  ‘Do so, lady.’

  Warily, Lord Pace looked from one to the other, wondering how best to melt the sudden frost. ‘Oh—ho!’ he smiled. ‘I believe we may have a gentle conflict on our hands. Take no notice of
him, my lady. He’ll get his come-uppance tomorrow if he’s drawn against me, never fear. I’ll bring him down a peg or two, eh?’

  ‘I’m sure Sir Owain will understand that far better than anything I could say, my lord, I thank you. And besides all that,’ she went on before Sir Owain could respond, ‘it would not look good for any man to be wearing my favour at jousting on the anniversary of my husband’s death, would it?’

  ‘So your unorthodoxy doesn’t extend so far, then?’ said Sir Owain.

  She was caught out. ‘No, sir,’ she whispered. ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Gratifying,’ he said, leaning back, the contest over.

  As the meal drew to an end, the ladies were invited to assemble in the inner courtyard to review the jousters’ helms and shields according to their right to make known any objection they might have. Enclosed on all sides by the castle buildings, the small courtyard was already ablaze in the light of tallow torches with the colours and patterns of dozens of shields above which hung the iron and steel helms topped by ornate crests. Heralds wearing the de Molyns green-and-gold livery escorted the procession of ladies around the display, answering every query about each of the contestants and their lineage; their knowledge was exhaustive. For Jolita’s sake, they pointed out Sir Henry Lovell’s, smiling knowingly as they added that it was there only for show, but went on to indicate his father’s helm that still showed a few dents from last time.

  ‘This one,’ they said, ‘will need no introduction. Sir Owain of Whitecliffe is a winner at every tournament, these days.’

  A murmur of approval ran through the women, several of whom giggled and remarked loudly that he could wear their favours any time, and though Eloise told herself that it mattered nothing to her, nevertheless she was drawn to his impressively shining steel helm with its gaudy plume of black-and-gold feathers, and a shiver of fear caught at her throat. Despite her denial that she was challenging him, she knew that the skirmishing had already begun and that, so far, she had nothing to show for it.

  As the men came to join them, the draws took place to decide who was to joust with whom on the following day. Tension mounted, and gusts of laughter combined with the usual friendly insult, Owain’s laughter as hearty as the rest. Women flocked around him and, from her distance, Eloise was reminded as never before how her late husband had revelled in such moments, drinking it in like a drug as if he was unable to do without it. She looked around her at the knights who would have known him, fought with him and contested him, and she wondered how many of them were bitten by the same madness for personal glory. They were presentable men, well dressed, well mannered and noble; many of them were Sir Owain’s personal friends who looked long at her then turned aside to whisper. Others came to talk to her and, in their company, she was escorted to the entertainment in the hall well before he returned.

  She had intended to stay close to Jolita to help her with the quiet man they had called courteous but not loverlike, but her assistance in their affairs would have been superfluous, the pair already being deep in conversation in a shadowy corner of the hall. There were other friends who were delighted to keep her company throughout the display of acrobatics, stilt-walking, which they called longshanks, the jugglers and gleemen, and there were others to whom she had a duty, as a daughter of the house, to spend time with. By the time Sir Crispin’s chamberlain announced that the village bonfire had been lit, Eloise was certain that Sir Owain had decided to keep his distance, which was a relief, she told herself, eyeing the group that enclosed him.

  To the dismay of the village priest, a ring-dance had already begun to circle the huge bonfire that crackled noisily at one side of the river. Reflections zig-zagged across the dark water, and whoops of excitement mingled with the sound of madly scraping viols and wailing pipes to which the village had come alive. Dogs yapped, chanting choruses lost and found the rhythm of the thudding tabor and the nick-nacks of bone that clattered merrily between the butcher’s boy’s fingers, hitting his knee and thigh in time to the pounding of feet.

  It was this period of complete abandonment that made Eloise forget, just for a while, that there was someone whose company she must avoid, for as long as the sights and sounds evoked images of her idyllic childhood, she could recall no feelings of ill will towards anyone. Their return through the castle gates to the great hall was not the mass exodus of before but a slow trickle of weary bedtime guests. After bidding her parents goodnight and then showing a group of six visiting chaplains where they might make their beds in a corner of the large muniment room, she began the ascent to her own chamber in the same tower. Jolita and Henry had long since disappeared.

  The heavily-studded door to her chamber was set into the wall on the left of the spiral staircase opposite a man-sized niche with an arrow-slit from where an archer could shoot at an enemy. As she rounded the last steep twist, the flickering glow from a wall-sconce showed her the unmistakable shape of a man leaning inside the niche as a guard might wait for some action. His deep gold surcoat reached almost to calf-length, but the side-slit to the hips showed her one long black-clad thigh and calf bulging with muscle, and a black pointed foot crossed tidily over the other.

  Her heart thudded out of control, and the temptation to swivel on the narrow wedge-shaped stair and flee almost overcame her anger. But she knew he would follow, and she would be no better off except for an audience of six astonished chaplains.

  Her eyes drew level with his waistline and she hesitated, preparing to turn, knowing that she would have to brush against him to open her door.

  ‘Come, lady,’ he said, softly. ‘We have some talking to do.’

  Again, she felt a perverse tightening in her lungs, and the words she meant to speak with emphasis came out breathless instead. ‘I have nothing more to say to you, sir.’ She placed a hand on the stone core that ran down the centre of the stairwell, hanging on to its coolness.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said without moving. ‘You said it all down there in the hall and in the solar, didn’t you? Now it’s my turn.’

  ‘Ah, of course. So that’s what this is all about. I dented your pride, now you must dent mine. You can’t afford to be dented too often, can you? Especially by a woman, of all people.’

  The smile entered his voice as he ignored the jibe. ‘D’ye want to stand there, or are you going to invite me inside?’

  ‘You know I cannot do that, even if I wanted to. It would be most improper, sir.’

  In one swift movement like a cat, he coiled and sat on the ledge of the niche before she could step downwards, putting his head on the same level as hers where she was obliged to see him at close quarters. ‘Improper, would it?’ he said. ‘For someone who publicly protests her unorthodoxy? How so?’

  ‘You know how so. And my maid is waiting for me. And it’s late.’

  ‘Saskia? No, she’s not.’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed downwards. ‘She’s with my man, in my chamber.’

  ‘Below mine? Your…? How did she…?’

  ‘Yes, just below you, my lady. And Saskia was not forced, I assure you. Now, shall we?’ He made a courteous gesture towards the door, waiting for the permission he was sure would follow, however unwillingly, and being far too clever to enter without it.

  Still she balked, it being her own unpreparedness that angered her most, for there were a thousand reasons why she could not accept the unnerving closeness of a man to whom, in her dreams, she had often been closer than close. Fuming, she cursed herself for lowering her guard against the one who would see an advantage from a mile away, and seize it. ‘I do not want to talk to you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not asking you to. I’ll talk, if you prefer.’ He stood and opened the heavy door, pushing it inside and making the torch flicker wildly in the draught. A cluster of candles shed a warm radiance of wavering light across the tapestry-covered walls like a haven of safety. But while she knew he would not force his way in, the notion of giving in to his request went
against every decision not to be one of the dozens of fawning women clamouring for his slightest attention. He had offered for her once and lost his chance, wasting a precious time of her life by his carelessness and losing her husband by some knavery. Against every screaming objection, she moved past him and entered her chamber, knowing that he would follow.

  They faced each other from across the room, Eloise wondering if this was how he assessed his opponents from beneath the splendid jousting helm. Provoked by his level gaze, his confident stillness, and by her own capitulation at this early stage, she exposed her own anger even further. ‘Well, then, get it over with. I cannot stop you from having your say, it seems, but I suppose it was only to be expected.’ With an unconcealed yawn, she sat on the chest and looked about her in apparent apathy, hoping that her rudeness would shake him.

  But if she expected him to launch into an immediate explanation for this intrusion, or a dressing-down for her former incivility, she was now disconcerted to find that it was his silence that unnerved her. Furthermore, while she was well used to men’s stares, this man’s penetrating and steady watchfulness troubled her as no other had ever done.

  ‘Such silence!’ His soft laugh riled her. ‘Does that come in three-month cycles, too?’

  Stung, she lashed out, wildly. ‘I am amazed, Sir Owain, that you have the effrontery to accept my father’s invitation to come here at this time when courtesy alone might have forbidden it, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Courtesy alone doesn’t stand much of a chance, lady,’ he said, placing his hands on his hips. ‘There’s too much going on here that I intend to be a part of for me to pay much heed to the circumstances, as you call them. You can call it effrontery, if it makes you feel any easier, but I prefer to call it determination.’

  ‘Of which commodity you were remarkably depleted only two years ago, sir, if I remember correctly.’