Lady Knight

by Maria Ling

  "The lady and I are getting married," Guillaume said. "Clean that look off your face or I'll slash it off for you."

  Matilda groaned. "This is your idea of tact?" She met Alan's dumbfounded stare with equanimity. Couldn't be angry, not with Guillaume so near. "We made peace along the way," she explained. "I've written to my brother for his permission. You'll make me happiest by offering sincere congratulations."

  "Marrying him?" Alan managed, his voice tilting high. "What in the world for?"

  Matilda hesitated.

  "A damned fine ride," Guillaume said comfortably. "Why, what else do you wish for her?"

  Alan swung for him, so fast that Matilda's startled yelp didn't arrive until Guillaume's fist crashed into Alan's face and sent him sprawling.

  "Don't!" she barked, caught Guillaume by the arm and forced him to hold still. "It won't do the least bit of good."

  "Makes me feel better."

  Matilda quelled the urge to punch him in return. "Alan is my friend and sword-brother. He's looking out for me as best he can. Leave him be."

  Behind her, leather shuffled on dirt as Alan scrambled to his feet. Matilda stayed between the two men, glared at Guillaume until he subsided. Then swung around to scowl at Alan, who clamped the back of his hand against his nose. Blood seeped dark between his fingers.

  "Go and clean up," Matilda said wearily. "And stop picking fights, both of you. Save it for the battlefield."

  "Until tomorrow," Alan told Guillaume in a voice like night frost.

  "Look forward to it," Guillaume replied with a snort. "Take care of that pretty face, boy, because you won't be wearing it much longer."

  "God," Matilda spat. "The pair of you. I'm eloping with Geoffrey. At least he has some sense."

  "Charmed," Geoffrey said from a few paces away. It seemed he had witnessed the fight, because he shook his head at Guillaume. "Ever the perfect knight."

  Guillaume merely snarled in reply.

  Geoffrey bowed to Matilda. "Say the word, madam, and we'll leave these two louts far behind."

  "Don't even think about it," Guillaume said in a tone of deep menace.

  "Easy, my man." Geoffrey strolled over and patted his shoulder, which Matilda regarded as a display of courage worthy of a troubadour's attention. "So this redoubtable lady has set herself the task of making you fit for company, eh?" He smiled at Matilda, pale grey eyes alight with humour. "Good luck, is the best I can say. But if you are determined to pursue the matter, you might find yourself with a fair chance tomorrow."

  "Why?" Matilda asked, smiling back.

  "Because we are drawn for the same side, and positioned next to each other. I gather Alan was about to make some complaint to the steward."

  "I'll tell him not to," Matilda said hastily, to prevent another outburst from Guillaume. Who simmered, she could tell that by the way his eyes darkened and his features grew stiff, but as yet he did no worse. Probably considering ways and means. Fool of a man.

  "Now," Geoffrey went on, "I must ask you to repeat the rather startling announcement I overheard earlier. It arrested my attention, but in the subsequent commotion I was unable to confirm. Did I truly hear what I thought I did?"

  Matilda laughed. "We're getting married. It wasn't supposed to be announced yet. And we'd agreed I would handle Alan." She added that last bit in a tone of stern rebuke.

  Guillaume shrugged it off. "You told me you would. I never agreed. Besides, that smug face of his needs rearranging."

  "This should prove an interesting association," Geoffrey observed drily. "Madam, I beg you to reconsider. For the sake of your cousin's health, if for no other reason."

  "Alan will manage," Matilda assured him, despite inward misgivings. She'd planned out so carefully how to approach Alan with the subject -- emphasise her brother's sacrifice in not marrying her off, Guillaume's good family, her own standing in the world. Alan would have understood that, he knew the value of strategic marriage as well as she did. Might even have begun to think it was his own idea.

  Instead, Guillaume's blunt handling had been a disaster. Not that he cared over much, just stood there grinning at her, until she couldn't help herself and grinned back.

  "For your own health, then," Geoffrey insisted. "This man's temper is not to be borne. Ask me or Roland. We've lived with it far too many years."

  "Hasn't aged you a day," Matilda teased.

  "She flatters," Geoffrey muttered to Guillaume. "You sure this is the right one?"

  "Fuck off," Guillaume muttered back, but the light in his eyes didn't fade.

  "I'll take that as a yes. Well, it's good news for me. Roland owes me twenty marks."

  "What?" Matilda glared at Geoffrey in dismay. "You've been betting on this?"

  "Of course," Geoffrey replied, entirely at ease. "Laid down ten after that first banquet, doubled it as we left you at the tavern last. Roland wasn't so sure. He'll regret it now." Geoffrey flashed her a grin. "Thought you were being discreet, did you?"

  "We were," Matilda argued, flushed with embarrassment and annoyance. Who else had taken her for a fool? "I had no idea it was that obvious."

  "I've known this man from a boy," Geoffrey reminded her. "Nothing he does can surprise me."

  Matilda drew herself up into battle-ready stance. "You don't know me at all, though."

  "True," Geoffrey admitted. "I had no idea whether you were likely to kill him or wed him. That was a gamble. But since you didn't flatten him at once, I thought the wager worth taking." He patted the purse that dangled from straps tied to his belt. "Luckily, as it turned out."

  "Hm." She wasn't really angry, and her embarrassment faded as she considered his explanation. Certainly he'd been close friends with Guillaume long enough to know or guess Guillaume's thoughts. As for her own -- well, she'd never taken too much trouble to hide them before. It seemed plausible enough that they'd be easy to judge.

  Though she still felt rather a fool.

  "Tomorrow," she said briskly, in an effort to divert her attention from that thought. "Can we walk the field now?"

  "At your service," Geoffrey said with a bow.

  "Don't try it." Guillaume took her arm and shot his friend a glare. "I go where she goes."

  "That much was obvious from the first," Geoffrey retorted. "Go on, then. I suppose you'll want to hear Roland's battle plan before you break it apart."

  ***

  "Which horse will you ride?" Guillaume asked her later, as they dawdled on the edge of the field and watched their animals be led around it.

  "One of my own, of course." She squinted against the angle of the sun. "If you'll sell them back to me."

  It had been a source of amicable squabbling all through the journey here. She'd never doubted he'd relent in the end. Now, she became aware of a faint misgiving. Guillaume turned to watch her horses, who stood sniffing the breeze and considering the terrain with mild interest.

  "I won't offer your mounts back," Guillaume said. "Or the armour, either. You lost them to me, and if you want them you'll have to win them. But I'll lend them to you, as to a comrade. If you'll take that at my hand."

  She would -- she'd take anything he offered, because he'd already shown her what those hands could do. Matilda quelled a smile at that thought.

  "I will," she said, "and gladly. On the understanding that I'll pay you back either way, from this or future victories."

  "Done." His arm lay comfortable around her shoulders, hugged her to him. Which drew a glance or two from elsewhere, but Matilda ignored those. Plenty of men showed affection to each other, on the field and off. No reason why the same rules couldn't apply to her.

  "We're at a disadvantage here." Matilda frowned at the uneven slope. Not steep, the ground was fair for battle, but tufted and slanting. "May need to move up fast and meet the opposition on that level patch over there."

  "Best," Guillaume agreed. He lifted his arm from her shoulders, half turned to toss their conclusion at Roland, who kicked the turf and then nodded.
>
  Geoffrey, from a little further away, looked doubtful. "Can we move fast enough, though?"

  "Easy," Guillaume said.

  Matilda grinned. "Confidence. That's what I like to see."

  Guillaume settled his arm around her shoulders again. "You've seen me fight. Have you any doubts I can do whatever I set my mind to?"

  "None," Matilda admitted. She was glad they wouldn't be facing each other this time. Though she wanted revenge, still. Would get it eventually, the future would yield plenty of chances. For now, she relished this slow saunter in the sunshine, the two of them held close together, comrades and lovers.

  "So," she teased. "When are we getting married -- before or after the clash?"

  "Now, if you like." Guillaume hugged her tighter. "Your brother won't object. Or if he does, he can take it up with me in person."

  "Do you fight your way through every dispute?"

  "Of course." He glanced at her with what appeared to be genuine surprise. "Why wouldn't I?"

  Matilda snorted. "It's possible to discuss matters peacefully."

  "Surely not." His dark eyes glittered. "Besides, where's the fun in that?"

  "You can't beat every poor soul who disagrees with you."

  "Of course I can. It's good exercise."

  Matilda gave up. Turned to face him, laid both hands across his shoulders, and kissed him right there on the battlefield. "Do you think we have the slightest chance to stay alive together?"

  "Maybe not." Guillaume's smile shone brilliant as the sun -- it dazzled her. "But what heroic deaths we'll grant each other."

  ***

  CHAPTER 7

  "You had no right." Matilda glared at Alan, who stood with his arms crossed and an expression of mulish obstinacy on his face, for all the world like a twin brother to Guillaume. Gloomy light sifted through the fabric of the tent, bleak to match his eyes.

  "I wish to fight on the same side as Guillaume and his friends," Matilda went on. "Not against them."

  "Too late now. The steward's already made the change. He won't change us back." Alan uncrossed his arms, took a step towards her, stopped as she scowled. "I know you're angry. But you won't need to fight Guillaume directly. We're out on the eastern flank. Only way you could reach him would be to cut clear across the field."

  They both knew she wouldn't commit such an appalling breach of etiquette. Which was probably his reason for securing that place. Matilda held down the urge to bawl at him.

  "He's not the right man," Alan persisted. "You won't be happy if you marry him."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Whereas with me -- "

  "I won't marry you," Matilda said firmly. "I love you dearly, but as a friend and a comrade in arms. Not as a husband." Though she'd have taken that if she'd never met Guillaume, it was better than many alternatives. She hurried on. "Besides, you have no say in my marriage. Only my brother does, and he won't object. Guillaume is a good match in every respect, rich and well-connected and highly thought of. And I like him." She relented at that point, because Alan flinched as if she'd slapped him with a gauntlet. And this was one man she really did not want to fight in earnest, because she cared for him and he for her. "Please be happy for me. I do love you, just not in that way. And you deserve a woman who does."

  "I'll probably marry one who hates me," Alan said, bitterness stark in his voice.

  "You get to choose," Matilda pointed out. "Being a man, you'll never need anyone's permission."

  Alan's eyes flickered, and she knew she'd struck true. He was a fair-minded man, for the most part, and he'd always resented the limitations imposed on her for being female. She valued that.

  "I want us to stay friends," Matilda pressed on. "I value your companionship beyond anyone's in the world -- except only Guillaume's. You've been the best of friends to me, always. It would grieve me deeply to lose you."

  Alan stared at the tent cloth. "You won't lose me," he said in a softer tone. "But I can't bear to watch you go to a brute like that."

  "After today, he'll be fighting on my side," Matilda pointed out. "Better than against me, wouldn't you say?"

  Alan smiled then, wearily. "Better," he admitted. "I suppose so. But if he hurts you -- "

  "He won't. Not beyond what I'll accept from any knight, and deal out myself whenever I can."

  "If he does, I'll kill him. You know that." Alan fixed a sudden earnest look on her, one she remembered from the day they first fought together. "If you ever do need my help, tell me. Come to me, send for me -- anything. I'll be there. I swear it."

  Matilda crossed the space between them, lay her arms around him, kissed his cheek. "I know. As I am here for you, if ever you need my aid."

  ***

  "I'll kill him," Guillaume growled.

  Matilda poured him a cup of wine and handed it over. "You'll do nothing of the sort. He's trying to protect me because he cares about me. He'd do the same for any friend. I've told him what I think of his interference and he's promised not to do it again. That should be enough for you."

  "It's not." Guillaume sipped the wine, studied it with deep suspicion. Drank some more, then grunted in reluctant approval. "He'll know what I think of it soon enough."

  "Leave him be." Matilda took her own seat, tasted the wine. Fragrant with honey, as they both liked it. "It's only for one battle. Afterwards we'll travel and fight together, and everyone will know as much. The secrecy caused the problem, not Alan. He's loyal to me, as I am to him. You'll have to accept that, if we're to remain in company."

  "If?" Guillaume flared, threat of death rising in his eyes.

  "Since," Matilda amended. She'd seen that expression the first time they met, in combat, before either of them knew who the other was. Didn't like it any better now. "I like your friends, you'll have to learn to like mine. Or tolerate, at least." No sense in harbouring impossible dreams.

  Guillaume snarled at her. Well, that was to the good. She preferred him not to give her quarter.

  "Alan is a good man," Matilda persisted. "He's my friend and my sword-brother. You can't say you love me and not love him too." A chill ran through her as she spoke. They'd never mentioned love before, either of them.

  "Of course I can," Guillaume muttered. "God knows I don't much love my own friends." But a smirk played around his lips, and his expression softened. "Fools, the pair of them."

  "They say the same about you," Matilda observed, much amused. "The contempt is mutual."

  Guillaume laughed, and held his cup out for more wine. "I'll do my best to see virtue in this hound of yours. He yaps enough, I'll give him that. And in your defence, which -- yes." A negligent shrug, causing ripples in the fine woollen tunic that hung over his shoulders. "I suppose we could keep him for the pack."

  "Don't tell him that."

  Another grunt, and a shrug. Then the look she knew well. "So, are we formally betrothed?"

  "Don't get ideas," Matilda replied. "I'm going from here to confession and then to prayer."

  "Really?" Guillaume sounded honestly startled. "I mean to sleep, myself. Eventually."

  "Go away."

  He did, when she let him, through a haze of kisses and a lingering touch. The memory of which sang through her body all through confession and the long night hour of prayer.

  She'd never failed to do this, ever since she was first knighted. It was her ritual of giving thanks, for the success she'd had and the freedom to spend her life exactly as she chose, for the strength and skill and courage granted her and the chance to earn yet more, for life and health and youth enough to be all that she wanted to be.

  She prayed for victory, too. Always. Honourably gained. Though this time the treacherous thought stole through her mind that Guillaume had defeated her twice already, and might relish the chance for a third. In which case she would oblige him with a clash, no matter what demands of etiquette she trampled underfoot by doing so.

  ***

  Guillaume stroked the mane of his horse. They both savour
ed this moment, the anticipation before the battle began, the tension that hummed through the lines ranged against each other on opposite sides of the field.

  He'd marked his own opponent and those of his friends, half noted neighbours on either side in case they should chance his way. Felt at leisure, now, to study the far section of the opposition line, where Matilda waited. He could just make her out, beside that accursed cousin of hers.

  It had cost Guillaume to let him escape a just beating for his treachery. But Matilda wished it, and said so in a tone that would not be contradicted. Which Guillaume resented, even as he schooled himself to follow its commands. She must order her own life, he didn't wish to interfere with that, and if she had the poor taste to allow such mangy curs to slink around her, then...

  ...then Guillaume would just have to judge the moment right for a quiet word, and quieter blows, and Alan's rapid retreat into oblivion. Because that bastard boy wasn't hanging around Guillaume's woman, not while Guillaume had strength enough to break him for it.

  But he'd restrained himself, and not mentioned his plans to Matilda -- a triumph of discretion that he praised himself for yet. After the battle, perhaps during some unguarded moment of the banquet that followed. Or else the next morning, when a brief but intense altercation might go unremarked in the general bustle of packing and departure.

  Matilda would know nothing about it until much later, when Alan was long since gone. She'd be angry then, but Guillaume would have to parry that. The man was poison, she ought to know it by now.

  She'd be better off without him. Guillaume would make sure of it.

  The signal blew. Guillaume charged. Men and horses stormed forward on each side of him, with a yell that rose through the crisp morning air and shook the heavens. The answer echoed from the far side, closing fast. The shock of contact jarred his body, but his opponent went down and stayed limp. Guillaume swung his horse around, chose a new opponent, charged again. Brought that man down with as much ease, the lance ran strong and true today, this was a fine meet. He'd won two bouts already -- three, now, though his lance shattered at the last blow. Guillaume tore across the field to his waiting squire, grabbed the fresh lance, stormed back into combat.