Guillelm lifted his hand again, palm upward. “I have a splinter-“
Alyson touched the dark needle of wood embedded in the broad base of his thumb. “So I must be like Saint Jerome with the lion and remove this man-made thorn from your paw, yes, dragon?” As she spoke, Alyson noted the bruising round the base of his thumb and the reddening of the skin close to the splinter. It would hurt, but she knew to say nothing as she began to cut out the wood, her fingers deft but slow, to reach all of it.
“Sir Tom, will you find me a cup of wine?” she asked.
“Mother of God, I need no numbing draught,” Guillelm protested, holding his hand steady as a rock as she pricked and eased the gleaming tip of the Arab blade under the core of the splinter.
“It is to cleanse the wound,” Alyson replied, flicking the shard of wood off the knife. “There! I have it out. Thank you, Sir Tom” She poured the cup of wine over the gash, which though shallow scarcely bled. “‘Tis done”
Aware of Guillelm’s closeness, his living warmth and scent, the strange intimacy that drawing out a mere splinter had evoked between them, she kissed his hand and raised her eyes to his. “I would suck the wound if I suspected poison. Should I do so?”
“A tempting offer.” Still kneeling, he leaned forward and kissed her healing shoulder. “I fear I must decline, brighteyes. I would not have you endanger yourself any more, especially for the sake of a splinter off the chapel door.”
He was smiling, but mention of the chapel reminded Alyson of the nuns. Priests she knew disapproved of the violence of tournaments and jousts; she could well imagine her sister’s icy comments on what was happening at Hardspen.
Guillelm’s words confirmed her fears. “I tried to speak with your sister but she would have none of me. The prioress did not even allow me to cross the threshold of my own chapel.”
“If that door had been a man’s throat, it would have been crushed,” said Sir Tom under his breath, and Guillelm agreed. “I admit my temper was not of the best, especially since your sister-“
He broke off, but Alyson finished the rest in her mind. Her sister had not asked after her, had shown no interest. Suppressing a sigh, she asked, “Are my sister and her companions well?”
“They sing heartily enough,” answered Guillelm sourly, “so I think it is safe to assume that they are in excellent health.” He gave a low whistle. “Truly, the scarlet suits you, Alyson. You are as perky as a bird.”
Perky, Guillelm thought, groaning inwardly in despair the instant the words escaped from between his teeth. Can I do no better than that?
Perky. She had never been called that before. Alyson smiled and removed the crumpled parchment favor from her pocket. “For you, my lord.”
“Will you tie it on for me?” Guillelm tapped the middle of his chest. “Here?”
Silently, Alyson untied one of her blue hair ribbons and knotted it about the parchment. As she fastened the whole to Guillelm’s mail she felt his breath on her forehead and sensed the rigidity of his hands, stock-still against his sides.
“What is that scent?” he asked. “Lavender?”
“It is.” Alyson patted the parchment and raised her head, almost starting when she realized how close Guillelm’s lips were to hers. “Is there anything else, my lord?”
Guillelm patted the parchment in turn, giving a grunt she hoped was one of approval. “In Outremer, as you know, the rose is for healing and for love,” he murmured. “What of lavender, here? I think it may be the same” His voice grew softer still. “I hope it is.”
Sir Tom cleared his throat. “Guido, the joust. Everyone awaits your presence”
“They will wait a little longer.” Guillelm traced a finger lightly across Alyson’s bottom lip, the small caress deepening the gleam in his eyes. “Why no red ribbon for me, sweet?”
“Blue is the color of the blessed Virgin Mary, the color of protection,” Alyson said quickly, her mouth aching and tingling from Guillelm’s touch. She did not want to admit her wary superstition of red and blood, did not want to confess her feeling of ill luck about his wearing her favor almost as a target right above his heart. “Should we not make haste?”
“For certain we must” Absently straightening a crease on his parchment favor, Guillelm climbed to his feet and offered Alyson his hand.
With Sir Tom limping a step or so behind, they made their way to the jousting ground, Guillelm lifting the rope enclosing the area so that Alyson need not duck. From the stand she caught the glitter of gold as Petronilla turned her head, switching her attention from the milling squires to the lord and lady of Hardspen. Today, Petronilla and her ladies were clothed in white and gold, their long veils edged with golden thread. Alyson sensed Petronilla’s probing eyes assessing her red gown and quickly suppressed an impulse to brandish her new dagger; Petronilla would consider such a token unfeminine. Besides, Guillelm was now addressing the spectators in the stand, the traders, servants and villagers sitting three to four lines deep around the roped-off ground, and the knights clustered within it, checking their weapons.
“Fellow knights, ladies, gentlemen and women of the road, villagers and woodmen of the downs, I, Guillelm de La Rochelle bid you welcome to these jousts on behalf of myself and my lady Alyson. I hope you enjoy this day. May God and all his saints keep you and your champions safe. May they capture many prizes, with courage and skill.”
There was a brief patter of applause, swiftly dying away as Guillelm stalked across the flat open ground toward the middle of the jousting area. Feeling his hand gripping as tightly as a snare about hers, rushing and almost missing her footing to keep pace, Alyson found herself too breathless to protest at his speed and too preoccupied with avoiding the cattle and sheep dung and the various stacks of weapons gathered at several points throughout this roped-off space to ask why a tent had been erected in its center.
The tent was circular, with a roof of blue and red stripes. Its cloth walls were tied back to its framework and its awnings were raised to show off a gorgeous interior: lamps and couches of gold, chests with their lids thrown open to display the plate and coins within, a table covered with swords and daggers, another table stacked with papers.
Astonished that such treasures should be displayed inside a jousting ground, Alyson realized that Guillelm had been less reckless than first appeared. The tent was set upon a raised platform of earth, as tall as herself, and surrounded by a wall of armed men, standing shoulder to shoulder with interlocking shields.
Guillelm marched to a seven-man gap in the shield wall, where a series of roughly cut earth steps led up into the heart of the mound. His standard was draped across the bottom of the steps and another flag fluttered on a pole at the top of the earth staircase.
Guillelm stood with his back to the steps and raised his free hand for silence. “Today there is much bounty to be won,” he went on. “Prizes of combat, the arms and horse of the vanquished-that goes to general custom. Also there are other prizes.” He pointed to the striped tent on the man-made defensive rampart. “Do you see the pavilion above me? It is the tent of Hasim of Outremer, won by me as a spoil of war. Within it are chests of treasure, grants of land, weapons from the finest smiths in the East. These are the prizes to be bestowed upon those she favors by my wife, the lady Alyson. It is she whom you knights must impress with your daring and more especially your honor: the manner of your victory and your mercy to those whom you vanquish.”
As more applause and a hum of excited talk broke out from the spectators, Alyson stared at her husband. The gifts he had spoken of were generous, largesse on the scale of a king. “These are truly mine to give?” she asked softly, her voice cutting through the excited yelling and stamping of feet. She heard her name being bellowed around the jousting ground like a lucky charm and gave one of her hair plaits a nervous tug.
“Grants of land?” she queried. Land was more valuable than gold. Land provided the means of growing food, of shelter, of life, and Guillelm was awarding lands i
n her name. The man whom she chose would swear fealty to her.
“None of the fields or woods are from your Olverton estate, my sweet,” Guillelm replied quickly. “I would not give to others by taking from you”
“No, no, dragon, you misunderstand. What I meant-” Alyson tried to explain but her sense of gratitude and sheer surprise made her tongue and wits sluggish. “You are most generous,” she began, stopping altogether when Guillelm grinned and suddenly hoisted her into his arms.
“Look well on your excellent lady, knights!” he shouted. “Today she is your queen!”
Alyson’s protest was lost in the roar of approval from the crowd. Torn between indignation at being displayed like a banner and a curiously satisfactory kind of vanity-people were staring at her, not Petronilla-she again attempted to thank Guillelm, but he now added the final, unbelievable instruction.
“Knights! To obtain the favor of my lady then you must fight me, here on this ground, by this stair. Any who succeed in passing me and climbing up to the pavilion shall be said to have won. Do not dare to touch her, not even so much as a fingertip, but come at me however you wish! One at a time, in pairs or in a score of flashing shields, swords and maces! I will take you on in whatever numbers you like! I too fight for the lady Alyson and for her I will struggle against all the world!”
Alyson gasped as she was lifted higher.
“I am the dragon and she is my prize!”
“No!” cried Alyson, appalled at these new revelations. “It cannot be! I am a healer, I will never consent to such folly-“
She spoke to the air. Guillelm had already set her down and stepped back, taking guard against the steps. She whirled after him. “My lord, this is madness”
Guillelm smiled. “Peace, Alyson. Our swords have not been sharpened and I will check my blows.”
“Even with blunted weapons it is dangerous. Please, my lord, stop this now!”
About to add, For my sake, Alyson saw the bright, possessive pride in Guillelm’s dark eyes and wished she was with her sister in the chapel of Hardspen, anywhere but at this jousting ground.
“Do you know what Hasim used this pavilion for in his fortress in Outremer?” Guillelm asked, as if she had not spoken.
Discouraged, Alyson shook her head. How could she make Guillelm understand? I am not a toy, she thought, but he was too full of his own answers to heed her.
“The tent was set up in his pleasure gardens, within the harem” Guillelm paused, a fleeting expression of wonder and sadness playing across his stark features. “I remember there were bowls of flashing mercury within the tent, and couches garlanded with the flowers of the orient, and carpets. Such carpets, Alyson! Thick, lush coverings of blue and red and gold, spread upon the ground itself.
“Perhaps we can use the tent in a similar way here, after the jousts,” he went on. “Make it our own secret place.”
The idea was appealing, Alyson conceded, but then doubt took over. Had Heloise possessed such a pavilion? Had she entertained Guillelm on a couch strewn with roses and mint?
Fighting that image, Alyson found herself remarking tartly, “And what of the women, my lord? The women of the harem who used this tent?”
Guillelm sighed. “Yes, you are right to remind me. Hasim’s women screamed when they saw me but truly they need not have feared. Neither I nor my men touched them. Their families ransomed them and saw them safe”
Hasim’s women. And she was Guillelm’s woman-as he himself had said it, his prize. The thought thrilled and depressed her afresh.
Seeking a diversion, Alyson realized with some relief that Fulk and Sir Tom were tramping across the jousting ground to join them.
“I believe Fulk would speak with you, my lord,” she began, but it was Sir Tom who called out, “Good speech, Guido! Now allow me to escort your lady to the stand-though I see few takers for your challenge.”
It was true, Alyson realized. The young knights clustered about the jousting ground seemed in no hurry to arm themselves. In twos and threes, ignoring the increasing boos and jeers of the crowd, they whispered together like gossiping tailors, apparently reluctant to move.
“Perhaps the knights are not inspired to take up arms for such a cause,” Fulk put in, with a quelling glance at Alyson, adding now that he was level with her, “None wear the Hardspen favor.”
Fulk had his back to Guillelm, who did not hear his seneschal’s latest sly dig, but Sir Tom blinked and roughly caught the man’s arm, dragging him to one side while he hissed something urgently into the leaner man’s ear. Whatever passed between them Alyson did not catch but she was glad-Fulk’s glower when he returned to her side was a joy to behold.
“How now, sir?” she asked sweetly, wishing for an instant that she was a man, to fight Fulk openly. Or to fight Guillelm. That battle would be short, she thought, gauging the length and strength of his bronzed shoulders and arms. She shivered, whether with fear or desire she could not say.
Marking her trembling, Sir Tom coughed. “I will fight, Guido.”
“No!” Alyson stepped between the two men. “No, this has gone far enough”
“It has not even begun yet, woman,” grunted Guillelm, staring down at her with that infuriatingly superior “leave this to us men” look. “Though for the sake of your tender nerves, Tom and I will be as mild as fresh milk to one another.” He glanced over her head. “Still, it must begin soon, before the crowd begin to throw benches onto the ground, instead of stones.”
It was true, Alyson realized. Spectators were tossing pebbles at the squires and a few were already sizing up the lingering knights. “Why can we not have a play here, like the mystery pageants?” she burst out. “Everyone who wished then could take part”
“Not just the knights, you mean?” Fulk was on to her meaning at once but he gave it a darker twist. “Would you perhaps prefer, madam, that Lord Guillelm is the prize-giver here and you the fighter, with that new shiny dagger?”
“And my lord tied to a post or chained to a rock, like Andromeda in the legend, and me the dragon, fighting off those who come to claim him?” Alyson demanded, nettled by Fulk’s wheedling. “I think not!”
“You know, there is some virtue in that idea,” Guillelm remarked, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on his belt. In a single swift action, fluid as the merlin when she stooped, he thrust his broadsword into the parched earth at his feet, burying more than a third of its blade, and came at her again.
“Do not!” Alyson warned, clicking her fingers angrily at him, but before she could swerve or try to thrust him aside which she knew, maddeningly, was frankly impossible for her-she was aloft, and heading for the pavilion. She pounded her fist against his shoulder, forgetting for an instant he wore mail and yelping as her hand scraped on the small metal rings. “Guillelm, put me down!”
“In good time.”
She was pressed so tightly in his embrace that she felt his slow heartbeat, the thick band of muscle beneath his ribs. Sucking in air to protest anew, she sneezed as strands of his thick blond hair blew across her eyes and nose as he lowered his head.
“Does your shoulder pain you?” he asked gently, serious after his earlier teasing. “Do you truly wish to withdraw, my Andromeda? I swear I will not chain you anywhere, but to defend you against all.” He lowered her onto the second step.
“I would tie her, or she will be intervening in every single fight,” Fulk remarked, adding quickly, “I jest, of course” He turned away, stepping back to yell insults at the lagging knights.
Guillelm watched him leave through narrowed eyes. “Damn the man,” he muttered. “He had sense and grace enough in Outremer. Has English ale addled his wits?”
“Forget Fulk,” Sir Tom said quickly. “But if Alyson is staying here, bring her a chair!”
So Alyson found herself a part of the joust, sitting on a highbacked seat at the top of the earth steps, within the shade of the red and blue-striped pavilion. Hailed publicly-by Guillelm himself as the Andromeda of Hardspen,
with Guillelm the lethal dragon of the story, prepared to fight any who tried to reach her, she watched with mounting alarm as four knights, armed with swords and clubs, finally made an attack.
Am I wrong to loathe this? Alyson thought unhappily, gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her fingers and shoulders ached. She feared for Guillelm and even more for the young knights, two of whom had patches of stubble on their youthful faces instead of full beards and the other pair so weedy they looked like birch saplings in armor. Beside them Guillelm was as big as a troll, with a troll scowl on his face. She could see his expression only in profile, but what she did see sank her spirits further.
To turn away would be an insult to the courage of these warriors; she had to keep a steady countenance and watch. Though she was not in chains like Andromeda, that was her ordeal. But unlike Andromeda I want the dragon to win …
She prayed to Christ and to the saints, determined not to flinch as the four young men lunged at her husband, their blades grinding against his broadsword. Across from Alyson’s lonely vantage point, Petronilla and her ladies chattered and pointed and giggled in the stand, a tumbler practiced back-somersaults at the side of the stand and the other spectators roared on their favorites and yelled for more ale. She saw Guillelm parry one blade after another, his sword arm almost too fast for her to follow, saw him buffet one warrior and knock him flat; drop his weapon, grab two more and hurl them away, dizzy as whipping tops; take up his sword again and slash it across the helm of the remaining challenger, straight at the youth’s staring eyes.
The crowd were on their feet, laughing as the four tottered from the field, jeering at their stricken expressions, cheering as another clutch of boy-soldiers sprinted for her place. Charging from the base of the earth steps, Guillelm smashed through the shield of the lead knight as if it were no stronger than the shell of an egg, seized his opponent’s mace and tore it from him, using the mace to club the knight’s thrashing legs. Alyson heard the crack as mace met bone and she dry heaved. She kept still as the knight fell, clutching his knee.
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