Although he was a head taller than her and broader, Alyson felt herself relax. Lord Robert would never have admitted anything he did or said was foolish. She touched his arm, brushing a rose petal, fallen from their roof garden, off his shoulder. Against the backdrop of the keep, his starkly handsome face and bright hair lent him an unworldly air, like a fallen angel.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she said softly.
He bowed his head toward her and they stood together in quiet, Alyson aware of his light, slow breathing, Guillelm lost in the moment entirely. Out of the shadows, from an unseen booth, drifted the mellow, haunting sound of a rebec: someone playing a lament. People strolling about the bailey paused to listen, their figures as insubstantial to Alyson’s dazzled senses as the smoke from a distant fire.
“Are you real?” Guillelm murmured. “Is this a dream?” The sound of the rebec wound about them as he lifted her hand and kissed her palm, her fingertips. He ran his thumb lightly down her arm. “You are so pretty.”
“No
“Yes, you are.” He drew her back into his arms. Alyson leaned against his shoulder. When she threaded her arm around him, he sighed.
“Do you know the tune being played?” he asked. “It sounds very old, very beautiful.”
“Sorry, no ””
“Do not be, sweet. There is no need to know.” He rocked her lightly, in time to the slow rise and fall of the music. “Only remember.”
His eyes held hers. “Alyson?”
She smiled, knowing why he had stopped, why he was so suddenly tense. It really was her move. “All is well,” she said, and she took his face gently between her hands and kissed him on his mouth.
Guillelm spent the rest of the day in a happy fog, though he could have strangled the page who had interrupted his deepening embrace with Alyson to say that the first of the knights had arrived. It was no one he knew, a younger son of one of the local landowners, keen to better his fortune through keeping the horse and weapons of those knights he vanquished. There would be many younger sons arriving, Guillelm thought, and knights weary of fighting for King Stephen or the empress and looking for easier spoils. He had warned his men to look out for any troublemakers he wanted no battles to erupt at Hardspen between the factions of Stephen or Maud.
Soon after he had greeted the gangly, young knight who had ridden in on an old chestnut horse, a wagon of womenfolk arrived, escorted by stripling archers and a dozen sturdy, experienced retainers. Alyson, who had stood patiently beside him while the acne-scarred knight had nervously recited the names of his kindred and promised his obedience to the lord and lady of Hardspen, gasped and drew back.
“Petronilla,” she moaned, as if in despair, rather than gladness. “How very elegant she is!”
Guillelm saw a pale, moon-faced woman with sparse blonde hair leaning from the front of the wagon, waving. To him, her white features and dress were as insipid as milk, but Alyson was flicking hopelessly at her own gown as if it was spattered with dust.
“I have no time to change,” she was saying.
Guillelm turned his laughter into a cough and shook his head. “I will bring your Petronilla and her ladies to your paradise-after you have changed”
Alyson laced herself swiftly into her new scarlet gown she knew red was Guillelm’s favorite color-and ran up the long spirals to the roof garden. She had scarcely recovered her breath when Guillelm appeared, escorting Petronilla.
“My dear creature, how brown you are!” Petronilla exclaimed the instant Guillelm disappeared downstairs. “You are almost as dark-skinned as your lord, who is as tanned as one of my father’s peasants”
Two light kisses landed somewhere in midair close to Alyson’s ears as Petronilla swept about the garden, leaving a trail of snapped-off flower heads where the long sleeves of her gown had caught against the sides of the tubs and a sweet, rather sickly scent of violets. Gaping at her friend, whom she had not seen for two years, Alyson realized she had forgotten how talkative Petronilla was.
“Not that Lord Guillelm is anything like a peasant,” Petronilla went on, dropping her pet squirrel onto Alyson’s couch and frowning at the simple wooden cups that had been left on the low table. “I suppose that his blond looks are quite handsome, if you like the brooding sort. It is a shame he is so big. No large man is ever graceful and his bones will pain him and grow crooked before he is much older.”
“Not if I can help it, Pet,” Alyson answered mildly.
“Do not call me that name! So childish.” Petronilla stepped back from the battlements with a shudder. “I told my women to be careful with that, and now it is quite spoilt,” she remarked coolly, referring to some calamity Alyson had not seen. “Edith would say he is almost a fashionable knight, your Guillelm: his color is right but not his size-much too lumbering! Edith sends her apologies, by the by. She cannot come because of a stomach chill.”
“I am sorry for that,” Alyson replied, her mood sinking further. She had forgotten how Edith’s easygoing charm had smoothed relations between them all. Without Edith she was finding Petronilla a trial. “How are you, Petronilla?”
“I have a mark on my hand that I hope you will take a look at °”
“Of course”
“And the skin around my elbows looks dry.”
“I have a salve that may help you there. Shall we go down to my potions room?”
Petronilla beamed. “You can meet my maids, too, and see my wagon. Father had it made for me specially, with extra cushions; you know how easily I bruise! More than Edith, although she is a redhead. No dashing bachelor will look at her now she is three-and-twenty; she will have to settle for a widower, or a man like your Guillelm.”
“Then Edith will consider herself fortunate,” Alyson replied, considering this brittle-tongued, wispy woman and recalling the chattering, golden child she had been, beloved and protected by everyone. Petronilla had always been so glad to try her salves, too.
That interest between them at least remained, Alyson thought, leading the way as Petronilla seized the leather lead of her squirrel and dragged the squirming creature off the bed. “How are your parents?” Alyson asked above the squirrel’s squeals of fear and indignation.
“Father is looking for a good marriage for me. He has been approached by several knights, but none have really caught my eye and he knows that. Mother says that with my beauty and wealth I can take my time. We heard about the attack on St. Foy’s, by the by. Someone told me that your sister is staying here. Are you not afraid that your bear of a husband will alarm her? She was always mistrustful of men”
“My sister is a deeply religious person. She spends her day in the chapel, in prayer and contemplation,” Alyson answered doggedly, depressed that Petronilla had learned about Sister Ursula so quickly. “The nuns are devastated about the loss of their home. Guillelm tells me that the prioress is shocked beyond measure that their convent should have been attacked. She and the nuns rarely venture from the chapel.”
“Even so, Matilda is your sister-“
“With her sisters in Christ in such a wretched state, Tilda cannot leave them” Alyson took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Petronilla, my sister is of course Sister Ursula now. She has a different name and a different life.”
Alyson felt Petronilla’s hand drop onto her injured shoulder and bit her lip hard to stop herself from crying out. She turned on the narrow staircase, trying not to flinch or show her distaste as she stared straight into the young woman’s delicate face and hard, narrow eyes, glinting with curiosity.
“Do you not miss her?”
Alyson nodded, hoping that would be enough. She heard Petronilla take in another breath and braced herself for more painful questions.
“I see you have not grown as much as a finger-width, by the by,” Petronilla exulted, touching the crown of her head as if in comparison, her fingers idly checking that her jeweled fillet was perfectly arranged on her yellow curls. “You are quite as small as a cottar’s child.”
“I know I do not match the fashionable forms of beauty, any more than does my lord,” Alyson replied, in what she prayed was a good-humored way. She turned and resumed her downward climb, quickening her pace so that she and Petronilla soon would be joining others.
“Perhaps you could cover your hair,” Petronilla trilled happily, tripping on the steps behind Alyson, her breath hot on Alyson’s aching shoulder. “And never wear a drop-waisted gown or belt; that would draw attention to your short legs. Hush!” This said to the squirrel, scrabbling on the leash by her feet.
“What do you call the creature?” Alyson asked.
“Mother said it had a name; she gave it to me as a contrast to my coloring. Perhaps you should have a pet.”
“I do not know if my lord would allow that,” Alyson replied in mock-seriousness, breathing a sigh of relief as she stepped out of the keep and Petronilla was surrounded by her ladiesin-waiting.
Alyson found supper in the great hall that evening a trial, after a long afternoon spent with Petronilla and her maids happily burrowing through her stores of potions and salves, trying at will what they fancied. It was the first time she had dined in public since her injury and she had hoped to be seated by Guillelm, but he, Fulk and Sir Tom were absent, still at the tourney ground seeing to last-minute preparations for the jousting that would begin on the morrow.
Sitting in Guillelm’s place, Alyson knew she should be the gracious hostess. There were a score or more of young knights and their squires, all strangers to Hardspen, who had arrived throughout the day, lured by the promises of winning renown and rich prizes. Seated among Guillelm’s veterans, the new men nervously picked at their trenchers or were drinking deeply, with a grinning bravado.
Aware of Petronilla on her left, scarcely touching her meat, Alyson was increasingly mortified as the meal progressed. Hardspen had no resident minstrels, for Lord Robert had disliked music and neither she nor Guillelm had yet had the time to appoint any players. They were “entertained” by several traveling musicians who had arrived for the jousts and who, despite Alyson’s and Sericus’s best efforts, frequently beat their drums or blew their whistles in opposition to each other.
“At least there are no jugglers,” Petronilla remarked when Alyson felt compelled to apologize.
“We could hold a court of love,” Alyson suggested, blushing deeply as she spoke. “My lord told me that in southern France and also in Outremer, the ladies of the courts there encourage the young knights to speak of ideal love, to make music and compose poetry in honor of their chosen beloved.”
“What else did he say?” Petronilla asked, sitting up and becoming more animated than she had been for the past hour.
“I forget,” Alyson answered. She would not admit to Petronilla that only yesterday evening, dozing in the great bedchamber after her bath, Guillelm had sent her a single white rose by way of a smirking Gytha and the carefully written note: To my brighteyed wife, whom I miss and who misses nothing.
“What do you think?” Alyson went on, rousing herself from her pleasant reverie. “If I instruct the servants to move back the trestles, arrange the benches around the fire space, I think your maids would be interested,” Alyson added, seeing one of Petronilla’s ladiesin-waiting valiantly trying to stifle a yawn.
“I am sure they would be ”” Petronilla drummed her fingers sharply on the high table. “Yet I think we both know that only one woman here is the ideal of beauty.”
“Yes, I am beginning to understand that,” said Alyson, wishing Guillelm was with her to catch eyes with, share the moment.
Or would he? As the long night continued, Alyson heard a dozen or more chants she could not, even at her most charitable, call them songs-to high, cruel beauties, with golden locks, green eyes, skin as white as ivory, bodies as tall and shapely as that of the Roman goddess Venus, all dressed in silver and white with bracelets and fillets of gold. Petronilla, in a pale primrose-colored gown and white veil, took the young knights’ fumbled “prayers” to their ideal lady as no more than her due, turning her own gold bracelets on her wrists. Her maids, trim and pretty in gowns of light green, whispered behind their hands to each other and pointed at one slim young warrior or another. Feeling both ignored and conspicuous with her blood-red gown and black river of hair, Alyson sat small on Guillelm’s great chair, only waiting for the “love court” to be done as she watched the smiling Petronilla and wondered afresh about the courted, desired and unattainable Heloise.
Chapter 19
The next time Alyson saw Guillelm was the following morning at the first joust. Sir Tom came to escort her to the tilting ground and was remarkably closemouthed about what was planned.
“You will see soon enough, Alyson,” he said, tapping the side of his mangled nose. “Guido says he wants it to be a surprise a pleasant surprise”
“Men trying to batter each other to the ground?”
Sir Tom gave an amused cough. “Aye, well, Guido did say your views on tournaments were unusual. I suppose with your being a healer…” He smiled at her and offered her his arm. “I think this first event is more of a pageant, a kind of acted story, as is seen with the mystery plays.” Through the mesh of facial scars his eyes were wary yet bright. “It is your lord’s own idea. Some of the ladies may be taking part, to bestow favors and prizes.”
Petronilla would enjoy that attention, Alyson thought. She turned back, looking the way she and Sir Tom had come. They were walking steadily to an area on the downs enclosed by a long series of ropes draped at regular intervals with Guillelm’s own standard and circled by onlookers and hawkers. On the most sheltered side of the down, out of the gusting breeze, a stand had been erected, with benches and chairs. Beneath the bright awning and canopy, she spotted Petronilla and her ladies, seated with goblets of mead, beckoning first to one hovering page and then another.
“The distribution of favors seems to be in full swing,” Alyson remarked. “Have they been here long?”
“No, but my lord wished you to appear last; he wants to bring you to the high seat himself, as a mark of honor.” Sir Tom scratched at the long scar zigzagging through his black beard. “I suppose you have a favor for him?”
“I have” A certain wistfulness to his question made Alyson add, “One for you, too, Sir Tom, if you will wear it.”
She expected thanks, or shy pleasure, or even polite acceptance. Instead, her strapping escort said quietly, “No thank you, my lady,” without quite looking at her.
“As you wish.” Hurt by his refusal, Alyson glanced about rapidly for something to remark upon, to heal this sudden rift between them. “There are no horses”
“No, my lord instructed that the knights should fight on foot. He wants no mounted battles ranging from village to village. He says the country is wrecked enough already, from the king’s and empress’s skirmishes. Here he is,” Sir Tom added, in obvious relief.
Alyson’s spirits leapt at the sight of the tall, sinewy figure striding away from the shadow of the stand toward her. Dressed in plain battle armor, carrying his helmet in one fist and with the fingers of his other hand drumming against his sword belt, Guillelm was grimly solemn.
His mouth in that line is like his father’s, Alyson thought. Despite her bold intentions, she quailed a little as she stepped ahead of Sir Tom.
“How now, my lord?” She sucked in her stomach and flicked her hands along the waist and flanks of her gown, making the skirt billow in a shimmering red tide. Heartened by Guillelm’s dark eyes ranging over her, she was poised to offer him her own, deliberately original favor-very different from the scraps of cloth, trinkets or gloves usually given, hers was a letter on parchment, steeped in lavender, wishing him good fortune in the jousts.
Then she saw them. A finger ring on a cord, tied onto the shoulder of his mail. A ribbon, threaded round his belt. Another ribbon, pinned to his cloak.
Alyson closed her fingers round the parchment till it crackled. She wanted to rip these other favors off him, de
mand he wore none but hers. Do not say anything, she thought, but she snapped her fingers and heard her treacherous tongue saying, “That ring will surely cut your face, dangling on that cord”
Guillelm turned his arm this way and that. “It may.” He answered as if indifferent to her concern, and he did not say who had given him the ring.
“Why accept it, then?” Alyson persisted, aware of Sir Tom frowning, knowing she was probably making too much of the matter.
“A knight is very discourteous if he does not take what is offered to him, especially if it is from a lady,” Guillelm answered, still reasonable.
But this issue of accepting favors is more than being polite what of my feelings? Alyson tried to think of a prayer to stop her temper. But she could do better than blind anger. Focusing her hurt, she unclipped a key from her belt.
“Here is my favor, sir, the key to the great bedchamber.”
Guillelm’s eyes narrowed. “I need no key but I will take it, and that other offering in your hand”
“It is mine to give, or not”
Guillelm hooked his thumbs into his sword belt. “Before God, you are still a thoroughly provoking wench. Why can you not hand it across? You know you wanted to only a moment ago”
Was this in jest or earnest? Reminding herself he was not Lord Robert, Alyson wet her lips with her tongue and plunged on. “I, too, know how to tilt and joust, my lord.”
“Indeed you do” Ignoring Sir Tom’s muffled exclamation, Guillelm dropped to his knees before her and removed a long, slim knife from his belt.
“This blade I took from Hasim of the black rock fortress. I would that you receive it into your care, my lady, as my favor to you.”
His face was open, young-looking, his dark eyes without guile. He meant it as an honor, Alyson realized, as a sign that she was his equal. Hoping her eyes would not blur with foolish tears, she clasped the smooth handle of the knife.
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