Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances

by Lindsay Townsend

  "You are such a baby, Judy," Alde said.

  Judith's head jerked up, her face flaming. "I am not."

  "Are," said Alde, glancing at Sunniva and mirroring how she rode.

  "Are, are!" yelled Isabella.

  "Hush, little one," said Marc easily, reining in his horse. "I think I can hear another skylark."

  They had made a game of counting how many larks were singing near the road, but a tension in his voice prompted Sunniva to drop back slightly, so she and not Judith was at the end of their tiny "column". Sure enough, after a few more jangling paces, Marc looked round again and said, "These woods are a good place to stop to eat whatever the priest's woman has packed for us."

  "For sure," Sunniva said quickly, using a roadside boulder to dismount.

  As she expected, Alde copied her, then Judith and Isabella, and soon they were leading their mounts into a copse of hazel and ash, putting a shield of greenery between themselves and the road.

  "Here." Sunniva sat down in a natural basin, calculating it would be impossible for anyone to see them from the road. Spotting a fairy ring of mushrooms circling a grassy birch stump, she thought of another way of keeping the children quiet.

  "If you are very still, you can hear the wood-elves talking to each other," she whispered to the girls. "The fairy ring marks their meeting place. Wood-elves are invisible to us, but we may listen for their voices. The closer to the ground you are, the more you should hear."

  Alde and Judith looked sceptical at this, but Isabella flattened herself onto the leaves and bracken. Moments later, Judith and then Alde followed, leaving their ponies peacefully cropping the turf.

  "My thanks," Marc mouthed as he passed, winding swiftly back through the trees in a half-crouch to watch the road.

  Sunniva nodded and began to unwrap the meat, cheese and bread from the rough cloth the priest's woman had put together for them.

  "Where is Uncle Marc?" piped Isabella.

  "Gone to make water," Sunniva lied, her ears straining as she felt a new spot of rain trickle down her hand. Glancing up, she saw the sky gone grey again.

  It cannot be helped, she told herself, and at least if it pours then the men-at-arms will be riding as quickly as possible to escape it. For she could hear it now: the tell-tale rumble of galloping hooves. How many horses? Ten? A score? How many men? A dozen?

  "Eat some cheese." She handed Alde and Judith some, not reproving Isabella when the child stuffed a huge lump into her mouth. It was raining steadily now, hopefully a further shield for them. "Quiet now. We do not want these men to see us."

  Even at six years old, Isabella knew better than to ask why, though she did crawl into Sunniva's lap. Her two sisters huddled close and Sunniva put her arms round both, saying in a light voice, "The fairy ring will keep us safe, we need only be still."

  "Uncle Marc?" whimpered Judith, fraying a chunk of bread anxiously with her hands.

  "Uncle Marc, too." It was hard for Sunniva not to check for her knives. Smiling at the three, small upturned faces, she said, "I will pray for us."

  In her heart she was already praying. Please let Marc be safe. Please do not let him be spotted. Please do not take him away.

  A shadow crawled from a patch of brambles close to them. Even as she stiffened, her hands flying off Alde's and Judith's shoulders towards her waist, she recognized the figure on hands and knees.

  His face dripping rain, Marc slithered into the hollow beside her and clasped her and his nieces. For a moment, he hugged her so tightly, Sunniva thought her back might break, then he released her, placing a finger on Alde's opening mouth.

  "There are fifteen armed men riding on the road, Alde: too many even for me."

  "Not pilgrims?" Alde whispered.

  "Not pilgrims," Marc replied, his eyes dark. "Listen! You will hear them pass."

  They all listened. The mounted band of men seemed to take a long time to ride by, rain bouncing sharply off shields and helmets, the horses clattering and slithering on the churned-up road.

  "Tis well for this rain," Sunniva found herself breathing, "For our tracks will be submerged."

  He threw her a half-exasperated, half-indulgent look. "Ever you match your name. I do not know how."

  "What would you have me do?" The question burst from her, startling Sunniva herself and worse, even as the band of men cantered on so close that she could feel the ground shaking, another urgent demand sprang from her lips. "Who are you to reprove me? You finish nothing you begin! Breaking your pilgrimage vow, dragging these children —”

  She almost yelled as a brawny arm yanked round her middle, but that would have alerted the armed mob passing. Struggling, kicking, she tried to free herself but was dragged out of the hollow and smacked onto the springy grass like a landed fish. A hand, heavy it seemed as an anvil, pinned her shoulder.

  Marc loomed above her, sitting astride her now so she could not escape. "No, you don't." He had both hands on her shoulders and she could not reach her knives.

  "Let me up!" she hissed.

  "In a moment, madam, but first you will attend me."

  They were both whispering while the final group of riders passed by and the three little girls calmly and silently ate the rest of the cheese.

  "I am listening," Sunniva goaded. Her teeth ached and her spine ached, her whole body felt jolted. She wanted to slap him but was afraid the other warriors might hear. He had not actually sat on her, and for that small mercy Sunniva was grateful — though she would never tell him.

  Marc took a deep breath, resentment seething in his face. "'These children', as you call them, are my responsibility."

  "So why not take better care of them? Why bring them on pilgrimage?" Sunniva retorted. "A holy journey and no easy one."

  "My mother is old. There is no one else for them, understand? They must be with me!" He looked as if he wanted to shake her, his fingers tightening until he realized what he was doing.

  "But such a journey! When it is your own conscience you should look to!"

  "By all the saints! There is no arguing with you!"

  Taking her wrists in one hand he lunged. Sunniva flinched, expecting a blow, opening her eyes as she felt his body against hers, his mouth on hers.

  "They are kissing," Judith cried, and Alde said something Sunniva missed. From being cold and wet and dripping with rain she felt to be bathed in sunlight, warmth coursing through her. His kiss was not rending or greedy but gentle and searching, its heat sweeping down from their lips over her breasts and belly, tingling in her loins. As he rolled off her, taking her with him so she lay on top of him. she closed her eyes and let herself go deeper into their kiss, not sure where she ended and Marc began.

  "We are mad," Marc whispered, breaking from her. "In possible view of armed men and in rain, we sport like maid and lad in a woodland glade."

  Sunniva licked her lips, tasting him. "We are in a wood," she began.

  "But not alone, and not even, by God, safe." Marc cupped her face, his fingers trembling slightly against her cheek. "We should not do this — I should not —”

  As if drawn by invisible strings he bent his head and kissed her again, then abruptly released her.

  "The warriors — I must make sure they are gone," he said and scrambled away, leaving her caught between confusion and delight.

  Chapter 12

  "What now?" Alde demanded, her strong jaw setting as he had seen Roland's do so often when they were children, usually before he pitched himself into a fight.

  "Your uncle will think of something," Sunniva stepped between them, gently jogging Judith's thin little arm. "May I see your nails? They could be useful. Yes. Yes!" she exclaimed, as if the seven rusting pieces were relics of the holy cross. "Keep them safe, Judith. These will be our saviours."

  Alde and then Isabella bustled forward, neither sister wanting to miss anything, and three heads with drenched rat-tails of hair hung over a bursting-with-pride Judith and her outstretched palm. Marc met Sunniva's eyes
. "What now?" he mouthed.

  "Now it has stopped raining, I must look at my packs," she said, and turned away from the swollen river that faced them, walking to her mule.

  "Keep away from the water, girls," Marc warned, keen to follow. As always, he was glad of the excuse to snatch a moment alone with Sunniva, though he did not want to examine his reasons why. She is betrothed, he reminded himself, while another part questioned, why then did she receive and return his kiss so ardently? Why did she have no ring, no token from the blessed Caedmon of Whitby?

  "Your betrothed. What manner of man is he?" he growled, satisfied when she looked startled, then ashamed.

  "Much like most farmers. Stocky. Red-cheeked. Speaking ever of the weather." She opened the first pannier on the back of the mule and began parting the cloths inside, glancing at the sky. "I know the rain has eased, but I would not have these wet," she explained, stopping a moment to examine something within the pannier he could not see. "Do you think the soldiers destroyed the bridge after they crossed?"

  Marc studied the broken struts by the edge of the swirling brown river and shook his head. "The weight of water itself did this, smashed the bridge," he replied, "and you have not answered my question."

  She frowned, staring at the river, then the cloud-filled sky. "Will Bertana be safe?" she asked abruptly.

  "Her kind, the selfish ones, tend to prosper," Marc replied, holding up a hand to Sunniva's protest. "I do not mean all women, nor all maids. But tell me, what does your betrothed like?"

  As he spoke, he realized what was wrong: Sunniva never talked of Caedmon. Most girls took every chance to mention their betrothed, so why not her?

  "Is he a brute?" he asked softly.

  "No!" Her face blazed as the sun missing from this bleak, lowering landscape seemed to rise in her cheeks. "Not at all! Singing," she gasped, lowering her head to rummage some more in her pack. "Caedmon loves to sing."

  I can sing, Marc almost said, before sense crushed his tongue. He watched her bring out a heavy cloth and he pointed at it, his eyebrows raised in a question.

  "I thought." She drummed her fingers on the edge of the pannier. "I wondered if we might make a raft: lash cloth and timber together and float over the river."

  Marc had a vision of her in the water, soaked to the skin, her gown clinging. He closed his eyes but that made it worse. Thinking he would soon need to race into the river to disguise his present state, he strove to think.

  Out of a spin of ideas and feelings he snatched two. "The girls cannot swim," he said, "and the current looks strong. Even the horses could be swept away."

  "Yes, you are right." She bit her lip. "I am sorry."

  He wanted to take her hand, tell her never to be sorry. "It was a good idea," he said, hating the way he sounded, so stiff. "We can follow the river, find another place to cross."

  "Of course." Tentatively, she asked, "But then, do you think we shall reach the convent before nightfall?"

  "Better after nightfall than not at all."

  The river meandered and so did they, curving this way and that through tall grasses and giant reed mace on the riverbank while the rain fell steadily on them. Sunniva played counting games with the children and took Isabella on her horse with her; then Judith must have a turn, and Alde, and still the river snaked through the valley and the rain half-blinded and chilled them.

  Bringing up the rear, Marc was amazed afresh by her cheerful resilience. For himself, he was relieved when the river finally widened onto a sandy bed where it seemed they could cross in relative safety.

  "There was a ford here, once," Sunniva remarked. She touched the shedding bark of an alder tree with her foot, pointing to the perfect circular mark. "See? Rope chafing."

  "A guide rope across," Marc agreed. "Well spotted."

  She flushed at the compliment. "I have rope," she ventured. "If you have a bow, perhaps we can shoot a line across?"

  "Nothing easier," he said, and smiled as she smiled.

  Why not? he decided, as he removed his great bow from its hide cover. She was betrothed and another's but that did not mean they could not speak, could not be pleasant. If she smiled at him, why not smile back?

  "I'm not in Byzantium now," he said aloud.

  She looked puzzled, and he could not resist adding, "In the city of Constantinople, also known as Byzantium, I learned not to smile at any pretty woman, in case her husband challenged me."

  He expected her to be confounded, but instead she grinned and asked, "Really? Did you win?"

  He shrugged, not wanting to admit that he had — it was a memory he was less easy with, these days. To his relief, Sunniva said nothing more but

  busied herself with keeping the girls' ponies and the mule well back as he notched an arrow.

  He was a good shot and the distance was no more than the height of a battlement. Even with a rope attached, he could fire the arrow and hit the opposite alder tree, the iron point driving straight through the trunk. Marc gave the rope a few tugs, to be sure, then tied off the nearest end.

  "I shall go first to test the way," he said, feeling the space between his shoulders prickle as he spoke. It was not exactly a foreshadowing, but he would be glad when this part of their journey was over. "Do not be troubled," he told a worried-looking Alde, "I have done this before, many times."

  Never in a northern river such as this, though, where he could not see the bottom.

  "Luck to you, Marc de Sens," Sunniva murmured, as he rode past her. "I know all will be well for you."

  Her well-wish was like a talisman in his heart. He rode slowly into the chill water, allowing Theo to pick his own way. The river bottom was smooth and firm, with few large stones, and he was heartened when the water came no higher than the chestnut's hocks. Turning to look back, he waved to the four figures on the bank and tied the line securely around the alder. Again, he felt the space between his shoulders itch, but told himself he was merely anxious about the girls' riding abilities in the river. And Sunniva's, too.

  In the event, all went sweetly. The rest of his crossing was as easy as the first part and he returned to guide Alde and Judith over without incident. Judith squeaked when the water washed over her shoes and she grabbed at the rope, but soon began to move along the line as Sunniva called out encouragement: "You are doing really well, Judith, a true credit to your noble name! That is right, keep going, hand over hand and guide your pony with your knees. That's right!"

  A few more rapid steps by the shaggy ponies and his two elder nieces had reached the far bank. He hugged both, proud of their courage.

  "Wait here while I fetch Isabella and Sunniva," he told them.

  "No need, Uncle Marc," Alde replied, smirking at his confusion. Judith also giggled and pointed.

  Following her wavering finger Marc felt himself start, his guts tensing. Sunniva, with Isabella sitting before her, was at the midway point of the river. She was riding one-handed, the other touching the rope he had strung as a guide-line across the river. Recklessly to his mind, the leading reins of Isabella's pony were tied to her own horse's saddle, a trick he used himself but did not expect copied by a woman.

  He could tell Sunniva was calm, in control, safe, but still it was hard to wait. Reluctant to move or even breathe, oblivious to Alde's excited chatter, he flinched each time her bay horse took a step.

  Another ragged breath from him, more "Look at her ride! Look how she goes!" from the heroine-worshipping Alde, and Sunniva drew beside him, river water streaming from the hem of her gown in a lithe, sinuous shape, like the tail of a mermaid. She smiled and offered him the leading rein.

  "If you will take Isabella and her pony, I can fetch my mule," she said, deftly threading her horse closer to make the transfer of the giggling six-year-old easier. "The line you set across has made it so simple and secure, easy to follow and grasp if the horse misses its footing —”

  "I shall get the mule," Marc interrupted, indignant that she should think he needed such lavish praise for
a straightforward task, or worse, that he would let her wade the river a second time. "You wait here."

  "Yes, uncle," she mouthed, a retort that made him choke on laughter.

  "I shall know how to deal with you if you stir," he warned.

  "As you say," she answered mildly.

  He almost laughed out loud then, except the sky suddenly darkened above them and thunder rumbled overhead.

  "No! It is not overhead!" he exclaimed, understanding his own senses at last and plunging back into the river, urging the great chestnut to a splashing canter. "Stay back!" he yelled, as the rain streamed down again and, across the river, a group of men broke cover.

  "Go, great heart!" Marc shouted, flicking his heels against the steaming sides of Theo, giving the stallion his head. On the far bank, the mule cropped peacefully round its picket, unconcerned by the appalling weather and the five lightly-armed men stumbling towards it.

  On foot. No bows. Spears, but no swords. Straggling foot-soldiers. The calculations ran through Marc's head swifter than the falling rain as he hurled his challenge.

  "Away, or you die! Away!"

  He burst out of the swirl of rain, a grim-featured man on a tall brute of a horse. Yelling, he unsheathed his sword and the five scattered, two blundering into the river in their panic and screaming in English to be saved by their fellows. Leaving them to it, Marc hacked through the rope tethering the mule and prodded the reluctant, braying beast into the water. As soon as it was heading for the far bank, he severed the rope line he had set across the two banks. He and Theo knew the way across by now.

  "This way, Marc!" Sunniva was calling from the distant bank. "Almost there!"

  Something in her voice made him look round. More men had arrived at the river and one had a bow. Hanging low over his horse's neck, Marc urged the stallion to more speed in the churning waters.

  "No!" he heard Sunniva scream, as the cold, hard prickling between his shoulders became more intense. Behind he heard the paff! paff! of arrows hitting the water and then, astonishingly, saw Sunniva standing with his bow, her face rigid with concentration and scarlet with effort as she pulled back the taut, unyielding bow-string.