The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  He was thwarted, but he contented himself to wait. Already the air had changed among them, from a quiet watchfulness to tense expectation. He had planted the seed in their minds, and he could see that Madog ached to cross swords too. Soon, if he played this right, he would be granted a weapon and invited to fight for the sake of the madness men called honor, which was, after all, only another name for foolish dreams. Leave the praise of honor to the bards and troubadours. But give him a sword, and he would sing well as any of them. And maybe, just maybe, make his escape.

  He set his mind to goading them and some days later, after his repeated taunting had yielded a growing enmity from his escort, Ranulf stayed silent for the long trek through the rain, assessing. Their discipline had held through it, never rising to the bait he offered. He could not rile them, but he knew his words were not forgotten. They seemed to trust him not to bolt, but they clearly disliked him, and held their tongues around him. Which made it a perfect time to become more agreeable. How ironic that he would avoid Edward for the sake of escaping a military campaign, only to find himself using the self-same tactics here on this strange party. He had learned them at Aymer’s knee: harass the enemy, nipping at his heels before pulling back in silence just long enough to lull them to sleep, then strike when defenses were down.

  So he began his campaign. It wanted not more than two days of venom followed by two days of simple civility before their minds were at ease again. He had made himself kind and biddable, as though his spite had melted away overnight. They were inclined to kindness and hospitality, taking him as harmless by the time the sun set on a second day without waspish words. Words, Ranulf disdained, were hardly his weapon of choice. He cursed the Lady Eluned for reducing him to contemptuous bleatings. Inwardly, he cursed Madog ap Rhys, and Edward and Aymer and God in Heaven, and anyone else he could think to blame for his current fate. He cursed even the nameless lady who had spared him in that hut. By day’s end, he was mightily sick of useless cursing and more than ready for whatever his words would buy him.

  The rain had ended for a time, at least – long enough to find dry wood for the fire. He hid his agitation and sat comfortably with men who seemed to regard him almost as a fellow, now his mocking and jabbing had stopped. They sat around the fire, those who were not on the watch, drinking a flagon of mead and making bawdy jokes as men were ever apt to do. The bald one named Thomas offered him the flask and asked Ranulf if the women in the Holy Land were as soft and plump as the women of England.

  “You think it not strange to ask a man if he tasted of lewd women while fighting God’s war?” he responded with a broad grin.

  “I think you are not a holy man, my lord,” he returned readily, with a smile of his own.

  “As I have heard many men say, when the Lord gave me steel to fight for Him, he did not take my yard of flesh,” he said to their appreciative laughter. “The women of the Holy Land are much like any other, I warrant. I think me your Welsh women are more foreign than the heathen.”

  “Ah, no, my lord,” came the reply. “The women of Wales are much the same as any other.”

  “Save for the dragon fire in their veins,” countered another man. There seemed to be a general agreement with this. “Is true they are strong, and true as well that Welsh law honors them with rights no Norman will ever abide, I think.”

  “The King is Norman, and an Englishman, so it is his law the Welsh will have to learn to abide, in time. But for now, your Lady Eluned controls Ruardean,” he observed mildly, “and I see how docile you obey that Welsh woman.”

  He had not expected any reaction from them over so bland a statement. But the mood had shifted back to cautiousness, men carefully not looking at one another. There was something that they did not say, that much was plain. He did not let it lie.

  “Aye,” he continued heartily, “I found it passing strange that men would follow her without question. She seems not a one to breed such loyalty as I have seen in you.”

  “And yet our loyalty lies with Ruardean, without question.” It was Madog, of course, as it ever was when things were ripe to go ill among the men. But Ranulf rejoiced to himself to see him step quietly into the fray. This was the sword he would so like to cross.

  Their eyes met across the fire, and Ranulf leaned back on his elbows, legs spread wide in a lazy sprawl as he surveyed the other man. “I have always thought that a woman should never be obeyed, save for when her legs are spread and she’s demanding more.”

  He was glad to see that even Madog found it a trial not to laugh at that. Many of the men, making free with the mead, shouted with laughter. Well, if he could not fight them, he might persuade them to doubt their lady and her commands. “I have journeyed to Jerusalem and visited many lands twixt here and there, yet never have I found the woman who deserves such obedience as I see among you good men. Let a lady command your heart, but for honor let her never decide where you spend your strength.”

  “You have lived with that device as your guide, my lord?” asked one, in good humor.

  “Aye,” he answered with a grin, “and find me no lack of women to comfort me. Is soft comfort a woman is made for, not the command of men. That woman of yours who healed me, Madog ap Rhys – she served well a woman’s purpose. I’ll not forget her mouth soon.”

  That was too much, he knew at once. Unexpectedly, there came the feeling that one word wrong would send them all at his throat, or at each other’s. He could not understand why all of them would take such grave offense, nor did he care when he saw the fire it brought to Madog’s eyes, in particular. At last, he’d found the words to goad the man, and of course it was about his lady cousin. Stupid, to not have thought of it before now.

  “You’ll not speak of that lady here, if you value your life, my lord.” It was not Madog who said it, nor one of the handful who looked to be his kin. Instead it was a man who looked and sounded English. But all of them were in clear agreement with him.

  Ranulf cast a significant glance around the fire, at the anxious men who had been arrayed to keep watch on him and deliver him safe to Windsor. “I think Ruardean values my life more than do I.”

  It was Madog who answered. “My lady cousin did value your life, though why I cannot know. But make no mistake that I hold it at nothing, do you speak of her with dishonor.”

  Ranulf stayed in his relaxed pose as the silence peculiar to such moments fell over them. All eyes were on Madog, including his own. He could feel the eagerness of the men to see the infamous lord of Morency with true steel in his hand. He had heard them speaking of it low, in the castle and on their journey. The only admiring words said of him, here or most anywhere, concerned his sword arm. He felt them hoping for a demonstration, and he had seen enough of Madog ap Rhys to know the Welshman was too honor-bound to cut him down without defense.

  He felt an uncommon stab of jealousy, seeing Madog rise to champion that nameless lady. But strange, that all the men would look at him so, as if they sought to defend her the same. “I’m sure she is as worthy of honor as any of your Welsh women,” he allowed with a smirk, “and surely would I obey her, were her legs wound round mine and she offered me her comfort again.”

  Only a silence more tense than any before, distilled and frozen offense at his implication, answered him. The moment drew out, taut as a rope that must break at any second.

  Without warning, a helm – his own, which he had not seen in weeks – clattered at his feet, breaking the silence. An instant later, the hiss of steel sounded and firelight caught a blade that was thrust down and swiftly sheathed in the soft earth between his wide-spread knees. It was his own helm, his own leathern armor that was next dropped on his leg, and his own steel before him. It was all he could do to keep from shouting his triumph. He would have welcomed any weapon, but his very own was all that he had wished and more.

  He followed the gleam of firelight up the blade to where a thick-gloved hand grasped the hilt and found the green boy who had guarded his back through the l
ong journey, wearing leather armor and helm. Ranulf turned his eyes to Madog, and found with amazement that he was nodding to the boy, acknowledging with respect the stream of Welsh the young one let out. And now all eyes turned to the boy challenger, flickering from Ranulf to the gawky near-man, every one of them brimming with anticipation.

  The bile of injustice rose in his throat. He was to fight this stripling, whose leadership was surely only borne for Madog’s sake and who had most like not passed his seventeenth year. What worth would there be in defeating a boy? But he looked around the fire and saw the men did not protest it; they looked even more eager for this match than if Madog himself had presented the blade.

  Well, they would have their show and he would have his sword. Never one to disappoint, Ranulf stood and donned his helm as men were sent to inform the night watch. By the time they had returned with word that they were as alone in these woods as any could wish, he wore his vest of cuirboille, not demanding that he be brought his shirt of mail or chausses. The boy wore no more armor than he, and even did this night bring Ranulf more challengers after the first, the hard cuirboille had served him well as any metal.

  He turned and followed his opponent to the far side of the fire, waiting as Madog ordered the other men to stand back and not interfere, watching the boy move to the edge of the circle of light. He was not so awkward, in fact, but moved with a grace and balance that would serve him well, and tall enough to have a reach that must be reckoned with. All this Ranulf took in with a glance, along with the recognition that he had not seen the boy in Ruardean’s practice yard and therefore could not know the extent of his training. It was of no import. He would finish with the boy quickly and turn his challenge where it truly mattered, to Madog ap Rhys.

  The first blow had him swiftly recalculating his opponent’s strength and skill. The boy was quick and cunning, parrying a lunge that had taken down many a man and returning with a thrust that was so sudden and hard that Ranulf danced away, choosing to retreat instead of attack immediately. He pivoted, bringing his sword up again and again, every strike blocked or neatly avoided. His wounds had healed, and it had been days since he had felt anything more than a slight soreness where his injuries had been. There was only a lingering weakness, and it was easily compensated with so slight an opponent. Haps he could have been stronger, but in all they were fairly matched.

  The night filled with the sound of clashing steel, the smell of woodsmoke and peat, the firelight coloring the blades and his challenger’s helm, and the quiet exultation of the spectators. Ranulf felt alive as he only ever did with a sword in his hand, each blow sending the thrilling shock up his arm to his shoulder, stirring his blood. How long he pressed the attack was impossible to say. For minutes or hours, he fought hard, engaged in the dance with an opponent who gave no quarter. Step and turn and thrust and heave – and still the boy stood without a scratch upon him.

  It was like trying to fight a wisp of smoke, he thought sourly as he pulled back and circled to the left, using the night to conceal himself for the barest instant before lunging again. What the boy lacked in strength, he compensated for in speed and grace, and Ranulf began to understand why the men had welcomed this spectacle. For all his famed skill at tourney and war, he had rarely found the man who challenged him so completely. It was as if the boy had some magic that protected him. The blows fell hard enough to strike sparks in the smoky night, but none touched him.

  He is as good as me. The thought sent a shock like ice through his veins, and he struck hard through the boy’s defenses at last, the edge of his sword biting into his opponent’s thigh and bringing blood. The boy, damn him, turned it to advantage, swinging his own blade down and across to strike the danger away and tangle the weapons together, throwing Ranulf off balance for the barest breath – long enough to deliver a strike to his right forearm with the flat of the sword. It hurt, but it was strange and lucky that the boy did not turn the blade to cut across Ranulf’s recent injury. He had no time to think of the fortune that spared him that, for his opponent wasted no time in pressing the attack.

  He pushed himself as he had only ever done in the direst of circumstance, for the first time fighting against the fear that he may lose as much as he fought against his foe. He managed to back the boy against a tree, hemming him in, and Ranulf watched him struggle. They were both breathing hard, grunting with each blow, but he could not slow the boy down, nor pin him for long before he slipped away like a greased pig.

  Strength may have failed him, but his wits did not, and Ranulf stuck out his foot to trip the boy as he made his escape. His opponent sprawled on the ground as Ranulf brought the sword down in a killing thrust, soon to bring a blessedly swift end to the fight. But with sinking heart, he watched as a boy not even near knighthood turned over, quick as a snake, and deflected the thrust only inches from his fire-brightened face. The sword continued on its downward journey, skewed just enough to the side to catch on the boy’s noseguard. It was the opening Ranulf had needed, but the boy was not without wit of his own – he moved, twisting his head and deftly escaping the helm.

  Ranulf’s sword lodged in the metal of the helm, but his eyes were locked on his foe. The boy rolled away toward the firelight, and in that moment before he levered himself up, the moment that Ranulf’s blade came free, he saw the boy’s face. Her face.

  Her face, revealed in full light at last, without the shadow of the helm to bedevil him or mud to hide her. Wide gray eyes, sweeping dark lashes. A mouth like ripe fruit. It was her gaze more than her features that bespoke who she was: calm in the storm, patience amidst the fire, a ruthless strength set to strike at him but restrained by quiet will.

  A woman. His lady, his angel. It seemed too huge a betrayal to conceive.

  She did not give him time to conceive of it. In the moment that he failed to act, too stunned to pull his sword arm up, she moved forward with the swiftness and strength he had so wanted from her in that dark hut. A woman, a woman, a woman, he thought incredulously, stupidly, as she came toward him. His sword was knocked from his hand with a heavy blow, skidding across the earth as he fell, as he was pushed with deadly accuracy, losing his balance and hitting the tree on his way down, all his weight falling against his shoulder.

  He kept his consciousness just barely through the sickening pain in his shoulder, only to regret it when his eyes opened to look up at bitter defeat. She stood over him, sword-point poised at his throat, boot on his chest, and enough light on her face to bring the humiliation home. A war of beauty and ugliness waged on her face – homely and stern, some misalignment of the features preventing the beauty that her eyes and mouth promised. Black hair plastered against her flushed cheeks and she breathed heavily.

  “Has my lord had… enough of my… womanly comfort?” she huffed. And there was no mistaking the light of triumph on her face.

  He did not answer, only suffering the pain in his shoulder and staring at her as she turned her head to Madog, who appeared silently. She spoke to him in Welsh, orders that he absorbed and turned to carry out.

  Her eyes flicked down at Ranulf again. “I’ll not demand you to yield. I ask no more than you are beneath me, with legs spread.” The men laughed – her men, he realized with another dull shock – and she smiled broadly, displaying uneven teeth behind the full lips.

  Defeated for the first time since he had gained manhood. Beaten by a wench. He looked at her again – beaten by an ugly wench. He felt ill, and it was not his shoulder that caused it.

  She took the blade from his throat and limped away. A second later, one of the men appeared and offered a hand to Ranulf. He took it, letting himself be hauled to his feet as he held his injured arm close and avoided the eyes of the men now gathered around him. The atmosphere of hostility had evaporated, and to his amazement, the other men looked to him with as much respect as he would have expected had he won.

  “There’s no shame in it,” said the man who had helped him stand, slapping his good shoulder. They all
looked to be in the best humor he’d ever seen them. “Every man here has she defeated, and more.”

  There was pride in the words. Pride taken in that hell-born bitch in armor, who had disappeared again. And it did little to comfort him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Luck, Gwenllian thought as she tied the canvas to the highest branch she could reach. It infuriated and humiliated her. Only once did I succeed in gaining the attack, came the bitter thought as she played the last hour over in her mind. She pulled the tarp tight until it was spread, creating a barrier between herself and the rest of the camp.

  She raised the hem of her muddied surcoat up from her knees to expose her injured thigh. Had she known she was to face him in battle, she would have armed herself with stockings of mail. But she had not known, and his blade had bitten through heavy wool easily, though thankfully not too deep.

  Fool, she reprimanded herself as she pulled a clean strip of linen from her belt-bag. She did not need to look at Madog to know what he thought of her prideful challenge. The other men would see it as a fine show, and even now she could hear them laughing and giddy with it. But Madog would see it as she did: vanity and foul temper and a stupid risk. Likely he knew, as she did, that it was only undeserved good fortune that had dictated her triumph.

  “Davydd.” She called to her waiting squire, knowing he was only on the other side of the rigged-up canvas. “Does he come?”

  “Aye, Pennaeth Du,” came the answer. “I see them now. Is Richard he leans on, and Madog with them. He moves slowly for the hurt you did him.”

  She cinched the binding around her leg to stop the trickle of blood. It could be tended later, and she had no desire to stand before the lord of Morency with bared and bloody legs. Much preferable to remain in her shirt of mail and the dirty surcoat. She reached for her veil, winding it under her chin, over her head and knotting it on the side in a gesture so ingrained as to be without thought.