Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances

by Lindsay Townsend

  Fulk opened his eyes, catching a flash of blue-purple off to his left, shimmering against the browns and greens-greens of the trees and earth like the brilliant plumage of a kingfisher. As two of his men hauled her out of a mess of holly branches and dry leaves, Fulk permitted himself a grin—Alyson had been found by her own female vanity, by a scrap of veil, fluttering in the breeze.

  Chapter 27

  Blindfolded and gagged, her hands tied by a thin cord that cut so badly into her wrists that she could feel a trickle of blood on the sleeves of her gown, Alyson was flung face down across the back of a horse. A nightmare ride followed, where every step of the horse’s hooves jolted up through her body like the punch of a hammer. She could do nothing to protect herself from searing pain in her breasts and stomach and each time she shifted slightly on the plunging horse, trying to ease the agony of her ride, a heavy mailed hand slammed into her back, or brutally thrust her head down again. She rode with her face thrust against the flanks and neck of her mount, waves of sickness rising in her gorge, her teeth aching as she bit desperately into a filthy rag Fulk had forced into her mouth. Her only relief now was pride, that she would not scream. Dizzy with the relentless, thunderous motion, clammy with dread that she would fall or be pitched forward into the rushing void, she vowed to herself that when they stopped, wherever they stopped, she would fight. Whatever happened, Fulk would not make her scream. He would not make her beg.

  Some long time later, when her muscles felt flayed and her arms gone numb in their sockets, a gobbet of dirt struck her in the face as whoever was riding the horse above her reined in with savage force. She was hauled off the sweating charger with as little ceremony or concern as if she was a bale of cloth and dropped onto the ground.

  Despite Alyson’s best efforts, her legs were shaking so badly that they buckled and she sprawled forward. While she was prone, a man grabbed her arm and she curled inward, instinctively shielding her belly from kicks or blows, but instead her bounds were efficiently cut, her blindfold tugged off and her gag removed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she tried to say, but the soldier, who was a stranger to her, shrugged and put a finger to his lips and stepped back. He had a young-old face, lined by exposure to strong sun and a bush of russet hair, that curled in a way Petronilla would have envied.

  ‘Eustace does not understand you. He speaks only French.’ Fulk stood before her, hands on hips. He wore gloves of mail and she wondered if she had been put across his horse, an almost unendurable thought.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked quickly, if only to spare herself his gloating smile.

  ‘These men with me are all loyal to me,’ Fulk continued, as if she had not spoken. He watched her struggling to sit up amidst the dry grass and ferns with the same cool patience a spider watches a fly. There was no pity or care in his look.

  ‘May I have some water?’ Alyson asked. She loathed the thought of having to deal with Fulk, but deal she must. She forced herself not to touch her stomach: there was no way she could check on the babe within, if there was a babe. Would a child survive such a ride? What if she should miscarry? What if the child was harmed in some way, deformed? Her mind flashed to a terrifying image of Guillelm, his face warped in disgust, repudiating both her and her baby.

  ‘Water,’ she croaked, close to tears, repeating her request in Latin as she tried to remember the same word in French. ’Please?’

  Fulk merely stared at her. The strange soldier, Eustace, who had cut her bonds, touched his hand to his own water flask and then turned his back.

  Alyson almost howled with despair. She glanced past Fulk and her possible ally, who was now striding away, shouting something in French over his shoulder about making water, and she looked to the rest. She knew there were others: at least three men had wrestled with her when they had caught her.

  Five men circled her, tall and implacable as standing stones, in grey Armour and plain brown mantles. None wore any insignia, she noticed, no device to show which lord they served. Three wore helms and she could not see their faces. The other two were unknown to her. She might have seen them at Hardspen, but she could not swear to it.

  The red-haired stranger knight, the only one who had shown her any gentleness, had vanished into a stand of trees.

  ‘Where are we?’ she repeated.

  This time Fulk deigned to answer. ‘Somewhere you should recognize.’

  It was a place she did not know. A roughly circular clearing in a stretch of forest. About them were massive beeches and oaks, and beyond the clearing the understorey enclosed them like living curtains, the hazel and elderberry bushes heavy with growing nuts and berries that shone in the sunlight. Within the clearing itself there were orchids flowering amidst tree old roots and stumps, their bright glossy petals flickering like dragon tongues amidst the sandy, grassy base of the woods.

  ‘Did my lord Guillelm bring me here?’ she asked, speaking his name like a charm.

  If she hoped for some sign of shame or disquiet amongst the half-dozen warriors loyal to Fulk she was to be disappointed. They regarded her gravely, unsmiling, one thoughtfully scratching at his beard, another addressing a remark to his closest companion that she did not understand.

  Fulk thoughtfully translated. ’Piers is from Brittany. He says that now he can see you properly, he can understand how you bewitched our lord.’

  Piers added more, that made Fulk twitch like a horse stung by a fly. Scowling, he made a cutting motion with his hand and Piers fell silent.

  ‘Do not try to dissemble to me, Alyson of Olverton.’ White spittle gathered at the corners of Fulk’s mouth as he raised his voice. ‘You are sitting in a circle you yourself have made, a witches’ circle. You came here many times this summer, with the woman Eva and the woman Gytha, to make your foul magic.’

  Affirmative grunts of agreement issued from the other men as Fulk named her supposed coven, although Alyson could not be sure how much of her speech with Fulk was understood by them. It made her task of argument that much harder, but she had to attempt it. If she could only delay whatever Fulk had planned for her until she could make an escape—

  ‘Really?’ She tried to sound as bored as possible, while she scanned the horizon. Where was the red-haired knight? Had he perhaps had a change of heart and gone for help? Even as she dared to consider that, her hopes were dashed. She heard him beating back through the forest and a moment later he too was in the clearing, taking his place in that ominous circle of men.

  She used Guillelm’s name a second time, praying that she might inspire a fear of retribution in these men, if not fealty. ‘If you are sure of this, Fulk, then why do you not bring your charge before our lord Guillelm?’

  ‘And have you maze him again out of his wits? I think not.’

  ‘Does my lord dragon seem dull-witted to you, Fulk?’

  Fulk’s face darkened. ‘Where you are concerned, he has shown neither wisdom nor seemliness. If you had not interfered, my lord would have returned to the Holy Land to fulfil his true destiny, fighting the infidel. He should be there now, defending Outremer.’

  Fulk took a step closer to her, his hands raised before him, making a protective cross.

  ‘I have a cross, too.’ Alyson lifted the small silver crucifix that the Abbess had given her from her neck, dangling it aloft on its chain so that the men could see it. She kissed the cross and wound the chain about her fingers. Still unsure if she rose that she would be able to keep her feet, she knelt instead and began to recite the Creed.

  ‘Stop!’ Fulk bawled. ‘You shall not profane such holy words with your incantations! You are a witch! You have already done enough!’

  ‘What have I done, Fulk?’ Alyson goaded, aware, as Fulk seemed not to be, of his men watching him, their faces carefully blank.

  ‘You!’ In four strides, the Frenchman reached her and yanked her upright by her hair, laughing as she screamed in pain and insult. ‘Treacherous, foul, evil! Witch!’

  His hands were in her hair, draggi
ng and tearing, and still the accusations poured from Fulk, each one blistering in its rage and hurt.

  ‘It is thanks to you I have lost my place! It is thanks to you Guillelm told me to quit his service! It is thanks to you I have no lord! You have done this to me!’

  ‘No!’ Alyson cried, grabbing Fulk’s wrists to stop him. ‘You have achieved this yourself, by your own spite! Do you not understand? We could have been friends, but you always saw me as a rival.’

  ‘Witch!’ Fulk thrust her away and kicked out at her. His men murmured, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, but none of them intervened, not even as she tottered.

  Afraid to turn her back on Fulk, Alyson scissored two faltering strides and then regained her balance. Straightening, she faced him. Between the time she had last encountered Fulk and now, the man had lost weight. Already rangy, he was now gaunt. His grey hair was lank, his hooded eyes bright only when he berated her.

  Despite what she had endured from him, Alyson felt a shred of pity.

  ‘Fulk, why did you not leave with Sir Michael?’ she asked softly. ’I am certain he would have welcomed you into his service.’

  For an instant, Fulk seemed to recognize her sympathy, but older, fiercer resentments and jealousies took hold. ‘You dare to offer comfort, witch?’ he snarled. ’When it is you who have sought to destroy me?’ He pointed to the encircling men. ‘Were it not for these stalwart warriors for Christ, who have chosen to follow me into exile, I would be alone.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Alyson said. Part of her ached to take Fulk in her arms, to give him the kiss of peace. The man was in such pain.

  ’Sorry? You shall be sorry! You shall be tried—and found wanting!’

  The veins in his throat and neck bulging, Fulk yelled a series of orders in French and Alyson was seized again.

  Her ‘trial’ was brutally short, and painful. Slung between a birch sapling and an elder bush, suspended between the two trees by ropes attached to her wrists, Alyson was forced to stand, half-hanging from her arms. Her toes scarcely brushed the soil and within moments of being left in that degrading, captive position, she began to shake. Tremors as fierce as a fever ripped through her body. She was terrified for herself and even more for her child but dare not confess her pregnancy to Fulk. In his maddened state who knew what further atrocity he might conceive against a possible spawn of a devil? He had already convinced himself that she was utterly evil.

  His voice ran on, relentless and hard as an avalanche of stones as he called on his loyal men to witness her depravity. Breathless from being almost crucified between the two trees, Alyson could hardly answer his hounding questions, much less interrupt his tirade.

  He spoke in a mixture of languages, English and French until she was completely bewildered. Light-headed through lack of water or food, her throat bone-dry, her chest aching, her arms and legs burning with pins and needles, Alyson struggled to retain consciousness and make some reply. She knew she had to fight—even though Fulk had said these men were loyal to him, they must not be entirely sure, or he would not be having this mockery of a trial. If she could only make them see their commander was mad…

  Please a keen, keening voice in her head pleaded, Please, God, let Guillelm find me. But her thoughts were dark. He had not said I love you. If he found her now and heard Fulk’s accusations, whom would he believe? Please believe me. Please believe in me.

  ‘She is evil,’ Fulk ranted, striding about the clearing, eloquent with malice. ‘She uses potions to bend men’s wills to her own. Lord Robert died in her care. Who is to say he was not poisoned by her? I have a witness who swears that she killed him by such foul means.’

  ‘Where is this witness?’ Alyson wheezed. ‘Produce him.’

  ‘So that you may bewitch him, too? I think not.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ Alyson took in the deepest breath she could manage. ‘What is his name?’

  Fulk hesitated. ‘Edwin, no Edmund. What does a name matter? He saw you give Lord Robert poison! You admit your maid bought a love potion and what is that, if not another kind of poison? The worst kind, for it manipulates the very hearts of men. And there is more….’

  Alyson lost the rest of what Fulk was saying. When she came round again, Fulk was still accusing her.

  ‘…. As with the father, so with the son. My lord Guillelm has already lost his place in Outremer, thanks to her. How long will that female let him live?’

  ‘The Abbess allowed me to stay in her convent —’

  ‘You lied to her! You fed her a potion and tricked her!’

  ‘Which, Fulk?’ Alyson gasped. ‘A lie or a potion?’

  ‘So you admit it? You are condemned by your own admission!’

  ‘Not so!’ Alyson cried, as Fulk said more in French, words she did not understand but which had the men with him nodding and frowning. Where was the red-haired knight Eustace, who had cut her bonds? Alyson attempted to find him, to catch his eye, but she could not see him. Her sight was beginning to darken again.

  She savagely bit her lower lip, straining to keep awake, and almost screamed in horror. She had blacked out, and in that brief time Fulk or his men or both had built a pyre about her. Her feet rested on logs and twigs, branches and dry grasses were stacked against her legs, rising up to her waist. Thrashing in her bounds, writhing and desperately kicking the branches away, she cried out in Latin, ‘Before God and all the saints I swear that I am innocent!’

  ‘No, you are guilty!’ Fulk yelled, piling kindling back around her. ’You shall burn!’

  ‘Mother of God, help me,’ Alyson prayed, her whisper cracking as the dreadful nightmare of her plight overwhelmed her. Surely not even Fulk would do this? Surely his men would stop him?

  Guillelm! Where are you?

  ‘Send a thunderstorm, send rain.’ Her mouth was trembling so much she could hardly form the words.

  Dragon! Save me!

  ‘If you do this, you will forever lose Guillelm’s favour!’ Alyson panted, determined not to flinch as Fulk tried to set a spark to the kindling. ’You are not being true to your own nature—you are a defender!’

  Fulk, crouching amongst the kindling, raised his head. ’You are making the fire die!’

  ‘God is with me,’ said Alyson. She tried to say more but could not; a chill of terror spiked through her head and heart and vitals, freezing her. What have I ever done to you? she wanted to say to Fulk, but she did not even know if he would hear her.

  ‘Fulk, you must let me go.’ Desperate, she lied, ’Fulk, you must let me go, for I have more to confess!’

  That cut through to the core of his obsession. In an instant he was climbing over the rough faggots towards her, his lean, gaunt face ablaze with a lust of curiosity. ’What more? What?’

  ‘Untie me!’ In a fading effort, Alyson shook her arms, lashed to the elder and birch trees that arched above her head. ’If you would have me speak —’ She paused to suck in another awkward breath—’You must let me breathe.’

  Dislike and greed warred in Fulk’s face. Greed won. A knife flashed like two lightning bolts, and Alyson’s bonds were severed. She would have sprawled on the mess of kindling and branches piled about her legs had Fulk not dragged her free.

  ‘Tell me. Give me your confession, witch!’

  He was sweating as much as she was; a rank foulness filled her lungs and made her dry-heave.

  ‘Need drink,’ she whispered. ‘I thirst.’

  A battered leather flask was held her lips and she drank, the sweet good water clearing her head. As her blurring, double-vision cleared, she realized that another of Fulk‘s men, not the red-haired knight, had given her his water. She nodded her thanks and through his visor, a pair of bright, embarrassed eyes blinked and would not meet her gaze. The knight shifted slightly and she felt herself leaning against a braced leg and flank. Without his support she would have fallen; as it was she could just keep her feet.

  Fulk knocked the flask from her shaking hands. ’Speak
! I have waited long enough.’

  The man supporting Alyson suddenly shouted, lowering her hastily to the ground. Still yelling at Fulk, he stepped over her, drew his sword and pointed. ‘The dragon!’ he screamed. ‘Nous sommes tous morts!’

  Trapped behind the man’s legs, Alyson looked where he was pointing and understood. Sinking back on the earth, she closed her eyes, letting her weariness take her where it would.

  It was Guillelm. He had come for her. She would be safe now.

  It was over.

  Chapter 28

  Guillelm saw her fall and vented a bellow of rage. There were five scampering stick figures between him and Alyson and he wanted there to be more; more to mow down and destroy.

  If they had hurt her. If they had harmed her in any way, they would know such agony before he had finished with them!

  Slash them, cut them, kill them, trample them, they shall not escape, they will burn in hell and still know my anger.

  The stick figures, tiny, pale, moving as jerkily as puppets, are huddled together. I can ride them down, gore them into the dirt. But Alyson would not want that. She is a healer.

  Guillelm leaped from his horse and drew his sword. Behind him, now a long way off, he heard the red-haired follower of Fulk call out, as the man had done earlier, when he had been combing these woods. Tom would deal with that: he had to reach his wife.

  He advanced, brushing aside the other men’s feeble challenges like chaff. They struck at him and once he felt a sharp tear in his arm, a gash that stung and filled his head full of angry bees.

  ‘Alyson!’ Using her name as a paean, he rushed forward again, his pace quickening as he saw Fulk draw his own blade.

  Beside her, Fulk spun round and tried to run into the forest. He had not gone above five paces when there came a new bellow and Sir Tom was there on horseback, barring the way, a sword in his left hand. Sir Tom advanced and Fulk retreated, making a dash for another part of the woodland.