Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances

by Lindsay Townsend

  ‘For other reasons, too, my lord: you must not reproach yourself.’

  How can I not? Guillelm thought, wondering how his father had faced his own confessor, how he had lived with what he had done.

  ‘Why did she say nothing to me? I would have understood.’

  ‘Can you imagine my lady wanting to spoil your good memories of Lord Robert by confessing any of this to you?’

  ‘I have no good memories to spoil.’ Guillelm sighed. ‘Tell me this once and be done.’

  Gytha rubbed her knees more and said in a hushed quick way, ‘I do not know the whole tale. I only learned what I did that night because I saw Alyson before she had time to collect herself.’ The nurse glanced at her former charge, a slow blush stealing into her plump cheeks. ’I fear I took advantage of her moment of weakness that night and persuaded her to talk by claiming that if she told me a little of what had passed between her and Lord Robert I could advise her on how best to please him and avoid such —’

  ‘Please him!’ Enraged afresh at his father. Guillelm could say no more.

  ‘I am not proud of what I did.’ Gytha sighed. ’But then, I truly feared for her.’ Her lip curled. ’I would not treat a dog as he had dealt with her that night! When I brought her out of the chamber, she could scarcely walk, she was shaking so much. And this was not the first time, no! The first I knew of it, but Lord Robert had whipped her before. For smiling too broadly at Sericus, a lame old man whom she has known since she was a child! She asked me, then, as we limped slowly back to her room, if she had done wrong. Lord Robert made her even doubt herself.’

  Gytha talked more, a sordid, pitiful story that revealed Lord Robert as a bitter misogynist, intent on breaking Alyson in every way he could. His father had wanted her powerless and a victim and so had kept her in doubt of her own place at Hardspen; delaying their formal betrothal, denying her the clothes fit for her station, forbidding her to visit or see her friends, giving her no keys to the store-chests. She had sat with him on the dais in the great hall but had not been allowed to speak, even if a villager from Olverton came and asked for audience with Lord Robert.

  ‘All this within the month she stayed with him,’ Guillelm muttered, grinding his fists into his eyes, trying to rid himself of the unwelcome pictures that were now branded into his brain. He had known his father was a narrow, vengeful man but even so—

  ’Mother of God!’ he burst out.

  Gytha nodded. ‘He was eaten alive by jealousy, possessed by envy. Every day was worse than the one before. He would smile and say honeyed words to her, let her think he was content, that he approved of her and then he would change: draw back, become cold, not speak, summon her to his chamber.

  ‘I know this is a terrible thing to say, but the summer sickness was a blessing. With so many falling ill, Lord Robert had to allow her to practice her healing arts and allow her more freedom. When he was taken sick —’ Gytha touched Alyson’s still hand, clasping the pale cool fingers in her own chapped palm. ’I cannot pretend I was not glad.’

  ‘I want to kill him,’ Guillelm said. ’Grind and break his bones —’

  ‘Would you become another Lord Robert?’ Gytha snorted. ‘He is already dead and buried, as well you know! Can you think of nothing better than that?’

  Astonished at her forthrightness, Guillelm fell silent.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, after a long, tense moment. ’Yes, I can, and I will.’

  ‘Good!’ Gytha rose off the bed. ’And I will fetch Sister Ursula to tend my lady now. She has prayed enough for one night.’

  Chapter 17

  Alyson leaned back against the pillows and looked at the parchment in her lap. Guillelm had found it for her from somewhere, and ink. He said she could use it to write down her potions, or the tithes that Olverton owed the church, or poetry or stories she remembered: anything she wanted.

  ‘The Arab doctors believe that when a woman is sick or injured, she must have everything she desires,’ he had told her. ‘You are to indulge your every whim.’

  Carefully, using her left arm, Alyson reached for her cup of mint tisane, conscious of the stretch of the healing sinews in her shoulder. It was ten days since she had been brought back to Hardspen and every day saw her stronger, more interested in her surroundings.

  She could not become any more interested in Guillelm than she already was, but she was becoming anxious of how she might appear to him, with her bandaged shoulder and unwashed hair. It was a small reassurance to her that he seemed equally anxious to please her: whether because of the Arab doctors or for his own reasons Alyson did not know but she revelled in his attention.

  Five days ago, he had carried her outside their chamber to a made-up bed on the highest point of the keep, well out of range of archers, he said. There between the battlements, on the very roof of the castle, he had made what he called a paradise: a private, hidden garden.

  Paradise it was, Alyson thought, sipping her tisane and watching the swifts tumbling in the cloudless blue skies. The canopy set above her soft mattress creaked softly in the breeze. She had cool drinks waiting for her on a low table beside her couch, and pieces of fresh white bread and honey to eat. There were seven low wooden tubs set out over the roof filled with earth and turf and flowers—roses, lavender, marigolds, hyssop, speedwells and buttercups.

  ‘I carried the tubs up here, and the earth,’ Guillelm said, grinning at her exclamation of delight. ’The nuns planted the flowers; I was merely their water-bearer.’

  He did not mention her sister and Alyson did not ask: she felt too weary to delve more deeply into where Ursula might be. Not with her, certainly. She had not seen her sister since the night when she had been injured, and even now she was not sure if Ursula‘s presence had been a dream or not.

  But she was very glad of this high, private garden. The sight and scents of the flowers eased her. She watched a bumblebee, dusted with pollen, flying among the lavender, and a white butterfly basking on top of the battlement walls and felt truly safe, as she had as a child. She was happy to stay out here from sunrise to sunset.

  She dozed, stirred, ate some bread and honey and took up her quill. Gytha, sitting on a stool close to the canopy, put down her spindle and spread a rough cloth over Alyson so she would not spill ink on herself or the linen sheet.

  Smiling her thanks, Alyson began to write. Though she had not asked Guillelm for the parchment, she was pleased he had found it for her and flattered that he had remembered her love of reading and writing. She had written two letters every day for the last five days: one for Guillelm, and one for herself.

  She always began with her letter to Guillelm, before her shoulder ached too much. Aware that his skill in reading was not as great as hers, she wrote in a large, even hand. It was more of a simple ‘Good-day’ to him, a scrap of contact between them.

  My dear lord,

  I trust that your time with the armourers is well spent this morning. I await your company this afternoon.

  With faithful obedience, Alyson.

  Then, because Guillelm always asked if she was sufficiently warm or cool, or if she was thirsty or hungry or bored, she added,

  I am very comfortable, counting the bees on the marigolds, drinking a mint tisane that is cooler and greener than the grass on the downs. I have no pain.

  Except the small hurt of missing him, to which she would not admit.

  She tore off the strip of written parchment, tied it with one of her ribbons and held it out to Gytha.

  Her nurse rose off her stool, ’I will find a page to take it to him,’ she said, and wandered off to do just that.

  Alone on the roof, Alyson listened to the nuns singing in the chapel below, and after a while picked up her quill again. She hummed as she wrote, happy at the task. It was a sweet, secret pleasure to confess her thoughts.

  To myself, Alyson of Olverton and Hardspen,

  Today by the grace of God I am stronger. My shoulder gives me less pain, although it itches greatly. I woul
d scratch myself like an old boar against a young oak tree! I dare not tell Guillelm of this, though every day when he comes he asks how I am faring.

  I wonder if I may see Tilda? It is strange to think of her as Sister Ursula. Sometimes I wonder if I recognize her high, shrill voice issuing from the chapel, where the nuns seem to spend most of their time and sing the holy offices. I wish she would visit me. Perhaps I should ask Guillelm if I might go down to the chapel and see her instead.

  I wonder when Guillelm will come? I pray it be soon! This paradise he has made me is so lovely. He says that in the gardens of Outremer there is running water, and many small fountains. That the air is full of spices and the very trees have fragrant leaves. Two days ago, he carried a great cauldron up to this garden and filled it with water and sprays of lime, so that I might have my own scented shade. I laughed when he used a ladle to water the tubs of lavender and marigolds, and he flicked water at me. Yesterday he brought the merlin up to this place and flew her from the battlements. He tells me that Sericus has taken over her daily care and that he seems to have an aptitude for the art of the falconer. I spoke to Sericus again about the wolf that is terrorizing the country and he told me that there have been no more sightings. Perhaps it has died, or perhaps the villagers and cottars have been able to scare it off. I am glad of this, for the threat of the wolf has been preying on my mind.

  My lord sleeps in the great hall with his men. Every day, it is a grief to me. I would ask that we both sleep here, in our private Eden, with the stars as our roof, but I lack courage, or perhaps it is strength. Often I am so tired by sunset that I do not even know that Guillelm has carried me down to the great bedchamber until I find myself waking indoors the following morning.

  But enough of sadness. It is the duty of a wife to accept the wishes and actions of her husband. In many ways, my lord dragon is attentive and winning. He courts me in many ways. I know that I repeat myself, that writing this again is perhaps a waste of precious parchment, but the memories are also precious to me.

  I wonder what he might bring to me today? On the first day he carried me to this paradise, he bathed my hands and face with rose-water. He said the ladies of Outremer used rose-water to add bloom to their complexions. I wanted to ask him then about Heloise, but was too cowardly. He said I smelt sweeter than the rose-water, and he kissed me. I teased him by asking if I should wash him first before I kissed him and he lightly tugged my hair, then drew back as if I was as lethal as wolfs-bane. I thought I had lost him again to his strange dread of women, that he would leave me stranded on the roof of Hardspen for the rest of the day. But he did not! My lord did not. Instead, he showed me a wonder of Arabic learning, an astrolabe. Star-gazers use them to track the motions of the heavens. He also showed me new ways of counting, far easier than tallies. He learned the numbers from an Arabic farrier in Nazareth, a man called Unur. The Arabs count in batches of ten and have a wonderful empty number, called zero. It is a perfect round circle. I drew one with my quill on Guillelm’s palm, and he drew one on mine. I did not wash my hand for the rest of that day.

  Alyson stopped writing and rubbed her aching shoulder, then her wrist. After a drink of her tisane she resumed her letter.

  My lord has played me songs from France and the Holy Land, on a small harp that looked like a child’s toy in his huge hands. He plays well and sings clearly, though he says his voice is too deep to be truly excellent.

  My lord has promised to teach me some dances from Outremer, when I am allowed to rise from my sick-bed.

  Yesterday, we played chess. He told me that he and Unur of Nazareth often played chess together. The piece we call a queen, Unur called a vizier. I won our game and Guillelm has asked me for a re-match.

  Once, when my stomach rumbled with hunger and he heard, Guillelm laughed and sent down to the kitchen for meat. He cooked a dish himself, on a brazier of coals. Pieces of lamb threaded onto a thin stick, flavoured with mint and onions. He said such cooked meat could be bought from street cooks in any large town in the Holy Land. It was delicious.

  I think Guillelm is planning something, though he will not answer my questions when I ask after the heralds and messengers that I see pounding out on horseback from Hardspen throughout the day. I would ask Sir Tom, but he only wants to play chess with me. As for Fulk —

  Alyson brushed the end of her quill thoughtfully against her forehead. By one single, violent act, Fulk had regained Guillelm’s approval and he now strolled about Hardspen with the mercenary’s crossbow as if it was a personal badge of honour. He was careful to visit her every day, always at the beginning of Guillelm’s own time with her and always asking after her injury. He brought her a gift: a flute she had not quite enough breath to play.

  Fulk had also found her herbal, which Lord Robert had taken from her.

  ‘Mother of God, I have been scouring the store rooms for days for this!’ Guillelm said, highly gratified and taking the leather-bound volume from Fulk with a grin of pure delight. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘In a grain bin in the stables, my lord,’ Fulk answered quietly, bowing to Alyson as a faithful retainer to his lady. ’I am glad to be of service.’

  That had been two days ago and since then, the leather-bound book lay untouched on the low table. To Guillelm, Fulk was a changed man: his gift and attentions to Alyson proof of that change. ‘He is capable of great loyalty, once he chooses to give it,’ he said, adding quickly, ‘If he is involved in some malice or deceit, I shall discover it. Fulk was ever a poor liar.’

  Alyson sensed that Guillelm was not as confident as he wanted to appear over his seneschal, but mindful of his and Fulk‘s long years together in Outremer, she did not voice her suspicions. True, Fulk had found the herbal, but how long ago? The pages did not carry the scents of the stable. She considered it much more likely that Fulk had discovered her book somewhere within the castle and had hidden it within his own personal things, waiting for the perfect opportunity to produce it, the very moment when Guillelm would be most likely to be pleased.

  Perhaps I am too wary of Fulk, she wrote. He is in my lord’s favour—not as high as Fulk himself might wish, but Guillelm is no longer sharp with him. Fulk makes himself busy with whatever plan Guillelm is hatching and is amiable with me. I only wish that it was not Fulk who had found my book. I wish his sly, creeping fingers had never touched it. I wish Guillelm had not told him about my lost book.

  No, I am being unfair, Alyson thought, and deliberately scored through the last sentence. Above the scratch of the quill, she heard voices. Swiftly, hoping the ink would not smudge, she rolled up the parchment and placed it under her pillow, preparing to greet her maids.

  Gytha and Osmoda helped her out of bed and down the stairs to the bath-house. ‘Your lord wanted to bathe you himself,’ Gytha was saying, ‘but I told him no.’

  ‘Gytha, you had no right.’

  Her nurse clicked her tongue. ‘You would have him see you with a pus-filled shoulder?’

  ‘It is not pus-filled!’ Alyson panted. She was rapidly growing weary with even this brief outing and her legs trembled and ached. Supporting her under her right elbow, Gytha shook her head.

  ‘Believe me, my lady, a little mystery is just what you need,’ she said. ’Think of the ladies of Outremer, with their veiled faces. Think of the womenfolk of the infidel, hidden behind the latticed shutters of their harems, courted by pining musicians and poets who fall in love with their very shadows.’ Gytha had also listened to Guillelm’s tales.

  Alyson was too breathless to answer.

  Later, in the bath, she asked, ‘Has my lord seen me?’

  Osmoda, more simple than Gytha, said, ‘What do you mean?’ but Gytha understood. ‘He has seen and he knows all, my lady,’ she answered firmly. ‘I told him.’

  ‘Gytha!’

  ‘It needed to be said,’ her nurse responded, folding her arms across her broad bosom and tapping her foot. ‘He saw the marks! Would you have Guillelm think it was your father who had tre
ated you so?’

  Alyson cowered in the tub. ’Does he think me ugly?’ she whispered, dreading the answer.

  ‘No,’ said Osmoda, too quickly.

  ‘We should wash your hair. There is still blood on it,’ said Gytha.

  ‘Gytha?’

  Her nurse lifted a kitchen ladle and gestured for Alyson to bow her head. Alyson sighed as the warm water streamed over her hair and bounced on her shoulder. The water made the wound itch less and for that she was glad, but not for Gytha’s stubborn silence. ‘Gytha, please.’

  ‘I swore to my lord that I would not tell you, but if you knew what he was doing for you, you would put such foolish ideas out of your mind.’ Gytha poured another ladle-full of water over Alyson’s back. ‘Wait and see, my lady,’ she said, relenting a little. ‘Have faith.’

  Chapter 18

  Word had gone out: Lord Guillelm de la Rochelle was hosting jousts at Hardspen. The peddlers arrived before the knights—such travellers always seemed to catch the news first—and when they had pitched their tents and stalls within the bailey and laid out their wares, Guillelm sought out Alyson on her roof garden.

  He found her clipping the lavender and frowned. She clicked her fingers at him. ’I am strong enough to do this, my lord, you need not scowl.’

  Guillelm snorted and threaded his thumbs through his belt, wanting to kiss her and more. She was not quite her nimble self and her face still had a pale, gaunt cast, but she was healing.

  He took the pouch from his belt and swung it before her puzzled eyes. ’You need to keep your strength so that you can carry this,’ he said, dropping the pouch into her free hand.

  ‘This is heavy, dragon.’

  ‘As is any bag of gold. Are you going to put that knife down and come with me?’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘To where? Why do I need a bag of gold?’

  He grinned. ’To visit the traders.’ Guillelm rippled his fingers at her. ’Shall we go shopping, sweetheart?’