A Knight's Vow (35 page)

“Guillelm!” Her legs stiffened and her bottom raised in response as he touched her in a way no other man had ever
done. Almost stunned with these new feelings, she reached
out for him, her groping fingers freezing in a moment of delicious shock as she encountered his hard maleness.

“Do not touch me now,” he groaned as if in pain, moving
back from her slightly, out of her reach but still within his.
“You are entirely too sweet and this is a journey that’s better
if we go together.”

His other hand relinquished her breast and dipped lower,
fingers stealing softly between her legs to the tight black curls
where Alyson had never before been caressed.

“Please-” she gasped. His big hands, one covering and
smoothing over her bottom, the other spiraling still more
deeply into her most intimate place, were dissolving all sense
of place or time or even shame. She clung to him, lifting her
mouth to be kissed.

“I do not think I can bear this,” she whimpered, surfacing
after a long, passionate embrace. She felt herself hovering on
the edge of something explosive and at the same time
sweet-as if she might die but be glad of the dying.

“Trust me, Alyson,” Guillelm whispered. “Please trust me “

His voice and his kiss calmed her, though the sweet tension
remained and grew tauter. He was above her now, smoothing
back her raveled hair, kissing her breasts, always touching her
as he moved his body over hers, never crushing her with his
weight but giving her time to familiarize herself to this change.

“I do trust you,” she said, her answer ending in a strangled intake of breath as his fingers pleasured her again.

He moved closer, encouraging her now to wrap her arms
around his middle, breathing teasingly into her ear as their
thighs collided. Alyson felt as if she was in a golden haze,
with the firelight and Guillelm’s tantalizing kisses and his
hard, blazingly warm body covering hers. Her sense of expectancy increased as she felt him lower himself into her, her
body pliant and trusting, her eyes open, gazing into his.

He growled something in Arabic she did not properly hear
and then began to move within her, kissing her deeply.

Alyson felt a sharp, brief pain and then only a luscious,
melting joy, wave after building wave. Sensual and overwhelming, it caught her up, sending her on a dizzy, speeding
journey of devastating bliss. She heard Guillelm shout her
name and saw his face tense and then flame into an exultant,
almost savage release.

Clasped in each other’s arms, they tumbled together over
the brink of delight into ecstasy.

Snug in Guillelm’s embrace, Alyson stirred early the next
day. In the pinky-gray predawn light and the dull orange glow
of the sunken fire, she watched him sleeping, wondering at
everything that had happened.

Their union of last night had it finally laid Guillelm’s
demons to rest? Were they now truly husband and wife? The
holy church stressed that the sin of lust should be fought. So
had they come together in love or lust?

Surely we came together in love, she thought. She had told
Guillelm she loved him. He had spoken of his love for her and
although he had not said the words, “I love you,” his every
action showed it.

Then why does he not tell you? A new voice started up in
her head, sounding like the sneering whine of Petronilla. Dismissing the voice, Alyson concentrated on Guillelm.

In this predawn light he looked younger, almost a youth,
although there was a strong shadow of golden stubble along
his jaw. His lashes curled against his tanned, lean cheeks like
wisps of the finest silk. His bright hair was longer than when
she had first met him, spiking in little tufts over his ears and
beyond where he wore the collar of his mantle … when he
was wearing it. At the moment he was wonderfully naked,
bundled together with her under his cloak, which certainly
did not cover much of him, sprawled out as he was in sleep.
She nuzzled his bare shoulder, wondering what it would be
like to kiss his slumbering mouth.

Almost as if he had sensed her thought, Guillelm tightened
his grip around her middle, then relaxed with a sigh of wakefulness and opened his eyes.

“Good morning.” Rolling her on top of him again, he
kissed her forehead, then her mouth, recovering her carefully
with his cloak. “You slept well, I trust?”

“Extremely, thank you,” Alyson stammered, conscious
again of her own nudity and blushing under her husband’s intense, knowing stare. Lying on top of him, she could hardly
fail to notice his rapidly increasing arousal, nor her own response to his long, sinewy body. But it wasn’t even morning!

“We should go,” she began, willing herself to move but
failing miserably when Guillelm smiled at her.

“Everyone at Hardspen, if they have any sense, will still be
in bed. As we are, I believe.” He raised an eyebrow. “Rather
an eccentric couch, I know, but comfortable, I trust?

“Alyson?” Guillelm touched her cheek with his fingers.
“Have I shocked you with this? Do you truly wish to rise? Because if you do, then we will.”

He would do this for her. He would forgo his own need. He
trusted her choice. Was that not caring? And love?

Then why does he not say the words, I love you “?

Alyson and Guillelm returned to Hardspen in the midafternoon, wandering back to the castle by way of a high, winding
droving road that avoided the flooded river plain and water
meadows. They did not hurry and Alyson was glad that Guillelm
seemed in no more haste than she was to go back to their everyday lives.

As they approached the main gate, it opened and a lone rider
with two other horses on long leading reins cantered out to meet
them. Alyson felt a prickle of cold temper, mingled with unease,
run down her back as she recognized the riderless horse as
Caliph, and the glossy black mare as her own Jezebel.

Fulk jumped down from his irritable bay stallion and began
talking at once, his nasal voice raised to a half-shout, as if he
intended that others should hear him, as well as Guillelm.

“My lord Guillelm, you are needed. I know that you left word
where you were yesterday, you and your lady, but my messenger did not find you at Setton Minor and you have been sorely
missed. Thomas of Beresford left for his manor this morning.
The nuns of St. Foy’s have also left. Their sister house at Warren
Applewick, some three and thirty miles from here, have offered them a permanent sanctuary at their convent. Some of the
knights of the Temple are their escorts on the journey.”

“That is noble and kind,” Alyson put in, determined not to be
ignored. Fulk wore no helm today, or armor; he had mudspattered leggings and a badly dyed scarlet mantle. His gray hair
was greasy and uncombed and he had not shaved, but he looked
altogether too pleased with himself. The red pimples across his
nose and cheeks seemed bigger and more noticeable than ever
and his thin lips seemed locked into a steadfast half-smile.

Holding Caliph’s reins out to Guillelm, Fulk deigned to
glance at her but addressed Guillelm.

“The leader of the Templars staying with us, Sir Michael
of Normandy, wishes to have urgent speech with you, my
lord. It concerns the safety of your very soul.”

“What?” Guillelm was already laughing.

“What?” Alyson’s prickle of tension flared into alarm. She
wanted to ask What have you done? but knew she would have
no true answer from Fulk. Conscious that with Sir Tom leaving Hardspen she was without a doughty ally, she now asked,
“Where is Sericus?”

“Abed, lady. I heard a rumor yesterday that he had taken a
chill.”

“Steady, Alyson.” Guillelm squeezed her shoulder, misunderstanding the depth of her concern. “If Sericus is out of sorts
he will doubtless enjoy your fussing, but we shall see him hale
and thriving again, hopping about the castle.” He turned to
Fulk, his look less kindly. “Never mind this nonsense of souls.
Hand my lady her horse and help her to mount. Do you expect
her to walk into Hardspen while we ride?”

“Nay, Guillelm,” said Alyson quickly, distressed at the
thought of Fulk touching her. “Sir Fulk was merely being a
little tawdry through prudence, as at the joust”

“Before God, you are right,” Guillelm muttered, recogniz ing her point immediately, along with the reminder of his own
jealous antics. “Fulk, I beg your indulgence.”

“There is entirely no need,” Fulk said, very affable,
bowing and handing Alyson the reins to her horse. “If you
will permit me?”

He did not say “my lady,” Alyson realized-a tiny thing,
but one that deepened her growing sense that something was
very wrong. If Fulk was up to no good again, then he had
chosen his time well, with Sericus ill, Sir Tom gone and the
nuns of St. Foy’s going. Pretending not to notice Fulk’s outstretched hand, she pulled herself deftly onto Jezebel’s back
and took a moment to arrange her skirts.

Fulk, however, was not interested in what she was doing;
he had planted himself even closer to Guillelm and was even
now repeating his warning. She caught the words, “soul,”
“your well-being,” “Sir Michael” and “no time to be lost.”

“Peace, man, we are coming,” Guillelm interrupted, winking at her.

It was the last time she saw him truly smile for the rest of
that day.

Entering the great hall, Alyson felt an outsider. The sense
struck her instantly, even more forcefully than when she had
been at Hardspen as a “guest” of Lord Robert. There were no
other women in the echoing, high-ceilinged room and the men
sitting at the trestles, talking quietly, paring their fingernails,
scratching for fleas, roughing with the dogs, were strangers.
No Sericus, nor any of the other old-timers who knew her. No
single man of Guillelm’s command except Fulk.

“Our men are at the practice ground,” Fulk explained,
catching Guillelm’s questioning glance.

“All our men?” Guillelm seemed as suspicious as she was,
Alyson thought, unless that was wishful thinking on her part. Staring at the knights ranged about the hall, she found herself
missing even a rough flirt like Thierry. None of these Templars smiled at her.

They were drinking and eating nothing, she noticed. Instead,
as she and Guillelm walked into the hall they stopped chatting
and straightened on their benches, solemn as the keenest of
novice students at a cathedral school, and all facing the dais.

From the rim of her vision she saw Guillelm touch the
place on his belt where his dagger was, as he jerked his head
up to scan the walls.

“Where is the sword and shield of my ancestor, Thorkill of
Orkney?” he demanded, pointing to a patch of stones beneath
a window slit. There a faint outlining of fire-soot showed
where these arms had recently been displayed. “Why have
they been taken down?”

“They are here, my lord de La Rochelle,” the leader of the
Templars answered, pointing to a space behind his highbacked chair on the dais. “I ordered it done. These are pagan
weapons. We are warriors of Christ.”
“

Sir Michael of Normandy, his face hidden-deliberately?by the hood of his cloak, shot back his plain cuffs and gripped
the arms of his chair. Almost as if he were lord here, Alyson
thought, sickened by a dread that would not abate. She was
horribly conscious that the nuns who could claim equal spiritual worth with these fighting monks had already set out for
their new home, escorted ironically by a Templar escort, but
there were still too many Templars left at Hardspen. She
counted a score in the great hall and still had not finished as
Guillelm spoke in answer to Sir Michael.

I am lord. Those weapons should not have been removed”
Releasing her hand from his, Guillelm glared at Fulk. “What
is going on?” he demanded softly. Fulk did not answer.

As three men stood by the door into the great hall, barring
the way, Alyson scanned the room, seeking another escape. Unless they could fly, there was none. She tugged urgently on
Guillelm’s cloak, whispering as he lowered his head to her,
“Can you throw my veil and this necklace through one of the
window slits? Would that alert your men?”

“It is already in hand,” he whispered back. “No harm shall
come to you, I promise.”

“Please, my lord. All will become clear.” Sir Michael
nodded his hooded head and several knights rose from their
places. They placed two chairs in the middle of the hall and
then withdrew.

“Please, sit,” Sir Michael suggested.

Guillelm handed Alyson into a chair but remained standing. “If I do not receive an explanation, Sir Michael, you will
regret it.”

“You mean, I will not live to regret it.” Sir Michael answered, his smile visible even with the cloak hood and shadows shielding most of his face. “I have heard from your
comrade of your prowess with all weapons, including knives.
But think! If you hurl your dagger and kill me, my men will
cut you and your lady down.”

His features etched into deep lines of harsh disgust, Guillelm turned to Fulk. “Will you escort your lady outside?”

Alyson drew in breath to protest, but Fulk stared at the
floor rushes and did not stir.

“What price, Judas?” Guillelm demanded, as his seneschal
remained silent.

“Lord Guillelm,” Sir Michael interjected, “you must not
think too badly of Sir Fulk. He serves a higher master than
you, as do we all.” He touched the red cross conspicuously
embroidered on his mantle. “And in his concern for you, he
turned to me for help. You are not yourself, Guillelm de La
Rochelle.”

“Say plainly what you mean, man,” snarled Guillelm.

Sir Michael finally drew back the hood of his cloak, revealing a long, faintly equine-looking face and an utterly
hairless head. Alyson noted the marks of shaving on his
narrow skull and the marks of fasting in his pale, gaunt
cheeks, bloodless mouth and dull, unblinking drab brown
eyes. A pitiless ascetic, she guessed and, from the wary, cold
glance he gave her, a man who disliked women as greatly as
Fulk did.