After a long minute Reynaud’s figure emerged from a shadowed doorway below and strode through the quiet bailey. A single groom waited, clutching the grey destrier’s bit in both hands. Reynaud moved to the horse’s side, caught up the reins and stepped into the stirrup. Swinging his leg over the animal’s rump, he settled his body into the high-backed saddle and turned the stallion towards the drawbridge.
Leonor pressed her fingers hard against her mouth. Pain swirled into her chest, crushing the breath out of her. No! She could not bear it.
He stepped the warhorse to the gatehouse, and her resolve broke. Choking back a cry, she plunged through the doorway and sped down the passage, down the narrow stone staircase and into the courtyard. The hard stone paving chilled her bare feet.
‘Reynaud!’
He jerked at the sound of her voice, pulled back on the reins, then sat motionless.
‘Reynaud, wait!’ She reached the destrier, raised her arms to the man in the saddle. He bent towards her, caught his free arm about her waist and lifted her off her feet. With a groan, he settled her on his lap.
She pulled his head down to hers. ‘Come back to me,’ she whispered against his lips.
‘If I could strike a bargain with God,’ he said, lifting his mouth from hers, ‘I would offer my soul to live and return to you.’
He cut off her reply with his lips. ‘As it is, Lea…’ He buried his face in her loose-flowing hair, his voice suddenly hoarse. ‘If I do not ride away from you this instant, I will have no soul left to bargain with.’
She knew he meant her to smile at his jest. She tried, but the corners of her mouth trembled uncontrollably. Without looking at her, he looped his finger under the silk ribbon tying the chemise at her neck and with a sharp tug tore it off and tucked it inside his surcoat. Then he lowered her gently to the ground.
Her legs would no longer support her. Only by staring down on the hard, cold stones beneath her feet was she able to keep her balance. Holding her body rigid, knees locked, fists clenched at her side, she looked up at him and managed to smile.
He raised one hand to his heart, then his lips, and finally his forehead in the traditional Arab gesture of respect. ‘Ila liqa.’
He turned the destrier away and walked it slowly across the plank drawbridge. Leonor watched him until he disappeared into the rose-shadowed dawn. ‘Ila liqa,’ she breathed. Until we meet again.
She prayed to God they would meet again.
Gathering the sleeping robe about her shaking body, she turned back towards the safety of the keep.
Ma’ a salaama, my Reynaud. Go in peace.
Chapter Sixteen
Benjamin folded his writing pad in half, double-wrapped it in a square of oiled vellum, and stuffed it into the bulging leather travel satchel that lay open on his desk. Even at his advanced age, with stiff joints and an aching back and legs so spindly he wondered how they carried him, his brain still worked better than most.
And he was grateful for that! Else his life would be useless as a worn-out pot.
He was not too old to travel. Galeran had not been seen about the castle grounds for two days. Rumour had it the lad had run away. Was not his home in Carcassonne? Galeran was the only son of Count Roger of Carcassonne, who had sent the boy to Moyanne for fostering with his brother, Count Henri.
The lad would head for his home. And his father.
Benjamin bent his head to buckle the flap on the leather case. ‘My instinct tells me not only Galeran, but also Leonor are in Carcassonne. Ay, the spot in my heart reserved for Leonor is soft as date paste.’
With a final glance at his small chamber, he rolled his pens in a strip of sheepskin and settled them with the other items he had gathered that morning—a hard, round loaf of bread, cheese wrapped in waxed cloth, dried fish and a stained volume of Arabic poetry. Sewn into the lining of his black robe were enough gold dinars to buy a ship.
Leonor jumped at the touch of Jannet’s small hand on her arm. The young woman was speaking to her, but Leonor could not make out the words over the din of laughter and the clank of plates and wine cups at the crowded trestle table. A steady stream of knights and nobles coming for the tournament had swelled the number of guests. At night, chambers were stuffed and the floor of the great hall carpeted with snoring bodies.
‘Will you not enter the competition, then?’ Jannet repeated.
Leonor stared at her. ‘Competition? What competition?’
Jannet grinned. ‘Why, the troubadour competition, of course. Have I not been telling you…?’ Her laughter trilled.
‘Gracious, Leonor, where do your thoughts wander? Each year when Roger holds his tourney for the knights, I arrange a competition for minstrels and troubadours. They come from far and near, in all shapes and sizes. ’Tis most interesting.’
Leonor nodded and tried to look attentive.
‘It starts the day after tomorrow, after the jousting events,’ Jannet went on, ‘the musicians entertain in competition with each other. Heavens, one year we had the great Bernard de Ventadorn from Eleanor’s court at Poitiers!’
‘Oh, aye?’ Leonor murmured.
Jannet eyed her with suspicion. ‘Should I guess where your mind is?’
‘I—In truth, Jannet, I am much distracted by the noise tonight. Forgive me.’
‘Nonsense, my friend.’ Jannet pressed her hand. Lowering her voice, the young woman leaned towards her. ‘It is not the noise now, is it?’ she coaxed, a hint of laughter in her voice.
‘I notice that your handsome Templar has ridden off on some errand or other. Roger says it is none of my business, but one cannot help remarking the absence of so singular a knight, can one?’
Jannet paused, waiting. ‘Can one?’ she repeated, a gentle edge in her tone. She peered into Leonor’s face.
‘Ah, I see a blush! Come, we will withdraw to my solar, away from all this…’ she waved an arm at the platter-strewn table ‘…where we can be private. That is, if you have eaten your fill?’
Leonor looked down at the untouched trencher heaped with cinnamon-sauced chicken and green beans boiled with leeks and mushrooms. She had not eaten a bite of it. She nodded at her hostess.
Jannet rose. ‘I have some dried quince sweetmeats upstairs, hidden from Roger, who dotes on them. Let us eat some, shall we? And drink some spiced wine to wash them down. Come on!’
Leonor had to smile. Were it Reynaud who sat beside her at table, who shared even one short hour with her, she would never hide sweetmeats from him. She would feed them to him, slowly, and taste his lips after every bite.
Her face burned at the thought.
Aye, it would ease her heart to talk with Jannet, even if only about embroidery patterns and the price of Toledo needles. And a troubadour competition?
A spark of interest glowed to life. Playing her harp might help ease her anguish. Dropping a quick reverence to Count Roger, she linked arms with Jannet and the two women headed towards the staircase.
Benjamin pulled his mule to a halt at the castle gatehouse and stared up at the stone towers. ‘Aye,’ he puffed. ‘These old bones can go not one step farther.’
He squinted to the left, one hand shading his eyes from the hot morning sunlight. Aha, tents! And a jousting field. He cast a curious eye on the double-fenced wooden enclosure, the colourful silk banners flying in the breeze.
A tournament! And a tournament meant nobles! He chortled aloud. ‘Ladies!’ He sighed and his voice softened. ‘Perfumed scarves. Poetry.’ He rolled his black eyes heavenward.
‘Passion.’
Oh, foolish man. At your age likely you would joust with a drooping lance! At the thought, he drew himself up as tall as possible. He was not dead yet!
‘Nonsense. At my age,’ he muttered to himself, ‘love’s juices are just maturing, like fine aged wine.’
Or…perhaps mouldy cheese? Ah well. ‘Now, where in this sprawling place…’ he waved one veined hand over the meadow and the walled fortress overlooking the lists �
�…will I find a place to lay my head tonight?’
He nudged his mule on to the plank drawbridge. He must find the mistress of the castle and beg some shelter before the tournament began. With such an event in progress, scant room would be available, even for a well-known scholar. He nosed his mule across the bridge, respectfully touching two fingers to his turban at the gatehouse guards.
An hour later, comfortably housed in a cramped but clean pantry just off the kitchen, Benjamin turned his thoughts to Leonor. The Lady Jannet assured him she would appear at the evening meal to play her harp in the competition. ‘But she is nervous, so if you bring news from Moyanne, stay hidden until the morrow.’
News? He had no news, save that young Galeran had run off. No doubt the boy was here at Carcassonne with his father, Lord Roger. In his concern for Leonor, Benjamin had neglected to ask about the lad.
He munched contentedly on the bread and cheese Lady Jannet had sent, closed his eyes and prepared his mind for evening prayers.
From the balcony of the solar, Leonor and Jannet watched knights in bright tunics and chainmail, squires, men at arms, nobles in embroidered silk tunics and velvet surcoats, even clerics in simple brown robes, stream through the castle gates in a steady parade of colour and the noise of clopping horses. Count Roger paced about the inner bailey, checking on the jousting arrangements. Abruptly he clapped one hand to his forehead, called for his herald and strode off to reinspect the lists.
By the evening meal, all was in readiness for the opening ceremonies on the morrow. Seated next to Jannet at the head table, Leonor nibbled morsels of partridge and leeks in ginger sauce, watching Count Roger with mixed amusement and curiosity.
The man was everywhere, welcoming old friends and lords of neighbouring domains, greeting scarlet-cloaked bishops from Beziers and abbots from the nearby Benedictine monastery. Just now, he was thundering at a young messenger who cowered before him.
‘What, man? I have not sent challenge to the knights of Toulouse in jest! They say they bring women with them? Ladies? What in the name of all the saints for?’
‘F-for the tourney, my lord.’ The boy, arrayed in the blue-and-gold colours of Toulouse, held himself as rigid as possible, trying to hide his shaking hands under the hem of his short tunic. ‘As you know, my lord, m-many knights wear a lady’s favour on their helms. The ladies of Toulouse wish to watch their champions w-win honour and glory for them.’
Count Roger rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘So, they think to win glory, do they? Against my knights? The best knights in all Languedoc?’ He glanced about the trestle tables, crowded shoulder to shoulder with the cream of French knighthood.
‘What say you, men?’ the count boomed. ‘After the first day’s competition, shall not the fair ladies of Toulouse smile upon us, instead?’
A great shout went up in the hall. Jannet sneaked a look at Leonor and shook her head. ‘Men are so like children, are they not?’ she murmured.
‘C’est bien!’ Count Roger muttered. ‘And do not forget,’ he called after the retreating messenger, ‘all knights must make known their colours to the herald by noon tomorrow. Their shields shall be displayed in the courtyard, else they will be disqualified.’
The boy pivoted, bowed hurriedly and fled before Leonor could take another bite of her supper. ‘Aye, Jannet, you are right. It seems men are for ever in a froth to beat each other over the head about something or other.’
Jannet dimpled. ‘Even a peaceful display of martial prowess, a joust à pleasance, is a serious matter conducted under the façade of pageantry.’
‘Thank goodness Reynaud did not enter the lists. The knights of Toulouse would like nothing better than to avenge the death of their count, Arnaud. Reynaud killed him accidentally at a tourney in the Holy Land.’
‘Even so,’ Jannet whispered behind her hand, ‘he could have entered in disguise. It’s a shame he had to go off on his mission. No pleasure game that—I would wager ’tis a venture that could cost him his life.’
A shudder crawled up Leonor’s spine, and she laid her small eating knife beside the trencher. This gaudy tournament at Carcassonne, full of prancing peacocks and pretty words, was nothing compared to the grim task Reynaud might be facing. He fought not for glory or honour, but because he was so pledged.
She caught her breath. For the past few days since Reynaud had left she hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Did he even now lay wounded? Perhaps dying? Why had he not told her of his destination?
‘You must not brood on it,’ Jannet urged. ‘Think about something else. Your harp! You must take part in the troubadour competition tomorrow night.’
Her harp sat in her chamber, tuned and ready to try the zajal she was putting to melody. She cared not if she won the prize. She cared only that she played well, that she could move the listeners with her songs. Besides, music lifted her spirit. Playing her harp sustained her sense of herself.
Unable to swallow another bite, she whispered an excuse to Jannet, curtsied to Count Roger, and left her place at the table. She flew out of the great hall and up the narrow, twisting staircase to her chamber on the third level. At the door, she paused to catch her breath, then lifted the latch and pushed the heavy oak panel open.
Gleaming in the firelight, her harp beckoned from its place beneath the window. She moved through the doorway and took a single step towards the instrument.
A hand closed about her wrist like a manacle of iron. ‘Do not cry out, lady,’ a rough voice grated, ‘else it will go hard with you.’
Bernard de Rodez! The Hospitaller had found her. She stared into his unblinking ice-blue eyes and a dark fear choked off her breath. Something in his expression made her scalp prickle.
‘Unhand me.’ Her knees felt watery, but she managed to keep her voice steady.
‘Ah, no, lady. That I will not. Rather would I break this little wrist…’ he tightened his fingers until her bones ached ‘…for the merry chase you have led me on.’
Leonor locked her knees to keep them from buckling. Cold sweat dampened the place between her shoulder blades.
‘I said unhand me. For if you do not…’ she raised her chin and tried to keep her voice from shaking ‘…I will lay complaint upon your coat of arms for abusing a lady. You will be disqualified from the tourney.’
With a growl, de Rodez released her. ‘I will kill your Templar in the lists tomorrow. After that is done, I will deal with you. There are many ways to punish you for your deceit. None of them will be pleasant.’
Leonor’s spine tingled as if pierced with cold needles. Be careful, a voice within her cautioned. This man is even more dangerous than he appears. She rubbed the raw skin of her wrist where his fingers had gripped her.
‘Where is the Templar?’ de Rodez demanded.
At once she understood why Reynaud had told her nothing of his mission. Her ignorance would protect her.
‘I do not know.’
‘You lie,’ he shouted.
‘I do not lie,’ she replied, her voice cool. ‘But even if I did know his whereabouts, I would not tell you.’
De Rodez snorted. ‘Soon I think you will sing a different tune. So, he is gone, is he? Where, I wonder?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Well, no matter. All the better for what I have in mind for you.’
Leonor blinked.
A slow smile spread across the Hospitaller’s lips, baring his teeth in a humourless grin. ‘Surely you did not think to escape punishment for your trick?’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. Caressing the hilt of the small dagger he wore in the wide leather belt about his tunic, de Rodez rocked back on his heels and leveled emotionless eyes on her.
‘I advise you to take care how you conduct yourself with me.’
She stiffened. ‘It is you who should take care, Cousin.’ She spoke the final word with emphasis, reminding him that they were related, even if only by marriage. ‘Should I lodge one protest against you for dishonourable conduct, you will be placed upon the barrier tomorrow,
in full view of all assembled.’
The triumphant smile faded from de Rodez’s face, and Leonor realised her threat had worked. His reputation meant a great deal to him.
‘That we shall see, lady.’ He nodded, closing his thick lips into a tight line. ‘Aye, that we shall certainly see.’
Her heart pounding, she watched the bulky knight move noiselessly to her chamber door, ease it open and glide out into the passageway on silent feet. Like a great, overfed cat, she thought. A predatory, evil cat.
Her flesh crawled.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning—the opening day of the tournament—dawned cloudless and still. By noon, the heat shimmered over the meadow, and over the hubbub of men’s voices, whinnying horses, brawling peasant children and piercing, high-pitched shawms, rose the thin, metallic tink-a-tink of the armourer’s busy hammer.
Elegantly clad nobles and knights drifted in and out of tents of emerald and rich blue, each bravely flying a knight’s colours on banners that hung limp in the heavy afternoon air. Leonor breathed in the smell of dust and perfume, horses and sweat.
Crowds of merchants, musicians, pilgrims, peasants and hawkers of wine and sweetmeats surged behind the double row of sharp-pointed posts sunk into the brown earth. The field itself, enclosed by palisades, was divided by a padded wooden barrier down the centre, high as a horse’s shoulder. Pages serving as water carriers drizzled the straw-covered sand to keep the dust down.
In the centre of the field rose the wooden pavilion dotted with ladies in bright-coloured gowns of fine damask and silk. The brilliant colours swirled together in Leonor’s eyes like a multi-hued mosaic.
Squires laced quilted gambesons on their masters, then rolled up the chainmail hauberks and worked them over heads and shoulders. Horses draped in scarlet and green and gold silk whickered and stamped in nervous expectation.
Sitting in the viewing stands next to Jannet and behind the four judges, Leonor blinked away the fine dust that stung her eyes. She was thankful that Reynaud was away from this. Unconsciously she worried her lips raw whenever she thought of him. He must live. He must!
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