by Maria Ling
Lady Knight
by Maria Ling
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Maria Ling
Cover image copyright Valery Sibrikov - Fotolia.com
Published by Byrnie Publishing
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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CHAPTER 1
Guillaume waited. He loved this moment, poised for battle, with men and horses on either side of him and opponents ranged against him. When shields watched him, each emblazoned with a man's chosen colours, the same that lit each surcoat. His pulse pounded in his ears, he gripped his lance, his horse pricked its ears in delighted anticipation. Because they lived for this moment, both of them, man and horse alike.
He had his eye on a figure directly opposite, a knight in unfamiliar colours and with an arrogant tilt to the head. It irked Guillaume, he knew every man who made a habit of tourneys, at least here in Flanders. This ought to be a newcomer, then. A young man recently knighted -- or else an experienced man who'd ventured from other and more favoured grounds, whether for greed or pride or boredom.
Regardless of the reason, no newcomer ought to carry himself with so haughty an air. Guillaume would teach him humility, and fear too, before today's battle was over.
The signal blew, a harsh trumpet blare. Guillaume lowered his lance and charged. A thunder of hoofbeats rose from the earth, yells of men and snorts of beasts -- and then a mighty crash as the two lines collided, rival knights slamming into each other with all the strength they could muster. He got a sound blow into the body of the unknown knight, right at the heart of the surcoat and hard enough to punch the man from the saddle. It was worth the blow he took himself, shield smacked into his chest so hard it knocked his breath out through his spine. One enemy destroyed, time to bring down the rest.
Except the swine didn't fall. Just groaned and swayed in the saddle, righted himself, swung around to face Guillaume again. Got the lance up fast and tilted at Guillaume, who barely had time to ready himself. They slammed into each other once more, and this time both lances broke. Guillaume whipped his stump across in a murderous strike at the man's helmet. The opponent's hand shot up, likewise clutching the stump of the lance, and whacked Guillaume's blow aside with such force the broken hold flew from his grasp and thudded to the ground.
The knight tossed his own aside, and drew sword. Guillaume pulled his blade from its scabbard, hewed at the hated helmet with its cocky plume. No one bested him like this, matched him blow for blow, with strength and ferocity to equal his own. He'd bring this overreaching knight down, force him to taste blood and soil and defeat. But he'd have to fight for it, the man still held him off, made him sweat and ache for every strike. Blade rang on shield, and the clang of his own helmet nearly deafened Guillaume. The noise of it dimmed the yells and snarls around him, held him for a dizzy moment entirely inside himself, made him feel the padded iron press down on his flesh.
He got a low cut in, thrust hard into the knight's belly, then smashed the shield up into the crumpling figure's face. The man tilted, reeled under further heavy blows from Guillaume, then made a clumsy dismount just short of a fall. Guillaume shifted the balance of his weight to turn his horse, then hewed down. The knight forced the battered shield up for protection and slashed at Guillaume's leg. Damn the cur, he wasn't defeated yet, showed no sign of tiring or yielding. Guillaume twisted hard to follow his movements, then keeled over abruptly, just managed to avoid slamming shoulder first into the ground. Bastard must have got to the saddle-girth. They were even now, both on foot.
Guillaume nudged his horse with his shield and clicked his tongue, signal for the beast to move aside and give him room to swing. A well-trained horse, this one, he'd won it a couple of years ago off one of the best young tourney knights in Flanders. Who wasn't here today, though Guillaume had spotted him laid up at a tavern not too far distant, still nursing the broken ribs and jaw Guillaume had given him at the previous meet. They'd traded snarls, but no worse.
This stranger had filled the vacant place as Guillaume's chosen enemy, he fought with a similar style, all calculated force and never a sign of temper. It got Guillaume's blood up, he felt it heat him, sent rage into his eyes and arms. Which made for good strong blows, with sword and shield alike, he just had to keep the line and angle right, make sure his aim didn't drift.
He'd bring down this pretender yet. No one matched Guillaume step for step and thrust for thrust and got away with it. No one. Except this man, it seemed, for he was not down yet. They circled each other, both snarling now, the opponent's voice a little lighter and smoother than his own. A youth, maybe, strong and fresh and exasperatingly stubborn, refusing to wilt under Guillaume's blows.
Guillaume fell back, caught his breath, watched the man's footwork. Youngsters were eager, he'd learned that over the years. He'd made enough mistakes himself, also. Moved forward too far and too fast when he thought he had the advantage, got caught by a sideswipe or a shield slammed hard into his face.
Not this youth, though, he was warier than that, held his own chosen line and angle. Caught Guillaume's shoulder with a neat thrust that made him stumble, smashed up the shield, took Guillaume's answering blow with a stagger and a stamp. Still they were even, by the Lady this fight would never end. Should have ended by now, Guillaume ought to have made short work of a young challenger in his first year of tourneys, with neither name nor fame nor lord to back him. But no: the bastard held him off still, made him sweat.
All around them men succumbed. Guillaume's side was winning, though the battle was hard fought. Squires moved in with clubs, beat and kicked the vanquished knights as they crawled back towards their own starting line, seized horses and weapons and shields. Not Guillaume's own squire, though, a pert lad with the swing of an angel, who was embroiled in a punch-up with the opposing knight's squire. Over the horses, most likely, they hadn't yet settled who got to lead those away. Which was a matter between Guillaume and this cursed limpet of a man, who never slowed and never yielded, just fought on relentlessly, even as he staggered under the weight of Guillaume's blows.
Unless they settled it before the final trumpet blast, the fight was over and they'd have to part on terms of mutual respect. Which Guillaume wasn't going to give, not in a month of feast days and holy days, he would destroy this bastard boy and make him swallow his own teeth.
Guillaume swung with renewed strength, smashed his shield against this opponent's helmet again and again, made him reel back, forced him down on one knee. The brat was weakening at last, no one could stand forever against a man like Guillaume.
Pride surged through him. He kicked out hard at the man's knee, drew a squeal and a tremor. Slammed his shield forward into the knight's face, spun and slammed his sword sideways, sent the hated boy sprawling at last. Stood over him, panting, with the point of his sword dug into the knight's armoured chest.
"Do you yield?" Guillaume bawled, loud enough for the sound to carry clear across the battlefield.
The knight twitched, and tried to rise. Guillaume stamped down on his belly, watched him writhe. Repeated the challenge. There were only the two of them left fighting now, every other encounter had been settled.
"I yield," the knight growled, in a voice that veered upwards with pain or rage, so that it took on the light colouring of a woman's. Guillaume raised his sword and th
rust it towards the sky with a yell of triumph.
"I would have your name." Guillaume stood back, and gestured for his squire to seize the spoils. The lad obeyed, snarled at the opponent's squire while he grabbed the reins of a fine horse, then led both mounts aside.
"Matilda," the fallen knight groaned.
Guillaume frowned. He couldn't have heard that right. "Who?"
"Matilda, God damn your cloth ears."
"You're a woman?" He couldn't believe it. A fucking woman had made him sweat. This was the very worst of days. Victory had never tasted so foul.
"Born that way. " She struggled to her knees, threw shield and sword at his feet, growled an oath as filthy as any of his own. Ordered her squire off the field, in a tone that rang with the habit of command.
His own squire moved forward, club raised.
"No." Guillaume held up one hand. "Leave her." She was beaten, she could slink away unharmed.
He turned his back on her, ready to begin the walk back to his own starting line. His squire tucked the club into its straps, collected the vanquished knight's shield and sword and carried them over to her horse.
A weight slammed into Guillaume's back and sent him flying. The next moment a boot stamped down on him, right at his kidneys, so hard that he screamed.
"Never give me quarter." Her voice was as fierce as his own.
Guillaume rolled aside fast, narrowly avoided another kick. "Get her," he ordered. His squire dropped shield and sword alike, dragged the club out and swung it at her head. She ducked, kicked out at the squire's knees, swung a punch to the chin that brought the lad down, then stalked away.
Guillaume scrambled to his feet and watched her limp across the field, while the trumpet called an end to the battle. It was a small meet, held by a lord who wanted a good reputation but was also keen to avoid any damage done by knights roaming across adjoining fields and pastures. Guillaume had fought at tourneys where the combat lasted through the day and into twilight -- past nightfall, even. Just as well this one didn't, because he felt battered enough to crumble at the least blow.
"Matilda who?" he muttered to himself.
His squire struggled onto all fours, then slowly stood up, swaying. "Matilda of the iron glove, I'd say." His voice was thick.
"Shut up and grab the gear." Guillaume sorted through names and lineages in his mind. He knew everyone who was anyone, by name if not by face. Such a face, too, at least what little he'd seen of it beyond the hood of mail. Ferocious eyes, utterly focused on combat, threat of death staring right back at him. He'd admired that, even as he fought hard and ruthlessly, he liked a savage battle. But for a woman to bring him so near to defeat... He was losing his form.
Memory settled on a name. Robert le Taureau, who'd gained his nickname The Bull for the ferocity he showed on the tourney field. He'd withdrawn from the circuit some years before to manage his home estate. Guillaume had bedded a cousin of his once, and most pleasurable it had been too. She'd mentioned a younger sister, who'd persuaded Robert's old swordmaster to train her up as a knight. Which Guillaume had laughed over at the time, and then forgotten about in the course of less violent pursuits.
If that younger sister had a name, he didn't recall it. But there was a Matilda, sister to Robert, who'd been promised in marriage to one of Guillaume's own cousins -- until the Angevins overran his castle and put him to the sword.
So it could be the same woman. In which case she'd done her old swordmaster proud. That tilt of hers was one of the most forceful Guillaume had ever received, and not from brute strength -- she wasn't the biggest opponent he'd ever faced, not by a bowshot -- but from accuracy and skill.
Lovely punch, too. His squire still reeled from it.
Fabulous eyes.
Guillaume shook himself. He was getting soft. Should have had her beaten, and never mind the fact that she was a woman. Any knight on the field knew the risks and chose to take them. It was her affair if she wanted to crawl away bludgeoned by squires and heckled by the crowd.
He should have let it happen. Not shield her because she was a woman. A chivalrous impulse, and he'd paid for indulging it. His back ached like fury, and he limped hard as he walked. His pride burned, too, at the jeers that flew around him as he returned to his own starting line and which must surely be the reward for that last scream. Stamped like a warhorse, the woman did.
He wondered idly what her body was like under the armour, if she was solid as a man, if her chest was flat and her waist stocky. He'd met a couple of women fighters before, capable knights both, but they fought in northern Flanders, away from his own favoured ground. Which was here to the south, where he met men of high blood and family with whom it was a pleasure to trade blows.
Safe in his own tent, Guillaume mused freely while his page undressed him. He washed in rosewater and dried himself on fresh linen, soothed his bruises with ointment, accepted crisp new clothes from the page's hands. Tried to fit a woman's shape under that armour, invented bits of padding that might not be required but which pleased his fancy. Extended the armour a little across the chest, he was daydreaming now but there was no harm in that. Absently drank the spiced wine the page handed him, spared the boy a blow even though it wasn't honeyed enough. Because Guillaume's thoughts were on Matilda still, the way she glared at him before she stalked away, the iron that rang in that voice as she refused all quarter.
Well, he'd offended her. Reason pushed aside his seething pride. He'd treated her like a young squire to be coddled, not like a knight and his equal. In her place, he'd have been angry too.
He'd earned a beating, no less than she. And he would never again doubt her ability to deliver it, even when she was already defeated.
A hesitant voice outside the tent roused him from his thoughts. Matilda's squire entered, followed by a page, both carrying her armour. Guillaume gestured idly to one corner, he didn't much care where they put it, his squire had the task of cleaning and greasing before it was sold.
"Give her my greeting," he said with a smirk, "and tell her I trust she's not too much bruised to attend the banquet this evening."
The boys murmured humble acquiescence, withdrew bowing, and only swapped glances in the moment before the tent flap closed, when they must have thought he would not observe. But he saw the slight widening of their eyes, relished the thought of her temper as they spoke. If they spoke. They might save their skins, and not pass on his message.
It didn't much matter. She'd be there, he'd lay money on it. Unbroken, proud in defeat. He'd like to humble her, Guillaume thought, force her to bend that stiff neck and acknowledge his triumph. Which he might do, if they met again. He knew the colours she fought in now, he'd spot her in any ranks he faced. If at all possible, he'd aim straight for her. Bring her down screaming, as she'd done to him. And not let her walk away, not a second time, she'd crawl in the mud and beg for mercy before he was done with her.
Now there was an image to treasure.
Guillaume held out his cup for more wine. He'd find a woman later. There would be ladies at the banquet, mistresses and wives. He preferred to seduce women already attached, it lessened the chances of awkward consequences, any child that resulted would be assumed to be that of their usual man. If Matilda had married his cousin... but no, that would have been too close a kinship even for him. Though he could have been tempted, he'd want those fierce eyes on him, those strong hands freed of leather gloves. Supple lips, expressive in a snarl, he could imagine them touching his own bare skin...
Just as well she was single still.
If she was. She might have married elsewhere, and he not have heard. Guillaume didn't make it his business to track every alliance in every family, he had enough work keeping abreast of his own.
Though he'd never heard of a married woman fighting at the tourneys.
All things were possible on God's earth. And if she was married, to a man not of Guillaume's own line...
"Best tunic," he told the page. "Gold rings."
Matilda glared at her squire and page. They kept something from her, she could see it in their furtive glances at her when they thought her fully occupied in checking her spare mailcoat.
She also knew that bawling at them wouldn't help. They'd be even less likely to tell her then, whatever it was. She couldn't wheedle or plead, it wasn't in her nature. A straight question was her only option, whether the answer be straight or not.
"Go on." She fixed each of them in turn with a commanding stare. "What have you got to tell me?"
"Nothing, mistress." Heads down, curse them, they rubbed industriously at scabbard and blade.
"Anyone have words to say about lady fighters?" How she hated that, this constant preoccupation with her sex. As if men couldn't see past that and value her as a knight, which was all she'd ever wanted to be. No man's lover, no man's wife. Just a fellow combatant, as able as any of them.
But no. They must needs simper and prance, or else harass her with comments about her body and how well it would look without the armour, and whether she was married or not, and on and on and she couldn't stand it.
God damn all men.
"Some among the crowd did admire you a great deal." The page stole a hopeful glance at her face. "They called you fierce as an angel of Paradise, mistress."
Well, that was something. She'd rather have an intelligent assessment of her skill, but one couldn't ask for everything.
"One lady asked if you were indeed sister to The Bull, and the man with her said you were, and didn't that make you -- " The page broke off mid-giggle. Frozen silence descended on the tent.
"Thank you," Matilda said with iron in her voice. "That is precisely the sort of cheap tattle I long to hear. You are excused from the evening meal."
The page winced. He'd been excused from breakfast, too. "Thank you, mistress."
"Now." Matilda rounded on the squire. "Did this Guillaume have some amusing remark to share with you as well?"