“God ha’ mercy!” exclaimed Lady Constance. “Already! How many horses can he have ridden to death to reach here so soon?” She rose, smoothing her skirts to hide her agitation. “I think it best if Sir Geoffrey and I deal with him, Johanna. And you, Sir Gervase, had best keep out of sight. We do not want you hit by a stray crossbolt.”
Johanna tried not to show her inward panic. “Are you sure you can manage, Maman? And what shall you do about Edyth? Lower her over the battlements in a basket like St. Paul?”
“Well, we could keep her as a hostage for her brother’s good behavior. No, I see the notion will not wash with you, Johanna. Perhaps you would like to send her packing.”
“With the greatest of pleasure.”
Geraint could not resist hanging back to argue with his so-called mother-in-law. Lying low stank of cowardice, although he could see that it might be as well if Sir Fulk did not learn how to recognise him, but his words fell on rank earth. Leaving Lady Constance to compose herself, he waited for Lady Edyth to emerge into the bailey.
“They are waiting until you are across the drawbridge before they parley,” he informed her as she made her way down the steps of the hall.
“Afraid?” she retorted, not bothering to help her maidservant who was staggering after her loaded with an ill-packed pannier.
“No, my lady,” Geraint replied coolly. Gallantly he took the burden from the grateful maid and hastened after Edyth.
“The Scots fear him, have you heard that?” She tossed the gobbet at him over her left shoulder like salt to ward off Satan.
“Yes.” He finally blocked her path but she circumnavigated him and he was forced to stride along beside her. “Listen to me, demoiselle, do not hate Lady Johanna. Have some compassion for her. If anyone is to blame, it is I for leaving her to the mercy of her father. We were wed lawfully, you really must believe that and inform your brother so.”
Her eyebrows rose disdainfully. “Save your breath!”
“My lady, I am petitioning the archdeacon’s court and will abide by its ruling and I trust your brother will do so too. If the verdict goes against me, I . . . I will leave Yorkshire immediately.”
“Amen to that!”
There was little else he could say, so with a curt bow he reloaded the maidservant and left them at the postern gate. Already he could hear Sir Geoffrey’s voice up on the roof of the keep. If he wanted to observe this Mallet of the English through one of the cross-shaped firing slits, he must not tarry.
The off-duty guards, clustered round the embrasure in the hall of the keep, sprang to attention, red-faced, as he entered. No joy there, he thought, seeking somewhere more private for his observation. He paused halfway up to the next floor and saw through the arrowslit that Johanna was crossing to the chapel with Father Gilbert. It was clear from the way her fingers writhed that she was fearful. He hastened up the next flight but the door to the second floor was banded with iron. Johanna had been right—it still served as a strongroom—but he found an embrasured landing in the stairwell which gave him a fine view of the street.
A company of eight armoured horsemen was approaching the drawbridge. The livery was unfamiliar to him—yellow with a notched sable band slashed diagonally and a single black roundel pelleting the panel on either side.
The leader, presumably Sir Fulk, had his helm beneath his arm.
Tall and gaunt in the saddle, his steel-coloured hair barely covering a balding pate, he looked even older than Geraint had expected. Although it was hard to tell from such a distance, the old man had the pale skin that turns as red as a cock’s wattle in anger and he was red now, both with fury and exertion. A mallet? Yes, it was possible to believe. Geraint had known company commanders and abbey officials who had that same unbending quality and lack of compassion. Such men betrayed the principles of chivalry and their manhood; debasing others to make themselves feel powerful was an insult to human nature. It would be easy to hate Fulk. Part of him righteously rejoiced in opposing such a man, but the darker half of him that had suffered as a youth wished that he might avoid the confrontation. He had enough enemies already.
It was impossible to hear what Lady Constance was calling down to him, but Fulk’s horse fretted at the taut, angry grip on its reins. He spoke to the younger man at his elbow, a fellow with ginger hair and moustache, who was running his gaze along the battlements as if seeking someone. Surely this could not be the man’s son? He would swear that Lady Constance had said that Fulk was childless and Johanna had been selected as his third wife for her youth and vigour to beget a male heir. Poor wench. The thought of Fulk straddling her was not a pleasant one.
The horsemen backed away. Geraint felt the rumble of the rising portcullis reverberate through the stones beneath his feet and heard the slam of the drawbridge landing flat.
Sir Fulk and his captain rode forward and Geraint could just see the coiffed head of Lady Edyth facing them. She was forced to jump forwards as the drawbridge began rising again and there was a kerfuffle as her maid sprang clear and the pannier rolled across the cobbles, scattering its uppermost contents. The serving wench suffered a kick and hurriedly collected Edyth’s possessions, while the brother and sister appeared to be having some kind of argument, and then Fulk spurred his horse back down the road. His men took off after him, leaving Edyth lonely as a leper; Johanna would be overjoyed.
Geraint waited until Lady Constance and her small supportive entourage had descended past him before he joined them. Johanna’s mother looked as though she had survived a mental tempest as they emerged into the daylight.
“Oh, madam, is he gone already?” exclaimed Johanna, hurrying to meet them. “The king should send you to negotiate with the Scots.”
“Sir Fulk will submit a counter-libel to the court on Friday, but then I expected that. He says he is going to complain to the high sheriff and is threatening to send a man to York to browbeat my lord archbishop’s officers. If the matter is moved out of the archdeacon’s hands, then our ship is sunk.”
Father Gilbert patted his employer’s arm. “Have faith, madam. Archbishop Melton and the archdeacon are old sparring partners. Now with your leave, I have business at the priory and the weather is like to turn foul again methinks.”
“And Lady Edyth?” asked Geraint, and received a look from Johanna which questioned his sanity. “Well, I doubt the lady is waiting out there for a passing suitor.”
Johanna swore, “Oh no, I suppose that fiend has left her here to spy on us. Do you think our gatekeeper might manage to become deaf for an hour or so or the windlass might need oiling?”
“Oh, why not,” sighed Lady Constance, and Johanna swiftly crossed to the postern just as Edyth’s maidservant began knocking.
With relief, Geraint sought out Jankyn in the stable.
“What think you, sir? Will this gnarled and venerable old Mallet make sufficient dent upon your buckler?”
“He looks as though he worships at the shrine of War and would willingly sacrifice the lot of us on its altar. Lady Johanna tells me he was at Boroughbridge, pray God that—why are you pulling that absurd face?”
“You have a visitor, sir.”
Gervase glanced over his shoulder to discover Johanna’s scowling brother skulking in the doorway.
“Well,” he whirled round on the boy, clasping his hands together gleefully, “what poison would you like, Miles? A vile-tasting potion that will make your tongue turn purple and loll out as you collapse writhing? Or something viler still that could take about three weeks, slow and subtle, but not very impressive—they might think you died from an ague.”
“Neither.”
“Neither. You spoil my sport! The castle expects it and Lady Edyth will be so disappointed. She has returned especially so she may say prayers for you.”
“That old crone.” The boy did not smile, but at least he was not taking Geraint’s humour as gospel.
“At least we agree over that. Perhaps you are right, Ja . . . Watkyn, this boy may h
ave intelligence lurking behind his sullen disposition.”
The boy came further into the stable. Geraint noticed that the grooms and stablehands were suddenly carrying out tasks in the immediate proximity and doing it very quietly.
“Are you really Johanna’s husband?”
“Yes, have I your approval?”
“Well, I suppose you are better than the old man. Why do you want to marry Johanna again anyway? She is so boring.”
“I am not marrying her again. I am married to her. Mind, I admit she is one of the most aggravating women I have ever met, and I do feel some compassion for you having to be her brother. However, I do need a son. Not, I might add, to supplant you here, but I cannot manage to acquire one on my own.”
The air went very still indeed save for one of the horses kicking out at its stall.
“Do you have to have her to get a son?”
With a stifled cough, Jankyn turned away, his sleeve to his mouth.
“She will do as well as the next woman.” Geraint shrugged, with a grin at his audience who were no longer making a pretence of shovelling muck or filling feedingbags.
“Surely better, sir,” exclaimed Jankyn, in control of himself again and taking advantage of the attention. “You see, little lord, you have to look at their haunches.” He pointed to the flicking tail of one of the mares whose mouth was buried in the manger happily munching. “You need a female broad enough to drop a foal successfully. Check their teeth too. Remember that when you choose a wife, young man.”
“Have you checked my sister’s teeth then?” The boy glanced up to his new brother-in-law, veiling his insolence with his dusky lashes.
Geraint glared at Jankyn before bestowing a solemn glance on the lad. “Yes—two years ago, of course—and her haunches.”
A burst of male guffaws startled the horses.
Miles, aware that he was being excluded from some adult jest, flexed his high-ranking muscles. “I want you to leave here. You are insub . . . insubnaught.”
“I think he means ‘insubordinate,’” Jankyn offered helpfully. “And who put that word in your mouth?”
The child ignored the esquire and scowled at Geraint. “Well, you are, are you not?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Geraint. “I make a practice of it, just like you. Tell me, Miles, how long is it since your lord father was smitten?” He met Jankyn’s grin. They were both thinking the boy was bored and without a mentor. It was customary for lads of his age to serve as pages in other lords’ households, but Miles was still at home.
The boy shrugged.
“Quintains!” exclaimed Jankyn and the boy’s eyes turned round as coins. He was having trouble following the mercurial conversation.
Geraint’s glance met Jankyn’s thoughtfully. “Better than a rod mayhap. Aye, I take your point, man. Show me to the castle carpenter, Miles.”
“Designing your own gibbet?” The boy stuck his tongue out and before Geraint could grab him and toss him into one of the barrels of feed, he scampered.
“The brat needs a father’s belt upon his arse,” muttered Jankyn. There was a murmur of assent from the others.
“Very true, but your first suggestion is better. We will wear him out with kindness instead.”
“There used to be a quintain, my lord, some years back,” said someone. “Sir Geoffrey might know.”
“Then find him and ask him, if you please. The garrison could all do with the exercise by the look of them. Can any of you tell me why Lord Alan’s son is still here?”
“He was sent away to Helmsley, sir, but there was some sickness there and they sent him home.”
“Aye, thankful to get rid of him,” chortled one of the grooms.
Fortunate Miles, thought Geraint. At least he was welcomed by his kin, not banished like he had been.
There was at least no distaff interference in setting up the quintain. Lady Constance was reposing in her bedchamber, Johanna had disappeared and Edyth was still outside on the drawbridge like a bowl of cream left out for the fairies.
Sir Geoffrey proved to be as enthusiastic as his nature allowed and the carpenter abandoned the spare coffin he was working on in order to mend and plane the apology for a wooden horse which the seneschal resurrected, cobwebbed and splintery, from the west tower. Meantime, one of the grooms strung up a sack of manure with a shield fixed to it, remarking under his breath that it resembled a knight in every way, and the men-at-arms had their horses saddled waiting to show off their prowess.
Johanna reappeared to investigate the gusty cheering and discovered that, except for the destriers, the castle had taken a feast day. The men had cleared an area in the centre of the bailey free of chickens, infants and a wain with a broken wheel and set up a quintain pole. A bulky sack hung from one side of the wooden stand and on the other dangled a metal ring on a rope. It was a tournament practice device; if a knight or esquire failed to lance the ring, the sack would swing round to jolt him like an enemy’s weapon.
To her amazement, her father, coiffed, hooded and pastried in half his floor coverings, had been propped out of the wind in a patch of sunshine to watch, with Aidan beside him on a form. Her annoying brother was there too, his young face tight with fierce concentration, being bumped along on a wooden monster, drawn by two of the grooms, with a pole under his arm, while her supposed husband was bawling instructions at him. The rogue saw Johanna and waved. Was this all his doing?
Having been jolted backwards off his equine vehicle by the impact of the sack, Miles subjected meekly to a lecture from his new brother-in-law. Johanna knew the feeling.
“He will be allowed to ride his pony at the quintain when he is more diligent.” Gervase joined her, beaming back at his handiwork.
“I suppose it is harder than it looks,” she murmured, watching one of the men-at-arms riding at the target.
“You want to try?” She glared at him for mocking her, but to her amazement he summoned his esquire to lead over his horse. Before she could protest he had tossed her into the saddle and swung on in front of her. There was a roar of laughter around them as someone handed him a wooden practice lance.
Why in the name of all that was sane and sensible had he done this? Geraint wondered. His shoulder ached enough already. God willing Johanna would take it as merely a jest and dismount, but the lady seemed to have caught the exhilaration of the crowd. True, she held herself back somewhat so that her thighs were not encompassing his, but her compliance was encouraging. Perhaps he could manage to coax her between the sheets before the week was out. No, the fight to cleanse the kingdom was more important, yet . . . Any further scurrilous thoughts were smashed aside by the jolt of pain as Johanna clasped his left shoulder. Who was the patron saint of fools? It was impossible to set her back down in front of their audience without a loss of honour to them both.
“There will be less of a jolt if you hold my belt, my lady.”
“Sir Gervase, I must protest.” The seneschal puffed across and set a detaining hand upon the bridle. “The lady Johanna could be injured.”
“Of course, Sir Geoffrey,” he agreed with a calculated sigh. “Pray help my lady down.”
“No!” exclaimed Johanna contrarily. “I will be perfectly safe. There is no law forbidding a woman to ride against a quintain.”
“No,” huffed Sir Geoffrey, “but, by the Rood, there should be. Be it on your own head, madam!” He tossed the horse’s reins away in disgust and retired to stand with arms folded, glowering at them.
Geraint grinned like a good-natured fool and diverted his attention to the bundle of tense femininity behind him. “No, better tighter,” He adjusted her hold so that her arms were about his waist. “At least you will feel the sensation.”
Sensation, certainly. Firmly clasped against the stranger’s body, there was an inexplicable excitement filling her. It was wrong, of course; she could sense Father Gilbert’s censure from the chapel even though he was not there, but surely she needed to behave like a woman reconciled
with her lost lord even if it was Lent and they were not supposed to enjoy any pleasures? The stranger’s hair smelt sweet and clean and the scent of musk as well as sweat filled her breathing. She panicked, jerking against him. No, Sir Geoffrey was right. She should not be doing this.
“Sit still!” Her knight in glittering armour was replaced by an irritable man—that was reality.
“Please, you do not need to do this. I am being foolish,” she protested, as he kneed the horse round and took it to the end of the yard. If he missed, the sack would very likely knock them both out of the saddle.
“Afraid?” She was relieved to hear the laughter once more in his tone.
“No, but my mother will be furious if we are unable to attend court on Friday. Have you done this before?”
“With a woman? No, my wits must be addled. There will be an impact. Brace yourself.”
She could not answer for he had lined up the steed and the men were roaring encouragement. Johanna caught her breath as they hurtled at the sack. So this was what it felt like to ride in a tournament. He hit the quintain full centre and was jarred back into her as he let go the pole and reined in the horse. It was over in an instant and he was lifting her down to laughter and cheers but there was a strained look beneath his tanned smile. Being a scholar, he must have had little if any practice and it had been a challenge to him too. A man of extraordinary talent, she thought suspiciously.
Though she too had winced at the impact, she felt wonderful, like a child given a whole dish of sweetmeats. How outrageous of him to have taken her up, yet no one looked disapproving save for Sir Geoffrey. It was all very bridegroomly since Gervase kept his hands on her shoulders and stood behind her as the garrison knights gathered round them with banter about other ways to use his lance. He let them wash over him, giving orders that Miles might have a turn at tilting on the pony.
Her little brother, who obviously resented her intrusion into this masculine business, smirked as the attention shifted back to him. He missed the quintain when the pony did not run true, but Gervase’s odd esquire caught him.
The Knight And The Rose Page 14