A Knight's Vow Page 16

  “We all have these days,” replied Alyson bleakly. Forcing some kind of smile to her lips, she said gently, “Stay here tonight, if you wish. I will send Gytha and Osmoda to join you”

  “But where are you going, my lady?” Mary asked, holding out the sodden ribbon, which Alyson gently refused.

  “To join my husband,” she almost said, but stopped herself. “To pray,” she answered, which also was true, but was not the whole truth.

  Alyson did not look to find Guillelm in the keep. Pulling Gytha’s sparse hood over her head, she sped out to the stables. All there was a riot of comings and goings in a flicker of torches: men saddling horses, checking girths and gear, pulling on armguards, squires scampering for armor, helping their knightly masters onto their mounts.

  Lingering in the shadows of her lean-to, Alyson noticed the lad she had spoken with earlier that day. Sadly, he also noticed her.

  “My lady!” He darted across to her. “You should not be here!”

  “I have a token for my lord, for his good fortune,” Alyson lied quickly. “Will you give it to him and wish him Godspeed? We had not time to say goodbye”

  She knew that sounded too plaintive and was ashamed of her own need, but the stable boy’s face softened. “I will.” He received the hairpin from her as graciously as a courtier, bowing his head. “He will be safe, my lady. He is a great warrior.”

  This was so close to what she had said to comfort the maid that Alyson smiled. She thanked the lad and watched him weave back into the press of men and horses, then sagged, the smile dropping from her lips. She knew Guillelm was a fighter, of course she knew, but war was war. A stray arrow, a sword thrust and her dragon’s fire and dazzle might be extinguished. And he was so bright, so obvious a target …

  She could not bear to be parted from him in this way. Whatever the danger, however foolish or selfish her action, she had to go with him. Why not? Other women went in war trains camp followers and the wives of soldiers. She was a healer; she could be useful. There was her sister, too, and the other nuns, women who might appreciate her care, if she could saddle her horse and ride out unnoticed in this battle horde.

  Alyson was lucky-her mount was stabled at the very end of the block, with a stall full of straw and feed between her and the other horses. Keeping to the shadows, she reached Jezebel without raising any alarm and was slipping a bridle over the mare’s narrow head when she heard Guillelm’s bloodcurdling war cry. Even as she froze, chilled by the almost demonic shout, her husband rode past the stable, raising his sword arm and yelling, “Ride to St. Foy’s! Ride!”

  “We ride!” the answer rumbled from two score and more throats, and they were off, thundering out of Hardspen at full gallop.

  Alyson had no time to saddle her horse. She cast herself onto the mare’s back and pounded out of the stable yard, her borrowed cloak and hood pulled low over her head to hide her face and hair. Glad there was no moon to light her clothes or show off her shape, she urged Jezebel on and joined the cloaked and hooded squires at the rear of the column.

  Guillelm spurred Caliph to greater speed, leaning forward in the saddle to give the massive warhorse his head. Aware of the dark ground rushing under his heels, he was merciless in his riding, never slowing down, careless of obstacles. Reckless as he was, the stallion drove through shadows on the track, leaping over fallen branches and churning up a miasma of dust. A fox darted across the road, the white tip of its tail a banner amongst the dark green and black of the wayside hazel and hawthorn, but Guillelm was not to be diverted. “Forward!” he yelled, running Caliph straight at a sapling growing in the middle of the road. He felt its leaves slap against his foot and heard the wheeze of horses and men, falling behind, but he did not draw rein.

  Women were in danger. Nuns were under attack by a creature he had spared. He knew from the sweating, exhausted messenger who had ridden out from the village close to St. Foy’s that the men there had sworn to defend the convent if need arose, but what could an aging, ill-armed militia do against mercenaries? If any died, man, boy or woman, Guillelm knew he would be to blame. Whatever excuses a confessor might make for him, he had allowed the Fleming to leave Hardspen with his men and weapons. He had made a serious misjudgment in trusting the word of Etienne the so-called Bold: The man had broken his knightly promise. If Etienne had ever joined the forces of King Stephen or the empress, the venture clearly had not worked and so he was back in the area he had terrorized so readily before, looking for easy plunder. And if one had the stomach for it, a convent was the easiest target of all.

  Alyson’s sister was at St. Foy ‘s.

  Cursing, Guillelm rode harder still.

  Numb with grief and the pounding ride, Alyson saw the flames and heard the sickening roar of burning timbers through the trees, before the column reached the convent. Breasting the rise in the rutted road, she groaned and almost lost her reins, instinct alone saving her from being pitched headlong from Jezebel’s back. Around her she heard shouting from the squires, saw their pallid, sweating faces.

  Below, stretched before them in the downland valley, was a scene from hell. The church of St. Foy’s was wholly ablaze, spiraling plumes of fire and smoke spilling from the roof of the nave and leaping out of its shattered windows. There were prone bodies, suspiciously still, lying like broken toys in the garden where only a few weeks earlier she and her sister had walked in peace. Of the mercenaries there seemed no sign, except for one stray riderless horse, careering round and round in the road outside.

  “Have any survived?” hissed a squire and Alyson, not trusting her voice, pointed back to the church, where a few limping figures seemed to be trying to beat out the flames at the base of the building, without success. The convent wall had a massive breach in its eastern side and as Alyson watched, willing herself to nudge her horse to a final effort but unable to force her frozen limbs to move, she saw the roof of the nuns’ dormitory cave in with a splintering crash.

  “Tilda!” she shrieked. Flinging herself off the shuddering, rolling-eyed Jezebel, she ran down the hill, not caring if the Fleming’s men were there or not.

  Suddenly ahead of her she saw Guillelm appear in the gap in the convent wall, carrying a trembling figure in his arms and leading a dazed old man by the shoulder.

  Even as she rejoiced that he was safe, that the mercenaries truly had fled from her lord’s strength and righteous anger, she realized her mistake. Catching a flurry of movement in the corner of her eye, she turned about, swerving just in time to avoid the rushing mount of one of the squires who passed so close to her that she felt her cheek grazed by the lad’s stirrup. But it was not his headlong dash she had sensed, or even heard above the general din of the fire, shouting and galloping horses. Instinct guided her to look farther back, up the hill toward the trees crowning the top of the ridge, and yes! There it was: a figure, stepping out of the woodland. As he emerged from the shadows of the trees, he was skylined a moment, his wiry, mail-clad shape clear against the summer stars. It was too dark to see the knightly device on his armor or cloak, but he was no ally-his war helm was closed and he carried a sword in one hand and a crossbow in the other.

  Alyson began to run again, to Guillelm, aware she had only seconds, instants, before the enemy raised his helm and wound up his deadly crossbow.

  He would shoot at Guillelm-

  “Down! Get down! Get away!” Yelling warnings, she ran straight at Guillelm, her one thought to save him, her only wild plan that if she could not make him hear her warnings, she might spoil the aim of the enemy archer.

  Ignoring the growing pain of her heat-seared lungs and her fading, tiring limbs, she screamed again, “Get down!” and now Guillelm heard and saw her, shock and horror warring in his face, his mouth forming the question, “How?”

  “Down!” Alyson cried, but she was too late. She felt a punch slam into her shoulder, spinning her round so that she fell backward, the breath knocked out of her. She tried to move, to reach Guillelm, shield him, but as
she raised her head a jolt of agony drove through her body and she blacked out.

  Guillelm reacted without conscious thought. He lowered the shocked, sobbing prioress gently onto the ground and seized the quivering arrow shaft buried so sickeningly in Alyson’s shoulder, determined to draw it out before she came round from her faint.

  Even as he worked, images flashed constantly before his eyes. Alyson running toward him, arms outstretched, making herself a target. Over and over, he saw the bolt thud into her slender body, saw her feet actually leave the ground as she was flung around by the force of the impact. She had been shot in the back and he had done nothing to save her; worse, he had not even known she had joined the war band. He had been so keen to lay sword against sword with Etienne the Bold, who, cur that he was, had turned tail the instant he saw him, riding through the smoke and soot of the burning convent.

  “Ah!” Although he tried to be steady and careful and the crossbow bolt came out cleanly, the sharp, decisive tug hurt her Alyson came out of her swoon with a shriek of agony.

  “Sssh, sweetheart, it is done.” Guillelm wanted to cradle her but dared not; he could not bear to hurt her again. Kneeling by her, he packed his cloak around her body, terrified at how cold she was. Her shoulder was bleeding freely and that must be good, for the ill humors would be washed out.

  What if the crossbow bolt was poisoned?

  What if she died?

  “Live, Alyson,” he whispered, too afraid to be angry at her. He should have known she would attempt something like this; she was never one to sit still when those she loved were under threat. Where was that sister of hers? The Flemings had herded the nuns into the courtyard while they torched the buildings. None had been harmed, so where was she?

  Blinking away tears, he raised his head and met the pasty faces of the squires. The lads had dismounted and gathered round, forming a shield with their horses. Too late, Guillelm thought bleakly.

  “My lord, we did not know ..

  “Truly we never suspected. . “

  “She moved so swiftly, ran right amongst the horses .. ”’

  “We could not stop her!”

  Their excuses died away and they hung their heads.

  “What can we do?” asked one.

  Guillelm raked them with furious eyes. His knights were still searching for survivors in the wrecked convent-friends or foe-but these useless, lumpen youths should be good for something.

  “Get me that archer,” he spat.

  “I will do so, my lord.” Fulk stepped into the circle, glanced at Alyson’s still body and then turned, shouting for his horse.

  “Sir 11

  At first Guillelm thought it one of the squires, or the halfblind old militiaman he had led to safety from the burning church.

  “Do not scold them, sir. I rode in disguise.” The small, breathy voice was Alyson’s. She was looking at him, her eyes dark with pain and fear.

  “Peace!” Guillelm took her icy hand in his, trying to will his own heat into her. “We shall have you home safe, soon enough”

  “I am sorry to be so much trouble.” Alyson tried to raise herself on her elbow, gasped and fell back.

  “Alyson!” For a dreadful moment, he thought she had died, but then saw the quick rise of her chest and realized she had passed out again. He should lift her from this burnt, wrecked ground as soon as possible, but what way would be best? In his arms, on horseback? On a litter?

  “Give me your cloaks!” he snapped at the hapless squires. “Cover her with them. You! Bring me the infirmarer! You! Make a fire here! You! Find Sir Thomas” He almost said Sir Fulk, his natural second-in-command, but Fulk was off on another necessary task and one he longed to accomplish himself, though revenge on the archer would not save Alyson.

  Live, please live, he thought. It was a prayer and wish in one.

  “Where is that infirmarer?” he bellowed, above the steady weeping of the prioress. He was growing incensed with the lack of speed of everyone about him and exasperated with the cowering, wailing nuns who had trailed after him like ducklings following their mother as he carried the helpless, vacanteyed head of their order away from her devastated convent. If Alyson’s sister was in that drab company, why had she not come forward to be with her? Was she so withdrawn from the world that even the sight of her own flesh, broken and bleeding on the ground, stirred no passionate care? “Is there no one?”

  “I am here, Guido.” Calm as a rock in a sea of troubles, Sir Tom leaned down from his horse. “What say I find something to use as a stretcher?”

  “Do it,” Guillelm answered curtly, “and tell your men to search the infirmary for potions and such” A late thought struck him, but he could not feel ashamed at it, not with Alyson injured beside him. “See if any of our own men are hurt, and tend them”

  “They will not be hurt. Men never are” A small, slim nun emerged from the smoke, her arms full of books and manuscripts.

  “I am Sister Ursula, who was once Matilda of Olverton Minor,” she said, calm as glass. “I have been in our scriptorium, where our true treasures are stored. The mercenaries did not recognize them as such.” Slow, careful, she laid the books on the ground and only then looked at Alyson.

  “Your infirmarer?” Guillelm asked, as Sister Ursula’s lips moved in prayer. His hands itched to shake her out of her complacency; was this woman human? “Your sister is still bleeding.”

  “The infirmarer is dead” Sister Ursula opened her eyes, fixing Guillelm with a stare of utter dislike, mingled with distaste. “Our sister in Christ passed away eight days ago”

  “Mother of God, have you no one who can help my wife?”

  “Do not blaspheme against the name of our blessed Lady of Heaven”

  Sister Ursula stared at a kneeling squire striking sparks off his knife to light a small, swiftly gathered bundle of kindling until the youth shuffled out of her path. She knelt beside Alyson, facing Guillelm across her sister’s body. “I will pray.”

  “Please-” Guillelm felt to be out of his depth dealing with this smooth, polished creature. He felt to be drowning in her piety. If it had been a man he would have appealed to honor or come to blows. How did women deal with each other? He thought of his sister, Juliana, but their relationship had been oddly formal, she being so much the elder and out of reach of sibling contests.

  Rivalry. The answer came to him as he recalled the scrapes and scraps that he had seen and sometimes intervened in between brothers. It was a risk to employ it against women, but what other tactic could he use? Luck and recklessness were all he had left.

  “If she could speak, Alyson could tell us how to treat her,” he remarked, adopting Sister Ursula’s calm tones while around him his squires and gathering knights held their breaths against the approaching storm. Gently he had to do this right. “She is an excellent healer.”

  Sister Ursula said nothing.

  “She told me you had no diligence in such matters,” Guil lelm went on, lying shamelessly and, worse, feeling no guilt as he did so. “That you love books more than people.”

  “She is wrong,” said Sister Ursula.

  “You put your skill above hers, then? I have seen no other to match her, even in Outremer.”

  With a small shake of her head, remarkably like Alyson’s, Sister Ursula unclasped her palms.

  “I thought her judgment a little harsh, but I see that she was right. She said you lacked the healing touch”

  “What nonsense” Sister Ursula rose to her feet. “Build up that fire,” she commanded. “I must have more light.”

  Chapter 16

  Alyson remembered little of the return journey to Hardspen. Drifting in and out of a fevered consciousness, she was aware in snatches. Guillelm’s anxious face, leaning over her. The constant, throbbing pain in her shoulder. The hard, uncomfortable litter, made of lashed-together branches, that felt like a bed of bones. She tried several times to tell Guillelm that, on their slow ride home, but could only manage “Bones.”


  He misheard and gave her a drink, something cooling. It tasted strange, as if it was a potion but with parts missing. She could not say what it lacked.

  Tilda was in her dreams, sometimes lying beside her, sometimes wiping her face and hands. Her sister never smiled and did not speak to her.

  There was weeping, too, a boy or woman crying. It tore at Alyson because she could not help.

  Sleep was easier and in sleep she felt nothing. She treasured sleep.

  Guillelm offered the prioress his horse, Caliph, and safe haven within Hardspen: a living space and refuge while messages were sent out to other convents within the order, pleading for places for herself and her homeless, beleaguered flock. Sobbing, all the nuns gathered round him to thank him, which embarrassed him greatly. On the journey, the prioress continued to weep while her shivering, sootyfaced charges plodded along the track with their pitifully few belongings, retrieved from the ruins and bundled into rough homespun blankets. As they traveled, the nuns settled into a dull, stunned quiescence, almost as disconcerting as the prioress’s endless grief.

  “They are women,” Fulk remarked dismissively. He walked with Guillelm, the crossbow he had taken from the mercenary who had shot Alyson slung over his back. He told Guillelm that he had ridden down the archer and another straggler from the mercenaries. “They died screaming,” he said with relish.

  Guillelm clapped him on the shoulder but could find no words of thanks. Alyson was not screaming, but she might die. Her sister had washed out her wound with one potion and packed it with fresh cloths, ripped from Alyson’s own gown, remarking casually that Alyson might be given another potion to drink “whenever her pain is too great” Otherwise, she had offered no comfort or hope. Seemingly indifferent to Alyson’s suffering, she positioned herself at one side of the litter and occasionally wiped beads of sweat from her sister’s forehead. She appeared more concerned with the well-being of the convent’s books and manuscripts, keeping them close beside her on the litter, sometimes dusting them off, running her fingers down the spine of the largest Bible as a devoted wife might trace her fingers down her husband’s back-as Alyson had with him and might never do again.