Lady Knight

by Ling, Maria

  "Suits me," Guillaume shot back. "I'd have no use for a wife and children."

  "Well, then." Her voice shook.

  Guillaume drained his cup of wine. He had to get out of here, before one of them threw a punch. "I'll see you tomorrow," he muttered. "On the field of battle. Not before."

  "I look forward to it," Matilda snapped.

  He stalked out past the page, who took one look at him and skittered away. Guillaume strode to his own tent, ordered page and squire to hell, then methodically set about murdering every rival knight who invaded his seething mind.

  ***

  Matilda stamped back and forth in the confined space of her tent. God and all the saints, she'd come so close to losing her wits. One kiss, just one, and she'd been on the point of jettisoning every care and every consideration. Her body hungered, now, for the touches it hadn't received, for more of those it had gloried in, for the secret communion she'd heard whispered of but never experienced herself.

  Damn the man. Had no use for a wife, did he? Expected her to be his mistress, though, just like that. Because he deigned to kiss her once, and snarled at her when he thought it worth his while, and fought like an archangel alight with God's glory.

  She'd been a fool. She realised that, even as she seethed. Because he was the man for her, if ever there was one. Didn't want what all the others wanted, a shamed woman or a biddable wife. He desired a lover, a fighter who could meet him on equal terms and never be bested. And she...

  God and all the saints.

  She'd turned him away. Now she must face a whole night alone, untouched and virgin. Chill as the vigil before her knighting, which she'd relived again and again since those hours of darkness and prayer. While the men around her took mistresses, laughed and boasted of it when they thought she could not hear. Or married and bred children. Whereas she must remain forever innocent and pure.

  Fuck that. Matilda slammed down her wine-cup, then strode out past her astonished page and off towards Guillaume's tent.

  He was pacing, as she had done. Swung around with a growl, though it died on his lips as he recognised her.

  "You were right," Matilda said before he could speak. "I assumed too far."

  He stood before her, dark and feral, all untamed animal force. She loved that, had admired it since she first saw him across the field of battle, had battled it blow by blow since then. But he possessed courtesy also, nobility even, it showed now as he gathered himself together and bowed with consummate elegance.

  "As did I," he confessed. "You are not... experienced. I should have allowed for that."

  Matilda flushed with embarrassment and rage. Couldn't argue against, because it was true. "I'm glad you recognise as much. Perhaps you'll be less quick to suppose that I'll fall into bed without -- " She trailed off, had nothing of significance to say. Didn't know, really, how these liaisons were usually conducted. Feared to ask, now. "Without some assurance," she ended feebly.

  "The women I'm accustomed to bedding," Guillaume said, "already have men at their side. Husbands or lovers, I don't mind which, but either way they openly belong to some other man than I. It saves complications, later."

  "I see." She did, all too well, though his matter-of-fact attitude enraged her. "You take your pleasure and then leave them to clean up the mess afterwards."

  "Not at all." He considered, dark eyes widening in thought. "Well, maybe. But if so, they are well aware of what kind of... mess... may ensue. I don't bed unattached women, is my point."

  "Lucky you," Matilda said.

  "That said, there are ways." Guillaume watched her intently. "You understand? Forms of pleasure that do not yield children."

  She didn't, no. Unless he meant that most private and solitary of matters, which she blushed even to consider discussing.

  "God damn it." Guillaume kicked aside a stool, strode towards her and slammed her into his arms. "I desire you. On any terms you care to name. If that's marriage, then so be it. Or other forms of pleasure. Anything."

  His tone seared her -- and his eyes, and his mouth as he bent to kiss her. She answered him in kind, tasted blood and rage and adoration. Held him tight against her body, didn't know whether to lust for pain or pleasure or both.

  "Terms," Guillaume whispered in her ear. "I never yet met a knight without us both agreeing terms before battle."

  She laughed then, quietly, against the warm male-scented skin of his throat. "The terms are pleasure. Nothing else. And I don't want children."

  "You won't have them from me." He pushed her towards the section of the tent that held his bed. Undressed her with skillful hands, found chances to stroke and caress.

  She softened under his touch, pulled off his own clothes without anything like his deft ease, kissed bare skin as it emerged. Stood naked with him at last, flesh to flesh, warm and proud and strong.

  "I should leave word we're not to be disturbed," Guillaume murmured. Matilda kissed him into silence, pushed him back towards the bed. Let him pull her down with him and wrap her in the down coverlet, let his questing hands find and circle her nipples and her breasts, ease in between her legs and find the secret crevice there. Let his fingers probe and discover that hidden entrance, hesitate.

  "Do you want this?" he whispered, and when she told him yes he still insisted: "Are you sure?"

  Because it would make her less marriageable, she understood that well enough, no longer a virgin, unsoiled and prized. But she didn't want to be any man's prize, she was a knight like himself and wished only to live for battle.

  Besides, if she'd been worth that great a fortune to sell untouched, her brother would have closed the bargain by now. Since he'd chosen not to, she'd take that advantage.

  "I'm sure," she whispered. Seized his fingers with her own and guided them inside her, held her breath as he paused and probed and then forced his way in. It made her gasp, not with pain but with pleasure, and he held his breath and rested his mouth on hers, and felt his way deep inside the heart of her being. Where the tip of his finger caressed her, slow and insistent, built up an ache of longing that grew and crested and then burst through her like the shattering blow of a lance.

  She clung to him then, pressed close with skin to skin, while the inside of her belly gripped his finger tight and held him all the harder. He laughed softly into her hair, whispered that she was beautiful, and he'd always known it, from the first moment he saw her clear across the battlefield.

  "Liar." She threw her arms around him and laughed in shameless abandon. "You thought me an arrant knave to be demolished at once."

  "Apart from that," Guillaume murmured. "I swear I also knew you'd be like this." He kissed her hair and hugged her to him, probed a little further and made her shudder with pleasure all over again. And again, until she slumped back onto the bed, breathing deeply, utterly spent. Then he eased his finger out of her, traced her belly and breasts and then her lips, let her taste the sweetness of her own self, scented and wild.

  "Maybe it took a little longer than that," Guillaume admitted. "By evening, though. At the banquet, most definitely."

  Matilda pulled him towards her, kissed his mouth and let him taste that sweetness too. Thought of his tongue probing where his hand had been, quelled a whimper of delight. Maybe next time. If he agreed to meet her again.

  "Now," Guillaume murmured, caught her hand and guided it to his crotch. Paused, leaned over to where he'd flung his shirt, drew out a scrap of fresh linen. "You'll want to give as good as you get, I hope."

  Matilda laughed. "Count on it." Her fingers closed on smooth skin over hot flesh, let him guide her speed and rhythm, squeezed tight as he spilled over with hot liquid joy. Kissed him, fervently, brought her hand to her lips and tasted his flavour as he'd done with hers. Different, salty and strong, more sweat than savour.

  "You've done this before," she observed as she watched him clean up with quick expert movements. "With other women."

  "On occasion," Guillaume admitted. "I'll recite you the f
ull list if you wish. Or we can speak of more interesting things."

  He swung himself off the bed, stalked over to a bowl of rosewater set out ready for his evening ablutions, rinsed himself down. Pulled another scrap of linen from his shirt -- she wondered idly how much cloth he carried around with him as a matter of habit -- and wiped himself dry. Wrapped the first scrap in the second and tucked both into his hose as he pulled them on.

  She ought to wash, too, but felt too lazy to move. Just watched him dress, with a pang of disappointment. "Should I leave?"

  "Unless you want the world to know." He flashed her a grin. "Or stay for as long as you like. Talk over the battle dispositions for tomorrow, or any other topics of your choosing." He sat down next to her on the bed, idly caressed her bare skin with his fingertips. "What do you want to do?"

  "Just stay," Matilda decided. She didn't really care if the world knew or not. The only men likely to object were Alan and her brother, and she could handle them. For the rest, she'd endured malicious gossip enough to recognise the futility of living pure. Plenty of men would lie about her to sate their own fantasies, no matter how untouched she remained. Let them, then. For once, there'd be some truth to their imaginings.

  Guillaume bent to kiss her, lingered over her lips and tongue. Then leaned across her, supporting himself on one arm, caressed her shoulder with his free hand. "Name your subject. Lady's privilege."

  "Really?" A champion conversationalist, to match his tourney skills. Quite the gallant she'd brought down. "What made you want to fight on the circuit?"

  Guillaume paused mid-caress. A puzzled frown crept over his forehead. "I don't recall. Always liked fighting -- and winning. Geoffrey and Roland were up for it, and we'd always done everything together since we first met. So." He shrugged. "What about you?"

  She didn't know either, really. Wondered, now, why she'd asked. "Always wanted to be a knight. Didn't much fancy getting killed. My brother spoke of his time on the circuit, said he still missed it. Told me I'd never survive. I suppose I wanted to prove him wrong." Matilda shrugged, too. "Now I love it. Wouldn't give it up for anything."

  "Nor I," Guillaume said. "We appear perfectly suited."

  She laughed at that, and his grin glinted with good humour. When the foul mood was off him, he really was a delight.

  "Why are you such a beast?" Matilda asked. "Usually, I mean."

  Guillaume pondered. "Keeps fools at a distance."

  "Well, thank you."

  "Fools or foolishness, then. Don't want to waste my time on either." He cocked his head at a rustle from outside, rose to guard the inner flap. Matilda threw on her clothes as fast as she could.

  "Master?" The page had drawn the short stick, evidently. His voice trembled, poor boy. "Sir Alan de la Falaise requests admittance."

  "Bring him on," Guillaume growled.

  Matilda made a last frantic sweep across the bed, then plonked herself down on a stool and strove to appear composed. Guillaume slid aside, still with that gleaming smile, which he dropped the moment Alan stepped in.

  "Oh." Alan stared at her, then glanced around, visibly confused, until he spotted Guillaume. "I thought you were... entertaining."

  "Dull as a novice in a nunnery." Guillaume met his glare with the customary scowl. "Why, do you have anything of interest to say about the lie of terrain off the copse?"

  Alan blinked. "Off the... No. Is that... " He swung back to glare at Matilda. "What are you doing in here with this lout?"

  "Apparently he's under the impression we fight shoulder to shoulder tomorrow," Matilda snapped. "I've told him not if he had lances for teeth. Did you wish to add your view?"

  Alan hesitated. "Not...as such." He straightened with a sudden access of pride. "I can escort you back to your own tent, if you wish."

  "Do that." It was her best excuse yet, though it tore at her to leave. Especially on such a note of hostility.

  Guillaume let her go tamely enough, with a fleeting wink as she passed him, and followed the pair of them outside. Watched, arms folded, while Alan escorted her to her tent.

  "I was worried," Alan muttered in an undertone. "When I heard you'd gone there alone -- I thought perhaps Geoffrey -- "

  "Shut up," Matilda snapped, in no mood to indulge his delusions.

  "Until tomorrow," Guillaume called after them. Alan swung around to match his glare.

  Matilda hid a smile and seized her chance to duck into her own tent alone. Nodded to her page, who secured the flap and then scuttled after her to the inner section. She let the boy pull her boots off, tucked her feet into the looser fit of her house shoes with a sigh of relief, rose and dropped a cloth into the bowl of clean water. Which was the boy's signal to withdraw, and he did so with speed, hooking the inner flap closed behind him.

  Men's voices murmured outside. Alan's, and then Guillaume's. No mistaking the tone, though she couldn't hear the words. The quick snap of blows that followed was no great surprise.

  Well, she couldn't help that. If they wanted a scrap, they could have one. She washed and dressed in a clean shift, and knelt to say her prayers. Spared one for Alan, who was likely to have come off the worse from that encounter. Though it was quiet outside now, maybe they'd had sense enough to stop. And then a murmur, from a voice that thrilled her where she waited.

  "Mistress?" Her page spoke from the outer section of the tent, and in a tone of utter dread. "Sir Guillaume de la Mort wishes to know where you'd like him to put your cousin's teeth."

  Matilda quelled a snicker. "Anywhere he damn well pleases. Tell him I'll see him on the battlefield."

  She would, too. And then afterwards. In some place of his devising or hers, where no fools of men or boys could disturb them.

  ***

  CHAPTER 5

  Matilda waited. She hated this moment, in the calm before battle, where there was nothing more to do. Ready and focused, she strained for the trumpet blast. First strike was the moment she lived for, the instant when her lance connected and she drove all her strength through the body of a man.

  Or she would, if the lances carried sharp points. Just as well they didn't.

  Through some last-moment changes, Guillaume and his friends were drawn for the side against her. She could see him opposite, a little off, facing the man on her left. That fretted her, she longed for revenge. Wouldn't mind getting her horse and armour back, either. Guillaume had left those behind, taken nothing but his own onto the field. She'd win only what he brought with him, but they could arrange a swap later. It was common enough.

  She grinned at thought of yesterday. Delight swept over her again, the thrill of that burst of ecstasy. Might find the chance for it again, later. Perhaps even for more.

  After the battle. Her body shivered with anticipation.

  She had Geoffrey ranged directly against her. Roland faced Alan, near enough. That could go either way. She didn't know enough about Geoffrey to be certain she could take him, but she'd have a damn good try.

  The signal blew. She touched her spurs to the horse's sides, rode hard over level ground. Held her lance firm, caught a breath just before impact. Struck deep and hard and exactly where she wished to, held solid under the slam of Geoffrey's lance. Swung around to face him again.

  He'd got the worst of the exchange, swayed in the saddle and fumbled his grip. Matilda urged her horse on, whirled her lance across and struck the side of his head. He groaned and toppled, while she gained angle and distance enough to tilt at him again.

  Guillaume stormed in to save him, tall and ferocious with a tilt that made her quail. She spurred her horse on, met Guillaume with strength equal to his own. Caught the blow so heavy to her chest that she cried out, swayed in the saddle and almost lost the grip on her lance. The breath had been knocked out of her entirely, she gasped and wheezed as if drowning, and her shield-arm lay numb.

  Alan and Roland skittered ahead of her, both unhorsed, fighting foot to foot. No danger there. Guillaume was her greatest threat, but Geoffrey might
not yet be down. Caught between the two of them, she'd falter for sure.

  She swung her horse around, spotted Geoffrey much too close, threw her lance up in a clumsy tilt and charged. Brought him clear off this time, he slammed into the ground and lay motionless.

  Matilda turned, searched frantically for sight of Guillaume. His speed had carried him well past, but he'd rounded on her now. Geoffrey's horse was in his way, which gave her a moment longer to find her breath and balance.

  She rode aside, found open ground that allowed them to meet, readied her lance. Guillaume paused to raise his in courteous greeting, she had to smile at that. Then he lowered it and charged, powerful, unstoppable. She met his tilt with her best, but his smashed her back and over. Matilda slid out of the saddle, dropped her lance and let herself fall. Hit the ground and rolled to her feet, drew her sword. Met Guillaume's stare as he loomed above her, a tall man on a tall horse, for an instant she knew fear.

  "Don't you dare give me quarter!" she yelled. Slashed at the head of his horse, which shied and kicked out, caught her sharp on the thigh with pain that burned. Guillaume threw his lance down and drew his sword likewise, hacked down at her helmet. She caught the blow on her shield and deflected it, but her shield-arm burst with pain and drooped away. The next blow descended. She dodged, but not quite fast enough. Guillaume's sword, mercifully blunt, landed on her shoulder hard enough to jar her bones.

  Matilda dived in and got close enough to slice at his leg. The horse snapped after her, yellow teeth jangling her mail sleeve. She jabbed at the girth and managed to score it before Guillaume's sword slammed down on her helmeted head and drove her to her knees.

  "Do you yield?" The point of his sword touched her face before she managed to rise. Cold iron pricked her skin. Not too sharp, the threat to life was a constant concern, no one carried blades fully sharpened. But she felt as if the point cut her skin, all the same.

  Honour demanded that she surrender, because in a true fight he could have killed her already.

  "No." She pushed herself up and around, swung her own sword against his arm, hard enough to draw a growl. The horse veered sideways and crashed into her, toppled her backwards. More of a warning than an assault, the beast held back from trampling her as she fell. She rolled away and made to rise, but the horse reared and lashed out with its front legs, kept her under threat of death.