Hasim’s women. And she was Guillelm’s woman—as he himself had said it, his prize. The thought thrilled and depressed her afresh.
Seeking a diversion, Alyson realized with some relief that Fulk and Sir Tom were tramping across the jousting ground to join them.
‘I believe Fulk would speak with you, my lord,’ she began, but it was Sir Tom who called out, ’Good speech, Guido! Now allow me to escort your lady to the stand—though I see few takers for your challenge.’
It was true, Alyson realized. The young knights clustered about the jousting ground seemed in no hurry to arm themselves. In twos and threes, ignoring the increasing boos and jeers of the crowd, they whispered together like gossiping tailors, apparently reluctant to move.
‘Perhaps the knights are not inspired to take up arms for such a cause,’ Fulk put in, with a quelling glance at Alyson, adding now that he was level with her, ‘None wear the Hardspen favour.’
Fulk had his back to Guillelm, who did not hear his seneschal’s latest sly dig, but Sir Tom blinked and roughly caught the man’s arm, dragging him to one side while he hissed something urgently into the leaner man’s ear. Whatever passed between them Alyson did not catch but she was glad—Fulk’s glower when he returned to her side was a joy to behold.
‘How now, sir?’ she asked sweetly, wishing for an instant that she was a man, to fight Fulk openly. Or to fight Guillelm. That battle would be short, she thought, gauging the length and strength of his bronzed shoulders and arms. She shivered, whether with fear or desire she could not say.
Marking her trembling, Sir Tom coughed. ’I will fight, Guido.’
‘No!’ Alyson stepped between the two men. ’No, this has gone far enough.’
‘It has not even begun yet, woman,’ grunted Guillelm, staring down at her with that infuriatingly superior leave-this-to-us-men look. ’Though for the sake of your tender nerves, Tom and I will be as mild as fresh milk to one another.’ He glanced over her head. ‘Still, it must begin soon, before the crowd begin to throw benches onto the ground, instead of stones.’
It was true, Alyson realized. Spectators were tossing pebbles at the squires and a few were already sizing up the lingering knights. ’Why can we not have a play here, like the mystery pageants?’ she burst out. ’Everyone who wished then could take part.’
‘Not just the knights, you mean?’ Fulk was onto her meaning at once but he gave it a darker twist. ’Would you perhaps prefer, madam, that Lord Guillelm is the prize-giver here and you the fighter, with that new shiny dagger?’
‘And my lord tied to a post or chained to a rock, like Andromeda in the legend, and me the dragon, fighting off those who come to claim him?’ Alyson demanded, nettled by Fulk’s wheedling. ’I think not!’
‘You know, there is some virtue in that idea,’ Guillelm remarked, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on his belt. In a single swift action, fluid as the merlin when she stooped, he thrust his broadsword into the parched earth at his feet, burying it more than a third of its blade, and came at her again.
‘Do not!’ Alyson warned, clicking her fingers angrily at him, but before she could swerve or try to thrust him aside—which she knew maddeningly was frankly impossible for her—she was aloft, and heading for the pavilion. She pounded her fist against his shoulder, forgetting he wore mail for an instant and yelping as her hand scraped on the small metal rings. ’Guillelm, put me down!’
‘In good time.’
She was pressed so tightly in his embrace that she felt his slow heartbeat, the thick band of muscle beneath his ribs. Sucking in air to protest anew, she sneezed as strands of his thick blond hair blew across her eyes and nose as he lowered his head.
‘Does your shoulder pain you?’ he asked gently, serious after his earlier teasing. ’Do you truly wish to withdraw, my Andromeda? I swear I will not chain you anywhere, but to defend you against all.’ He lowered her onto the second step.
‘I would tie her, or she will be intervening in every single fight,’ Fulk remarked, adding quickly, ‘I jest, of course.’ He turned away, stepping back to yell insults at the lagging knights.
Guillelm watched him leave through narrowed eyes. ‘Damn the man,’ he muttered. ‘He had sense and grace enough in Outremer. Has English ale addled his wits?’
‘Forget Fulk,’ Sir Tom said quickly. ‘But if Alyson is staying here, bring her a chair!’
So Alyson found herself a part of the joust, sitting on a high-backed seat at the top of the earth steps, within the shade of the red and blue striped pavilion. Hailed publicly—by Guillelm himself—as the Andromeda of Hardspen, with Guillelm the lethal dragon of the story, prepared to fight any who tried to reach her, she watched with mounting alarm as four knights, armed with swords and clubs, finally made an attack.
Am I wrong to loathe this? Alyson thought unhappily, gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her fingers and shoulders ached. She feared for Guillelm and even more for the young knights, two of whom had patches of stubble on their youthful faces instead of full beards and the other pair so weedy they looked like birch saplings in Armour. Beside them Guillelm was as big as a troll, with a troll scowl on his face. She could only see his expression in profile, but what she did see sank her spirits further.
To turn away would be an insult to the courage of these warriors: she had to keep a steady countenance and watch. Though she was not in chains like Andromeda, that was her ordeal. But unlike Andromeda I want the dragon to win…
She prayed to Christ and to the saints, determined not to flinch as the four young men lunged at her husband, their blades grinding against his broadsword. Across from her lonely vantage point, Petronilla and her ladies chattered and pointed and giggled in the stand, a tumbler practiced back-somersaults at the side of the stand and the other spectators roared on their favourites and yelled for more ale. She saw Guillelm parry one blade after another, his sword-arm almost too fast for her to follow, saw his buffet one warrior and knock him flat; drop his weapon, grab two more and hurl them away, dizzy as whipping tops; take up his sword again and slash it across the helm of the remaining challenger, straight at the youth’s staring eyes.
The crowd were on their feet, laughing as the four tottered from the field, jeering at their stricken expressions, cheering as another clutch of boy-soldiers sprinted for her place. Charging from the base of the earth steps, Guillelm smashed through the shield of the lead knight as if it was no stronger than the shell of an egg, seized his opponent’s mace and tore it from him and used the mace to club the knight’s thrashing legs. Alyson heard the crack as mace met bone and she dry-heaved. She kept still as the knight fell, clutching his knee.
Amazingly, as if he sensed her concern, Guillelm turned to her. ’I checked the blow,’ he said. ’Aside from bruises tomorrow, the lad will be whole.’
Before she could answer he swung the mace again, catching another assailant in the stomach. The man doubled over, gasping, and his squire darted onto the field to drag him out of harm’s way. Another unarmed squire lunged at Guillelm, hands clawing for one of the favours pinned to his strapping body. Guillelm cursed and swatted the boy away.
And then Alyson saw the new threat emerge from the shadows of the stand, using the futile attacks of the younger knights as cover. No youth this, but a veteran, with strong boots, dull but well-maintained chain-mail and his shield-arm more muscled than his sword-arm. He moved as deftly as a prowling spider and covered the ground between the stand and the earth steps in a series of well-judged sprints, winding in his track so as to keep out of Guillelm’s immediate sight.
He is going to reach the stairs, Alyson thought, as Guillelm fought five more knights at once, using the flat of his sword. Inexplicably she felt a chill. The veteran knight was a stranger to her but behind his visor his eyes were hard.
He is coming after me! Alyson remained frozen in her seat, her limbs locked in horror as the older man clubbed down a yawning man-at-arms close to the stairs with the hilt of his sword and lea
ped through the gap before any of the other soldiers could react. His act was against the rules of the joust, but this quick-moving, agile warrior had forgotten or ignored the idea that the joust was a contest, not war. He was snarling as he slammed his blade home into its sheath, climbing the bank on hands and knees and still invisible to Guillelm who was boxing a ears of a young knight who had tried to bite him.
‘Do that again, lad, and you will have no teeth!’ he bellowed, missing Alyson’s shout of ’Behind you!’ altogether. Two knights leaped upon his back and started to throttle him with their maces.
‘Stop!’ Now Alyson found she could move, but her way to Guillelm was blocked by the older knight, who rose up beside her chair.
‘You will cut yourself with that, pretty,’ he said, and ignoring Guillelm’s specific command that no man touch her he ripped her new dagger from her belt.
‘No!’ She flew out of the seat after it, grappling with the laughing warrior.
'Alyson!' The yell ripped from Guillelm’s lungs, echoing round the ground as he shook the two off and launched himself at the stairs. There was a rush of light, cool and shade, a jolting crash, and his shoulder barged into the stranger knight‘s, snapping the man's shield-arm and knocking him down.
He swung his sword and the veteran’s sword shattered, fragments of metal hurtling over the ground. Alyson heard the man shriek as Guillelm hauled him away from her, tossing him down the man-made hill.
Guillelm sank to his knees beside Alyson. Battle-hot and burning, he took her in his arms. ’Are you hurt?’
‘No.’ Alyson swallowed, her pale, narrow head, translucent in the sunlight, found Guillelm's battle-battered features. He flinched against a look of judgment and yet there was none, only a clear, tear-bright gaze. ’He was so determined to win.’
Bile rose in Guillelm's throat. He swallowed the bitter mouthful, conscious of a throbbing in his arm, of the twittering of the crowd, of the bruised knights groaning. One of his men—Fulk or Sir Tom, probably—had ensured the older knight had been removed from the ground.
‘You will not hurt him more?’ Alyson shuddered and clung closer. ’Please promise me you will not.’
‘Why? Why should he matter to you?’
‘He does not.’ Alyson smiled bleakly. ’But you do.’ She touched the ragged parchment favour over his heart. ’I would not that you have his… injury on your conscience.’
It would not be on my mind at all, Guillelm thought, too wise to admit that. ’Very well,’ he said. ’For you.’ He would tell Tom to get the fellow out of Hardspen, without horse, without Armour, without sword. ’I am sorry, sweetheart.’
She smiled again, a more genuine smile this time. ’For being so reckless in your fighting that you make my heart race fit to burst for worry of you?’
‘No, for being too careless of your safety. That was reckless, and wrong.’
He ignored the rules, not you, Alyson thought. She reached up and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.
’I forgive you,’ she said.
Chapter 20
The joust at Hardspen had lasted three more days. Long days to Alyson, who, since her near-disastrous encounter with the older knight had sat more conventionally with the other ladies in the stand, where Petronilla had regaled her with gossip. How she had ever been this woman’s friend was a mystery, but not so much of a mystery as where Guillelm spent his nights. He had told her the merlin was sick and fretted if left alone.
What about me? Alyson had thought, too humiliated to ask her question aloud. Besides, without even being asked, Guillelm had given an answer: ’Whenever we come to sunset and the end of the day, you are more than half-asleep. So far I have carried you to our chamber every night and you have snored on my shoulder.’
‘Why must you sit with the merlin?’ she had asked once.
‘She feels at ease with me,’ Guillelm had said, and Alyson had forced herself to be satisfied with that.
Now, sitting with her in their high rooftop garden, Guillelm looked up from whittling a small wooden flute with his knife—he was in the habit of fashioning such toys whenever he had a quiet moment: he said he did not like to be idle. So far, she had a whistle, as did most of the pages in the castle. It was, in Petronilla’s words, a new fashion.
Petronilla had left that morning, her wagon creaking under the weight of her luggage. The men entering the jousts were already gone and Sir Tom was talking about leaving, although now he was in the mews, fussing over the merlin. Alyson had considered asking Sir Tom if Guillelm really was in the mews all night, but had decided she did not want to know.
‘How is your shoulder?’ Guillelm blew some sawdust away from the half-finished pipe and threw it down in his lap. ’Would you like more salve on it?’
Alyson squirmed slightly in her chair. Her shoulder was itching less than it had done but any contact between Guillelm and herself was to be savoured. Or was that desire only on her part? Had he asked simply from courtesy? Sometimes she was certain he loved her and wanted nothing more than to be with her, to touch and kiss and more. Was she right?
As she said nothing, made no move, Guillelm cleared his throat and tapped the key on his belt. ‘I still have your favours from the joust. Perhaps we should use this one and retire downstairs.’ He smiled. ‘We would be more private there, and more comfortable.’
‘If it please you.’ Fool! Alyson castigated herself. Smile at him, let him know you welcome this chance to be alone. At least nod your agreement.
But already she was too late. Sericus and Fulk invaded the roof-garden at a furious pace, Fulk first.
‘Lord! You must come! Messengers from King Stephen and the Empress are at this moment within your great hall, both demanding urgent speech with you, and their pages are fist-fighting on the floor!’
‘Mother of God, man!’ Guillelm jumped to his feet. ’Two boys scrapping and you do not stop it—No one has sense to part them? What is everyone doing in the great hall, lounging about with their thumbs in their mouths?’
‘Placing bets and egging each boy on, no doubt,’ Alyson remarked, also climbing to her feet. ’Throw a pail of water on the pair and tell them it is with my compliments: the envoys will accept that a lady is mistress in her own house and take no slight from it. I will tell them the same, and say the brawling disturbs the nuns who are staying with us, if need be.’
‘A double warning, then,’ Guillelm grunted, irritation giving way to amusement as he stood at the stop of the staircase and bawled down an order involving water, buckets and a good aim, but Fulk was not finished.
‘The King’s messenger was a knight at this joust only yesterday. He still wears the favour of the lady Petronilla.’
A sly jibe from Fulk that no knights except Guillelm had worn hers, Alyson recognized, but she answered calmly, ’Then that knight will know that a lady’s wishes are always to be followed. Should you not go with your lord?’ she added, as Guillelm disappeared down the spiral steps after a single lingering look at her that spoke eloquently of his frustration. She, too was disappointed and she especially had no wish to go down to meet the envoys and their dishevelled pages on the arm of her least favourite seneschal
Without a farewell, Fulk turned and stalked downstairs, leaving Alyson and the wheezing Sericus. ‘Take my arm, Sericus, if you will,’ she said, intending to support him as discreetly as possible down the long treads of stairs. ‘What is it?’ she asked, as the old man made no move except to rub his rheumy eyes and then his lame leg. ‘Sericus?’
He looked at her then. ‘The wolf has returned.’
Alyson felt as if all the breath had been punched from her lungs, but there was worse.
‘A cottar’s child is missing, a little girl. Stop, my lady!’ Sericus put an arm out to prevent her hurrying after Guillelm. ‘I told Fulk and he said both wolf and child must wait until after the Lord of Hardspen has seen the messengers of the King and the Empress: to do otherwise would be an insult which neither Stephen nor Matilda would for
give or forget.’
‘But a child is gone, Sericus!’
‘I know.’
‘For how long?’
‘Two days.’
‘Two days!’
‘The cottar did not dare to interrupt the joust.’
Alyson wanted to put her head in her hands and weep, but that would help no one. ‘Can you gather a hunting party?’ she asked. ‘Beaters for the woods, men or boys who can shoot a bow? The family of the cottar—can they bring any weapons? I will ensure that if they are due to do any work on my lord’s fields or in my lord’s holdings then they will not suffer for missing today and joining us.’
Sericus mouthed ’Us?’ in sheer horrified astonishment, but before he could protest, Alyson passed by him.
‘I remember well being a little girl: I know I can guess better than any man where a girl-child might run and hide. I know the woods well here,’ she went on, taking the steps two at a time. ‘I know the land hereabouts as well as any man. If the cottar can show us where the child went missing we can start from there. Come!’
Guillelm watched the envoys of the king and the empress leave and smiled. There had been some tricky negotiations over the last hour but he had managed to promise nothing too great to either side. He stretched in his chair, cracking his shoulders, and wondered where Alyson had got to. Perhaps she was with the sisters of St Foy’s in the chapel, talking to her own blood-sister.
‘I hope so,’ he said aloud, thinking he must tell her how the bucket of water had worked at once and the whole incident had ended in laughter, even for the hot-headed pages. Stretching again, he realized he was hungry. Was it too soon to nag the cooks?
A shadow moved at the back of the hall, solidifying into a familiar figure. ‘Thomas!’ Guillelm bawled out in sheer good humour. ‘How is the merlin?’ In truth, he hoped the bird was now eating well and re-growing some of its shed feathers: he wanted to spend his nights with Alyson. If they were at least in the same chamber, that would be a start—
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 21