‘It is mad!’ Étienne repeated. ‘Reckless!’
Guillelm grinned at the charge, remembering Sir Henry‘s bitter words and taking a certain satisfaction in proving Alyson‘s father wrong. ‘Reckless perhaps, but my head is still firmly on my shoulders, as you see,’ he observed. ‘This way is quicker and quieter, Étienne. Join one of King Stephen’s or Empress Maud’s war-bands: either will give you welcome and richer booty than you will get hereabouts.’
‘The pickings have been scanty, certainly,’ Étienne muttered in French. ‘Not what I was promised.’
Giving the mercenary another moment to reflect on that self-interested thought, Guillelm returned to his main point. ‘You can give Walter the same message: he leaves or fights. My men are fresh and seasoned from the crusades. I suggest you both leave.’
Recalling Étienne’s widening eyes as the Fleming imagined the likely outcome of such a contest, his stammered word of honour as a knight that he would stop the siege and leave the district, Guillelm permitted himself a grim smile. He had gauged the courage of the two men correctly. After he had stunned the Fleming with a deft blow and walked slowly through the stirring camp in the same easy way as he had come, he watched Étienne and Walter turn tail and leave without a further struggle.
Men he could always deal with, he thought. Perhaps that was how he should treat Alyson, as a kind of youth. He snorted, knowing the idea was impossible: she was too feminine. Yet brave. He had seen the end of her clash with Fulk—she had stood up to an armoured knight and flung back just, round answers to Fulk’s arrogance and all for the sake of a stray lamb.
In those moments, he had been so proud of her, and so furious at Fulk. If the man had actually hit her, he would be spitting teeth or worse by now, Guillelm thought, his hands tightening into fists. As he had closed with Fulk and Alyson in the yard, he had found his sword hand going straight to his belt and if he had been armed, things might have gone very badly for Fulk. Yet Fulk was a man whom he trusted with his life, whom he had fought beside in the Holy Land, who had been his own second-in-command for six of his seven years in Outremer. Fulk would be his seneschal here; a reward for true service, and he could not have the man humiliated because of one sorry misunderstanding. That was why he had taken Fulk’s part in the bailey and remonstrated Alyson on her dress, an act he now regretted, for Alyson was right: were she only a cottar’s child, Fulk should not have treated her as he did.
He had been wrong himself, Guillelm admitted. She had not started the incident but, after his relief that she was unharmed, he was unfairly angry with Alyson also, and scolded her without cause. ‘She has bewitched me,’ he growled under his breath.
Yet he was not wrong to have offered her marriage. Her kiss had stirred him as the embrace of no other woman had ever done, even the voluptuous Heloise. The thought of her even smiling at another man acted like poison in a wound; he had to possess her or he would have no peace. And the people here loved her. He had been unjust when he called the Lady of Hardspen idle—Alyson was none such, and her servants repaid her with loyalty. Everywhere he went in the castle he had heard the same words, ‘The little Mistress helped with that; she is a good, true lady.’ He had seen her own weariness for himself, when he looked in on her sleeping in her chamber just after her maids had risen. She had not stirred when he placed his cloak over her, except to sigh and curl the fingers of one hand about the collar of his cloak.
When he thought of those same narrow, work-worn hands touching him, he marvelled at the idea. She was still unafraid of him, fighting him even in the stable, where for a dreadful moment she had seemed confounded, genuinely terrified, before she rallied, tossing words at him as if they were spears. He had been torn between amusement, a guilty shame at the justice of her complaints, and irritation at being so wrong-footed by a girl of one-and-twenty. Perhaps with her he would prove Juliana and Heloise wrong; perhaps even he might be able to woo her, as he had thought of doing ever since seeing her again.
But only if you can quench your own envy of your father, Guillelm’s conscience warned. ‘I know that,’ he said under his breath, anger stirring in him again. Dressing to please his father, that miserly, crabbed old man! ‘She will do the same for me and more,’ he vowed darkly, trying to put all thought of Alyson from his mind as he walked up through the lines of his own men to a glowering but distinctly nervous Fulk.
Chapter 4
Stalking into her chamber, Alyson was disconcerted to find her nurse kneeling at one of the store chests, lifting out bolts of cloth, belts, gloves and other clothes. Two cloaks, three veils, a linen apron and a dark woollen gown were heaped across the bed as Gytha plunged a plump arm into the depths of the oak chest, murmuring, ‘I knew I kept these as more than a keepsake! I think the new lord will be very pleased, especially if Osmoda can find a matching veil for the blue-green gown...’
Had Guillelm spoken to her servants already, given them orders? Alyson put down the spark of anger that bloomed within her: if he had there was little she could do about it. But no, it seemed she had done her soon-to-be-betrothed an injustice—Gytha chattered on, oblivious to her mistress’ entrance.
‘At last I will robe my lady as she deserves! The new lord will surely not be as wretched and miserly as the old —’
Alyson gave a gentle warning cough and Gytha swung round, giving her former charge a gap-toothed smile.
‘There you are, my bird! Come, help me: my eyes cannot see so well these days and I do not want this material to tear.’
Crouching, Alyson did as she was bid and together she and Gytha lifted out two gowns, spreading them on top of a second, flat-topped chest.
‘You remember them,’ Gytha remarked quietly, as Alyson trailed a fingertip over the flowing skirts.
Alyson nodded. ‘Tilda never wore these,’ she said, and at once her head was full of memories for her troubled elder sister. She missed Tilda—her slow smile, the shy way she ducked her head before answering a question, her kindness. When they were small, she and Tilda had slept together: Alyson still missed her sister’s warmth and scent.
‘The convent was the best place for her,’ Gytha said softly. ’With her… unease around men.’
Terror of men was the more accurate, Alyson reflected bleakly, recalling how Tilda had even shrunk back from their father. Given their mother’s tragic history, Alyson understood it but it made her acceptance of Tilda’s final choice no easier. She had relinquished the world gladly, entering the closed order of nuns seemingly without a thought for those she was leaving behind.
She is safe in a holy place and you should be pleased for her, Alyson told herself sternly, while she shook her head violently at Gytha’s suggestion that she try on the two gowns.
‘Your sister would be happy if you wore them,’ her nurse coaxed, ’And you surely cannot grace your betrothal ceremony in that ghastly, plain attire,’ she went on, tugging on Alyson’s homespun for emphasis. ‘Your hair is so pretty and that dull veil does nothing for it and yet I have seen how the new lord looks at your raven locks.’
‘Raven!’ Alyson scoffed, giving herself away when she asked, ‘Guillelm has noticed, you say?’
Her red-cheeked nurse gave her a knowing glance. ‘Your hair will be prettier still when it is washed. I saw that your lord has set some of his men to clearing out and preparing the bath-house. Do you think you will bathe each other tomorrow? No?’ Gytha chuckled at Alyson’s scalding blush. ‘Perhaps later, when you are truly married.’
If only to silence her nurse, Alyson swooped hastily on the nearest gown, of rich blue wool, hemmed with vermilion. Fumbling with the ties of her rough gown, she muttered, ‘I will wear this today and the other tomorrow.’ The green-blue of that gown would look well against Guillelm’s bright golden colouring.
‘A good choice, my lady,’ her nurse soothed. ’It shows off the colour of your eyes, and I have found a gold belt that Lord Robert did not know you had, else no doubt he would have taken that from you, as well as
your other jewels —’
‘Gytha!‘
‘These things should be admitted, my lady.‘ Her voice faded and she busied herself with helping Alyson unpin her veil.
Alyson said nothing. At tomorrow’s ceremony she would have no family due to circumstances but no female friends either, because of Lord Robert. His grasping jealousy had made it impossible for her to keep any friends.
Almost as an echo to her thought, Gytha said, ‘There will be few folk to attend your betrothal, not with your lord so lately returned from Outremer and knowing so few nobles hereabouts. I cannot remember if he has a large family, but even if he has, they will not be able to come at such short notice.’
‘No,’ Alyson said faintly, blushing afresh as she now considered the haste of their match. ‘Guillelm has few close-kindred; no brothers or cousins. His only sister is married and settled far off, somewhere in the north.’
‘No need to catch your breath, my bird: I’ve done the lacing up as tight as it will go.’ Gytha stood with her head on one side and then clapped her hands. ’We need a fresh veil.’
‘The old will have to do for today,’ Alyson said hastily, recollecting the many tasks she had yet to do and oversee. ’Quickly, Gytha! Help me re-order my hair a little.’
‘All done,’ said her nurse a few moments later, catching Alyson’s arm before she sped from the chamber. ’Look at yourself! You have not taken one peep at your reflection.’ She pointed to the deep basin standing on a low table close to the bed—washing water left from the morning, Alyson recollected guiltily. With most of the maidservants in the castle still recovering from the sweating sickness it had become her habit to empty the basin herself. Now, however, at Gytha’s insistent prodding she leaned over the bowl, seeing a murky, blue-gowned stranger.
‘My thanks,’ she said, and hurried off.
Her mind once more on strewing herbs for the great hall, Alyson found herself drawn to the bailey. ’I have to find my broom,’ she murmured, although that was only part of the truth. If she was honest, she was also hoping to see Guillelm—and that he would see her.
With his height and breadth and dazzling hair she spotted him at once, the sight quickening her breathing and already hurrying steps. Working in the increasing warmth of the sun, he had stripped his brown wool mantle down to his waist, revealing a linen under-shirt so fine as to be almost transparent. She could see the hard, sinewy contours of his back, the matt of chest hair that she suddenly longed to touch, teasingly running her fingers through those fine gold strands while tracing the pattern of his muscles…
Blushing, Alyson shook herself and tried to concentrate on what Guillelm was doing. He was dismantling the stranded cart with the shattered axle, while at the same time shouting orders to his men who were distributing bread and ale to the tented poor who had crowded for shelter within the bailey. As he roared out an incomprehensible mixture of French, Arabic and English to his seasoned followers, he was hammering at the cart—even as Alyson watched, he dropped the hammer and lifted the entire planked floor of the cart free of the broken axle, hefting it into the waiting, eager arms of two men whom she recognized as farriers from one of Hardspen’s nearby hamlets.
‘That should serve as a new door for your mother’s house,’ Guillelm called, while the farriers braced themselves as they received their gift. They were panting with effort but he was scarcely out of breath. Straightening, he surveyed the milling crowds within the bailey, picking Alyson out at once. His dark eyes gleamed and he beckoned.
‘Still no attendants with you, I see,’ he remarked, as she approached.
‘The sickness, my lord,’ she began, aggrieved that he should fault her for something she could not help.
He grinned, as if sensing her irritation. ‘Peace, bright-eyes,’ he said, giving Alyson the nickname he had coined for her years earlier, when he had been a gangling, big-jointed youth. ’Have you seen a saw anywhere close?’
Silently, Alyson deftly scooped up a saw from beneath the cart’s wheels and held it out.
‘My thanks.’ Taking the tool, his fingers brushed against hers, their brief touch deepening the lustre in his eyes, as he added, in a voice only she could hear, ’The gown is fine.’
Was that a stain of colour in his tanned face? Alyson scarcely dare hope that it was: if he was shy of her that was worth more than polished compliments, although for him to say so little—
‘You approve, my lord?’ Heartened by the fact he was no longer angry with her, she twirled on the spot for him.
‘Greatly.’ His lips quivered. ‘If the Empress Maud could see you now, doubtless she would be envious. I have sent word to her this morning of our betrothal.’
As a fact, Alyson noted, and not in any way to ask Maud’s permission. She nodded and recollected her manners. ‘Thank you for sharing your men’s rations with my people.’
Guillelm inclined his head. ‘My people, also,’ he observed, regarding the ordered handing out of foodstuffs for a moment before saying, ‘Food is as good a way as any to ensure loyalty.’
‘Is that your only reason?’ Alyson burst out, realizing by Guillelm’s expression that he was teasing. ‘You tricked me!’
‘Only to check if you still wrinkled your nose when you do not approve—which you do.’
‘And your eyebrows still meet when you frown,’ Alyson replied, deliberately baiting. ‘You are doing it now!’
‘Enough of your pretty insolence, my girl. I have work to do.’
‘Yes, and I have a great many fresh strewing herbs to collect and a great hall to make ready and one of the cooks to find, but you only say that because you have lost the argument,’ Alyson rejoined, stepping back swiftly in a swirl of skirts.
She had been taunting a little but did not expect the speed or power of his reactions: Guillelm dropped the saw and snatched her into his arms, jerking her right off her feet. ‘Was that a challenge, my lady?’
‘Do you see my gauge on the ground?’ Alyson’s heart was thundering in her chest but not from fear. It was so tempting to rest her head in the crook of his arm, or perhaps tease even more and sting him into kissing her. She could feel his heat and strength and the touch of his body against hers made her tingle all over. Truly, for all the covering his thin linen shirt gave, he could be naked, she thought, scandalized and delighted at the thought. But people were watching: it was time to remember who she was, the lady of Hardspen. ’If you release me, you will be able to search for it.’
‘Not so fast.’ Guillelm lowered his head to hers. ‘Maybe you have hidden it somewhere about your person. Under that nun-like veil, perchance.’
Did he think her still a child, that she could allow such horse-play? ‘I must make haste to see Sericus,’ she said quickly, clamping a hand on top of her veiled head.
‘You cannot do that,’ he said seriously. ‘Your seneschal is engaged in a task for me.’
‘You ordered my Sericus?’
‘Mine, too, now. As are you.’
Idly, he swung her back and forth, but Alyson refused to be pacified like a babe in arms. For an instant she could not speak, she was gagged by her own rush of temper. ‘You had no right!’
‘Indeed?’ Abruptly, he tickled her under the arm and she automatically squirmed, withdrawing her hand, then gasping as his fingers tugged at the pins securing her head-rail.
‘No!’ she cried, genuinely disturbed.
‘I know it is an insult to remove a married woman’s veil, but not, I think, that of my wife-to-be, Guillelm replied, setting her back down lightly onto her feet. ‘I would see your hair.’
‘But —’ The gentle touch of his fingers against her forehead distracted Alyson, making her forget the rest of her protest. I am drowning in sweetness in his arms, she thought despairingly, dimly aware of the farriers staring, of a conspiracy of children pausing in their game of throwing sticks to giggle and point. ‘Would you make a show of me, dragon?’ she whispered.
Instantly his hand was still. ’Not f
or all the jewels of Outremer, if it truly troubles you.’ He cupped her face. ’But then, you were merely to be plighted to my father, were you not? You told me you had not been formally betrothed.’ Why not? Guillelm wondered. In his father’s place he would have been very keen to make all fast between Alyson and himself, but then that was not the important matter here. ‘You can wear your hair loose, like a true maiden.’ As swiftly as it had come, the shine of tenderness vanished from his dark eyes and a hard, quizzical look settled over his stark features. ‘Or did you and my good lord Robert anticipate your wedding?’
Never! Alyson wanted to shout, appalled at the very question. Merely the thought made her shudder inside. ‘What do you think?’ she hit back, adding, ‘If my father were alive, you would not say such things to me.’
Guillelm became dangerously still. ‘You think I would not dare?’
Deciding that actions spoke more than words, Alyson reached up and unpinned her veil, holding it out. ’I am as I was born,’ she said quietly.
A brief look of shame flickered in Guillelm’s eyes as he took the cloth from her, screwing it into a tight ball. ‘That is better,’ he growled. ‘And you must admit I have a right to ask.’
‘As I now have the right to ask for an apology,’ Alyson replied steadily. She tried not to stare at the faint line of blond body curls that was revealed as Guillelm thrust her veil into his shirt. It ran right down to his navel… She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them as she heard him say, ‘I am sorry. I was wrong.’
Forgiving him at once, she raised her head to say as much and so caught the far softer, ’Your hair…. It is amazing.’
She was pretty enough and provoking enough to be kissed, thought Guillelm, eager to do just that, and more. Only the fact that he was already aroused and had blundered badly with his wretched jealousy—how could he even have asked such an insulting question?—made him pause. But she was so pretty. Her new gown, the colour of a summer twilight, mirrored the rich depths of her eyes and flattered the flawless rose-and-cream of her skin but did not quite do justice to her lissom figure: it could be tighter here and here, he decided, longing to run his hands over those very points. Hastily lowering his gaze, he caught a flash of red, like a teasing tongue, on the hem of her gown as she moved slightly back from him and instantly marvelled at her slender feet, so tiny. ’You are a wonder,’ he longed to say to her, but seasoned warriors did not talk that way—if his men heard him they would think him mad.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 5