A Midsummer Knight's Kiss (HQR Historical)

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  The effect was only slightly spoiled by the long-haired puppy that twisted and pulled at Aunt Joanna’s side on the end of a leash, but Robbie heard Mary give a soft moan of delight as the animal gambolled about. He vowed to present the fifth Simon with a pig’s knuckle as soon as he was able.

  The two couples drew to a stop in front of Sir John’s stand. This was a planned visit rather than a stroll about the tournament grounds. Robbie wondered what part Rowenna had played in it. She was still nowhere to be seen.

  Roger bowed with a flourish.

  ‘Sir John, permit our intrusion on your party. I wanted to pay my respects and thank you for the care and attention with which you have raised Robbie. He is grown into a fine young man.’

  ‘Your son has proved himself a worthy and able squire. I have no doubt he will continue to do so after he is knighted.’

  Sir John gave Robbie a penetrating stare that made Robbie shiver and wonder if the elderly knight suspected he harboured an imposter beneath his roof.

  Roger made the introductions for the rest of his party. Sir John’s smile grew warmer as Roger named Hal’s position in the guild. He smiled at Robbie.

  ‘I was unaware until today you had such influential connections, Master Danby. I was admiring the new sword of the Sheriff of the city this morning. I hope I might be fortunate enough to commission your uncle to furnish me with a new pair of daggers.’

  Lucy stepped forward and curtsied to Sir John and Lady Isobel. She, too, thanked them, expressing her hopes that Robbie had not been a troublesome pupil in a forthright manner.

  ‘I read poorly so he writes seldom to me,’ she grumbled good-naturedly. ‘I have to learn everything from my husband or niece, but I believe he has a good hand.’

  Everyone laughed except Robbie. It had been a source of frustration that he could not write to Lucy and beg her to reveal his father’s identity without Roger being a party to it. Writing such a letter via Rowenna was inconceivable. Robbie took a quick look at Mary, whose eyes were fixed on Lucy. Her eyes were shining. Sir John invited the Danbys to join them and explained Robbie’s intention of bringing refreshments. Aunt Joanna sat beside Mary, who began fussing over the puppy. Roger escorted his wife to the seat beside Lady Isobel and returned to Robbie.

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  Without appearing rude, Robbie could hardly refuse. ‘If you wish.’

  He walked silently from the stand towards the stalls selling wine. If Roger wished to speak, let him begin.

  ‘You fought well this morning,’ Roger said. ‘A little too far back on your heels when you attack, but that will come.’

  ‘Rot!’ Robbie exclaimed. He folded his arms and faced his stepfather. ‘My balance was faultless!’

  Roger laughed. ‘You do have some fire! I know you find speech hard at times, but I was beginning to worry you had grown so courteous or quiet you didn’t know how to hold your own.’

  Robbie picked up the wine. ‘I just d-don’t feel the need to bluster and strut around like a cock in a henhouse. When I have nothing to say, I say nothing.’

  ‘You learned that lesson quicker than I did,’ Roger said, scratching his chin. ‘You didn’t enter the tilting, I noticed’.

  It might have been an offhand comment, but Robbie bristled again. ‘I did not.’

  ‘I hoped you would at least try. You could have been good and it is the sport of noblemen.’

  Noblemen. Robbie grunted, wondering if his father could see the irony in his words. Roger seemed determined to treat Robbie as if he had not torn his world apart with a single word before he left Wharram Danby. He strolled through life as if nothing had repercussions. Robbie almost envied him, but for the harm such a carefree attitude left behind.

  ‘I lost the taste for it,’ he said coldly. ‘I’m sure you will understand why.’

  Roger lowered his gaze and they walked side by side in uncomfortable silence to the stalls. Roger reached into his scrip for coins to pay the vendor, but Robbie stayed his hand.

  ‘I have money.’

  Roger raised an eyebrow, but put his scrip away.

  ‘I meant what I told Sir John,’ Roger said as he stacked beakers to take back. He lowered his voice and drew closer to Robbie. ‘We have not spoken for far too long and now you are a man. I would like more than anything to claim the credit for that, but it is Sir John’s doing. And yours. You’ve done well, Robbie.’

  Whatever Robbie had expected to hear, it had not been such honest praise spoken with sincerity from the man who usually joked about everything. He felt an unaccustomed flicker of affection for the man who had given him a name and home. It was something he thought had long died. Memories of a childhood filled with laughter and warmth passed before his eyes. Not everything had been a lie. Roger had been a good father to him.

  ‘You and Grandfather gave me a good grounding before I went to Wentbrig,’ he admitted grudgingly. He was startled to see Roger’s eyes soften with emotion and felt his throat tighten. The secret had caused him to exile himself, not just from Roger, but also from the rest of his family. How different would the past seven years have been if he had not left with such anger between them? ‘Lord Danby always treated me fairly. It was a shame I could not return to see him before he died.’

  ‘You would have been welcome at any time,’ Roger said huskily. ‘You still are.’

  Embarrassed by Roger’s earnest tone, Robbie slowed his pace, eyes roving the crowd as they walked.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ Roger asked.

  Robbie hadn’t realised he had been so obvious. He set his jaw.

  ‘I just wonder if I’ll ever see a face that looks like mine.’

  Roger frowned. ‘What purpose would it serve if you did?’

  ‘It would stop me wondering. Everywhere I go, I wonder if he’s there.’ Robbie faced his stepfather and folded his arms. His brief rush of fellowship subsided, replaced with the habitual resentment at only knowing half the truth. ‘I hate not knowing who he was. Why won’t you tell me who he is?’

  ‘Is this a conversation for now?’ Roger sucked his teeth.

  ‘It’s one I mean to have before I am knighted. Don’t I deserve to know what name I could have owned now I’m a man?’

  ‘Perhaps you do. But as to whether you could have owned the name is for your mother to say.’ Roger pursed his lips. ‘You should talk to her.’

  Robbie frowned, wondering what darker secret his mother would reveal. He shifted the bottle from one hand to the other, but almost dropped it when a tall man dressed in a riding cloak barged between him and Roger and continued on into the crowd.

  What he was shouting pushed all concerns from Robbie’s mind.

  ‘Take me to the Lord Mayor. I bring news from London. Wat Tyler is dead!’

  Chapter Five

  Rowenna left her family when they decided to go pay their respects to Sir John. As much as she wished to spend more time with Robbie, she was reluctant to stand before Robbie’s master and repeat her strange encounter from the previous night. She bit her lip thoughtfully. What had the old knight seen in their faces or postures to suggest she and Robbie would be thinking of marriage to each other? She could think of nothing.

  She made her way out of the tournament ground and headed to the temporary market outside the tournament. Weaving her way through the tightly packed stalls, past trinket sellers, food vendors and entertainers, she could still hear the noise coming from the events. She bought a warm rosemary-and-curd pastry to nibble as she walked, greeted acquaintances, then stopped as the bundles of ribbon on one stall caught her eye.

  She smoothed down the skirt of her sensible brown cote-hardie, longing to wear something brighter. She had still not decided what to wear for the Midsummer’s Night Feast and new ribbons might help her make up her mind. Pale blue to go with her favourite dark blue gown, or gold to match the f
ine caul of wire that went with the new wine-coloured silk? The two surcoats were similar in style; both had a row of buttons from neck to waist to fasten them over the kirtle beneath, but the deep red gown could be laced tighter at the sides to give what Rowenna knew was a much more slender silhouette that emphasised the fullness of her breasts.

  Rowenna’s hand wavered over the gold ribbons. Her mother would not approve. She should wear the blue gown. It was pretty and the colour suited her complexion, but she had worn it so many times. The decision was an important one. The feast would be Rowenna’s best opportunity to find a husband.

  There was a swell of noise from behind her. Something interesting had clearly happened and she had missed it. Perhaps a bout had ended badly or unfairly. She turned to face the wall of the castle, head on one side to listen. The shouts were louder in the main arena, where the jousting and tilting were taking place. Rowenna had given up watching the contests, finding nothing excited her as much as Robbie’s fight had. Now she wondered what she was missing. There was another roar, different in tone to the first. She could not readily identify the source of the noise or the emotion they represented.

  ‘Do you know what is happening?’

  The stallholder, who was still holding up the ribbons, shrugged. ‘Not out here.’

  Rowenna looked again at the ribbons. Mary would be at the Midsummer’s Night Feast.

  Her stomach clenched. She half wished she’d gone with her parents to pay respect to Sir John and could have satisfied her curiosity. She wanted to see what sort of woman had won Robbie’s heart. She would watch them together and see whether she had been right to suspect infatuation. If it was that, she would have some hope of turning Robbie’s affections to her. If not, then she hoped Mary would be as kind and beautiful as Robbie deserved. A woman who would be as fond of him as Rowenna was.

  Robbie had promised her a dance and would surely keep his word, even if Mary was there. She hoped Robbie would be a good dancer. If he were as swift and graceful with a woman in his arms as he was when he had a sword in his hand, he would be a delight to dance with.

  The stall-keeper gave a meaningful cough. Rowenna’s mind stopped wavering. The atmosphere in the market had changed. More people were stopping to turn to the grounds. The cries that filled the air were transforming from excitement at the combat taking place to something else.

  Fear?

  Anger?

  Rowenna frowned. There was something significant happening and she was missing it.

  ‘I’ll take both colours, please.’

  She stuffed the ribbons into her bag, bunched the hems of her kirtle and cote-hardie in one hand and began to push through the crush of people to get back to the gate. The guards on the bridge that served as passage to the entrance looked troubled, gripping their pikes firmly. Rowenna feared they would not let her in. They smirked as she pushed towards them.

  ‘Better head the other way, lass. There’s trouble inside.’

  Rowenna’s scalp prickled with annoyance at his condescending manner. She held her back straight and head high, and gave the most dignified look that she could muster. One Lady Danby would be proud of.

  ‘Thank you for your caution, good sir, but please let me pass. I need to speak urgently with my father. He’s Master Danby of the Smiths’ Guild.’

  The description impressed these men, even if people of a higher class scorned the family. The guards looked at her with slightly more respect and waved a hand in the direction of the bridge. Rowenna crossed it slowly, caught between the throng of people leaving and those pushing along in the same direction as her. Once inside Rowenna was caught in a fresh swell and bundled along towards the row of stands where the crowd seemed to be converging.

  Someone shouted, ‘Is it true? The uprising is over?’

  ‘Tyler is dead. The revolt is ended,’ a voice roared.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Who?’

  The crowd began to take up the name.

  The man who had told them the news shouted over the muttering, ‘Wat Tyler has been killed. A messenger arrived from London bringing the news for the Lord Mayor.’

  Rowenna recognised the name, but it meant little to her. It was just one of many that was thrown up in arguments at home or in the inn, where men gathered to discuss the evils of the hated Poll Tax imposed by the King. To many in the crowd it must have a greater significance, because a murmur began in the crowd: a ripple that began quietly but that raced around the field, gaining in volume until the air was filled with angry mutterings and shouts. Rowenna couldn’t tell whether the anger was at Walter Tyler for daring to behave so insolently, or against King Richard for allowing the killing of a man with legitimate grievances. Either way it served to hasten the speed at which the crowd pushed forward.

  ‘De Quixlay will speak,’ one man roared.

  ‘He’d better,’ another growled. ‘We’ll not stand to be squeezed and ignored any longer by those rich leeches! The time for the Poll Tax is over.’

  It was a living nightmare. Rowenna’s feet were trodden on, her hair snagged on buckles and cloak pins, her body jostled from side to side, back and forth. She was certain the hand that at one point caressed her buttock and thigh was intentional. She did not want to think about what else was pressing up against her hip. Her stomach rolled and she began to elbow herself forward. She wished, not for the first time, that she was taller and could see more than the backs of the men surrounding her. She tried to turn back and make her way to the gate, but it was as useless as swimming up the Ouse at a spring tide.

  A pile of barrels and crates was stacked by the side of a tent selling wine. Rowenna clambered on to the smallest one and looked over the mass of heads. Her luck changed and she cried aloud, ‘Robbie!’

  She glimpsed his dark hair over the top of a group of women. Uncle Roger was by his side. Just the sight of them gave Rowenna the courage she had been lacking. Robbie would protect her as he always did. Rowenna waved a hand to catch their attention and called their names, but they didn’t notice her. They both wore expressions of concern, heads bowed together as they spoke. She jumped down from the crate and tried to make her way to them. The crowd surged towards the stands once more, taking Rowenna with it. Even if she had not wanted to go in that direction, she would have had no choice.

  She caught another glimpse of Uncle Roger and Robbie, and began to slip through the gaps towards them. She was closer now, almost with them. She stood on her tiptoes again and screamed their names in quick succession, hoping to be heard over the other cries that filled the air. Robbie’s head turned. Rowenna jumped into the air, waving her hand desperately, and shouted again and again. Robbie raised his eyebrows in surprise, then frowned and spoke to his father. He began to move towards her, parting the people separating them with forceful swipes of his arms.

  Someone barged into Rowenna from behind, a sharp blow in the centre of her back that sent her flailing forward to her hands and knees with a cry of alarm and pain. Before she could push herself to her feet she was caught in the rush and knocked down again. A wicker basket that must surely contain cannonballs from the weight of it caught her across the side of her head, catching at her hair and ripping it painfully from the tight braid. She yanked on the strands to pull free. She crouched down, trying to make herself small so she would avoid injury, and kept still, clutching her bag to her. The air had a warm and oily texture, thick with the smell of bodies and mud, and it felt as if her lungs would not fill properly. Her heart was thumping in her throat with fury that her predicament was going unnoticed and fear that she would remain on the ground for the rest of the day. She was unimportant compared to the news that was driving the crowd beyond her, but surely someone would help her to her feet?

  Someone did. She ceased to be battered and sensed a body standing over her. In a matter of breaths, the unseen person was gently pulling her upright. She found
herself face-to-face with Robbie. She drew fresh breath into her lungs and let it out in a loud exhalation of relief. He had come for her, as she knew he would.

  He gripped her lightly on the shoulders, turning her this way and that as he inspected her. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Rowenna shook her head. She tried to smile at him and blink away the tears that had only sprung to her eyes once she was safe again. Robbie clearly did not like what he saw because his forehead wrinkled. Without a word he drew Rowenna to him, holding her against his body. His arms enfolded her protectively, locking firmly around her so that she could not even wriggle.

  She heard a sigh escape her lips that was more pleasure at the comforting intimacy than relief at being rescued. Let the city rant and riot over the killing of a man none of them had ever laid eyes on. With Robbie standing as tall and firm as an oak, Rowenna felt safer than she had since her foolish decision to come back inside the grounds.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked, her voice muffled against his neck. ‘I heard the name they were shouting.’

  ‘Wat Tyler insulted the King at Smithfield and got a sword to the neck for his troubles.’ It was Roger who spoke as he strode towards them. Clearly he had not moved with the same speed as his son.

  Robbie unwound one arm from around Rowenna and reached for the sword at his side. Rowenna noticed his father doing the same. They weren’t alone in drawing their weapons, though the sight of rough labourers feeling for knives did not reassure her as much.

  ‘Can you stand unaided, lass?’ Roger asked.

  She nodded but was in no hurry to let go of Robbie.

  ‘Best find your family and go home. I suspect we’re not too long away from a riot ourselves here. Robbie, take her to safety and see what your master bids you to do. I’m going to stay here and make sure the way into the city is free.’

  Roger issued his orders briskly. Rowenna felt Robbie’s arms tighten around her. She recognised the irritation she felt when her mother treated her like a child, too. It must be worse for Robbie, who had grown into a man out of sight of his father, to now have Roger taking charge.