Crown of the Realm (A White Knight Adventure Book 2)

by Jude Chapman

  The expression beneath the chestnut eyes and sparse hair of the vicomte held more than common interest. Drake only then grasped his stupidity and realized too late that he appeared overly talented on the field; that he was too highly skilled for the borrowed hauberk he wore; that his sword looked as if it had been stolen from a nobler knight; that the garnet ring on his finger spoke similarly; that despite recent injuries, he and his considerable talents stood out; and above all, that he and Hugh had captured too many knights and reaped too much bounty for their own good.

  Bad luck finally caught up with Hugh de Lusignan and Grendel de Poitiers. On their third and final outing, they lost all the gains of the first two. Captured handily by Widomar de Limoges, the two knights ransomed themselves for everything they had brought to the field. By chance, Drake left in the castle stables his stylish Arabian, his gold-gilt sword, and the rest of his personal belongings and borrowed equipment. Claiming lameness of the palfrey, he rode a borrowed horse, armed himself with winnings culled from previous outings, and advised his partner to do the same. At the conclusion of the games, Grendel and Hugh were no worse off than when they arrived. Neither were they better off, but Wido was in fine temper.

  And so, on what was to be their last night at Aixe, celebrations abounded. Hugh de Lusignan, though, was in a foul mood. He didn’t appreciate losing all the bounty he had gained on the previous two days, but gathering that the ploy was a matter of recompense for their host’s generosity, drowned his sorrows with goblet upon goblet of tasty Saintonge wine. After witnessing Widomar’s energized face and boisterous voice, he patted Grendel of Poitiers on the back for his shrewdness, for it was far better to leave behind friendly allies than resentful foes.

  Presently leaning into Drake’s ear, Hugh whispered of yet another gentil-homme in bad temper. “For years, Raimon of Toulouse has been squabbling with the Plantagenêts as to who has the more rightful claim of Toulouse. Rightfully, Toulouse belongs to Raimon. But since Eleanor and Raimon are cousins to the third degree, Richard seized Toulouse on behalf of his mother. Raimon has since crawled into bed with Vicomte Aimery and Comte Ademar for comfort and protection. By night they cry into their cups and by day they plot against Richard. So goes the game of kings and the restiveness of nobles.”

  “Is everyone at war with Richard?”

  “Only the men. The women would sooner climb into his bed.”

  But for his resplendent clothing, Raimon could have been mistaken for a highwayman on the lookout for easy prey. His tangled hair, frowning mouth, and cunning eyes were enough to put anyone off, especially when those eyes were focused on Grendel of Poitiers.

  “He seems to know you,” Hugh said. “Have you met before?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “He doesn’t trust anyone, especially strangers. He’d sooner slit a man’s throat than chance a traitor in his midst.”

  Despite Gaucelm’s insinuation that the enemies of Richard might be found here and that the castle dungeons could very well be sequestering the twin brother of an assassin, Drake wasn’t any closer to sniffing out Stephen’s whereabouts. No prisoner was locked in the dark depths of the chateau. He had searched. No dark conspiracy was whispered behind shielding hands. He had eavesdropped. No bets on the duke of Aquitaine’s premature demise had been laid, even though wild speculation on the identity, motive, and sanity of a lone assassin and apostate knight abounded. And neither the comte of Angoulême nor the vicomte of Limoges nor any of their noble guests spoke of the brothers fitzAlan.

  The last to arrive and most fashionably late were two eagerly expected guests: Vicomte Eble of Ventadorn and Vicomtesse Maria de Torena. When the couple first entered the great hall, freshened from their dusty journey, Drake and Hugh rose from their bench in unison. Hugh’s eyes were beaming but not from the hearthfire. “She’s an uncommon beauty, is she not?”

  Drawing the stares of every breathing man in the vicinity, Maria was a dark-haired exemplar of her sex, possessed of a clear olive complexion, delicate nose, heart-shaped face, and eyes as dark as her hair.

  “I suppose,” Drake said, tasting his wine, “it depends on your definition of beauty.”

  “There,” said Hugh. “There is everyman’s paragon. Look no further.”

  Her splendid gown was made of spun gold. The diaphanous sendal shimmered as brightly as the torchères. The low-cut neckline revealed bronze skin made ruddy by the hearthfire. Suspended from a chain of gold above the tantalizing cleavage of her breasts rode a great amber bead, nearly as large as an egg and of the same shape. As befitting her marital status, she wore a veil on her hair, but its short length enhanced rather than concealed her resplendent brunette tresses.

  The last thoughts of a condemned man always include a full belly and satisfied loins. Though Drake ate and slept and conversed amiably enough with his new friends, he lived on borrowed time, facing gibbet or dungeon, he knew not which. Whatever his fate, he was sure that he would never again glimpse Aveline, nor lie with her, nor kiss her lips, nor sniff her fragrance, nor even exchange heated barbs with her. The vision of this comely woman made him dare to hope there was, after all, something worth celebrating, even if it was only a dream, and an unattainable dream at that.

  “Ventadorn stands on the very tip of a narrow spur.” Gui and his long-lost cousin Roger had joined Drake and Hugh, and like them, admired the quiet woman with expressive eyes and proud posture. “High above the river valleys converging at its feet—Dordogne tributaries—with a lone tower rising picturesquely above the trees. Bernart de Ventadorn was born there. They say he’s the son of a kitchen servant and Eble the third, the grandfather of the current Eble, not to be confused with our own Eble. Maria de Torena, or more rightly de Ventadorn, is cousin to our hosts Ademar and Aimery. After bearing two sons, she has grown tired of her husband, and quite rightly, since he is a bore and a boar, and she is the object of desire of every man she meets. But alas, she doles out favors to only a select few. Maria, beautiful Maria, gay Maria,” Gui waxed longingly. “We are all madly in love with her, are we not? We would fall at her feet if only she would cast her gaze at any one of us just once. Alas, she never does. She has a discriminating eye, does Maria. Of course the child,” Gui said, glancing at Devon, “would not know the first thing about passion.”

  “The child,” Devon defended lamely, “knows much about passion.”

  “But only what it has heard in English alehouses.”

  As had become his habit, Elias drew silently behind Drake and Hugh. “You do not find her alluring?” he said. “You do not find her exotic? You do not find her charmingly aloof? Just look at her. Cheekbones designed for caresses. Eyes that enchant. And a mouth made for long, moist kisses. That dog Eble. It is only because he is cousin to Eleanor that he is rewarded with such a woman.”

  Drake turned his head. “Queen Eleanor?”

  “Ah, didn’t you know?” Hugh said. “Eble’s mother is Sybilla, the daughter of Ralph de Faye, Eleanor’s uncle.”

  The Ventadorns had finally made their way toward the d’Ussel party, and after exchanging brief courtesies, moved on. Gui, Peire, and Eble crowed with delight, but it was Gui who said, “She loathes you, Grendel of Poitiers. The woman would rather bed a wild boar—tusks and all—than take you under her silk chemise.”

  “Grace be to God,” Drake said, and toasted the departed Maria de Torena de Ventadorn with his raised goblet, “since I’d sooner bed an ox.”

  * * *

  “In Poitou,” Gui declaimed blithely as they congregated at one of the trestle tables, “they are tough and warlike, skilled with lance, bow, and arrow, brave on the battlefield, swift in the chase, elegant in dress, and to top everything off, handsome, articulate, generous, and hospitable. I despise them all.” He drained his goblet and reach for more drink.

  The feasting had begun, and while platters were delivered with precision and wine dispensed with care, Gui continued with his prattling.

  “In Saintonge, they spea
k in a rustic fashion. In Bordelais, the language is still worse. As for the Gascons, they are gossipy, licentious, and poorly dressed.” He nodded politely toward his companion, saying, “Alamanda excluded,” which she received with a curt nod and sparkling eye.

  Grendel of Poitiers had the distinct distaste of being seated beside the comtesse of Ventadorn while her husband had been paired off at the dais with Aimery’s dispossessed daughter. Eble’s eyes darted jealousy now and then toward his wife, who ignored his supplications as if he were a lowly footman.

  “Although they eat and drink far too much, they don’t sit at a table but squat around a fire, sharing the same cups and bowls. And when they go to sleep, they sleep on the same rotting straw, master, mistress, children, and servants.”

  Sitting on the other side of Drake, Elias occasionally stole mooning glances at Maria de Torena. Drake elbowed him in the gut. Elias grunted and rubbed his rib. “You are pensive, Grendel. The tournament did not hold all you expected. I hear you lost everything, or should I say, everything you did not wish to transport. I understand. You wish to travel light. It is the climate.”

  “The Basques and Navarrese,” Gui went on as before, “are much like the Gascons, only worse. They eat out of one big pot like pigs at the trough, and when they speak, it sounds like dogs barking. The women bow and scrape, and partake of the leftovers using fingers instead of utensils. And when they warm themselves in front of a fire, they are not ashamed to lift up their kirtles and display private parts. They fornicate with animals, run with wolves, and bay at the moon. You wouldn’t want to get into a fight with any one of them unless castration is your desire.”

  Sitting on the other side of Elias, Peire said to his brother, “I don’t believe a word.”

  “It’s true, every last word. And of course you know,” he said, casting Drake a devilish eye, “English wine can be drunk only with closed eyes and through gritted teeth.”

  “Now that,” said Peire, “I believe.”

  Everyone laughed and slapped their thighs.

  Perfume rising from her skin with every subtle motion, Maria said nary a word as the platters came and went and servers filled her goblet more than once. Yet she watched every movement as Drake tore apart a breast of capon and dipped the succulent flesh into a delicious honey and saffron sauce, his ravenous feasting only occasionally interrupted by bread and wine. When she could stand it no more, a look of disgust rose on her usually bland features. She did not look at him when she said, “You seem gay hungry, Grendel of Poitiers, even for a knight of large appetite.”

  A wing poised at his lips, Drake pondered her comment, and said in low tones, “An appetite, yes, but not for food.” His eyes were fixed on a hound gobbling up table scraps.

  She whispered into his ear, “Oc, for food and for nothing else.” And receiving a platter of leche Lumbard, spooned a small portion onto her trencher, tapped him on the arm, and offered him the dish.

  When he turned, he was graced only with her twisted profile as she spoke to a lady seated at the next table. After relieving her of the dish, he passed the pork loaf down the line. “On the other hand, ma dame,” he said, while dipping the same wing into the same sauce, “what man needs food when a beautiful woman sits beside him?”

  She deigned to blink in his general direction, but then raising her chin in the direction of her husband, blew a smile toward him. “Even though her hand,” she said, still smiling at the comte of Ventadorn, “belongs to her husband?”

  Conversation, loud and clamorous, buzzed about them as Drake put the wing to his teeth and chewed thoughtfully. “It depends on whether her heart also belongs to her husband.”

  “Such,” she said without looking at him, “is only a matter between her and her passions. For her heart is hers first. And men who wish to seek her favors must do so by also seeking her heart.”

  “It appears that this woman of which we speak does not have just one amador.”

  She wiped her hands on the table linens and pristinely picked up her knife. “Why ask you?”

  “Only that I have heard that some women court many men and grant to each her favors, but only for a single night.”

  “A woman such as that would have to be a discontented woman who knows not her mind.”

  “Or she could be a woman who knows her mind but cannot promise her body, for her body belongs by law and God to the other of which we speak.”

  She spooned a dainty portion of leche Lumbard into her mouth. “You are bold, Grendel of Poitiers. You delve where no bel ami has dared broach before.”

  “We are only speaking in generalities and not specifics.”

  “Ah,” she said. “That is a different matter. For to speak in specifics invites censure.”

  “Then in generalities, if you please, ma dame, since many a man yearns for that which he cannot have but nightly dreams of the rewards.”

  She became distracted by one of their dining companions seated at the end of the trestle and smiling politely, passed the saltcellar. Addressing her barely touched leche Lumbard, she said, “Aladonc, if a man were to be so bold as to broach forbidden subjects, then the woman must be a wanton. Because a man who has no care for the woman beneath him or of her needs must seek a likeminded woman who would give her body for nothing but pleasure and a brief word of gratitude.”

  Drake wiped his mouth with the table linen and reached for a portion of breast meat. “But when the man is a sweet lover, both win in the bargain. Or is it because his wandering eyes would insult a woman pure in mind but wanton of body that you suspect his motives?”

  Hiding her lips behind the wine goblet, she said, “Such a man does not measure any worse or better against other men. No, what shapes the key to a woman’s dungeon is the inherent rank of woman and the inborn nature of man. One supreme, the other subjugated, rôles neither has chosen but God in His ignorance has ordained.” From then on, she had neither words nor casual glances for Grendel of Poitiers.

  The feast was devoured to the last sweetmeat by man and hound alike, but not the last cup. The trestle tables were pushed out of the way. Arranging themselves on stools or cushions, the troubadours brought out their instruments: the lute and citole; the rebec and tabor; the flute and recorder.

  Alamanda and Guiraut played nakers and shawm in a gay tune that invited dance. Being early in the evening, no one danced but everyone heeded the call. Gathering around the minstrels, the enrapt audience occupied the rush-strewn floor, neatly covered with cushions and clean table linens, while reed instruments and drums wove an enchanting spell. Cresset lamps and candelabra were extinguished. Figs and dates, thickly coated with honey and cinnamon, were scooped up by the handful. Flasks of ypocras were available with a stretching reach or the tap of a shoulder.

  When the tune ended, Alamanda took up her lute and sang a song of her own verse. Her voice pure and melodic, she captivated every listener from the opening note. The story was a sad one, of a valiant knight off to join his king on crusade but destined never to return to his fair lady, who vowed to marry none but him. When the chanson ended, not a dry eye was to be found.

  Drake had taken an isolated spot against the wall. His knees raised and his head thrown watchfully back, he idly stroked a half-full goblet.

  As for Maria de Torena, she occupied a cushion near enough to the troubadours as to be reflected in their lutes and regaled with their voices unimpeded. She was instantly surrounded by courtly suitors who kneeled at her feet as before the throne of a queen.

  Gui d’Ussel claimed a lute and lovingly plucked the strings. The devoted words that poured from his mouth winged dulcetly toward the object of his desire.

  Lady Maria, tensons and all manner of song I thought I’d given up, but when you summon, how can I refuse to sing?

  My reply is that the lady ought to do exactly for her lover as he does for her, without regard to rank; for between two friends neither one should rule.

  Maria hid tears beneath the veil of her lashes. His he
ad canted to one side, Eble de Ventadorn probed his wife’s face.

  Lady, here the people say that when a lady wants to love she owes her lover equal honor since they’re equally in love.

  And if it happens that she loves him more, her words and deeds should make it show; but if she’s fickle or untrue she ought to hide it with a pretty face.

  Blinking, she shifted her glance and smiled diffidently up at her husband.

  Lady, it’s embarrassing to argue that a lady should be higher than the man with whom she’s made one heart of two.

  Either you’ll say (and this won’t flatter you) that the man should love the lady more, or else you’ll say that they’re the same, because the lover doesn’t owe her anything that doesn’t bear love’s name.

  When at last she lifted her lids, the dark gaze, fleet as a wink, was meant for only one man. Getting up, she went to Gui d’Ussel, his blazing hair standing up like cowlicks, and delivered a chaste kiss to his forehead.

  The drums beat on. Voices rose and fell. Fiddle and flute interlaced. Cup after cup of Gascony wine was poured and consumed. The knights came to their feet, kicking in cadence to the quickening tempo and sweat running in rivulets down their faces and necks. One by one, they went to the ladies, sitting coyly but moving unwittingly to the throbbing music, and entreated them in courtly fashion.

  In no time skirts were rippling amidst dark linen hose. Dance partners joined for the briefest of turns before one or the other was twirled into the arms of another. The instruments sang on, swelling in momentum and increasing in volume. Soon everyone was on his feet or her toes, joining hands and sliding merrily across the floor.

  Drake watched from his low perch as the bodies swirled above him. Gui came to get him. “Drake! Do not sit there counting your toes. Come and dance!”

  Soon he was spinning and laughing with the rest. Once he was paired off, briefly, with the vicomtesse of Ventadorn, their hands touching at the fingertips. Her mouth flew open with laughter, and then she spun into the light embrace of Hugh de Lusignan.