The Maiden and Her Knight

by Margaret Moore

  Brother Jonathan’s hazel eyes softened with sympathy. “Yes. I say this not out of some urge to do you further harm, Sir Connor, or to cause you any difficulty. I want you to heal as fully as possible, God willing.”

  He resigned himself to the inevitable, and told himself that since Caradoc had been paying exorbitant taxes for two years, one more fortnight couldn’t make much difference. “I understand and I shall do as you say. I shall stay until you think there is little chance of the injury happening again, and I can hold my shield. I also thank you for all the help you have already provided.”

  The little man blushed as if unused to gratitude, then bustled over to his table. “You need have no concern about prevailing upon the earl’s hospitality,” he said as he fussed about with his pots and potions. “I have Lady Allis’s assurance that no one injured during the tournament should leave unless I think they are fit.”

  “She is most generous.”

  “Indeed, she is. A true example of Christian virtue.”

  “Especially honor thy father and thy mother, I think,” he suggested as he strolled closer, ostensibly examining the objects on the table.

  “The Ten Commandments are from the Old Testament, my son, but yes, she is a fine example of how a child should care for an infirm parent.”

  He wondered if a man could go to hell for cajoling information from a holy man, then ignored any qualms. “I gather she has had some help managing the estate from the Baron DeFrouchette. Have the earl’s other friends also been as generous with their assistance?”

  “No, but they did not need to be.”

  He made a shocked face. “They did offer, did they not? Surely they did not abandon the earl’s family when they realized he was not well.”

  “No, not at all. The baron assured them he was taking care of everything.”

  Or taking control of everything?

  “Sir Connor, is there some reason you are pestering Brother Jonathan about my family’s affairs?” Lady Allis demanded.

  He wheeled around and found Lady Allis glaring at him, her eyes shooting veritable daggers of righteous indignation at him and he flushed with shame.

  Allis was glad to see him blush, which proved he had some notion of the insolence of his questions.

  “I meant no harm, my lady.”

  He could apologize all he wanted, and look at her with those eyes all he liked, but he still had no right to inquire about such things. After all, it was not as if he could change anything.

  She addressed Brother Jonathan. “I came to tell you the melee is about to start. Bob and Harry are already in the field with the litter.”

  Brother Jonathan’s eyes widened as if he had forgotten why he was in the tent. “It is? They are? By Our Lady, I must go!”

  He ran out, leaving her alone with the inquisitive Sir Connor, whom she should chastise for his impertinent nosiness.

  Except that the words stuck in her throat.

  “Forgive my curiosity, my lady,” he said in a deep, gentle tone that sent warmth spiraling through her. “I was wrong to ask such questions.”

  “Yes, you were.” She held her breath, waiting for him to explain. Then she realized it might be better if he didn’t. Either he was interested in her because he liked her or else he had other, less benign reasons for asking about her situation, and if that were so, she would prefer never to find that out.

  “May I be admitted to the armory to examine what is left of my lance?”

  He sounded so calm, so logical, while her heart fluttered and danced just from being near him, in spite of all her vows and resolutions.

  “Of course,” she said, trying to be as cool and self-possessed as he.

  Their discussion, such as it was, was now at an end. He should be leaving. Or she should be leaving.

  Neither one of them moved and the silence seemed to stretch tight like a line with a great strain upon it. She remembered being alone with him in the garden. The pleasure and freedom of his company. The way his smile made her feel, and his words. His lips upon her wrist.

  How much she yearned to reach out and touch his face. She might have, had she been free.

  “Brother Jonathan says it will be at least a fortnight before my shoulder will be healed enough for me to leave. I greatly appreciate your hospitality, my lady.”

  Drawn back to reality, and away from winsome thoughts that could only bring her pain, she said, “It is my father’s, too.”

  He shifted closer. No, he was not as coolly aloof as he acted, for in his eyes, she saw an echo of her own turmoil.

  Joy and sadness, bliss and sorrow, contended within her, and beneath it all, as the bedrock beneath the sand, was burning, fervent desire. Longing—intense as the flames of a conflagration—unfurled and surged through her body, and she was powerless to move away.

  “You have a fine family, my lady, one to be proud of. One worth sacrificing for.”

  He knew. He understood why she was marrying Rennick. Why she had no other choice. “Sometimes love demands such sacrifices from us.”

  She had never spoken of love of any kind to Rennick, or any other man. She had never wanted to, or thought they would understand if she did. Only here and now, with this man, did that word pass her lips.

  “Which does not render it the less impressive.” He looked at the ground. “Not everyone is so unselfish.”

  He glanced up at her, and the questioning, humble look in his eyes nearly undid her. She would never have suspected he could look so vulnerable.

  “I have been selfish and unthinking. I have acted without regard to my family or how my words and deeds might affect them.” She realized he was trying to smile and it was all she could do not to caress his cheek. “I have also been impetuous, as you know, my lady.”

  “I do not mind that you kissed me,” she whispered, flushing beneath his steadfast gaze, feeling again the gentle, wondrous pressure of his lips on her wrist, and remembering the restless thoughts that had kept her awake that night.

  Relief crossed his features. “I feared you would think me a lascivious lout, and that would have given me pain as great as my injury.”

  There was no false note in his words, but only sincerity.

  She wanted to embrace him, to feel his arms around her. She wanted to hold him close and tell him how hard it was for her, that she wished time and time again that there could be another choice for her. She wanted to assure him that it took every morsel of her determination and self-control to do what she felt necessary, and there was not a moment that very same determination and self-control did not seem about to waver and disappear.

  But she dared not, or she knew, just as surely as she drew breath, that her resolve would finally crumble into dust and blow away in the wind.

  She could not allow that. She had to be strong, always. On her shoulders alone rested her family’s security.

  Even calling on all the inner strength she possessed, she could not bring herself to leave, although this would be the wise thing to do. Yet she could retreat to safer ground. “My brother finds you quite fascinating.”

  He blinked, obviously unsettled by the change of subject. “Because I have been on the Crusade.”

  “He hopes you will tell him all about it.”

  “If I did, he would be sorely disappointed. There was little glory in the East.”

  “Then you will not fill his head with exciting tales of great battles and daring?”

  He grimly shook his head. “Not I, my lady. Indeed, I would rather not speak of those days at all. They hold little but memories I would prefer to forget. Perhaps you can tell him that for me.”

  She should have talked of something else. “I am sorry for raising such a painful subject.”

  “There is no need for you to feel sorry. You did not tell me exciting stories so that I was fixed upon going, no matter the cost to my family. I will not set another young man’s feet on the supposed path to glory knowing that it more often ends in pain and sorrow.”

/>   She moved away from him and his anguished eyes. “I have heard of your quarrel with the king. Did that cause you pain and sorrow?”

  “In part, but we also suffered from deprivation because of his enthusiasm and his vow to take Jerusalem at any cost.”

  “Which he did not accomplish, despite the cost.”

  “Which he did not accomplish,” he confirmed, coming toward her. “There were many times I wished I had not gone.”

  “You did what you believed was right.”

  “Yes, my lady,” he whispered, so close to her now, his words seemed like the prelude to his kiss.

  She wanted his kiss, his lips upon hers. Already she felt more affection for him than she did for Rennick and probably ever would. Surely it was no wonder, then, that she yearned for his touch, to be caressed as if she were cherished and not bought. More, she wanted him to possess her completely, as she would him. She longed to discover what it was to be intimate with a man she desired with every fiber of her being, the need burning in her like a fire burning out of control in the high summer.

  If such dreams were a sin, she would sin. What harm did it do to picture him holding her, sharing her bed? Instantly, that image—and more—burst into her mind. His naked body over hers. The expression of desire on his features, blatant and hot. She beneath him, anticipating his thrust, so eager for him it was desperation.

  Then she realized why it was wrong to have such thoughts. She did not want to let them remain a maiden’s fantasy.

  As if God Himself felt the need to interrupt, voices raised and anxious sounded nearby. Flushing as if she had discovered Sir Connor had shared her lustful vision, she backed away. “Somebody must be hurt.”

  Although he could do little with his shoulder injured, he might be of some use fetching bandages or medicines, so although Connor inwardly cursed himself for an impulsive cur, he did not leave the tent.

  Once again, he had been too forward, too inappropriately intimate. She had only done him good and looked at him with gentle sympathy, but God save him, he had almost kissed her again, even though she was betrothed to another. It didn’t matter that she was, without question, the most tempting woman he had ever met his life. He must be more careful. They were separated by rank, by wealth, by duty—by all the barriers society erected.

  Bob and Harry, panting hard, ran in with their litter. On it, deathly pale and sweating, lay a young, red-haired squire. Connor saw no blood, but that didn’t mean the youth was not seriously injured. His wound had not bled, either.

  “What happened?” Lady Allis demanded.

  “He was fine in the melee,” Bob answered. “Not hit or nothing.”

  No broken lance, then.

  “He got off his horse,” Harry continued, “and then he staggered and fell. Fainted, we thought, and so he had, but it looks a sight worse than just that.”

  Connor had to agree. He had known men who had trouble bearing the weight and heat of their armor, but this was the worst he had ever seen anybody suffer who had not been wounded, too.

  “Let me see him,” Brother Jonathan cried as he rushed into the tent.

  Connor quickly stepped out of the way to let him pass.

  Brother Jonathan bent over the young man, examining him.

  Then, suddenly, everything stopped. Brother Jonathan, Lady Allis and the two soldiers formed a tableau of shock and dismay as they stared at the youth.

  Connor knew what that meant. The squire had died.

  Lady Isabelle ran into the tent and halted confusedly. “Percival?”

  With a stricken expression that tore at his heart, Lady Allis went to her sister. “Come away, Isabelle.”

  Too stunned by the sight before her, the young woman didn’t move. “What has happened? What’s wrong with Percival?”

  “Isabelle, please, come with me.”

  Nearly as pale as the squire, the girl still stood motionless, staring with disbelieving eyes at the body on the litter and the other three men averting their gaze. “No, I want to stay and help.”

  Death was never easy to look upon, and his heart filled with pity for her as he stepped forward. “Please, my lady, go with your sister. You cannot help him.”

  Isabelle’s mouth formed the silent word.

  “Yes,” he gently confirmed. “He is dead.”

  With a loud cry, the girl fell sobbing to her knees. Lady Allis put her arms around her, trying to help her stand even as she glared at him over her sister’s head.

  “She is old enough for the truth.” Although he believed that, he felt a stab of regret. He should have left that truth for her sister, who knew Isabelle far better than he did.

  Lady Allis helped the sobbing Isabelle to her feet. “Come, Isabelle, come with me.”

  “I should have given him my scarf,” she wailed. “I didn’t and now he’s dead.”

  “Yes, I know. Come away, dear. There is nothing we can do here.”

  Slowly, with Isabelle crying and Lady Allis supporting her, the two women left the tent.

  Brother Jonathan covered the body with a blanket, then wiped his anxious, perspiring face, while Bob and Harry shuffled their feet awkwardly. “You two may go.”

  “I pray there are no more serious injuries today,” he muttered to himself after the soldiers left and he sat heavily on one of the cots.

  “What happened?”

  With a heavy sigh, Brother Jonathan scratched his chin. “Young Edmond, who was watching with us, did say that Percival had not been feeling very well this morning, but felt fit enough to be in the melee. If I had heard that beforehand, I might have stopped him.”

  “You think it was an illness than killed him?”

  The little man slowly shook his head. “Not an ague or similar malady. I think it was his heart. Or apoplexy.”

  “Surely he is too young to die from such a thing.”

  “It is rare, but it does happen. With the excitement of the melee, the heat from his armor and clothing…it is possible, especially if he had a weak heart before.”

  “Did he?”

  Brother Jonathan spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He may have. Often men have no idea of the weakness lurking within their own bodies.” He got to his feet. “I had better go tell the baron, if he doesn’t already know.”

  “The baron? Lord Montclair is the host.”

  “Percival was the baron’s squire, and the earl must be told carefully. He will surely be upset and agitated.” Brother Jonathan ran his hand over his tonsure. “Oh, sweet heaven. The burial.”

  The church frowned on tournaments and had decreed that those killed in them should be denied ecclesiastical burial. Participants were supposedly condemned to suffer eternal torment in hell, including wearing armor nailed into their flesh, unremovable.

  Despite his skepticism over these stories, Connor shivered. He had managed to subdue such fears for a long time, for no one had died in a tournament in which he had participated, but what if they were right, and he was killed? Would God take his reason for being in a tournament into account? Would He remember that he had tried to do good by going with the king on Crusade?

  “Percival did not die fighting in the tournament, but afterward,” he noted.

  Relief flooded over Brother Jonathan’s round face. “Yes, that’s true. So there is no reason he cannot be buried with the necessary rites. Or maybe the baron will decide to send the body home to his family for burial. His father is the earl of L’Ouisseaux.”

  The earl of L’Ouisseaux was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and one whose exact loyalties were a mystery, even to the king and his brother John. It was an interesting alliance for the baron—now broken.

  Brother Jonathan turned toward the entrance to the tent. “If you will excuse me.”

  “May I walk with you, Brother? I am going to the armory.”

  The little man nodded his acquiescence, and together they went to the castle. Once past the gate, Brother Jonathan bade him farewell and headed towar
d the hall, while Connor swiftly crossed the courtyard, noting as he did that all seemed quiet and subdued. The death of a man in a tournament was a serious matter; the death of one like Percival, from an important family, was even more momentous.

  He glanced at the hall, wondering how Lady Allis and her family were faring. He hoped she did not assume any blame for what had happened. She already bore so much upon her slender shoulders.

  He reached the keep of the castle and pushed open the door. Inside, it was like a combination carpenter’s shop and smithy. It smelled like both—and something else besides. Along wooden bench covered in tools and bits of wood stood in the center. A hearth was at the far end and glowing hot. Near it lay metal for fashioning arrow tips and swords, and a pile of kindling. Plain shields and two painted lances leaned against the wall. Several swords, used by the garrison no doubt, were in stands near the door, held in racks by their hilts.

  The man working at the bench was huge, the tallest man he had ever seen, and perhaps the most filthy. His dark, greasy hair hung lank about his shoulders, and his clothes looked as if they had never been washed. The man’s body odor explained the unusual scent of the room.

  “Ya?” he growled in a German accent as he continued to repair the hilt of a sword.

  “You are the armorer?”

  “Ya.”

  “I have come to find my lance, which was broken in the melee yesterday.”

  “Ya?”

  This was not going to be an easy conversation. “I understand the broken weapons are brought here.”

  “Ya.” The man nodded toward the opposite wall.

  The two lances there had broken ends. “Mine was shattered.”

  “Ah. Ya.” This time, the man stopped working and gestured at the pile of kindling.

  “The pieces are there?”

  The man shook his head, then pointed into the hearth.

  “You burned them?”

  “Ya,” the armorer confirmed, going back to work.

  Connor tried to keep calm and not betray any rancor. “On anyone’s orders?”

  The German glanced up, puzzled, as he shook his head before once more returning to his task.