by Lisa Hendrix
Through it all, she continued to sew.
She soon finished Sir Gunnar’s cote-hardie and moved on to a padded doublet for him to wear beneath it, then to a chemise for beneath that, choosing a thick, soft wool that would keep him warm in his travels, and then a linen for summer wear, and when those were done, she went on to make him some good, thick chausses and a lined mantle of sturdy stuff that would stand up to the vilest weather.
By then it was spring and they were back at York Castle, and the tourney came and went and Sir Gunnar still did not come. Even so, when all the other sewing was done, she dipped into her purse to buy cloth for a set of court clothes: a fine velvet houpelande in deepest blue with gold trimming; a jacket and a shirt of cambric so fine an angel would barely note its weight; hose—fine ones, this time—and a cap with gold trim to match the houpelande; and even court slippers and a braided belt. And all the while, still dreaming he might bear her away from Richard when he finally returned, she laid her work aside before each meal and stood peering down at the men in the hall, searching for those coppery curls.
In the end, the clothes she’d made, lying folded on a shelf in the cupboard, only collected dust. Before the moths could take an interest, Eleanor sprinkled everything with camphorwood and rue and tansy, wrapped them in silk and linen, tied them with cord, and then stored them and her dream of rescue away deep in the bottom of her chest, beneath a length of golden spiderwork the duchess had presented her for her wedding veil.
Then, as summer faded into autumn, she set out with deliberate effort of thought to do as the duke and her father wished and resign herself to the idea of Richard le Despenser, who would, mayhap, one day make her Countess of Gloucester.
CHAPTER 3
Raby Castle, County Palatine of Durham, April 1412
A TOURNEY. AND a big one, if all those tents meant anything.
Gunnar looked over the broad meadow west of Raby Castle and grinned at his good fortune. He’d been hoping for a rich table, what with it being just after Easter and Raby being the seat of the Earl of Westmorland, but a tourney meant there would be true feasting. Even better, the crush of men would let him slip in, enjoy the best meal he’d had in many a month, barter for a few supplies, have a lie with one of the whores who would have gathered for the joust, and then slip back out unnoticed. Jafri could have a go tomorrow before they continued on to the coast, and they’d both spend the summer as happier men. The prospect of months alone in the woods always sat a little easier after a good meddle.
He checked to make certain the wolf hadn’t followed him out of the woods, then turned his horse toward the castle. By the time he neared the walls, the fading light had brought the last of the day’s combats to an end so that he could simply fall into the boisterous stream of men and women leaving the lists. He passed over the bridge and through the fortified gate, just one more in the crowd. No one even bothered to ask his name, and soon he stood in the castle bailey, staring up at a scaffolded tower, some ten yards high, that rose in the center of the yard. The pavilion at its top had wide windows on all four sides, but colorful draperies hid whatever or whoever was inside.
“Which favor will you vie for?” asked a voice at his shoulder.
Gunnar glanced at the speaker, a grizzled knight with a cropped beard. “Favor?”
“Aye. There.” The man indicated a score of gloves and ribands and sleeves and veils arrayed on a length of paling wall whose still-green points showed the logs had been cut just for this tourney. “One for each of the ladies to be found in the Castle of Love.”
“Castle of Love? Aren’t those usually built out by the lists?”
“Aye, but Countess Joan wanted it close in. She’s breeding.” The man outlined a rounded belly with his hands. “She cannot go out to the gallery, so she called for the castle to be put here, where she can watch from her window. And she’s declared her own rules, as well.”
“What sort of rules?”
“She collected the favors from the ladies herself and had her varlet hang them, so no one knows which lady gave what, or even which ladies are in the tower for certs, for they climbed up while we were yet in the field. You’re to retrieve a favor and make your way up—if you can, of course—to win a kiss from whichever lady owns it.”
“Without knowing whose favor you have?” Gunnar raised an eyebrow. “What if you get up there and she’s ugly?”
“Unless you’re a fool, you’ll close your eyes and kiss her like she’s the fairest maid in the land,” the fellow said, laughing. “For each lady has a silver branch for the man who claims her—but only if his kiss moves her to release it.”
“Silver?” asked Gunnar, suddenly more interested. “Are these branches big?”
“Big enough that I wish I could climb.” The fellow stretched his forefinger and thumb wide to show the size. “Sadly, I’ve no head for heights. I’d tumble down aswoon before I climbed halfway up. But you look the sort who could manage it.”
Gunnar glanced from tower to favors and back, but shook his head. “I didn’t come for the tourney. I don’t even have my harness with me.”
“You don’t want armor anyway, not to climb,” chided the man. “And as for not being part of the tourney, ’tis no matter. The countess has opened the contest to all gentlemen present, jousting or not. Even the squires and pages, provided they’re noble-born. She wants a merry mêlée, she says, since she must miss the rest of the sport.”
“But the fee …”
“Only a penny, and that to go to the poor. Our lady has left you no excuses, sir. You may as well have a try.”
“I don’t know,” muttered Gunnar, but he was sorely tempted. He and Jafri could always use the silver, and a kiss from a noblewoman, even an ugly one, was surely worth a penny on its own. It wasn’t often that a man like him had the chance to kiss a highborn lady.
And then there was the tower itself, soon to be swarming with men, every one of them vying to knock the others down. He hadn’t fought in years …
“It might be good sport,” he allowed.
“They’re already up there, you know,” mused the other man. “Likely watching us as we speak.” He waved toward the unseen women in the tower, and a few giggles drifted down.
Gunnar’s body tightened at the purely female sound. Young. They sounded so young and sweet. He squinted up, imagining he could see shadowed curves moving behind the draperies. “Where do I enter?”
Moments later, his name recorded by the herald and a penny laid in the priest’s palm, he handed over his sword and knife to the marshal of the tourney and in exchange received a leather truncheon, the only weapon permitted. Gunnar tested it a few times against his palm. It would hurt, for certs, but would do little lasting damage. Sliding the truncheon into his belt, he ambled over to the spot beneath the countess’s window where a knot of men had begun to collect. He hung back a moment, watching the others until he saw one man lean over to whisper to another, then sidled in behind them.
“The blue sleeve, you say,” one was saying. “How do you know ’tis hers?” asked one.
“I’ve seen her in them. I think.”
“Hmm.” The first tapped his cheek with a fingertip as he considered. “Well, the red one belongs to Lady Margaret. And of that, I am certain.”
“Scrope will be after it, then, just as Tunstall will fight for the silver and black riband.”
“Is that Lady Celeste’s favor?”
“I think so. But more to the point, he thinks so. That’s what matters.”
“Your lord will be trying for it, too, then.”
“Aye, and so will I. If I can best Tunstall, or help Lord William do so, I’ll be knighted before the month is out.”
Their talk shifted to boasting about what they’d not yet done, so Gunnar moved on, eavesdropping here and there, assessing his competition, eliminating some favors from consideration and moving others higher on his list.
By the time the shutter overhead was pushed open, night was
fully fallen and torches by the score flickered around the walls and yard—and Gunnar had settled on a plain, dove gray glove that seemed to have escaped the interest of most of his competition. The knot of men was by now a small army, at least ten men for every favor on the wall. A roar rose from the watching crowd as a lady of massive girth appeared at the window.
“God’s wounds, if she sneezes, the babe will land on our heads,” muttered Gunnar. Around him, men choked back laughter as the lady lifted her hand for silence.
“Welcome, all, to my Castle of Love.” The countess’s voice, thick with a French accent, pealed over the yard. “My thanks to my dear and dread lord husband for granting me the boon of this most especial entertainment. I have one further boon to ask, this one of you, our warriors: that you be as honorable as you are courageous in vying for both favors and kisses, for I wish to see all of you undamaged at the merry supper that awaits us afterward. To that end, I have a prize withal for the man who shows himself to be the most worthy, le plus preux et gentil of our victors: this golden apple to add to his silver bough.” The little orb she held up, the size of a large walnut, gleamed in the torchlight and drew another cheer from the crowd. “Herald, read out the rules of combat.”
The rules were much as the old man had said, with the addition of information on bounds and fouls. As the herald finished, Gunnar tore his eyes away from the golden apple to take a final look up at the Castle of Love. Lamps had been lit inside the pavilion, and he truly could see the shadows now, his imaginings come to life.
Suddenly, the concealing draperies were thrown back and there they were: women, all in a cluster, like fine, feathered birds in a nest. Waiting. He grinned and bowed to them, sweeping so low his fingertips scraped the ground. After all, one of them was waiting for him, even if she didn’t know it yet.
And then the horn blew and he landed on his ass, knocked down in the trample of men that rushed toward the favors even before the echo died away. He rolled to his feet, ignoring the laughter of the watching crowd. He wasn’t the only one caught unawares, but he was the only one who’d hit the ground and the only one who didn’t immediately dash off after the others, instead taking a moment to brush the dust off his clothes and make another, deeper bow, this one to the lady in the window. As she clapped in delight, he turned and trotted over to the wall of favors.
Men were already piling up at the bottom, dislodged by the stronger or luckier, or by their own clumsiness. The skinny squire he’d overheard earlier was doing his lord proud, scampering up the wall like a squirrel to reach the silver and black riband well ahead of any others. As the lad untied the bit of silk, the next man below surged up to grab his ankle. The boy fought to hold on, but the lower man was heavier and dogged. Slowly, the boy peeled away.
“Lord William!”
The squire, barely clinging by one hand, swung wildly and dropped the riband off to one side. Tunstall—for that was surely who the attacker must be—released him and lunged, but the riband fluttered by just past his fingertips. A third man, lower still, reached out, snagged it midair, stuffed it in his shirt, and started down.
Overhead, the squire whooped with pleasure. “Go, my lord. Fly to your lady.”
“Little whoreson.” The foiled Tunstall snarled and lashed out with his truncheon, catching the squire across the shins so hard Gunnar could hear the crack. The boy yelped and lost his grip. As he fell, he struck his Lord William and carried him off the wall. They both landed with a whoomp on the growing pile at the bottom. Tunstall started down, clearly intending to retrieve the riband.
If there wasn’t at least one broken bone out of this, ’twould be a miracle. With one eye on the men climbing and tumbling and beating at each other with their truncheons, Gunnar lined himself up with the glove and paced out seven long strides to the end of the wall. Then, stepping over a couple of fallen warriors, he walked around to the rear of the wall and paced seven strides back. It should be right up—he sighted carefully—there.
With no one to battle, it took him only moments to climb the back of the wall, reach over the top, and grope around until he hit something soft. He barely had hold of it, barely had the inkling it wasn’t leather, when a hand closed around his wrist. He jerked back, bringing whatever it was with him, and laughed when someone swore. He glanced down at the glove.
God’s toes. It wasn’t the glove at all, but a wine-colored veil a good dozen men had had their eyes on.
No matter. He didn’t know who the glove belong to anyway—and he little cared, just as he little cared about the curses and cries of protests that sailed over the wall after the veil.
There’d been nothing in the rules about the back of the wall being out of bounds, after all, and the herald’s quick answer to the protests quickly confirmed it. Grinning, Gunnar shoved the scrap of cloth into his shirt, scrambled down far enough to drop to the ground, and set off to collect his kiss. Now the true sport would begin.
As he rounded the end of the wall, two men hit him hard, one high and one low. He went down, but managed to twist so he landed atop one, who grunted as Gunnar’s bulk flattened him. A third man piled on, fists flying. A truncheon-tap to the head took the fight out of that one; Gunnar heaved him off, then jerked one arm back sharply to elbow the bottom man, connecting with his chin. He went slack, leaving only the man wrapped around Gunnar’s knees.
Gunnar threaded his fingers into the fellow’s hair and hauled up hard until he yowled and turned loose. He was hardly more than a boy—a squire, perhaps, or even a page. Gunnar hesitated, unwilling to beat a page, not for mere sport, and in that instant the lad clouted him in the nose, so hard it made his eyes water.
Sport be damned. Gunnar punched back—not too hard, but hard enough to make his point—and then put a foot in the boy’s gut and sent him flying.
Gunnar scrambled up and started once more for the tower. A half-dozen other men with blood in their eyes spread out to block his way. With a roar of pleasure, Gunnar lowered his head and hurtled into them. Two went flying, but two leapt onto his back. In a flash, the other two pinned his arms. He whirled, throwing one off, but another man stepped in, truncheon raised.
The world exploded and went dim and woolly. As Gunnar’s knees buckled, he felt a swarm of hands plunge into his shirt, scrabbling for the veil and none too gently. Reeling, he wrenched one arm free and grabbed to save his prize.
He was too slow. The veil whipped past his face, and its captor sprinted off toward the tower. In an instant, the others bolted after the fellow, leaving Gunnar on his knees in the dirt, skull ringing, nose aching, and missing a fair portion of his chest hair, by the feel of it.
A fine fight, all in all, but now it was time to get serious. He’d spent a penny, after all, and he wanted his kiss, not to mention the silver that went with it.
He shook off the fuzziness, clambered to his feet, and squinted around in the torchlight. The battle was rapidly shifting toward the foot of the tower as the many who’d missed out on a favor fought to steal from those few who had succeeded. With the same thought in mind, Gunnar waded into the middle of the mêlée, cheerfully trading blows with whoever came to hand as he worked his way to the foot of the scaffolding.
Lord Tunstall had just started up the tower, but the determined squire was hard on his heels. The lad hurled himself upward to snag his belt. Tunstall strained for the next rung, but the boy, slim as he was, clung to him like a leech. Snarling, the bigger man twisted and reached down toward his boot. Gunnar frowned as Tunstall drew a fine dagger from a hidden sheath.
Knave. Without waiting to see how he intended to use the blade, Gunnar pitched his truncheon. It hit Tunstall square on the elbow. The noble bawled with pain, and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers and buried itself to the hilt in the ground, narrowly missing a pair of pursuing knights. Cries of “Foul!” rose, far angrier than what Gunnar had earned for his little cheat.
“Forfeit. Lord Tunstall forfeits for carrying a banned weapon,” bellowed the her
ald at the window. “Withdraw, my lord. Withdraw.”
As boos and jeers echoed off the walls. Gunnar retrieved his truncheon and turned his attention back to finding someone with a favor to steal. Anyone … with any favor…
There. A man escaped a skirmish a few yards away, dashed to the foot of the tower, and started up. Two men charged out of the knot after him. Gunnar grabbed the nearest one by the back of the neck and tossed him into a cluster of men a couple of yards away. They all went down in a muddle.
The second one had managed to get one foot up before Gunnar disposed of him in similar fashion. That just left the man with the favor, whatever it was. God’s toes, he was quick.
Gunnar threw himself up the wall.
He barely caught the fellow at the base of the pavilion itself, and only because the knight, his mind clearly fixed on the women, paused just long enough to run his fingers through his hair.
It was enough. In a flash, Gunnar yanked the cord from his hood and, as the fellow lifted his foot for the final step, looped the sturdy braiding around his ankle.
“Eh?”
Before the stunned knight could stop him, Gunnar lashed the man’s foot to the nearest crossbar and pulled the knot tight. As the fellow struggled, Gunnar clambered up and plunged a hand into his rival’s shirt in search of the favor.
“No!” The fellow twisted away and swung. His fist connected with Gunnar’s cheek, but fettered so, he had no purchase, and the blow barely registered . Gunnar shoved to throw him off balance, and as the man flailed wildly in midair, Gunnar easily relieved him of …
The gray glove. Now that was good fortune.
“Dastard!” The knight lunged but came up short, like a puppy on a string.
Laughing, Gunnar clamped the little glove between his teeth, and reached for the window.
A wave of perfume, rich as a summer meadow, washed over the sill as he pulled himself up. A heartbeat later he was over and in, surrounded by excited squeals and giggles. And women. Tall and short, fair and dark, slim as reeds and plump as partridges … But young, every one of them.
