To Touch The Knight Read online

  “With my lady’s leave.”

  She nodded to Lady Blanche, who said at once, “But of course, Princess. I would see the beginnings of the archery contest first, but you and whoever of my damsels that wish to watch Sir Ranulf battle with flowers . . .”

  She trailed off, leaving the other knights smirking and the younger women giggling when the Lady of Lilies spoke up.

  “It will be my pleasure.” She sounded as if she was smiling, but Ranulf knew he would be laughing later.

  He glanced at her feet as he offered his arm, she accepted and they fell into step together. For a moment he savored her sweet perfume, liking the golden cloud of her cloak and the way she came just to his shoulder. An image of her resting her head against his rib cage surprised him with its pleasing force. “Not bare-shod today, Princess?”

  Her veil flickered as she looked down at her neatly booted feet. “It is no joy to walk so in a wheat or hay field, sir.”

  “I thought the people of the East did not eat bread?” He had recalled that from somewhere and was not even sure if it was true.

  “I have walked in other places than Cathay,” she said quickly. “Why were you late, Sir Ranulf? Lady Blanche was reluctant to agree to my contest, but when you were so tardy, she grew out of temper and changed her mind.”

  “I needed to speak with someone, a good friend of mine.” He had sought out Giles, to see if Giles wished to take part in the contest with him, but Giles was hawking that afternoon with the heiress Maud and had left the camp with no word to anyone—typical Giles, really.

  “It is good to have friends.” The princess glanced behind as she spoke, to see if her gaudy steward was keeping pace with them. (He was, a dignified step or so behind.)

  “I think so.”

  “I know so.” She clapped her gloved hands together lightly, to emphasize her point.

  She always appeared in gloves, Ranulf recalled, and he wondered why. To disguise work-worn hands, perhaps? No one about the camp had any memory of his maid of the stream, but he still had an idea on that; a wild idea to be sure, but one which fit all points. She was as small as the brown maid, as slender . . .

  Intending to test more, he said, “Perhaps we have traveled to the same places at different times. Have you been to Calais? No? But then where did you take ship to England?”

  “Venice,” she said crisply, which could be true.

  “Is your father a great warrior?”

  The change of subject startled her. Surprise shone in her eyes.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Sir Tancred has a new kind of sword with him, and the men whom you favor do well. It is said the knowledge of the East is greater than ours, and I thought perhaps they do well because of you.”

  He stopped, allowing her to speak, hoping to tempt her to an indiscretion, a moment of pride. All she said was, “I am pleased if I inspire the knights.”

  “Because you enjoy bloodshed?”

  “Not so!” That stung her. She lengthened her stride and would not look at him as he drew alongside.

  “My lady?”

  “Why do you fight?” she demanded, still without looking at him.

  He could have said for honor, glory, prizes, but instead the words tumbled out, “Why do you think I do?”

  They strode on in silence for several paces. She waved at someone in the crowd. He heard the distant chok! and thump of arrows hitting targets and knew the archery contest had begun. His breath snagged in his chest, coiling hot and twisted, as he hung upon her answer. Suddenly he had to know what she thought of him, truly.

  “In these times of death, some feast and make merry, wringing all sweetness from their days,” she said, her voice low and hard. “You hit out, fast and hard, seeking respite for grief through battle.”

  He let go the breath he had been holding, relieved that she did not see him as a killer for sport.

  “Some pray to God and the heavens, though I cannot understand why.” She stared up at the cloudless vault of the sky, and added, “Have you ever seen an angel?”

  “Not all that is in the world can be touched, seen, surely?” he protested. “Consider music, the wonders of painting, story, where men are inspired by the unknown and strive for it.”

  She kicked a dried cow pat to pieces as they passed it. “Only a knight would have the luxury to be such a dreamer.”

  “You think life nothing more than eating and sleeping?” He was aghast at her attitude. “What of the friendship we spoke of only a moment ago?”

  “Or love? You knights are full of love, are you not?”

  “Princess,” said her steward behind them, and his voice was steely with warning.

  The Lady of Lilies dropped her head. For an instant Ranulf wondered if she might put her veiled face in her gloved hands, but then she stared at her hands as if they were unknown to her. “Forgive me,” she said throatily, “it is the day. These bright days put me in mind of my homeland, and I wonder how my people fare. Or perhaps I am too warm.”

  Angered by her lack of self-control and alarmed by her sudden rage—where did that come from? Never has my sense of injustice at Gregory’s death bitten into me, driven me, more sharply—Edith sought to gain an advantage. She dropped off her cloak, knowing that Teodwin would gather it. Remembering what her grandfather had said of the maids of the East she walked proudly, sucking in her bare gut, feeling her long hair plait bounce against her bottom, aware that Ranulf would see her plait beneath her short head-veil, and her silk-clad hips and garlanded middle.

  “Ropes of grass, Princess?” he asked, seeming as cool as frost as other bystanders gasped and pointed.

  Edith smiled, feeling a little more in control again. Speaking of dress and sparring with a man was nothing new to her; there was no danger here. She did not sport ropes of grass and he knew it. Teodwin had gathered grass and wheat and oats to make into a garland that she had wound about her middle and across her breasts. Her short jerkin today was pale cream, to match her flowing long skirts, and she wore many necklaces of polished copper. She knew she looked well in it, and the copper matched the gleams in Ranulf’s hair—No! In my own hair.

  “It is a sign of harvest in my land,” she replied, breaking off a head of wheat and offering it to him. “For maids to dress so brings good luck to the crops. As you see.” She stretched out her other arm and pointed to the tall hay and mingled purple corncockle, poppies, ox-eyed daisies, and cornflowers.

  “And there is my task.”

  “And so you may begin it, Sir Ranulf.” He was indeed very quick, and she wished he was more confounded. Did he not like her costume?

  “Armloads of flowers, Princess? You do not fear bee stings, then?”

  “You may place them by my feet,” she said, acknowledging that with a nod. “A seat of flowers.”

  “And if I do this, and win the archery, I will keep your favors, Princess, and demand a forfeit.”

  “As you wish,” she said easily, for she did not think he would achieve it. “Pray, Sir Ranulf”—she wanted him to be clear on this final instruction: this was a contest between them, but she would not have others affected by them—“be pleased not to disturb the other haymakers. They have only begun today”—at a quiet suggestion from herself—“and my Lady Blanche would not be happy if you did.”

  “I will keep to the southeast side of the field, where none are working. It is poor grass there, anyway.”

  “Thank you.” Surprising her by such close knowledge of crops, he startled her afresh by dropping his shield in the same languid way that she had cast aside her cloak and by striding up the field to the hay reeve. Handing the man a tall flask, he returned by the same path and, before she could remonstrate, said, “I do not trouble them, Princess, but the haymakers will take a rest now, and one has loaned me his scythe.”

  The best and sharpest scythe, she noticed, and he carried it as deftly as he handled a sword.

  “Excuse me.”

  He confounded her anew. L
eaning the handle of the scythe against himself, he stripped to his linen leggings, appearing as lightly clad as one of the haymakers—or her.

  He thinks he has beaten me at my own game, but I will not stare at him, Edith determined. Behind her, the damsels trudging up the field on their heeled shoes and dragging their long trails and sleeves after them now clapped and shouted, instantly excited and energized.

  “Look at his scars!”

  “Look at those muscles!”

  “He is magnificent!”

  “He shall have my favor!”

  “Mine, too!”

  The exclamations were tossed at him like flowers and he grinned, sucking in his stomach, making the slabs of muscles across his back and chest “dance” as he struck several poses.

  “More!” The damsels were clapping and stamping their feet. In the corner of the great field, under the shade of a lime tree, the true haymakers passed round the ale flask and watched the whole play with an intent interest. Edith guessed they had already laid bets.

  “You have outstripped me, sir,” she said, wishing her wits were as cool as her voice. She ached to touch him herself, to trace the hairs on his long, bronzed arms and his barrel chest and back, to plant soft kisses into the creases of his elbows, and along his collarbones and ribs. Fearing the desire would be naked in her eyes, she held out a hand. “Should I keep your mantle?”

  Ranulf shook his head. “My thanks, Princess, but I prefer to do this.” He wound his tunic round his shaggy fair head, to act as a sun shade, then lifted the scythe and tapped it softly three times on the ground: a little luck charm, she guessed.

  “I loved haymaking when I was a boy,” he said, and he reached out and softly tugged at the garland round her waist, making the soft grasses tickle her middle. “On days like this in the north, I would be in the fields from sunrise to set. The smell of new hay, the songs of the reapers, the feast after—I am most grateful, Princess, to be returned to such times.”

  He bowed from the waist and sped off, murmuring as he passed her, “And I will win, Princess, so be ready.”

  By sunset it was all over. Word had rushed round the castle and hamlets: the black knight had cut half a hay field, drawn out a towering pile of daisies for the Lady of Lilies, returned the scythe to the hay reeve with thanks, and then sprinted to the archery butts. Stripped to his leggings and wearing nothing else save the scarlet sleeve of Lady Blanche wrapped around his left arm, he had won there in a score of shots, drawing a great yew bow as if it was a child’s toy, and never missing the middle of the target.

  “I hear you were a veritable Hercules,” Giles observed, rather sourly, for his hunting with the heiress had not gone well. “You certainly stink like him.”

  Ranulf shrugged and stretched his arms above his head, laughing as Giles held his nose. His back scorched like the devil but his salve was the dazed look in the princess’s eyes and the knowledge that, after a trip to the castle bathhouse, he would be calling on the Lady of Lilies. He had not felt this alive in months. Even his wearing of Lady Blanche’s sleeve had brought no pain or memories of Olwen, merely amusement because he still had the princess’s favors kept safe, and both of them knew it.

  “What are you grinning about?” Giles demanded, sullen as a coroner.

  “This evening I collect a debt. A very tasty debt. I will send my squire first, with my terms, and then I think we shall trade.”

  “Trade? Debts? Are you a moneylender now? You are mad, Ranulf!”

  “Maybe.” He truly did not care.

  Chapter 8

  “Those are my lord’s terms,” said the squire. “A kiss for each favor.”

  The lanky young man stopped, scarlet in the face. Had Edith been less incensed she might have felt for him, but she had her own troubles.

  “He will acknowledge me as his master at this joust, and carry my favor?”

  “As his mistress and lady, you mean?” The squire swallowed, staring now at his feet. “Yes, my lady.”

  That is something, at least. Edith glanced at Teodwin, seeing his shuttered expression and sensing his near panic. At the back of the great tent, behind the screen, Maria’s light breathing had quickened and Walter was saying to her, very quietly in the old dialect, “Do not worry. Edith will make all well, as she has before.”

  But even Walter knew she could not be unveiled. It would be too great a blow to her mystique, and dangerous if Sir Giles saw her.

  How can I keep my word and still be unknown?

  Hoodman blind—the answer flew to her lips and she spoke. “I will agree to all these terms, squire, on one condition. Your lord must agree to be blindfolded. It is the custom in my land that only a bride and married women may appear unveiled. If he will be blindfolded within my tent, then we may exchange a kiss of peace.”

  He will never agree. He will not agree, and my people and I will remain safe.

  Edith gripped the edge of the table, feeling as if her whole world was seesawing. “He does what?” she whispered.

  “He agrees to your terms, my lady,” gasped the squire. He was still short of breath, having run hard up the field. “He asks that you have the cloths ready when he comes presently.”

  He bowed out of her presence and Edith sank into her crouch, holding her head. She felt dizzy with a kind of thumping dread and a dazed anticipation. “He is coming now? What will I do? What should I do?”

  “Kiss him and be done,” said Teodwin curtly. “Will you have Sir Tancred admitted? He is hovering outside, even now.”

  “No!” She wanted no one to witness this. Wait—did I not say to Ranulf earlier that Sir Tancred was my chaperone? All these truths and half-truths! I cannot remember! “No, I mean, yes. Admit him, yes.”

  Chapter 9

  When Ranulf was escorted into the tent of the Lady of Lilies by a heavily pregnant maid, the princess laughed. He could hear her chuckling clearly through her veil and saw her eyes sparkling, half closing in sheer amusement.

  “My lord!” Seeing him and his costume—devised by Ranulf in a moment of madness on his way from the castle bathhouse through the camp—Sir Tancred was clearly scandalized. His pale eyes bulged with indignation as he spilled most of his cup of wine down his gray beard and scarlet tunic.

  “This will not do!” her gaudy steward protested, huffing and squawking like a hen thrust off its nest. The pregnant maid was giggling through her fingers.

  Ranulf struck a pose. “I am Venus, a fair woman, and all is seemly between women.” How do girls walk in long skirts? I feel like I am hauling a mile of sacking around with me. “I come to give my sister-princess a kiss of peace.”

  As the princess continued to laugh, clutching her side, he puckered his lips, provoking another stream of laughter from his intended target.

  “My lord, please!” the steward tried again, but the princess held up a hand.

  “What is your hair made of, sir? Is it wool?”

  “Bought from a spinster in camp,” Ranulf replied, dragging the messy cloud of uncombed wool from his head and stepping with relief out of his rough bundle of sacking “skirts.” “Where did my disguise fail, Princess?”

  He ignored the steward’s snort and the maid’s tittering.

  “A lady with stubble? Venus in sacking? I think not. Ask Sir Tancred; he is behind you.”

  “Ah, your chaperone!” Ranulf turned and nodded to the older knight. “She saw through my play, it seems.”

  “You are outrageous!” Sir Tancred was another old hen, planting hands on hips and scarlet with indignation. “It is an insult to the princess!”

  “Not so, good sir,” put in the lady swiftly, slipping between them with a soft swish of her silks. “Sir Ranulf has learned that I, too, can take a jest against myself, and bear no ill will for his foolery.”

  Ranulf thought, That is so, and she is right: she can take a joke against herself. But all I had planned with this was to jest a little, and to steal a kiss.

  As if she guessed his mind, the princes
s went on. “Still, for my patience and forgiveness I would request a favor in return. The small silken star in silver, pinned to your breast. It is a favorite of mine.”

  “Come take it, then,” he said at once, recognizing the justice and straightening as she closed in, drawing in his belly and praying his body would not betray him. It was a near thing, though, with this slender, shimmering moon of a princess, delicate as any courtesan of his dreams. She was still in her gold and cream, with many sparkling jewels, and now she glided to him on cloth of some amazing stuff that was as fine and supple as spiders’ threads, actually walking on it. The whole tent was carpeted in it, he now realized, and he felt shamed by his own great boots.

  She drew near, her perfume slapping him lightly to arousal as a maze of images whirled in his head: a pair of bright eyes, a running scrap of a maid in brown, dainty feet.

  Her fingers brushed over his chest, over his best tunic, and his heart hammered his ribs in answer. “Do not take too long, or I may change my mind,” he muttered. Only the thought of the pregnant maid being shocked into labor stopped him from snatching her to him and seizing the kiss and all that he desired.

  She had been unpinning the favor. Now she glanced up, her startled eyes showing how young she was, in truth, and, with the smile in her voice, how knowing.

  “I will soon be done, my lord. There.” She held up the silly scrap of cloth and he kissed it, and her gloved fingers. They were cool under his lips, quivering softly. He thought of them degloved, tracing down his ribs, scooping lower to his belly, and was lost afresh.

  She knew, of course, and stepped back. “Do you go to the revels this evening, my lord?”

  “Not without you, my lady,” he retorted, glad of the distraction as the steward and Sir Tancred hissed through their beards, no longer hens but geese.

  “You know I do not indulge in such revels,” she answered easily. “I spend my nights in contemplation.”