To Touch The Knight Page 2

  We could have this morning, and then?

  Do not look back!

  Do you want to lie with him and then yearn after him for weeks? Do you want him to regret our union?

  Do not look back! He may take it as a signal to follow!

  Do you want to watch him flirt with others, and realize that grief of his, that seeming care, is as shallow as a dew pond? Worse, do you want to see him with another lady and know for sure our time meant nothing?

  “I would be his equal and mean all of it,” she panted, her calves and thighs aching as she ran past a startled group of pages, who instantly began to point and to make lewd remarks on her bouncing breasts. “I am his equal.” Against the jeering of the tousle-headed, gawking lads, her voice sounded false in her ears, too light.

  Ranulf knelt beneath the spreading branches of the beech tree where the maid had sheltered. Offa was still in the bushes somewhere, struggling with his bowels. His poor steward had been sweating with fear, though he had tried to convince the hapless Offa that it was likely nothing more than the sudden, unfortunate results of eating a bad meat pie, and not the pestilence.

  He rose off his knees into a crouch. She had been about this height, as brown and nimble as a sparrow, with a mass and maze of hair. She had carefully hidden her face and eyes. Perhaps her mistress had not known she had ventured to the stream; perhaps she was playing the truant, like a schoolboy. A mystery maid, much as the Lady of Lilies was a mystery princess.

  “I wonder who she belongs to?” he said, idly patting the narrow trunk of the beech where the lass had leaned and not really caring at that moment if he meant maid or princess.

  “Offa!” he bawled, pitching his shout above the stirring camp. “Have you died in that hedge?”

  There was a cracking of twigs and his steward burst out into the water meadow from a stand of hawthorn and guelder rose, his mouth already busy with excuses.

  “Peace, Master Steward, and lead on.” Ranulf waved off the rest, only half listening as Offa apologized again. All of this—stream, maid, and princess—were pretty diversions. They would pass the morning until it was time to fight again.

  Chapter 2

  As this tournament was not close to a town, the place of procession was not along any street but ran from Castle Fitneyclare to the tourney ground itself. This was a large space of water meadow and high-standing grass and wheat—both uncut crops and now a mêlée ground for knights. Ranulf could hear the yelling of brawling squires, of carpenters hammering and sawing as they erected stands for spectators and a wooden mock-keep in the middle of the hay field. The lady of Castle Fitneyclare had insisted that only ladies and damsels should stay within the real, stone castle and so the rest—knights, squires, farriers, baggage wagons, market stalls, traders, and all manner of hucksters—encircled the fighting area.

  Ranulf strode through this encampment of tents and wagons with accustomed ease, returning the anxious salutes of fellow knights. He could hear Offa padding behind and so knew the fellow still lived. “Where is this splendid tent?” he called back, but then he saw it for himself.

  Stunned, he came to a stop on the rutted, dusty track. Olwen would have loved this, was his first thought, and the bright morning was shrouded for him, and dulled. With a glowering eye he took in the sight, itching to find fault.

  There were hurdles about the tent, hung with garlands and tiny beribboned charms and tinkling bells, all very dainty. Copper-skinned, dark-haired children dressed in gowns of silk darted in and out of an unseen entrance to the tent, tossing rose petals and calling to each other in high, strange voices.

  “In case the lady should walk outside,” murmured Offa beside him, clearly as amazed as he was.

  The tent, meanwhile, a rainbow of scarlet, yellow, blue, and gold, was well dug in, the poles perfectly lashed together and straight. A troop of minstrels played pleasingly on rebecs outside it, strolling round without tripping on the guide ropes. The scent of lilies hung about the little camp.

  “All very nesh and pretty,” Ranulf grunted, wondering at the lack of guards. “Are there guards within? Amazons, perhaps?”

  “The lady does not care to speak of any kind of warfare away from the lists,” Offa whispered urgently. “Or so I have heard. Do you see the charms hanging on the hurdles? It is said she has many more to fend off disease and hardship.”

  Ranulf fixed his glower on his gossipy steward but his eyes caught a slight movement by the grand purple entrance to the tent. Although the door flap was still down, he guessed that someone was peeping out. Instinct told him it was a woman, and he waved.

  The bright eye in the crack of silk was hastily withdrawn.

  “We come too soon,” Ranulf observed, briefly amused, but Offa merely pointed and now he noticed the other knights and squires, clustered under a canopy set just outside the entrance to the lady’s camp. They waited in line, obedient and docile as lapdogs, and the sight of their tense yet mooning faces irked him. Giles at least had not been fool enough to wait; he was nowhere to be seen, doubtless strolling over to court the ladies of the castle, but these men—were they men at all? And if they were . . .

  “The princess courts danger. I’d not allow a wife of mine to set her establishment within this camp of soldiers and men-on-the-make.”

  “Her camp is very discreet and to the side,” said Offa.

  “Even so.” He sounded pious as he spoke and loathed himself for it. The woman and her entourage were thriving, and who was he to care?

  Cursing, he turned away and, farther down the field, spotted a knight stalking up the jousting ground toward the tent, red-faced and breathing hard. But not from hurrying. Running and stumbling beside the stocky knight was a page with a bloodied nose. The little lad was crying, and no wonder: his shoulders and back were bloodied; dark stains showed through his baggy tunic. He had been lashed and hard, and now, as he tripped on an ant hill, the knight punched him again, striking the side of his head with a vicious blow that Ranulf would not have inflicted on a boarhound, much less a boy.

  “Hoi! No more!” Incensed, he strode forward to intercept the knight, but the coward vanished behind a troop of fire-eaters, dragging the weeping page with him.

  Ranulf sprinted after them, smashing into wagons and water butts in his haste, leaping over tent posts and ripping aside tent flaps to look inside the nearest tents, but the pair had gone.

  “I will remember you, though. Badge of white with a red fist? Very apt. I will know you again, and then you will answer to me.” Ranulf spat on the grass to seal his vow and ran hard up the field, determined to retrieve Offa and return to their work. The Lady of Lilies would wait.

  “Glove me, please,” said the Lady of Lilies. Standing in the center of the tent, she extended her hands and her attendants moved in, smoothing the white gloves over her narrow fingers, covering the red scars where she had been burned by a Chinese dragon.

  Sitting on his accustomed chair within her silken chamber, eating his second cupful of wild strawberries, Sir Tancred trembled, caught between delight and awe. This glorious lady was so mysterious, so beautiful, he was tempted to worship her.

  “Are you to joust this afternoon, Sir Tancred?” she asked, smiling at him.

  No one but he and her followers saw her smile. No one but he and her attendants ever saw her face. Sir Tancred’s chest warmed at the thought. He rose and bowed, aware too late that he had not placed the cup on the floor before he bowed. “It is my urgent hope, Princess, to joust for you.”

  “You do me honor, my lord, and I have a special token for you.” Her smile deepened. “May I have a strawberry?”

  “Take them all, my lady.” He passed the cup to her nearest maid, who fed her a bright berry, and then, at a nod from her always-generous mistress, finished the cup between herself and the other maids.

  Watching them together, Sir Tancred thanked all the saints that he had encountered the princess and her caravan on the road to London that winter day a year ago. She and her
people had been beset by a crowd of vagabonds and he had charged the motley mob without thinking—his single bravest act. The shock, and his good horse and his own men, had scattered the would-be looters. Since that day, he and his folk had joined the entourage of the princess, or she and her folk had joined his: he was never sure which, and in truth it mattered not a jot to him.

  He heard the rumors, of course, but ignored them. He had his own girl, Christina, and was well content with her. If crude louts thought that such an amazing creature as the princess would take a middling, gray-bearded knight for a lover, they were fools.

  “What news from the lists, Sir Tancred?”

  He loved her voice, so low and mellow. He felt valued by her appreciation. Distracted, he took a moment to answer. “Aye, the lists. Sir Henry’s arm has healed cleanly and I hear he has made plans to honor you.”

  She sighed a little, her lovely face clouding. “I am most happy Sir Henry is healed, but it was a simple potion I gave him, no more. He has no need for these elaborate thanks.”

  “You are too kind, my lady. Your Eastern potions are truly marvelous. They could raise the dead.”

  Embarrassed to be gushing out such fulsome praise, Sir Tancred added quickly, “There is a new warrior come down from the north, Sir Ranulf of Fredenwyke, said to be the foremost knight in the kingdom. He jousts in black armor.”

  “Like the prince of your English?”

  “Of England,” he tenderly corrected her, his spirits soaring like a young page’s as she lavished on him another smile.

  “Of England,” she repeated softly.

  “He is known to be a doughty fighter. You may see him in combat today, my lady. It is claimed he sends the rich prizes he wins from jousts to his castles in the wilds of the north, to spread bounty among his people.”

  “But no one is certain?”

  Sir Tancred whistled softly through his missing teeth, not sure if he should agree, and then recalled another rumor. “It is said he fights in memory of his late wife, and wears no token save hers.”

  The princess nodded her shining head. “He loved her very much, then, and I shall not see him outside my tent.”

  “I do not think that likely.”

  “And you know a little more still concerning this knight.”

  He felt himself blush. She always knew when he was holding back.

  “It is the blackest gossip, Princess, and less than savory, but I have heard that no one knows how the lady Olwen died.”

  “And no one dares to ask the grim lord who jousts in her name? That is the way of men, is it not?” She lightly clapped her gloved hands together. “But we should say no more of this, and I must complete my preparations.”

  At once he stepped back to take his leave, his mood soaring as he pictured the princess as she would soon appear to the common masses: exotic and veiled and with jewels in her hair.

  Chapter 3

  The jousts would begin after terce and go on until sunset. First there was a procession—not as rich or elaborate as those of King Edward III, or as long as those Ranulf had been in through London, but a goodly spectacle and, if it pleased the folk of the castle and the ladies, then why not?

  The theme of the procession was unknown knights and mysterious damsels. Giles had already told him that Lady Blanche of Fitneyclare had instructed that those knights taking part in the joust should be masked and in disguise: no distinctive armor or badges or heraldry until they entered the ground itself.

  “An idiotic notion, and the women are masked, too,” grumbled Giles. “I will probably pick a troll and have to appear delighted when she removes her veiling.”

  “A mask is simple enough to make,” Ranulf said easily. “A few twigs and feathers on a cloth.” He closed his ears to the rest of Giles’s moans while he considered the theme afresh. It seemed peculiarly apt, with the mystery princess of the East within the camp. Had Lady Blanche suggested the theme as an honor to her, or as a jibe?

  No matter, but it will be amusing to escort the princess, he thought. I will know her by Sir Tancred. If that fellow can disguise himself, I will be mightily astonished.

  That had been an hour ago. Now Ranulf was waiting in the bailey of the castle as the members of the procession jostled and gathered into their lines and the waiting crowd, smaller than in previous years, waved their flower garlands and nervously cheered. He felt himself quite ridiculous, but it was no matter. He had made a cap of moss and feathers and covered the lower half of his face with a dark strip of cloth. For the rest, he had sent on his black armor to the fighting ground with his squire and Offa, who had made a rapid recovery from his sickness once it was certain he would not be sent on his way until the following morning. Covered by a baggy cloak smeared with more moss, Ranulf called himself Sir Jade, in honor of the mythical green knight.

  The cloth across his chin itched. Ranulf scratched his cheek with his thumb, settling into that waiting state he was familiar with at mêlées. The damsels had yet to arrive from the castle, led by Lady Blanche.

  “Fleas are the very devil, are they not? My lady gave me a potion to go in my bath and clothes and I have been free of them since.”

  Ranulf recognized the jutting gray beard. “Well met, Sir Tancred.”

  “Sir Dew of the Moon, if you please.” The older man turned on the spot, showing off a costume of loose white and silver robes smothered in pearls and silver coins. He had a cap on, too, that looked very much like a nightcap, but one that trailed more ropes of coins.

  “Have you a troop of seamstresses with you?” Ranulf asked, grinning to show he meant no ill will.

  “Nay, but my lady guessed it would be unknown knights. It is a popular theme.”

  “Indeed.” A dormant streak of mischief, long banished since he had been a squire, stirred in Ranulf. He knew very well who Sir Tancred’s lady was. “Would you swap masks and costumes with me?”

  There was a rustle of cloth and coins as the older knight shook his head. “I have promised to escort my lady.”

  “May I escort her also? We could stroll on either side: Sir Dew and Sir Jade.”

  “I do not think my lady would like this. . . .”

  “If you allow it, I will joust in your armor and you can keep the prizes.”

  “Agreed!”

  As they shook hands, a rattle of drums sounded and a woman robed in yellow, scarlet, and blue came down the castle steps, arm in arm with a short, burly man wearing a mask of tall, sweeping peacock feathers and a feather cloak.

  “Lady Rainbow and Lord Phoenix!” roared an iron-throated herald, to a pattering of applause.

  Behind these came the other ladies, gaudy in tight, long-sleeved gowns of blue and scarlet, purple and gold. Ranulf saw Giles, whom he recognized by his cocksure air and costume of long blue robe and black mask—the role of sea knight, which Giles had played at other jousts—rush to escort a lady who seemed to be a sparkle of gold.

  “Beauty needs no foil,” he murmured. He wagered that once the ladies unmasked, Giles would be disappointed.

  “And are you beautiful, sir knight?” asked a new voice behind him.

  “My lady!” Sir Tancred bowed so low that a rope of coins and the tip of his headdress touched the dirt. “We looked for you, Sir Jade and myself. We did not see you come with the other damsels. Where, too, are your attendants?”

  “I chose another way, my lord, a way less crowded,” came the calm response. “Sir Jade?”

  His heart hammering as it never did when he was about to tilt, Ranulf determined to be equally reserved. “You will know jade, my lady, being as you are from far away.” He patted his moss-strewn chest. “I am the English kind. But I see you disapprove of me.”

  He looked down, straight into a veiled face dominated by a pair of brilliant eyes, as large as a falcon’s, and as piercing.

  “Sir Jade, you are mistaken.” Turning away from him without more ado, the lady threaded a narrow hand deftly through Sir Tancred’s waiting arm. “I congratulate yo
u on the elegance and wit of your mask and costume, Sir Dew. This forenoon you will dazzle us all.”

  She had not answered his question on her lack of servants, but the older man straightened and stroked his white robes as if they were the finest ermine. “It is because of you, my lady. You were my inspiration.”

  “What do you think of mine?” Ranulf interrupted. Usually he had no time for such folly; play like this reminded him of Olwen, of what he had lost. Yet this cool veiled green damsel piqued him. Perversely, he wanted her to think well of him.

  The cool bright eyes studied him. “I find you apt, sir. Today I am the Lady of Jade.” She offered him her free hand. “What do you think of me?”

  She stepped closer as if daring him to touch her. A sweet, rich perfume rose from her as she moved.

  “You are as green as Roman glass, my lady,” he remarked.

  “And as slippery?” she countered.

  “As green as jade,” Sir Dew/Tancred put in, keen not to be left out of this encounter.

  “I did not say that,” Ranulf answered, disliking to have thoughts assumed of him, even if they were right. “Are you always veiled?”

  “It is the custom of my people. Women go veiled. Some men, too.”

  “The old and ugly,” said Tancred, but Ranulf ignored him.

  “Are such loose clothes also the custom?” he asked. She was a pale green shimmer, clad head to toe in a filmy, billowing sheet of something—whether robe, tunic, or gown, he could not say.

  “These are the clothes I wear and how I wear them when I am walking,” she said. “When I am watching the joust, I will be so,” and she twisted her arms.