by Brit Darby
There were competitions of every sort, from billiards to ninepins and dicing. Even the merchants and peasants were welcome to participate in these games. This was one of the few times the lower classes were allowed to mingle with the nobility.
Even the King himself competed in his much beloved sport, falconry. He carried his favorite bird hooded on his wrist, and strapped it to the perch behind the stands while he greeted and held each arriving lady’s fingers, and kissed more than a few on the cheek, forehead or mouth.
Unlike the tourneys of earlier days pitting knight against knight, sometimes to the death, the rules decreed for this event were stringent. The number of contestants was limited, fighting was done only with blunted swords and lances, and the object was to seize the opponent’s banner rather than kill him.
Alianor watched from the stands as people continued gathering, listening to the buzz of anticipation. Soon the grounds resembled a festival. There were horse dealers, armorers, usurers, even fortune tellers and women of ill repute. Not far off, she saw a bear danced for its owner, while vendors hawked their goods. Pastries, libation, a myriad of noises and sights all for the pleasure of the people.
The reason for the gathering mattered little to the common folk; they did not care Alianor was married at all, much less against her will. Women of any station had little or no say. What did matter was the abundant variety and amount of food offered, and kegs of mulled wine and beer and ale, all provided for free by their liege. At this hour, they did not despise Lackland so heartily.
Parti-colored pavilions were set up for the contestants and their gear. A puppet show entertained children in another tent. Their delighted laughter drifted up to the stands where Alianor greeted the King and Queen, and joined her glowering husband on the bench behind them.
“It took you long enough, wife,” de Lacy said by way of greeting, critically examining her appearance. “And I see you wear damme black again. Where is your wimple and veil, and why is your hair unbound? You look like a peasant wench headed to a funeral.”
Alianor took her seat and laughed off his ire. “Why, milord, I hear your taste runs to peasant wenches. You should be touched by my attempt to please you.”
De Lacy snorted. Thankfully, he was distracted for awhile by the festivities on the grounds. Especially by the ale maids with their half-laced bodices and short, flounced skirts. He frequently signaled to get his tankard refilled, leering at the women when they came over and curtsied low.
Another procession arrived and Alianor recognized William Marshal striding to his seat. He was wearing his hauberk so he intended to compete. Even at his age, he still defeated many younger, stronger knights with relative ease on the field.
Seeing her there, William nodded. Their gazes met and held, and Alianor sensed something was amiss. She dared not approach him, for he was still in the King’s ill favor, and drawing attention to the one man who might yet help her was unwise.
The falconry competition came first. The King liked to claim his victory early in the games, so he could revel in it for the remainder of the eve. Lackland left the stands to join the competitors.
Seated behind the Queen, Alianor was concerned with keeping the increasingly belligerent de Lacy under control, and did not see much of what was happening on the field. Her mind toyed with strategies for subduing her husband, short of drugging him outright. The notion caught and lingered. She had noticed an elderly hag hawking her potions and pottages as they had made their way to the stands. Her heart skipped a beat as her mind took hold of the idea.
Still deep in thought, Alianor turned her attention to the falconry competition as the spectators seemed to take on a new level of excitement. The crowd favored the King and his buff-colored gyrfalcon, as expected. He was, after all, providing the celebration for them. It was unwise to bite the hand literally feeding them.
Another competitor, a knight dressed all in black, commanded equal attention. His face was partially covered by the nose piece of the helmet he wore, his eyes shadowed and dark. He raised a magnificent bird balanced on his gauntlet, whispered something to it and tore off its leather hood. The crowd applauded as he displayed the golden tercel, its head swiveling and its fierce eyes looking over the field.
The tercel reminded Alianor of Goliath and she felt the pain of leaving him behind. Many birds looked alike; nevertheless, she found herself drawn to this one. Alianor watched as the black knight’s bird performed with rare speed and grace.
When the quarry was loosed, a white dove, the golden tercel easily overtook the King’s gyrfalcon, and with a triumphant cry brought the prey back to its master. Alianor blinked, squinting to make out further detail. She could have sworn the dove was still alive — the knight slipped it inside his tunic when the others were not looking.
She felt lightheaded. What were the odds another had trained a bird of prey not to kill other birds, but merely capture them? This tercel flew and hunted in its own peculiar fashion, a style so familiar Alianor thought her heart would break in anguish. Ah, she was imagining things.
Thinking of Goliath reminded her of Wolf Haven. Wolf Haven equated with Liam. She must not think of the Emerald Prince. The black knight was muscular, his build reminding her of Liam’s. He held himself with visible strength and pride as he guided his bird through the rest of the competition with ease. Alianor looked away, finding the scene too heartbreaking.
The King’s frustration increased with each trial, as his best gyrfalcon was outstripped by the tercel. With a cross exclamation, he finally withdrew and conceded defeat. His expression reflected a mixture of brooding disappointment and envy. He presented the prize to the winner with a grudging little nod, and the black knight’s manners also outstripped royalty as he bowed low, displaying proper obeisance to the King.
Alianor heard a shrill cry and looked up. The golden tercel had left its master’s arm, and circled above the stands. Her gaze focused on the spiraling bird and her heart pounded. The bird swooped down into the stands and landed with a flurry of beating wings upon the railing beside her.
She froze, staring at the bird. It was Goliath. From a distance she wasn’t sure, but she had no doubt now. She scanned the field for the black knight. He faced her direction, and at her shocked stare proffered a slight bow.
Alianor’s heart thundered. The blood roared in her ears and she did not hear the King’s words until he stood right below her in the stands, his own bird rehooded and riding upon his arm.
“It seems yon knight’s bird has taken a liking to your lady wife, de Lacy,” King John observed, laughing. He apparently did not recognize Goliath. Alianor’s hands clenched in her lap. She prayed nobody noticed her trembling, or if they did, they attributed it to bridal night nerves.
De Lacy was half sprawled beside her, seemingly deep in his cups. His response was sullen. “As long as its master does not do the same.”
The King chuckled and turned to look down upon the black knight, who had approached the stands and stood below, waiting to retrieve his tercel. “A fine bird, sir knight. We could almost believe ’twas raised from our own superior stock, so nobly did it perform.”
The black knight bowed his head in acknowledgment of the King’s compliment.
Despite his loss, the King’s mood was restored again and he glanced at Alianor, smiling. “It seems our day’s finest falconer is at a loss for words, my dear. Perhaps you would be so kind as to return his prized possession.” With a flourish for the benefit of the crowd looking on, he gave his own gauntlet for the lady to use.
Alianor rose and took the glove, hoping the King could not see how her hand still shook. With only the slightest effort, she coaxed Goliath onto her arm. De Lacy looked on with a surly air, but was too inebriated to make the connection. Rather he appeared resentful she was the center of so much attention. “Witch,” he muttered, taking another deep draught of ale.
To avoid passing her husband, she threaded down the far aisle and walked onto the field to meet the k
night. Goliath rode with customary ease upon her arm. Her blood raced and her heart sang as she reached the black knight and he pivoted to face her.
The black knight stepped closer and reached out to retrieve Goliath. Alianor lined her arm up alongside his so the bird might be coaxed from one human perch to the other.
As their flesh touched, a shiver coursed through her, brushing her soul. Their gazes locked, and Alianor recognized those green eyes. She had instinctively sensed Liam was the black knight upon first glance, but her conscious mind protested the impossible notion.
When Goliath was settled and the bird’s jesses secured, Alianor turned away from Liam, unable to bear the tumbling emotions any longer. Why was he here? The danger he placed himself in, indeed both of them, dismayed her so she felt sick. What could he possibly do? Was he foolish enough to think he might rescue her? It was too late. She was de Lacy’s wife, and the King himself waited to ease his lust upon her.
The answer echoed like an anvil inside her head. Of course Liam was brave enough. He had kidnapped her once, why not again? She saw it in his eyes. He had come for her. Her blood tingled, a thrill beyond description mixed with the fear. The Emerald Prince has come for me.
Maintaining a calm mien, Alianor returned to her seat in the stands and returned the King’s gauntlet. She was afraid even a sidelong glance at the black knight would betray her thoughts or his plan. As she settled beside de Lacy, he reached over and grabbed her by the wrist, raising her hand to his lips.
“My sweet wife. Mine.” Le Anguille slobbered over her skin, while Alianor sat rigidly beside him, staring off across the field. She resisted the urge to yank her hand free, knowing it would only plunge de Lacy into a fury. She sensed Liam’s gaze upon them. How he must ache and rage within, forced to watch his adversary paw her, maul her. She felt frustration welling and blinked back tears.
She must find a way to slip away and be alone with Liam. Her mind sought for options while she kept a calm exterior, despite the war raging inside her. How could she approach the black knight without others becoming suspicious?
Her thoughts traveled in every direction, studying her options. There must be a way to get away. To her surprise, it was de Lacy who offered it. He shoved his empty tankard into her hand. “The ale wench has not yet returned. Fetch me another, wife.” His brooding glare dared Alianor to defy the command, and she watched his expression relax at her meek reply.
“Of course, milord.” She rose clutching the empty tankard in one hand, and held her breath when de Lacy glanced at her with suspicion. He motioned irritably for his personal guardsman to accompany her, and slumped back in his seat.
Alianor’s heart sang with triumph as she gathered up the hem of her gown with her free hand and returned to the field. De Lacy’s guard accompanied her, but the young man was clearly bored with his duty. Alianor looked around as they entered the milling grounds, but there was no sign of the black knight. She blended into the throng with ease, glad her humble attire did not attract undue notice. Young Roger cleared a path for her.
The colorful revelries flowed between dozens of parti-colored pavilions, troupes of jugglers, tumblers and animal trainers, contrasted with the more sedate offerings of minstrels and stall keepers. She paused at one merchant’s stall, lingering over cloth bolts. De Lacy’s guardsman let a sigh slip out. Glancing at him with a smile, she said, “Roger, isn’t it?”
“Aye, milady.”
“Forgive me for lingering overlong, Roger, but I cannot decide. I think mayhap this shade flatters me, what think you?” Alianor laid a swath of the emerald green silk against her wrist, and the curly-haired young man squinted at it.
“I suppose so, milady,” he mumbled.
“Or mayhap the blue? This topaz silk is also nice.” Alianor feigned dithery female indecision and saw Roger’s attentions drifted. Suppressing a smile, she said, “La, I cannot decide. I must needs peruse a bit longer. But I realize milord husband is impatient for his ale …”
Eager to escape the tiresome chore of fabric shopping, Roger volunteered to wait in line to get the ale while she continued looking at the bolts. Alianor rewarded his offer with a dazzling smile. “How kind of you, Roger.” She handed de Lacy’s tankard to him. With a nod the young man was gone, and Alianor did not linger at the cloth merchant’s, but slipped across the aisle to the booth of the old woman hawking herbal remedies and potions.
The crone was stooped and wrinkled, her thick hair blinding white with one dark, jagged lightning-bolt through it. She had an impressive countenance despite her ragged tunic, and the woman’s shrewd gaze settling upon her seemed all-knowing.
“I am Mother Tassie. How can I serve ye, milady?” the hag asked.
Alianor hesitated, but desperation overcame her reluctance. “I have trouble s-sleeping,” she stammered.
“’Tis easily enough cured,” the woman said with a hoarse chuckle. “Find yerself a good mon.”
Despite her tension, Alianor smiled. “I already have, Mother Tassie, but still sleep evades me.”
Leaning across the rickety table where she displayed her wares, the crone peered at the dark circles beneath Alianor’s eyes. “Och, lassie, I see the evidence for meself. I’ve the notion to cure ye right quick.”
She turned and rummaged through a basket of her supplies, and produced an innocuous-looking little white packet. She offered it to Alianor. “Add this to any drink, milady, an’ ye’ll sleep like a bairn,” she promised.
Alianor examined the packet curiously. It appeared to contain herbs, yet sniffing it she smelled nothing. Dare she trust a wandering herbalist who would be gone on the morrow? She had no choice, if she wished to escape de Lacy and go to Liam. “I’ll take it,” Alianor said, aware Roger might return to her side any moment.
“’Tis six silver pennies, milady.”
Too late Alianor remembered she didn’t have any coins. Her hand rose and touched the silver circlet upon her brow. Mother Tassie offered a toothless grin, as if reading her mind. “Will you barter with me, Mother Tassie?”
“Aye, lass. Though the remedy be dear in price, yer sweet nature appeals to me.”
Alianor bit back a laugh, for the silver circlet was worth most of the woman’s inventory. However, she was in too much a hurry to haggle. She removed the circlet and gave it over with nary a thought. She tucked the packet in the close fitted sleeve at her wrist.
“Wait, milady.” Apparently feeling a twinge of conscience over the uneven barter, Mother Tassie pushed something else at her. A curious little figure of straw and cloth.
“What is it?”
“A love poppet. ’Twill keep yer mon ever loyal. Hold it ’neath his breath while he sleeps, and bury it in a fallow field by the light o’ the next full moon.”
Alianor chuckled. “Keep it, Mother Tassie. Give it to a lass who doubts her beloved. I do not.” As the crone grinned at her, Alianor stepped away and almost ran into de Lacy’s man.
“Roger, there you are. I think I’ve decided, at long last,” she said, grabbing the guardsman by his sleeve and tugging him back to the cloth merchant’s stall. “I’ll take them all.”
Alianor beamed and so did the merchant as the tally was made, and half a dozen bolts were stacked upon the table. “Send the bill to Lord de Lacy,” she said.
“Of course, milady. Shall we have the cloth sent to you?”
“Gracious, No. Or I will never have my gowns finished before Twelfth Night.” She turned to Roger with a smile. “Methinks a great, strapping lad like you can easily carry my purchases.”
Roger blushed at the compliment. “Aye, milady,” he stammered.
“Your hands will be full, however. Let me carry the ale.” Alianor plucked the tankard from his hands before he might protest, and soon Roger staggered beneath the heavy bolts, trying to juggle them all without losing his grip.
Alianor easily lost Roger for a minute in the crowd on the way back to the stands. Behind one of the pavilions, she paused and retrieved the
packet from her sleeve. She emptied the contents into the ale, swirling the liquid about to make certain it dissolved. She felt a prickle of fear, but reasoned it was worth the risk. Knowing de Lacy was impatient by now if not downright surly, she waited for Roger to catch up with her before she returned to the stands.
“It took you long enough, wife,” de Lacy said by way of greeting, his eyes narrowed as he examined her flushed countenance.
“I’m sorry, milord. The line was long at the ale stand. I also did a little shopping, since my present attire does not please you.”
De Lacy glanced at Roger, who laid down the bolts and wiped his sweaty brow.
“Next time I shall pick the cloth, Alianor. I will dress you as I see fit.”
“Of course, milord.” She presented Quintin’s tankard with a little curtsy, praying he did not see her knees shaking. He snatched it from her hand, took a swallow and spit it out with a disgusted face. He swore, long and loud. “The ale has turned, bitch.” He flung the remainder at her, and Alianor could not step back fast enough to prevent it from splashing her. “Fetch me another,” he growled.
Turning at the commotion, Queen Isabella gasped with dismay at his actions. She handed Alianor a square of silk from her purse and Alianor blotted at the drenched fabric. She feigned distress while secretly rejoicing — he had given her yet another excuse to leave the stands and search out Liam.
“I cannot remain here like this, Your Grace. What an unsightly mess.”
“Aye.” Isabella’s brow furrowed. “I’ll send Lilith to fetch another gown, Nora; meanwhile, you can retire to one of the pavilions. I shall accompany you.” She nodded at her maidservant, and while Lilith rushed off on the mission, the pregnant Queen rose beside Alianor.
De Lacy protested. “My wife does not require a change of wardrobe, Your Majesty. ’Tis but a small stain, all but unnoticeable on that black sack she’s wearing.”
Isabella looked at him indignantly. “Shame on you, milord. Do you maintain a wife should not look her best on her bridal day, with hundreds looking on? Lady de Lacy’s appearance reflects upon you, as well.”
