The Edge of the Blade

by The Edge of the Blade (retail) (epub)

  As it happened he did fall – once against the wall of a house, once as he slipped on the steps to Vaulmier’s dwelling. The pain of the second misjudgement was terrible, though he’d only allow his companions to brush dirt from the hem of his cloak.

  Gasping for breath, he approved as the Saxon turned away from his agony, the constable pounding – as always, too hard – on the door.

  Greeted in silent query by one of the treasurer’s servants, Guthric allowed himself a brief flight of fancy. ‘We’d ’ave you tell your master – Lord Magnat-Vaulmier – ’ave you tell ’im that Lord Falkan of Tremellion is once again up and about – and would speak with his daughter – who he sweetly remembers from all that time ago.’

  The man stared at him, saw the force of Guthrie’s slow, repeated nod, and found his own head bobbing in time.

  ‘would speak – with his daughter?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘sweetly remembered – from all that – all that time ago?’

  ‘Rain’s still comin’ down,’ Quillon prompted. ‘Ain’t we ever goin’ to get through the door?’

  * * *

  After that the safeguard and constable moved aside. Directed to the kitchens, they found themselves surrounded by the smell of fresh-cooked meat, the warmth of steam, the bustle of cooks and serving-maids. Guthric studied those who took his fancy, Quillon with a grin for them all.

  ‘You fellows just arrived in the port?’

  ‘Oh, tut, tut. Do we look like we’ve only just this minute landed? We’ve been pitched against the enemy, my sweet! ’And-to-’and with them Saracens! Terrible men, them Saracens. Let me tell you – but only if you want to ’ear it – ’ow the two of us got caught by, what was it, fifty of ’em—?’

  ‘Too modest, joskin. Call it sixty.’

  ‘That’s right! Closer to sixty. And ’ow the two of us fought our way free. Though not to disturb you from the cookin’. Only if you want to ’ear it.’

  The serving-girls nodded eagerly. The cooks made a show of disapproval, though not for long, the women soon crowding around to be told how desperate it had been out there – ’and-to-’and with the Saracens. Sixty or more of the demons pitched against the one who looked like an ugly bear, and the one who’d pass, if only in the imagination, for a lion.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, on the upper floor of the house, Baynard Falkan limped into the presence of the tall and aristocratic Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier, Treasurer of the Kingdom.

  Yet with no sign of his daughter.

  Smiling politely at the man who might, if he threw away his cane and straightened his spine, match him in height, Vaulmier invited his visitor to be seated.

  ‘It is good to see you recovered, or anyway progressing, my Lord Falkan. Your injury was mentioned by de Blanchefort. They can be the very devils, those riders of Islam, quicker with their scimitars—’

  ‘No doubt, my Lord Vaulmier. I’ve respected them from the first. But the truth to tell, I was lowered by one of our own, so I cannot, with good grace, claim I ever sustained a cut at the hands of Islam.’

  Vaulmier gestured to one of his servants to pour wine and distribute the sweetmeats. Then he settled himself against the carved-wood back of his chair and gazed at Falkan, holding the knight’s attention with his eyes.

  ‘You may find me odd, my young Tremellion – aren’t we all? – but as a caller here, and no doubt on your best behaviour, you’re bound to hear me out.’

  ‘With pleasure, my Lord Vaulmier.’

  ‘With anything but!’ the man laughed. ‘Or so I’d suppose. It’s scarcely for me that you’ve limped your way half around the town. But you’ve done it, and here you are, and here you’ll have to sit for a while, courteous and quiet in the face of my odd remarks.’

  Baynard wondered if he was called upon to reply, decided he wasn’t and stayed silent, obedient to his well-mannered host, both eager and anxious to hear what he had to say.

  ‘No insult intended, my dear Falkan, yet it has to be announced that I cannot for the life of me see why it’s you.’

  ‘My Lord Vaulmier?’

  ‘Where’s your girth? Where’s your wealth? Where are you from, but the distant side of some dank Cornish moor? And where’s Cornwall in the world? Scarcely London! Scarcely Paris! Scarcely Rome, or the cities of Germany and Spain! I mean – my dear Sir Baynard – what in God’s good name have you ever done to set my yawning and arrogant daughter plucking like a beggar at my sleeve?’

  In the silence that followed they stared at each other, Vaulmier frowning with undisguised curiosity, Falkan suppressing the thrill of happiness that surged within him.

  It took him a while to fashion his reply. But even then it wasn’t – as with care and time he’d have planned it – properly delivered. Yet he blurted it with an honesty that widened the treasurer’s eyes, the man no longer settled against his chair, but brought forward by the knight’s response.

  ‘Those things you ask? I’m deficient in them all. No girth, no wealth, nor even the right to be known as Lord of Tremellion. My father – and you’ll remember him, I trust, that decent and honourable warlord? – well, my Lord Vaulmier, he was murdered at my brother’s behest and the treasure he’d promised to the Cause was snatched away. It took time to reclaim it. Time to bring it out here. A damned long time to get it accepted by the king!

  ‘But all that’s apart. Let’s ignore my father for the moment. You query your daughter’s desires, and all I can tell you is this. She’s worthy of more than a man with a limp. The landless and near-penniless son of a Cornish holding. As for you, my Lord Vaulmier, you’ve the power to see me barred from her presence—’

  ‘No question of it.’

  ‘the power to stave me off. Very well. But supposing she continues to pluck at your sleeve! Might it not just mean – and tell me direct – might it not just mean she’d ignore the rap of a cane and the absence of riches?’

  Magnat-Vaulmier leaned back again in his chair. He offered Tremellion the growing extension of a smile, the treasurer impressed by the young man’s rejoinder. ‘Indeed she might,’ he murmured, ‘for that was always Christiane’s style.’ He dipped his head forward and remarked, ‘An unlikely suitor though you are, it seems you’re well enough started on your way.’

  Rising to his feet, the nobleman directed one of the servants to refill Baynard’s goblet. Motioning the knight to stay seated, he said, ‘It’s a scene I’ve played with others, both here and in the West. Ardent suitors, hoping to please me in the expectation of claiming my daughter. With due respect, Sir Baynard, I am bound to say, I never imagined you to be the one.’ Then with an almost imperceptible shrug he added, ‘Though when has a father ever gauged things right in matters of this kind?’

  Saying nothing – risky to speak at this fragile moment – the young Tremellion preferred to straighten the set of his tunic, forcing himself to ignore the pain that throbbed from the depths of his sutured wound.

  Then he watched as Magnat-Vaulmier strode to a curtained doorway at the eastern side of the chamber.

  And listened as the treasurer called through – ‘We have a visitor, ma chère. A certain Baynard Falkan of Tremellion. Returning the call you made to the house of Jobert de Blanchefort. Do I keep him here, or not?’

  * * *

  He wondered if she would be as he remembered. The image, or so he believed, was as sharp in his mind as the last time he’d seen her, all but a year ago. Yet were her eyes really as blue as the summer shallows, her hair the colour of corn, the texture of silk? She favoured gowns of white and silver, of cinnamon and green, her limbs slender as – well, slender as—

  Thank God you’re not a poet, he told himself. You’d starve within the week.

  Then the curtain parted and she entered the chamber; and yes, her eyes were as blue as he’d remembered, her figure as slender, her carriage erect, her long, elegant fingers—

  ‘My Lord Falkan.’

  ‘My Lady Christiane.’


  ‘I pray you, be seated, Sir Baynard. It can bring you no comfort, leaning on that cane.’

  ‘I improve – I mean, the wound seals tighter every day.’

  ‘You are being treated by the Arab, so I hear.’

  ‘He’s an excellent physician, my lady. Really a most – excellent physician.’

  ‘Yes, so they tell me. One of the best.’

  ‘For yourself, you look – permit me to say it – in the finest of good health.’

  ‘As God would have it, sire, I am. Though I’m not much one for the rain.’

  ‘It’s the season for it, I suppose. Out here.’

  ‘I regret to say it is. Ah, yes.’

  Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier tightened the muscles in his neck; forced himself not to shake his head and smile. There’s a fly in the ointment. And I am the one with wings.

  ‘You will excuse me, Sir Baynard, if I attend to other business. Should you care to stay and dine with us—’ ’

  ‘With pleasure, my Lord Vaulmier.’

  ‘I was about to add, your injury permitting, though the alacrity of your answer calms my concern.’

  With nothing to offer but the awkwardness of a bow, Baynard waited for the treasurer to leave. Christiane accompanied her father to the main door of the chamber, the girl murmuring something that sent the nobleman chuckling quietly from the room.

  When she returned, it was to stand for a moment directly in front of Tremellion, her hands folded on the tie-knot of her girdle, her expression one of thoughtful curiosity.

  ‘You look near wasted away, do you know that?’

  ‘You don’t. You look magnificent. As beautiful as you’ve been in all my dreams. What did you say that so amused your father?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ the girl said lightly. ‘I told him to open his purse. Told him I don’t like you being so skinny. Told him we might be married before long, and I wouldn’t want the rattle of bones in my bed.’

  ‘You told him that?’

  ‘About the marriage?’

  ‘No, no. The bones and – the bed.’

  ‘Why not?’ she shrugged. ‘Don’t we both intend the one should lead swiftly to the other?’

  * * *

  Though not yet lovers under the quilt, they were warmed and excited by the gifts they had to offer. Strong and independent in their ways, they were nevertheless magicked by the spell, each of them wishing to please, eager to be pleased, sometimes cautious, on occasion critical, but for the most part willing to share and agree and concede that it might be so. Their happiness deepened as they realised their opinions were not much different, their attitudes akin, their sense of humour so close that they thought themselves the only ones to appreciate what the world was missing.

  It didn’t matter at all that Christiane thought English food dull and cooked to a cinder, its vegetables boiled to a pap. If they ever went back there, as one day they might, she’d eat it without demur.

  Nor that Baynard thought Moorish decoration somewhat garish, its brilliance enough to make a fellow squint. He was sure he could get used to it; might even come to enjoy the vivid and intricate workmanship of Islam. For Christiane’s sake, he would most assuredly try.

  It helped, of course, that the girl was the daughter of Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier, Duc de Querinard, Comte d’Almé, Treasurer of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Not for his titles or position – not those at all – but simply because the man himself was erudite and amusing, his mind as flexible as a freshly peeled sapling, his knowledge of life extensive, his affection for Christiane leaving just enough room for a man like Tremellion to stand beside her.

  It helped too, that Vaulmier had respected Sir Geoffrey Falkan, father and daughter listening in careful silence as Baynard recounted the story of his murder; the attack on the mill; the long and eventful journey out to Acre.

  ‘Those knights you roped in Cyprus,’ Vaulmier queried, ‘Ansel Sauvery and his friend. Since they told you, what was it, that you’d surely be killed out here, aren’t you therefore still hunted, my dear Baynard?’

  ‘Your question speaks immediately of your daughter, Lord Vaulmier. And the answer is – yes, it’s possible. But from Cyprus to Acre? From Acre to Tyre? It may happen they’re still searching, though I doubt it. Tremellion’s money is now in the hands of the king. For my part, I intend to stay here a while, so what threat could I possibly be to a brother lurking God knows how many thousand miles to the west?’

  On the point of pursuing the question, Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier thought of something else. It was no one’s fault that he did so, for Christiane was leaning forward, her blue eyes aswim with excitement, her lips, as it seemed, swollen with the eagerness to encourage him to say it.

  ‘If you truly intend to remain in the kingdom—’

  ‘I see no reason why not, my Lord Vaulmier. With Christiane as my wife, she’ll be safely lodged in your house, whilst I ride with de Blanchefort’s—’

  Then a wagging finger of negation from his father-in-law-to-be.

  Misunderstanding, Baynard said, ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we should find somewhere of our own here in the city. Newlyweds, after all.’

  But the treasurer was still denying them with his finger, smiling as he refused the couple the sanctuary of Tyre.

  ‘Marry my daughter,’ he announced, ‘and the sooner the better, for you both look sorely taxed by your celibate state. Then get yourselves down to the coast to Yarash. It’s an outpost of this city. No more than a grouping of towers on the shore. But safe enough from the Saracens, for the moment. And as good a place as any for Sir Geoffrey Falkan’s son to show his skills.’

  Christiane watched as Baynard limped toward her father. Already in favour of the marriage, the treasurer had now added his seal of approval by offering Falkan the wave-washed property of Yarash. To allow his daughter in marriage was one thing, though far less important than the giving away of stones.

  ‘I will hold it,’ the young knight affirmed, ‘in the name of Magnat-Vaulmier.’

  ‘No doubt you will, my dear Baynard. Though fooling with the defences to suit yourself.’

  Chapter Thirty Two

  The wedding took place in a side chapel of the oversized Cathedral of Tyre; Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier and a few invited guests in the narrow pews. Conrad of Montferrat had declined, sending a minor representative in his place. Jobert de Blanchefort had promised to get there if he could, but had not arrived. The service would be conducted by Engeram, bishop of the city.

  A hundred candles guttered in their girandoles, the flames now and then recoiling from the draughts of cold, damp air.

  The bride was arrayed in grey-and-white striped furs, the cloak held to her shoulders by Magnat-Vaulmier’s gift of a heavy gold chain, his daughter’s age reflected in its eighteen intricate links.

  Compared to this, Falkan’s gift had been small.

  Weighed in a jeweller’s balance, the bracelet was worth next to nothing, though the oddity of design drew Christiane’s gaze to her wrist, time and time again. The more she studied it, the more she learned of her soon-to-be husband’s past. The shape of a castle – a ship – an island. The profile of a helmet – the outline of a hill – the silvered flutter of a flag. A charm that depicted her father’s house in Tyre – another that showed an Arab scimitar snapped by a Frankish sword – a dozen different symbols, circumscribing her wrist. Turning the bracelet, she smiled again to see that the clasp brought a pair of hands together, fitting in perfect unity. As she hoped and believed her life would soon fit with his.

  Christiane’s gift to Baynard had left him gaping. A decorated mantle, the hooded, triangular garment sewn with black and scarlet falcons – her affectionate play on his name – but also with eagles and peregrines, kites and merlins, sparrowhawks and kestrels and all the swooping predators of the sky.

  ‘It seemed,’ she’d told him, ‘the natural way to paint you.’

  * * *

  They waited for Engeram, the cathedral looming dark and
chilly behind them. Conrad’s representative shifted with undisguised impatience. Guthric coughed, turned instinctively to spit, changed his mind and swallowed hard instead. Quillon stood quiet, awed by his surroundings.

  It was a while before the bishop made his entrance, acolytes walking ahead of him, incense burners swinging in the air. He glanced at the congregation, emitted an audible sigh at the poor attendance, then stationed himself within the flickering ring of candles.

  If the truth be known – and here was not the place to divulge it – the portly Bishop Engeram was reluctant to see Vaulmier’s daughter married to a man of such scant importance as Baynard Falkan. A paltry turnout like this, and where was the profit? No sidesmen, no choir, no musicians, no wealthy relations weeping for joy, no drunken guests who’d apologize later with coin. But business was business, and the sooner it was over, the sooner he could return to the broad-hipped servant girl he’d left waiting in the bedroom of his palace.

  Raising his hands, the prelate brought his jewelled fingers together in a steeple of prayer. ‘We are here,’ he started, ‘in the sanctified house of the Lord—’ Then got no further as the main doors of the cathedral banged open, boot-heels rapping the aisle.

  Jobert de Blanchefort strode into the chapel, followed by Gerard Passerel and half a dozen others. ‘Never rode so hard in all m’life,’ the marshal bellowed. ‘If I’ve missed it, you’ll have to repeat it again!’

  Engeram glared, his face suffused with displeasure. But not so his congregation, Vaulmier greeting de Blanchefort like the long-time friend he was, Falkan turning to embrace the young Passerel, the latecomers bowing to the treasurer, to the resplendent bride, to the groom in his predators’ mantle. Cordial chaos filled the chapel, giving Engeram time to compose his features – some profit to be gained after all, perhaps – then slowly rebuild the steeple of his fingers.