Henry looked up at the thin baron’s son. “Can’t think of anything but food,” he observed in disgust.
Buck aimed his quizzing glass meaningfully at Henry’s expanding waistcoat.
The viscount took back the spy glass and gazed once more at the medieval scene, focusing on the girl, Alianora. She was seated on a stone bench now. He watched a knight who had just won beg a favor of her. His lips tightened when he made out who it was: Richard Brendall, Earl of Savernake, a notorious fortune hunter. Last year, he had dared to try for his sister, Georgina, luring her from the ladies’ seminary with charm and promises. The schoolmistress caught her leaving and reported it to the viscount. Peter had personally seen to Georgina’s return home to Woodhurst and let her finish her studies with her old governess. Georgy had, of course, never forgiven him.
“The Queen of Love and Beauty,” he mumbled to himself. The most beautiful woman in medieval lore, to whom the knights owed homage. Even from this distance he could see that the knight, Savernake, had asked something that disturbed her. After a moment of confusion, hands held up in refusal, she finally assented. She picked up a stringed instrument beside her on the bench. It looked something like a small harp, but he wasn’t quite certain from this distance. It was now obvious the winning knight had asked the favor of a song. After plucking a few strings she began to sing, bowing her head at first, then looking up. He could hear her faintly, a high, clear sound on the breeze. He lowered the glass.
“Time fleets,” Buck reminded him, picking up one watch fob then another, shaking his head, and looking further until he at last found his true watch.
Cerestone looked innocent. “Why, Buck, don’t you paint a red dot on the real fob?”
Buck snapped the cover shut. “A red dot? A red dot?” He became quite incoherent after that with words surfacing such as ignorant, faux fobs and setting the fashion.
“Well, it is true I have much to learn about life in town,” the viscount admitted, a twinkle in his eye. He turned to look one last time across the river.
Henry put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Never do, you know.”
Startled, Cerestone asked, “What won’t do?”
“The Wynyate gal. Old earl’s too queer by half. No doubt want a knight of the Round Table for her.”
A light of challenge flickered across the viscount’s face. “I should merely like to meet her sometime, and meet her father, certainly. Purely a scholarly exercise.”
“Then I suggest you outfit yourself as a knight and attend the tourney,” Buck suggested as if it were quite that simple.
“Perhaps I will. Sometime.”
Buck waved his quizzing glass, one of the hundreds in his collection. Today’s glass was set in a teakwood handle, the end carved to resemble an elephant holding the ribbon in its trunk. “Never dear Parkington, underestimate our friend Cerestone. You forget the innumerable troubles he could foment and yet escape smelling of violets.”
Henry snorted. “Mean roses.”
“Violets, dear boy, are for innocence.”
“Aye. You did some pretty deeds too, dear boy. Before you became such an exquisite, that is.”
Buck squawked. “Never call me that. It informs the world of your ignorance.
Aside from that, however, it is far pleasanter to be named ‘exquisite’ than to smell like a stable. Oh,” he said faintly, pulling a lacy lavender-scented handkerchief from inside his sleeve and waving it about his face, “at times the odor is overwhelming.”
“Better than the Frog water you pour on,” Henry complained.
“French,” Buck insisted. “Eau de cologne. My dear boy, even Boney requires several bottles a day.”
“That recommends it, certainly.”
Cerestone laughed. “Ah, Parkington, you must learn all these things to rub along well in society.”
“Don’t want to rub along. Horses are more my style.” He then turned to check the horses once again and snorted. “Demmed post-boys, kept the cattle standing all this time.” He walked briskly toward the postilion who now sat on the off-leader, staring absently into the distance with his arms folded across his chest. Henry gave the boy a few sharp instructions in how to handle horses kept idling after a fast trot, then climbed into the carriage. The postilion grimaced at Henry’s back, pulled his cap down over his forehead, and returned to his contemplation.
“A true boor,” Buck observed as they began to walk back to the carriage.
“I thought he was a horse,” Cerestone said thoughtfully.
“That too,” Buck observed.
“Ah, but he would ever stand by you, loyal and steadfast as any mount.”
“One could be hacked to death.”
“Or cobbled.”
“Only if it were to become a hobby.”
“Nothing so palfrey as that,” the viscount returned sedately.
“Or so prad-ical.”
“But it could send one gambaldynge through the thistles.”
Buck remained silent a moment then reluctantly dug into a waistcoat pocket and handed his friend a Roman coin. Who had found the coin originally no one recalled, but it had always been held by the winner of their wit war. Buck had won the last encounter.
Cerestone smiled. “You almost had me again until I remembered my medieval history and the sorts of horses that were popular then. But then, you were the best in our form at school.”
Buck nodded. “Yes. I was.”
“And Parkington was the embodiment of a pugilist.”
“So he was. I remember quite clearly stealing that upperclassman’s coat and wearing it as part of a wager.”
“And Parkington saved your shanks. There was a tavern brawl, the coat got torn, somehow he ended by wearing it—“
“We were a trifle above oars,” Buck admitted.
“Got caught by the upperclassman who then challenged him to a duel.”
“Which dear Parkington won, of course. Fisticuffs, crude but effective. I would have chosen the épée.”
“He never complained.”
“He reveled in it. Actually thanked me later for the opportunity.”
“I wish I hadn’t been buried in books that night.”
“Could have used your wrestling skills.”
Cerestone smiled in remembrance. “We celebrated quite magnificently with your winnings.”
Buck looked at the coach. “What a pity he has become so horsey. I should like him quite well otherwise.”
What the viscount might have said in answer to this was lost in a tremendous blare of trumpets from across the river and the sudden reaction of the off-wheeler. The horse kicked out, jumped partially over its traces, squealed, and kicked the off-leader, which immediately tried to run away. Off went the postilion onto the grass; off went the coach flying driverless down the turnpike.
Buck and Cerestone looked at each other and shouted “Parkington!” Cerestone ran, Buck trotted quickly after.
Meanwhile, the driver of the fourgon came awake, slapped the reins against the horses’ withers, and off he went, racing, luggage and all, to try to catch the coach.
It wasn’t long, however, before the coach came to a stop. The horses, not being experienced in driving, took the coach between two larches that stood far too close together and there the coach body stuck, front wheels torn off and spinning merrily down to the river. Henry emerged, stumbling against one of the arches. Showers of rose-red cones pelted his head. Cerestone and Buck reached him, helped him to another tree to sit down.
All three watched as the fourgon with their luggage raced for the river. The driver sawed desperately on the reins then gave up and jumped. The horses swerved at the water’s edge and everyone groaned as the wagon slowly, gracefully, tipped over onto its side in the mud.
“The horses!” Henry exclaimed, trying to get to his feet.
“My supper!” Buck moaned.
The viscount turned to stare across the river, eyes alight. “The tourney!” he said with the hint of a
smile. “It was a fourgon conclusion.”
Chapter Two
Lady Alianora Maude Mathilda Cheney laid aside her psaltery and nodded as the knight graciously thanked her for her favor. He was Lord Savernake, a friend of her younger brother, Percy, and remarkably adept with the lance considering that this was his first venture into jousting. In the few days he had been at Grassmere he had proved gallant and charming but rather too interested in her. She had been forced to steal away to find some solitude among her willows.
She looked up at her father. He nodded with pleasure, his coronet wobbling a bit on his shoulder-length white hair. How much younger he looked today! His pale blue eyes sparkled, the brows like dove wings above them, and his beard, streaked with white and gray, was newly trimmed. He smiled broadly, a vast network of wrinkles spreading across his weathered face. She returned his smile, wishing that he could always be so alert and lucid, but knowing that after this evening his mind would slip away until the next tourney in the fall.
With a regal gesture, he signaled for the next joust to commence and she dutifully turned to watch. She enjoyed the tourney but never wished to be singled out as the Queen of Love and Beauty—an honor bestowed on her yearly by her father since the age of five. And this day was only half done. Later this afternoon, the knights, fifteen of them from as far away as Northumberland, would choose sides and fight a brief battle called the melee. Someone was always wounded at this, although no one mortally as yet. She sighed. By evening there was the feast.
It would be a wondrous medieval feast whereat the cooks would vie with one another to surprise the earl; whereat the court musicians would announce each course with loud and often discordant flourishes; whereat streams of servants would compete to serve the lords and ladies; whereat a troupe of hired players would entertain the court with singing, dancing, juggling, and acrobatics; whereat she would again be required to sing and play.
She could not deny her love for song and dance, nor deny her love for the glittering world her father had created here at Old Grassmere. New Grassmere, a mere four centuries in age, lay farther away atop a long slope. Indeed, she knew little of modern life, although she had heard, certainly, something of the current world. It intrigued her, for she was full of a lively curiosity and brave as befitted an earl's daughter, but the unknown also frightened her.
"You are frowning, dear sister," whispered a voice in her ear.
It was her sister-in-law, Katie, married to her elder brother, William. Dancing brown eyes looked out from beneath a porkpie coif. Her brown hair was caught behind in a gold filet. "Truly, it is only one day," she continued, taking Alianora's hand and patting it.
"I know, Katie. I am afraid I have become too used to being alone here."
"It greatly pleases your father."
"Yes, and it is little enough. I should not begrudge him an entire day of pleasure even if I must be the cynosure of all eyes."
Alianora stared out vacantly at the river. Katie looked at her, thinking how extraordinary it was that her dear sister-in-law was unaware of her unusual beauty and presence. It was a wonder to Alianora that so many knights paid court to her but no wonder to Katie. No one could ignore the porcelain skin, the gentian blue eyes, the long, pale, gilt hair bound now with colorful ribbons. She was graceful and filled with an inner calm that Katie envied, an envy that did not, however, affect her love.
Alianora's eyes focused suddenly. "Look, Katie! There are people watching us just across the river."
"I shouldn't be surprised! Imagine what a spectacle we present. Quite likely travelers on their way to London as we shall be in a scant three days."
Alianora sighed.
"Why, my dear, you will love London, especially during the Season," Katie said.
"To me, traveling to London seems like venturing beyond the edges of a map. There abide monsters." This was said with a smile, however.
"Perhaps there are a few, but I shall be with you. William has ordered me to be quite gay while he is away in the north and has allowed me unlimited pin money. You must agree he is not always so generous, and we must take advantage of him."
Alianora laughed, the sound like dancing grace notes. "You are quite right. William can be miserly."
"And I do understand your need for solitude. When we are in town, you need simply say that you wish to be alone. It was difficult for me to go among company again after—after—"
It was Alianora's turn to comfort her. Less than a year had passed since Katie lost her five-year-old son to a fever. She had not emerged from her chambers for three months after his death. London would be a marvelous distraction for her—Katie had always loved pretty clothes, dancing, and socializing.
"I shouldn't be afraid of a little change," Alianora "told her. "I shall pretend to be a knight on a quest. Sir Gawain searching for the Green Knight or Galahad after the Holy Grail."
"And what shall your quest be?" asked Katie a little mischievously, recovering her composure.
"My quest?" Alianora looked surprised, then smiled to herself. "My quest. Perhaps to slay some dragons of Society.”
Katie had one suggestion but declined to voice it. William thought it time that Alianora went out in society and found a husband, and he hoped that a Season in town would bring an acceptable offer. He would not push her into an unhappy marriage, but hoped for one as happy as his own.
A breeze brought the smell of river water and apple blossoms, a brief respite from the odor of sweating horses and oiled leather. Alianora clapped as her brother Percy again lowered his lance and charged at his opponent. William, finding such "play" beneath his dignity, was supervising the activity among the pavilions.
A great shout greeted Percy's fall and the winning knight presented himself to the earl, the countess, and the queen of love and beauty.
"Duty calls," Alianora said with a sigh and rose to meet the knight's request for a favor. To her relief, he asked only for her chaplet and not another song.
* * *
Ancient millefleur tapestries displaying scenes of great hunts, captured unicorns, and coronations covered the walls of the great banquet hall at Grassmere, ruffling with the passage of many people. It seemed the entire county had arrived to taste of the oxen roasted in pits outside, the pastries, the vast quantities of red mead. On a gallery built especially for the purpose, a trio of musicians sat playing lustily, if not brilliantly, on their sackbuts whenever servants entered with another course, blowing ever louder as the noise of the crowd threatened to drown them out.
Alianora sipped mulled cider from a jeweled mazer, and smiled at her father, her mother, and her brothers William and Perceval who sat among the "knights" at a long trestle table perpendicular to theirs. She struggled to ignore the terrible headache that throbbed behind her eyes.
The ferrier's wife, Mrs. Siphoner, at a distance from the salt, reared back and laughed like a barking mastiff; Mr. Barleycorn, the town alderman, stood up, waved his tankard of mead, and proceeded quite slowly and elegantly to fall over backward, elevated into unconsciousness; Mr. Malley, the local curate, jumped up on the table and danced among the bread-plates, dragging one of the townswomen up with him. This was all quite normal. This happened every year. And every year, the deafening noise, the heavy, smoky smells of food and bodies combined to strike like lead-weighted mallets on her head. Katie leaned forward and smiled sympathetically at her.
One after another marvelous creations appeared from the kitchens: a dragon flambé, not to be eaten but watched as the flames consumed the pastry to reveal a golden apple inside; a cockatrice made from the head of a rooster and bottom half of mutton; and a fountain that spouted wines from various sculptured terminals; followed by a garden of rosebushes, all the branches gilt, all the flowers candied. All the food seemed to make her feel worse, although she tried heroically to taste of everything.
Around the branches of a gilded rosebush set in front of her, Alianora noticed that Perceval's friend, Lord Savernake, was once again starin
g at her. His dark eyes had fastened on her at the end of his joust when he had demanded the favor of a song. Even there in the open with her parents nearby she had felt uneasy beneath his gaze. Not that he had been anything but kind and courteous. Perhaps it was his face—his nose, thin and hooked, the dark, piercing eyes—and the way he loomed over her whenever they walked together, all reminded her of a falcon stooping on its prey. She could not say he had ever acted improperly, a lingering clasp when he kissed her hand, perhaps, or a hand too ready to grasp and guide her elbow even though she certainly knew her way about, but it could all be her imagination. She had been accused of allowing it to overwhelm her judgment at times.
Lord Savernake finally looked away from her to stare—she could almost say glare—at some newcomers at the banquet. She had heard that they were the victims of a carriage accident and met them only briefly before the feast. Her father had welcomed them, as he would welcome the world if it chose to come to dinner, and provided them with appropriate costumes. The three of them were sitting at ease, goblets of red mead in hand. She looked at them from behind the gilded rosebush and was surprised to find one of them looking back at her.
He was extraordinarily handsome—in a severe way. By the soft and flickering light of the candelabra, he looked as if a sculptor had chipped and carefully smoothed the cheekbones, the square jaw, the straight nose. Where his friends smiled and laughed, he seemed to take his pleasure quite seriously. He often rested his broad shoulders against the wall cushioned by tapestries and simply watched the scene before him as if it were a marvelous play. She felt he was a small area of quiet among so much noise, an oak standing still in a storm-thrashed wood. That quiet essence was more attractive to her than any of his physical attributes.
Far more attractive than Lord Savernake's everpresent smile and endless flattery. He was staring at her again and she looked down into her mazer, sniffing the clove and cinnamon in the cider, wishing that she could be away from this feast, beneath her favorite willow or riding across grassy fields to the river. And, perhaps with a companion. She'd never considered that before. A companion to share her quiet moments.
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