I was pretty sure I knew where everyone had gathered, and I scooted around to take a shortcut I’d found in my rambles. But for some reason—to gloat, I suppose—I glanced back at Sir Walter. That expression on his face could have frozen a stone. He looked like a man who wanted to wring someone’s neck, and he was staring at Lady Alisoun’s back.
Right then I vowed to be my lady’s defender no matter what might occur.
I kept my vow, too. That’s the best part of the story.
Anyway, I got to the lichen-covered boulders in time to see Heath and Lady Alisoun emerging from the woods. The older children hung from the trees for the best view. In a mill of confusion, villagers and servants craned their necks. Everybody spoke in a large, unified buzz.
Then Heath called, “Make way fer m’lady.” The babbling dropped into silence and a path opened.
I hurried to catch up, then followed in Lady Alisoun’s wake. The people bobbed and bowed as she made her way through them, and an occasional hand reached out and touched her skirt as if she were an icon brought out for a holy day procession. Like I said, she was the symbol of security and prosperity for George’s Cross. It was a burden she had assumed at the age of thirteen, when her parents died of the flux. She took the time now to offer a smile here, a word of assurance there.
You just don’t see gracious ladies like her anymore.
Finally she reached a cluster of serving women kneeling around one weeping bundle wrapped in Alisoun’s own cloak. “She’s here,” Heath announced to the sobbing woman. “Lady Edlyn, she’s here.”
Lady Edlyn launched herself at Lady Alisoun without even looking.
Such impetuous behavior surprised me. Lady Alisoun gave me a sense of safety and stability, but I would never, never have spontaneously sought comfort from her. Indeed, Lady Alisoun staggered back under the weight, then carefully, as if she were unsure of herself, she wrapped Lady Edlyn in her arms. Lady Edlyn kept burrowing closer, as if she needed to rest in Alisoun’s heart to once again feel secure. I gathered my courage and interrupted, “My lady, I don’t think you should stay out here. It isn’t safe.”
“It’s safe.” Sir Walter had arrived, red and flushed.
But Lady Alisoun looked up thoughtfully and spoke only to me. “I believe you are right. We’ll go back to the castle at once, where we are protected.”
Much time had passed since then. I’ve lived a long life, but no other words ever thrilled me like those—I believe you are right.
If he could have, Sir Walter would have cuffed me again. “You’re speaking to a lad, my lady. I am your steward, and I say there is no threat anywhere on your lands.”
Before Lady Alisoun could reprove him for so contradicting her, Lady Edlyn jerked out of her arms and turned on him. “That man who took me hit me!” She threw back the cloak’s hood, lifted the braids off her neck and showed a bruise the size of her fist. “He hit me,” she repeated, “and when I woke, he was carrying me like a bag of wool. When I fought, he laughed and hit me again—” she rubbed her mistreated rump, “—and when he got here, he threw…me down so…hard I lost my…breath and—”
She struggled to tell her tale, but her tears got the better of her, and I clenched my fist at this desecration of my fist love.
“Enough!” Sir Walter said. “You were attacked, but he’s gone, and he took you only because he thought you were Lady Alisoun.”
All sound halted and horror etched every face.
Satisfied with the sensation he’d caused, Sir Walter continued, “We saw the marks in the ground. He had a horse waiting. If he hadn’t seen Lady Edlyn’s face, he’d have taken her, imagining she was the lady.”
Lady Alisoun said firmly, “We must go to the castle at once.”
I hung close to my two idols as the exodus wound through the forest. Everyone from the village and all Lady Alisoun’s servants crowded around her, forming a human shield. We were a silent group, given to sudden starts and furtive whispers, and when we broke into the cleared area around the castle, I heard the collective sigh of relief.
Me, I took my new position as my lady’s defender seriously and peered around. As part of the castle defense, the forest that had once pressed close had been cleared away years ago. The massive outer walls of the castle wound along the bald curves of the hill above the sea. The village hugged the hollow in the inland valley below. Only immovable boulders remained in the green pasture grass between them, and I concentrated my attention there. Was it possible for someone to hide from sight among the clusters of rock? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to find out. I started walking very close behind Lady Alisoun and Lady Edlyn, stepping on the backs of their heels just often enough to keep them walking briskly toward the lowered drawbridge. Lady Edlyn finally turned around and whacked my head, but I just smirked at her and trod even closer.
Ivo and his men started down from the open castle gate, and when the villagers saw that, they began to break away, a few at a time. Fear had infected them; they wanted to get home and bar their doors. By the time we crossed the drawbridge, only the castle servants and the men-at-arms remained in our party. Stopping, Lady Alisoun waited until most of her people had passed. One last time, she called thanks to the villagers and lifted her hand in farewell—and something flew through the air and struck her.
I didn’t see it, I just heard it. The twang, the thump as it pinned her against the wooden gate, the sound of material tearing as she fell backward, off balance, under the impact.
What I did see was Sir Walter moving faster than I’d ever imagined he could. He reached Lady Alisoun’s side, grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her out of sight behind the gate, all the while shouting at the men-at-arms to shut the damned gate, damn it, shut the damned thing now.
Then he dropped her in the grass and ran back around the gate and out of sight.
Lady Alisoun lifted her forearm, and I stared in shock. An arrow had penetrated her dangling sleeve, piercing the material with its small metal tip. The fletching feathers, moving with the impetus of a longbow and unable to exit the hole, had jerked her off her feet. Now the arrow still dangled, unbalanced, tip on one side of her sleeve, fletching on the other.
Her gaze met mine, and she blinked at me. I’d never seen her bewildered before, and I thought…well, I don’t know what I thought. It just seemed someone ought to take care of her for a change. So I knelt, slid my arm underneath her head and placed it in my lap.
It probably wasn’t comfortable. I was dreadfully bony then, but she sighed and closed her eyes as if she found comfort in my touch. “I do believe someone tried to shoot me,” she said. The words sounded calm, but her voice shook.
By now, the women had crowded around Lady Alisoun and the men had returned with Sir Walter.
She opened her eyes, and it was clear to me that Lady Alisoun had finished with her moment of weakness. Pinning Sir Walter with her gaze, she asked, “Are the villagers under attack?”
“Nay, my lady.” Sir Walter lifted her arm and jerked the arrow free. “Only one arrow was shot, and it was shot at you.”
Lifting it, he showed the crowd. As if they’d rehearsed, the women started crying in unison, and the men wheeled and stomped like great warhorses anxious for battle.
Well pleased with the scene his words had caused, Sir Walter pulled his soldiers away to search for the culprit. Lady Alisoun’s own maid pushed her way through the crowd and dropped to her knees beside us. She was a handsome woman, one who’d come to the castle from another one of Lady Alisoun’s holdings when Lady Alisoun wished to train Heath for the position of head maid. I’d heard the serving women gossip that Lady Alisoun had brought her out of kindness, because she had a babe but no husband, but I cared nothing for that. I only knew Philippa had been kind to me, and I liked her even more now, for her first thought was for our lady.
“Alisoun?” Reaching out, she ran her hands lightly over Lady Alisoun’s body. “Alisoun, did the arrow hit you?”
Sir Walter
hadn’t stepped for enough away, it seemed, for she had attracted his attention, and he returned in time to hear the question. “It hit her sleeve, you stupid woman.” Sir Walter picked up the material and stuck his stubby fingers through the hole. “Can’t you see?”
But Philippa held Lady Alisoun’s hand up. A little puddle of shiny red had formed in her palm and trickled through her long, thin fingers. Sir Walter gave an exclamation, and Philippa pushed Lady Alisoun’s sleeve up. “Stupid woman?” she answered him smartly. “Stupid man. Let’s see the damage.”
Then Lady Alisoun did the strangest thing. With her good arm, she grasped the neck of Philippa’s cotte and brought her face close. I didn’t grasp the meaning of their conversation then, but I heard what they said and remembered, and eventually I comprehended every word.
Lady Alisoun said, “I’ve got to do it, Philippa.”
And Philippa whispered, “I brought this misfortune on you.”
“Don’t you dare apologize!” Obviously, Lady Alisoun’s voice came out louder than she wanted. She glanced frantically at Sir Walter, who strained to hear, then lowered her voice. “It’s not you, it’s him. I’ve never let a man frighten me, and I’m not going to start now. I made a vow to protect you. Now I’m going to keep it. I’m going to Lancaster. I’m going to hire the legendary Sir David of Radcliffe.”
2
“Are you the legendary Sir David of Radcliffe?”
A woman’s melodious voice broke his stupor and a toe prodded him in the middle of his back. Cautiously, David opened his eyes a slit. Tall yellow trees flooded his vision. Then he blinked, and the trees transformed themselves into straw spread on the floor around his head.
Groaning, he remembered. Sybil’s alehouse. A morning spent deep in a foaming cup. Then blessed, drunken oblivion.
He closed his eyes again. This was just where he wanted to be.
“I repeat myself. Are you the legendary Sir David of Radcliffe?” The lady’s voice lowered in disdain. “Or are you dead?”
This query came accompanied by a kick in the ribs, and before he could stop himself, he flipped over and grabbed the slippered foot in one smooth motion. “I’m not dead yet. But you will be if you don’t stop kicking me.”
The slender, white form above him didn’t shriek or flail her arms or gasp in fear. She simply shifted her weight to maintain her balance and signaled to halt the rush of the two men who guarded the door. Muttering and glaring, the burly fellows retreated, and when they had returned to their posts, the woman repeated patiently, “Are you Sir David of Radcliffe?”
He must be losing his touch. He didn’t even frighten her. His grip tightened, then he released it. Bringing his hands to his face, he rubbed them over his throbbing forehead. By the saints, even his hair hurt. “If I say aye, will you go away?”
As relentless as the famine which had destroyed his dreams, she asked, “Are you David of Radcliffe, the king’s own champion?”
Fury roared through him, sudden and cleansing as a storm across the Irish Sea. He found himself on his feet, shouting right in her face. “Not anymore!”
She considered him without flinching, her cool eyes as gray as a wash of winter fog. “You’re no longer Sir David, or you’re no longer the king’s champion?”
Clutching the scraggly locks at his forehead, he groaned and staggered backward, collapsing onto a bench. This woman could drive him mad. “No longer the king’s champion.”
“But you are the legendary mercenary who rescued our sovereign when the French pulled him off his horse; who kept a dozen knights at bay while the king remounted and escaped?”
“Fifteen.”
“What?”
“Fifteen knights at bay.” Moving slowly, each muscle aching from the effort, he leaned back until the table supported his back. With painful precision, he lifted his arms and laid them on the boards behind. Straightening out his knees, he dug his heels into the dirt and straw on the floor, slouched down on his spine, and examined his tormentor.
She was tall. He would wager she could stand flat-footed and stare down at the king’s widening bald spot. She was delicate. He doubted her fair skin had ever glimpsed the sun, or her slender fingers performed hard labor. And she was rich. Her white velvet gown molded her curves with a loving touch, and the white fur which trimmed the neckline and the long tight sleeves must be worth more than his entire estate.
Bitterly, he once more tasted defeat. Everything he’d worked for, all his life, had turned to ashes, and now disaster stared him full in the face. His daughter would suffer. His people would starve. And he couldn’t save them. The legendary mercenary David of Radcliffe had fallen at last.
His chin sank onto his chest and he examined his toes. His breath rasped painfully in his chest and brought the memory of childhood tears abruptly to mind.
“I have a proposition for you, if you are Sir David of Radcliffe,” the lady said.
Did she never give up? Blinking to clear his eyes, he admitted, “Oh, in sooth, I am David.”
“Very good.” Signaling Sybil, that slattern of an alewife, she ordered two brews, then seated herself on the bench at another table. “I have need of a mercenary.”
“For what?”
“I’ll be satisfied with nothing less than the best.” The noble lady accepted a full horn cup and stared into its dark depths.
“What would my duties be?” He reached for the cup Sybil held, but she snatched it back.
“Ye’ll pay yer bill afore ye get more,” she said.
“You’ll give me more before I pay my bill.”
Sybil sneered. “Or what?”
Pretending amusement, he grinned into her ugly face. “Or I’ll not drink here anymore.”
The men-at-arms who guarded the door chortled, and Sybil flushed with fury. Quick as a snake, she splashed the contents of the horn in his face.
Wiping the ale away, he observed her hasty retreat. She’d gone too far, and she realized it. Women, even free women who owned their own inns, could not treat a knightly baron with such disrespect. He rose and stalked toward her.
“Good sir, I beg yer pardon,” she cried when he towered over her and grabbed her wrist. “Me wicked temper’s ever gettin’ th’ better o’ me. Please, sir, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. I’m just a poor old woman wit’ a child t’ support.”
He hesitated.
Sensing weakness, she added, “A girl child.”
Disgusted with himself, he freed her and leaned close to her face.
“A wee girl.”
Her high-pitched whining made his head throb. “Just get me an ale, and hurry.”
“Aye, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Now, sir.”
He turned away and took two steps before he heard her mutter, “Gutless arse.”
He whipped around, but before he could take her by the shoulders and shake her, the lady grabbed a hank of Sybil’s hair, forcing the alewife to her knees. “You’ll learn respect for your betters, good woman, or you’ll explain yourself at the hallmote.”
Sybil whimpered. “I didn’t know ye favored him.”
That wisp of insolence made David want to slap her, but the lady answered calmly enough. “The king favors him. That should be enough for the likes of you.”
Sybil opened her mouth to refute that statement, but she saw something in the lady’s face which stopped her. Instead she touched her forehead to the floor. When she came up, dirt blotted her skin. “Aye, m’lady. As ye say, m’lady. It’s just hard fer a poor widow t’ see bread snatched from her child’s mouth by a worthless ol’ mercenary wit’ a taste fer ale.”
Coldly, the lady answered. “I have gold with which to pay.”
Both the alewife and the mercenary stared.
“Gold.” She jingled the purse at her side. “I’ll pay his bill.” She looked him in the eye. “I’ll pay your fee.”
The promise of gold spoke to David as nothing else could. It spoke to the alewife, too, it seemed, for she rose and scurried
off toward the pot which bubbled at the fire in the middle of the room. “If we don’t conclude our business soon,” David warned, “she’ll offer a bowl of her pottage, and a gruesome feast that is.” He looked again at the lady, noting how the determined set of her chin ruined the almost perfect oval of her face. She was not the delicate flower she had at first appeared, and it occurred to him to question why she sought him alone, without the help of her spouse or family. Because it was his nature to be suspicious, he wondered if she wished to use him in a clan dispute. “What is it you want?” he demanded bluntly.
“Protection.”
“For what? Your lands? Your castle?”
“Myself.”
Furious that the gold so quickly slipped away, he said, “I’ll not intercede between you and your husband.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“From whom else would a woman like you need asylum? Your mate will protect you from all the rest.”
She folded her hands together at her waist. “I am a widow.”
His gaze skimmed her again, and abruptly he understood what she wanted him to know. “A rich widow.”
“Precisely.”
“A new-made widow?”
“Are you interested in the job?”
Her very answer rebuked his curiosity, but he didn’t care. “Have you got an inopportune suitor?” he guessed.
She just stared, eyes gray as flint.
So she wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know. Fine. He’d find out what he wanted soon enough. No woman ever kept a secret, and this one, for all her poise, was very much a woman. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek, and dirt from the floor flaked off into his palm. Carelessly he wiped his hand on his hose. “I am a legend, and legends come dear.”
“I’ll take nothing less,” she answered.
He named the exorbitant sum of three pounds of English money.
Once a Knight Page 2