“Maids as well as men?” Giles looked her up and down, his eyes fixing on her bosom again. “Do you claim to be shy?”
“It is the custom of my land,” she answered, refusing to elaborate.
Giles pursed his lips while he stared at her softly wrapped curves and swatted the heads off marigolds. “Why?” he demanded.
“A princess is not to be seen by the common sort, only by quality,” she replied, appealing to his notions of knighthood. “By your leave, my lord, I will make a veil now from my wrap, to cover myself.”
“No need.” Giles snapped his fingers and at once servants came rushing. It was the work of anxious moments for them to fetch her some yellow cloth, almost as fine as her silk.
She veiled herself quickly, relieved that Giles could no longer see her expression, and gave him a brief bow. “I am greatly in your debt.”
She watched him chew on that and like it. His hand stopped swatting.
“I could bathe with you.”
As if he offers me a jewel! “That would be wonderful, my lord.”
She dreaded being naked with him but knew she could give no other answer than the one she had. All she could do was delay more. “The day is so warm now! If you wish, my lord, I could gather some raspberries or blackberries and make you a tisane such as I make for my father.”
“You have such fruits in the East?”
“Of similar kind, and dragon berries.” Edith was already hurrying toward a shaded part of the garden, where she had spotted a mass of brambles. When Giles did not call her back, she knew her ploy had worked.
For now at least, and if he asks after dragon fruits I have another tale to spin.
Chapter 40
“Tell me again,” said Ranulf, “and make haste.”
A clamor of voices answered and he raised a fist. “Dismount, all of you, and gather in a circle round me. Then we shall talk. One at a time.”
Fury bit him like fleas but he clamped it down, stamping as he tumbled from his horse and swung Gawain down onto the woodland floor. He could see the London road from here, the dust of it at least, but he could not see the battlements of Giles’s place, not yet.
Have we stopped too soon? Should I have ridden farther?
But he knew the danger of haste. From raiding in France he knew it and he sensed it now, as the rest of his straggling, motley crew sprawled and fell from their pillion mounts, bandy-legged and cursing.
“I did warn you not to come,” he said to a man who clutched at his groin and wailed something between a howl and a sob.
“Giles owes us,” said a branded woman, a cry taken up by several as they shuffled and argued themselves into a rough circle, with the sun slanting down through the trees onto their bowed backs. Amidst them, taller and broader and bristling with spears and knives, were his own men. Like him, they were in battle armor, hastily donned before their mad-long rush from the tourney camp. Edmund his squire was in chain mail and carried a shield: he looked weary but determined, his thin face tight with anticipation.
Ranulf nodded to him, although he knew already that armor would not win the day. He had no sappers to take the castle, so it would have to be won by stealth. For stealth he needed information, and quickly.
“There is a moat and drawbridge,” he called out, interrupting the grumbles. “Is there a postern gate? Any small, narrow entrance? That will be our way in, once we are past the guards.”
“What guards?” asked Teodwin as he chafed Lucy’s legs, looking altogether too intent on the task, especially as he rubbed the blood back into her thighs—which would be what he would claim to be doing if challenged, Ranulf wagered.
He sighed and knelt on the forest floor, feeling for his dagger and then remembering he had given it to the free-woman Agnes in the meadow. He used a pebble instead to draw and explain. His men did not need this, but the others did, or they might give their approach away.
“Chastel d’Or—”
“The yellow castle,” interrupted one of the ragtag group.
“Chastel d’Or, yellow castle, Giles’s fortress: it is all one. It is, as you say, small. One keep and some stone walls.” He drew the plan as he spoke. “Are there stables? Workshops? Cookhouses?”
No one answered, but when he raised his head he saw people nodding. He added those in, using his memory of older households as a guide. “There is a moat and drawbridge. The drawbridge will be guarded. Can any say by how many?”
After a moment of whispers, he held up a hand. “Enough. We shall say it is guarded and leave it at that. There will be another, smaller gate, there always is. Do any of you know it?”
More whispers and then a man stepped forward into the circle. “There was one close to my house. ’Twas where the moat stopped and where a great tree grew up from the water, an alder.”
Ranulf felt excitement prick him, as if he was being rasped by a salamander. Giles had been fool enough to allow a tree to grow there! “What else?”
The fellow shrugged. “It was a little, narrow, mean path. The guards used it, but liked it not for the shadows and damp. I heard them grumbling as they marched by my house. Then, last year, they came and pulled down my house, pushed it into the moat.”
One way to creep closer and enter the postern was now blocked, thought Ranulf, before he recalled the man’s home had been destroyed.
“Our lord will give you one,” said Teodwin, as if he could spirit them out of the air. Ranulf hid a smile and said nothing: such plans were for later.
“Is the tree still there?”
“Yes,” said the man. “Or the stump, at least.”
More cover removed, thought Ranulf. Giles has not been as foolish as I hoped he would be.
“How many soldiers did you see about the castle?” he asked.
That provoked a lively, bickering discussion. Some thought a score. Some said two. Others swore no more than seven.
“I could go and ask,” piped up Gawain. “I am a page and I could say I was joining Sir Giles’s service.”
“Brave thought, my lad, but no,” said Ranulf, feeling proud of the boy all the same, and exchanging a wink with Edmund. His little page had come a long way from the cowering creature Sir Henry had made. Not wanting to recall how Henry had met his end, he thought back to campaigns in France again and recalled instead how Giles ordered his men and watches, how he would still order them. There would be watchers in these woods, too, guards they must spot and bring down before they could raise any alarm. Darkness was best for such work, but he dared not wait, not when Giles had Edith.
He said as much to the group and then was surprised.
“We can do that,” several volunteered. They were all branded and small and thin, dressed in patched tunics and poor hats.
“These are soldiers,” he reminded them. “Armed and trained. They may not expect an attack, especially in daylight, but surprise can take you only so far.”
“It will take us far enough, especially as they will not be expecting any trouble from serfs,” said Teodwin, his freckled, red-cheeked face brighter than ever with suppressed excitement. “It will work, my lord!”
That hope is the hope Edith gave him, and now he takes it for himself.
“If they do it, we can watch the guards, see when they change,” said one of his soldiers. “We may take one hostage, or capture one and take his uniform and badges, make a play ourselves as one of Giles’s men.”
“As Edith would,” Ranulf said, before he realized what he was admitting and clamped his jaws closed. Teodwin might guess what he knew, but there was no time now for anything save battle plans.
“I know another tactic,” he said, when a burst of chatter had died down and expectant, keen faces looked at him. “I need those who can swim, and swim like fishes and know how to breathe through hollow reeds or pipes. They must be able to climb, too, very nimble and fast.”
A ragged scarecrow stepped forward. “I can do that. I am a thatcher. I know how to climb.”
“Up under a drawbri
dge with archers shooting down?” Ranulf wanted the man to know the risks.
The scarecrow nodded. “Last summer, I was forced to work for Giles on a far-off hunting lodge. While I was away, my wife starved, and Giles tossed her not so much as a crust. I will do all you ask.”
“And me!” cried another, also stepping forward. “He lamed my son and laughed at my Thorvill’s pain!”
The words “laughed” and “pain” resonated afresh in Ranulf’s mind. In a flash of insight, he recalled again what the spy had told Edith: that he should look to his homeland, that Giles had wronged him. Here, too, was proof that Giles loved to savor suffering, that he enjoyed his victories of spite. What wrong had he suffered in his homeland? The death of his wife. Olwen, whom he had found with one of her new gloves, given by Giles, tucked beneath her broken body.
For certain it is that Giles had a hand in the accident that killed her! That is what his own spy meant. That, and that the signs of his treachery are still there for me to find, in my northern homeland.
“So it begins,” he said, feeling a grim anticipation seethe like boiling poison in his body. “From here on, we are at war with Chastel d’Or.”
Chapter 41
She had made Giles a berry tisane, adorned with leaves of mint. She had fed him fresh manchet loaves and soft cheese and dates—delicacies that would have made her mouth water had she been with Ranulf and done the same for him. Then there had been a meal in the great hall, a late noonday meal, at which Giles had set her in the great chair on the dais and plied her with mead. Whenever she could, under cover of the oak trestle, she tipped some of the heavy golden liquid out onto the rushes. Between courses, she asked after the bath—she did not want Giles to forget it, or to change his mind.
You would play the wanton, sister, in a stew of your own making with such a man? What will Ranulf think, if he finds you thus? Especially after you delayed telling him the name of your former master, and that even after he asked you straight! Will he not be reminded of your tardiness now, and wonder at it?
“Be quiet, Gregory,” Edith muttered as she hid her eyes behind her goblet for a moment, to save having to look at Giles. “I have trouble enough without your carping.”
To her disquiet, Giles was becoming bolder in his attentions. At first he had seemed quite awed by her unveiled and later veiled beauty, if beauty it was, and keen to show her off, directing his steward to praise her “exquisite Eastern figure” and admonishing his carver of meat to cut the roast most skillfully, so as to preserve the “lush perfection” of her veiled mouth. As the trenchers had been brought in and then replaced, however, Giles had begun to offer her bites from his own dishes: morsels of green salad, bits of meat, small cheese tarts. Although she accepted whatever he gave her with thanks, taking all with her fingers so she need not unveil, this feeding disquieted her, as it suggested the beginnings of a more urgent courtship, where other touchings would be involved.
She did not want Giles to fondle her. She saw his long, elegant hands roving here and there across the great table and in her mind they were no longer fingers but metal tongs and branding irons.
She was not alone in being wary of him. The tension in the great hall was like that before a thunderstorm. Servants carried and served but did so with a desperate haste. They all wore dark clothes, she noted, wondering if that was by Giles’s order or if they had chosen their own costumes in a keen desire not to draw attention to themselves.
But these people were too cowed to be her allies. Unless commanded by Giles, none looked directly at her and certainly none smiled. There were no drinking contests, no games of dice on the lower tables, no romping dogs. All was custom and precedence: she took a corner of a piece of bread and so did Giles and then so did all the others. It was a sight that would have made her laugh had she not felt so unhappy. She had eaten at more cheerful funeral feasts.
Please, please, Ranulf, come, and quickly!
What would she do if he did not appear?
I will do what I can, whatever I can, and escape by way of the moat, if need be. I will lie to Giles, but never lie with him.
The vow steadied her and she could eat a little more, easing crumbs down her dry, taut throat. Eating was good: it was another delay.
Soon—too soon for her wish—the doleful meal was over. Giles pushed back his chair and rose, and at once that signal was followed by a mass departure from the lower tables, each man giving a stiff bow as he left.
She started as she felt a hand on her elbow. The touching she feared had already begun. Even through her green silk, she felt revolted because Giles had handled her.
“I think your water will now be ready, good and hot.”
She was still veiled but she tried to give him a wide smile, even as her face felt bleached and overstretched. “That is excellent, my lord! Lead on, and I will follow behind, for there are some herbs I would gather, by your leave, for your bath.”
She raised her eyebrows as he stopped by the edge of the dais, frowning at her. “In Cathay, my father the emperor always bathes first,” she lied easily, as Giles continued to frown. “My mother the queen anoints him with fragrant oils and herbs.”
Giles interrupted her. “I will bathe first.”
She bowed: a bow took her a step back from him. “As my lord commands.”
Trailing behind Giles, she thought the courtyard seemed very bright after the dim great hall. The drawbridge was still down and the gate open, but the guard was new and younger. He leaned on his spear and darted so many looks at the garlanded bathtub that she was afraid Giles would spot his interest and order the gate closed.
She clapped her hands before remembering that meant Giles would see the fire marks. “’Tis beautiful, my lord!”
Luckily, Giles’s attention was fixed on the bath. It was set up most handsomely, Edith admitted, hoping at the same time that she would not have to get into it. Servants had placed awnings about the great tub and a set of steps, and flowers.
“Yellow and blue are the colors of my court,” she enthused, moving swiftly away from Giles across the bare earth. She whirled about, aware that her wrap and skirts would billow and cling. She loathed playing this crude coin with Giles, but it was all she had for the moment. “You are so gracious!”
She tried to say generous but could not; the lie was too huge and choked in her throat. Instead, she swiftly buried her scarred hands in the wreaths of lavender and rosemary twisted about and through the awnings and cloth screens. Their scent made her feel less sick.
“These are the colors of the French court.” Giles was flicking bits of lavender and looking as smug as a sun-basking cat. He tested the steaming water and nodded. Behind them both, Edith heard a serving maid sigh with relief.
Before he took the credit for his people’s work, she widened her eyes. “You have been there? I would love to hear of it.”
Please, Ranulf, please come soon.
Chapter 42
Out on the drawbridge, Ranulf knocked the guard unconscious and one of his soldiers took the man’s place, hastily donning the guard’s cloak. Ranulf sped into the small gate-house but found no other watchmen. He nodded to his man, who grinned and wiped at his own face. Ranulf ignored the gesture. He stank of moat slime and his hair and body were black with clotted mud and other debris he did not want to consider. He was without armor now—it was strip down to his underlinen or sink. But the plan had worked. His other men, the wiry thatcher among them, were swarming up the rope he had left to haul themselves out onto the drawbridge and no alarm had been given.
Were the guards on the battlements blind, or distracted?
He could see the courtyard of the bailey now and instantly decided it was the latter. Edith was in the courtyard; a small, veiled, tender figure in green and cream, her jade-colored silk looped softly around her arms and middle, covering and shielding her—from Giles.
To see her, whole and alive and seemingly unharmed, almost brought him to a fatal stop. He dived back behi
nd the guardhouse, his heart hammering in his chest, then stole another look.
She was with Giles, and they were beside a bath. Edith was unlacing Giles’s tunic, taking care, he noted, that her own clothes did not slip an inch. She seemed intent on the lacings and did not glance up at the dazzle-faced Giles. He seemed utterly at ease.
Were the dagger-girl and the Lady Blanche right? She lied; he knew she lied. She kept secrets, too. Could he trust her now?
No sooner thought than answered—
Ranulf stepped into the courtyard. Giles, with his back to him, facing Edith as she slowly teased out the lacings of Giles’s clothes, saw nothing, but she saw.
She screamed out, “Behind you!” thrusting Giles aside so violently that he tumbled against the steps, and then she pounded across the courtyard in a storm of sea green. Ranulf jerked around and felt the tip of an arrow slash down his side. Another arrow exploded close to Edith’s racing feet, but still she came.
Trying to save me, the little fool!
He raced to meet her, snatched her as she tumbled, and hauled her into the gatehouse. “Stay there!” he roared, and ran back to do battle. His men had burst into the courtyard and the archer with the crossbow on the battlements was desperately reloading. Yet none of the other guards, if guards there were, had yet appeared, and the maids and servants had scattered like blown leaves.
Giles, I want Giles.
More of his mud-men were streaming into the bailey, chasing down the stragglers, but where was Giles?
The bathtub still steamed, its awnings closed.
Silently, Ranulf gestured to his men to surround it. Now that he had the bastard at bay, Giles could skulk in there till the water froze.
Edith, I need Edith.
He sprinted back into the narrow gatehouse.
Edith was standing exactly where he had left her in shadow, one bare foot on top of the other as she raked her fingers through the many folds of her sagging green wrap, trying and failing to make it hang right. Seeing her, so clean and spring-fresh and almost trim, he skidded to an ungainly stop, abruptly conscious again of his filthy, matted state, his moat-green stink.
To Touch The Knight Page 28