These words made little impact on Anne. ‘Oh fiddle-diddims, is not this simply marvellous? All us damsels here together!’ she gushed, linking an arm through Rowena’s. ‘This cloak, is it not Sir Richard’s?’ Anne asked suddenly, fingering the garment.
‘Why yes, it is.’
Anne, who was a pretty but forgettable-looking damsel, suddenly went bitter. ‘I see. And did you steal it from him this morning or last night, while he was sleeping?’
Rowena was rendered speechless by Anne’s meanness.
‘Steal what?’ asked a dark, masculine voice.
Anne’s feet screeched on the floorboards as she spun around to face Sir Richard, who had just appeared behind them. Her sallow face flushed crimson and she looked so mortified Rowena felt a little sorry for her. ‘Steal? You—you know, I have quite forgotten what it was I said! I really am such an awful scatter-brain!’
The dark knight smiled wolfishly. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes!’ blurted poor Anne, squirming desperately.
Sir Richard placed a gauntleted hand on Anne’s shoulder and leaned down to her ear. ‘I think you will find, dear lady, that some things are better forgotten.’
Anne nodded vigorously, her already-round eyes growing into perfect orbs.
Sir Richard turned to Rowena and bowed graciously. ‘Greetings, darling.’
Conscious of all the eyes that followed the famous Sir Richard Hastings, she gave a stiff, over-careful curtsy. ‘Greetings, Sir Richard.’
‘Lady Shrewsbury.’ He bowed to Lady Sabina. ‘I trust that your wedding night was not too dull?’
Rowena caught her breath sharply and shot a meaningful look at Sir Richard, who had a slight smile playing on the corners of his determinedly straight lips.
The regal lily gave a haughty sniff and turned her blood-red lips up into a sneer. ‘Really, Sir Richard, I do not know to what you refer.’
Her face may not have given her away, but Lady Sabina’s heart could be seen to quicken, as the left side of her chest, laid bare by a neckline so low it threatened to render its wearer indecent if she stooped, pulsed violently.
Anne, who appeared to have recovered from her earlier shock, giggled wildly. ‘I am afraid dear old Sabina has become quite the prude since her wedding, for not a word will she utter about last night.’ She jostled the haughty ice queen teasingly. ‘Is that not so, darling?’
‘Such things are not for the ears of little girls,’ Lady Sabina hissed, stepping back from Anne with a look of cold fury.
Anne’s face puckered up and she looked as if she was going to burst into tears, but then she suddenly noticed someone passing by. ‘Lord Shrewsbury!’ she cried, lurching towards the nobleman and seizing his arm. ‘We are having such marvellously fun larks here; you absolutely must join us!’
The little lord was clearly horrified at being kidnapped in this way, but he did his best not to let it show. ‘Oh indeed, how lovely for you,’ he replied tightly, setting his many-plumed hat back into place. He then bowed nervously to Rowena and Sir Richard. ‘Greetings…’
Sir Richard bowed politely. ‘Good day, my lord. I like that chicken you are wearing on your head. Is it the latest fashion at court?’
Anne did not manage to suppress her giggle, but Rowena was coughing into her sleeve with better grace.
‘It’s the very latest style,’ Lord Shrewsbury replied as forcefully as he could, putting a hand to his hip and looking the tall knight in the eye. ‘Unlike your attire, which is terribly last year,’ he added, with a haughty toss of the head.
Sir Richard’s dangerous smirk grew a little more fatal. ‘Yes, manliness did use to be quite fashionable. But this new fashion of wearing a cock on one’s head, I think I shall let it pass me by. Cocks, after all, were created not merely to be decorative, but also to bring about the next generation.’
Lord Shrewsbury almost choked. ‘How dare you!’
‘Do pardon me, my lord, but I was merely discussing chickens. Unless you happen to be a chicken, I do not see a cause for insult, so please, do enlighten me.’
‘I’m not fowl—’
‘Indeed…’
Lord Shrewsbury stamped his foot. ‘I meant a fowl! A damn chicken, cock!’
Still smiling darkly and smugly, Sir Richard gave a slight bow. ‘Indeed, my lord. I can see that the events of last night have left you quite overwrought. Perhaps you ought to go and have a lie-down? I am sure you will find a pageboy to tuck you in.’
The little lord was almost hopping with fury. ‘I—I—damn you, Hastings!’ And with that, he flounced off to join the posse of languid, doe-eyed boys and young men lolling on the couches in the back corner.
‘Name-calling is a foul response for a nobleman,’ Sir Richard murmured, shaking his head. ‘You must try to control your husband better, Lady Shrewsbury.’
‘And you must try to refrain from pecking at your betters, Sir Richard!’ hissed the regal lily.
But Sir Richard did not pay her any attention. He had already turned to Anne. ‘Might we be hearing your wedding bells soon?’
Pained disappointment crossed Anne’s face. ‘Well—no. My father died some years back, and ever since then my mother has become a recluse. She makes no effort to find a husband for me or take me out in society. She just mopes about the house all day talking about how she yearns for death. I was only able to attend this wedding because our neighbours were going and I was allowed to journey here with them.’ Her eyes suddenly lighted up a little. ‘There are so many knights here; perhaps one of them will like me!’
Sir Richard smiled and placed a kindly hand on Anne’s arm. ‘Perhaps one will, but I would avoid Sir Percy if I were you.’ He pointed to a tall man with high cheek bones and a rough but dashing air. ‘He has quite a reputation for luring ladies into his bed and leaving them weeping in a puddle of ruined honour and broken dreams soon after.’
Anne’s face fell. ‘Oh.’
He grimaced sympathetically. ‘Already been making eyes at you, has he?’
She nodded uncomfortably, before quickly changing the subject. ‘Why is Sir Roger de Wintore not here yet? Surely he is going to come after all? I have been very much looking forward to your fight with him!’
‘He will be here.’
‘Where does he usually reside?’
‘Since I burned down his castle on the South Coast, I expect his seat is somewhere in France. He is reputed to mainly spend his time fighting across Europe for whichever man will pay the most money for his services.’
‘I shall be praying for your victory, Sir Richard!’
‘Thank you, madam.’
Lady Sabina put haughty hand to sharp hip. ‘I have no need for prayers. I already know who is going to win.’
‘You do?’ gasped an incredulous Anne.
‘The knight who triumphs will be the knight who has chosen me as his lady.’
Anne leaned towards her friend conspiratorially. ‘Really, darling, if you are intending to use your position as judge of honour at the tournament to favour your own knight, you ought not to tell anyone. Besides, it would be quite disloyal not to support our very own Chaucy hero.’
Lady Sabina cast an arch, venomous glance at Sir Richard. ‘He might be the hero of Chaucy’s riff-raff, but he is not my hero.’ The snow queen then stepped towards Sir Richard and leaned to whisper in his ear. ‘No man turns me down—especially for that—’ she shot a poisonous look at Rowena, ‘and goes unpunished. I have not forgotten your insults, Sir Richard. Nor have I forgiven them. You are going to die like a dog.’ She uttered the words slowly, carefully and viciously. A final haughty toss of the head and the ice queen was gone.
Rowena suddenly felt as though icy hands had closed around her heart. She searched for Sir Richard’s eyes, and found them fixed on her already.
To her surprise, he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘That is precisely what I hoped she would do. The herald keeps tally of the points gained by each knight, but when it comes to any matters of con
tention such as a draw, a broken rule, or calling a halt to a fight which is getting out of hand, the judge of honour’s word is law. We will be fighting with unlawful sharp swords and the fight will most certainly get out of hand. Any judge except your kindly cousin would force the fight to be stopped.’
.24.
Saint George for Justice
ROWENA had come to accept Sir Richard’s imminent battle with de Wintore. De Wintore was a ruthless, dishonourable and heartless mercenary who would never forgive the young knight who had betrayed his sister and dragged the proud de Wintore name through the mud. He was a man possessed—a man who would attempt to destroy anyone loved by Sir Richard, and torment him until his dying day. She had learned to bear with composure the burden of anxiety that came with being a knight’s lady.
Not one word of doubt or plea to withdraw from harm’s way passed her lips as she solemnly helped Sir Richard don his armour. The knight had spent the past hour sitting beneath the towering oak tree at the bottom of the meadow, staring silently at the gurgling stream. Upon emerging, iron-willed determination and unshakable faith were firmly fixed on his countenance.
Pepin had polished the dusty armour into an astonishing shine that spoke volumes about the young page’s enthusiasm. As Rowena helped Pepin put the armour on Sir Richard, silence reigned in the tent. It was broken only by an occasional softly murmured instruction between page and knight.
Once the armour was finally filled by a human form after its long years of housing nothing but dust, spider webs and musty air, Pepin knelt to attach Sir Richard’s spurs.
Then the warrior was handed his trusty blade sheathed in its scabbard, and once that was buckled about the knightly waist, Pepin added the finishing touch to his knight: a cape of white silk emblazoned with Sir Richard’s Saint George slaying the dragon upon the background of a red formy-fitchee couped cross, a combination of sword and crucifix symbolizing unshakable faith. This was fastened on at the top of each shoulder, and after a final smooth to the cape and spit-and-polish to the already-gleaming breastplate, Sir Richard was declared ready for glory by Pepin.
Giving her own garment a final fretful smooth, Rowena followed the dapper page and his professional, know-it-all aura out of the tent. After its abuse at the hands of Lady Sabina and rough journey to Shrewsbury, Rowena’s best winter gown was not in the best of states. The creases and wrinkles covering every thread of it had proved impossible to get out, and mud still clung stubbornly to it despite her best efforts, which did not amount to much as only a small quantity of water could be deployed without risking soaking the gown.
Rowena eyed the well-turned-out Pepin wistfully. How come he always managed to keep so clean despite all the time he spent around horses and armour? The page’s doublet was his most prized possession. It was in the colours of Sir Richard’s coat of arms and had his Saint George slaying the dragon embroidered on the back. It had been lovingly created by his proud and doting mother.
Rowena sighed. At least she had found enough of Mother Nature’s free treasures even in this bare landscape, where harsh winter’s reign was only just beginning to be melted by tender spring’s warm breath. Green ivy there was in plenty, purple violets too, and with a little help from a blue and white ribbon, she had fashioned a garland which she hoped would draw eyes away from the less becoming aspects of her attire.
The magnificent Lucifer stood saddled by the hitching-rail in the centre of the clearing in the tents, his midnight-black fur gleaming despite it still being his longer, coarser winter coat. There was no doubting it: if you wanted something polished, Pepin was the fellow for the job.
The page hurried to the tall steed’s head and took his reins in hand, ready for his master to mount. But before Sir Richard mounted, he turned back to face his fearfully following lady.
Her eyes were cast down and lips tightly pressed together as she bravely fought to retain composure. An almost overwhelming urge to fling herself to the ground and cling to him whilst begging him not to go gripped her, and it took all her strength to resist.
‘I’m sorry, beloved,’ he whispered.
She lifted her eyes, but they did not need to come far before they met his dark gaze, as he had lowered himself almost to her height. ‘I—I—’ she started, but stopped as she felt her suppressed emotions begin to surface.
He placed a gentle, caressing hand on her arm. ‘I know. You are the bravest of women, but even the hardiest soul reaches a limit somewhere. If it would not be blasphemy, I would curse God every day for allowing me to dwell on earth for a lifetime when I rightly should have fallen straight down from my heavenly birthplace and into Satan’s hellish realm.’
All trace of hesitance was gone in an instant. She looked at him, eyes burning with a fire that dried up the dew filling them a moment ago. ‘And I thank God every day for blessing me with such a loyal, brave and ever-striving knight; for that is what matters, Sir Richard. Whatever obstacle destiny places in your way you seek to overcome. Your place is on this earth, for it is the place from which each one of us must strive to climb up towards the heavenly and away from the hellish. You must not think you cause me grief. It is not you who causes me grief, but my love for you. I tremble for you because I love you.’
He took her tightly intertwined hands and clasped them between his. ‘Your love kindled a fire in my soul which can never be quenched. Love is a fire which burns stronger and truer than the flames of hate, and with God’s grace, I will triumph. Now you must go to the gallery, my love. I need to warm Lucifer up in the field behind the lists and get the feel of this damnably heavy armour.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, it is not safe,’ he replied firmly. ‘There are horses, knights and attendants milling everywhere. If you were to get run over it would be a terrible distraction.’
Biting her lip, she looked down and blinked hard. ‘Very well.’
He kissed her on the forehead, and then turned to mount his horse.
But Rowena seized his steel-encased arm. ‘Richard!’
‘Yes?’
Heedless of all the watching eyes, she flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his in a passionate kiss. At first his lips were hard with surprise, but after only a moment he yielded to her and returned the kiss. She pulled her knight down towards herself, put her hand on his cheek and drew deeper into his intense and tender kiss.
When Sir Richard and his lady at last drew apart, the knight turned from her and swung up onto his black steed with surprising ease. Then he stooped down and bestowed a final kiss upon his beloved’s upturned face, and rode away. He and Pepin were soon swallowed up by the crowd of tents, horses and men.
For several minutes she stared vacantly at the busy crowd that had swallowed her knight. Then she choked back the tears threatening to overcome her, and began walking towards the arena. A knight as brave as he deserved a lady just as fearless. Whatever churned within her heart, she would not let him down by wailing like a child.
The viewing galleries were now twice as full as they had been that morning. It was a hard task to reach the front of the gallery without engaging in any ill-mannered jostling or base pushing, but after many a ‘pardon me’ and ‘might a lady beg a place to watch her knight do battle?’ Rowena at last arrived at the front rail.
A great number of other eager damsels were clustered there, excitedly chattering about whose knight was the most handsome, had fought the best or was the most likely to win. The question of which knights had or had not asked certain damsels if they could wear their favour, and which damsels had or had not accepted, was discussed with an enthusiasm that sometimes bordered on the hysterical, and many a hopeful damsel anxiously weighed her chances of being asked for a favour by her favourite.
The arena in which the knights jousted was oblong, with a barrier running down the centre but stopping before it reached the end, to allow the knights to ride around the outside of the lists. The viewing galleries were temporarily erected structu
res consisting of a wooden platform and frame with a roof and sides of brightly-coloured cloth. Banners bearing the coats of arms of the wealthiest and most famed knights attending the tournament fluttered from the top of the viewing galleries (Sir Richard’s coat of arms was notably absent), and taking pride of place at the highest point on the gallery roof was the Shrewsbury family crest.
Rowena could not resist an ironic chuckle on seeing that their coat of arms had a cockatrice on it. The cockatrice was a mythical beast with the head and legs of a cock, the wings and scaly body of a dragon, and a long, barbed tail. It is the king of serpents, and legend had it that it came from an egg laid by a nine-year-old cock and hatched by a toad on a dunghill, and that its breath was so poisonous and its sight so foul that anyone coming within range would be killed. The cockatrice was supposed to be a fearsome symbol that struck terror into the hearts of enemies, but when borne by Lord Shrewsbury, it was more likely to inspire mirth.
Two young knights mounted on magnificent warhorses had just entered the arena. A troop of liveried attendants clustered around each, and as the herald put his trumpet to his lips and blew a voluntary, the knights rode out onto the field.
‘Sir Bertram Ailetts, oldest son of the Duke of Norfolk and vanquisher of three knights already this day!’ announced the herald, who then waited while Sir Bertram punched the air in victory (which Rowena thought ungracious) and took a princely bow. ‘And Sir Edward Wurttenberg, youngest son of Lord Wurttenberg!’ continued the herald, with a showy flourish.
Young Sir Edward gave a reserved bow.
‘Sir Bertram has been unconquered in these lists, noble lords and ladies! Will this new opponent change that?’ called the herald, and was answered by shouts of ‘No!’ from the crowd.
Sir Bertram, who was fair-haired, blue-eyed and carried himself with a proud, disdainful air, spurred his steel-grey charger violently forward whilst holding it back by the reins, causing the poor animal to prance stiffly sideways. The knight clearly wanted to make a show. He finally allowed his steed to move forward, though still tormented it so it danced tensely. Sir Bertram rode along close to the viewing galleries as he set out to ask his chosen lady for a token of her favour. He trotted a short way before suddenly hauling his horse to a stop.
The Heart of Darkness Page 35