For a moment, a stricken look smashed into his dark eyes, then he was flourishing another bow and expressing his thanks. Edith watched and shivered: she sensed he was not ready to accept tokens from ladies, that he did still grieve.
And he will blame me and our quarrel for having to change. He can no longer be withdrawn, inviolate, and he will blame me. It is what men do.
At once, it seemed, he found a way to attack her. "Lady Blanche, may I beg a boon? May I borrow a damsel to attend the princess, seeing as she never has attendants of her own with her?"
Everyone at the table gasped. Before Lady Blanche could foist on her an unwilling, unwelcome maid, Edith said quickly, "In the lands where I am from it is the custom for princesses to be one with her people, so we may help others."
In truth the villagers liked to mingle at the jousting camps and courts. If any questioned them too closely, they would slip into the old Hemlet dialect and so far no one had suspected anything. But they were happiest within their own camp at the moment, with Maria so close to bearing. Edith had not wanted a sour-faced, reluctant "maid" with her and so had come alone.
"What kind of help?" Ranulf pretended an interest she was convinced he did not feel.
"Whatever is seemly for a princess to undertake," she replied, and now she turned to Lady Blanche. "May I see the stitching on your sleeves, my lady? I do not think I have ever seen finer."
The crisis passed: Lady Blanche was content to talk of fashions, tugging and tweaking at her gown and chatting of the courts of southern France and the wondrous gowns of Queen Philippa.
Her adversary, though, would not be diverted. "Beg pardon, ladies, but what is this quest of the princess? I burn to know."
I have you! Edith leaned forward, allowing the slight breeze to flutter the ribbons of her cloak across her breasts. "When we go the field of battle, all will be ready, and all will be revealed then, Sir Ranulf."
She had summoned, spoken to and paid the servants of the castle and since she always paid well she knew it would be done. They might even have enjoyed bringing the things she had asked for to the high field.
"Do we walk there?"
"We do," she answered automatically, inwardly cursing as she realized that by that unguarded reply he had already learned that her "quest" was not one to be accomplished from horseback: a score for him.
"You will not need your men, either," she added, choosing to tease him a little. "I have a most particular task for you, Sir Ranulf. If you refuse it, then you must pay a forfeit."
She expected him to bridle, but instead, he startled her and everyone else by bursting into laughter. "Princess, if all will be revealed later, I am well content."
Ranulf collected a shield, a club and a large flask of ale from his squire Edmund. "You can wear that?" he asked, seeing the lad sagging under his own chain mail.
"Of course!" Edmund was instantly straight again and ready to stride up the field. The mail coiled and pouched on his rather scraggy frame and he had gone as red in the face as a bullfinch while pulling it over his head, but the exercise would strengthen him. All squires had to become accustomed to wearing armour: Ranulf remembered how the mail had seemed to itch across his shoulders and back until he became used to it.
There was another reason he had Edmund carry his armour in this way: he suspected the princess's quest would involve a contest, but not wholly one of arms—not when she plainly intended to best him and, no doubt, ask for the return of her favours as a prize. Hiding a smile, he addressed the youngest, newest member of his traveling household. "Ready to carry my helm, Gawain?"
The fair-haired, curly-headed page nodded. He was still shy and avoided looking at Ranulf directly with those large grey eyes of his, but his bruises were fading and he was eating well now: two bowls of pottage a day, if he could get them.
"Excellent!" Ranulf hung a small flask about the page's slender neck. "There is your ale for the afternoon, and Edmund has food. Stay with him when you watch the contest, do not eat any herring pies and do not let the damsels stuff you with sweets."
Gawain nodded again. Edmund had assured him that the child could speak so Ranulf left it at that. Hefting his shield across his back, he stalked out of his small camp and prepared to encounter the princess again.
Chapter 7
Word had spread of her quest: there was a goodly crowd at the top of the tourney field, standing amidst the deserted strips and a broken, discarded plough. Teodwin, leaning on her arm in the guise of "guiding" her, clicked his tongue.
"This could be unruly," he warned.
"Or amusing," Edith answered. Behind them, plodding on as he had done in the fields five seasons before, Martin of Warren Hemlet chuckled.
"I wonder how these grand knights will fare, drawing a bow?" he asked, in the old dialect.
"We shall soon discover," Edith replied in the same tongue. "After the battle of the hay. That is, if Sir Ranulf comes."
Teodwin stroked his purple silk. "Perhaps he will not come." His voice quivered with hope.
"He is coming now," said Edith, “carrying a shield on his back and looking very tall and grim.”
Her spirits soared at the sight of him, at his dazzling white tunic, his kingly features, his rangy strength, even his bear-temper. She could scarcely wait for their next encounter.
Ranulf was late—the rest of the company was here, the knights standing fretfully about, glowering at the archery butts and bows, many clearly ill-at-ease. Heads turned and faces looked accusingly at him—no noble, however minor, thinks he should ever wait. Standing under make-shift awnings at the corners of the great field, the damsels looked hot and thirsty. Only the eastern little princess, standing on tip-toe to whisper into the ear of Lady Blanche, seemed at ease. Lady Blanche was smiling, too: bad news.
"Forgive me for being tardy, ladies." He bowed and nodded to Edmund, who began to writhe out of the chain mail with Gawain hovering with his flask of ale. "Are we to be archers this afternoon?"
"It is a worthy sport," Lady Blanche replied. "But first there is another contest for you, my lord." She stretched her arm and pointed to the uncut mass of hay and flowers in the middle of the next field. A straggle of hay-makers, no doubt fewer than in years before the pestilence, had already started, moving slowly in the bright sunlight and rising heat.
"The Princess tells me that in Cathay it is considered a rich game for the nobles to cut and gather many flowers for their ladies."
"Armloads of lilies," said the princess, "but here cornflowers and daisies will suffice."
"Armloads? Not a posy, then?" Ranulf kept his face still: she must not know this would be easy for him.
"Armloads, sir knight," repeated the princess firmly. "A task for you alone, my quest for you." Laughter bubbled in her voice.
"What of the other knights?" he asked, still straight-faced.
"They will now begin the archery contest," Lady Blanche replied. "The knight who first makes three-score best hits of the target shall have my especial favour today."
"A contest which you will join only after you have completed your first task," the princess added, with a nod to Lady Blanche.
The two women had clearly devised it between them.
Ranulf grunted, to hide his amusement. No doubt the haughty eastern female assumed he would fall way behind with his task, but he would show her. "Will you walk with me to the western field, princess?"
"With my lady's leave." She nodded to Lady Blanche, who said at once, "But of course, princess. I would see the beginnings of the archery contest first, but you and whoever of my damsels that wish to watch Sir Ranulf battle with flowers..."
She trailed off, leaving the other knights smirking and the younger women giggling when the Lady of Lilies spoke up.
"It will be my pleasure." She sounded as if she was smiling, but Ranulf knew he would be laughing later.
He glanced at her feet as he offered his arm, she accepted and they fell into step together. For a moment he savoured her
sweet perfume, liking the golden cloud of her cloak and the way she came just to his shoulder. An image her of resting her head against his ribcage surprised him with its pleasing force. "Not bare-shod today, princess?"
Her veil flickered as she looked down at her neatly booted feet. "It is no joy to walk so in a wheat or hay-field, sir."
"I thought the people of the east did not eat bread?" He had recalled that from somewhere and was not even sure if it was true.
"I have walked in other places than Cathay," she said quickly. "Why were you late, Sir Ranulf? Lady Blanche was reluctant to agree to my contest but when you were so tardy, she grew out-of-temper and changed her mind."
"I needed to speak with someone, a good friend of mine." He had sought out Giles, to see if Giles wished to take part in the contest with him, but Giles was hawking that afternoon with the heiress Maud and had left the camp with no word to anyone—typical Giles, really.
"It is good to have friends." The princess glanced behind as she spoke, to see if her gaudy steward was keeping pace with them. (He was, a dignified step or so behind.)
"I think so."
“I know so.“ She clapped her gloved hands together lightly, to emphasize her point.
She always appeared in gloves, Ranulf recalled, and he wondered why: to disguise work-worn hands, perhaps? No one about the camp had any memory of his maid of the stream, but he still had an idea on that; a wild idea to be sure, but one which fit all points. She was as small as the brown maid, as slender....
Intending to test more, he said, "Perhaps we have travelled to the same places at different times. Have you been to Calais? No? But then where did you take ship to England?"
"Venice," she said crisply, which could be true.
"Is your father a great warrior?"
The change of subject startled her: surprise shone in her eyes.
"Why do you ask?"
"Sir Tancred has a new kind of sword with him, and the men whom you favour do well. It is said the knowledge of the east is greater than ours, and I thought perhaps they do well because of you."
He stopped, allowing her to speak, hoping to tempt her to an indiscretion, a moment of pride. All she said was, "I am pleased if I inspire the knights."
“Because you enjoy bloodshed?”
"Not so!" That stung her: she lengthened her stride and would not look at him as he drew alongside.
“My lady?”
“Why do you fight?” she demanded, still without looking at him.
He could have said for honour, glory, prizes, but instead the words tumbled out, “Why do you think I do?”
They strode on in silence for several paces. She waved at someone in the crowd. He heard the distant chok! and thump of arrows hitting targets and knew the archery contest had begun. His breath snagged in his chest, coiling hot and twisted, as he hung upon her answer. Suddenly he had to know what she thought of him, truly.
"In these times of death, some feast and make merry, wringing all sweetness from their days," she said, her voice low and hard. "You hit out, fast and hard, seeking respite for grief through battle."
He let go the breath he had been holding, relieved that she did not see him as a killer for sport.
"Some pray to god and the heavens, though I cannot understand why." She stared up at the cloudless vault of the sky, and added, "Have you ever seen an angel?"
"Not all that is in the world can be touched, seen, surely?" he protested. "Consider music, the wonders of painting, story, where men are inspired by the unknown and strive for it."
She kicked a dried cow pat to pieces as they passed it. "Only a knight would have the luxury to be such a dreamer."
"You think life nothing more than eating and sleeping?" He was aghast at her attitude. "What of the friendship we spoke of only a moment ago?"
"Or love? You knights are full of love, are you not?"
"Princess," said her steward behind them, and his voice was steely with warning.
The Lady of Lilies dropped her head. For an instant Ranulf wondered if she might put her veiled face in her gloved hands, but then she stared at her hands as if they were unknown to her. "Forgive me," she said throatily, "It is the day. These bright days put me in mind of my homeland and I wonder how my people fare. Or perhaps I am too warm."
Angered by her lack of self-control and alarmed by her sudden rage—where had that come from? Never had her sense of injustice at Gregory's death bitten into her, driven her, more sharply—Edith sought to gain an advantage. She dropped off her cloak, knowing that Teodwin would gather it. Remembering what her grandfather had said of the maids of the east she walked proudly, sucking in her bare gut, feeling her long hair plait bounce against her bottom, aware that Ranulf would see her plait beneath her short head-veil, and her silk-clad hips and garlanded middle.
"Ropes of grass, princess?" he asked, seeming as cool as frost as other bystanders gasped and pointed.
Edith smiled, feeling a little more in control again. Speaking of dress and sparring with a man was nothing new to her, there was no danger here. She did not sport ropes of grass and he knew it. Teodwin had gathered grass and wheat and oats to make into a garland that she had wound about her middle and across her breasts. Her short jerkin today was pale cream, to match her flowing long skirts, and she wore many necklaces of polished copper. She knew she looked well in it, and the copper matched the gleams in Ranulf's hair—No! In her own hair.
"It is a sign of harvest in my land," she replied, breaking off a head of wheat and offering it to him. "For maids to dress so brings good luck to the crops. As you see." She stretched out her other arm and pointed to the tall hay and mingled purple corncockle, poppies, ox-eyed daisies and cornflowers.
"And there is my task."
"And so you may begin it, Sir Ranulf." He was indeed very quick, and she wished he was more confounded. Did he not like her costume?
"Armloads of flowers, princess? You do not fear bee-stings, then?"
"You may place them by my feet," she said, acknowledging that with a nod. "A seat of flowers."
"And if I do this, and win the archery, I will keep your favours, princess, and demand a forfeit."
"As you wish," she said easily, for she did not think he would achieve it. "Pray, Sir Ranulf—" She wanted him to be clear on this final instruction: this was a contest between them but she would not have others affected by them—"be pleased not to disturb the other hay-makers. They have only begun today—" at a quiet suggestion from herself—"and my lady Blanche would not be happy if you did."
"I will keep to the south-east side of the field, where none are working. It is poor grass there, anyway."
"Thank you." Surprising her by such close knowledge of crops, he startled her afresh by dropping his shield in the same languid way that she had cast aside her cloak and by striding up the field to the hay-reeve. Handing the man a tall flask, he returned by the same path and, before she could remonstrate, said, "I do not trouble them, princess, but the hay-makers will take a rest now, and one has loaned me his scythe."
The best and sharpest scythe, she noticed, and he carried it as deftly as he handled a sword.
"Excuse me."
He confounded her anew. Leaning the handle of scythe against himself, he stripped to his linen leggings, appearing as lightly clad as one of the hay-makers—or herself.
He thinks he has beaten me at my own game, but I will not stare at him, Edith determined. Behind her, the damsels trudging up the field on their heeled shoes and dragging their long trails and sleeves after themselves now clapped and shouted, instantly excited and energized.
"Look at his scars!"
"Look at those muscles!"
"He is magnificent!"
"He shall have my favour!"
"Mine, too!"
The exclamations were tossed at him like flowers and he grinned, sucking in his stomach, making the slabs of muscles across his back and chest "dance" as he struck several poses.
"More!" The dam
sels were clapping and stamping their feet. In the corner of the great field, under the shade of a lime tree, the true hay-makers passed round the ale flask and watched the whole play with an intent interest. Edith guessed they had already laid bets.
"You have out-stripped me, sir," she said, wishing her wits were as cool as her voice. She ached to touch him herself, to trace the hairs on his long, bronzed arms and his barrel chest and back, to plant soft kisses into the creases of his elbows, and along his collarbones and ribs. Fearing the desire would be naked in her eyes, she held out a hand. "Should I keep your mantle?"
Ranulf shook his head. "My thanks, princess, but I prefer to do this." He wound his tunic round his shaggy fair head, to act as a sun-shade, then lifted the scythe and tapped it softly three times on the ground: a little luck charm, she guessed.
"I loved hay-making when I was a boy," he said, and he reached out and softly tugged at the garland round her waist, making the soft grasses tickle her middle. "On days like this in the north, I would be in the fields from sunrise to set. The smell of new hay, the songs of the reapers, the feast after—I am most grateful, princess, to be returned to such times."
He bowed from the waist and sped off, murmuring as he passed her, "And I will win, princess, so be ready."
By sunset it was all over. Word had rushed round the castle and hamlets: the black knight had cut half a hay-field, drawn out a towering pile of daises for the Lady of Lilies, returned the scythe to the hay-reeve with thanks and then sprinted to the archery butts. Stripped to his leggings and wearing nothing else save the scarlet sleeve of Lady Blanche, wrapped around his left arm, he had won there in a score of shots, drawing a great yew bow as if it was a child's toy, and never missing the middle of the target.
"I hear you were a veritable Hercules," Giles observed, rather sourly, for his hunting with the heiress had not gone well. "You certainly stink like him."
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 90