A Knight's Vow (9 page)

And you shall not stop me, Alyson finished for Fulk in her
own head. Clearly in this man’s mind she counted as one of
the enemies of Christ-a disconcerting thought, seeing that
she had once yearned to be a nun.

“Then we understand each other,” she responded crisply,
stepping away from Fulk and his stamping, bad-tempered
horse and scanning the downs to find Guillelm. She would
say nothing of this to her husband-to-be, but she made her
own vow then and there.

Fulk would not win. She would.

She did not find Guillelm but met Sericus coming back to
the rough stretch of grass designated by the new lord of Hardspen as the tilting ground. He hailed her, offering his arm.

“My lady, my lord wishes me to escort you to the water
meadows, where he hopes to join you presently.”

“Thank you!” Alyson said, the shadow of Fulk’s dark
words fading a little as she realized that Guillelm had remembered her need for strewing herbs and was even coming to
help. Raised up by this tiny act of kindness, she wandered
toward the river with her head full of happy plans. She would
take this time to replenish her healing herbs, too, now sadly
depleted after the sickness. Also, there might be a chance to
find treats for Guillelm did he still like wild strawberries?
She would try to gather him some. Did he still like the smell
of meadowsweet? Did he still enjoy being read to?

That memory, although precious, brought a less welcome
recollection of Guillelm’s father, confiscating her book.
Smarting at the thought, Alyson muttered an anxious prayer
that her precious herbal was somewhere safe in the castle and turned her attention to Sericus, who was full of his own plans
for Hardspen.

The sun was beginning to set when Guillelm finally joined
Alyson in the lush water meadows. He had been delayed by
Fulk and others and was out of temper.

“You will spoil your gown,” he observed, watching her cutting through a swathe of meadowsweet, but she only smiled.

“I think not,” she said. “I never have before”

“That’s true enough,” Guillelm admitted. Even as a child,
Alyson seemed to have the gift of deftly threading her way
through mud and muck that would leave him mired almost to
his eyebrows and herself untouched. Now, as he sent Sericus
off with a brisk, silent gesture and a bulging cloakful of herbs,
he saw her step away from the riverbank with another armful
and knew that once she had dusted herself off for pollen she
would be as pristine as a jewel. “You have the devil’s luck,”
he remarked.

She blushed, fumbling slightly with her knife. “I have some
strawberries for you,” she said softly. “If-If you still like them,
that is.”

Her diffidence made him ashamed. “I do not know,” he
said brusquely. “It is years since I considered such trifles.”

Her color deepened but she gave him a piercing look.
“Why so sour?”

He shook his head. Fulk had said much to him-too similar to his own fears for comfort. He stared at her bare head,
trying not to imagine Alyson with his father, while the gouge
of jealousy jabbed somewhere deep within his chest.

“Fulk doubts that all will be ready for the betrothal ceremony tomorrow,” he said.

He expected her to flare up, but Alyson finished trimming
the meadowsweet and said calmly, “We can only do our best. What else did he say?” Her tone sharpened. “That perhaps I
should be veiled tomorrow?”

She was too quick and saw too much. Cursing under his
breath, Guillelm grumbled, “Not even he would dare say that”

“He implied my purity was not beyond reproach?”

“Mother of God, no!” But Fulk had, not in so many words,
but in sly references to Lord Robert’s “vigor.” Now, meeting
her hot, indignant gaze, Guillelm utterly rejected his
seneschal’s foul insinuations. More than that, he realized it
didn’t matter. He wanted Alyson, however she was. “Shall I
carry those flowers for you?”

“No, thank you”

Silence stretched between them, heavy as thunder before a
storm, and Guillelm found himself keen to break it. “He
saved my life once”

“As doubtless you did his,” Alyson answered. “And many
times.”

It was true, but Guillelm felt his jaw tighten. He was angry
at Fulk and yet knew he was obligated to him, by ties of
custom, habit and fealty. And Fulk had saved him on the field
of battle, had been a brave and competent second-in-command.

Fulk has stood by me for years, in ways my father never
wanted to or did, he thought. I trust him with my life. I hoped
he would approve ofAlyson, and she of him, that they could
befriends. It seemed that was a forlorn hope, and he had no
tactics to bring them to any kind of reconciliation.

With a sigh, Alyson placed the cut herbs on the lush grass
of the water meadow and stepped toward him. The westering
sun flared on the red hem of her gown. “I am sorry, my lord,
that you are caught between the enmity between Fulk and
myself. It cannot be a pleasant place to stand” She raised her
hand, her fingers cupped in a small gesture that was almost a
silent plea. “I will try to be his ally and I will give him all due
respect. Your seneschal is unused to women, I think.”

“Fulk wishes to join the Knights Templar, a recent holy
order of fighting monks, pledged to protect pilgrims to the
Holy Land”

Surprised as he was to find himself admitting this, Guillelm was further disconcerted when Alyson remarked, “He
also wishes you to join, does he not?”

“He has spoken of it.” Guillelm frowned. “But it is not-”
He broke off, ashamed of the rest of the thought.

“He is a powerful advocate for the Christian cause,” Alyson
said, lowering her eyes so he could not see their expression.
“Are all men like him in Outremer? So vehement?”

“Some are,” Guillelm admitted, ashamed now that he was
not the same. Within the Holy Land he had made friends with
Jews and even with Arabs. “We all use Arab physicians.”

“Indeed! I would know more of them” Clearly at ease now
that their talk had strayed into her own area of expertise,
Alyson settled on the ground by his feet and hugged at her
knees, another youthful trick of hers that he remembered and
that still delighted him. “What do they use to cure fever?
Toothache? Sprains?”

“Steady!” Touched by her eagerness, Guillelm was
tempted to sit with her but knew they could not linger; his
men and the folk of the castle would be waiting for them. “We
must leave that for another day.”

He held out his hand to help her up.

Alyson stared at her gold betrothal ring. It was plain and
heavy, without any gemstones, but utterly precious to her.
Under cover of the trestle table she touched it to convince herself it was real.

All day she had felt to be in a dream. Even this evening, at
her betrothal feast in Hardspen’s great hall, surrounded by
people-mainly Guillelm’s men-listening to their jests and
good wishes, she felt apart, somewhere beyond joy or calm.

Another dish was set before her to try. Where had the food
come from? She had asked Guillelm, who had lightly tugged
at her hair and said that years of foraging in Outremer had
taught him everything he needed to know about finding victuals, then grinned at her expression of shock and reassured
her that no one went hungry at their expense. “Your cook was
not so anxious,” he had chuckled. “But he saw the provision
carts arrive while you were in the bathhouse”

Since then the cook had been busy, Alyson reflected. She
picked up her spoon. Alert to the slight movement, Guillelm
turned to her.

“May I try some, too?” he asked softly. “It looks intriguing.”

He spoke with such tender pride that she felt tears stand in her eyes. Hastily for it would not do to be seen weeping
at her plight-troth feast-Alyson nodded and, ignoring a
vulgar catcall from Thierry, she swiftly broke the crust of the
sweet curd flan and offered Guillelm a spoonful.

He leaned forward and ate, his dark eyes never leaving
her face as he swallowed. “Delicious,” he murmured.

When she smiled, his mouth crinkled in return and a glaze
of indulgent happiness transformed him from the seasoned
warrior to the youth she had known.

“We will be well together, Alyson,” he said, voicing her
own hope. “My betrothed”

“May I try some of that?” She pointed to the wooden plate
of date slices positioned beside the richly decorated covered
salt cellar immediately in front of Guillelm, and he cut her a
portion, holding it out to her in his fingers and teasingly withdrawing his hand as she came close.

“Unfair!” she protested, laughing as he waved the sweet
under her nose. “You should pay a forfeit for that”

“I have another gift for you, when we have a moment alone.”
His free hand hovered toward her hair. “You are so-“

A crash on the staircase outside the great hall had Alyson
and Guillelm breaking apart and starting to their feet, Alyson
instinctively shielding him with her raised arms.

“No, little one, it should be the other way round” Gently
but firmly, Guillelm drew her behind him, tensing as a cowering figure stumbled into the hall.

Alyson gasped and darted forward, too quick even for
Guillelm’s rapid reactions. Evading his snatching hand and
the startled servers, she flew from the dais to her former
nurse, gathering Gytha into her arms. “There, you are safe,”
she crooned, rocking the trembling woman as consternation
broke out in the rest of the hall, men flinging back the
benches and jumping up, looking round wildly for weapons
in case of some attack.

“What is going on?” Guillelm demanded, hands on hips
as he strode to meet the shadow emerging from the top of
the stairs.

It was Fulk. He was carrying a silver cup that clearly was
bulk of the former liquid stained the red-checked
nurse’s bodice and had splashed onto her shoes.

“A collision on the staircase, my lord,” Alyson said, relieved it was no worse, but even as she spoke Fulk overrode
her, his voice strident.

“This creature is a poisoner! I saw her with my own eyes,
tipping some foul powder into your cup, my lord! With my
own eyes!” White spittle collected in his mouth corners as he
pointed at the now-sobbing Gytha. “A witch!”

“Not so!” Alyson’s clear denial rang out above the hasty
prayers of the younger squires and knights. The older men and
women, she noted, were silent and still, watching carefully.
Guillelm was also watching, his face an unreadable mask.

Shocked at Fulk’s sheer malice, Alyson bit hard on her
lip. The pain reminded her to keep her temper; she needed her
wits about her, when part of her longed to knock Fulk back
onto the rushes.

She held out her hand. “Give me the cup”

“My lady, I swear to you … you know I would never …
never…” Gytha broke down again.

Furious at Fulk for abusing a helpless old woman, Alyson
snapped her fingers. “The cup, sir!”

“There is no liquid left. She spilled it deliberately,” Fulk
replied smoothly, holding the silver goblet so all could
see inside.

“Even so, my lady will know from the dregs,” Guillelm observed in a deadly calm, speaking for the first time since his
seneschal had made his outrageous accusations.

Paling slightly under his mottled, pockmarked skin, Fulk almost tossed the goblet to Alyson, who righted it before any
more of the sticky lees could be lost.

She held it under her nose. “Spices, my lord, and a good
wine.” She licked a finger and dipped it into the cup, showing the trace of white powder to the assembled company and
then tasting it. “The powder is from the dried flower heads of
yarrow.” She drained off part of the lees, licking her lips. “It
is harmless.”

“Yarrow is much used by witches,” Fulk countered.

“And in loving cups,” Alyson replied.

“‘Tis true, Lord,” Gytha gabbled, fixing tear-streaked eyes
on Guillelm. “I used the yarrow for your marriage. Seven
years of happiness, my potion will bring. I meant no harm,
before God-“

“Peace!” rumbled Guillelm, as if wearying of the whole
affair, and he lifted the goblet from Alyson’s clasp and drank
down the lees. “Though in faith I need no potions, old dame.
Did you think perhaps that I was lacking?”

The hall erupted into laughter, releasing the tensions of the
past few moments, and Alyson drew in a long, calming breath.

“I will take Gytha to my chamber,” she murmured to Guillelm, and he nodded. Both of them knew they could not talk
until they were private.

Alyson did not return to the great hall. She comforted
Gytha as best she could and made up a sleeping draught for
her nurse. Afterward, listening to Gytha snoring gently, she
wondered at Fulk’s spite. Had Guillelm not intervened as he
did, would Fulk have been able to turn the castle against
Gytha-and by association, herself?

Peering through the wooden casement, Alyson watched the
moon rise and set while she listened to the increasingly rowdy
drinking games of the men. Was Guillelm often in his cups? The idea made her shiver, especially when she remembered
how his father, Lord Robert, had been whenever he had too
much malmsey …

Before dawn, she laced her gown again and rebraided her
hair. Taking her favorite mortar and pestle from the smallest
oak chest, she slipped out of her chamber and down the stairs,
determined to do something useful, if only as a distraction
from her thoughts.

Lord Robert had not allowed her a still room in which to
make her potions, but Alyson had found a small place for herself in a small lean-to off the stable block. In this she had a chopping table, and earthenware crocks, and even some glass bottles,
more precious than gold to her. In the lean-to she had bundles
of drying herbs hung from the slanting roof and fresh herbs laid
on shelves, a small brazier for stewing herbs and bowls for
steeping them. It was a cramped space, even for her, but with its
comforting smells of lavender, rosemary and thyme it always
felt like home to Alyson, reminding her vividly of the still room
at her father’s house. Now, when she crossed the threshold and
pushed open the door to the lean-to to its fullest, she opened a
sack of rose petals and ran her fingers through them, simply for
the pleasure their silky texture and delicate scent gave her.