The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  She had time, during the evening, for a few words with Jolita, whose newly betrothed had been prised from her side for some vital men’s talk. Full of excited anticipation, Jolita could hardly help but notice her sister’s new bond with Sir Owain of Whitecliffe.

  ‘A truce, love?’ Jolita said, delightedly. ‘Well, that’s a good start.’

  Eloise might have disagreed, but this was no time for such a discussion in the face of Jolita’s happiness. ‘Before you disappear again,’ she said, smiling, ‘does Mother know what you intend tonight?’

  Jolita’s eyes sparkled. ‘Heavens, no! She’d not disapprove, but we’ll tell the parents afterwards or they’ll embarrass us with advice. You know what they’re like.’

  Yes, Eloise did. Consummation had been at the forefront of Sir Piers’s mind at her betrothal too, yet the experience had not been for her one of life’s more exalted moments, especially as he had publicised his intentions well beforehand to anyone who would listen, robbing it of any delicacy or spontaneity. Eloise shuddered at the memory, suppressing a dark shadow of envy at Jolita’s light-heartedness while they hugged, willing her to be treated with more respect than she had been.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Jolita said, ‘I’m staging an archery contest. Men versus women. Sir Henry doesn’t believe women can do better, so I told him we’d beat them hollow. You’ll be there in my team, won’t you, Ellie? I dare not lose my wager.’

  Eloise didn’t ask what the wager was. ‘Of course I will. In the morning?’

  ‘At the butts, as soon as we’ve broken our fast. Tell Sir Owain. And don’t be too late to bed!’ Loaded with meaning, the warning came out in a loud whisper as she danced away to meet Sir Henry.

  ‘You’re under a misapprehension, my love,’ Eloise muttered sadly.

  Towards midnight, after the dancing and singing, after the wine and the young men’s usual horseplay, Eloise and Sir Owain made their way, as they had promised, to the chamber where Sir Rolph was being tended by Father Janos and a gently snoring Griselle. Her two ladies sat in one corner by the brazier, talking in low voices.

  Father Janos laid down his book and rose to meet them, approval showing plainly in his face at the sight of Eloise wearing his master’s violet cloak and brooch. ‘He’s coming round nicely,’ he whispered. ‘And you two?’

  Sir Owain kept a straight face. ‘Yes, we’re coming round nicely too, I thank you.’ He placed an arm around her shoulders and drew Eloise to his side. ‘Very nicely.’

  Eloise explained. ‘You may as well know, Father, that we have called a truce for Jolita and Henry’s sake. It’s only a temporary one. It won’t last.’

  The physician’s face betrayed nothing. ‘Ah, a temporary one. Those are the best kind.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my lady. Permanent ones never last, in my experience.’

  Coming awake to the sound of voices, Lady Griselle busied herself with the bedsheets in an attempt to convince them that she had not been sleeping. Her ladies came forward to help her rise. ‘I do wish he’d wake,’ she complained. ‘Are you sure you’re giving him the right medication? What about a little verjuice in water, Father?’

  ‘My lady,’ Father Janos replied, ‘we are trying to get him to sleep peacefully rather than to wake him up. Now, you’ve done more than a wife’s duty here. Perhaps you should allow your ladies to take you to your rest. It’s important, you know. Come, ladies. Your mistress is ready to retire.’

  As they had suspected, the door was no sooner closed upon the three women than Sir Rolph cautiously opened his eyes with a sigh and caught sight of his audience’s amusement. He tried to grin at Sir Owain but managed only a frown at the pain in his jaw.

  Sir Owain went to his bedside and crouched on the warm stool. ‘How are things, old chap?’ he said. ‘You take some knocking over, I must say.’

  Their subdued conversation, though lopsided, was a comradely and detailed one in which their contest was dissected, move by move, before edging on to those that Rolph had missed. Seeing their involvement, Eloise saw a way of taking her leave at last without Sir Owain’s attendance.

  ‘I’ll come first thing tomorrow,’ she told her brother, smiling at him. She laid a hand on Sir Owain’s hunched shoulder. ‘Please stay with him,’ she said. ‘Rolph is enjoying your company.’

  He turned, taking hold of her hand before it could be removed. ‘Yes, I’ll stay here awhile, but I think our good doctor should leave now. Shall you escort Lady Eloise, Janos? Two of Rolph’s men will be here soon to take the night watch.’ He lowered his voice for Eloise alone. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well, my beauty.’ Holding her hand for a moment longer, he kissed her knuckles and let it go.

  ‘Goodnight, Sir Owain. You’ll be at the butts tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly I will, if only to prove Sir Henry right.’ His handsome face stretched into a grin as he turned back to Sir Rolph with an explanation, and Eloise felt a flutter of excitement vibrate around her heart as she left the room with Father Janos.

  ‘Who is Marie?’ he asked as soon as the door was closed.

  Eloise had half-expected the question at some stage, aware that he had heard her brother’s first word on regaining consciousness. ‘Sir Rolph’s eldest daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s almost eight. She and her father are close.’

  ‘Ah, then I shall suggest that she visit him tomorrow.’

  They reached the muniment room at the base of the tower where the flock of noisy chaplains were merrily disputing the bedding arrangements, clearly having taken every advantage of the good wine that evening. Inevitably, Father Janos was hauled into their midst to adjudicate whilst Eloise took the opportunity to slip back to the hall to see if Jolita and Henry were still there.

  Loud and over-merry, the sound of men’s shouts and laughter was funnelled through the passageway perforated with openings that led downwards and upwards into shadowy tunnels. Ahead of her, the light from the hall cast a glow already being dimmed by the hall servants, then by a straggling crowd of men whose intention to seek their beds was being hampered by the need to continue their rowdy gossip. They hung around the entrance, presenting an unattractive obstacle to Eloise’s progress, so she waited in the shadow of an archway for them to pass. But they were slow, and she had almost decided to go back when the sound of her own name grasped her attention with a sickening jolt.

  They sauntered nearer, arguing and laying bets.

  ‘I’ll lay you any odds,’ one of them yapped.

  ‘Too late, lad. He’ll be in her bed at this moment. He doesn’t waste time with a woman, you know. I’ve seen him get to work.’

  ‘Rubbish! You saw Lady Icicle tonight. If she’d been with me I’d have thawed her out for him.’

  ‘You!’ The laughter burst like a floodgate opening, turning Eloise’s blood to a slow crawl in her veins. The hair on her arms prickled under the violet cape, and she drew back further into the darkness at their unsteady approach.

  ‘You…and Lady Eloise… Hah!’

  ‘She’s a rare beauty all right, but he’d be daft to wed her.’

  ‘Not when he can bed her without it, eh? I like that. Bed but not wed. Bed but…’

  ‘Shuttup! You know her form. Anyone would be daft to wed her with a reputation like hers. She’s been through two husbands…’ Too much wine had disturbed his memory.

  ‘One.’

  ‘Argh! Who’s counting, anyway?’

  ‘She was betrothed to them, you fool.’

  ‘Well, only for three months or so. Somebody ought to warn him.’

  ‘Argh! He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘He knew what he was doing when he had his lance through her pink sleeve, didn’t he, eh?’ They laughed. ‘Cheeky sod. And her not knowing where to put herself.’

  ‘I’ll bet she knows now though.’ More laughter.

  The opinion was put forward again. ‘Somebody ought to warn him. We might lose him after three months if he doesn’t watch his step.’ The laughter a
t this was so riotous that the hall steward approached them with some authority.

  ‘Gentlemen…gentlemen! Come now, the hour is late and there are good people in the hall seeking their rest. Enough, now! Move on…move on.’

  Still arguing and laughing, they passed the place where Eloise stood shivering and wrinkling her nose at their combined stench of wine and stale sweat. She saw the faces of those nearest her and the bile rose in her throat, making her sick with anger and shame, for she had heard in the basest possible terms what was also the darkest of her fears, that no man was ever to be hers for more than three months.

  With the farmyard talk still ringing in her ears, she stood for a long time breathless with shock and cursing herself for her most recent weakness. At the same time, she was able to contradict that guilt with an irrational urge to exploit her non-conformity to the full, to take everything that lay within her grasp, immediately and without reserve. With a three-month curse hanging over her head, what did scruples matter? All her long-term plans would be doomed anyway.

  Numbed and cold, she made her way back down the passageway, past the snoring chaplains and up the stairs. Father Janos would have assumed that she was safely in her chamber. There was no sound from Sir Owain’s room. Saskia, turning down the linen sheets of the bed, began a smile of welcome that faded in mid-air as she saw her mistress’s ashen face. But there was no conversation that night. No tears, either. Only a deep pain and a terrible need for revenge.

  Chapter Five

  Eloise tilted the mirror that Saskia held before her, studying the pale reflection for any outward sign of the tight knot of bitterness that had enclosed her heart so painfully all night. Beneath the twisted band of gold that sat low on her brow and the single turquoise on her forehead, no sign of distress was visible. In the low morning light, her eyes reflected the pale leaf-green of her fitted kirtle and the deeper green and gold of the loose sideless surcoat she wore over it, its silken sheen changing to bronze as she moved. A gold-and-turquoise buckled girdle held the garments close over her hips, and again she had chosen to wear her hair in the ambiguous maidenly plait that Sir Owain had apparently found so confusing. It was braided with gold, decorated at the end with a bunch of green popinjay feathers from her mother’s pet parrot.

  She swung the thick auburn plait back out of sight. ‘Well, at least that shows some consistency,’ she murmured.

  ‘What is it, love?’ whispered Saskia, watching the examination. ‘Is the truce to be ended so soon?’

  Eloise spoke to the mirror. ‘I should never have accepted it. I was a fool.’ And that was all she would say on the matter.

  ‘I’ll go and get the boys to empty the bath.’ Saskia sighed.

  ‘And bring a posset up from the kitchen for me.’

  ‘You’ll not go down and break your fast with the others?’

  ‘No, I’ll have it up here.’

  ‘You don’t want to see Mistress Jolita?’

  ‘I’ll see her at the butts in a while. Hurry, Saskie.’

  Saskia was not always obedient. Laying the mirror aside, she sat beside her mistress on the clothes-chest and took one of her hands on to her lap. ‘You must not let her happiness get to you in that way,’ she said. ‘Try to be happy for her, love.’

  ‘I am.’ The back of the other cool hand was pressed beneath her nose as a sudden heat rushed to her face. ‘I am, Saskie. Truly.’

  ‘And we’ll try to be extra kind to Sir Rolph’s lady, shall we? She’s had a nasty shock, and she probably knows as much as anyone that the only advantage she has over you and your sister is her ability to breed like a rabbit. She envies you at times. Did you realise that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, today’s going to be better?’

  ‘Yes. Go, Saskie, before I start blubbing.’

  ‘I’m going. And if you’re going to shoot, wear your glove.’ She patted the hand and laid it back on the green lap. ‘It’s over in that trunk.’

  Eloise’s first duty, however, was to her brother who, although still showing signs of a slight fever, was recovering enough to sit up and listen to the chatter of his daughter Marie who sat on his bed. Eloise took his pulse and examined the sample of urine that Father Janos had saved to show her. He was not happy with its pinkish tinge, but when Eloise smiled, his puzzled frown was turned upon her. ‘Lady?’ he said.

  ‘Beet,’ said Eloise. ‘Our cook uses the roots of the red kind as well as the white. Rolph loves it. Very nutritious.’ She took the flask from him and tipped it gently. ‘Ruled by Saturn, Father, if that’s any comfort to you, but beets do tend to colour the urine. Don’t be alarmed. Still, he should be drinking more barleywater to clear all this sediment. That’s also ruled by Saturn.’

  The expression of concern on the physician’s face was replaced by total admiration as he removed the flask from her fingers. ‘Amazing!’ he said, with some reverence. ‘Why did I not ask myself what he’d been eating? Where did you learn your skill, my lady?’

  ‘From Saskia’s father,’ she said. ‘He was an apothecary in Flanders but he had to leave because he was accused of practising medicine without a licence. He and Saskia came over here, and my father took him into his service as physician. He taught me what I know, but sadly he couldn’t cure himself of a terrible cancer. He died three years ago.’

  ‘A most learned and gifted man, obviously. It was your good fortune, my lady, that he was not appreciated in Flanders. Whereabouts was he?’

  ‘In Louvain. His name was Antoine Borremans.’

  Father Janos’s eyes widened. ‘No! I cannot believe it!’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Indeed I did. I studied theology at Louvain before I went on to do medicine at Bologna. He was the apothecary we used to call on as students when we needed advice, or a physic.’

  ‘Advice?’ Eloise looked sideways at the monk’s sheepish grin.

  ‘Students,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, even theology students needed advice from an apothecary from time to time, and Messer Antoine was never judgmental. A fine man, and very clever. We all thought highly of him.’ He lifted the flask to eye level and gazed reflectively at its contents.

  ‘And so did I. Steeped in common sense. Here’s Saskia. Why not tell her?’

  ‘Tell me what, my lady?’ said the maid, glancing at the flask. ‘Sir Rolph been at the beets again?’

  By the time Eloise and Saskia reached the shooting butts, the flat ground between the castle and the bailey wall was transformed by the brightly coloured garments of young men and women ready to take sides in defence or repudiation of Jolita’s claim. Large straw-plaited targets had been set up some distance away in front of a cluster of trees, while an audience of guests sat in the sunshine on the grassy bank below the castle wall.

  A bevy of smart young squires assisted the master-at-arms to choose the best bows for the participants. ‘I’ve kept this one back for you, m’lady,’ the burly soldier told Eloise, handing her a bow and quiver of arrows. ‘And I fletched them myself, too.’

  She took them, rewarding him with her best smile. ‘That was thoughtful,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll not let you down.’

  But her thoughts were less on her performance than on a tall familiar figure whose fine legs were now visible beneath a short blue-and-red embroidered cote-hardie with a red velvet shoulder cape. It was belted with blue leather with a matching pouch, his pointed shoes of finest calf already darkened with the dew. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, but purposely she steered herself away from the men and towards her sister.

  Jolita and Sir Henry Lovell were laughingly debating the distance their teams should shoot when they caught sight of Eloise. ‘Ellie! Come over here, if you will, and explain to Sir Henry that we don’t need a shorter distance than the men.’

  ‘Dearest one,’ Eloise said, ‘if Sir Henry wants to make it easier for us, then let him, by all means. Go ahead, Sir Henry, be gallant. Give us a head start, if it pleases you.’

  The debate w
as joined by the others, and soon Sir Owain came to stand by Eloise, despite her evasions. He smelled clean and fresh and looked as if he had slept like a child. ‘Well met, my lady,’ he said, low-voiced. ‘Our truce is still intact, I take it?’

  ‘No, sir. Not any more.’

  There was a pause, then, ‘So soon? Why?’

  ‘There’s been a development. A setback. I cannot explain further.’

  The argument about distances having been settled, Jolita broke into their conversation, saving Eloise from having to find further excuses, but not before Sir Owain’s parting shot in her ear. ‘Not good enough, my lady. I shall insist on an explanation.’

  Youthful contests with their father’s squires had made Eloise and Jolita as efficient as any of the men at archery, which could not be said for the rest of the women’s team, many of whom had not handled a bow for years. From the men and spectators, there were noisy shouts and much teasing laughter as arrows went wide into the trees or fell short of the target, and it began to look as if, in spite of the two sisters’ high scores, the men’s lead would be maintained to the end.

  A group of scoffing young men went to stand at the receiving end of the shoot, taunting the last contestant to aim at them so that she might hit the butts by accident rather than by design. One of them, the most vociferous, was one of those who had so reviled Eloise in the passageway the previous night. He leaned against a nearby tree, straddling its roots, folding his arms mockingly and unwittingly making himself a target that Eloise knew was well within her range, not to wound him but to scare him out of his stupid wits. The temptation stole up on her and, without thinking, she slid an arrow from her quiver and fitted it to her bow, moving forward to stand some way beyond the contestant’s shoulder. She could see the girl shaking with nerves.