A Knight's Vow Read online

  It was hard to resist her pleading and Guillelm did not try. “Very well. We shall go together.” He held out his arm. “Do you remember how we used to walk in your father’s fields?”

  Blushing slightly, she nodded and unerringly placed her hand in his, proving that she did remember. Side by side, Guillelm careful to keep pace with her and not drag her along in the wake of his natural long strides, they strolled through the bailey, very companionable.

  It was going to be all right, Alyson told herself. She had not made a mistake in agreeing to marry Guillelm. With the optimism of one-and-twenty, she felt proud and happy walking beside him, hand in hand. It was as if the years they had spent apart had never been. Her people smiled at her; his men nodded to her, a wary respect showing in their weathered faces. It was going to be all right.

  Her joyous mood lasted until she and Guillelm had passed through the bailey gate and they were out on the rolling grasslands with a few bleating sheep and a swineherd driving a herd of pigs into the nearby woodland. As she crested a steep rise, slightly out of breath with the warmth of the climb and simply because she was so pleased to be with Guillelm, she felt the ground shift beneath her, felt the heavy, relentless drumming of hooves. A divot of loose earth and grass reared up at her as a dark-helmed rider on a big bay stallion thundered by, racing over the cropped turf as if charging for the gates of Jerusalem itself.

  “Hey, Fulk!” bawled Guillelm, and the rider turned and galloped back, even as her own man Sericus seemed to grow out of a patch of oxeye daisies and long grass, where he clearly had been taking his ease.

  “My lord-lady-” the withered old man stammered, furiously rubbing his rheumy eyes. “I did not hope to see you here”

  “Peace, Master Sericus,” Guillelm answered, above the plunging hooves. “I believe you were going to have an answer for me about furniture?” And leaving Alyson to puzzle over that cryptic remark he drew the aged seneschal to one side, both of them walking over the downs-more slowly than she and Guillelm had done because of Sericus’s lame leg-and talking softly with their heads close together.

  Which meant it was she who had to greet the hapless Fulk when the man finally reined in, stopping less than an armlength away from her.

  “You ride well, sir,” she remarked, as he slowly lowered himself from his charger, clearly wincing through his helm as his feet touched the ground.

  “My thanks, Lady.” With the same careful movements, as if his every joint pained him, he began to rub down the massive sweating warhorse with the saddle cloth. “My lord Guillelm also rides and fights well, as you would know if we were still in Outremer.”

  If Fulk wished to begin afresh or make peace with her he was going about it in a strange way, Alyson thought, glancing to ensure that Guillelm was out of hearing. Fulk had not removed his helm, nor made her any kind of courtesy. Since he had mentioned war, she decided on shock tactics.

  “Do you resent me, Fulk?”

  Her use of his name and the direct question made him swing round, but to Alyson’s surprise he was laughing. “Hardly, my lady.” Now he did take off his helmet, revealing the same cold blue eyes and narrow mouth she had encountered earlier, a shock of gray hair and a narrow, thin face that might have been pleasing were it not for its sneering expression or the band of small red pustules running across his nose and cheeks.

  Seeing the skin disease, Alyson instantly ran through potions in her mind that might help, but Fulk was not interested in anything of hers, as his next words made insultingly obvious.

  “Why should I resent you, a mere distraction and the leavings of another man? My lord has taken such fancies before, but they never last. Once he thinks he has won you from his father’s memory, it will be over.”

  “Guillelm has asked me to marry him,” Alyson said, determined that Fulk would not make her angry a second time.

  The man shrugged, scowling as his chain mail rasped and shifted on his body. “My lord belongs in the Holy Land,” he said, turning away from her again and resuming the care of his horse. “That is his true work, as a warrior for Christ.”

  “You wish, then, that you had stayed in Outremer?” Alyson demanded.

  “I do. Every moment away from that sacred place is a triumph of evil and the infidel.” Fulk paused in his rubbing down to cross himself piously.

  “Then why did you not remain there yourself? I am sure Guillelm would have released you from his service.”

  “You are sure-” Fulk’s words were a cruel mockery. “No doubt you are, my lady, but I have made my own promises before God. Within one year, I will return to Outremer with Lord Guillelm de La Rochelle, where we shall resume our noble struggle against the enemies of Christ.”

  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.

  Chapter 5

  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 ass
embled 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.