‘Unfair!’ she protested, laughing as he waved the sweet under her nose. ’You should pay a forfeit for that.’
‘I have another gift for you, when we have a moment alone.’ His free hand hovered towards her hair. ’You are so —’
A crash on the staircase outside the great hall had Alyson and Guillelm breaking apart and starting to their feet, Alyson instinctively shielding him with her raised arms.
‘No, little one, it should be the other way round.’ Gently but firmly, Guillelm drew her behind him, tensing as a cowering figure stumbled into the hall.
Alyson gasped and darted forward, too quick even for Guillelm’s rapid reactions. Evading his snatching hand and the startled servers, she flew from the dais to her former nurse, gathering Gytha into her arms. ’There, you are safe,’ she crooned, rocking the trembling woman as consternation broke out in the rest of the hall, men flinging back the benches and jumping up, looking round wildly for weapons in case of some attack.
‘What is going on?’ Guillelm demanded, hands on hips as he strode to meet the shadow emerging from the top of the stairs.
It was Fulk. He was carrying a silver cup which was clearly empty—the bulk of the former liquid stained the red-cheeked nurse’s bodice and had splashed onto her shoes.
‘A collision on the staircase, my lord,’ Alyson said, relieved it was no worse, but even as she spoke Fulk over-rode her, his voice strident.
‘This creature is a poisoner! I saw her with my own eyes, tipping some foul powder into your cup, my lord! With my own eyes!’ White spittle collected in his mouth-corners as he pointed at the now-sobbing Gytha. ’A witch!’
‘Not so!’ Alyson’s clear denial rang out above the hasty prayers of the younger squires and knights. The older men and women, she noted, were silent and still, watching carefully. Guillelm was also watching, his face an unreadable mask.
Shocked at Fulk’s sheer malice, Alyson bit hard on her lip. The pain reminded her to keep her temper: she needed her wits about her, when part of her longed to knock Fulk back onto the rushes.
She held out her hand. ‘Give me the cup.’
‘My Lady, I swear to you… you know I would never…never…’ Gytha broke down again.
Furious at Fulk for abusing a helpless old woman, Alyson snapped her fingers. ’The cup, Sir!’
‘There is no liquid left. She spilled it deliberately,’ Fulk replied smoothly, holding the silver goblet so all could see inside.
‘Even so, my lady will know from the dregs,’ Guillelm observed in a deadly calm, speaking for the first time since his seneschal had made his outrageous accusations.
Paling slightly under his mottled, pock-marked skin, Fulk almost tossed the goblet to Alyson, who righted it before any more of the sticky lees could be lost.
She held it under her nose. ’Spices, my lord, and a good wine.’ She licked a finger and dipped it into the cup, showing the trace of white powder to the assembled company and then tasting it. ’The powder is from the dried flower-heads of yarrow.’ She drained off part of the lees, licking her lips. ’It is harmless.’
‘Yarrow is much used by witches,’ Fulk countered.
‘And in loving cups,’ Alyson replied.
‘’Tis true, Lord,’ Gytha gabbled, fixing tear-streaked eyes on Guillelm. ’I used the yarrow for your marriage. Seven years of happiness, my potion will bring. I meant no harm, before God —’
‘Peace!’ rumbled Guillelm, as if wearying of the whole affair, and he lifted the goblet from Alyson’s clasp and drank down the lees. ’Though in faith I need no potions, old dame. Did you think perhaps that I was lacking?’
The hall erupted into laughter, releasing the tensions of the last few moments, and Alyson drew in a long calming breath.
‘I will take Gytha to my chamber,’ she murmured to Guillelm, and he nodded. Both of them knew they could not talk until they were private.
Alyson did not return to the great hall. She comforted Gytha as best she could and made up a sleeping draught for her nurse. Afterwards, listening to Gytha snoring gently, she wondered at Fulk’s spite. Had Guillelm not intervened as he did, would Fulk have been able to turn the castle against Gytha—and by association, herself?
Peering through the wooden casement, Alyson watched the moon rise and set while she listened to the increasingly rowdy drinking games of the men. Was Guillelm often in his cups? The idea made her shiver, especially when she remembered how his father Lord Robert had been, whenever he had too much malmsey…
Before dawn, she laced her gown again and re-braided her hair. Taking her favourite mortar and pestle from the smallest oak chest, she slipped out of her chamber and down the stairs, determined to do something useful, if only as a distraction from her thoughts.
Lord Robert had not allowed her a still room in which to make her potions, but Alyson had found a small place for herself in a small lean-to off the stable block. In this she had a chopping table, and earthenware crocks, and even some glass bottles, more precious than gold to her. In the lean-to she had bundles of drying herbs hung from the slanting roof and fresh herbs laid on shelves, a small brazier for stewing herbs and bowls for steeping them. It was a cramped space, even for her, but with its comforting smells of lavender, rosemary and thyme it always felt like home to Alyson, reminding her vividly of the still-room at her father’s house. Now, when she crossed the threshold and pushed open the door to the lean-to to its fullest, she opened a sack of rose-petals and ran her fingers through them, simply for the pleasure their silky texture and delicate scent gave her.
‘So this is your secret place.’ With that disconcertingly silent tread of his, Guillelm had approached without her realizing. He was dressed in a plain mantle and leggings, very different from the dark red robe with golden thread round the neck and sleeves that he had worn at the feast last night. The change made him look younger, easier to talk to.
‘Careful!’ she warned, automatically stepping sideways to protect her glassware.
‘You did that last night, using yourself as a shield.’
‘Yes.’ Suddenly they were straying into more difficult territory; she did not know quite how to go on, or what to say about Fulk.
‘My seneschal was wrong. He understands his error. He will not do anything like that again.’
Seeing him stare down at his bunched fists, Alyson could not suppress a shiver.
‘How is Gytha?’ Guillelm asked gently.
‘I left her sleeping. Osmoda will be with her today.’
‘Excellent.’ Guillelm grinned, crouching so that he did not loom in the doorway. ’Never fear, Alyson. This is your domain,‘ he reassured her, meaning more in his answer than the simple lean-to. ’How many mixtures do you have here?’ he went on, inhaling deeply. ’I can smell spices.’
‘That will be my cinnamon, no doubt, and pepper.’ Alyson tried to count the number of tisanes and potions she had made on her fingers and gave up, shrugging. ’I do not know. Not as many as I had in my father’s house at Olverton.’ Her mouth dipped as she remembered her loss afresh.
Guillelm nodded. ‘Sir Henry was a good man.’
‘I miss him.’
‘As is right, and natural.’
They were silent, joined together in mutual grief for their dead fathers, although from Guillelm’s frown it seemed his recollections were more troubling than sorrowful. After a moment, he raised his left hand, pointing to where a patch of early morning sun flared against the thatch. ’I think it will be another hot day and I wondered —’
He stopped as a scullion boy, in a ragged loin cloth and with a sooty face split by a huge yawn, tottered past the lean-to, his bare feet stirring up seams of mud and dust and hordes of small, buzzing flies. When the child was out of earshot, Guillelm resumed, a little faster than before.
‘I thought perhaps we could leave the setting right of Hardspen for a day or so—or at least leave it to Sericus—and go out? You will not have left the castle grounds for weeks, and you ment
ioned your sister Matilda. I am sure her convent would welcome us as guests, at least for a brief space, and especially if we go bearing offerings.’
He sprang to his feet. ’I thought we might set off presently: our attendants can catch us up. The way to St Foy’s is safe, well out of the reach of any forces claiming allegiance to King Stephen or Empress Maud, and we do not have to hurry. What say you?’
She and Guillelm would be alone. Alyson hugged the idea to herself and nodded, afraid her voice would be too breathy to answer.
‘Excellent!’ He said again—it seemed a favourite saying—and he turned to the stables, adding, ’I will saddle some horses.’ A quizzical, teasing light stole into his eyes. ’You can still ride, I take it?’
‘Of course!’
Guillelm was laughing as he stalked lightly away, supple as a tawny cat, the rising sun gilding his hair to an even brighter gold.
He had found her a tall black palfrey to ride, handing Alyson the reins and cupping his hands to invite her to mount.
Alyson stayed a moment, a smile lurking about her mouth. ’This is not one of Fulk’s?’ she asked, taking in the height of the glossy, wide-eyed beast with its silver and gold horse trappings.
‘Jezebel is mine and now yours.’ Clearly impatient to be off, Guillelm plucked her from the ground and set her on the saddle, giving Alyson no time to recover from the heady rush of being in his arms, however briefly, before he demanded, ’Do you question everything?’
‘Always. Have you forgotten?’ she teased back. ’I hope Jezebel does not refer to the temper of my horse,’ she went on, guiding the palfrey gently with her knees to see how responsive she was.
‘Only when she is in season—which she is not.’
‘What is your horse called?’ Alyson asked as Guillelm took Jezebel’s bridle and the reins of his own big white-and-grey piebald to walk them to the main gate.
‘Caliph.’ Guillelm rubbed a finger at the side of his long nose: a sign Alyson had come to recognize as a form of embarrassment. ‘He is from part-Arab stock, and I named him before I understood what the title meant. “Caliph” is a form of great respect to the Muslims.’
‘And you do not wish to slight a worthy enemy?’
He laughed. ‘How well you know me, wench!’
Alyson felt a glow of satisfaction as they passed the guards on the gate, glancing again at her betrothal ring and daring to hope that all would be more than well between them.
She had filled out a little more in the last few days, lost that greyness under her eyes and in her face. In her new blue gown and with her hair streaming out behind her as they cantered over the downs, Alyson was more vivid than the fresh summer green of the trees, so bright to his eye after the muted, dusty colours of Outremer. She was more delicate than the scattered cowslips, speedwell and orchids that bordered the chalk track they were racing along, giving the horses their heads. She rode superbly—but then, what did Alyson not do superbly?
And she is mine. Guillelm wanted to utter a war-cry from sheer bravado, utter pride and joy. At the castle gate, one of his guards had asked if he was hunting today and he was, though not with hawk or dogs. His present quarry needed more subtlety, and patience. Patience above all, Guillelm reminded himself, thinking once more of Heloise of Outremer and her dreadful warning.
Desperate to avoid that fate with Alyson, he had planned this day as he might a military campaign and only prayed that his preparations would be to her liking. He knew the arts of war but less those of peace. How did an English lord entertain his lady?
He had taken food from the kitchen for them but now, as he spied a stand of oak trees where they might shelter from the midday heat and relax, he was unsure. As a girl, Alyson had enjoyed romping and eating out of doors but as a woman perhaps she would consider those things too unmannerly, even coarse.
‘I thought we might stop here, allow the horses to graze.’ Fool! It must be obvious that is only an excuse, he thought, scanning the sparse grass under the trees. ’If that is acceptable?’ he went on, compounding his error by actually asking permission.
Alyson nodded and reined in. Swiftly dismounting, perhaps so that she did not have to endure his touch, she knelt by one of the oaks. As he wondered what she was doing, Guillelm watched her take a worn knife from her belt and begin sawing at the bracket fungus growing at the base of the trunk.
‘This may be useful for my healing,’ she explained, lifting the fungus onto a clean scrap of cloth she had produced from somewhere about her person.
‘Healing is surely in God’s hands,’ Guillelm began, recalling old childhood tales of poisoned toadstools, but Alyson wrinkled her nose.
‘It may be, but Christ gave us wit and nimble fingers to aid ourselves,’ she said.
He knelt beside her and took her knife, plunging it into the grass.
‘That is a very round reply, mistress.’ Would she be teased by him, Guillelm wondered. Dare he tease?
The matter was resolved when Alyson thrust her tongue out at him.
What was she doing? Guillelm was no longer nineteen. Because they had stopped beneath the dappled shade of an oak tree, had knelt close to a small, gurgling stream that she could hear but not see, it did not mean that he remembered what she had never forgotten. She had allowed the memory of that afternoon, by another oak wood, on another sultry summer’s day, near to another clear, swift-flowing brook, to govern her actions.
Appalled at her folly, Alyson tried to rise to her feet but was snared in a pair of arms that pinioned her own hands helplessly by her sides.
‘The last time we were this way together, you saved my life.’
‘No, no,’ Alyson demurred, pleased and at the same time alarmed that he did remember. She tried to squirm free of her captor.
‘None of that.’ Still clasping her—so strongly that she felt bound by fetters of iron—Guillelm lowered his head. ‘I mind it well, Bright-eyes.’
‘Dragon —’
‘You called me dragon then, too, when I was ready to confront the royal foresters, and you dragged me under cover. Into brambles, I do believe.’ He was smiling, but then he added seriously, ‘Had those woodsmen caught us, straying into part of the king’s forest, there would have been no mercy for me.’
Alyson nodded, thinking how Guillelm had found a dead deer and had dressed it for meat, recalling how stubborn he had been to keep the deer, although by law all such game was reserved for the king. He was even ready to fight the foresters, whom with her quick hearing she heard riding across the stream before she and Guillelm were seen.
‘You flung yourself on me and brought me to my knees. I remember your words: “You cannot fight five armed with bows and swords and you with only a hunting knife, even if you are as brave as a dragon.” Your good sense saved me. And at the time I was astonished that such a slip of a girl could take me down so easily.’ Guillelm brushed her cheek with his, whispering, ’Your quick wits made me think, reminded me of what really mattered. Your own safety.’
Alyson blushed, aware, as she had not been at fourteen, of the truth of Guillelm’s statement. Then, her only thought had been to save him from the harsh laws of the forest and the king’s justice; she had not considered her own position, or vulnerability, a girl at the dubious mercy of six men, all strangers to her and she to them. ’I was naïve,’ she said.
‘We both were.’
‘You really saved me,’ Alyson went on, but Guillelm shook his head.
‘We saved each other,’ he said. ‘Did I ever thank you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did I kiss you?’
Alyson’s heart felt to leap almost out of her ribs. Breathless, all eyes, she waited as his mouth touched hers. She sighed, leaning into the kiss and he gave a mighty groan, gathering her closer, his hands releasing hers to cup her face.
Dazed with the sweet pulse of pleasure coursing through her as their kiss intensified, Alyson did what she had dreamed of doing for years and playfully traced a fing
er down the length of Guillelm’s nose and then, as he started slightly with surprise and drew back a little, teased her thumb over his upper lip.
‘Little witch.’ In his mouth, the words were an endearment. He nibbled her finger and softly drew her hand away, claiming her lips a second time with his own.
Tingling with sensation, Alyson wondered if she was experiencing anything akin to what the great mystic Hildegarde of Bermersheim had once described as being like ‘a feather on the breath of God.’ There was something almost unearthly to their embrace, the very air about her and Guillelm seem to crackle. When they broke apart to look at each other, the sun seemed brighter, the scent of the bruised grass beneath their knees fresher, the lustre in Guillelm’s eyes deeper. His whole face glowed, the fine bristles trembling on his upper lip.
‘You are…’ He swept a hand along her arm, raised her hand and kissed the knuckle above her betrothal ring. ‘I wanted to do this seven years ago.’
‘And for so long I feared you dead.’ In a chilling flurry of remembered horror, Alyson pressed herself against Guillelm, hearing his heart but wanting still more, to be closer, flesh against flesh. ‘Dead!’
She shuddered and he rocked her, crooning a snatch of song. ’Remember this little tune?’ he asked.
‘My Lady’s white rose. It was on everyone’s lips that summer.’ At fourteen Alyson had not known the name of the song. ‘You would whistle it sometimes, to tease me.’
‘Do you still snap your fingers when you are angry?’
‘You will have to wait to find out,’ Alyson replied.
‘If you do, then as your betrothed I may devise some suitable punishment for you.’
‘You can try,’ Alyson answered lightly, hoping her face gave no hint of her darker thoughts and Lord Robert’s ‘punishments’.
Guillelm glanced at her keenly and she shifted slightly, disturbed by memories and by more direct physical discomfort as the dull ache in her knees finally registered.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 7