by Maria Ling
A magnificent fighter, though. Her body wept with bruising. It would heal eventually, in time for the next big meet. Which she might attend, since he'd be there. Just to beat him in combat, of course, she had no thought beyond. Would make certain she was already attended. Because she couldn't endure another meal like that, so close she could touch him, could feel the warmth of his body alongside her own. She'd never be able to conceal her desire. And then...
No. She'd sworn never to get involved with anyone on the tourney scene. Her brother had ribbed her about that, said she was sure to come home pregnant and pleading, if not married. Which she wouldn't, she'd promised herself that. All her life she'd longed to be a knight, she would never give it up for a man. Not even a man like Guillaume, fierce and strong and powerful, with a strike like that of an archangel and a glance that smouldered like that of the devil himself.
Steps outside her tent alerted her. She sat up and reached for her knife. There were men of that kind, too, at every tourney, and she was well ready for them. But she kept a couple of trustworthy men on guard outside at all times, and they spoke now, voices flat. The steps shuffled away.
She could live without this hassle, she really could. Thought briefly of Guillaume, the rage in his eyes as his fist crashed into the body the man who'd offended him. With such ferocity on her side, she could dare any danger and never feel a moment's fear.
But he would never use it in her defence, and she didn't want him to. Just wished she could be accepted among the men, as one fighter of many, and not always have this further burden to carry.
She'd leave at first light. It was better to be away quickly, then no one could attach himself to her. She'd had to shake those off before -- killed a few of them, too. Best to leave quiet and fast. Once she met up with her cousin, she'd have a little more strength in numbers.
Matilda looked forward to that. Alan was a good friend, formerly squire to her brother, then knighted by him and set free in the world. He'd shown her around the tourney circuit when she first came on, taught her how things were done, warned her of the tricks and treacheries he'd discovered in the course of his few years' experience. They'd separated after that, but had planned to reunite here -- except that some villein had broken Alan's ribs and jaw, and left him in no condition to fight. He was resting up at a tavern nearby, and had sent word she could find him there. They might travel on to the next meet together, if he'd healed sufficiently for that.
It would be wonderful to see Alan again. Might take her mind off Guillaume for a while, too.
***
CHAPTER 3
So now they were stuck in yet another tavern, with lousy beds and worse food, and an itch in the soul that no amount of banter or boasting could cure. Guillaume managed what relief he could from growling at his companions, but it was a poor substitute for combat. Which he took his sweet time getting ready for, every portion of his body ached like fury.
Matilda had gone harsh on him, he respected that, even as he resented her for it. Longed to meet her again, on the battlefield, lance in hand. Or at a banquet, watch those bright eyes and hear that sudden laugh.
But she was gone. She'd ridden away at dawn, had already left when he awoke, and he didn't know where she was headed. Could only hope she would choose the same as he.
She'd avoided Geoffrey's delicate probing, and Roland's blunt questions, as to her immediate plans. Which told Guillaume she didn't care if she saw him again or not. Didn't crave him the way he did her, ache to touch him and --
At which point he slammed down hard on his daydreams. She was single, he'd ascertained that much by a finesse unusual in him, he'd affected to believe her married. Got laughed at, but he'd scarcely noticed that at the time.
He had his own rules and never broke them. Not once in all his years on the circuit had he seduced an unattached woman.
Though this one wouldn't have him anyway. She'd watched with absolute horror as he made good on his promise to beat the cur who insulted her. God knew what she thought of him now, given that she'd not heard the remark that started the fight.
She'd left before he woke. Quit the camp at dawn, so he'd been told. Travelled on to no one knew where. Out of his ken now.
Eh, he must work to forget her. He'd made it hard on himself by ignoring all other women. Roland had ribbed him about that, since. Asked if she'd cut off his manhood while she was battling him, not a joke to Guillaume's taste, they'd traded punches before Geoffrey intervened.
Damn Roland and his constant good cheer. Came of bedding that loathsome wife of his, it made Guillaume's flesh crawl to think of it. English peasant girl, and Roland hadn't just bedded her, he'd taken her to wife. She tagged along with the three of them now, clung to Roland as if he was a dream come to life. Stuck fast to their little brotherhood, alien and distasteful and impossible to shake off.
At least they were still on the road. For a while Geoffrey had talked of settling, but Roland brought him out of it, and they were back to the camaraderie of fighting. Which Guillaume relished, he owed Roland indulgence for that, and did his best to bear Leofe's presence with composure. But God, she was coarse. Spoke French like a creaky gate, dressed like a mule, hung on Roland's arm at every moment. Like now, when really they ought to be deciding where to go next.
"I wouldn't mind seeing Blois or Normandy," she offered tentatively, because those were Roland's choices and she was nothing but a crude echo to his words.
"No one asked you," Guillaume snapped. "We stay in Flanders. I've still got scores to settle."
"I'm easy," Geoffrey said, smooth as always. Bastard had snagged a young wife on her first outing, after Guillaume left the banquet. No wonder he smirked and primped now.
"We could -- " Roland began, then paused as a couple sauntered in.
Married, was Guillaume's first thought, because they walked in step with that easy closeness that came to happy couples in their first months together. But he forced that thought aside, because the woman was Matilda. And the man, curse him, was the villein whose bones Guillaume had broken not six weeks earlier.
Guillaume swapped cold nods with his erstwhile enemy. Turned back to his own companions, demonstratively. Tried not to hear that the pair settled close by and ordered food. No mention of a room, yet he'd seen no waiting retinue outside. They appeared to be lodged here already.
Together. Guillaume's fingers tightened so hard on his glass of wine that he forced himself to set it down before it shattered. He didn't want any serious cuts to the hand, it would damage his hold.
"We could finish up in Flanders, then move south," Roland suggested. "Take in that meet coming up near the border."
It was a thought, Guillaume admitted. The couple were talking behind him, he strained to hear their words. They appeared to be arguing about the relative merits of two upcoming tourneys. Matilda favoured his own choice.
"I know where I'll be heading," Guillaume said, a fraction too loud, enough that she was sure to hear him if she wished to. Told his companions, who shrugged and agreed, as if it hardly mattered.
"What's the place like?" Leofe asked. Guillaume shot her an absent-minded glare.
"Flat," Roland said. "Good ground for straight tilting. Not much scope for tactics."
"Just fight," Guillaume growled. "Leave the thinking to monks."
Geoffrey snorted. "We're not all as thick-headed as you."
Behind Guillaume, Matilda uttered what sounded like a stifled laugh. That made him burn. He glanced around idly, feigned surprise at noticing her, leaned over.
"I'm glad to see you up and about," Guillaume said. "Thought maybe I'd done you some damage."
She flashed him the most magnificent glare. "You'll find out on the tourney field. Or sooner, if you choose."
"I don't brawl on rest days," Guillaume told her.
Roland coughed. "This a new habit?"
"God grant it and make it last," Geoffrey said. "I'd like to be greeted with genuine welcome by the tavern-keepers hereabouts."
; "It would make a pleasant change," Roland admitted.
"I'll meet you on the field, and gladly," Matilda promised Guillaume. "When and where?"
He named the meet, and she swore to be there. Satisfied, he shrugged as if it didn't matter and swung back to his friends.
Though he listened, with seething resentment, to the easy way she chatted with her own companion. Pondered whether to challenge the man, but thought better of it. She hadn't liked the way he dealt with the cur at the banquet, she wouldn't approve of him dealing out another beating now. Even if she had the poor taste to favour a man Guillaume could force to drink every meal for weeks to come.
She deserved better. A man who could best her, outmatch her at every blow. A man like himself.
Damn it, he was there again.
And maybe it wouldn't be so foolish a move, after all. If he were held to the consequences, and forced to marry, he'd want a woman who could fight and travel alongside him. A fellow tourney knight would be the perfect wife for him, if he ever did marry at all.
Not that he'd have much chance with her now. Idiot. He kicked himself, surreptitiously, under the table. If he'd had sense enough for a squire, he'd have charmed her at the meal. Or walked her back to her tent afterwards -- not that she'd have allowed him to, after he let his fists fly. Been up early enough to catch her before she left, attached himself to her on the journey. Though that wasn't his way, he'd never found women hard to come by, it was no part of his seduction to harry a lady against her will.
Whereas this man, this damned impertinent cur who laughed and jested with her, and held her hand as if she'd given him the right -- Guillaume would consider it a pleasure to break his jaw again.
"Will you be fighting, sir?" Guillaume asked in as bland a tone as he could manage, interrupting their discourse on some unspeakable mutual friend. "I'd like to have the honour of meeting you again."
The man gave a slight bow. "It will be a pleasure to exact revenge on you, sir."
He sounded like he meant it. Guillaume relished that, but mindful of Matilda's fierce eyes held back a sharp retort.
"My God," she said now. "You mentioned an overbred lout with arrogance enough for a king. I'd no idea it was this cur."
Guillaume failed to conceal a smirk. The description pleased him. "You ought to have recognised me at once, madam. Granted, we had little time for introductions before I -- " No, he must hold off on the insults. This was not the way to win her. "Before I had the pleasure of meeting you in combat," he amended. "Much to my own satisfaction, as I hope to provide you with yours next time."
"Guillaume?" Roland broke in. "Feeling feverish, my man?"
"Fuck off," Guillaume growled in an undertone.
"Leave him the field," Geoffrey advised. "I do believe he's tilting."
"Making a shoddy job of it, if so."
Guillaume swung around to glare at Roland, who only laughed. Curse the man. "I'll thank you to stay out of my affairs."
The man beside Matilda snorted. Alan de la Falaise, Guillaume had the name now. A fine jouster, though fairly new to the circuit. He'd fought like a demon, it had been a pleasurable encounter. Connected on the father's side to a French duke, and on the other --
Ah fuck. Guillaume writhed. He truly had been an idiot.
They were cousins, Alan and Matilda. Raised together, at least in part -- Alan had been squire to Robert. Might even have trained together. Which meant...
His guts froze. What could be more tempting and natural than for her to marry a man she knew like a brother, connected to her family and raised alongside her. Who fought the way she did, laughed and joked with the intimacy of long acquaintance, probably knew her every mood and wish and preference.
Guillaume swore he'd murder the man, next time they met on the field. Get him out of the way. And then she'd...
...want nothing to do with Guillaume, probably.
Fuck.
"I look forward to our next encounter." Guillaume paused to clear his throat, for the words choked him. "Since I've had the honour to meet and admire you both."
"Now he's scaring me." Alan grinned at Matilda. "Is he scaring you?"
"I'm melting in my boots."
They laughed, both of them -- at Guillaume. Who rose, fuming, and stalked away.
"Congratulations." Roland, curse him, had to throw in one last jest before Guillaume slammed the door shut. "I don't think I've ever seen him quit the field before. A toast to your success, madam, and may all your enemies be so easily vanquished."
***
Oh, he was an idiot. Matilda fought not to stare at the blank door Guillaume had slammed behind him as he stormed out. Such an overbearing bully, always up for a fight. She'd wanted him to laugh, or smile at least. But he just snarled like a wounded bear -- at her, at Alan, at his own companions.
"Is he always like this?" she asked Geoffrey, who seemed a pleasant man.
"Worse," Roland said. "You've cheered him up no end."
Matilda laughed. The drab woman who clung to Roland's side ventured a smile. She'd been at the banquet, Matilda remembered a sweep of crimson. Here she wore quiet brown wool with a silver-gilt belt, tasteful to be sure, but hardly exciting. Though she had a pretty face, and a sparkle in her eyes now that Guillaume was gone. Maybe he frightened her. Matilda could sympathise. He did resemble a rampaging bull even in his calmer moments, and that must get on anyone's nerves. She didn't mind it much: she was used to her brother.
She was delighted to have run across Guillaume again. Not that she dared let it show.
"Doesn't it?" Alan said, in the tone of a man who's already asked twice.
Matilda shot him a cool glare. "Does what?"
"Take more than a week to get there."
She didn't have the first idea what he meant. But it wasn't worth arguing over. "Depends how fast you go."
Roland grinned. She liked him, open and easy-tempered and protective of his woman, who clearly felt she didn't belong. Odd that Guillaume had such decent friends, when he himself was such a...
"I wasn't planning to kill the horses," Alan said drily. "We'll call it ten days, then."
"See you there," Geoffrey said.
Matilda rose. She ought to check on her belongings, and make sure the bed was well aired. While Alan took himself off to his own room. They had sent ahead to secure a chamber each, it wasn't worth enduring the confusion and explanations that inevitably arose whenever a woman arrived in company with a man.
First she'd check on her horses, though. Her groom could be trusted with that, he loved the creatures like himself, but she took pride in making sure the beasts were happy and well cared for. So she strode towards the stable, whistling and content.
Except that Guillaume hovered by one of the stalls, brooding like a thundercloud.
"Oh, it's you." His expression passed through a comical jumble of surprise and confusion. "I've been admiring your hack."
"Who is worth admiring." She joined him at the side of the stall, permitted herself one moment's pleasure at the sensation of warmth from his body so close to her own. A stir in her belly and groin warned her. This was not the man. Couldn't be.
Even if she were to marry, which she had no intention of doing, she didn't want a bellowing fiend like this. A pleasant, easy-going man would suit her better. Like Geoffrey, maybe, who was urbane in company as well as capable on the field.
"We've not met on the best of terms," Guillaume confessed. "The fault is mine. I have a fierce temper, and worse manners. I ask your pardon for offending you."
Matilda clung to the wooden board. If he'd put on jester's rags and juggled horse turds in front of her, she could not have been more startled.
"Much obliged," she said. "Feel free to begin the acquaintance anew."
He grunted. Which was an improvement, of sorts.
"I compliment you on your fighting skills," he said. "It's been a while since I've had to sweat that hard to bring an opponent down. Or since anyone held me off for so long
."
Matilda inclined her head. She didn't particularly wish to dwell on her own defeat.
"And I compliment you on your appearance," Guillaume added.
Matilda glanced down at her travelling clothes, smudged with dust and dirt. "That's generous of you."
"On the evening of the banquet," Guillaume pressed on, with an expression of grim determination. "You were -- that is, you looked -- "
"Female," Matilda concluded, in a sterner tone than she'd intended. "Why does that surprise you? I'm a woman. Doesn't mean I'm not a fighter, too."
"Certainly not." He grimaced. "Well I know it. You stamp like a mule."
"Should have used that liniment."
He laughed then, which transformed his face and made her stare at him in frank admiration. The man glowed.
"You did risk life and limb by sending it," he said.
Matilda laughed, too, with sheer delight. "I fear neither death nor maiming."
"Braver than me. I fear both." He shot her a glinting look from dark eyes. "Though at your hands, I might welcome either. Who knows?"
They were back to that. She turned to the horse, which listened to them with unruffled patience.
Guillaume followed her lead, made some vague remark about hocks. Which disappointed her. Slightly.
She stole a sideways glance. He was handsome enough in a rough way, dark and fierce and untamed. Gave her the sense he could smash up the stable at any moment, if part of it displeased him.
Which unnerved her. And amused her, at least while the fiend slept. A glimmer of understanding lit within her, as to why his companions put up with him. No doubting his capacity for battle, and there was nothing dishonest or hidden about him. Everything lay in full view. Hell to be around if his mood was foul, but easy and pleasant if it was not.
She could live with that, maybe. It wasn't so different from herself.
"I apologise," he said now, "if I startled you with that fight at the banquet. The man deserved every blow. He made a remark I didn't care for, about a lady of my acquaintance."
Matilda felt a stab to the chest. Wished for an unreasonable moment that she had been the lady to arouse so fierce a chivalrous instinct. But at least it showed him in a better light than before.