Senlis was instantly at his side, shaken and spouting anger at the foolish risk his boon companion had taken. Then Beresford was swarmed by other knights, squires and pursuivants-at-arms. The king of arms was there as well. He had thrown his white baton uselessly into the field.
Beresford was offered his opponent’s horse and armor and arms as booty. He was unimpressed. His most singular emotion was one of dissatisfaction at having bested so unworthy an opponent. He was told that Valmey’s horse had been hurt during the chaos of the fifth joust and that Valmey would be unable to meet him in the next. He demanded to speak with the king of arms and promptly berated the incompetent fool for not attending to the simplest of his duties. He received assurances that the melee to follow, for all its inherent disorganization, would be better supervised.
Great interest was taken in the dead man’s identity. The helmet was removed from his nearly severed head, but no one could identify him. Beresford looked down dispassionately into the face of a perfect Northumbrian Dane. He had no great difficulty assigning to him the name Gunnar Erickson.
“Do you know the man, Simon?” Senlis asked.
Beresford shook his head. “I have never seen him before.”
Young Langley was at his side. Gautier, as well. Breteuil was hanging back by the tree, white of face and withered of posture.
Beresford said casually, “Ask Breteuil. My lance was faulty.”
That was the last time Beresford ever saw Robert of Breteuil. He never afterwards inquired about him, and no one mentioned him, not even later in the day when it became known that Renaut of Breteuil had had to stay behind in the castle, confined to the garderobe where he feared, as he phrased it, that he would lose his bowels. Adela would confirm that the unknown was to have been Renaut of Breteuil. Renault of Breteuil would have to admit that his nephew, Robert of Breteuil, had served him breakfast that morning.
But events had not yet proceeded that far. Young Breteuil was only being questioned as the dead man was hauled off the field. Tournaments had continued in the aftermath of far-more-important deaths than that of an unknown man—no doubt an uppity Saxon who had connived with a surprisingly evil young squire. Better the world be rid of both, without dwelling on the unpleasantness of it all.
Beresford was hailed as the unquestioned victor of a thrilling contest such as the spectators could never hope to see again in their lifetimes. He was mildly interested in this reaction from the crowd. He wondered at it a little, too, since there was more sport, of much greater magnitude, to come. Someone began to annoy him by removing parts of his clothing and armor and ministering to his shoulder and his thigh. His transcendent state of peace passed. He said that his squires would tend to him or no one would, and stated his preference for no one. He had some choice words to say about the undignified handling of this whole sloppy mess and wondered aloud if these alarums and excursions would not end by giving a healthy man a bellyache of disgust.
To his further irritation, several men within earshot laughed at that, and one offered the opinion that Beresford would live—which seemed to him an obvious comment better tolerated when uttered by a simpleton.
****
Gwyneth closed her eyes the moment Beresford’s lance broke into toothpicks. She was on her feet, like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, she could not watch. She clasped her hands together, she unclasped them and grabbed Johanna’s arm. She asked quietly, over and over, “You told Langley, did you not, Johanna? You told him, didn’t you?”
She was not reassured by Johanna’s repeated answers, “Yes, Gwyneth,” “I told him, and he was inclined to believe me,” and “Langley himself suspects that mischief is afoot.”
Gwyneth relied on Johanna to tell her as well, second by second, if Beresford was still on his horse. She cracked her eyes open once and nearly cried out at the pain she felt at seeing the unknown’s lance pierce Beresford’s shoulder. Horrified murmurs of “Sans coronal!” went around the crowd.
Gwyneth did not know this term in Norman. “Without what? Coronal?” she whispered anxiously through a tight throat, not daring to open her eyes again.
“The coronal is the tip applied to the lance to blunt it,” Johanna said, her own voice strained.
“Ah, yes, yes, yes, I know the practice, just not the term.”
“It appears that Simon’s opponent’s lance is not blunted.”
A wave of fatalism swept over Gwyneth. “Just as Rosalyn said. It’s a joust to the death. He intends to kill him.”
Horribly long seconds passed. Johanna said slowly, “I believe that Beresford does intend to kill the unknown.”
Gwyneth opened her eyes just as Beresford tumbled to the ground with his assailant. He rolled over and up onto his feet, sword unsheathed in one fluid motion. She felt her fear recede when the steel of his blade glinted in the sun for a brilliant second before it began its work of terrifying beauty.
What Beresford had to do was horrible, and Gwyneth knew he would have preferred it otherwise. She felt more confident about the outcome now, but she was taking no chances in the event that Gunnar Erickson had another trick up his sleeve. So she closed her eyes and prayed to a motley pantheon: Thor and Tyr and Odin, and the One True God, including the Trinity, just to be safe. She shied away from Allah. However, from her learned grandmother, she recalled hearing delicious and heretical whispers about a host of ancient Greek gods, and she did not hesitate to send prayers to them, as well.
She heard at last Johanna saying, “You can look now.” She opened her eyes and saw Beresford standing straight and steady on his feet, helmet in the crook of his arm, his clothing dirty and bloody, his face and hair streaked with sweat. Then he was swamped by knights and field marshals and squires. She breathed a profound sigh of relief and welcome air rushed to fill her lungs.
“How did you know?” Johanna asked.
Gwyneth looked at her friend without registering the question. She smiled and said, “You see, I meant Beresford no harm. I might have even provided him with an edge in the contest, but I do not think he needed any help from me. Or from anyone! Not even from his lance.”
Johanna smiled in return. “Yes, but how did you know?”
Gwyneth’s first wave of happiness and relief passed. Beresford was out of danger. She was not. “I overheard something at the wedding celebration almost a fortnight ago,” she said cautiously.
“What did you hear?”
“Something odd, about the loyalties of a squire named Breteuil. Because so many knights have squires from that family, I had to narrow down the possibilities of mischief being perpetrated against one knight: Beresford.”
“Whom did you overhear?”
Gwyneth shrugged. She did not want to draw Johanna into this, for her friend’s own sake. “I did not see who was speaking, and it was very difficult for me to identify the voices I heard. I cannot be sure.”
“Or won’t tell.”
Gwyneth gulped and said earnestly, “I may be implicated in all of this, so please ask me nothing further.”
There was no more time for private discussion in any case, for information from the field was traveling through the stands like fire through dry straw. The slain man was not Renaut of Breteuil—though everyone claimed to have already known that—but a stranger. A treacherous Saxon come to spoil Norman sport, it was widely reported. How he came to enter the lists without anyone knowing it, of course, was going to be Adela’s most pressing political problem for the next few days. It would have gone much worse for her had Beresford been killed. As it was, her most loyal knight had brought further glory upon himself, the tournament and his king.
When Gunnar’s helmet was removed, Gwyneth imagined accusing fingers would point toward her. Thus, when word of a Saxon stranger was passed around, she realized that no one present would associate the dead man with her except Beresford and Valmey. Now Valmey was unlikely to make any claims to knowing anything about the dead man. Gwyneth noted that he was hanging about the edges of
the group around Beresford, only partially participating.
Then the name of Robert of Breteuil, and his apparent guilt, crackled through the crowd, which was amazed, aghast, outraged, indignant that a squire should so betray his master. And why? Had Beresford treated him badly? Breteuil should have worshiped the ground Beresford walked on instead of faulting his lance! Everyone wanted to know more about this sorry, sniveling excuse for a human being, and although the Breteuil family was generally held in high esteem, it was agreed that evil lurks in even the best of families! But there would be time later on at the banquet to unravel the wicked schemes of young Breteuil. For now, it was more important that Beresford’s health and safety be ascertained.
After that, Gwyneth noticed that sentiment toward her changed dramatically. With suspicion about a possible traitor flying to Robert of Breteuil, like iron shavings to a magnet, she was no longer treated with cautious reserve and the distant respect due her as wife to Beresford. Her acceptance among the courtiers was heartier now and more genuine.
Spectators began to shift about as a result of the stirring action they had just witnessed. Some were hungry, some thirsty. All seemed eager to pass close to Gwyneth and Johanna, to say a few words of compliment and congratulations.
Walter Fortescue passed by and paused at length. “Never seen the like!” he pronounced with great delight. “We all knew Beresford was among the finest. Today he outstripped every other knight in Stephen’s court, he did! He was superior! Magnificent!”
Gwyneth made an effort to enter the spirit of the occasion. She smiled and assented, but could do no more. Unfortunately, the warm side of her spirit had been bred out of her during her years with Canute, when she had needed all her icy calm to see her through each day. Her ability to be publicly demonstrative was severely compromised.
Sir Walter teased, “Ah, now, my lady, I can see that you are still shaken from what you just witnessed! It’s true, the situation looked bad for your husband when his lance broke, but when he turned his horse and made ready for the second pass, I could tell that a contest out of the ordinary was in the making. At that point, I almost felt sorry for Breteuil—not that I truly thought the unknown was he! Oh, no!”
Sir Walter was partially right. Gwyneth was still trying to recover her composure after having seen Beresford’s brush with death. She was also trying to establish within herself what stance to take toward her husband when next they would meet. After his display of courage on the field, she could be no less courageous. She would not demean herself, or dishonor him, by whining or disclaiming any knowledge that his opponent had been Gunnar Erickson. She ached to tell him that she had had nothing to do with the deception on the field, but she did not think that merely telling him so would convince him. He already believed her to be clever at scheming.
Sir Walter moved on. Rosalyn came close enough to have to nod and smile. To Gwyneth’s eye, Lady Chester looked confused and somewhat chastened, which was to say that her crafty confidence seemed to have deserted her. Gwyneth felt a small spurt of pity for the woman, whose only crime was to love a double-crossing rat.
The day’s entertainment was exceedingly fine, although what was usually the climax of the tournament, the melée, was more of an anticlimax. Gwyneth took very little pleasure in this mock-combat exercise carried out in a spirit of comradeship. The knights had divided themselves into contending groups to fight against each other. This time she did not close her eyes to the engagement but fixed them on Beresford’s form as he slashed and thrust and warded off blows. The point of the tourney was to test the strength and skill of the contestants in horsemanship, accuracy of aim and resistance to the shock of impact. In all of these, Gwyneth saw that her husband excelled. It seemed to her that a magic circle surrounded him, preventing harm from befalling him.
The high point came when one knight’s helmet became so battered he had to be escorted from the field and have his head placed on an anvil, where a blacksmith tried to beat the helmet back into shape so it could be removed. This was, naturally, taken to be outstanding proof of the knight’s great valor, because it showed he had been in the thickest part of the fighting and had withstood tremendous blows. On any other day, such an occurrence would have won him top honors. This day, however, belonged to Beresford.
When the sun’s rays began to slant across the earth, when the tourney field had been drubbed into a fine dust and when enough lances had been broken to satisfy the spectators’ desire for extravagant waste, the victorious side was declared by Adela. The return to the Tower could begin. Escorted by her retinue, Gwyneth walked along with the other ladies, half hopeful of seeing Beresford, half fearful to be with him again. She anticipated the pain she would feel at being near him, knowing that she was estranged from his affection. She was, paradoxically, both worried and desirous.
She succeeded in convincing herself that what she felt toward Beresford was a combination of loyalty and shame that her loyalty to him should be in question. She succeeded in denying that she was experiencing new emotions, succeeded in suppressing the giddy, girlish anticipation of being with him again.
Back in the great hall, she met and mingled with her fellow courtiers. Preparations for the evening’s feast and entertainment were going forward. She spoke and laughed and looked discreetly for signs of Beresford’s entrance. She washed her hands and accepted a cup of wine, feeling as she did so that only half her body and soul were present.
She knew the instant he entered the hall. She was standing with her back to him, speaking with several ladies and a few knights who had already cleaned themselves up after the day’s exertions. She felt his presence and turned to look at him. She could not take her eyes off him as he came toward her. The courtiers between them seemed to fall back, leaving his path clear.
His hair was still damp and destined to curl in disorder when dry. He had not shaved for the evening, so his chin was shadowed with stubble. His tunic was unadorned but clean, as were his plain linen shirt and chausses. His stride was sure as ever, making her doubt reports that he had been wounded in his thigh, for she had seen only the blow to his shoulder. As he came toward her, she perceived the rough edges of the man, so much a part of him. She did not feel them bristle her, as she had in the past. They were more like the rays of a fractured nimbus around a man satisfied with his day’s work. They gave him his texture and made him come to life for her.
As he approached, she held her breath, but not from fear. If he intended to denounce her as the one who had set Gunnar Erickson against him, she was prepared. If he intended to spurn her publicly, she was prepared. But she was not prepared for what actually happened.
When he came within feet of her, he stopped. He gazed at her for a moment through hard, gray eyes that held a vast, new dimension, such that when she returned his gaze, she thought she would be lost in it. She nearly gasped when he went down on one knee before her and bowed his head. It was a signal honor to her for all to see and a magnificently submissive gesture that only the least submissive of men could afford. A breathless moment passed before he reached out and took her fingers in his. As he rose, he kissed the back of her hand. She felt his touch all the way up her arm and felt the effect of his courtly kiss like a stab to her heart.
He looked down at her and turned her hand so that he could place her fingertips on the cuff of his shirt. They began to walk. Gwyneth felt her blood beat faster just at being next to him. She basked in the glow of his rough-edged nimbus.
Looking straight ahead, he said, “I had to do it.”
Her nerves were grazed by a charge in the atmosphere. She replied, “I know.”
He nodded. “Perhaps we should take our places at the table.” He gestured not to the central table, but to the first table on the king’s left. Gwyneth could not know that he had adamantly refused Adela’s request that they sit in places of honor at the head table.
They made their way forward decorously. Their conversation was equally decorous. She asked politely, “A
nd have you recovered well, sire?”
He looked down at her with a faint question in his flinty eyes. “Recovered?” His voice, customarily gruff, was low and lazy.
“From your wounds,” she clarified.
His brow lifted slightly in understanding. “My squires attended to them.”
“Ah, yes, that would be Langley,” she replied without thinking, “and—” She broke off.
“Gautier,” he supplied.
The atmosphere crackled, causing her nerves to tingle. “Yes, of course,” she said. The unmentionable name, Breteuil, hung in the air. Was it cowardice, she wondered, that prevented her from telling him the truth? Or worse, fear that he would not believe she had not conspired against him? She gathered her courage and steeled her nerves. She turned to face him. “Let me tell you that—”
The look in his eyes sliced off her words as effectively as his blade had slit Gunnar Erickson’s throat. He evidently did not wish to hear any confessions from her.
The words I had nothing to do with Gunnar Erickson’s entry into the lists! died unspoken on her tongue. She swallowed them and tasted ashes.
“Madam?” he inquired after a moment.
Her courage failed her. Her throat closed, this time from unshed tears that some longing within her might never be satisfied. She kept her eyes lowered as she said, “Let me tell you that you were magnificent today on the field.”
He merely grunted. Gwyneth was spared embarrassment, for Geoffrey of Senlis accosted them. “’Magnificent’ does not do justice to your performance, Simon!” he said, clapping Beresford on the back.
Beresford smiled wryly. “Ah, no, Geoffrey? That was not your opinion earlier today.”
Senlis bowed gracefully. “Allow my natural love for you to have overtaken my practiced courtesies.” His voice was teasing, simple and sincere. He rose and looked straight at his friend, and Gwyneth saw in his eyes the light of purest friendship. “You see, Simon, I thought you were going to die.”
Simon’s Lady Page 23