A Knight's Vow (28 page)

The tent was circular, with a roof of blue and red stripes.
Its cloth walls were tied back to its framework and its awnings
were raised to show off a gorgeous interior: lamps and
couches of gold, chests with their lids thrown open to display
the plate and coins within, a table covered with swords and
daggers, another table stacked with papers.

Astonished that such treasures should be displayed inside
a jousting ground, Alyson realized that Guillelm had been
less reckless than first appeared. The tent was set upon a
raised platform of earth, as tall as herself, and surrounded
by a wall of armed men, standing shoulder to shoulder with
interlocking shields.

Guillelm marched to a seven-man gap in the shield wall,
where a series of roughly cut earth steps led up into the heart
of the mound. His standard was draped across the bottom of
the steps and another flag fluttered on a pole at the top of the
earth staircase.

Guillelm stood with his back to the steps and raised his
free hand for silence. “Today there is much bounty to be
won,” he went on. “Prizes of combat, the arms and horse of
the vanquished-that goes to general custom. Also there are
other prizes.” He pointed to the striped tent on the man-made
defensive rampart. “Do you see the pavilion above me? It is
the tent of Hasim of Outremer, won by me as a spoil of war.
Within it are chests of treasure, grants of land, weapons from
the finest smiths in the East. These are the prizes to be bestowed upon those she favors by my wife, the lady Alyson. It
is she whom you knights must impress with your daring and
more especially your honor: the manner of your victory and
your mercy to those whom you vanquish.”

As more applause and a hum of excited talk broke out from
the spectators, Alyson stared at her husband. The gifts he had
spoken of were generous, largesse on the scale of a king.
“These are truly mine to give?” she asked softly, her voice cutting through the excited yelling and stamping of feet. She heard
her name being bellowed around the jousting ground like a
lucky charm and gave one of her hair plaits a nervous tug.

“Grants of land?” she queried. Land was more valuable
than gold. Land provided the means of growing food, of shelter, of life, and Guillelm was awarding lands in her name. The
man whom she chose would swear fealty to her.

“None of the fields or woods are from your Olverton
estate, my sweet,” Guillelm replied quickly. “I would not give
to others by taking from you”

“No, no, dragon, you misunderstand. What I meant-”
Alyson tried to explain but her sense of gratitude and sheer surprise made her tongue and wits sluggish. “You are most
generous,” she began, stopping altogether when Guillelm
grinned and suddenly hoisted her into his arms.

“Look well on your excellent lady, knights!” he shouted.
“Today she is your queen!”

Alyson’s protest was lost in the roar of approval from the
crowd. Torn between indignation at being displayed like a
banner and a curiously satisfactory kind of vanity-people were
staring at her, not Petronilla-she again attempted to thank
Guillelm, but he now added the final, unbelievable instruction.

“Knights! To obtain the favor of my lady then you must
fight me, here on this ground, by this stair. Any who succeed in passing me and climbing up to the pavilion shall be
said to have won. Do not dare to touch her, not even so much
as a fingertip, but come at me however you wish! One at a
time, in pairs or in a score of flashing shields, swords and
maces! I will take you on in whatever numbers you like! I too
fight for the lady Alyson and for her I will struggle against all
the world!”

Alyson gasped as she was lifted higher.

“I am the dragon and she is my prize!”

“No!” cried Alyson, appalled at these new revelations. “It
cannot be! I am a healer, I will never consent to such folly-“

She spoke to the air. Guillelm had already set her down and
stepped back, taking guard against the steps. She whirled
after him. “My lord, this is madness”

Guillelm smiled. “Peace, Alyson. Our swords have not
been sharpened and I will check my blows.”

“Even with blunted weapons it is dangerous. Please, my
lord, stop this now!”

About to add, For my sake, Alyson saw the bright, possessive
pride in Guillelm’s dark eyes and wished she was with her sister
in the chapel of Hardspen, anywhere but at this jousting ground.

“Do you know what Hasim used this pavilion for in his
fortress in Outremer?” Guillelm asked, as if she had not spoken.

Discouraged, Alyson shook her head. How could she make
Guillelm understand? I am not a toy, she thought, but he was
too full of his own answers to heed her.

“The tent was set up in his pleasure gardens, within the
harem” Guillelm paused, a fleeting expression of wonder and
sadness playing across his stark features. “I remember there
were bowls of flashing mercury within the tent, and couches
garlanded with the flowers of the orient, and carpets. Such
carpets, Alyson! Thick, lush coverings of blue and red and
gold, spread upon the ground itself.

“Perhaps we can use the tent in a similar way here, after the
jousts,” he went on. “Make it our own secret place.”

The idea was appealing, Alyson conceded, but then doubt
took over. Had Heloise possessed such a pavilion? Had she
entertained Guillelm on a couch strewn with roses and mint?

Fighting that image, Alyson found herself remarking tartly,
“And what of the women, my lord? The women of the harem
who used this tent?”

Guillelm sighed. “Yes, you are right to remind me. Hasim’s
women screamed when they saw me but truly they need not
have feared. Neither I nor my men touched them. Their families ransomed them and saw them safe”

Hasim’s women. And she was Guillelm’s woman-as he
himself had said it, his prize. The thought thrilled and depressed her afresh.

Seeking a diversion, Alyson realized with some relief that
Fulk and Sir Tom were tramping across the jousting ground
to join them.

“I believe Fulk would speak with you, my lord,” she began,
but it was Sir Tom who called out, “Good speech, Guido!
Now allow me to escort your lady to the stand-though I see
few takers for your challenge.”

It was true, Alyson realized. The young knights clustered
about the jousting ground seemed in no hurry to arm themselves. In twos and threes, ignoring the increasing boos and
jeers of the crowd, they whispered together like gossiping tailors, apparently reluctant to move.

“Perhaps the knights are not inspired to take up arms for such
a cause,” Fulk put in, with a quelling glance at Alyson, adding
now that he was level with her, “None wear the Hardspen favor.”

Fulk had his back to Guillelm, who did not hear his
seneschal’s latest sly dig, but Sir Tom blinked and roughly
caught the man’s arm, dragging him to one side while he hissed
something urgently into the leaner man’s ear. Whatever passed
between them Alyson did not catch but she was glad-Fulk’s
glower when he returned to her side was a joy to behold.

“How now, sir?” she asked sweetly, wishing for an instant
that she was a man, to fight Fulk openly. Or to fight Guillelm.
That battle would be short, she thought, gauging the length
and strength of his bronzed shoulders and arms. She shivered,
whether with fear or desire she could not say.

Marking her trembling, Sir Tom coughed. “I will fight,
Guido.”

“No!” Alyson stepped between the two men. “No, this has
gone far enough”

“It has not even begun yet, woman,” grunted Guillelm, staring down at her with that infuriatingly superior “leave this to
us men” look. “Though for the sake of your tender nerves, Tom
and I will be as mild as fresh milk to one another.” He glanced
over her head. “Still, it must begin soon, before the crowd
begin to throw benches onto the ground, instead of stones.”

It was true, Alyson realized. Spectators were tossing pebbles at the squires and a few were already sizing up the lingering knights. “Why can we not have a play here, like the
mystery pageants?” she burst out. “Everyone who wished
then could take part”

“Not just the knights, you mean?” Fulk was on to her
meaning at once but he gave it a darker twist. “Would you
perhaps prefer, madam, that Lord Guillelm is the prize-giver
here and you the fighter, with that new shiny dagger?”

“And my lord tied to a post or chained to a rock, like Andromeda in the legend, and me the dragon, fighting off those
who come to claim him?” Alyson demanded, nettled by
Fulk’s wheedling. “I think not!”

“You know, there is some virtue in that idea,” Guillelm remarked, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on his belt. In a
single swift action, fluid as the merlin when she stooped, he
thrust his broadsword into the parched earth at his feet, burying more than a third of its blade, and came at her again.

“Do not!” Alyson warned, clicking her fingers angrily at
him, but before she could swerve or try to thrust him aside
which she knew, maddeningly, was frankly impossible for
her-she was aloft, and heading for the pavilion. She
pounded her fist against his shoulder, forgetting for an instant
he wore mail and yelping as her hand scraped on the small
metal rings. “Guillelm, put me down!”

“In good time.”

She was pressed so tightly in his embrace that she felt his slow
heartbeat, the thick band of muscle beneath his ribs. Sucking in
air to protest anew, she sneezed as strands of his thick blond hair
blew across her eyes and nose as he lowered his head.

“Does your shoulder pain you?” he asked gently, serious
after his earlier teasing. “Do you truly wish to withdraw, my
Andromeda? I swear I will not chain you anywhere, but to
defend you against all.” He lowered her onto the second step.

“I would tie her, or she will be intervening in every single
fight,” Fulk remarked, adding quickly, “I jest, of course” He
turned away, stepping back to yell insults at the lagging knights.

Guillelm watched him leave through narrowed eyes. “Damn the man,” he muttered. “He had sense and grace
enough in Outremer. Has English ale addled his wits?”

“Forget Fulk,” Sir Tom said quickly. “But if Alyson is staying here, bring her a chair!”

So Alyson found herself a part of the joust, sitting on a
highbacked seat at the top of the earth steps, within the shade
of the red and blue-striped pavilion. Hailed publicly-by
Guillelm himself as the Andromeda of Hardspen, with Guillelm the lethal dragon of the story, prepared to fight any who
tried to reach her, she watched with mounting alarm as four
knights, armed with swords and clubs, finally made an attack.

Am I wrong to loathe this? Alyson thought unhappily, gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her fingers and
shoulders ached. She feared for Guillelm and even more for
the young knights, two of whom had patches of stubble on
their youthful faces instead of full beards and the other pair
so weedy they looked like birch saplings in armor. Beside
them Guillelm was as big as a troll, with a troll scowl on his
face. She could see his expression only in profile, but what
she did see sank her spirits further.

To turn away would be an insult to the courage of these
warriors; she had to keep a steady countenance and watch.
Though she was not in chains like Andromeda, that was her
ordeal. But unlike Andromeda I want the dragon to win …

She prayed to Christ and to the saints, determined not to
flinch as the four young men lunged at her husband, their blades
grinding against his broadsword. Across from Alyson’s lonely
vantage point, Petronilla and her ladies chattered and pointed
and giggled in the stand, a tumbler practiced back-somersaults
at the side of the stand and the other spectators roared on their
favorites and yelled for more ale. She saw Guillelm parry one
blade after another, his sword arm almost too fast for her to follow, saw him buffet one warrior and knock him flat; drop his
weapon, grab two more and hurl them away, dizzy as whipping
tops; take up his sword again and slash it across the helm of
the remaining challenger, straight at the youth’s staring eyes.

The crowd were on their feet, laughing as the four tottered
from the field, jeering at their stricken expressions, cheering
as another clutch of boy-soldiers sprinted for her place.
Charging from the base of the earth steps, Guillelm smashed
through the shield of the lead knight as if it were no stronger
than the shell of an egg, seized his opponent’s mace and tore
it from him, using the mace to club the knight’s thrashing
legs. Alyson heard the crack as mace met bone and she dry
heaved. She kept still as the knight fell, clutching his knee.

Amazingly, as if he sensed her concern, Guillelm turned to
her. “I checked the blow,” he said. “Aside from bruises tomorrow, the lad will be whole.”

Before she could answer he swung the mace again, catching another assailant in the stomach. The man doubled over,
gasping, and his squire darted onto the field to drag him out
of harm’s way. Another unarmed squire lunged at Guillelm,
hands clawing for one of the favors pinned to his strapping
body. Guillelm cursed and swatted the boy away.

And then Alyson saw the new threat emerge from the shadows of the stand, using the futile attacks of the younger
knights as cover. No youth this, but a veteran, with strong
boots, dull but well-maintained chain mail and his shield arm
more muscled than his sword arm. He moved as deftly as a
prowling spider and covered the ground between the stand
and the earth steps in a series of well judged sprints, winding
in his track so as to keep out of Guillelm’s immediate sight.

He is going to reach the stairs, Alyson thought, as Guillelm
fought five more knights at once, using the flat of his sword.
Inexplicably she felt a chill. The veteran knight was a stranger
to her but behind his visor his eyes were hard.

He is coming after me! Alyson remained frozen in her seat,
her limbs locked in horror as the older man clubbed down a
yawning man-at-arms close to the stairs with the hilt of his
sword and leaped through the gap before any of the other soldiers could react. His act was against the rules of the joust, but
this quick-moving, agile warrior had forgotten or ignored the
idea that the joust was a contest, not war. He was snarling as
he slammed his blade home into its sheath, climbing the bank
on hands and knees and still invisible to Guillelm, who was
boxing the ears of a young knight who had tried to bite him.