At once the sheet about her settled snugly over her hips and became a single slender rope across her left shoulder, running crosswise over her narrow waist and surprisingly full breasts. Beside him and around him Ranulf heard the gasps and sensed the stares—he would be gawking, too, he wagered. Beneath the green shimmer, which he could not honestly call a cloak, but then he had no other words to describe it, the lady was all but naked.
She hides her face but still wears less than a tavern wench, was his astonished thought.
Truly, she wore a tiny golden bodice or jerkin over her bosom, cut to show the tops of her arms and breasts, and stopping before the last of her ribs, so that her upper arms and her middle were bare, naked and bare. Ranulf found himself leaning in to her, almost reaching for her slender waist and copper-colored, smooth-as-silk skin. He was reminded now, crudely and starkly, that he had not lain with any woman for months. The blood thumping in his ears and more painfully elsewhere, his mind flashed to the little modest maid of the morning, who had darted off. Two different kinds of challenges.
“You are the very season for lilies, Princess,” he said, making a play of breathing in slowly and commenting on her perfume because she expected him to scold or praise her costume.
“Today I am the Lady Jade,” she reminded him anew, nodding to a belt of green beads wound about her hips and several bracelets of green bangles. One of the nearby knights started to say something in French, but Ranulf stared at him and the man instantly went quiet. He clasped the hand she offered, amazed that she should be wearing gloves up to her elbows.
“Have you a favor in that costume for me?” he asked, while the knights about hitched their eyebrows at her strange attire and the ladies in masks made a point of not glancing her way.
“Alas, Sir Jade! My favors are all given out.”
“Your face-veil is green and we shall soon be unmasking. ’Tis considered unmannerly to remain masked when the lord and lady are not.”
“Thank you for pointing out that custom, Sir Jade. To be sure, I did not know it.”
“To be sure you did, Princess.” Ranulf squeezed her fingers, tempted to shake her until her bracelets and beads rattled.
“I will remove that veil when we reach the place of tourney,” she replied, not in the least discomfitted by his outright denial.
They were moving by this time, strolling to the jousting ground, the princess in her fantastic costume floating like a low green cloud between him and Sir Tancred.
“May I claim it?” he asked. “I am jade, as you.”
“Huurph!” grunted Sir Tancred.
“Forgive me, sir, but I cannot grant your request. To do so would be to break faith with others.”
“I understand completely,” Ranulf replied, looking over the princess’s veiled head at Sir Tancred. “We must honor our agreements.”
He had been her kindly knight of the river, but now he was different, arrogant and brazen, judging her. Were it not for the agile way he moved and his resonant voice, she would not have known him. It was disillusioning, and she was angry at herself for hoping to keep her illusions alive a little longer. She had not expected to encounter him again so soon, which was nonsense, given where they were.
He was a fighter who had sought her out. Why? And should she believe him over his jade costume and name?
Gregory would have called it a godly coincidence, that we are the Lord and Lady of Jade, but what meaning has it, really ? None. It is but chance. There are no signs, no portents, merely accidents.
He was appalled by her costume—these lusty knights always were.
Sir Jade, or whatever he is called, never saw me at the forge, working and sweating stripped to the waist.
Yet what did it matter? Her “Eastern dress” was a creation of her grandfather’s memories and drawings, pieces of traded cloth, and her own devising. Over these last months, she had discovered that the more startling her costumes, the fewer questions she had to fend off. Men were too busy ogling and women too envious.
It worked well. It was all working supremely well. Instead of breaking their backs, weeding in the wheat fields and strips of beans, her fellow villagers of the former Warren Hemlet were at ease in the great tent. Walter had some new eyeglasses—the gift of a grateful knight to the Lady of Lilies—which meant that he could carve wood again. Maria, who was with child, could rest on the couch and not fear the reeve’s lash. All could enjoy the daily bounty of food and gifts that was given to her by her lordly admirers.
If they knew who you were, you would all be killed, chided Gregory in her mind. Trying to escape him, Edith lengthened her stride.
“Your servants loll in corners this day?” the exasperating and altogether-too-sharp Sir Jade now asked as he effortlessly matched her pace. “I wonder at their allowing you to wander alone. A joust is no place for an unguarded damsel.” He nodded to the bystanders. Every man gathered by the processional path was watching her, ogling, staring. One or two were drooling.
She had seen it before and would have waved her hand had he not been gripping it. “I have my knights.”
“You consider all knights yours?”
“Those who sport my favor. Look about, Sir Jade.”
“Alas! I can see nothing but green.”
She laughed, tickled by the image, and his dark eyes gleamed in response. For an instant he was again her knight of the stream, but then he returned to the attack.
“Sir Dew here tells me you predict the outcomes of challenges.”
“Sir Dew of the Moon,” protested Sir Tancred, attempting to shoo away a huckster who had broken through the ranks of onlookers to join them, copying her walk and “veiling” his grubby face with his grubbier hands. This was a constant irritant in processions and one she silently endured.
“Sir Jade,” however, was having none of it. He glared at the fellow, raising a threatening fist, and the pie-man stepped sharply back into the ragged line of spectators. “What do you see for me?” he demanded then.
“Many prizes.” It was a safe enough answer.
“And if I fight against your knights?”
She saw Sir Tancred’s eyes widen and spotted the mottled blush rising past his beard. Something was afoot here between these two.
“But you will not do so. Sir Jade does not strive against the knights of Lady Jade.”
“Well spoken, my lady.”
He patronized her, but since he had not disagreed she took it as a promise of intent and breathed a little more easily.
They had reached the circle of caravans and wagons, passing through a wicker hurdle gate to the jousting field. Here the ladies were being led off to the stand that was even now being loaded with cushions, while maids waited close by with drinks and cups, lest their “betters” should be thirsty. The steady mumble of chatter sharpened as damsels wished their knights Godspeed and valor. Heralds and the more nimble ladies hurried about the huge field to issue challenges and bestow more favors.
The men and women were also unmasking, casting aside their costumes. Edith watched more maids scooping up the discarded masks and cloaks, thrown casually onto the grass, and felt a rage at their thoughtless obedience. In these times of pestilence, why should the old order matter? Why should the ladies and lords not work?
They do the labor of governance, said Gregory in her mind.
“They should try cutting the standing wheat, instead,” she muttered in the old Hemlet dialect that, with a few added clicks and groans, passed for her own Chinese language.
“My lady? Was that a new prediction?” Sir Dew/Tancred lowered his head to her, eager to hear more.
“It was a prayer, for you and for Sir Jade,” she replied blandly.
“I need none.” Rude and coarse as his interruption, Sir Jade let go of her hand and stalked straight ahead of her, putting his mossy figure directly in her way. “Should you not be divesting yourself, Lady Jade? That is, if you have anything you can remove without causing a riot.”
“It is for the lord to go first,” she answered, inwardly seething. She knew the brute only spoke his thought, that all he said was only what the other men thought, but none had been bold enough to speak before him. To have it flung at her was profoundly irritating. Feeling the blood pounding into her face, she was glad of the veil.
“Is that indeed the custom of the East? Here it is a lady’s privilege, but I will grant your wish.”
He swept her a mocking bow, tumbling off his baggy costume at the same time. When he straightened, seeming taller and rangier than ever, he was already pointing. “Now you, Lady Jade.”
She had anticipated this, and deftly removed the green face-veil to show off the primrose yellow veil beneath. Handing the delicate cloth to Sir Dew/Tancred, who received it with a genuine bow, she smiled up at her unknown knight of the stream. “See? I have done my part, my lord.”
There was a rush of applause from more onlookers, and a shout of “The Lady of Lilies!” before both died away. Her knight said nothing, but he looked almost as grim as he had by the water, when she had glimpsed that ancient grief. Still without speaking, he turned away and strode off, marching in the direction of the stream where, only that morning, they had met together in peace. Sir Dew/Tancred, meanwhile, was staring desperately at the far horizon, as if he longed to be elsewhere.
“Will you escort me to my seat?” she asked softly.
He did so, silently and courteously, taking care she had sufficient cushions and that the awning over her head was to her liking, and she burned with shame.
Chapter 4
Sir Tancred’s armor was hotter than his own, and lighter. As his squire buckled on the older knight’s sword, Ranulf felt as if he was wearing a burning eggshell.
The man had kept his word, though; he had swapped armor and horse for the day. As the black knight, Sir Tancred had retired to Ranulf’s tent, giving out that he was unwell. In these days of pestilence, such a message ensured he would have no visitors.
“I will sleep,” Sir Tancred had said, shaking Ranulf’s hand. “There is sure to be feasting and dancing at the castle later, and I would be fresh for that.”
Ranulf, a trickle of sweat already dripping down his back, now ran his ungloved hand over the neck and back of Sir Tancred’s gray charger, allowing the horse to smell and feel and become accustomed to him. The horse, which Sir Tancred said was called Hector, was rather better than the nags Ranulf had seen with the knight at previous tournaments. When he remarked on Hector’s good looks, Sir Tancred had been quite open and unabashed about how he had acquired the beast.
“Yes, I know he is fine, and it is all down to my Lady of Lilies. She brought me Hector.”
“And from where had she such a horse?” Ranulf had asked, but he was given no answer. Sir Tancred had been keen to praise the princess and nothing else.
“Easy, lad, easy, great Hector.” Ranulf coaxed the horse, stroking him over, lifting and checking each of the charger’s huge hooves in turn. Hector had put his ears back once and then settled; in spirit he seemed as easygoing as his master.
“Which is why that Princess can wind him like a ribbon round her finger,” Ranulf grunted into the horse’s chest. He was boiling in this wretched plate and mail suit, though the mail was a little loose on him. The plate armor was a new thing and he was surprised Tancred had some.
“No doubt due to our Lady of Lilies again, but how does a princess from Cathay know of these things?”
Hector whickered softly, as if in agreement.
“And that sword of his, my lad—it has a wicked point. I have not seen such a blade before today. ’Twill be most deadly earnest in combat: a sharp tip to stab through slits in armor. I wager that is our lady’s influence, also.”
Ranulf patted Hector’s flank and began to groom his haunches, motioning to his squire to groom the horse’s other side. Questions bit at him like fleas: Was she truly from China? Did women really dress that way there? How did she know of metal and swords? Why was she not at the court of the king?
Lady Blanche was a true and sprightly lady but the castle of Fitneyclare was, in brute terms, small and old. Lady Blanche and Lord Richard were not swimming in wealth: the joust was here because London was filled with pestilence and the nobility scattered. He himself would not have come had it not been that the tourney, any tourney, was his life these days. He knew that the prizes would be small.
Why, then, would a princess of the East come here?
Deep in thought, he placed his own helm on his head—he would not ever fight in another knight’s helmet—and covered it with the trinkets Sir Tancred had used in his costume. It gave him particular pleasure to thread and pin the princess’s tokens to his chest where she would be certain to see them. Why not? Today he fought as an unknown knight, and Olwen would have understood.
Even so, he tucked one of Olwen’s seed pearls into his glove, feeling less disloyal as the smooth bead settled into the hollow of his palm. He was used to fighting with something of his wife’s snug against his skin.
A memory of them cuddling scorched through him, twisting in his heart. Longing to blot out the pain, he mounted Hector and straightened in the saddle, desperate to begin. Any challenge would do, and as proxy to Sir Tancred—no, Sir Dew of the Moon—he had plenty.
“Stay here. I will carry the spare lances,” he had told Edmund, knowing that otherwise he would be recognized by his lanky squire. He wound a cloth about his helm, hiding his face, and spurred his borrowed horse to gallop to the place of battle.
Beneath him Hector caught his mood and snorted, racing smoothly now as Ranulf gave him his head.
Let it be that knight with the badge of white and red fist. Let me know him again, even if he fights in the costume of a nun. Let it be him.
Edith touched her gloves, ensuring that they were snug and covered her hands. She knew this was a nervous habit, but after months of artifice and pretense, she was still fretful in the company of ladies.
Men held no fear for her. She had made her costumes to distract men. The silks and rarer cottons she and those of her company wore were truly from the East, brought back by her sailor grandfather and hidden by his wife, who had considered them too exotic. Edith, aware she had a gift for seeing shape and lines, the whole appearance and function of a thing, had imagined her princess costumes as she might have done a sword or a mace—as a vital weapon. She had conceived them in the same deadly serious manner as she would have created a dagger.
“You have a knack for it,” Teodwin had remarked once, “as I have for tents and garlands, it seems.”
Teodwin, the former grumbler and loudmouth, was right. Cutting a gaudy figure in purple silk, he was more active, agile, and happy than Edith had ever seen him.
Even his weeping sores had cleared up. But then, leaving the serfdom of the fields had released something in each of the former villagers, and all her people had discovered new talents. The world of chivalry was an enchantment to them: “It is as if we are living in a story,” as Maria had said.
But the damsels of these tournaments were dangerous. Even the “Brides of the Joust”—the women who followed the knights and squires from tourney to tourney—were a risk. They were more observant than men, more keen on the forms of manners, more likely to notice if she made a mistake in how she ate or drank or conversed. She always exaggerated her “Eastern” accent amidst womenfolk, and spoke as little as possible.
“You are comfortable, Princess?” Lady Blanche asked at once, noticing her slight movement. “This English sun is not too strong for you?”
“It is not, madam,” Edith answered slowly.
“The color of your veil today is very pretty,” said Lady Blanche, screwing up her slight pop-eyes as if trying to look behind her veil.
“Thank you, madam. Yellow is considered to be a lucky color in my land.” I should have complimented her on some part of her costume, Edith thought too late. Talking over trifles was a strange thing to her; in the village there had been n
o time for such matters.
“Yellow is my color today,” said another woman eagerly. She was standing close to the seats, sheltering from the afternoon sun beneath the awning, although Edith knew she was no maid or lady. She was not a trader, either, and by custom Edith knew she should not speak to her.
“The tunic looks very fine on you,” she remarked, while beside her Lady Blanche was stiff and horse-faced with disapproval.
The young redheaded woman—scarcely more than a girl—sniffed in surprise, grinned, and then whirled off in a gaudy spiral of yellow, the pendants round her neck clashing as she sped away.
“You must not encourage the dagger-girls, Princess,” said Lady Blanche at once. “Women aping men are best not spoken to.”
“In my land, all speak to all,” Edith replied, wishing she might be braver. The girls who chose to follow the joust and come to tourneys dressed as young men, displaying their legs and figures in male tunics and sporting the daggers that gave such girls their nickname, were more akin to her than they knew. But even with dagger-girls, even with indulgent Sir Tancred, she dared say nothing of her true state.
The dagger-girl who thinks she has won some words of praise from a princess would be less pleased if she knew I am a peasant.
Arrogance was the way of the world, but since it gained her and her folk food, shelter, fine clothes, flowers, music, and the spectacle of men-at-arms who fought in play and not in lethal intent, Edith had chosen to be as proud as the rest. She nodded now, as if in thanks, to Lady Blanche, and hearing the familiar rumble of hooves, turned her attention to the approaching knights.
She saw Sir Tancred mounted on Hector, the war horse she and her people had discovered slowly starving in a barn where Hector’s master had crawled away to die. She smiled at the pearls and billowing gray cloak: Sir Tancred always entered enthusiastically into the festive parts of the joust. It was his fighting skills that were less than lethal.
“Poor Sir T,” she murmured softly, then suddenly, seeing the two lances he carried, she straightened, sitting stiff-backed on her cushion.
To Touch The Knight Page 3
