Читать книгу A Perfect Knight - Anne Herries, Anne Herries - Страница 9

I t was a part of Alayne’s duty to wait on the Queen in the morning, taking her the cup of sweet wine that she drank on breaking her fast and helping her to rise and dress for the day.

‘I have given permission for the tourney,’ she told Alayne as she drank deeply from the cup, the wine having first been tasted by the servant who brought it to her chamber. ‘It will take place next week. Today is Saturday and tomorrow is the Lord’s day, so we may not begin until the following day. The heralds shall announce it and ride into the villages about so that the people may come hither to enjoy the spectacle. We shall proclaim it a day of feasting and rejoicing.’

‘I believe the knights are excited about the contest,’ Alayne said. ‘I must think of a suitable token to give the winner.’

‘It need be no more than a scarf or a trinket,’ the Queen said. ‘Yet I think they hope for something more.’

‘Then they hope in vain,’ Alayne said with a frown. ‘But I will not give so little as a scarf. They must fight for something of value. I shall give my gold bangle that was a wedding gift from my father.’

‘Is that the one wrought with vine leaves in the style of the Romans?’

‘Yes, the very one,’ Alayne said, looking pleased because the Queen knew of it. ‘Do you think it suitable?’

‘It is very fine work and quite valuable,’ Eleanor said. ‘Are you sure you wish to give it, Alayne?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Alayne assured her. It was less personal than a scarf would be and, although she thought it pretty, it reminded her of things she would rather forget. ‘I have others I prefer.’

‘Then so be it—the bangle shall be the prize,’ the Queen said and nodded. She gave a sigh and frowned as if something displeased her. ‘It would be exciting if we had a new champion this time. De Froissart usually wins and it grows stale to see him vanquish them all. I think it a shame that he does not take himself off to join the Knights Templars and fight in a worthwhile cause.’

‘I have heard that the Baron de Froissart fought in the crusade as a young lad, your Grace.’

‘Indeed, he did,’ she said and smiled. ‘I was there and saw him win high favours, which he had from my first husband’s hand. He was a page of no more than eleven then and fought as bravely as any squire. He was seventeen when he earned his spurs. None can call him a coward and, since he chooses to languish at our court, we must accept him—but I still think it a shame that he wastes his skills in play when he might fight in a more worthy cause.’

Alayne smiled and made no comment. The Queen liked strong brave men about her, and she would not really want de Froissart to leave her court. She was out of temper over something, and Alayne suspected it was to do with the letters from her husband, King Henry II of England. It was whispered that he had several times been unfaithful to her and that she had left him because of it.

Eleanor of Aquitaine was a powerful woman and a wealthy heiress. Her lands were coveted by many, but she guarded them fiercely and quarrelled with her husband instead of giving him the homage that she should as his wife.

When the Queen was ready, she asked several of her ladies to walk with her in the palace grounds. Alayne was of the party chosen, and as she strolled in the sunshine, chattering idly with her friends, she thought about de Froissart. He had won the last three tournaments, which was of course why he had suggested a tourney. She knew he hoped for a prize other than the bangle she had offered, but she was not sure of her feelings towards him.

It was true that he sometimes made her heart race when he teased her. Occasionally he would let his hand brush against hers, and he had recently twice helped her dismount from her palfrey. She had sensed that he wished to kiss her, and when he talked of fine love she knew that he meant he wanted to make love to her in the manner the troubadours sang of, with gentle wooing and languishing looks, the touch of a hand, and a stolen kiss—but for how long would he be satisfied with such privileges?

She could not allow the ultimate intimacy for which he longed. By the rules of courtly love it was for her to allow or to deny; this was her privilege as the lady in the affaire. To be kissed, touched with reverence, courted as an object to be admired and worshipped from afar—yes, she could accept and even welcome such a love. But in her heart she knew that that would not suffice for long. Allowed such privileges, a lover would want more and she could not. She could not!

‘What troubles you, sweet lady?’

Alayne jumped as the man who had been uppermost in her thoughts caught up with them, matching his steps to hers as she strolled in the gardens. She glanced round and saw that the Queen had turned back with her ladies. She had been dreaming and not realised that they were returning to the palace.

‘I was thinking,’ she said and smiled at him as he reached for her hand, raising it to his lips to kiss it lightly on the back. The look he gave her seemed to bathe her in warmth and a little tingle of pleasure ran down her spine as he released her hand. He was gentle and courteous, and it was pleasant to be courted in this way. If she had not experienced her husband’s vile baseness, she might have welcomed de Froissart’s courtship. ‘So it seems you will have your way over the tourney, my lord. Are you pleased?’

‘It is a matter of sport only,’ he said and for a moment his eyes met hers and there was no laughter in them. ‘Do not fear that I shall press for more than you wish to give, my lady. You are beautiful and you must have guessed that I languish for love of you—but I would not have you less than willing. I may win the tourney, but it gives me nothing I had not before.’

Alayne’s heart beat faster. He was charming and she found him pleasing, but still there was a reserve in her. Besides, he did not arouse that restlessness in her that the English knight had done with just a look!

‘I have given a bangle as your prize, Sir Knight, but you have not won it yet.’ Her eyes teased him. It was pleasant to idle in the sun and talk this way with a friend. ‘There may come a challenger to unhorse you.’

‘I wish it might be so,’ he said and sighed, and for the first time Alayne saw the truth of his heart, realising that there was more to this knight than she had previously imagined. ‘I grow stale and bored at this court, Lady Alayne. It is only your presence that keeps me languishing here.’

‘Then perhaps you should go,’ she suggested. ‘Where would you go, my lord?’

‘To England,’ he replied. ‘I have heard that there are unruly barons there that plague the King and I would take service with him.’

‘You do not think of taking the Cross again?’

‘I have been to the Holy Land,’ de Froissart replied. ‘I paid my dues to the church. In truth, I have thought of other things…’ He shook his head. ‘No, the time is not right. Forgive me, lady. I know this kind of talk does not please you.’

Alayne stared at him in surprise. His words seemed to hint at something she had not suspected. She had thought he teased her merely in the hope of becoming her lover, but it seemed he thought of deeper matters. She turned away from him, walking back to join the Queen and her ladies as they went into the palace.

‘Where have you been?’ Marguerite asked her. ‘Her Majesty says she will sit in the walled garden this afternoon with her tapestry. She wants you to sort her silks for her because you have the best eye for colour. I gave her the wrong blue last time and we had to unpick the stitches.’

Alayne nodded. She would be glad of something to occupy her mind. She had thought herself safe to indulge in a mild flirtation with de Froissart, but if he wanted her as his wife… She shook her head. No, she did not want to be his wife. She did not want to be any man’s wife!

‘I was dreaming,’ she answered her friend. ‘And de Froissart stopped me. I did not realise you had turned back.’

As they entered the palace, she turned round to glance back. There was no sign of Baron de Froissart, but she saw the English knight looking at her and he was frowning again. Why did he always seem to frown at her? What had she done that made him so disapproving?

Alayne’s heart jerked and then raced wildly, her breathing becoming almost painful. His eyes seemed to penetrate her mind, to seek out her thoughts, to strip her naked to his gaze. And he did not appear to be pleased with what he saw. Oh, what did it matter?

And why could she not simply dismiss him from her thoughts?

Ralph set out to follow de Froissart a few moments after Alayne had disappeared inside the palace with the other ladies. He had not meant to listen to their conversation, but what he had chanced to hear had made him realise that the lady had little to fear from that knight. It seemed that he had misjudged de Froissart; he wished to marry her and that would be the best thing that could happen to her. Once she was safely wed, she would no longer be at the mercy of unscrupulous rogues who sought her for her fortune. De Froissart was in love with her and he had an adequate fortune of his own.

There was no doubt that it would be a good match for Alayne. She needed an iron hand in a velvet mitt to tame her, for there was fire in her though she pretended to modesty. The baron loved her and was therefore the best person to be on the watch for her safety. Besides, Ralph had been thinking about that whispered conversation and he suspected that whoever had been thinking of entering the lists against de Froissart plotted some mischief. It would be as well to warn the baron of his own danger and Alayne’s.

He was out of sight of the palace and at the edge of the forest when he heard the shouts and sounds of fighting. Someone was being attacked! Ralph was wearing court dress and no armour, but he did have his sword at his side. He found it wiser to have his weapon to hand at all times when outside the palace.

Running towards the sounds of the struggle he saw what he had half-expected to find—the Baron de Froissart was surrounded by six ruffians. They were not knights but stout fellows armed with cudgels and were laying about de Froissart as if they meant to kill him. Giving a cry of outrage at such knavery, Ralph charged into the fray, his sword drawn. As they heard his battle cry the men turned, looked startled, and then fled as one into the forest.

Ralph did not bother to give chase. De Froissart was lying on the ground and, from the moans issuing from his lips, Ralph knew that he had not arrived in time to save him from injury. He knelt on the ground at his side, turning him over gently and frowning as he saw the blood on his head and more seeping through the sleeve of his tunic.

‘Forgive me, I should have come sooner,’ he said as he helped the baron to rise and heard his muffled cry of pain. ‘What harm have those scurvy knaves done you, sir? I think you have suffered a wound to your arm, but what more?’

‘A few blows to the head, but I think my right arm is worst. It may be broken.’ A moan of pain broke from the baron, but he gritted his teeth and allowed his rescuer to tend him.

Ralph gently rolled back his sleeve and examined the arm with gentle fingers, then he nodded his head. ‘Yes, I believe there may be some damage, but not, I think, a serious break. Let me help you back to the palace and summon a surgeon, my friend. I think you will mend in time for I have seen much worse wounds than this recover.’

‘I thank you for your help,’ de Froissart said, swaying slightly as Ralph helped him to his feet. ‘Had you not arrived, I fear they would have killed me.’

‘I had not realised you were in danger until this morning,’ Ralph said. ‘I knew someone meant to win that tournament and the Lady Alayne by fair means or foul—but I am at fault, for I did not realise this was his plan, to disable you first.’

‘Pray tell me more!’ de Froissart glared at him. ‘Do you say this was a plot to stop me taking part in the tourney?’

‘I believe it may have been,’ Ralph replied. ‘It was to warn you of a possible plot against you that I followed you when you left the Lady Alayne a few minutes ago. I believe someone is desperate to win her and her fortune and will do whatever he thinks necessary to stop any rival from carrying her off as his bride.’

‘What knave has done this? I’ll spit him like the swine he is!’ de Froissart cried and then half-fell as the pain in his arm almost overcame him. ‘At least, I shall when I am myself again.’

‘I know not his name. I heard only a few whispers last night in the gardens.’ Ralph smiled at his frustration. ‘At first I did not realise what they meant and then it was too late to discover the identity of the plotters. I can promise you the time will come when you may repay this debt,’ he said, ‘but not soon enough for you to win the tourney.’

‘But that was his purpose!’ de Froissart said and winced as he tried to move his arm. ‘If I do not take part, some other fool will win the chance to court her—possibly Baron de Bracey’s son Renaldo. I know his father covets her lands and he covets her. Between them they are the veriest rogues, the son worse than the father. This is the kind of thing they would plot between them!’

‘There were two of them,’ Ralph agreed. ‘One seemed to hesitate while the other ordered. It may be that you are right and it was de Bracey and his son. I do not think I know them, but you will have your squire point them out to me and I shall keep an eye on them.’

‘But you must do more than that,’ de Froissart said and halted his slow, painful walk to fix him with a fierce stare. ‘You must enter the lists and defeat de Bracey. If he wins, Alayne must let him be her champion for at least a few hours and I do not trust that scurvy knave. He will find some way to take advantage of her.’

‘I believe you care for the lady?’

‘Damn your eyes! What business is it of yours?’ de Froissart growled. ‘If you must know, I would marry her if she would have me—but that father of hers soured her for marriage. She was forced to take a man near old enough to be her grandfather and I believe he treated her badly, though she will never speak of it to anyone. The Queen whispered to me that she was most unhappy in her marriage and would not easily trust another man, and so I have been gentle in my courtship of her. I cannot tell whether she loves me in return—but I would do whatever she asked of me.’

‘You would protect her,’ Ralph agreed, ‘and she is in sore need of protection. We must do something to make certain that de Bracey’s son cannot win the right to court her. Is there no one apart from me who would fight in your stead?’

De Froissart’s eyes narrowed in reply. ‘I have heard that you are a worthy fighter, de Banewulf. Fight as my champion and protect the lady from those rogues, for my arm will not be stout enough to do it myself.’

‘It is a while since I entered the lists,’ Ralph replied reluctantly. He had no love of the tourney—too many men were injured in what was a vain cause and he fought only in a just one. ‘I train as always, for I believe it keeps the body well and the mind alert—but I have no heart for fighting. The last time I fought I killed a man who was my friend. I fought in anger and vowed I would not fight other than for my King and country again.’

‘We have all done things we would rather forget,’ de Froissart said, his interest caught by Ralph’s unthinking confession. ‘Did you intend to kill him?’

‘No. He was trying to tell me something I did not wish to hear,’ Ralph said. ‘I grew angry and we fought. I knocked him to the ground and he struck his head against a metal anvil—we were in the stable-yard near the blacksmith’s forge—and his skull cracked open. We did all we could to save him, but it was hopeless. Later, as he lay dying, he told me that he had lied to make me angry to bring me out of my grief, and then he smiled at me before he died.’

‘What was the lie that made you so angry?’

‘He told me that the child that led to my wife’s death was not mine but his.’ Ralph’s face was dark with sorrow. ‘But he lied and I knew that he lied. My anger was as much for myself as for him. I killed her by my unkindness and I killed him in my anger. For a time I considered taking up the Cross as my penance, but I knew that I was not worthy. God’s knight must be worthy of the honour to bear his symbol.’

‘I know what you mean,’ de Froissart said, nodding. ‘I too have killed in anger and that is why I will not take up the Cross again—but you wrong yourself, de Banewulf. You did only what other men have done before you and your sin is not so great as many.’

‘Yet I cannot forgive myself.’

‘Then make this tourney your penance.’ de Froissart threw the challenge at him. ‘If you feel you owe your friend and your wife a debt, take up the sword in their names as well as mine. For if you do not, I fear for the Lady Alayne’s safety.’

Ralph stared at him in silence for a long moment, and then inclined his head. It meant that he must break a sacred vow, but he would speak to the priest and ask for a penance to set him free.

‘I shall do as you ask, but I cannot promise that I shall be victorious. I have trained with my men as I told you, but I have not fought to win since the day I killed Christian Payton.’

‘Have the surgeon patch me up and I shall watch you train,’ de Froissart told him. ‘Then we shall see what we shall see…’

‘You should be in your bed, my friend.’

‘I am no weakling,’ de Froissart growled and stifled a moan of pain. ‘Let me only have my arm bound and give me a glass of good strong wine and I will watch you fight. Aye, and cheer the loudest of them all when you beat those knaves!’

Ralph smiled, realising that he had begun to like the man despite himself. ‘I bow to your judgement and pray that I may do your faith in me justice.’

Alayne listened to the gossip circulating that evening. The courtiers could talk of nothing but the attack on Baron de Froissart. Most cried shame that such a thing could have happened, for it was whispered by all that whoever was behind the attack had hoped to take unfair advantage by making it impossible for de Froissart to participate in the tourney.

‘It was wicked knavery,’ Marguerite said to Alayne. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘I do not know.’ Alayne frowned. She was feeling chilled as she had on the day of the hunt, when the tourney was first suggested.

The Queen frowned over what had happened and spoke of cancelling the tournament, but the courtiers begged her not to spoil their fun, and when de Froissart put in a belated appearance at supper that evening he added his pleas to the others.

‘I beg your Grace will not cancel the tourney,’ he said in a loud voice so that all might hear him. ‘For whoever has done this thing will be thwarted by my champion if he thinks to win by foul means.’

‘Your champion?’ Everyone was agog to know who he meant and whispered one to the other as they tried to name the knight who would fight in de Froissart’s name. ‘But who will you choose? Is he a stranger to court?’

‘He has been here but a few days,’ de Froissart said and smiled at Ralph, who stood just behind him. He was in great pain, for he had drunk only wine and refused the healing potion the surgeon had given him, saying that he would not sleep until he was certain that honour had been satisfied. ‘I speak of Sir Ralph de Banewulf…’ Hearing the murmurs of surprise, he held up his uninjured arm for silence. ‘Sir Ralph saved my life, for I foolishly went unarmed too near the forest and was attacked by those foul brigands. Had he not arrived in time, I fear I might be dead—but as you see, I am not.’

Alayne’s heart caught as she heard his words. The English knight had not wanted to fight in the tourney—why had he changed his mind?

Queen Eleanor was looking at him. ‘Is this true, Sir Ralph? Do you fight as de Froissart’s champion?’

‘Yes, for he has asked it of me and I am in honour bound to do as he asks.’

She inclined her head, a little gleam in her eye. ‘I believe this tourney may be interesting after all. Since you make it a matter of honour, sir, I shall let the contest continue—with but one small change. You fight for a gold bangle and for the honour of sitting with the Lady Alayne at the high table as we feast afterwards. I know there was some foolish talk of fighting for the honour of courting the lady, but this I forbid. Whoever wins has only the bangle and her companionship for the evening, nothing more.’ Her eyes swept over the assembled company. ‘Do you all agree, good knights?’

There were murmurs of agreement all round, but Ralph noticed the scowling faces of a few knights, and he whispered to de Froissart who looked in the direction of two men standing together. It was clear by their harsh dark looks that they were father and son, though the father had run to fat, his face and hands podgy and white. If he was not mistaken, the knave was riddled with the pox, thought Sir Ralph—and that was the man who had thought to seize the Lady Alayne for himself! Or was it for his son? The younger man looked healthier, but his mouth was vicious.

No, by heaven, they should not have her! Ralph made the silent vow to himself, angered that they should have dared to think themselves worthy to approach her. Yet they had thought to steal her from de Froissart by secretly disabling him—perhaps they had thought to murder him, and might have had he not overheard their plotting.

‘I am so sorry you are wounded, sir.’

Hearing a gentle voice behind them, Ralph saw that the Lady Marguerite had approached them and was talking to de Froissart.

‘It was a mere scratch,’ de Froissart replied nobly, if not entirely truthfully.

‘You should be resting. It was a mercy that Sir Ralph was close by to help you, my lord.’

‘I have much to thank him for,’ de Froissart replied.

Ralph’s attention wandered, his eyes searching the company, looking for Alayne. She was standing a little apart from the other ladies, a pensive expression on her face that touched him. Why was she so sad? He had thought her light-hearted and teasing, a temptress who enjoyed her power over the knights, but now, seeing her when she thought herself unobserved, he realised that there was more to the lady than he had first thought.

‘Excuse me, I shall leave you for a moment,’ he said to de Froissart, but was cut off as the Queen stood up to address her company.

‘I do not know whether the attack on Baron de Froissart was by brigands or not,’ she said and her expression was stern. ‘But if I discover that this was an attempt to stop him fighting in the tourney—or if anything similar should happen to his champion—I shall banish the perpetrators for life, and their estates shall be forfeit.’

There was a gasp of surprise from the courtiers, for this was a harsh punishment and they had seldom heard their Queen speak so coldly to them. It was clear that she was very angry, and that she would not hesitate to carry out her threat if she were disobeyed. Banishment from the court and the confiscation of lands was something that most knights would not risk. Defeat in the tourney meant the loss of armour, but that was a mere trifle compared with this threat.

‘Did someone try to harm you because of the tourney?’ Marguerite asked and looked at de Froissart in distress. ‘That was a terrible thing to do, sir.’

‘We may never know their reason,’ was all that de Froissart would say. ‘I thank you for your concern, but I think that if you will excuse me, lady, I must follow your advice and seek my bed.’

Marguerite looked concerned. ‘Yes, of course. Do you wish for help?’

‘My friend here will help me. I fear I should be too heavy a burden for you, fair lady.’ He made her a shaky bow and then hissed at Ralph. ‘Get me out of here!’

‘Foolish,’ Ralph scolded as he put his arm about the baron, who was almost fainting on his feet, but had insisted on accompanying him to the hall. He forgot his intention to seek out Alayne as he hastened to assist de Froissart. ‘Come, I shall see you to your bed—and you shall take the surgeon’s potion to make you sleep or I shall know the reason why. I need your help to hone my skills in the morning or this tourney will be lost—and, despite the Queen’s decree, I dare swear the victor will claim his rights as he sees fit.’

‘And you must be the victor,’ de Froissart said and scowled at him. The pain in his arm was fierce, but it receded a little as they argued, which was of course the other’s intent. ‘You fight well enough, but must put your heart into it, de Banewulf. As my champion you shall not shame me—or you shall answer for it when I am well again.’

Ralph laughed, though he believed the threat real enough. They understood each other and had formed a bond of friendship. De Froissart was a true knight and would make the Lady Alayne a good husband. Something deep inside Ralph protested at the thought of her wed to any knight other than himself, but he quashed it ruthlessly. She was not for him. He would not take another bride.

Alayne watched as they left the hall together. She had been shocked and distressed to hear the news of such a wicked assault on the baron, the more so because she was afraid that de Froissart might have been attacked because of her. But who would do such a thing? Surely none of the courtiers was so base as to take unfair advantage? Yet there were some that she distrusted, some she took good care to avoid.

Glancing across the room, she saw that both Baron de Bracey and his son Renaldo were present this evening. A little quiver went over her and she felt afraid. She would need no warning from Sir Ralph to stay close to her friends this night.

She was not sure which of the de Bracey men she disliked the most. The baron was revolting and diseased, if rumour be true, but the son was evil. He had come to her home with his father once as a boy and she had seen him tormenting her kittens. When she had remonstrated with him, he had laughed in her face and told her she would wake up and find them missing one day. She never had, but she had lived in fear of it for months.

And this was the family into which her father would have her marry! She knew her father did not hold her in affection, but how could he contemplate such a match? She had only seen the de Bracey men at court a few times; they were not popular and did not come as often as some. Why were they here now? Was it possible that Baron de Bracey had made up his differences with her father? Her father would force her into any marriage that showed him some advantage, she knew—but she would rather die than be married to either of the de Bracey men!

She looked away, controlling her feeling of revulsion towards the men as she saw the Queen beckoning to her. Crossing the room to Eleanor’s side, she made her curtsy and, taking up a lyre, began to sing for the company. She ought to have gone to de Froissart as Marguerite had, she thought regretfully. It would have been polite and kind after his courtesy to her, but his declaration that morning had made her a little afraid of him. As a courtly lover she found him acceptable, but as a husband…no, that was impossible. Alayne sighed. She was not sure that she would ever find any man acceptable to her in that way.

Yet even as she denied it, the features of the English knight came to her mind. She recalled the way his eyes had seemed to devour her in the garden the previous night, his expression in part angry, in part—what? Perhaps hungry was the best way to describe the look he had given her. She could not be sure. She knew only that she had not felt the fear or revulsion that came to her when other men looked at her that way.

There was something that drew her to Ralph de Banewulf, though she was afraid to admit it, even to herself. It could not be that she had begun to fall in love with him—could it?

No, no, she was sure that she could never love, so what was it that caused such restlessness in her, making it almost impossible for her to sleep? Why was it that she had such fevered dreams, dreams in which the English knight took her in his arms and kissed her so sweetly that it made her whole body sing?

Sunday was for devotion and Alayne attended mass four times in the royal chapel. At all other times there was feasting, music and dancing in the halls of the palace, but on the Lord’s day the courtiers were expected to be sober and respectful.

The ladies spent most of the day at their devotions and their needlework, while the men often went out riding. Alayne suspected that they sometimes found taverns in the villages where they could drink and sport with the wenches, though, of course, some of the knights were genuinely devout and refrained from sport of any kind.

It was after supper, which the Queen had taken privately rather than in the hall, that she first heard the whisper from Marguerite.

‘They say that Sir Ralph asked her Majesty’s permission to keep a vigil in the chapel last night,’ she told Alayne as they were going up to their chamber. An early night had been decreed so that all might be ready to gather on the common at first light for the tourney to begin. ‘It seems he had vowed never to fight in such a tourney again, and the priest granted him absolution of his vow, his penance to lie prostrate before the cross all night.’

‘I wonder why he took such a vow,’ Alayne said, her brow wrinkling in thought. ‘Do you think he had committed some great sin?’

‘My father thinks him a good man,’ Marguerite told her. ‘There are bound to be rumours, of course, but I cannot think him capable of evil. And he is devoted to his wife’s memory. She died suddenly, they say, of a fever.’

‘I thought she died after giving birth to her child?’

‘My father told me she had recovered, but then her illness returned suddenly. Sir Ralph thought she was well again and they say he blamed himself for neglecting her—but it cannot have been his fault. He is a good man, do you not think so, Alayne?’

‘Perhaps. I do not know him, but I do not think him evil,’ Alayne replied, avoiding Marguerite’s gaze. The English knight confused her and she did not wish to continue speaking of him. ‘Have you heard aught of the Baron de Froissart? I have seen nothing of him since the other night and I asked the Lady Angelica for news, but she said she had heard he was prostrate on his bed this afternoon.’

‘Well, I do not know how that may be,’ Marguerite said. ‘My father told me the baron was watching Sir Ralph practise with the sword this morning for three hours.’

Alayne nodded, looking at her curiously. ‘Has your father said anything more of your marriage?’

‘No…but he says that he may take me to the English court soon. My Uncle Godolphin is much favoured by the King and it seems that my Aunt Isabelle wishes to see me. I have cousins of marriageable age.’

‘Then mayhap your father has not made up his mind about your marriage yet,’ Alayne said. ‘Perhaps your squire may yet be knighted in time.’

‘Oh, no,’ Marguerite denied and glanced away, her cheeks pink. Alayne sensed that she was embarrassed, perhaps wished that she had not mentioned her feelings for the young squire. ‘That was but a foolish fancy. He is too young to be married and I—I believe an older man might make a better husband.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Alayne agreed, ‘though not too old. You would not like that, Marguerite, believe me. I think Sir Ralph and de Froissart are perhaps of a similar age…’

‘The Baron de Froissart is the elder of the two by some three years,’ Marguerite said and blushed again as Alayne gave her an inquiring look. ‘My father told me that Sir Ralph is the same age as my brother Eduardo and I—I know that de Froissart is older than my brother, for they were once good friends.’

‘You did not tell me that,’ Alayne said. Perhaps it was because Sir Ralph was so stern in his manner that she had thought him older. ‘I thought you did not like de Froissart?’

‘Well, it is not exactly that I do not like him…’ The lady blushed. ‘I should not have said what I did to you, Alayne. There was some quarrel between Eduardo and Pierre de Froissart when they were training together as squires. I thought it more serious than it was. My brother told me the truth of it recently and it was merely a squabble, because Eduardo was disciplined by his master—for some minor transgression that Pierre had reported. He was but thirteen at the time Pierre went off to the crusades and resented that he was too young to go with him.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Alayne replied, noticing that her friend was overcome with her embarrassment and that she had used the baron’s familiar name several times. ‘So you think that de Froissart is trustworthy after all?’

‘As much as any man,’ Marguerite said and turned away as they entered their chamber. She yawned as she disrobed, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘I am tired and we must be up early if we are to be ready in time.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Alayne replied. She was beginning to suspect that her friend was more interested in de Froissart than she would admit, and that her story of being in love with a young squire might not be true. Why should Marguerite have lied about her feelings? Unless she had believed that Alayne was interested in Baron de Froissart herself? Could she have been a little jealous and spoken hastily? ‘Goodnight, and may the Lord bless and keep us.’

Marguerite was already snuggling down beneath the covers, her eyes closed. Alayne slipped in beside her, closing her eyes and trying to sleep, but her thoughts were crowding in on her, making her restless. It seemed that Marguerite was as uncertain of her feelings as Alayne was herself—and that the girl knew the Baron de Froissart much better than she had imagined. If Marguerite’s brother had been de Froissart’s friend, it was likely that the families had met often…

Something was still puzzling Alayne as she finally fell asleep, but she could not quite grasp it. Besides, it did not matter now—far more important was the contest the next day, and the identity of the eventual winner.

As her eyes closed and she drifted into a pleasant dream, Alayne saw the face of the victor as she handed him his prize.

People were crowding on to the common land where the tourney was to be held that morning. Men, women and children of all ages, talking excitedly, the young ones running around like playful puppies, pulling at their mother’s skirt and begging for treats from the hot pie seller. When the Queen and her ladies arrived there was already a sea of faces assembled. Merchants and their wives, dressed in their best, labourers taking an unexpected holiday from their constant round of toil, beggars looking to steal or beg a few coins, peddlers carrying their wares on trays and entertainers of all kinds, the atmosphere one of excitement and anticipation.

‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Marguerite whispered to her. ‘Oh, do look at that man eating fire! It must cause him pain, wouldn’t you think?’

‘I expect it is a trick,’ Alayne said. ‘My nurse told me that all such entertainers trick us in some way.’ She smiled as she saw the doubts in Marguerite’s eyes. ‘But it is exciting to watch, I do agree with that.’

However, she could not help feeling excited herself as, with a fanfare from the heralds, she was led to the place of honour on the dais, which had been erected beneath a canopy of billowing silk. The ladies of the court were chattering, watching as she was announced the Queen of the tourney, some a little jealously, some merely pleased to be a part of all the excitement of the day.

Her heart was beating nervously as she took her seat to the cheers of the people. For one day her rule was law, at least in matters of the tourney and the knights who competed for the honour of sitting with her that night at feast. As was her due, she was being enthusiastically hailed as the Queen of Youth and Beauty, taking precedence over the true Queen for the moment.

It felt strange to be seated higher than the Queen, but, when Alayne hesitated, her friend and protector smiled at her and nodded approvingly.

‘It is your right,’ she said. ‘Be wise, my lady, for remember, today your word must be obeyed.’

‘I pray that I shall be worthy of the honour, your Majesty.’

Alayne looked about her. To one side were the tents and banners of the knights taking part in the contest. Their squires had worked through the night to have everything ready for their masters, and it was a matter of honour with them that their lord should wear the best armour and ride the best prepared charger.

‘Listen, Alayne,’ the Queen said. ‘They are ready to begin.’

The heralds had begun to blow a fanfare before announcing the names of the knights who had entered the lists. Then a great cheer went up as the people shouted for their favourites. Mounted on great chargers, the heavy horses snorting, their breath making clouds on the morning air, the knights began to parade before the courtiers. Each rode along the line of ladies and gentlemen, bringing his destrier to a halt before the ladies and bowing both to the Queen of the day and Queen Eleanor. Each knight tipped his lance in salute as he paraded and confirmed his willingness for the contest.

Some of the knights were wearing favours tied to their arms, which had been given by the ladies they admired. A few of the knights looked hopefully at Alayne, but she merely smiled. She would show favour to none, even though her heart did a strange flip when Sir Ralph de Banewulf tipped his lance to her. She noticed that he wore no favours, and that his colours of black and silver were more impressive than most. He was a proud knight, his stern features giving no sign of his own feelings about this contest.

‘I shall pray for Sir Ralph to win,’ Marguerite whispered as he rode away. ‘But it is a real challenge this time, for they say that he is not battle hardened and will not last the course.’

‘I pray that he may not be hurt,’ Alayne said and discovered that the palms of her hands were warm and damp for some reason. Why should it matter to her what happened to this knight?

‘I believe he may surprise us all,’ the Queen said, her eyes bright with anticipation. The English knight had added some spice to the tourney.

‘What will happen now?’ Alayne asked, gripping her hands tightly together so that they would not tremble and reveal her inner tension.

Queen Eleanor explained that there were different forms that a tourney could take. Sometimes the knights rode into the mêlée, meeting opponents at random, unhorsing those they could, fighting on foot if they were unhorsed for as long as they could.

‘Any who are still on their feet at the end retain their honour and their armour,’ Eleanor said. ‘However, the vanquished are obliged to give it up to the victors.’

‘Let us pray that is all they lose,’ Alayne said in a low voice that only those closest to her could hear.

She knew that sometimes those unhorsed fell, never to rise again, dying of their wounds, and carried off by faithful squires and pages. She thought that she would find it unbearable should the English knight lose not only his armour but also his life.

This day, however, the knights were to meet in single combat. To be unhorsed meant the loser must retire from the lists. Quite often a knight would be satisfied if he remained unhorsed and did not enter again, for it was often a way of settling personal quarrels, but the victors could all ride again if they wished until the last challenger was vanquished and the victor remained. The stewards of the day were responsible for matching the first pairs and they announced the names of the knights who would ride against each other in the first contest. Alayne strained to hear as the pairings were announced.

‘Sir Renaldo de Bracey to meet Sir Jonquil de Fontainbleau,’ announced the herald. ‘Lord Malmont to meet Sir Henry…’

‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite whispered, but Alayne was intent on the herald and hardly heard her. She listened carefully as the names were read out, her heart missing a beat when it was announced that the English knight would ride for Baron de Froissart against Sir William Renard.

‘Is Sir William skilled in the joust?’ Alayne whispered to Marguerite. Her nails had curled into the palms of her hands and she felt quite sick with apprehension. She was relieved when her friend gave a little shake of her head. Until this moment Alayne had not thought it mattered who won the contest, but now quite suddenly it was very important that Sir Ralph should be the victor.

‘I think it should be an easy contest for Sir Ralph,’ Marguerite whispered and Alayne breathed again.

All the knights had retired to wait until their contest was called. The first pair rode at each other furiously, the thud of their chargers’ heavy hooves and the noise of lances striking against shields making hearts beat faster. Then there was a gasp as one of the knights was unseated and only a ragged cheer for the victor.

‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite cried as he went down from the first thrust of de Bracey’s lance. ‘I fear that he is better at singing his poems than jousting.’

‘I do hope he is not badly wounded.’ Alayne watched anxiously, for Sir Jonquil was a gentle knight and one of her favourites. ‘No, he is on his feet.’ She watched as the vanquished knight tottered off the field with the assistance of his squire and page to the cheers of the crowd: Sir Jonquil was popular, the man who had defeated him was not liked. ‘I fear he will be feeling mighty sore by nightfall.’

‘I dare say his vanity is as much bruised as his body,’ Marguerite said and laughed. She was clearly enjoying the contest, as were the other ladies who watched and cheered their favourites. ‘To be vanquished so soon is a humiliating experience for any knight.’

‘He should not have entered the lists.’

‘I believe he wanted to impress a lady.’

‘Poor Sir Jonquil,’ Alayne said. ‘I hope she will not scorn him for his failure.’

‘Do you not know?’ Marguerite’s brows arched. ‘Sir Jonquil is one of your most devoted admirers. His poems and songs are all for you, and the looks he sends in your direction can leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he is devoted to you.’

‘No, no,’ Alayne denied, her cheeks heated, but she was prevented from saying more by the herald’s fanfare.

The next contest was more strongly fought, the knights riding against each other twice before one was sent flying from the saddle. He did not rise himself immediately and was carried off the field by his squire and two young pages.

‘Do you think he is badly hurt?’ Alayne asked anxiously.

‘I believe he suffered a glancing wound to his side,’ Marguerite said, ‘but he was probably winded by the fall. His armour would have protected him from the knight’s lance.’

All the knights wore a suit of chain mail beneath their tunics and surcotes, and they had a small, round, metal heaume beneath a similar covering of mail that protected their head and necks.

Five more contests took place before the one that Alayne longed and yet feared to watch. Several knights were carried from the field, but the word was that none were seriously hurt, and Alayne relaxed a little, but then it was time for Sir Ralph to ride against his opponent.

Alayne took a deep breath, her palms wet and sticky again. She wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the sight that she dreaded, yet found that she could not remove them from the English knight. She was drawn to him. His tunic was white with a black rampant lion emblazoned on the chest, his shield black and silver; it bore the same coat of arms, but with a small bear at the tip.

‘Why is the emblem on his shield different to the arms on his pennant and tunic?’ she whispered to Marguerite.

‘The bear is his own personal emblem,’ Marguerite replied and leaned forward to call encouragement to Sir Ralph. ‘It is the mark of a man who has shown great bravery in battle and granted only to a few.’

Alayne knew that the English knight was about to commence his contest, but could not call out in the way that Marguerite had, for her throat was tight with fear.

‘God be with you, sir,’ she whispered, her heart catching as the two knights rode at one another. Both lances struck, but one knight remained seated while the other went flying to the ground. Alayne let out a sigh as she saw that de Banewulf was the victor of this contest. Fortunately, the other knight seemed merely winded and after a moment was helped away by his friends.

‘It seems that Sir Ralph is more skilled than was thought,’ Marguerite said a little smile of triumph on her lips. ‘Oh, well done, sir. Bravely fought, sir knight!’

Several of the ladies were cheering, though the knights who had not chosen to take part looked glum. It seemed that de Froissart’s champion would give a good accounting of himself, and thus earn more than his share of admiration from the ladies.

But what was happening? Sir Ralph was riding towards where Alayne and the ladies sat. He tipped his lance towards them, and then cried out in a loud voice, ‘I challenge all those who would wish to ride against me. I will fight all comers in the name of Baron de Froissart, the Lady Alayne and my late wife, the Lady Berenice. If unhorsed, we will fight on in hand-to-hand combat should the unhorsed knight wish to continue.’

Alayne looked at the Queen, her heart beating wildly.

‘Can he do that?’ she asked, for she had never known such a challenge to be thrown down before. It was usual for the victors of the first round to ride perhaps twice or thrice more before the eventual victor was declared.

‘That is a matter for you, your Majesty,’ Queen Eleanor said and smiled at her. ‘Such judgements are in your power. It means that some knights will be saved from riding again, because only those that wish to fight on under the new terms need do so, while the others retire with honour—and retain their armour.’

‘I see,’ Alayne said as she realised that this would save some knights from unnecessary pain and injury. Having proved their worth by surviving the first round, they could now retire with honour and make sure of keeping their costly armour. It was a brave and generous offer on the part of the English knight, and one that she approved. She got to her feet and smiled down at Sir Ralph, taking a scarf and holding it out to him. He lifted his lance so that she could tie it on. ‘With this token I make you my champion. To win this tourney all must defeat the English knight, Ralph de Banewulf.’

‘You do me honour, lady,’ he said, saluted with his lance once more and rode away.

Alayne’s heart hammered in her breast. By throwing down his challenge, Sir Ralph had saved others pain and humiliation, but what of him? He must meet each knight who chose to ride against him, and for how long could he remain undefeated? She almost wished that she had refused permission, yet somehow she knew that he had thrown down his challenge for a reason.

‘How brave and bold he is,’ Marguerite said. ‘I do not think that many will take up the challenge.’

‘I pray they will not.’

There was an excited buzz around the field, for the contest had taken a new direction. Before it had been no different from a dozen other contests held here previously, but now a new sense of purpose held the spectators in thrall. This English knight was clearly a bold warrior for all that he had not fought a tourney for some time, and only the bravest of the French knights would dare to take up the challenge he had thrown down.

Some few minutes passed before the heralds blew a fanfare and then announced that two men had taken up the challenge. One was Lord Malmont, the other Sir Renaldo de Bracey; Lord Malmont was to try his hand first.

The two knights rode fiercely at each other; Lord Malmont’s lance snapped as it hit the shield of the English knight, but he was not thrown. He wheeled his horse about, riding back to take a new lance from his squire, and then rode hard at Sir Ralph once more. This time the blow he received lifted him in the saddle and he was thrown from his charger’s back, landing on the ground and lying as if winded for some moments, before rising to his feet.

‘Will you fight on, sir?’ Sir Ralph asked, but Malmont lifted his hands and shook his head.

‘Nay, I am well defeated, my friend. I yield to you…’ he said and then, on a little sigh, he swooned and fell to the ground once more as his squire came running to assist him.

‘Your champion does well,’ Queen Eleanor said as she leaned towards Alayne, a gleam in her eyes. ‘I think we have been misled. He is a worthier warrior than we had thought.’

‘He said only that he did not wish to fight, your Grace,’ Alayne said, feeling a strange urge to protect his honour. ‘He never claimed that he was not well able to acquit himself if he so chose.’

‘You do well to speak up for your champion,’ the Queen replied, a little smile flickering on her mouth, but quickly hidden. This tourney was proving even more amusing than she had expected.

There was a few minutes’ pause before the herald announced Renaldo de Bracey’s arrival. The two knights faced each other across the space between them and the atmosphere became suddenly tense; if all the other contests had been fought in a spirit of comradeship, this would not be. There was something about de Bracey’s manner that seemed to bode ill for the brave English knight. De Bracey was not much liked by his fellow knights, and yet he was respected for his skill with the lance and the broad sword. He would not yield so easily!