To Touch The Knight

by Lindsay Townsend

  Ranulf stepped back. She did not understand, it seemed—or was she willful, blindly stubborn? Like a blow from a mace, his memory brought him to Olwen, dead in his arms: white and dead and stiffening. She had set out that fateful morning with a tiny escort. She, too, had thought herself safe.

  The black grief poured over him and through him as he spoke. “You concern yourself with trifles and not your own safety? The security, too, of your people? These children here”—he waved at the youngsters, feeling a fresh molten coil of inner rage on their behalf—“how will you protect them and with what—with daisy chains and soft words?”

  “My lord—”

  “No, not yours,” he said harshly. “Not any lord’s, more’s the pity.”

  “And you would announce that to the cosmos, would you?” she retorted, her eyes slitted with anger.

  “You would do far better under a lord’s protection, madam, but you are too foolish to see it.”

  At once her color rose as if he had slapped her. Staring down at her reddened forehead and blazing eyes, he realized that he had made her situation worse: he had indeed broadcast it to the world. Even as he groped for words to undo a little of what he had done, she lunged at him, seizing his arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “Hear me, now,” she said, in a low, dark voice. “I take care of me and mine, without your foul insinuations!”

  “I did not accuse you of lack of care.”

  “And I would rather be put up as a prize than submit to yours!”

  He wrenched his arm away. “That can be arranged, madam.”

  They were both too furious to back down and he could see no way out of it; rather he was relieved when she stalked off, her long flowing silks striking against his legs as she turned about, almost tumbling onto the grass in her haste to escape him. He put out a hand to stop her falling and she cried out, “Do not help me, sir! I want none of it, or you!”

  Behind them he could hear stifled laughter—he knew of only one man in England who would dare to laugh, even if Giles had the good sense to stop laughing. He slewed about and there was Giles, hiding the smirk behind his hand and staring at the departing princess.

  “Suave as ever, eh, Ran?” he called, tall and elegant in his best blue mantle, cool where Ranulf knew that he himself was red with temper. “I see our Eastern Princess approves you.”

  “Go to hell!” Ranulf snarled, wanting to drag the taller, more handsome Giles to the river and dunk him into the mud. He stormed off, wishing he had never opened his mouth, feeling as charmless as the most gauche of squires.

  She heard him, behind her, Sir Giles, her former master, who had thrust her and the other villagers into the church of Warren Hemlet and barred the door on them, leaving them all to die. She wanted to scream, and run, and be sick; instead she forced herself to walk.

  Her anger at Ranulf was swallowed in a greater horror. They knew each other, Sir Giles and Ranulf. Giles had called him Ran—a nickname, surely? They must be friends. Ranulf was a friend of her savage former master.

  Now that I know this, how can I trust him? If he is a friend of such a man as Giles de Rothencey! How can he be?

  Revolted, she felt clammy all over, bursting into the great tent and falling onto her knees, shivering in reaction.

  “Take everyone else and go,” she said through a jaw that felt as rigid as iron as Teodwin hurried to her. “Sir Giles has come here, so get all our people out into the woods. Go out through the back entrance. Hurry!”

  To her relief, he did not waste time asking more or arguing. As he herded the children and adults together, whispering to them to be quick and quiet, Edith sped behind the curtain to check on Maria, Christina, and Sir Tancred.

  All were still sleeping, and had she been friends with the Almighty she would have thanked God; as it was, she left them snoring and returned to the main tent. Scattering cloaks and flowers—a chessboard, a copper cup, a rebec; in truth, anything that came to hand—across the large sleeping pallet of the village men that dominated the left hand side of the tent, she hid their cloaks under a mound of things. She did not think her former master would recognize any of the clothes, but she wanted to make sure he did not.

  Sir Giles did not know her as the Lady of Lilies, and he had not truly known her as the smith’s widow of Warren Hemlet and sister to the priest, but she knew him. She knew him all too well.

  She had warned the others just in time—scarcely had Teodwin slipped through the small back entrance and she was tying the flaps than she heard a quick, firm step outside. Sir Giles had done what no other knight or squire had presumed to do: he had come to her tent, without leave or invitation.

  His predictability angered and comforted her at one and the same time. She knew what she was dealing with.

  Remembering, she ran now behind the curtain to the widowed and single women’s side of the tent, repinned her veil, flung on her largest silk cloak, found a half-bulb of garlic that she was using as part of a wound potion, smashed a clove on a stool, and smeared it rapidly over her arms.

  She snatched up a scrap of sewing that the miller’s widow had been doing and took that with her into the main tent.

  “You must forgive Ran. He is still in deep mourning since the death of his wife.”

  As she had expected, Sir Giles had entered the tent and was helping himself to a cup of wine. Edith took a deep breath and approached him.

  “I would know your name, my lord, since you are in my place and helping yourself to my wine.”

  For an instant Sir Giles appeared disconcerted, but he soon smiled—the wide, open look he reserved for ladies.

  “Forgive me, I am as discourteous as Ran!” Still clutching the wine cup, he bowed. “Sir Giles de Rothencey.”

  He did not say “At your service” or thank her for the wine. Edith decided to keep him off balance—and have him out of her tent as quickly as possible.

  “Are you a friend of Sir Ranulf?” She strolled to the wide doorway of the tent, hoping Sir Giles would trail after her. “Twice now you have called him discourteous. Is that what friends do in the West?”

  He laughed, not in the least put off, it seemed, by her garlic perfume, and worse, not in the least ashamed of himself. “Do you wish to speak of him, my lady? I would prefer to talk of you and your fabled beauty.”

  He came alongside her, trying to peer through her gauzy cloak by the greater light from the entrance. Edith took a step sideways, hoping she was out of his reach.

  “Shall we sit outside? There is a bench ready.” She knew she was too breathless, but if he assumed she was wary of him, so much the better. In truth, it was not fear that made her nervous but a loathing she was certain must show even through her veiling. She wanted to shout out the names of the villagers he had condemned, to hurl them at him like stones. Had it not been for de Rothencey’s inhumanity, her brother Gregory might not have died—or if he had, it would have been in his own bed, not on the road.

  Overwhelmed by that memory, the very dust of the road seeming to rise up again to blow into her eyes and to clog her lungs, she watched Gregory die again, pass away in great heaving, shuddering gasps while she could do nothing—nothing—to help him. Helpless, horrified, Edith shook with rage.

  “Are you sick?” The mask of the courtier was abruptly tossed aside as Sir Giles backed rapidly away. Edith managed a choking cough and his blue eyes widened with alarm.

  “I must take my leave of you.” He was out of the tent, almost scrambling. “I will bid you, adieu, and—”

  He collided with Ranulf in the entrance and then he was away, fleeing straight from her camp without a single backward glance.

  Edith knew she should do nothing but a reaction overcame her; from being light-headed with fury she felt she was floating. It seemed now that the clouds in the sky had fallen to earth and had become her bed; a very soft, fluffy bed.

  “Take my arm and do not faint yet, I will guide us back indoors. Faugh! You stink like a French cook. I know Gi
les loves garlic, but this is too much, Princess.”

  “He thought me ill,” Edith rasped, wondering why her throat was so dry and appalled at what he had just told her. She had not known that of her former master.

  “And that is why he left? Not very ardent. Up with you now.”

  She was in Ranulf’s arms, being carried to a stool. He set her down and brought her a cup of wine—not the same cup Giles had used, for her former master had taken that with him, she realized.

  “Better?” Ranulf was kneeling beside her, his arm across her back, supporting her, his other hand lifting the wine cup. “Take another drink—I will turn my head if you wish to unveil.” He glanced at the curtained-off section of the tent and added, “How is Sir Tancred?”

  “Sleeping.” Edith took the cup from him; it gave her something solid to hold on to. “Thank you. I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

  Ranulf said nothing. She had gifted him with the chance to explain, and part of him wanted to do so, and to apologize for his harsh words of the morning. But then he thought of Giles again—how long had Giles been alone with her?

  He studied her bowed head, trying not to breathe in as the stench of garlic hit him again. He knew almost nothing of her—her name, her past, even most of her face remained mysteries to him. He had seen her with Sir Tancred and thought them as easy and innocent with each other as father and daughter, but had she other lovers?

  Giles cannot be her lover. He does not know her. But then, he was in her tent today, and they were alone, with no attendants. Am I mistaken? Are they intimate? Are they playing everyone at this joust for fools? Such a jest would be much to Giles’s taste, even if I think it ill favored. Olwen always said he had a cruel wit.

  “Too many mysteries,” he said aloud, disliking everything.

  “How do you compare us, Princess, Sir Giles and myself?” he demanded, wishing to take the question back the instant he spoke it.

  She could not tell him: your friend sickens me. Like for like, her former master was the taller, with eyes as blue as cornflowers against Ranulf’s handsome brown eyes. Giles’s hair was as dark and well-fashioned as finely carved ebony, contrasting with Ranulf’s fair-to-russet shaggy mass, and he had a squarely handsome face, more conventionally pleasing than Ranulf’s austere look. Ranulf’s face was leaner, his nose and forehead were slightly sunburned, and he was not so broad.

  “You are the better fighter.” She was suddenly tired of gallantry, of lies. “I know not if you are the better man.”

  He turned his head and looked at her steadily. “We do not know each other, Princess. For all I know, you may be betrothed to Giles. I cannot say for sure, yea or nay.”

  “I can for sure,” Edith began, realizing she was beating her fist upon her knees before she stopped. “Are you friends, even as he claims?”

  Please let him say no. Please let him say they hate each other.

  “As much as warriors can be, yes. He is a doughty man to have on your side in a fight, is Giles.”

  His simpleminded acceptance of Giles sickened her afresh. She pulled away slightly, reluctant to lean against his warm, sheltering arm, feeling a bolt of cold crawl down her back.

  “Why was Giles here, and alone with you?”

  That was straight on target, she thought, blinking. “Should that be your concern?” For an instant she almost confessed that Giles had not been welcome, that he had stolen in without permission, but how could she say anything of that nature to Ranulf? She could not tell Giles’s friend that her people had fled in fear of their former master. “Is it any of your business?”

  “Maybe not, but I find it is.” Still in a crouch, he spun on the balls of his feet and pointed to the open entrance. “If word goes out that you admit knights without a chaperone, you will be diminished, Princess.”

  “I have Sir Tancred.” Why did he have to say that? Diminished. She wanted to crawl into the straw pallet and hide.

  “Sir Tancred, yes—a knight who all now know is ill.”

  “He is recovering.” And I pray when he wakes he will be well and willing to travel. We must get away from here.

  “Is Giles your lover? If he is, he should be proud and open with it.” Ranulf cracked his knuckles together, adding darkly, “I wager he likes to be secret, for Giles loves his secrets, but it does you harm, Princess.”

  “My lover? I never met the man before today!” She could not believe what he was saying. She would not have thought him so jealous, so remarkably stupid.

  “He entered my place unasked and unlooked for,” she snapped. “He makes a habit of that.”

  “How do you know? If, as you say, you have not seen him before, met him before today, then how would you know that?”

  Edith flung down the cup and whirled off the stool in a rush of silks, slamming her hands against Ranulf’s shoulders, trying to push him down. It was like trying to shift a boulder, but she could use words as weapons, and did: “How dare you? I am a Princess of Cathay and I will not be questioned by a northern brute of a soldier whom my father would not take into his service as a pot-boy! Get out!”

  He was crouched at her feet, staring up at her, his lean features as set and rigid as steel, and as pale. Without a word he rose and strode to the entrance, looked back at her once, nodded, and was gone.

  Chapter 12

  Ranulf knew he should be preparing for the afternoon joust, but instead of returning to his own camp, he found a woodland path and followed it. Stealing through the elders and hazel, listening and keeping a wary lookout for wild boar, he witnessed the cautious return of the lady’s servants. They emerged from the greenwood, shy as squirrels, and hurried away on the paths leading to her great tent. Some were as brilliant as church wall paintings in their bold new clothes, others were as discreet as sparrows in browns and grays.

  But I will not see my maid here, and now I believe I know why the princess wears gloves.

  As a fighter he knew fear. He knew the look of it, the stench of it. The princess had courage. She faced him and hurled words like knives, but she was terrified of Giles. The paling of her skin and tightening of her hands which he had taken at first as signs of shame, of being discovered with her lover, he now recognized as fear.

  He regretted his questions now, and his jealousy. I have learned nothing since poor Olwen—when will I learn to be less judging? Who am I—God? Why does my princess doubt all but the evidence of her own senses? What has happened to her? And how does she know Giles?

  The more he considered the matter, the stranger it became. Giles, by his extravagant smiles and winsome behavior, did not know the princess. He was never so fulsome with women he knew.

  If this is what I believe, then whatever my Eastern firebrand thinks, she needs a strong protector. Or her whole device—and device I think it must be—will unravel like thread off a spinster’s distaff. I wonder that no one has noticed.

  But he had not, or if he had, he had not greatly cared, until the advent of Giles had forced him to consider. She had cast her device well, with her veils and wanton costumes.

  Perhaps she is a witch. His flesh crawled and his scalp itched at the thought. Was she leading them all to hell? If the whole world was dying of pestilence, as priests fleeing from stricken towns and villages claimed, then were she and her court demons?

  “By Lucifer, she cannot be!”

  His denial was so strong that he startled a blackbird, who fled alarmed into deeper cover. He strode over a patch of dying daffodils and placed his open hand on the wide trunk of a massive beech tree, remembering the young beech the little maid had hidden by.

  Olwen said I was over-hasty, too keen to condemn. I will not be the same with these mysteries. Let them play out more.

  Whatever she was, she was no knight, bred to speak the truth.

  “Little liar,” he said softly, and he smiled grimly. She still owed him kisses, too.

  At sunset Sir Tancred died unexpectedly, in his sleep. Edith was sitting on the bed
beside him, talking quietly to Christina and Maria, when she heard his breath slow. Christina heard it, too, and she began to weep.

  “We need a priest,” Maria said, crossing herself and backing away on the bed.

  “Fetch Teodwin,” Edith said, and she took Sir Tancred’s cool hand in hers while Christina, on his right side, took his other hand.

  Edith tried to remember the prayers she had heard Gregory make, but her brother was now loose in her mind and what she saw and heard was his death, his final, gasping moments, his awful choking and writhing and ear-splitting screams of pain. Sir Tancred was going peacefully.

  Teodwin put his head round the curtain, then walked closer, his face solemn. “I could send a lad to the church,” he offered.

  Christina bent low and whispered something in Sir Tancred’s ear.

  Edith shook her head. “No time. He goes with the sun. Will you say a prayer?”

  There was no time to find any priest, she told herself, as Teodwin knelt by the bed and began to pray. She knew she should send someone to fetch Sir Tancred’s men, but she could not choose who should go. She felt numb. She wished Gregory was here. He would know what to do.

  “I will go for his squire,” Maria said, moving as swiftly as her bulk would allow.

  “No, not at this time with so many dagger-girls wandering about the camp, seeking lovers. Martin and Walter should go.” Edith forced herself to think, though all she wanted was to lie beside this dying, gentle man and howl. “Let them go and let whoever of Tancred’s men in. Draw back the curtain and open the tent flaps. Go to our wagon, Maria. Stay there with the children.”

  The tent became a whirlpool of activity as braziers were brought and Tancred’s men began to hurry to their master’s bedside. Edith stayed, holding Sir Tancred’s limp hand and joining in what prayers she could.

  He died at sunset, in his sleep, surrounded by his men, his friends, his woman Christina, and Edith.

  “A good way to go,” several of his men murmured as they left the tent for the womenfolk to wash the body and to lay him out. By agreement, he was to be carried to the small church, where Christina and Edith would keep watch, among others, through the night.