‘I am sure they would be.’ Petronilla drummed her fingers sharply on the high table. ‘Yet I think we both know that only one woman here is the ideal of beauty.’
‘Yes, I am beginning to understand that,’ said Alyson, wishing Guillelm was with her to catch eyes with, share the moment.
Or would he? As the long night continued, Alyson heard a dozen or more chants—she could not, even at her most charitable, call them songs—to high, cruel beauties, with golden locks, green eyes, skins as white as ivory, bodies as tall as shapely as that of the Roman goddess Venus, all dressed in silver and white with bracelets and fillets of gold. Petronilla, in a pale primrose-coloured gown and white veil, took the young knights’ fumbled ‘prayers’ to their ideal lady as no more than her due, turning her own gold bracelets on her wrists. Her maids, trim and pretty in gowns of light green, whispered behind their hands to each other and pointed at one slim young warrior or another. Feeling both ignored and conspicuous with her blood-red gown and black river of hair, Alyson sat small on Guillelm’s great chair, only waiting for the ‘love court’ to be done as she watched the smiling Petronilla and wondered afresh about the courted, desired and unattainable Heloise.
Chapter 19
The next time Alyson saw Guillelm was next morning at the first joust. Sir Tom came to escort her to the tilting ground and was remarkably close-mouthed about what was planned.
‘You will see soon enough, Alyson,’ he said, tapping the side of his mangled nose. ‘Guido says he wants it to be a surprise—a pleasant surprise.’
‘Men trying to batter each other to the ground?’
Sir Tom gave an amused cough. ‘Aye, well Guido did say your views on tournaments were unusual: I suppose with your being a healer….’ He smiled at her and offered her his arm. ‘I think this first event is more of a pageant, a kind of acted story, as is seen with the mystery plays.’ Through the mesh of facial scars his eyes were wary yet bright. ‘It is your lord’s own idea. Some of the ladies may be taking part, to bestow favours and prizes.’
Petronilla would enjoy that attention, Alyson thought. She turned back, looking the way that she and Sir Tom had come. They were walking steadily to an area on the downs enclosed by a long series of ropes draped at regular intervals with Guillelm’s own standard and circled by onlookers and hawkers. On the most sheltered side of the down, out of the gusting breeze, a stand had been erected, with benches and chairs. Beneath the bright awning and canopy, she spotted Petronilla and her ladies, seated with goblets of mead, beckoning to first one hovering page and then another.
‘The distribution of favours seems to be in full swing,’ Alyson remarked. ’Have they been here long?’
‘No, but my lord wished you to appear last: he wants to bring you to the high seat himself, as a mark of honour.’ Sir Tom scratched at the long scar zigzagging through his black beard. ’I suppose you have a favour for him?’
‘I have.’ A certain wistfulness to his question made Alyson add, ‘One for you, too, Sir Tom, if you will wear it.’
She expected thanks, or shy pleasure, or even polite acceptance. Instead, her strapping escort said quietly, ‘No thank you, my lady,’ without quite looking at her.
‘As you wish.’ Hurt by his refusal, Alyson glanced about rapidly for something to remark upon, to heal this sudden rift between them. ‘There are no horses.’
‘No, my lord instructed that the knights should fight on foot. He wants no mounted battles ranging from village to village. He says the country is wrecked enough already, from the King’s and Empresses’ skirmishes. Here he is,’ Sir Tom added, in obvious relief.
Alyson’s spirits leapt at the sight of the tall, sinewy figure, striding away from the shadow of the stand towards her. Dressed in plain battle Armour, carrying his helmet in one fist and with the fingers of his other hand drumming against his sword belt, Guillelm was grimly solemn.
His mouth in that line is like his father’s, Alyson thought. Despite her bold intentions, she quailed a little as she stepped ahead of Sir Tom.
‘How now, my lord?’ She sucked in her stomach and flicked her hands along the waist and flanks of her gown, making the skirt billow in a shimmering red tide. Heartened by Guillelm’s dark eyes ranging over her, she was poised to offer him her own, deliberately original favour—very different from the scraps of cloth, trinkets or gloves usually given, hers was a letter on parchment, steeped in lavender, wishing him good fortune in the jousts.
Then she saw them. A finger-ring on a cord, tied onto the shoulder of his mail. A ribbon, threaded round his belt. Another ribbon, pinned to his cloak.
Alyson closed her fingers round the parchment till it crackled. She wanted to rip these other favours off him, demand he wore none but hers. Do not say anything, she thought, but she snapped her fingers and heard her treacherous tongue saying, ’That ring will surely cut your face, dangling on that cord.’
Guillelm turned his arm this way and that. ‘It may.’ He answered as if indifferent to her concern, and he did not say who had given him the ring.
‘Why accept it, then?’ Alyson persisted, aware of Sir Tom frowning, knowing she was probably making too much of the matter.
‘A knight is very discourteous if he does not take what is offered to him, especially if it is from a lady,’ Guillelm answered, still reasonable.
But this issue of accepting favours is more than being polite—what of my feelings? Alyson tried to think of a prayer to stop her temper. But she could do better than blind anger. Focusing her hurt, she unclipped a key from her belt.
‘Here is my favour, Sir. The key to the great bedchamber.’
Guillelm’s eyes narrowed. ‘I need no key—But I will take it, and that other offering in your hand.’
‘It is mine to give, or not.’
Guillelm hooked his thumbs into his sword-belt. ‘Before God, you are still a thoroughly provoking wench. Why can you not hand it across? You know you wanted to only a moment ago.’
Was this in jest or earnest? Reminding herself he was not Lord Robert, Alyson wet her lips with her tongue and plunged on. ‘I, too, know how to tilt and joust, my lord,’
‘Indeed you do.’ Ignoring Sir Tom’s muffled exclamation, Guillelm dropped to his knees before her and removed a long slim knife from his belt.
‘This blade I took from Hasim of the black rock fortress. I would that you receive it into your care, my lady, as my favour to you.’
His face was open, young-looking, his dark eyes without guile. He meant it as an honour, Alyson realized, as a sign that she was his equal. Hoping her eyes would not blur with foolish tears she clasped the smooth handle of the knife.
Guillelm lifted his hand again, palm upwards. ‘I have a splinter —’
Alyson touched the dark needle of wood embedded in the broad base of his thumb. ‘So I must be like Saint Jerome with the lion and remove this man-made thorn from your paw, yes, dragon?’ As she spoke, Alyson noted the bruising round the base of his thumb and the reddening of the skin close to the splinter. It would hurt, but she knew to say nothing as she began to cut out the wood, her fingers deft but slow, to reach all of it.
‘Sir Tom, will you find me a cup of wine?’ she asked.
‘Mother of God, I need no numbing draught,’ Guillelm protested, holding his hand steady as a rock as she pricked and eased the gleaming tip of the Arab blade under the core of the splinter.
‘It is to cleanse the wound,’ Alyson replied, flicking the shard of wood off the knife. ’There! I have it out. Thank you, Sir Tom.’ She poured the cup of wine over the gash, which though shallow scarcely bled. ‘’Tis done.’
Aware of Guillelm’s closeness, his living warmth and scent, the strange intimacy that drawing out a mere splinter had evoked between them, she kissed his hand and raised her eyes to his. ‘I would suck the wound if I suspected poison. Should I do so?’
‘A tempting offer.’ Still kneeling, he leaned forward and kissed her healing shoulder. ‘I fear I must decline, Br
ight-eyes. I would not have you endanger yourself any more, especially for the sake of a splinter off the chapel door.’
He was smiling, but mention of the chapel reminded Alyson of the nuns. Priests she knew disapproved of the violence of tournaments and jousts: she could well imagine her sister’s icy comments on what was happening at Hardspen.
Guillelm’s words confirmed her fears. ‘I tried to speak with your sister but she would have none of me. The Prioress did not even allow me to cross the threshold of my own chapel.’
‘If that door had been a man’s throat, it would have been crushed,’ said Sir Tom under his breath, and Guillelm agreed, ’I admit my temper was not of the best, especially since your sister —’
He broke off, but Alyson finished the rest in her mind. Her sister had not asked after her, had shown no interest. Suppressing a sigh, she asked, ‘Are my sister and her companions well?’
‘They sing heartily enough,’ answered Guillelm sourly, ‘So I think it is safe to assume that they are in excellent health.’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Truly, the scarlet suits you, Alyson. You are as perky as a bird.’
Perky, Guillelm thought, groaning inwardly in despair the instant the words escaped from between his teeth. Can I do no better than that?
Perky. She had never been called that before. Alyson smiled and removed the crumpled parchment favour from her pocket. ’For you, my lord.’
‘Will you tie it on for me?’ Guillelm tapped the middle of his chest. ’Here?’
Silently, Alyson untied one of her blue hair ribbons and knotted it about the parchment. As she fastened the whole to Guillelm’s mail she felt his breath on her forehead and sensed the rigidity of his hands, stock-still against his sides.
‘What is that scent?’ he asked. ‘Lavender?’
‘It is.’ Alyson patted the parchment and raised her head, almost starting when she realized how close Guillelm’s lips were to hers. ‘Is there anything else, my lord?’
Guillelm patted the parchment in turn, giving a grunt she hoped was one of approval. ‘In Outremer, as you know, the rose is for healing and for love,’ he murmured. ‘What of lavender, here? I think it may be the same.’ His voice grew softer still. ‘I hope it is.’
Sir Tom cleared his throat. ‘Guido, the joust. Everyone awaits your presence.’
‘They will wait a little longer.’ Guillelm traced a finger lightly across Alyson’s bottom lip, the small caress deepening the gleam in his eyes. ‘Why no red ribbon for me, sweet?’
‘Blue is the colour of the blessed virgin Mary, the colour of protection,’ Alyson said quickly, her mouth aching and tingling from Guillelm’s touch. She did not want to admit her wary superstition of red and blood, did not want to confess her feeling of ill-luck about his wearing her favour almost as a target right above his heart. ’Should we not make haste?’
‘For certain we must.’ Absently straightening a crease on his parchment favour, Guillelm climbed to his feet and offered Alyson his hand.
With Sir Tom limping a step or so behind, they made their way to the jousting ground, Guillelm lifting the rope enclosing the area so that Alyson need not duck. From the stand she caught the glitter of gold as Petronilla turned her head, switching her attention from the milling squires to the lord and lady of Hardspen. Today, Petronilla and her ladies were clothed in white and gold, their long veils edged with golden thread. Alyson sensed Petronilla’s probing eyes assessing her red gown and quickly suppressed an impulse to brandish her new dagger: Petronilla would consider such a token unfeminine. Besides, Guillelm was now addressing the spectators in the stand, the traders, servants and villagers sitting three to four lines deep around the roped-off ground, and the knights clustered within it, checking their weapons.
‘Fellow knights, ladies, gentlemen and women of the road, villagers and woodmen of the downs, I, Guillelm de la Rochelle bid you welcome to these jousts on behalf of myself and my lady Alyson. I hope you enjoy this day. May God and all his saints keep you and your champions safe. May they capture many prizes, with courage and skill.’
There was a brief patter of applause, swiftly dying away as Guillelm stalked across the flat open ground towards the middle of the jousting area. Feeling his hand gripping as tightly as a snare about hers, rushing and almost missing her footing to keep pace, Alyson found herself too breathless to protest at his speed and too preoccupied with avoiding the cattle and sheep dung and the various stacks of weapons gathered at several points throughout this roped-off space to ask why a tent had been erected in its centre.
The tent was circular, with a roof of blue and red stripes. Its cloth walls were tied back to its framework and its awnings were raised to show off a gorgeous interior: lamps and couches of gold, chests with their lids thrown open to display the plate and coins within, a table covered with swords and daggers, another table stacked with papers.
Astonished that such treasures should be displayed inside a jousting ground, Alyson realized that Guillelm had been less reckless than first appeared. The tent was set upon a raised platform of earth, as tall as herself, and surrounded by a wall of armed men, standing shoulder to shoulder with interlocking shields.
Guillelm marched to a seven-man gap in the shield wall, where a series of roughly-cut earth steps led up into the heart of the mound. His standard was draped across the bottom of the steps and another flag fluttered on a pole at the top of the earth staircase.
Guillelm stood with his back to the steps and raised his free hand for silence. ’Today there is much bounty to be won,’ he went on. ‘Prizes of combat, the arms and horse of the vanquished: that goes to general custom. Also there are other prizes.’ He pointed to the striped tent on the man-made defensive rampart. ’Do you see the pavilion above me? It is the tent of Hasim of Outremer, won by me as a spoil of war. Within it are chests of treasure, grants of land, weapons from the finest smiths in the east. These are the prizes to be bestowed upon those she favours by my wife, the lady Alyson. It is she whom you knights must impress with your daring and more especially your honour: the manner of your victory and your mercy to those whom you vanquish.’
As more applause and a hum of excited talk broke out from the spectators, Alyson stared at her husband. The gifts he had spoken of were generous, largesse on the scale of a king. ’These are truly mine to give?’ she asked softly, her voice cutting through the excited yelling and stamping of feet. She heard her name being bellowed around the jousting ground like a lucky charm and gave one of her hair plaits a nervous tug.
‘Grants of land?’ she queried. Land was more valuable than gold. Land provided the means of growing food, of shelter, of life, and Guillelm was awarding lands in her name. The man whom she chose would swear fealty to her.
‘None of the fields or woods are from your Olverton estate, my sweet,’ Guillelm replied quickly. ’I would not give to others by taking from you.’
‘No, no, dragon, you misunderstand. What I meant —’ Alyson tried to explain but her sense of gratitude and sheer surprise made her tongue and wits sluggish. ’You are most generous,’ she began, stopping altogether when Guillelm grinned and suddenly hoisted her into his arms.
‘Look well on your excellent lady, knights!’ he shouted. ’Today she is your queen!’
Alyson’s protest was lost in the roar of approval from the crowd. Torn between indignation at being displayed like a banner and a curiously satisfactory kind of vanity—people were staring at her, not Petronilla—she again attempted to thank Guillelm, but he now added the final, unbelievable instruction.
‘Knights! To obtain the favour of my lady then you must fight me, here on this ground, by this stair. Any who succeed in passing me and climbing up to the pavilion shall be said to have won. Do not dare to touch her, not even so much as a fingertip, but come at me however you wish! One at a time, in pairs or in a score of flashing shields, swords and maces! I will take you on in whatever numbers you like! I too fight for the lady Alyson and for her I will struggle against all the w
orld!’
Alyson gasped as she was lifted higher.
‘I am the dragon and she is my prize!’
‘No!’ cried Alyson, appalled at these new revelations. ’It cannot be! I am a healer, I will never consent to such folly —’
She spoke to the air. Guillelm had already set her down and stepped back, taking guard against the steps. She whirled after him. ’My lord, this is madness.’
Guillelm smiled. ‘Peace, Alyson. Our swords have not been sharpened and I will check my blows.’
‘Even with blunted weapons it is dangerous. Please, my lord, stop this now!’
About to add, For my sake, Alyson saw the bright, possessive pride in Guillelm’s dark eyes and wished she was with her sister in the chapel of Hardspen, anywhere but at this jousting ground.
‘Do you know what Hasim used this pavilion for in his fortress in Outremer?’ Guillelm asked, as if she had not spoken.
Discouraged, Alyson shook her head. How could she make Guillelm understand? I am not a toy, she thought, but he was too full of his own answers to heed her.
‘The tent was set up in his pleasure gardens, within the harem.’ Guillelm paused, a fleeting expression of wonder and sadness playing across his stark features. ’I remember there were bowls of flashing mercury within the tent, and couches garlanded with the flowers of the orient, and carpets. Such carpets, Alyson! Thick, lush coverings of blue and red and gold, spread upon the ground itself.
‘Perhaps we can use the tent in a similar way here, after the jousts,’ he went on. ‘Make it our own secret place.’
The idea was appealing, Alyson conceded, but then doubt took over. Had Heloise possessed such a pavilion? Had she entertained Guillelm on a couch strewn with roses and mint?
Fighting that image, Alyson found herself remarking tartly, ’And what of the women, my lord? The women of the harem who used this tent?’
Guillelm sighed. ‘Yes, you are right to remind me. Hasim’s women screamed when they saw me but truly they need not have feared: neither I nor my men touched them. Their families ransomed them and saw them safe.’
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 20