A Knight's Vow (13 page)

“It may not have been Fulk,” Alyson told herself, but she
could conceive of no other doing such a thing. Still, it shamed
her. Her nightmares shamed her. Telling Guillelm would only
spread the pain, she thought. She must deal with this herself,
in her own way.

Once she had made that decision she felt a little easier and
unbarred her door with more confidence than she might otherwise have had. Which was good-Guillelm was sleeping
across her threshold, snoring and twitching like a great
golden shaggy guard dog.

He stirred the instant she opened her door, flinging up an
arm to prevent any entering her room from the stairs and
blinking a baleful eye. “What?”

“You have no need to defend me from me, Guillelm.”
Somehow calling him “my lord” seemed inappropriate, especially now, with him yawning and rubbing at his bristling jaw.

“Excellent girl—”

“You want something.”

“A cup of water or weak ale, if you have it.”

“Not here; we must go downstairs.” Alyson shook her head,
astonished at how indulgent she felt toward this large oaf. It
could not have been comfortable for him last night, napping on
the stairs, and yet he did so in order that she would be safe. The
thought touched her in spite of her disapproval of his carousing. “Did you win all your wrestling last night?” she asked.

He grinned and lifted an arm, showing off several cloakpins skewered through his sleeve. “All fairly won. The others
can show you their bruises.” He blinked and knuckled his
eyes. “Mother of God, it was quite a night.”

“You should have drunk less,” Alyson said, nudging him with
her foot. “You will feel better outside.” She held out a hand.

“You will not pull me up,” he protested, using the wall instead
as a brace as he swayed to his feet. “No, I am fine. I will be ””

“Let us go, then,” Alyson challenged. “Your breath is not
so sweet this morning.”

“Saucy wench!” Guillelm grumbled, but he was moving,
picking up his feet lightly enough so as not to disturb the
other twitching sleepers sprawled over the trestles in the great
hall. Alyson passed by their slumbering forms as she sped
from the stairs to the main doorway set in the middle of the
hall, opposite the fireplace. There a few ash-covered firedogs,
discarded cups and empty earthenware jugs, plus an overturned small cauldron leaking a spill of stew, showed that it
had been a very rowdy evening indeed. She glanced at Guillelm with raised eyebrows and he had the grace to color
slightly and hurriedly push open the door for her.

“There were many toasts to our betrothal,” he said sheepishly. “I could not deny or gainsay them”

“No?” About to tease more, Alyson noticed Fulk sleeping
on the floor close to the stairs. He was sullen and frowning
even in sleep and the sight of him, coiled into a tight, unyielding ball, made her shiver. What if he had attempted to do
more in her room last night, when the rest of the company
were making merry? If Guillelm had not lain by her door,
would Fulk have tried to harm her?

I need to find absolute proof that he is my enemy, and
quickly, she thought, but for now she was glad to step out of
the beer-fumed hall into the early morning sunshine.

To her surprise, she and Guillelm were not alone. Thomas
of Beresford was already outside, chopping wood.

“Guido!” Tom buried the axe in the thick trunk of oakwood
that he was trimming. “Come work off that hangover by cutting some of this timber into manageable logs and I will fetch
us breakfast. You, too, sweet Alyson. I trust you slept well?”

“Very, thank you,” Alyson lied, watching the man hurry
away to the kitchen block with a jaunty strut to his step.

“I know not how he does it, but Tom is ever good-tempered
on a morning.” Beside her Guillelm took up the axe and
tested the blade with his thumb. “`Sweet Alyson,’ eh?”

Without waiting for an answer he peeled down his tunic,
stripping to the waist, and resumed the task Tom had started.

Alyson blushed; she could not help it. How often had she
wondered in daydreams what Guillelm might look like? Not
naked-she had never been so bold as to imagine that-but
as he was now?

He had his back to her and she had a good view of him
before a shout from the returning Tom made him twist round
for an instant. The flesh across his back and shoulder blades
shone in the ruddy dawn. He was beautiful as a wolf or wildcat is beautiful; a marriage of spirit and sinews and animating grace. Light flashed from the metal head of the axe as he
swung it back for another blow. The cry of splintered wood
sang in her ears and she stumbled forward.

Guillelm spun about, axe automatically raised to attack.
Seeing her, remembering she was there, he laughed and returned to his work. The curved bough he was working on
groaned and fell clear; he tossed the log casually onto the
growing pile and examined the rest of the tree trunk before
laying aside his axe.

Alyson went to him, brushing shavings from his downy
beard. His eyes were red with sawdust, but he grinned at her.

“The oak is my favorite: handsome in leaf and laden in the
fall with sweet, full acorns. It grows strong wood” Guillelm’s
fingers spread across the tree bark and Alyson grinned at his
obvious delight-she was happy again, her doubts dismissed.
Arm in arm, they walked back to Tom, Guillelm shaking
wood chips from his hair and talking.

“There will be a great tree harvest this season, I think, and apple wood to burn, bark for your poultices, timber to shape”
He patted Alyson’s rump as he had patted the oak trunk.
“Maybe a crib for a young one, and toys. What is it? Your
cheek is as fiery as the barberry. Have I spoken too soon?”

He had stopped walking and transferred the axe to his right
hand to clasp her shoulder. He smelt of sweat and musk, and
a familiar ache stirred in Alyson, but she answered clearly.

“I wish it was that, Guillelm. Your words-I thought then
of my sister.”

“Ah. Of course” Guillelm withdrew his hand. “Forgive
me” He smacked his palm onto his forehead. “How could I
forget what you told me only yesterday? I am such a fool!”

“No-” Alyson began, but Tom interrupted, proffering two
cups of ale and saying in an over-hearty voice, “There is
bread and meat ready in the kitchen; we should go there
before the scullions eat it for us ””

“My thanks, but I must visit the stable first.” Guillelm
downed his ale in a single swallow and strode off, tugging his
shirt and mantle back over his head and leaving Tom and
Alyson to follow.

“I think he means the latrine,” Tom remarked, catching
Alyson’s disconcerted look. “Guillelm is shy when it comes
to women”

He offered her his arm, adding, “I am glad we have this
moment, Alyson. I have a question for your ears alone. Early
this morning I found two of my hounds eating something
beneath the window of your chamber. Do you know what it
could be?”

Alyson, heart thudding in her chest, looked into Tom’s guileless, kind eyes. She could not lie, but how could she speak?

“No matter,” Tom continued. “The dogs will scavenge anything. But if” he glanced ahead to ensure that Guillelm was
still out of hearing and dropped his voice-“if ever you require help, you need only ask. It will be given without question. And
now you need say nothing; it is enough that we both know.”

Tom moved ahead, pushing open the door to the kitchen
and allowing Alyson to enter first.

After breakfast, Guillelm spoke to his friend. “I would take
Alyson and be gone from here soon, before the others. Her
palfrey needs more rest than my men’s horses”

“That would make sense,” Tom agreed, while he thought,
You hide your true feelings even from yourself. It is a thousand pities you ever met Heloise.

“Stay here in the yard a moment first,” he said. “There is
something I want you to see, you and your lady. Wait-I will
bring it to you”

“This is my betrothal gift to you both,” Tom said.

Alyson heard Guillelm’s whispered, “Mother of God,” and
understood his amazement. He slowly put out his hand and
gently stroked the breast of the creature. “It is so fine,” he murmured.

“To replace the hawk you had in the east,” Tom said. “At first,
I was to give you a pair of hounds, but knowing how hard you
took the loss of your last dog on our homeward voyage from
Outremer, I thought this better.”

Alyson had wondered why he had no dogs with him and now
she approved his constancy. “Is it a merlin?” she asked softly, as
Guillelm donned a glove and took the hooded bird from Tom’s
fist.

“A very beautiful one,” Guillelm answered, smiling at the
little hawk’s soft cry. “Her plumage is wonderful, such a rich
mosaic of browns and creams!” His widening eyes found Alyson’s and he smiled at her. “If Tom will have her back a
moment, you may have my glove-“

“No need” Tom handed Alyson a finely tooled glove.

“Fulk must ride ahead, ensure the hawk house is made
ready,” Guillelm went on. “Is David of Jeston still at Hardspen?”

“He died of this year’s sickness,” Alyson said, reluctant to
pierce Guillelm’s moment of giddy joy but remembering the
falconer’s fevered end all too well.

“Fulk knows something of the care of hawks,” Tom said,
covering the awkward moment of silence.

“I know, too,” Guillelm remarked. He thrust out his free
hand and caught Tom’s fingers in an enthusiastic, whitening
grip. “My thanks to you, Tom”

“It is a trifle,” Tom demurred.

“It is a generous gift, Sir Tom,” Alyson said, delaying handling the bird by not pulling on the glove. Her father had
spoken of hawks in a tone of longing; peregrines and such
were kept by great lords. She had never seen any bird of prey
so close before, not even the red kites that scavenged on the
midden heaps. For herself, thinking of the talons and that
tearing, hooked beak, she was glad the merlin was hooded.

“Perhaps you can carry the perch?” Guillelm had noticed
her reluctance; a half-amused, half-indulgent smile played
about his lips. Tempted to thrust out her tongue at him again,
Alyson said only, “You have not tied your own jesses,” and
pointed to the loosened throat strings of his shirt.

With a grunt of amusement, Guillelm attended to his clothes.

She and Guillelm set off soon after, Sir Tom supplying
them with a generous pannier of provisions and wine, and
long, needless instructions for the best route back to Hardspen. When it came to their farewells, Alyson was swirled off
her feet into a rough hug, then as swiftly put down.

“More and Guillelm will be challenging me,” Sir Tom
rumbled against her hair, his scars tickling her ear. “Come see
me again soon, do you hear?”

“We will,” Alyson promised, springing lightly onto her
horse before Guillelm could scold her for tardiness. She did
not want either man to see the ready tears that had filled her
eyes and even now threatened to spill onto the rough mane of
her black palfrey. She would miss Sir Tom, more perhaps than
her sister, and that was a bitter lesson to learn. Leaving Guillelm fussing with the merlin, she spurred her horse on, eager
to be on her way before she broke down and disgraced herself completely.

“Her jesses must be tangled in the branches. She cannot
break free!”

Shading her eyes, Alyson bit down on the rejoinder that he
should not have been flying the merlin while they were traveling and reached across their horses to seize Guillelm’s arm.

“You cannot scramble up there,” she warned. “That halfrotten tree will not take your weight. I will go. Give me her
her hood and some meat to tempt her.”

“She needs to be fed, certainly.” Dismounting, Guillelm
squinted up at the bird, which had stopped baiting and thrashing about the intermingled oak and hawthorn branches and
was quietly roosting, seemingly oblivious to the alarm calls
of the woodland crows and blackbirds. “You will take care?”
he added, handing Alyson the soft leather hood without
checking how she alighted from her horse and without breaking eye contact with the merlin.

“I climb well.”

“I know that! I remember. I mean of her.”

“Of course.” Your precious merlin will be quite safe,
Alyson thought.

Guillelm reached her as she was about to duck under the
oak tree’s low canopy. “Good luck, brighteyes.”

She nodded, mollified by the nickname and the mute
appeal in his compelling velvet eyes, and began to climb.

“She is baiting again!” Guillelm shouted from below. “She
will pierce herself!”

“No, I see her now and she is not so close to the
hawthorn!” Alyson called back, cupping her hands round her
mouth so as to cut down the sound the merlin would hear.
“She is not hurt.”

“And watch yourself!” Guillelm continued, crashing about
the base of the oak with the hawthorn sprouting through its mat
of branches as he tried and failed to shin up after her. She heard
him cursing as he flailed in the undergrowth like some angry
wild pig and felt a bubble of amusement soar in her throat.

“What in God’s name are you giggling about?”

She playfully stamped her foot, kicking off a strand of
lichen that drifted down onto Guillelm’s nose. Seeing his indignant upraised face smeared with green, she laughed
heartily. “You look like a pagan”

“Well, from down here, mistress, I can see a great deal of
you, too” Guillelm was also laughing.

“You exaggerate,” she replied, certain of her modesty.

“Alyson-“

“Hush, I am within a fingertip of our hawk” Should she
try to tempt the bird with a morsel? Swiftly, at full stretch, she
jammed a piece of raw meat into a jutting, sheared-off twig
close to the merlin and backed up several paces along the
main branch.

The little female hawk fluttered her handsome brown and
cream wings and, with a soft jangle of the delicate bells on
her jesses, hopped toward the tempting snack.