A Knight's Vow

by Lindsay Townsend

  Finding nothing to do her hair with, she left it in its usual thick plait and sat on the edge of the bed, still considering Fulk. He had been almost suave tonight and certainly less hostile. If she could have devised a way of asking him about Heloise without Guillelm overhearing, she might have done.

  She lifted back the woolen blanket—

  And was off the bed in an instant, lunging for the shutters. Through her own shocked, harsh breathing she heard the catch give and she pushed, admitting a spill of moonlight into this sudden chamber of horrors.

  I could have climbed into bed with that. Her stomach rolled at the thought and she gagged, turning toward the window to gulp down the fresh night air. What was it?

  Setting her back to the window, she forced herself to look again. Shudders ran through her and her mind snatched at one piece of comfort: She had not touched the thing.

  Below her the rafters shook as Guillelm bested two men at once in a wrestling match. She heard the shouts of congratulations with only a brief fizz of pleasure. She had her own contest here, with an unknown enemy. What had been left for her in the bed?

  Alyson crouched and tugged slowly at the nearest blanket. With a queer sucking sound the mound of flesh hidden beneath the coarse wool shifted, as if alive, and then was still.

  “Imagine it is the ingredients for a potion,” she said aloud, but still she could not take any steps closer. She peered at the ruin of sheets.

  It was offal, she decided. Lung, heart, liver. All washed. Filched from the kitchen and brought up here as what? A warning to her? A spiteful joke?

  What had Fulk hoped to achieve? Even as Alyson’s reason pointed out that she had no proof that it was Guillelm’s seneschal who had done this, her instincts all agreed that it would be no other man. But why?

  Working swiftly, Alyson bundled up the parcel of lights into a blanket and tossed it out of the open shutters. She would have to explain tomorrow how she had lost a sheet but she would think of something.

  Or should she go down now and confront Fulk?

  “With what?” Alyson scoffed. “You have just hurled the evidence out of the window!” And to judge from the chanting and foot stamping that was now going on in the hall, the men there were deep in drink. What if they merely laughed at her? What if Guillelm laughed?

  He would never do that, she thought, but it would be a bad business, to accuse his most loyal follower of such a low trick. Fulk would deny it and she had no proof. Worse, Fulk could blame others, perhaps even Sir Thomas.

  The thought of that kind, good-hearted man realizing that his home and hospitality had been so abused stopped Alyson on her way to the door. She could not do it.

  Better perhaps to act as if she had found nothing amiss. That would annoy Fulk. And she could tell Guillelm in the morning.

  But she would bed down on the floor tonight.

  Although she was spent with the long ride and the emotions of the day Alyson did not expect to sleep. It was with shock that she was awakened early the next morning by a greenfinch fluttering around her room in a panic. The poor bird had flown in through the open shutters and kept beating itself against the roof thatch in its efforts to escape.

  Alyson tossed her veil over the finch and gathered it gently, setting it flying free into the dawn. She wished she could rescue herself as easily; her rest had been troubled, plagued with dark dreams of blood and her dead mother.

  Had Fulk somehow overheard what she had told Guillelm? Had he left the offal as some kind of grisly token of childbirtha future warning to her?

  “It may not have been Fulk,” Alyson told herself, but she could conceive of no other doing such a thing. Still, it shamed her. Her nightmares shamed her. Telling Guillelm would only spread the pain, she thought. She must deal with this herself, in her own way.

  Once she had made that decision she felt a little easier and unbarred her door with more confidence than she might otherwise have had. Which was good-Guillelm was sleeping across her threshold, snoring and twitching like a great golden shaggy guard dog.

  He stirred the instant she opened her door, flinging up an arm to prevent any entering her room from the stairs and blinking a baleful eye. “What?”

  “You have no need to defend me from me, Guillelm.” Somehow calling him “my lord” seemed inappropriate, especially now, with him yawning and rubbing at his bristling jaw.

  “Excellent girl—”

  “You want something.”

  “A cup of water or weak ale, if you have it.”

  “Not here; we must go downstairs.” Alyson shook her head, astonished at how indulgent she felt toward this large oaf. It could not have been comfortable for him last night, napping on the stairs, and yet he did so in order that she would be safe. The thought touched her in spite of her disapproval of his carousing. “Did you win all your wrestling last night?” she asked.

  He grinned and lifted an arm, showing off several cloakpins skewered through his sleeve. “All fairly won. The others can show you their bruises.” He blinked and knuckled his eyes. “Mother of God, it was quite a night.”

  “You should have drunk less,” Alyson said, nudging him with her foot. “You will feel better outside.” She held out a hand.

  “You will not pull me up,” he protested, using the wall instead as a brace as he swayed to his feet. “No, I am fine. I will be ””

  “Let us go, then,” Alyson challenged. “Your breath is not so sweet this morning.”

  “Saucy wench!” Guillelm grumbled, but he was moving, picking up his feet lightly enough so as not to disturb the other twitching sleepers sprawled over the trestles in the great hall. Alyson passed by their slumbering forms as she sped from the stairs to the main doorway set in the middle of the hall, opposite the fireplace. There a few ash-covered firedogs, discarded cups and empty earthenware jugs, plus an overturned small cauldron leaking a spill of stew, showed that it had been a very rowdy evening indeed. She glanced at Guillelm with raised eyebrows and he had the grace to color slightly and hurriedly push open the door for her.

  “There were many toasts to our betrothal,” he said sheepishly. “I could not deny or gainsay them”

  “No?” About to tease more, Alyson noticed Fulk sleeping on the floor close to the stairs. He was sullen and frowning even in sleep and the sight of him, coiled into a tight, unyielding ball, made her shiver. What if he had attempted to do more in her room last night, when the rest of the company were making merry? If Guillelm had not lain by her door, would Fulk have tried to harm her?

  I need to find absolute proof that he is my enemy, and quickly, she thought, but for now she was glad to step out of the beer-fumed hall into the early morning sunshine.

  To her surprise, she and Guillelm were not alone. Thomas of Beresford was already outside, chopping wood.

  “Guido!” Tom buried the axe in the thick trunk of oakwood that he was trimming. “Come work off that hangover by cutting some of this timber into manageable logs and I will fetch us breakfast. You, too, sweet Alyson. I trust you slept well?”

  “Very, thank you,” Alyson lied, watching the man hurry away to the kitchen block with a jaunty strut to his step.

  “I know not how he does it, but Tom is ever good-tempered on a morning.” Beside her Guillelm took up the axe and tested the blade with his thumb. “`Sweet Alyson,’ eh?”

  Without waiting for an answer he peeled down his tunic, stripping to the waist, and resumed the task Tom had started.

  Alyson blushed; she could not help it. How often had she wondered in daydreams what Guillelm might look like? Not naked-she had never been so bold as to imagine that-but as he was now?

  He had his back to her and she had a good view of him before a shout from the returning Tom made him twist round for an instant. The flesh across his back and shoulder blades shone in the ruddy dawn. He was beautiful as a wolf or wildcat is beautiful; a marriage of spirit and sinews and animating grace. Light flashed from the metal head of the axe as he swung it back for anoth
er blow. The cry of splintered wood sang in her ears and she stumbled forward.

  Guillelm spun about, axe automatically raised to attack. Seeing her, remembering she was there, he laughed and returned to his work. The curved bough he was working on groaned and fell clear; he tossed the log casually onto the growing pile and examined the rest of the tree trunk before laying aside his axe.

  Alyson went to him, brushing shavings from his downy beard. His eyes were red with sawdust, but he grinned at her.

  “The oak is my favorite: handsome in leaf and laden in the fall with sweet, full acorns. It grows strong wood” Guillelm’s fingers spread across the tree bark and Alyson grinned at his obvious delight-she was happy again, her doubts dismissed. Arm in arm, they walked back to Tom, Guillelm shaking wood chips from his hair and talking.

  “There will be a great tree harvest this season, I think, and apple wood to burn, bark for your poultices, timber to shape” He patted Alyson’s rump as he had patted the oak trunk. “Maybe a crib for a young one, and toys. What is it? Your cheek is as fiery as the barberry. Have I spoken too soon?”

  He had stopped walking and transferred the axe to his right hand to clasp her shoulder. He smelt of sweat and musk, and a familiar ache stirred in Alyson, but she answered clearly.

  “I wish it was that, Guillelm. Your words-I thought then of my sister.”

  “Ah. Of course” Guillelm withdrew his hand. “Forgive me” He smacked his palm onto his forehead. “How could I forget what you told me only yesterday? I am such a fool!”

  “No-” Alyson began, but Tom interrupted, proffering two cups of ale and saying in an over-hearty voice, “There is bread and meat ready in the kitchen; we should go there before the scullions eat it for us ””

  “My thanks, but I must visit the stable first.” Guillelm downed his ale in a single swallow and strode off, tugging his shirt and mantle back over his head and leaving Tom and Alyson to follow.

  “I think he means the latrine,” Tom remarked, catching Alyson’s disconcerted look. “Guillelm is shy when it comes to women”

  He offered her his arm, adding, “I am glad we have this moment, Alyson. I have a question for your ears alone. Early this morning I found two of my hounds eating something beneath the window of your chamber. Do you know what it could be?”

  Alyson, heart thudding in her chest, looked into Tom’s guileless, kind eyes. She could not lie, but how could she speak?

  “No matter,” Tom continued. “The dogs will scavenge anything. But if” he glanced ahead to ensure that Guillelm was still out of hearing and dropped his voice-“if ever you require help, you need only ask. It will be given without question. And now you need say nothing; it is enough that we both know.”

  Tom moved ahead, pushing open the door to the kitchen and allowing Alyson to enter first.

  After breakfast, Guillelm spoke to his friend. “I would take Alyson and be gone from here soon, before the others. Her palfrey needs more rest than my men’s horses”

  “That would make sense,” Tom agreed, while he thought, You hide your true feelings even from yourself. It is a thousand pities you ever met Heloise.

  “Stay here in the yard a moment first,” he said. “There is something I want you to see, you and your lady. Wait-I will bring it to you”

  “This is my betrothal gift to you both,” Tom said.

  Alyson heard Guillelm’s whispered, “Mother of God,” and understood his amazement. He slowly put out his hand and gently stroked the breast of the creature. “It is so fine,” he murmured.

  “To replace the hawk you had in the east,” Tom said. “At first, I was to give you a pair of hounds, but knowing how hard you took the loss of your last dog on our homeward voyage from Outremer, I thought this better.”

  Alyson had wondered why he had no dogs with him and now she approved his constancy. “Is it a merlin?” she asked softly, as Guillelm donned a glove and took the hooded bird from Tom’s fist.

  “A very beautiful one,” Guillelm answered, smiling at the little hawk’s soft cry. “Her plumage is wonderful, such a rich mosaic of browns and creams!” His widening eyes found Alyson’s and he smiled at her. “If Tom will have her back a moment, you may have my glove-“

  “No need” Tom handed Alyson a finely tooled glove.

  “Fulk must ride ahead, ensure the hawk house is made ready,” Guillelm went on. “Is David of Jeston still at Hardspen?”

  “He died of this year’s sickness,” Alyson said, reluctant to pierce Guillelm’s moment of giddy joy but remembering the falconer’s fevered end all too well.

  “Fulk knows something of the care of hawks,” Tom said, covering the awkward moment of silence.

  “I know, too,” Guillelm remarked. He thrust out his free hand and caught Tom’s fingers in an enthusiastic, whitening grip. “My thanks to you, Tom”

  “It is a trifle,” Tom demurred.

  “It is a generous gift, Sir Tom,” Alyson said, delaying handling the bird by not pulling on the glove. Her father had spoken of hawks in a tone of longing; peregrines and such were kept by great lords. She had never seen any bird of prey so close before, not even the red kites that scavenged on the midden heaps. For herself, thinking of the talons and that tearing, hooked beak, she was glad the merlin was hooded.

  “Perhaps you can carry the perch?” Guillelm had noticed her reluctance; a half-amused, half-indulgent smile played about his lips. Tempted to thrust out her tongue at him again, Alyson said only, “You have not tied your own jesses,” and pointed to the loosened throat strings of his shirt.

  With a grunt of amusement, Guillelm attended to his clothes.

  She and Guillelm set off soon after, Sir Tom supplying them with a generous pannier of provisions and wine, and long, needless instructions for the best route back to Hardspen. When it came to their farewells, Alyson was swirled off her feet into a rough hug, then as swiftly put down.

  “More and Guillelm will be challenging me,” Sir Tom rumbled against her hair, his scars tickling her ear. “Come see me again soon, do you hear?”

  “We will,” Alyson promised, springing lightly onto her horse before Guillelm could scold her for tardiness. She did not want either man to see the ready tears that had filled her eyes and even now threatened to spill onto the rough mane of her black palfrey. She would miss Sir Tom, more perhaps than her sister, and that was a bitter lesson to learn. Leaving Guillelm fussing with the merlin, she spurred her horse on, eager to be on her way before she broke down and disgraced herself completely.

  Chapter 8

  “Her jesses must be tangled in the branches. She cannot break free!”

  Shading her eyes, Alyson bit down on the rejoinder that he should not have been flying the merlin while they were traveling and reached across their horses to seize Guillelm’s arm.

  “You cannot scramble up there,” she warned. “That halfrotten tree will not take your weight. I will go. Give me her her hood and some meat to tempt her.”

  “She needs to be fed, certainly.” Dismounting, Guillelm squinted up at the bird, which had stopped baiting and thrashing about the intermingled oak and hawthorn branches and was quietly roosting, seemingly oblivious to the alarm calls of the woodland crows and blackbirds. “You will take care?” he added, handing Alyson the soft leather hood without checking how she alighted from her horse and without breaking eye contact with the merlin.

  “I climb well.”

  “I know that! I remember. I mean of her.”

  “Of course.” Your precious merlin will be quite safe, Alyson thought.

  Guillelm reached her as she was about to duck under the oak tree’s low canopy. “Good luck, brighteyes.”

  She nodded, mollified by the nickname and the mute appeal in his compelling velvet eyes, and began to climb.

  “She is baiting again!” Guillelm shouted from below. “She will pierce herself!”

  “No, I see her now and she is not so close to the hawthorn!” Alyson called back, cupping her hands roun
d her mouth so as to cut down the sound the merlin would hear. “She is not hurt.”

  “And watch yourself!” Guillelm continued, crashing about the base of the oak with the hawthorn sprouting through its mat of branches as he tried and failed to shin up after her. She heard him cursing as he flailed in the undergrowth like some angry wild pig and felt a bubble of amusement soar in her throat.

  “What in God’s name are you giggling about?”

  She playfully stamped her foot, kicking off a strand of lichen that drifted down onto Guillelm’s nose. Seeing his indignant upraised face smeared with green, she laughed heartily. “You look like a pagan”

  “Well, from down here, mistress, I can see a great deal of you, too” Guillelm was also laughing.

  “You exaggerate,” she replied, certain of her modesty.

  “Alyson-“

  “Hush, I am within a fingertip of our hawk” Should she try to tempt the bird with a morsel? Swiftly, at full stretch, she jammed a piece of raw meat into a jutting, sheared-off twig close to the merlin and backed up several paces along the main branch.

  The little female hawk fluttered her handsome brown and cream wings and, with a soft jangle of the delicate bells on her jesses, hopped toward the tempting snack.

  While she was occupied, tearing at the meat, Alyson was able to free one hanging strip of leather jess that had become snared on a mesh of hawthorn spikes. Having no desire to be torn at herself by that bright yellow beak, she called down to Guillelm.

  “She will be able to fly now. Have you something you can use as a lure?”

  “No need!” Guillelm answered, for the merlin suddenly swallowed a huge gobbet of meat and launched herself in a stoop, falling like a fiery arrow through the tree branches, straight back onto the bow perch she had been fastened to all morning: a familiar, safe haven. When Alyson tossed down the hood, Guillelm had already secured the bird and the adventure was over.

  Not quite over, for when Guillelm raised his golden head to look at Alyson again, an “Excellent,” forming on his lips, he stiffened, then began wildly pointing.