The Maiden and Her Knight

by Margaret Moore

  Isabelle’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “What if I whisper?”

  “Are you trying to make my hair go gray before its time?”

  “What about Sir Auberan?” Isabelle mused. “I cannot even picture kissing him. His lips are too moist. It would be like kissing a toad.”

  “Have you ever kissed a toad?”

  “No, but I can imagine.”

  “So can I—and I imagine Auberan would be worse.”

  They laughed genially, as they had not done in a long time.

  “We shouldn’t be making sport of one of our guests,” Allis said with a touch of remorse.

  “Why not? I mean, his face when he tries to look manly, like the morning of the tournament—it looks like he has indigestion.”

  “I was thinking cramps.” They both started laughing again. “Oh, we must stop, or I’ll never be able to look at him without grinning like a jester,” Allis said.

  “I…I’ll try,” Isabelle said, gasping and giggling at the same time. “To stop laughing, I mean. I don’t think I’ll be able to face him ever again. That would be asking too much, especially if he wrinkled his forehead the way he does.”

  “But maybe if we laugh at him enough, he’ll finally go home.”

  “I’m delighted I am the cause of so much merriment.”

  His face red with rage, Auberan stood at the bottom of the steps.

  Horrified at being caught making sport of a guest, Allis flushed with embarrassment. “Sir Auberan, I—”

  He held up his hand. “Say nothing, my lady. Since I am not deaf, I comprehend you perfectly. I will pack my baggage and be gone in the morning.”

  He turned on his heel and marched away in high dudgeon.

  “By the saints,” Isabelle breathed.

  Allis leaned back against the curved stone wall. “That was most unfortunate.”

  “At least he’s leaving.”

  “Under terrible circumstances, and he’ll tell everybody about our rudeness, too.”

  Isabelle put a sisterly arm around her shoulder. “Do not take this so much to heart, Allis. He’s not worth worrying about.”

  “I don’t want anybody to feel unwelcome at Montclair.” Except Rennick DeFrouchette.

  “Why don’t you let me see if I can help? Auberan likes me. Maybe he didn’t hear everything and I can persuade him to stay.”

  “He certainly heard the last thing, and that was bad enough.”

  Isabelle got that mischievous gleam in her blue eyes again. “Ah, but you said it, not me. That may make all the difference.”

  Allis slanted a suspicious glance at her sister. “And just how do you intend to persuade him to stay?”

  “I certainly won’t kiss him, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

  “Good.”

  “I might imply that I would consider it, though.”

  “Isabelle!”

  “Would you rather he spread vicious tales about the rude chatelaine of Montclair?”

  Isabelle had her there. “Very well, but don’t make any promises you don’t intend to keep.”

  Her sister’s expression hardened a little. “I won’t. I wouldn’t let poor Percival wear my scarf, would I? And I hold my honor as dear as you do, Allis,” she said before she hurried after the disgruntled young nobleman.

  “Better, I hope,” Allis whispered as she followed.

  All through the evening meal, Connor was sure something was wrong. Sir Auberan behaved like a sullen child and Lady Isabelle treated him most solicitously, as if trying to soothe wounded feelings. Allis looked as she had in the hall that first night—solemn, cold, unapproachable—even when she glanced his way.

  Perhaps that was because of the arrival of Lord Oswald in the dispensary. He had been taken aback, too, and worried about what the man might think. Fortunately, Lord Oswald’s words and actions had not given him cause to fear that the man might misinterpret—no, correctly interpret—their feelings for one another.

  Could it be she was reconsidering their growing bond? If so, why should he be surprised? She had much to lose.

  “Sir Connor!” Lord Oswald called out as Merva cleared the last of the fruit from the high table where he sat in the earl’s place. “I have heard you sing well, like all your countrymen. Would you favor us with a song?”

  He didn’t want to sing. He wanted to be alone with Allis and find out what had happened, yet he could hardly stand and make that pronouncement. “It’s not true that every Welshman can sing,” he answered genially enough, despite his worry.

  “That is not what we hear.”

  “Perhaps I should be more specific,” he replied with a smile. “Not every Welshman can sing well, but most Normans can’t carry a tune at all.”

  “Oh, surely you are being modest! Your father used to brag of your voice, along with your other attributes. Will you not grace us with a ballad?”

  “I haven’t sung anything in a very long time,” he demurred. That was true enough, and there were only three kinds of ballads he knew: one kind extolled the past glory of Wales before the invasion of the Norman pirates and brigands, not something the Normans were likely to appreciate; another was about the glory of battle, not something he wanted Edmond to hear; and the last was about love.

  “Maybe he’s just being careful and doesn’t want to risk being insulted. Somebody might say he’s showing off, or sings like a dog howling at the moon,” Auberan muttered, glaring at Allis.

  Obviously, she had somehow insulted him, or he thought she had. As upset as he was, Connor couldn’t imagine Allis purposefully insulting anyone, not even Auberan.

  “Will you please sing for us, Sir Connor?” Allis asked, and there, in her eyes, he finally saw a hint of affection and tenderness. She wasn’t asking him as she might a servant, but as she would make a request of a friend. Or a lover.

  Maybe whatever had caused Allis to be so different had to do with the sulky Auberan and not him, which was a comforting thought. “I will gladly sing, as long as you all bear in mind it has been a long time and my throat is likely rather rusty.”

  Edmond’s eyes widened, and Connor gave him a conspiratorial grin as he got to his feet, the better to breathe for the long notes. “Not real rust. More of a croaking I’m afraid of.”

  “I’m sure the Welsh would say even one of them croaking is better than a Norman’s singing,” Auberan sneered, as he crossed his arms and looked away, as if determined not to listen.

  “Well, a Welshman might, at that. Shall we let the ladies judge if I croak, or do somewhat better?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he filled his lungs and began to sing a song in Welsh that was not a ballad about Wales, or battle, or the love between a man and a woman.

  It was the lullaby his mother had sung to him, a soft, delicate tune of sweet spring days, the ewes and their lambs on the hillsides at dusk. He closed his eyes, thinking of his mother and the way she would brush the hair back from his brow at night before she kissed his forehead and bade him good night.

  When he told her he was too old for kisses, she never did it again—but she always brushed back his hair, and he never asked her to stop that small, loving caress.

  When he was in the Holy Land so far from home and lonely, he would have given anything to have her kiss him once more, or brush the hair from his forehead and bid him a gentle good night.

  He sang the last notes low and tender, as if bidding her the farewell he never got to say.

  When he finished, Allis sat with her head bowed so that he couldn’t see her face.

  Lady Isabelle wiped her eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, that was lovely! It was about ill-fated lovers, wasn’t it?”

  “No. It’s a lullaby my mother used to sing to me.”

  “It was wonderful, quite wonderful, even if I couldn’t understand a word,” Lord Oswald declared. “What do you think, Auberan?”

  “I suppose he sings well enough,” Auberan grudgingly conceded. “I’ve heard Norman minstrels wh
o are better.”

  Allis still had not looked up.

  “What does my lady say?” Connor gently prompted. It was the weakness of vanity, but he very much wanted to hear her opinion.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she shoved back her chair and ran toward the stairway leading up to her father’s bedchamber.

  Connor sat heavily, too dismayed to do anything but stare at the steps.

  Edmond sat beside him, putting his arm companionably around Connor’s shoulder. “I didn’t think it was so very bad. If you like, we can play chess.”

  Connor stopped looking at the stairway and gave the boy half a smile as he ruffled his hair. “If you like.”

  That would take some time, and he wanted to stay in the hall until he had a chance to speak to Allis and apologize. Of all the things he had been trying to do with his song, he hadn’t meant to upset her.

  As the evening wore on, Connor began to fear Isabelle and Edmond were never going to go to bed without Allis telling them to. Even Lord Oswald’s weary assertion that it was time to retire had little consequence. Auberan lingered, too, yet he eventually departed, so that at last, only Connor, Isabelle, Edmond and those soldiers who slept there remained in the hall.

  When Edmond’s head was nearly lying on the chessboard and he could hardly speak for yawning, Connor decided that, guest or not, he had no choice but to take command. “Lordling, go to bed, or you will fall off your horse and break your neck tomorrow.”

  Edmond raised his sleepy eyes. “One more move and I shall have you.”

  “One more move and you will fall into my clever trap. The game is over, and it is time for you to go to sleep.”

  “Everybody always orders me about,” Edmond complained, rubbing his eyes.

  “If you are to be a squire, you had best get used to that. Being a squire is like being a servant, only with better food. Now off to bed.”

  Reluctantly, Edmond finally stood and went toward the stairs leading to his bedchamber.

  Now only Isabelle remained, seated near the hearth and doing her embroidery. The question was, how could he get Isabelle to her room without leaving the hall himself?

  She moved her embroidery stand to the side of her chair and rose. “Is the game so truly decided? If not, I will take Edmond’s place and finish the match.”

  “The hour grows late, my lady.”

  “But not so very late. After all, Edmond is but twelve years old, and I am nearly sixteen. Many ladies of my age are already married, so I should not be bundled off to bed like a child.”

  She was right, so all he could do was shrug and say, “The game is perhaps not as decided as I led Edmond to believe. If you would care to take his place, you are welcome.”

  She smiled and sat opposite him.

  If she was going to be there, he might as well try to discover what had happened that afternoon. “Tell me, Lady Isabelle, why was Sir Auberan so sour at the evening meal?”

  Isabelle chewed her lip as she studied the board. “He was annoyed with Allis.”

  “So I gathered. Why?”

  “She said she wished he would leave Montclair.”

  “To his face?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, to me, but he overheard. He was very angry and she was very upset.” She raised her eyes to look at him. “Allis cares too much what people think of her. She has always been that way, but it’s been worse since Mama died. She expects Edmond and me to be perfect, too.”

  He recognized that grudging tone of voice, for he had used it himself when Caradoc criticized him. Now, as he listened, he heard the childish petulance and regretted that he had spoken so to his brother, who had been right to question the cost of what Connor had desired.

  As for Allis, she was not wrong to be wary of the criticism of society. He had lived as an outcast long enough to know it was lonely, sad and difficult. Neither was she wrong to ask Isabelle to be careful, too. “I don’t think she asks more of you than she does of herself.”

  Isabelle moved her queen. “I don’t care what people think of me.”

  He studied the board, then shifted his bishop. “Perhaps because you have your sister to worry about that for you, and to smooth over any mistakes you make.”

  “It was I who smoothed over Allis’s mistake today,” she replied with a hint of pique. “I went to Sir Auberan and persuaded him to stay.”

  “May I ask how?”

  “I told him Allis would be very upset if he left, which is quite true.”

  “Was that all?” he asked with his most persuasive manner.

  “Well, I cried.”

  Connor hid his knowing smirk. No doubt Isabelle’s tears were a valuable weapon.

  While Allis…It would take a great deal to make her weaken enough to cry, especially in public. She would hate revealing that much vulnerability, as would he. “It might have been better to let him leave, given the way he was behaving tonight.”

  “That’s what I think, too, but Allis wouldn’t agree. She’s afraid he will tell everybody how rude she was and our family honor will suffer.”

  “It might.”

  Isabelle tossed her blond head. “Well, what if it did?”

  “A family’s lost honor is not something to be treated lightly, my lady, as I well know.”

  She moved another piece. “Not even if it is lost in a good or just cause? Not even for love?”

  He wondered what she meant by that, then decided this was a subject best avoided, and this conversation must come to a close. He could not stay in the hall all night, no matter what he wanted to do. “Who can say when a motive is purely unselfish?” he queried as he shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “When you see your sister, will you please tell her I meant no harm with my song?”

  “Yes, of course. Checkmate!”

  Connor stared at the board. She was right. Good God, she had snatched victory from him without him seeing it coming.

  He raised his eyes, to see her grinning, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “I see I underestimated your skill, my lady.”

  “A lot of people do.”

  “I give you good night, my lady.”

  “Good night, Sir Connor,” she replied as she watched him stride from the hall, a triumphant smile still on her face.

  Chapter 15

  In the still, dark hours of the night, Allis sat beside her father’s bed watching him toss and turn. He mumbled and muttered, and sometimes wept, too. She held his hand, hoping that would quiet him. Often that simple thing seemed to bring him comfort. Or perhaps it only pleased her to think that her loving presence made a difference.

  When he finally fell into a deeper sleep, Allis sighed wearily and leaned forward, laying her forehead on the bed beside his thin, frail arm. Once, together with her mother, he had made the world a safe and secure place. Once, he had been as strong as Connor.

  When she had watched Connor sing tonight, his eyes closed and a peaceful smile upon his face, love in every note and syllable, she had remembered a better time, when she had been happy and carefree. She had yearned for those blissful, innocent times, then realized that in truth she didn’t really long for the past to return. She craved a different present, one that allowed her to be with him, as his wife.

  When she was with him, she felt so much more than secure and happy. Then, it was as if there were a whole new realm of joy awaiting her, full of peace and security, as well as the excitement of a passion that made her heart sing and her blood throb and that titillated her whole body. The thrill of mutual, fervent desire poured through her, where before there had been only the bleak despair of an arranged marriage to a man whose touch repelled her, and the cold comfort of duty done.

  She didn’t want Connor to leave Montclair. She wanted him to stay and be part of her family. To be her friend, her lover, her husband.

  “Please, Father,” she softly prayed, “show me a way.”

  The earl lifted his trembling hand and laid it on the top of her head. “Allis?”

&
nbsp; She had not been talking to him, but he must have roused and thought she was. “Yes, Father?”

  His face shone in the moonlight, and worry knit his brow. “Are you crying?”

  “I was thinking about a song I heard today, that’s all.”

  “What song?”

  He sounded tender, concerned—almost like his old self, in the days when he would comfort her after she had hurt herself, or been upset over some little thing like a missing toy. “A song one of our guests sang. It was a lullaby, and very sweet.”

  “Did I hear it?”

  Her chest constricted with dread. “No, Father, you were not in the hall tonight. You took your evening meal here in your chamber.”

  “Oh, yes, just so. Who sang the song?”

  “A Welshman, Sir Connor of Llanstephan.”

  “A Welshman? He was a fine singer, then?”

  “Very.”

  “Good enough to make you weep over his song, eh?” her father asked with a hint of gentle humor.

  He sounded so well, so happy. “Yes, but not just then. I was resting.”

  “Perhaps he will sing it for me tomorrow.”

  “I shall ask him. How is your head, Father?”

  “Much better. It doesn’t hurt at all. Indeed, tonight nothing aches.”

  “Oh, I am so glad!”

  “But I’m tired. Very tired. I was having a strange dream, Allis, about your mother and me. We had quarreled over something—I can’t remember what—and she left me all in a huff, the way she used to sometimes. Do you remember?”

  “She never stayed angry for long.”

  “No, because I would find a way to make her laugh. I always could, you know, Allis. I could always make her laugh.”

  “I remember.”

  “Marry a man who gives you laughter, Allis.”

  Another knot of dread balled in her stomach. “I am already betrothed, Father, to Baron DeFrouchette.”

  He didn’t appear to hear her. “Ah, I loved Mathilde so! There is not a moment I do not miss her.”