The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  ‘So when did you tell my father of this?’

  ‘Only a few days ago, at Handes.’

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you that I might have made plans of my own by that time?’

  ‘It’s true that I hadn’t anticipated the depth of your anger with me, but your plans never stood much of a chance, did they? You have to admit that even you had doubts. Why else would you have brought the diamond along if not to boost the bribe?’

  She tried to pull her hands away, but he was prepared for her and held on to them. ‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘If I’d known—’

  ‘Yes, if you’d known I was going to be there, you’d—’

  ‘I intended to return it to you, sir, in the first place. I still have that intention. If it was meant as some kind of reward, I cannot accept it.’

  He pulled her hands on to his chest to make her look at him. ‘Reward, woman? Nay, never that. It was to remind you. Didn’t you understand?’

  His eyes held hers in a combination of reproach and hope, failing to hide the admiration which had once been mistaken for arrogance. He was a superb creature whose character she had only just begun to understand and who was now saying that his interest in her was far greater than she had guessed. Their night together had been, for Eloise, a unique experience, but how unique had it been for him? And did this interest have anything to do with genuine feelings of regard or did it have more to do with winning? He was, after all, fiercely competitive. And determined.

  She watched his thumbs moving over her skin. ‘I need no reminder,’ she said. ‘My memory is quite reliable on such matters. But I shall insist that you take it back.’ Slowly, she leaned towards him until her forehead met the damp patch upon his chest. ‘I need no reminder,’ she repeated, ‘and I want you to win. God knows that I do. But I never wished for this to happen. If I could go back in time for a while, I would. I’d make him understand that it’s not the way it appears to be, that my objections are deeper than mere whimsy. But I do not see how I can accept you as my husband, despite all the scheming. I’ve not been consulted, only told what I can and cannot do, but why should any man tell me who to share the rest of my life with, who to obey in all matters, sleep with and bear children to, share with other women or lose in a man’s game?

  ‘I made mistakes before, I know, but I would rather live with them than with someone else’s. No one has yet given me the truth of what happened to cause the last one and, until they do, I am unwilling to commit myself to the same kind of marriage contract. Not even to you, Owain.’ She raised her head to look at his face, the steady eyes, the mouth that had done so much to heal her wounds in one glorious night. ‘Yes—’ she placed a soft hand over those lips ‘—I know that I gave myself to you the other night, but that was my decision, freely given, and I don’t regret it. My body is mine to give. And that’s why I’ve chosen this arrangement with my steward, not because of any tender feelings towards him but because he expects nothing from me except security and I want nothing from him except respect and loyalty. It’s simpler that way.’

  She removed her hand and, because she felt tears ready to start again, laid her cheek against his chest, hiding her face from him. ‘Besides, if he should meet with some tragedy after the allotted three months, which he undoubtedly will, my heart will not be broken as it would be for you. Safer not to tempt Fate. There, I’ve said it.’ The tears had already begun to flow, her body to shake at the terrible bleak picture she had painted of her future: the confusion of her reasons hung like droplets of rain between them, too fragile to hold.

  He rocked her until the shaking ceased, smoothing her back with one hand and holding her to him with the other. ‘Yes,’ he said, eventually. ‘I understand why you think that way, but after tomorrow’s events, the king will expect us to plight our troth and you will not be allowed to refuse. You must prepare yourself for that. A betrothal is an agreement to marry at some time in the future, remember, and it cannot easily be broken except for a very good reason. The marriage ceremony finalises it in the eyes of the church but, since we have already been intimate, and shall be so again, our bond will be well-nigh irrevocable.’

  ‘I should know, I’m an expert at it, except that in my case there appear to be built-in impediments. Yes, I know I shall have to accept his decision but… Owain?’

  ‘What, my beauty? More doubts?’

  ‘Don’t expect me to leap into marriage immediately, will you? Give me some time to get used to the idea. I shall have some explaining to do.’

  ‘To your loyal steward? Yes, you will. I’d not like to be in his shoes when you do, but we’ll keep him on if it’s only security he wants. Eh?’ His arms tightened around her as he smiled, teasingly, though he was not deaf to her deeper concerns. ‘As for the three-month thing, sweetheart, put it out of your mind, once and for all. It’s not going to happen. Now, anything else worrying you?’

  ‘You will win tomorrow, won’t you?’

  He tipped her into the crook of his arm and studied the tear-stained face, the long dark eyelashes spiked like daggers, the lovely mouth that had not laughed enough in recent years. ‘I shall win,’ he said, grimly. ‘Don’t doubt it, woman. And then I shall make you pay.’

  A tightness caught at her reply, holding her breath. ‘I shall tend your bruises,’ she whispered, ‘until they are gone. Shall you wear my favour, Owain?’ Releasing herself from his arms, she slid the long mulberry silk tippet past her elbow and wrist and tied it round his upper arm over the pale gold velvet. It hung there, looking in the bright light of day like a blood-soaked banner. A shiver of fear ran through her as she glanced into his eyes, but she saw nothing except pride softened by something else which she could not name. ‘There,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘If I have to accept someone, it had best be you.’

  His kiss was intended to be gentle, but Eloise had had only memories to feed on for days and, despite her reservations, her need of him was wild and undisciplined. There, in a quiet haven in the centre of Westminster’s thronging palace, his lips and hands reminded her of their night together, and predicted those to come.

  The arrival of Sir Crispin de Molyns’s two beautiful daughters at Westminster, one of them Sir Piers Gerrard’s widow, was not to stay a secret for long, though why the latter should have refused Sir Owain of Whitecliffe’s offer of marriage was more than most women could believe. Eloise and Jolita and their escorts soon became the centre of attention, for both Sir Henry and Sir Owain had a wide circle of friends, all of them eager to show the ladies round the abbey chapter-house, St Stephen’s brightly painted chapel, the murals, the carved and painted beams and the gaudy tiled floors.

  The most extrovert of Sir Owain’s friends was Sir Walter de Mauny who had accompanied the queen from her native Hainault in 1327. His former role of Official Carver and his relationship to the counts of Hainault soon projected him like a shooting star into the king’s service where he had distinguished himself as one of the best military commanders. Now in his mid-forties, he was still unmarried for reasons similar to Sir Owain’s, though he was more outspoken about it. ‘Beauty and youth, great wealth and nobility,’ he said to Eloise without hesitation, though his blue eyes laughed with mischief that belied the seriousness of his reply. ‘Anything else comes as a bonus, my lady. That young whipper-snapper made a bid for you before I did, damn him, which is often the case, but I’ve put mine in, just the same, so all is not lost. We have tomorrow to get through yet.’

  Eloise looked up sharply from the goldfish that had come to nibble at her fingers. ‘Sir Walter? Are you being serious?’

  He took her dripping fingers in his own, gently, his eyes still merry. ‘The king doesn’t publish his list of offers, but I’m on it, believe me.’ He was larger than life, well proportioned and dashingly handsome with a reputation as a fine athlete and an almost suicidal courage that went far beyond most men’s. Her father had often mentioned his exploits, adding that, in his opinion, he ought to have been one of the original mem
bers of the Order of the Garter, having more ability in his little finger than some he could mention.

  Disturbed by this newest development, she said nothing of it to Sir Owain, but put it to her father up in the Great Wardrobe, a suite of chambers set on the south side of the great hall at the palace. Here he presided over a team of tailors and furriers, silk-women and artificers, clerks and carpenters. They found a relatively private corner lined with shelves where grotesque masks grinned at them in rows above rails of exotic gowns used at the king’s ceremonies.

  ‘Princess Isabella’s birthday tournament,’ he said to her, taking her arm and leading her towards an archway almost blocked by wooden crates. ‘Her Highness wants gold everywhere,’ he mumbled. ‘Just like her mother. The brighter the better.’ They sat together on the crates. ‘Beads, spangles, gold-foil, jewels.’ He tapped the space between them. ‘Now, what’s this about de Mauny?’ he said. ‘Yes, of course I knew.’

  ‘Isn’t anyone going to tell me the whole of it?’ Eloise snapped. She was instantly contrite, and took Sir Crispin’s hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry, Father. About what happened earlier, too. It was not my intention to embarrass you, but his Grace cannot pass me from hand to hand like that.’

  Sir Crispin sighed, patting her hand. ‘I’ve told you before, lass. He can. You’re in his gift and he can marry you any way he wishes. And the only thing you can do about it is to take yourself off to Farewell Priory and let him take the whole of your estate back into his own hands which…’ he pulled her hand into an expressive gesture with his own ‘…which he will then sell to the highest bidder. Which is what he is doing already. The king doesn’t lose, my dear. Well rarely, anyway.’ He sighed again, watching the sadness in her eyes, still puffy from weeping. ‘Look, lass,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was expecting too much by hoping that this business would be settled by now.’

  ‘On my record, Father, I suppose you were, though for the life of me I cannot believe I deserve to be kept in the dark about things that concern my future happiness. Is there anything else I ought to know? You seem to be aware of those who’ve made offers to the king. Did I not ought to know of them, too?’

  ‘More importantly, my dear, you ought to be aware that, unless Sir Owain is put out in the first round, which is most unlikely, the rest of this list is academic.’

  ‘Academic? You mean…the competition?’

  ‘I mean…oh, dear…there’s no delicate way to say this. Didn’t anyone ever develop a special language for fathers to use to daughters?’

  ‘I’m twenty-three, Father, all but a few months,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Tch! Yes, well. His Grace kissed you this morning.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s nothing so unusual in that, Father.’

  ‘No..oo,’ he agreed, not looking at her, ‘and to those of us who know him well, there was nothing unusual in his expression to Sir Owain, either.’

  ‘What do you mean, his expression? What expression?’

  ‘To put it bluntly, lass, the king wants you for himself. It’s as well that you should know of this so that it doesn’t come as too much of a shock at the end of the tournament. He intends to take part, you see.’

  Slowly, Eloise withdrew her hand, feeling its clamminess against her father’s warm palm. ‘How do you know this?’ she whispered.

  ‘I know this,’ he said, gently, ‘by experience and because his Grace has chosen to use this tournament for such a purpose. Sir Walter de Mauny will be hard to beat, but the king will be even harder. If he should win instead of Sir Owain, your immediate future will be here in London, my dear, between the palaces of Westminster, Woodstock, Eltham, Sheen…’

  ‘No!’ she cried, hoarsely. ‘Don’t go on, Father. This is too much…too much!’

  ‘You asked if there was anything else you should know.’

  ‘Yes. But this is dreadful!’

  ‘You want Sir Owain, then? After all?’

  Pressing both palms beneath her breasts, she tried to steady her breathing. ‘Yes…yes…oh, my God…yes, I do. Please God,’ she whispered, ‘make him win!’

  ‘It’s as well to go straight to the top in these matters,’ said Sir Crispin, wryly. ‘Now, since you have to be at Smithfield tomorrow, you’d better stay overnight with Jolita in London instead of returning to Sheen.’

  ‘What about Saskia? My things?’

  ‘I’ve already sent for her.’

  ‘And you? Will you stay there, too?’

  ‘No, love,’ he said, rising and dusting himself down. ‘I shall be here till late, getting to grips with this lot. Heaven knows what they’ve been doing in my absence. I shall sleep at the palace, as I usually do.’

  ‘Father,’ Eloise said, joining him, ‘you’ll be there, won’t you?’

  He took her face in his hands. ‘Of course. One way or the other, I shall have to be there, won’t I, with their gowns to deliver? Eh? And stop worrying; Sir Owain’s good. The best.’

  ‘Except the king?’

  ‘There’s always a first time, lass.’

  ‘Does Sir Owain know what you’ve just told me?’

  He nodded and let her go. ‘Yes. It’s not so very unusual. It doesn’t last. His Grace has had most of the queen’s maids. She knows.’ He led her back into the bustling chamber and the piles of fabric, the tables next to the windows on which tailors sat, cross-legged and stitching furiously.

  ‘Doesn’t she mind?’

  ‘Hm! She’s the queen,’ he whispered. ‘She’s given him a large brood and they adore each other. She knows he’s a man like any other.’

  That was not by any means the first time Eloise had come across that sentiment, but it was the first time she had heard it from her father who she had always supposed to be unsympathetic towards erring husbands. Until now. His instruction for her to stop worrying was, however, doomed to failure in view of the serious predicament in which she found herself, And if her father’s laconic acceptance of the king’s behaviour had startled her, she was even more perturbed by his obvious lack of outrage that his daughter was already on the receiving end of the king’s attention. Far from suggesting that they should return home immediately, he had even declined to offer her any advice that was worth having on how to deal with the unwanted complication, preferring to accept the king’s interest in her as being well outside his terms of reference.

  Late that night, with Jolita sleeping deeply beside her, Eloise held aside the hero-worship reserved for her father to investigate areas previously taken on trust, finding a remarkable consistency of detachment that could not entirely be attributed to fatherly indulgence. There were questions difficult to answer with any degree of charity. Was this latest example of unconcern the result of the previous years when all his attempts to find her a mate had come to nothing? Had he given up on her? Was he finding her attempts at independence too baffling to deal with? Was this the cause of his dour remark that he should not have expected things to be settled so easily that morning? This, from one who had recently accused her of cynicism?

  The investigation sharpened. He had left her third set of marriage plans in the bungling hands of his eldest child, Sir Rolph, while he himself had returned to his duties in London, refusing to delegate his work for the king for the sake of his eldest daughter’s future. He had done his best to remedy the situation by making his lawyers available to her and, to be fair, they had won back her property from Sir Piers’s relatives. But why, when he had personal daily access to the king, had he not allowed her to be given the full details of what had happened to cause Sir Piers’s death? To insist that it would not help to know was an insult to her intelligence and yet, in the light of today’s revelations, her father’s attitude seemed like another example of his dwindling commitment.

  Guilt crept in like a snake. Was she being unfair? Mistaken? Seeing things upside-down? Dawn appeared long before she was ready for it, bringing a new wave of fear that the pattern of her life was being repeated, over and over, way beyond her control.
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br />   The air inside Sir Owain’s arming-tent smelled warmly of leather as the knight watched his squire’s nimble fingers buckle the steel knee-cop over one knee.

  ‘Shin-guards, sire?’ the young man whispered. Sir Owain would not allow squires’ chatter before a joust: it spoiled his concentration.

  He shook his head. ‘No, leave them off.’ His hand caressed the breast-shaped cop until the tent-flap was pushed aside. ‘Walter!’ he said.

  Even fully harnessed, Sir Walter du Mauny rarely looked serious. ‘So!’ he said, with traces of clipped Flemish still lingering in his voice. ‘This is an amusing situation, my friend, is it not?’

  Sir Owain did not return the smile. ‘No, Walter. It bloody well isn’t amusing, and well you know it.’

  ‘Doubting? Surely not.’

  His friend heaved a sigh of disgust and stood, raising his arms for the padded gambeson and lifting his chin above the high rolled neck. He had had leather patches sewn to each shoulder, but would make no reply until his silk shirt had been smoothed down under the quilted linen. ‘The whole thing’s ridiculous,’ he said, looking down his nose. ‘His Grace knows exactly why I made my offer so early, yet he’s still putting me through this palaver, Walter. And now he’s putting his oar in, too, which is one oar too many, in my view. Heaven knows I’m as ready to joust as he is, but to put a woman in such a position lacks chivalry, and that’s putting it bluntly. Especially a woman who’s been through all that. She thought it would have been settled by now, as we all did.’

  Sir Walter quirked an eyebrow at the young squire who laced up his master’s back, but Sir Owain reassured him. ‘It’s all right. Michael won’t speak out of turn. He values his position too much. Eh, lad?’