The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  As the little donkey trotted over the brow of the final hill, Shrewsbury Castle’s brightly-lit windows could be seen twinkling down below, and from among the magnificent tents filling the field in front, the trailing smoke and glowing flames of many braziers. As Rowena had journeyed westwards, the snow had become less and less. Now there was only a sprinkling atop the higher hills. But it was still bitterly cold, and the clear, starlit night promised a lengthy visit from Jack Frost before dawn.

  Once the field was reached, her bundle unloaded and the generous Garroway thanked, Rowena stood still for a moment to decide on her next move. The sound of gay laughter and merry music drifted across from the castle on the cold night air. Lady Sabina and Lord Shrewsbury’s wedding had been earlier that day, and doubtless the feasting and dancing would go on far into the night.

  But where was Sir Richard? As a knight participating in the tournament, he would have been invited to the feast. Although, knowing his dislike of pompous gatherings, she guessed he might have chosen not to attend. Either way, he would almost certainly be staying in one of the many tents crowding the field.

  Sir Richard, who did not own such a marvel himself, had mentioned that an old friend from his tourneying days had offered to loan him one. This meant that the tent would not be in his heraldic colours, which was the usual way of identifying a knight’s belongings.

  Realizing that the task of tracking Sir Richard and Pepin down was going to be hard enough without having to carry the armour around (for carry it she would have to, as the ground was thoroughly muddy), Rowena decided to leave it in the safekeeping of a nearby watchman until she had found Sir Richard.

  There were few knights about the darkened camp, but plenty of movement was still going on as servants and attendants of the knights and lords went purposefully about their masters’ business. Some luckier (or lazier) ones sat around campfires with pots of ale in hand, laughing, talking, eating or simply engaging in that most ancient of entertainments: staring into the flames.

  Rowena hurried between the tents, dodging servants, stepping over sleeping dogs and ducking to avoid the guy-ropes that loomed out from the dark, almost always at neck height. She looked left, she looked right, she looked up, she looked down, but not a sight of her knight did she find.

  Then, as she was reaching the edge of the noble encampment, the sound of music danced across on the damp, chilly night air. She stepped out from between two tents to find herself in a small clearing amid the forest of tents and ropes, where a band of musicians stood playing.

  There was a willowy, fine-fingered young man playing the viol, wearing the soulful expression that no self-respecting viol player is without; a tall, portly fellow playing the horn; and a small, fiery-eyed, lightning-fingered youth playing the recorder. Their tune was jaunty, their harmonies delightful, and their audience of three wolfhounds, two squires and one bedraggled, dripping, frozen damsel, entranced.

  After Rowena had been standing silently for several minutes, the players began a new movement. The melody became slow, lyrical and sweeping. It prompted her to finally look about the clearing. Almost immediately, her eyes alighted on a shield leaning against a tent near to where the minstrels stood. The dim firelight kept many secrets, but the crest emblazoned upon the shield seemed familiar even in the half-light.

  Lifting her sodden, muddied hem, she hurried over to it. And there it was: Sir Richard’s fierce gold-armoured Saint George slaying the black, fire-breathing dragon with his flaming sword of iron.

  A dim glow was visible through the tent’s heavy cloth sides, but not a sound came from within. At the very threshold of the goal she had suffered and risked so much to reach, she froze with one shivering hand poised on the cloth hanging across the entrance, suddenly afraid to came in from the cold. To see once again that man who, since first she saw him grimly scratching out that ransom payment, had exposed her to more danger than ever she thought it possible for one woman to see…

  An imminent meeting with such a man would have filled many women with horror. But the only horror Rowena felt was at the thought that it surely was the last time she would stand before his door and know she was moments away from meeting that piercing dark gaze. That countenance once so feared, and now so loved…

  The minstrels’ tune slipped into a slow, lilting lullaby that was like an angel’s rocking of a holy cradle. As if in a dream, Rowena lifted the hanging cloth and stepped silently inside. In the centre of the round, luxuriously furnished tent sat a dimly glowing brazier, a slight haze of blue smoke hung in the warm air and—she suddenly caught her breath. For directly in front of her upon a low bed, lay Sir Richard.

  Embraced by the warm, sweetly scented air and carried upon the wings of the heavenly, rocking lullaby, the cold and tiredness gripping her magically melted away. Trance-like, she undid her dripping cloak, let it fall to the ground and glided over to her sleeping knight.

  Illuminated by the soft golden glow of the fire and half-covered by a fur rug, he lay with one hand beside his head on the white pillow and the other on the swan pendant lying over his heart. His linen shirt was unlaced, falling off one shoulder and revealing a cruel white scar slashed across the pale skin. The gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of his breast was the only thing that moved. Deep in sleep’s holy embrace, his countenance was so beautiful and noble he looked to her like an angel fallen from heaven. With lips slightly parted, he slept so serenely she did not wish to wake him.

  With love and tenderness filling her heart, she gently sat down on the edge of the bed and placed her small hand over the large one resting on the green swan. She felt the insistent, throbbing pulse of his beating heart faintly through her cold hand.

  Even as she smiled, joy mingled with sadness. The heart which now beat so certainly might be still forever more by sundown on the morrow. Was this the end of his earthly journey? The man lying so vulnerable before her had come so very far since that fateful day when first her eyes had met his. Although only six months had passed since, already it seemed to belong to some other, far distant, long-ago life.

  Sitting beside her sleeping knight, Rowena instinctively reached a trembling hand out to push back a stiff black lock that had fallen over the noble forehead.

  But as she leaned forward, a hot tear overflowed her eye and fell onto his naked breast.

  In an instant the eyelids lifted and the rhythmic breaths stopped. His enthralled eyes held her gaze unblinkingly, yet they seemed to pass right through her as though she was an apparition. Then his eyes slowly fell shut again.

  But a moment later they were wide open, and in less time than it took for Rowena’s heart to skip a beat, his arms were locked around her in a tight embrace while he laughed, wept, kissed her and thanked God.

  ‘How did you get here? They said you would not come! Are you well? Why are you so cold, beloved?’ The questions tumbled out as he clasped her cold face in a grip that was almost admonishing.

  She fell onto his shoulder and flung her arms around his neck.

  He drew her to him and pulled the purple, fur-trimmed cloak draped across a nearby chair over her. It was warm from the brazier and smelt of the familiar mix of leather and heavy, spicy perfume particular to Sir Richard.

  ‘Why are you so wet?’ he demanded again.

  ‘It rained.’

  He pushed her back so he could wrap his cloak about her properly. ‘Well I never,’ he replied with a bemused smile. ‘And there was I thinking that my little pixie had gone and fallen into a milk-pail.’

  Now that Sir Richard had finished his attentions, she rested her head back on his chest.

  He leaned back against the bed’s fur-draped headboard and wriggled a little until he was comfortable, then put his arms around her. ‘When the Cunninghams arrived yesterday, they told me that you’d changed your mind and would not come despite their entreaties.’

  ‘May God have mercy on their deceitful souls.’

  ‘Be assured that I did not believe them for one single mom
ent. In my darkest moments I feared that they had done you some evil; perhaps quietly arranged for an accident to befall you or slave-trader to take you. I was fully intending to cause a scene by publicly demanding to know where you were.’

  ‘There’s no need for that now. I do hope you are not too disappointed—I know how much you enjoy causing a good scene.’

  He laughed softly. ‘I’m barely disappointed at all, my love.’

  She suddenly lifted her head. ‘Oh yes—I almost forget! I brought a gift for you all the way from Stoatley.’

  ‘That you have brought your dear self all the way from Stoatley is gift enough for me.’

  ‘Ah, but you cannot wear me as protection against the blows of your opponents.’

  He looked around the tent keenly. ‘Now that you have got me all fired up, where is it?’

  ‘I left it with one of the camp guards for safekeeping while I found you. Where is young Pepin? I need him to go fetch it.’

  ‘Pepin!’ Sir Richard shouted.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Pepin, where are you now that I finally want you!’ he shouted again.

  This at last brought a puffing, bright-eyed Pepin ducking into the tent. ‘Sire? Mistress Rowena!’ he exclaimed, suddenly noticing her.

  ‘Yes, the very same,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Could you go and fetch something she left with the camp guard?’

  The page gave a quick nod before dashing off on his errand with an extra spring in his already bouncing step.

  Puffing and soft cursing announced the page’s return a rather long while before he finally appeared through the entrance. ‘If I had not succeeded in tricking that guard into helping me carry this thing,’ he muttered distastefully, ‘I do believe I may have been forced to drag it here. Think how much awful mud would have got into our lovely tent then!’ he finished, dropping the bundle to the floor with a final gasp.

  Sir Richard threw a well-aimed almond nut at his page’s head. ‘You forget that all this finery is not ours, young rascal, but the property of the generous Sir Roland.’

  By the time his master had finished, the boy was already smoothing his ruffled hair before a mirror and examining his forehead to see if the nut had made a mark. ‘Strictly speaking it is not ours, but that need not be universally known.’

  ‘Is this your way of saying that you have been going around telling everyone all this belongs to me?’ asked his master, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice.

  The pageboy squirmed slightly and smoothed his hair more vigorously. ‘Maybe I might have done…’

  Sir Richard fixed a chastising look on his page. ‘Pepin…’

  The page flung his mirror down nervously. ‘It’s not fair! A few squires were taunting me, saying how I was a lowly born dog whose place was the gutter, and that you were stony-broke and past your useable date. They were pinching me and pushing me around!’ He looked as though he would cry if any more was said against him.

  Sir Richard softened, but not before he had sent a final glare in Pepin’s direction. He then turned his attention to the bundle lying on the carpeted floor. ‘May I unwrap it, Rowena?’

  She smiled and nodded.

  The knight knelt down beside it and set about untying the tightly knotted cloth. He had a deal of trouble with the knot, but at last it gave in.

  He was still for a moment before frowningly holding up Rowena’s best gown. ‘Thank you for the wonderful gift, dearest, but I’m not quite sure that this style would suit me, and perhaps it might be a tad on the small side too.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s mine and you know it! Look underneath.’

  He looked. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘I…I sort of borrowed it…’ she muttered, refusing to look him in the eye.

  ‘So you stole it. Judging by the amount of rust and dust coating it, this armour was neither well-loved nor needed where it was.’

  ‘Armor?’ cried Pepin, leaping up from the chair he had been sulking in. In a flash, the pageboy was down on his knees pulling the armour out and examining it.

  Pepin soon came upon the breastplate, and holding it in one hand, practically hauled his master up with the other. ‘Stand up! I need to see if it will fit you.’

  The tall knight complied and soon he was having a breastplate shoved against his front. ‘Hold this!’ the page instructed his master.

  Sir Richard held it. A second plate was shoved against his back and then Pepin buckled the two pieces together at the shoulder. A helmet so coated in dust its steel was barely visible was unceremoniously thrust over Sir Richard’s head. Young Pepin then stepped back to survey the result.

  ‘Yes, very good,’ pronounced the page. ‘It will do nicely.’

  The armour was then removed by Pepin, and without further ado he carted his prize off to the corner of the tent where the rest of Sir Richard’s arms set, and started polishing and cleaning the suit of armour.

  Sir Richard sunk tiredly onto a couch, leaned back against its many cushions and patted the space beside him. ‘Come, sit and tell me the tale of your travels.’

  She sat and started her story. He listened intently, but when she reached the bit where she had been all alone in the snowy wilderness with night falling, and the strange cloaked figures had materialized seemingly out of nowhere, she was obliged to pause while he made exclamations of horror and concern.

  But once he had been assured that all turned out well, she was able to continue, though with his arms tightly around her.

  The warmth and comfort made Rowena drowsy, and not long after her tale was finished, her head began to nod and her eyelids to droop, and very soon she was fast asleep.

  * * * *

  Lady Sabina was truly stunned. All she could do was stare in a most impolite way as her cousin swept into the viewing gallery on the morning of the tournament.

  Rowena returned her gaze boldly, and gave a slight inclination of the head as she passed by. Out of the corner of her eye, the flame-haired damsel observed Lady Sabina give Lord Shrewsbury a dig in the ribs and hiss something into his ear. In response, Lord Shrewsbury tightened his lips and took a calculated step to the side that put him out of reach of his new wife.

  Rowena pulled Sir Richard’s purple cloak more tightly around herself, revelling in its warmth and the cosy comfort of his manly scent, which clung heavily to the garment. She was grateful for the loan of it. Her own thin, moth-eaten, damp and much-maligned rabbit fur cloak would have generated stares and unkind whispers. The thought of shaming or embarrassing Sir Richard had weighed on her ever since Lady Sabina had planted her poison words, and the knight’s assurances that nothing she did or wore would ever shame him had still not killed them.

  The wealthy, high-born nobleman, ladies and knights thronging the grand viewing gallery in front of the lists were clad in the most costly and magnificent attire. Furs of mink, ermine and bear were to be seen at every turn, as were rich velvets, fine silks, brocades, cloth of gold, much intricate embroidery, and most dazzling of all, cloth with scatterings of precious gems attached. There was much delicate laughter, refined chatter and feminine simpering from the legions of beautiful ladies gracing the gallery.

  Though present in not nearly so great a number as the ladies, a scattering of men also preened and paraded about the gallery or charmed and flattered the lovely damsels. Many of them were knights who were to joust later in the day, and were taking the opportunity to assess their opponents.

  The band of minstrels who had been playing so entrancingly in the camp the previous night provided the gathering with delightfully merry music. Rowena stopped and leaned against a post to listen awhile.

  But she was soon disturbed by the sight of Anne enthusiastically beckoning to her from twenty paces away. Rowena smiled reservedly and lifted a hand in salute, but hesitated about whether to come over, for Lady Sabina was standing at Anne’s side, pretending not to notice her friend’s vigorous flapping.

  ‘Oh do look, darling, there is dear Cousin
Rowena!’ she heard Anne saying to Lady Sabina.

  Lady Sabina did not look. She was far too busy pretending to be engrossed in the goings-on down in front of the gallery.

  Rowena turned back to the minstrels, hoping Anne would give up.

  But Anne did not give up. A moment later Rowena was faced with the sight of Anne ploughing through the throng dragging Lady Sabina along with her.

  ‘Oh how wonderful!’ cried Anne. ‘She said she was not coming—we simply must go over and say how do! I will absolutely die if I go another moment without knowing simply everything!’

  Lady Sabina could no longer pretend not to have noticed her cousin. She had fixed a sour little smile on her face and was making reluctant noises to the oblivious Anne.

  ‘Darling, how simply marvellous to see you here!’ Anne cried ecstatically as she pounced on Rowena.

  ‘God give you good morning, Mistress Anne,’ Rowena replied in a friendly but formal manner, attempting to extract herself from Anne’s excited embrace.

  ‘Bina totally assured me that you absolutely would not come, so how come you are here after all? I was just telling dear Sabina that I would absolutely die if I did not know what happened this very instant—did I not, darling?’ Anne demanded of Lady Sabina.

  Lady Sabina looked as though the effort of smiling was agonizing. ‘Ahem, indeed, darling.’

  ‘It is not entirely true that I would not come,’ Rowena informed an over-excited Anne and an over-horrified Lady Sabina. ‘I always intended to come, but at the last minute there turned out to be no room for me in the Cunninghams’ coach.’ She shot her cousin a steely look. ‘Lady Sabina’s pride had unfortunately suddenly inflated a great deal, leaving no space left. I was forced to make my own way here alone. I nearly froze to death in the snow and was lucky not to be robbed by outlaws in Glymewood, and I had a terribly strange experience which involved being drugged and carried off into the forest, but I’m here, anyhow.’