A Perfect Knight

Alayne had always believed herself perfectly safe wherever she went at court, but now the shadow in the corners became menacing and she retraced her steps swiftly towards the hall, the light of the smoky torches and the laughter of her friends.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Baron de Froissart called to her as she made her way towards a group of ladies. ‘We wondered where you were, lady. Sir Jonquil has prepared a poem for you—will you hear him?’

‘Yes, yes, you must hear him!’ clamoured a dozen voices. ‘We want to hear his poem!’

Alayne smiled, her confidence restored in the familiar atmosphere of laughter and teasing. She was foolish to let the brooding of that strange English knight upset her!

Sir Ralph did not immediately return to the hall after leaving Lady Alayne, though he was relieved to see that she did so almost at once. He frowned as he wondered what had made him speak to her as he had. It was not his business if she chose to walk alone, nor if she flirted carelessly with men he considered unworthy. She had been married and must understand the danger she courted.

No woman could look and act as she did and be as innocent as she would have it! There was something about her that had drawn him despite himself, a witchery or enchantment that made his blood pulse in his veins. She claimed to be innocent of guile and for a moment he had almost been swayed by those proud eyes, but he had learned not be moved by a woman’s tears and looks of reproach. Berenice had been young and foolish, but the Lady Alayne was very different. Any man foolish enough to let himself be caught in her toils would surely rue the day he had met her!

Ralph had heard much of the fabled Court of Love and of the rules of chivalry surrounding it. Such nonsense would no doubt appeal to vulnerable young women, who thought it amusing to tease and arouse the men who courted them, but Ralph knew too well that all men were base. It was dangerous to walk too near the edge with men in whom the beast lived near the surface—even he had been tempted to taste the honey Lady Alayne’s lips seemed to promise and it was unkind memory, not chivalry, that had held him from the brink. If it were not for the memory of another woman’s tears… His thoughts were diverted as he heard voices, close by but in the shadows.

‘De Froissart wants her. If he has his way, she will be his lover and perhaps more ere too long has passed.’

‘He plays games. She is not to be won so easily. She ignores my tributes as she ignores me. She has set her face against marriage and cannot be reached.’

Two men were arguing, their voices sour and heated, and Ralph sensed instinctively that they were discussing the Lady Alayne.

‘But if she were to change her mind?’ the first man said. ‘This tourney in her honour may win her. You know how the ladies love to watch good sport, and she will be the Queen of the day. Her head may be turned by all the excitement. De Froissart is a past champion. There are few that could succeed against him. He will win the right to court her and, if she yields to him as a lover…’

‘You think her father would demand marriage as the price of her honour if he knew?’

‘The Baron de Robspierre seeks power and fortune. De Froissart is rich enough and popular at court. I have heard him speak of winning honour at England’s court. The lady’s father would welcome such a match.’

‘I would see him dead first!’

‘Then you must enter the lists against him. You must receive her favour. Gain her confidence and make her like you. All the ladies love a brave warrior. Many a wench has fallen into my arms after watching me fight. Take her while she is hot for you! Once she is yours, you may find a way to tame her.’

‘I have not the skill to defeat de Froissart in a tourney. Others, yes; I believe I might prevail with them, but de Froissart is a mighty warrior.’

‘Play the coward’s part and you will lose your chance.’

‘I have a plan…’

The voices were growing fainter, as though the men had walked on. Ralph strained to listen, but he could no longer hear what they said and was unsure which direction they had taken. He did not know the voices, but recognised the greed and evil that drove them to their wicked plotting.

Ralph had made inquiries concerning the Lady Alayne earlier that evening, for she intrigued him and he knew that she was wealthy in her own right, but she was also her father’s heiress for he had no other children and no brothers or close kin. It seemed that Alayne was even more vulnerable than Ralph had first thought. Her beauty and that way of smiling, that hint of pleasure that lay deep in her eyes, that warm, sensual allure she exuded without being aware of it, were all potent and enough to make her a prize for any man even had she not been wealthy.

His warning, delivered in a moment of anger, though more with himself than her, had been against violation of her person and her trust, but now it appeared that she was in danger of losing much more: her freedom and perhaps even her life one day. For such men as he had overheard were ruthless and she would be but a pawn in this plotter’s game.

Something deep inside him rose up to deny such an eventuality. No, they should not harm her! Not while he lived. The next moment he gave a harsh laugh at his own reaction.

What was it to him? She had shown her feelings openly. She did not like him. She had been angered and insulted by his advice earlier. If he tried to warn her of this plot, she would probably not believe him. Besides, what did he really know?

He had heard two faceless voices speaking in the dark, discussing the tourney. No doubt many of the knights had spoken in similar terms of their chances of winning the lady’s favour. One of those he had heard wished to gain the lady for himself, most likely because of the rich lands her father owned and the fortune her husband had left her. Her father and husband had clearly thought to unite their lands through the lady’s sons, but she had none and was therefore the greater prize for unscrupulous men. Once married, her husband would own all that was hers, and if her father should die soon after a vast fortune would be the husband’s for the taking. She would be her husband’s possession, his chattel, to use as he would. That thought turned Ralph’s stomach sour and made him scowl in the darkness.

Ralph scorned the greed that spurred such men, but he knew it to be a powerful vice. He had married for a far different reason, and yet he had brought Berenice nothing but pain and a cruel death. He was as base as any other of his sex, though he had strived to be better, to earn back his self-respect, and he had suffered for his carelessness.

He could not stand idly by if the Lady Alayne was in some danger, for he would be as guilty then as he was of Berenice’s death. If he had acted differently that day…if he had only taken the trouble to try and understand his wife…but that way lay only madness. He could not give Berenice back her life, but he might help Alayne.

Should he speak to the Queen about what he had heard? Ralph knew that Eleanor had been angered by the tone of Henry’s letters and what she had heard of her husband’s infidelity. It was unlikely that she would listen to anything Henry’s messenger had to say, especially as he could offer no proof.

He would be foolish to try. Ralph wrestled with his thoughts. He was not responsible for Lady Alayne’s safety! She was nothing to him, nor could she ever be. Yet something about her had stirred feelings he’d believed long dead, buried beneath a mound of grief and anguish.

He had been bidden to languish here at Poitiers until the Queen was disposed to answer her husband’s letters. That might be a matter of days, weeks, or months. The time would hang heavy on his hands, yet he would use it to discover what he could about the men who plotted to use Lady Alayne for their own ends. Perhaps if he had proof, the Queen would listen if the lady would not?

Until he had overheard that whispered plotting, Ralph had considered Baron de Froissart the lady’s greatest risk amongst the knights. He was clearly enamoured of her and meant to seduce her if he could with sweet words and brave deeds, but these other, secret plotters were a more potent danger. They planned to take by stealth what the lady would not give willingly, and that was something no true knight could ignore. He was bound by his oaths of sacrifice and chivalry to protect the innocent and punish evil.

Ralph decided that he must do what he could to save the lady from the evil that threatened her, even if he earned naught but her scorn for doing so. Perhaps if he could help an innocent lady—for in his heart he believed her thus, despite her flashing eyes and enticing smiles—he would in some small way repay his debt to Berenice.

Alayne and Marguerite helped each other undress. They both had serving wenches to care for their clothes and wait on them when they required service, but they often sent the girls to their pallets of straw early out of pity. It was a hard life at the palace for serving wenches. They spent their time fetching and carrying from dawn until dusk, snatching food in the kitchen from the remains of what was brought to the nobles’ table, and avoiding the clutching hands of both the serving men and their masters. There were a brood of their children somewhere about the palace, born in corners and hidden by their mothers until they were old enough to become of use in the kitchens or stables.

‘Sir Ralph spoke to me,’ Marguerite said, a flicker of pleasure in her pretty face as she unfastened Alayne’s intricate headdress and removed it for her, laying it on an oak coffer beneath the narrow arched window. It was dark outside now, for a cloud had passed across the moon. ‘He seems a very perfect knight, chivalrous and kind. Did you chance to meet him, Alayne?’

‘Her Majesty introduced us,’ Alayne said, deciding to say nothing of her further meeting with the English knight. ‘He did not say very much, except that he had no wish to fight in the tourney.’

‘He was knighted by the English King,’ Marguerite said. ‘I believe he was a favourite at that court before his marriage. He served the King in his struggles with rebellious nobles, so I have heard. I do not think him a coward, Alayne, even if he does not wish to fight.’

‘No, I think perhaps you are right,’ Alayne said, remembering the hint of steel in his voice as he had warned her against the folly of walking alone in the evening. ‘I dare say he thinks such pastimes foolish and a waste. If he fights, he does so in a good cause, I would judge.’

She had helped Marguerite to remove her headdress and now she pulled off her own tunic and ran barefoot to the bed in her shift, seeking the warmth to be found beneath the heavy coverlets. Even in summer the stone walls of the palace kept out the heat, and in winter it was so cold that they slept beneath piles of furs on top of their silken quilts.

They had undressed by the light of one rush tallow, which Mar-guerite extinguished before she joined Alayne beneath the covers.

‘May God bless and keep us both this night,’ she said and crossed herself. ‘I think I like Sir Ralph,’ she whispered softly as she settled down to sleep.

Alayne smiled to herself in the darkness. Marguerite clearly believed her father would do his best to arrange a match between her and the English knight, and seemed content that it should be so—despite her confession that she loved another.

Of course Marguerite had no choice but to obey her father, as Alayne had had none at the time of her marriage. She was not cold, but a little shiver ran down her spine as she remembered her horror on learning that she was to wed a man of her father’s age, and the fear had begun as she saw the way he looked at her. Then, on her wedding night, when she had bolstered her courage to the limit to accept whatever he did to her, she had discovered that he was incapable of bedding her.

A tear trickled from the corner of her eye as she recalled his efforts and his abuse. When at last he had realised it was useless, he had struck her across the face, making her lip bleed. She had wept into her pillow as he left her bed, swearing and cursing her as though his inability was her fault. She had not known it then, but he had spent the night drinking strong wine, and in the morning he had greeted her with more drunken fumbling and abuse.

Leaving her to weep again, he had gone charging from her chamber and tumbled headlong down the stone steps of the tower. It would have been better if he had died instantly, for his back was broken and he was in terrible pain from that moment on until he finally died. Alayne had taken the brunt of his cruelty as she nursed him, ridden all the while with guilt—for it must surely have been something in her that had made him unable to be her husband. He had told her that she was a cold bitch and no proper woman.

His accusations and bitter curses had made her life miserable until he finally died, mercifully, in his sleep one night. Alayne had given thanks for her release and his, but then her father had told her that within six months she would be married again.

‘You are too young to be a widow,’ he had told her. ‘Besides, if we are clever, we may find another suitor of more consequence than your fool of a husband, Alayne. Valmont’s lands are not adjacent to ours, but they are near enough to make it a good choice. And there is always de Bracey…’

‘Never!’ Alayne cried, turning pale. ‘I do not know how you could suggest it, Father. That man is—’ She shivered and could not go on. ‘He frightens me. Besides, you quarrelled with him over land that he stole from you.’

‘All the more reason that you should wed him,’ her father said. ‘Your sons will inherit it all, Alayne. Think of that—think of the power such a fortune will bring to your sons.’

Alayne pushed the thoughts from her mind. She had believed them almost banished, but the English knight had brought them back to her with his warnings. She ought to know that men had their baser side, for she had witnessed it at the hands of her husband and her father. Her father had struck her when she defied him, threatening to force her to obey him, but she had outwitted him and lived safe at court these many months. Yet her mind was never quite at ease, for she knew that her father was a stubborn man and would not easily relinquish his plans for her.

She closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind so that she could sleep, but all she could see was the face of the English knight. His eyes seemed to burn with a fire that seared deep into her soul, causing her to moan softly and bite her lip. No man before him, not even de Froissart, had managed to make her so restless. There was inside her a yearning, a need that she could not identify, but she knew it had begun when he’d looked at her so strangely in the walled garden.

‘Why do you plague me so?’ she asked him in her thoughts. She had been at peace with herself until he came, but something had changed and she was not sure why he troubled her so.

Chapter Three

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.