A Knight's Vow

by Lindsay Townsend

  There was a slight wobble in her voice that made Guillelm ashamed. She was being braver than he was, risking his rejection and his scorn. She is leading you on, as Heloise did, a treacherous whisper mouthed in his head, but he ignored that; the thought was unworthy of her.

  “You are all the maids I need,” he said. “But are you not afraid of wetting your undershift?”

  He winced inside, thinking his attempt at flirting too obvious, but she glanced up from undoing her shoes, grinned and snapped her fingers at him, mock-angry.

  “Shame on you, sir! Are you suggesting I am not neathanded? Or would you do the ungentlemanly thing of dunking me into the water with you?”

  She was out of his reach, or he might have done it there and then. “That is a very good idea,” he said, striding across the flags, “little scold.”

  Barefoot and in her shift, Alyson stood her ground as he approached. Closing, Guillelm saw her hands come up, but not, as he half-dreaded, to ward him off. Her fingers fastened lightly on the lacings of his mantle.

  “It must take almost a bolt of cloth to clothe you,” she murmured, not fearful but admiring. His mantle undone, she now tugged at his sleeve and he followed where she led, not daring to speak in case she changed her mind and whirled out of the bathhouse.

  “Am I truly a scold?”

  They were beside the tub now and her hands were on him, easing his mantle and undershirt down to his waist. Her silken touch robbed him of answers; he could only shake his head.

  “So much,” she said softly, tracing the golden threads, running her fingers through the rough mat of fair curls on his broad chest, the branching longer hairs running from his breastbone to his flat, hard stomach, the bits of fluff below his belly button. “You are wonderfully hairy, dragon “

  No woman had ever said that to him. No woman had ever touched him as Alyson was doing: gentle yet searching, as if she could not learn enough of him. He felt healed by her hands, saved by her clever, questing fingers, and at the same time helplessly stirred.

  He closed his eyes and sank his head against the top of hers, kissing her forehead. Twin needs warred in him: to crush her into his arms and have her here at once, on the flags of the bathhouse, and to stay as he was, rigid in delight, scarcely able to catch his breath. There was the marvelous scent of her: a mingling of rosemary and lavender and a babylike sweetness, Alyson’s own ineffable essence. She moved about him like a sultry shadow, weaving her spell with her limbs not only her hands now, but her legs, too, one winding about his as she balanced against his lean hips. And her mouth!

  He gasped as he felt her lips upon his arms, his scarred forearms that for so many years had known only the feel of mail and the shock of sword blows and yet now were tamed and stilled by the butterfly-light kisses of this girl. He trembled like a tree in a gale as her lips moved on, across the great arch of his ribs. Growing bolder, she used her tongue to flick and taste at the hair on his chest.

  But not so bold. To Guillelm’s disappointment and relief she stopped, laying her head against his heart with a sigh. Cautiously, as if she was the wariest of creatures that he had ever hunted, he placed his arms about her, running his thumbs over the delicate bones of her shoulders. He could feel her taut sinews and the stretch of her thigh muscles pressing against his. In her linen undershift he could almost see her body-not quite, for the bathhouse was, in spite of the torch and candles, still a place of shadows as well as light-but he knew her shape now, lithe and wiry, small-breasted and narrow-waisted, with sweetly flaring hips. She was still too thin, he thought, tracing the clear bones of her ribs with a pity and anxiety that almost made him forget his own hard desire, but then her right leg slotted a little tighter against his left and the intimate contact scorched him. He shifted slightly, trying to see her face, and she yelped.

  “Mother of God, I have hurt you!” he cried, dropping his hands from her as if she were more delicate than stained glass, but Alyson pressed herself closer, saying urgently, “No, no! ‘Tis my own vanity, see?”

  She leaned back, and he cursed, seeing where one of her necklaces had dug into her throat. Although dressed in naught but her undershift she seemed to be wearing every jewel she possessed-three necklaces, a golden belt and two highly polished copper bracelets. She was also wearing the silken veil he had given her, secured by a narrow silver coronet.

  He kissed the raw place on her neck and she whispered something.

  “Sorry, brighteyes, would you say that again?”

  She blushed and pointed at the tub. “Should you not be in there, my lord?”

  “For sure, my sweet, and you with me ””

  Before Alyson had the chance to protest, Guillelm had ripped off his leggings, kicked them and his mantle away and scrambled into the wooden tub, lifting her with him.

  “Now,” he said, as she struggled to catch her breath, “do we chew this spearmint you mentioned?”

  “If you wish,” she replied, which was in truth no answer at all, but her courage had failed her. She was in a bath with Guillelm and he was naked. Plans of seduction were replaced by a paralyzing shyness. She knew she was being foolish-worse, her seeming reluctance might reinforce whatever cruel tricks Heloise had played and convince him she did not want him.

  “Did you know many women in Outremer?”

  The instant the question was out Alyson quailed-what was she doing? The very last thing she should be asking!

  “I am sorry,” she stammered, reaching blindly past Guillelm for the comb she had left on the edge of the bathtub. “That was wrong-“

  “You have done nothing. Truly. Why should you not be curious?” In the shifting candlelight, Guillelm’s features took on a wry look she was recognizing as a form of deep embarrassment. “I was the same about Lord Robert, with less cause”

  He cupped his hands and lifted them, allowing the water to trickle through. “The women in Outremer feared crusaders” He answered without looking at her. “Me especially.”

  And Heloise provided the coup de grace, Alyson guessed. Understanding this, she willed her limbs to move, but her legs would not obey her.

  “Come here, little one”

  Strong arms wrapped about her, lifting her through the water, and then she was tight against Guillelm, him peeling her damp veil back from her face. “The silk looks well on you, even wet, but I would see all of your blush.” He ran his thumb along her black eyebrows and over her cheekbones. “You color up so beautifully.”

  “As do you,” she managed to mumble in return, her eyes drawn to the drops of water beading on that wonderful mat of chest hair. Where was her soap? She had forgotten where she had put it and without that she could think of no other excuse to touch him. I have less wit than a wren near you.

  “Be glad you have any, for you often make me speechless,” Guillelm answered softly, which made her blush harder than ever. She had not realized she had spoken aloud.

  “Good!” Alyson could feel his calves against hers. The legs of a runner, she thought, tracing their lean, long muscles with the toes of her left foot. Where was her soap? “I cannot have a man who talks more than I do, or how can you listen to my wishes?”

  “Wishes, eh?”

  Alyson raised her chin. “Or commands”

  He gave a low whistle. “Is that how you think it will be?” He lifted her closer to him so that she lost her footing and floated in the lavender-scented water, him laughing as she tried to kick him. “This is one battle you cannot win.”

  “Maybe not, but I shall win the war.” She stretched up and tried to kiss him on the mouth, missed and bumped noses instead.

  “Well, my lady, if those are your tactics-” His lips unerringly found hers and he clamped her along the length of his body, his hands sweeping over her back, her sides, her breasts. She gasped and he kissed her more deeply, flicking his tongue against hers.

  “My lord!” A breathless Sericus, bedraggled and clearly distraught, limped into the bathhouse and hastily turned his back on
his young mistress.

  Alyson tried to break from Guillelm but it was like trying to escape the coils of a dragon: impossible. His body heat was like the blast of a furnace, making her thirsty and dizzy together. He could take me now with Sericus here and I would not object, she thought, appalled that she could be so wanton.

  “What is it?” Guillelm grunted, sounding no more happy at this interruption than she was herself. “Speak, man!”

  “The men were drinking last night,” the old seneschal stammered, nervously licking his lips. “Some were drunk this morning and

  “Things have become rowdy,” Alyson finished for Sericus, sensing he was inhibited by her presence.

  Sericus nodded unhappily. “One is on the battlements, with a sword. No one can get near him. He thinks we are the enemy.”

  Guillelm sighed and lowered Alyson gently to the floor of the bathtub, rubbing his hand across his eyebrows. “That will be Thierry; he drinks and then he fights. Fulk cannot manage him?”

  “I do not know,” Sericus said loyally. “Sir Tom asked me to come here” He bowed to Alyson. “Forgive me, my lady, I did not

  “No matter, Sericus, you had an urgent summons,” Alyson replied, absently crossing her hands across her breasts. She was glad of the high sides of the bathtub.

  “Urgent indeed, if Tom told you to fetch me,” Guillelm said, boosting himself out of the water. He tied a towel quickly round his middle and offered Alyson a hand, smiling slightly when she shook her head and paid close attention to her fingernails.

  “You must bathe without me, sweet,” he said softly.

  “Of course,” she said at once. “Take care”

  “I will.” Tugging on his mantle and with one shoe still unlaced, Guillelm sprinted for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Guard her, Sericus!”

  Alyson waited a moment, hearing his pounding footsteps receding in the direction of the keep, and then she blew out the candles. “Now that my anxious husband has gone on ahead, we shall follow,” she told her startled seneschal.

  “But, my lady!”

  “I have vowed to remain close to Guillelm today, and I shall, whatever happens” As she did when she was preparing a particularly tricky potion, Alyson narrowed her eyes and chewed her lower lip. “It maybe that I can help him with Thierry”

  “But the man is roaring drunk-“

  “Even so. Pass me my gown, Sericus”

  Chapter 12

  Ignoring Sericus’s protests, Alyson dressed swiftly. On the way to the castle, she called to a kitchen maid and asked the girl to send a message to Gytha and Osmoda that a tub of fresh hot water was waiting for them in the bathhouse. Why not? She knew that her old nurse would appreciate the chance to soak her aching joints and Osmoda would welcome the opportunity to bathe. Someone at least would reap the benefits of Guillelm’s work and her own.

  Meantime there was an armed knight rampaging around Hardspen, convinced that all who approached him were his adversaries. She could hear Thierry as she rushed ahead of limping Sericus and ran up the narrow spiral staircase leading to the battlements.

  “Fight, damn you!” Thierry was raging in French. “Come at me, pigs!” He lapsed into Arabic and then into a long, incoherent bellowing, oblivious it seemed to his fellow countrymen yelling at him to stop, to put his sword down, to recognize them as friends.

  Guillelm was already on the battlements. His voice was low, steady, comforting.

  “You are safe, Thierry. You have fought and won, Thierry. You are ever a brave and noble knight who will do no wrong. You will know me, Thierry. When I walk across to you, you will know me as you know yourself. And you will be safe. I promise you will be safe”

  Alyson paused at the top of the stairs, allowing her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight after pounding up the shadowy steps and to take in the scene. Her sudden appearance might inflame an already difficult situation and so she would keep out of sight, but she had to be sure Guillelm was safe. And if the chance came where she might help him, she would.

  Thierry was on the highest part of the keep, crouching in a corner, below the arrow slits and crenellations and with two outer battlement walls protecting his back. He was a stocky, swarthy man whom Alyson remembered all too well from the time he had tried to kiss her. There were splashes of beer, vomit and wine on his leather jerkin and a huge jagged gash in his leggings. He had black and yellow bruises on his square chin and broad nose and strands of rushes in his greasy dark hair. He was armed with a sword and a dagger, brandishing both in front of him.

  On his left a knot of men, including Fulk and Sir Tom, carried no weapons but had their long shields raised against him. Alyson saw Fulk’s tense profile and his hard blue eyes blinking over the top of his shield.

  “We are your friends, damn you!” he shouted in French, leaping back a step as Thierry swung at him. The point of Thierry’s long sword clashed against the rim of Fulk’s shield and the two men cursed. The others flinched, including Sir Tom, who glanced across the battlements at Guillelm.

  Guillelm was standing alone, to the right of Thierry, the place of danger where a right-handed swordsman most likely would attack. He had no sword or shield to protect him: he was bareheaded and barefooted, his clothes tugged on and still untied, but when he addressed the sweating, dark-browed man he was calm and kind, as if speaking to a child.

  “Thierry, you are safe. No one here means you harm. Look at me, Thierry.” He took a step toward the scowling figure, ducking as Thierry struck at him with a wild lunge.

  “You know me” Guillelm stopped and whistled a jaunty little tune. “Do you remember that song, Thierry? You sang me all the verses when we were riding to Jerusalem.”

  He spread his hands and turned full face to the muttering Norman knight, careless, it seemed, of presenting an easy target. “Your younger sister stitched you the embroidered belt you are wearing now,” he went on, unmoving as Thierry slashed his dagger so close to him that Alyson had to gnaw on her lower lip to stop herself screaming a warning. He is crazy, she thought. Guillelm will get himself killed for the sake of a drunken, lecherous fool. But she had to trust him. Love is trust, and if she intervened now, if she broke the fragile eye contact that had been forged between Guillelm and his man, then anything could happen.

  “I have more ale in the great hall, waiting,” Guillelm continued. “Drink with me, Thierry.”

  He took another step closer. Thierry’s sword dipped as the man’s shoulders sagged and Fulk took the moment to edge forward, but then Thierry jerked out of his crouch and lumbered forward, his sword arm raising again.

  “Infidel!” he screamed, but Guillelm merely sidestepped his clumsy charge, caught the man firmly by his left arm as he tottered past and yanked him back, preventing Thierry from taking a lethal plunge off the battlements into the inner courtyard.

  “You know me, Thierry. Look at me” Guillelm was scarcely out of breath, although for an instant his man had been within two steps of the edge. Glancing at the anxious upraised faces below them, hearing the stifled gasps, Alyson felt momentarily sick. If Thierry had gone over he surely would have been killed.

  “Come drink with me, Thierry. Infidels do not drink. You know it is forbidden to them”

  “More fools they are,” Thierry slurred, appearing almost cross-eyed for a moment in sheer bewilderment. “I know you”

  Guillelm took another step closer, his blond hair glinting in the strong sunlight. “We are crusaders, brothers in arms”

  “You owe him your fealty,” Fulk dropped in, at which Sir Tom pulled a face behind his shield, for Fulk’s alien, nasal voice broke the spell.

  “Liar!” Thierry screamed and waded toward Guillelm, stabbing and hacking while Guillelm dived this way and that, weaving around Thierry’s frenzied attack and keeping out of range of the deadly, flashing blades. He barged into Thierry, shoulder-first, almost knocking him clean off his feet, but the stocky Norman staggered a few paces back, his sword grating over the stone walkway, and the
n he regained his balance. He grunted and shook his head, clumsily patting himself over to check he had not been cut.

  “I am unharmed, Thierry,” Guillelm said steadily. “I am Guillelm de La Rochelle and I swear by the Mother of God that I would never harm you”

  “Mother of God?” Thierry’s lips moved slowly. “That is a familiar oath. My lord uses it often” He peered at the tall blond warrior standing fearlessly in front of his sword point. “Are you he?”

  Guillelm remained stock-still, hands on hips, ignoring Fulk’s muttered, “The fellow is worse than blind drunk this time. You are mad to approach him, my lord.” Guillelm did not recoil as Thierry swayed toward him, the dagger in Thierry’s left hand exactly level with his guts.

  “Mother of God, please keep them safe,” Alyson prayed urgently, starting as a gnarled hand flopped against her shoulder.

  “My lady,” Sericus wheezed, “you should not be here. You-” He coughed, his whole body shuddering with the long climb of the stairs.

  “I am safe enough” Swiftly, without taking her eyes off Guillelm, Alyson stepped around Sericus, bracing her arm against the spiral staircase so that the poor man should not fall. “Do not be troubled.”

  “But my lord said-“

  Alyson did not listen to the rest. Placing a hand on his shoulder she motioned the seneschal to sit on the stairs with her, her eyes never leaving her husband. If Thierry struck at Guillelm now, would her dragon have time to save himself? They were less than a spear’s length apart from each other, Thierry making stabbing movements in the air, shaking his head as Guillelm did not react.

  “I am Guillelm, Thierry, and you are always safe with me “

  If possible, Thierry looked more bewildered than ever. “But I am in the dungeons of Hasim, where no one escapes”

  “Except for you, Thierry.”

  “No, my lord is storming the castle of the infidel … can you hear the crash of the rams and siege engines?”

  “That is long ago, Thierry. Listen, now: I can hear birdsong.”

  Thierry knuckled his eyes with the fist that was clutching his dagger. After a moment, he hissed, “You are right! A skylark, very high.”