by David Wind
Miles was no stranger to a woman’s bedchambers, and the words he had heard before had been similar, but when he gazed into her eyes he knew she spoke openly and without guile. “Yet I stand in your bedchamber uninvited ...."
“Am I to be in fear of you?” she asked in reply.
“Why did you speak out to Richard? Why did you not let him issue his edict?” Miles asked, pointedly ignoring her question.
“Did I embarrass you? For if I did, I apologize.”
“You could not embarrass me—frighten me, perhaps, because you do not understand Richard and his views on women. But you almost shamed your grandfather,” Miles chided.
“My grandfather gets angry, not ashamed. He knows I would never do that to him! I speak my mind when it is necessary. It is something you should know if you are to take me as your wife.”
“Do you have doubts about marrying me? Is that why you want a tourney?” Miles asked.
“Nay. I would not have you make Morgan a lifelong enemy because of the king’s decree.” Suddenly she reached out and took his hand. To Miles, it was as if his hand were encased by heated coals, so hot was her touch. “An order from Richard would make Morgan your enemy for life. I know this man,” she said bitterly. “He is vain, vindictive, and filled with self-importance. He is a bitter man and would make an evil enemy. I do not want our life together to start in such a way.”
As Miles listened to this beautiful woman, he realized she spoke to him as if she were his equal, a fellow knight rather than a woman. And while she spoke, he felt Gwendolyn’s emotions as if they were his own.
“If you win my hand by tournament, it will make his loss more palatable. You are said to be the finest fighter in the land next to Richard, and Morgan can feel no shame at losing to you.”
“You are so confident then?”
“You have already granted my boon. Would I chance its loss so easily?”
“It must be very important to you,” Miles whispered and lifted her hand to his lips.
“Its importance is for both of us,” she said as her eyes held his for a moment.
Slowly, Miles lowered her hand and then released it. At the same time, he stepped back from the bed. “We may still make an enemy of Morgan.”
“I can only pray we will not,” Gwendolyn said, throwing the bedcovers from her and arising. They faced each other at a distance of inches, she in the loose nightclothing that hung to the floor, he still dressed in maille.
“I still think it to be senseless when Richard can save us from needless fighting,” Miles protested again.
“But it is the only way to allow my grandfather to be free from breaking his word. With Richard’s decree, my grandfather would eventually have to face Morgan to defend his honor. My grandfather is over fifty. He cannot fight Morgan.”
“You are right, my love,” Miles admitted.
Suddenly Miles could not control himself. He pulled Gwendolyn against him. She did not resist his hands when he drew her to him, nor did she fight him as his mouth covered hers.
The kiss became an all-consuming fire that roared between the two, lasting for long minutes that felt like an eternity. Then, as suddenly as Miles had drawn her to him, he pushed her away. Both were breathing harshly.
“I must leave now,” Miles declared, “or I will not leave at all.”
Gwendolyn’s breasts pushed against her night rail, and for the first time in her life she wanted to be held within a man’s arms and never be released. Instead of admitting this desire that could not yet be satiated, she merely nodded.
Drawing a deep breath, Miles smiled gently. “I had always thought that I would marry to continue my line. I had never once thought to marry for love. I was wrong,” Miles stated as he took her hand in his.
“From the moment I saw you, I loved you,” Gwendolyn whispered.
“I…" Miles began but could not finish. How could he tell her of his emotions upon seeing her naked, a sword swirling in her hands. “I will see you in the morning.”
“I ride before the morning meal. It is a beautiful time,” she said as she searched his face, waiting for his reaction to her unspoken invitation.
“Alone?”
“I am never alone.” She smiled as she pointed to Valkyrie.
“I will see you in the morning, my lady.” Miles lifted her hand once again and kissed it gently before leaving the bedchamber.
In the hallway, Miles and Arthur returned to the walkway above the main hall and then continued on to the north wing. Inside the small chamber, James, Arthur’s brother, woke instantly and rose from his pallet. Together, he and Arthur undressed Miles.
“I did not know if you wanted to bathe, but I have kept the water heated,” James said.
Miles went to the wooden tub and stood at its side while James and Arthur poured steaming water into it. After he sank into the water, Arthur began to wash him, but Miles waved him away. “To sleep, both of you. We rise early. Have my horse ready an hour before the morning meal,” he ordered. Then, with the hot water working its magic, he closed his eyes and thought about the golden-haired woman he would soon be fighting for.
<><><>
“My lady?” Roweena called as she rushed out to the parapet that Gwendolyn was on. She stopped next to her mistress and gazed quickly out at the darkening sky.
“I see them,” Gwendolyn replied, pointing to a line of mounted riders. The banner of the house of Guildswood fluttered at the column’s head. “Prepare my clothing for the evening meal,” she commanded.
“Yes, my lady,” Roweena replied in a subdued voice, leaving Gwendolyn alone once again. Roweena was deeply disturbed about her mistress, but would never let it show in her voice or face.
They shared a close relationship, almost a friendship, she thought quickly, but washed the errant thought from her mind. It was wrong. She was base born, the daughter of a scullery maid and blacksmith in the service of the Duke of Halsbred. When she had turned six, only two years younger than her mistress, she had been chosen by Lady Gwyneth to become Lady Gwendolyn’s personal maid. She began her training then, and in nine years had never willingly been far from her mistress’s side.
Roweena loved Gwendolyn with a loyalty rare among servants. She had always been treated well and had served as best she could. She never challenged her mistress’s strange ways, and always accepted whatever Gwendolyn required of her.
But tonight something seemed different to Roweena.
Rarely had she seen Gwendolyn in as dark a mood as covered her mistress now. But she also knew the mood was caused by the imminent arrival of Sir Morgan, and the next day’s tournament.
For the last three days, everything in Kildrake Castle had changed. The king and his men had stayed, and because of that, the servants worked five times as hard.
Roweena also noticed the change in Gwendolyn with each passing day. Although she knew nothing of love, she realized her mistress was in love with Sir Miles. They spent more time together than was proper, and not once had Gwendolyn left the castle without Miles. When she and her knight left, they always returned together. That, too, was different from the times she rode with Morgan, with whom she rarely returned to the castle.
And Sir Miles was as gentle a man as he was handsome, never raising his voice in anger to his squires or the other servants. Each night since his arrival, Roweena had prayed that Miles would defeat Morgan and gain her mistress’s hand.
With the insight of one who sees all, and must live within the restrictions of a society she has no control over, Roweena knew her life would be a good one as the maid to the Lady of Radstock.
A sudden knocking at the chamber door startled Roweena. She put down the tunic she was holding and went to the door. When she opened it, one of Sir Miles’s squires stood before her, an intricately carved leather box in his hands.
“Arthur?” she ventured. The boy, Roweena’s age, smiled and shook his head.
“James.”
“How does anyone tell you two ap
art?” she asked, her brows knitted together in perplexity.
“I’m the younger brother,” James said dryly as he held out his hands. “This is from my lord, for the Lady Gwendolyn.”
Roweena accepted the box and smiled. “I will see she gets it at once,” she told him.
By the time she put the box down and lifted the long undertunic from the bed, Gwendolyn had entered through her private doorway on the other side of the room. “This one?” Roweena asked, holding up a brightly trimmed overgarment.
“Yes,” Gwendolyn said absently. Because of her height she disliked the newer fashions; they restricted her movements. But tonight, as she had since Richard’s arrival, she would wear the more uncomfortable, fashionable clothing.
“Sir Miles’s squire brought you a gift,” Roweena ventured and saw her mistress’s eyes widen for a moment. “‘Tis on the bed,” she said.
“The white undergarment also,” Gwendolyn ordered as she went to her bed. While Roweena prepared her clothing, Gwendolyn looked at the leather box. Lifting it slowly, she inspected the leather’s intricately tooled handiwork.
When she opened the box she gasped. Inside, on a bed of velvet, rested a small, jewel-encrusted dagger, its blade encased within a tooled leather sheath. She set the box down and lifted the small curved blade in her hand. Then she saw the piece of parchment and took that from the box.
Unfolding it, she read the neatly scribed Latin, and a smile lit her face. Miles had written that he had purchased this Saracen-made blade in Italy, but had not known why at the time. When he met Gwendolyn, he had learned the reason.
Gwendolyn put down the note and gazed at the knife. It was beautifully crafted, and when she withdrew it from its scabbard, its barely curved length glinted dangerously. She had seen only one such dagger before, and that was years ago at Halsbred, in Sir Guy’s armory.
“My lady?” Roweena called. Gwendolyn turned and smiled at her servant. The smile faded when she gazed at the clothing. She shrugged away the helpless feeling and nodded. Roweena undressed her and then began the process of dressing.
First she stepped into the slippers Roweena had set out for her, and then the undergarment went on. Not for the first time did Gwendolyn wish she had been born into the lower classes. If that were so, then she would not have had to wear anything more than this garment. Sighing, Gwendolyn allowed Roweena to attach the cloth girdle around her waist. Then she stood still while the servant fluffed out the skirt. When that was done, Roweena held up the outergarment.
Gwendolyn stepped into it and waited until Roweena adjusted the bodice for her breasts and clasped the five silver buckles together at each side. The bodice rose to the base of her neck in a perfect circle, emphasizing its grace and beauty. The outergarment was tucked in at her waist, and cut at her hips, where the material tapered to a point, centered midway to her knees in front and back. The sleeves belled downward, reaching almost to the floor, and Gwendolyn shook her arms to free their many folds.
The sleeves, and the border of the neck, were braided in a bright blue, and complemented both the garment and her complexion.
“This suits you well, my lady,” Roweena said.
“I still dislike it.”
“I think Sir Miles will like it.”
“Enough!” Gwendolyn said in a loud voice, but failed to put any anger into it. She smiled when she saw Roweena trying not to. “My hair?”
“I can braid it and use the silver comb,” Roweena suggested.
“Not tonight. I think a simple crown braid will do,” she decided. Twenty minutes later Roweena finished her hair and Gwendolyn stood. “The mirror,” she ordered.
Roweena brought out the polished-steel oval and held it for Gwendolyn. She studied herself critically until she nodded her approval. Her hair flowed in smooth waves down her back, but the sides had been braided in a tiara, and rested on the top of her head.
“Did you wish a necklace?”
Gwendolyn shook her head and turned away. “Wait,” Gwendolyn called. “My long chain, I have a use for it,” she said. Moments later she held the gold rope in her hand.
She took the small jeweled dagger from the box and, using the link that was on the sheath, attached it to the long golden rope. Then she had Roweena slide it over her head. The jeweled handle of the dagger fell in the exact center between her breasts, and Gwendolyn knew it was perfect.
“I think it is time I made my appearance,” Gwendolyn whispered, speaking to herself as much as to Roweena.
Gwendolyn had already spent too much time preparing, and was, because of it, negligent in her duties. Tomorrow was the tournament, and tonight the center courtyard would hold the feast.
She had spent the entire afternoon involved in preparations for the feast, and instructing the servants on how to set up the courtyard for their guests.
Kildrake Castle was filled with guests. Since the moment the king’ s messengers had gone out to report of his decree to Guildswood, all the neighboring nobility had come to witness the fight between Morgan and Miles, and partake in the presence of the king. Tonight’s feast would be a long one, and one that Gwendolyn knew would draw deeply on her reserves of composure.
Gwendolyn thought again of the Druid priestess, and her words in the cave. She turned from Roweena and closed her eyes. She pictured the silver sword in her hand, and the peaceful, pure white light that had been cast by it, and opened her mind to it. Warmth flowed through her, and the tension that held her prisoner began to drain. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned back to her servant only to discover Roweena staring wide-eyed at her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Did you see it?” Roweena whispered, genuflecting quickly.
“See what?” Gwendolyn asked.
“The light. You were surrounded by a light, my lady.” “A trick of the tapers,” Gwendolyn said quickly, regretting the impulse which had made her call those strange powers when another person was present. She promised she would not do it again. “I saw nothing,” she added. But she knew Roweena had seen it, she could still feel the warmth of the light, and the peacefulness flowing through her veins.
“Come, it is time.” Striding purposefully toward the door, she prepared herself to face the long night ahead.
Chapter Four
MILES stood in the center of his chamber; the tapers lighting the room aided him in the inspection of the equipment his squires had prepared for tomorrow’s match. His hauberk had been cleaned and glowed darkly. His helmet shone, and its nasal bar looked like an inverted cross.
On the floor next to the maille were his cuisses, the leather-padded leggings that protected his thighs. The heavy gamboise undergarments would add even more width to him, and the gambeson that would be between the maille and his surcoat had been freshly aired.
Because it was a tournament and not a fight to the death, Miles decided to not wear several of the heavier pieces that would slow him down. Blunted swords and flat-tipped lances were dangerous but rarely fatal, and in a joust such as this, no thought was given to killing or maiming, just winning.
Miles waved away greaves, hournskull, and breastplate, but nodded to the rerebraces that would protect the outer part of his upper arm.
“We think it best you wear the greaves and breastplate.
We’ve been talking to some of the other squires,” ventured Arthur.
Miles looked at the twins and nodded his head. He regarded them with love and caring, and knew they felt the same toward him. When they ventured an opinion, Miles had found it best to listen. “Go ahead,” he ordered.
“It is said that Sir Morgan gives no quarter, even in tourney. He likes to beat his opponents badly, not merely win,” whispered Arthur.
“He goes for the legs also,” added James.
“Very well,” Miles said. “Set up full armor then, but not the hournskull. I want my face free.”
“Yes sir,” the twins replied in unison, their blue eyes brightening and blonde heads bobbing wit
h his words.
Miles was filled with a restless energy and decided to take a walk. He was not tired, and the sounds from those who still feasted echoed into his room. He needed a place to be alone, where he could think, undisturbed, about tomorrow.
After giving the twins further orders about his equipment, he left the room and went through the hall to a door on the far side that opened onto the parapet. There he walked by himself for a while, thinking about his life, and his future.
He was committed to Richard, even as his father had been committed to Richard’s father, Henry. Miles had spent four years at Richard’s side, fighting whomever Richard had chosen, and traveling through Normandy, Italy, and secretly visiting the Holy Land. He had sworn an oath with Richard, outside the walled city of Jerusalem, to come back with Richard and return the land to Christianity’s embrace.
Miles knew that in a year Richard would have his army gathered, and they would debark on a crusade against the Saracens. He wanted to be at Richard’s side when they rode through the gates of Jerusalem.
Miles stopped to gaze at the star-filled sky. He knew tomorrow marked an important day for him. It signaled a change in his life, a significant change, and he was eagerly looking forward to it. By winning tomorrow’s joust he would gain a wife and complete the first part of his commitments to his family. And that commitment was a strong one. Miles of Radstock was the last male of his line. His only legitimate brother, Roger, had been killed fighting for King Henry the Second, and his bastard-born brother, Theodore, had chosen the life of the church.
Just as Richard took the crown upon his father’s death, so did Miles draw on the mantle of the Earl of Radstock upon the news of Roger’s death. Roger had died without leaving issue, and it was up to Miles to continue a line that was as old as Britain itself.
But it was more than the responsibilities of his name and rank which filled Miles’s mind—much more. From the first time he had seen Gwendolyn of Kildrake he had known what love was. Watching her fight the two men had been a gift given to him, and he had seen a vision permitted to few. He also knew he would never allow Morgan to take her from him.