Mark leaned toward his sister Blancheflor, who sat among her ladies. “Who will you choose as the winner of the bohort? If you would take my advice, you will choose Lord Rivalin.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder without answering, but he was not the only one who spoke for Rivalin. “What a handsome face and features!” commented one of the ladies. “He has beautiful horsemanship,” said another. “Look how his legs grip, and how his horse turns at his touch.” “He must be very wealthy,” added another. “He has the finest clothing and his horse the finest saddle and trappings.”
One of the ladies leaned toward Blancheflor to whisper, “Lucky would be the woman who lay in his arms!”
Both immediately began to giggle, but Blancheflor recovered herself enough to say, in a dignified voice in spite of the dimples coming and going in her cheeks, “The choice for the winner’s garland may not be as difficult as we feared!”
Rivalin too seemed to believe that he was winning the bohort, for he grinned widely whenever he was cheered and saluted the ladies with a great wave of his spear. As more and more of the knights began to withdraw from the fighting, he kept his horse on the side of the mêlée toward the audience.
Suddenly one of the other men from Parmenie rode up close beside him and thrust sharply at his shield. Rivalin, caught off guard, was thrown back in his saddle and even lost a stirrup before he could right himself.
The other man was laughing. But Rivalin whirled his horse around with a hard jerk on the reins. He rode straight at his attacker, no longer smiling. His spear struck the other square on the shield, sending him tumbling backwards, out of his stirrups, out of his saddle, and over his horse’s tail flat onto the ground.
The ladies cried out in horror, and the other knights pulled their horses back so that he would not be trampled. Rivalin leaped from his own horse, the reins over his arm, and pulled his knight to his feet with an angry jerk.
“What was that?” the knight demanded, trying to rub the dirt off himself.
“You attacked me without warning,” said Rivalin, his eyes hard.
“It’s the bohort! The mêlée! We were all attacking each other!”
“You nearly made me look foolish,” said Rivalin between his teeth, “though I am clearly the best fighter here. You are my liege man, and you should never turn against me. Not in the tourney, not in the bohort, not in peace or war.”
“My lord! I am so sorry! I never meant—”
They were interrupted by cheers from the ladies, who had taken it as a sign of Rivalin’s great courtliness that he had stopped to help up a fallen foe. He grinned suddenly and waved, then turned back to his knight. “Well, I have returned blow for blow,” he said, his voice no longer cold, “so you and I need quarrel no longer.” The knight held the stirrup as Rivalin swung back up again onto his horse. “And I believe the bohort has now ended!”
The horn was sounding, and all those who were still mounted rode over to where the ladies were sitting. “All have fought well!” announced King Mark. “Who will wear the champion’s crown?”
The ladies laughed, spoke together, and turned away from the knights with coy glances. In their white dresses, decked with ruffles and lace, they were as frothy as the sea on Cornwall’s stony coast.
At last Blancheflor whispered to Mark, and he announced to the knights, “The princess Blancheflor, my beloved and esteemed sister, has chosen a winner. I shall yield to her choice, for the ladies can see in a man strengths and weaknesses that a man would never see!”
Blancheflor stood up, her cheeks pink both with sun and with blushing. “We have chosen the winner—Rivalin of Parmenie!”
Although it was scarcely a surprise, everyone cheered, and Mark lifted the crown of flowers from his own head and reached up, as Rivalin bowed from the saddle, to place it on his.
“And now let us turn to dancing and feasting!” Mark announced. “My men of Cornwall, watch that these men of Bretagne do not best you there again! My lord Rivalin, will you accompany the princess Blancheflor back to my pavilion?”
Rivalin swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to one of his men. He offered his arm to the princess, who smiled shyly, eyes averted, and took it. The sun was sliding down the afternoon sky, and their shadows stretched far across the meadow. Although Rivalin was sweaty and rumpled from the bohort, her fingers closed firmly around his arm, and they began walking back toward the pavilions.
She did not speak at first, and he was breathing too hard for easy conversation. Even though she had not been exercising, her breast too rose and fell rapidly as they walked. When they were halfway back across the meadow, she finally said, “What brings you to Cornwall, Lord Rivalin?”
“Need a lovely lady ask that of a man who worships feminine beauty?” he asked with a broad smile.
She met his eyes then for the first time: hers were forget-me-not blue. “There are, I trust, lovely ladies aplenty in Bretagne as well,” she said seriously, not in the tone of courtly banter that he had adopted. “And although my brother might not be surprised that men should come from all over Christendom for our summer festivities, I myself doubt that a bohort and a feast alone should draw someone who could have celebrated a similar festival in his own castle.”
His lips turned up in a quirked smile. “Ah, I see that you are a true representative of womankind, able as your royal brother says to observe at once the strengths and weaknesses a man might hide from another man!”
But then his tone grew serious to match hers. “In truth, princess, I am here because it seemed better that I be absent for a little while from Parmenie. I have quarreled with my liege lord—or, to tell it true, he quarreled with me. He insulted me grossly, with words I will not repeat before a lady, and although he later tried to say that he had been drinking overmuch at the time, that was not nearly enough of an apology. I have always returned evil for evil, blow for blow, so I rode with my men to burn his fields and loot his villages.”
Her free hand went to her lips. “Merciful saints! But did he not attack you in return?”
Rivalin laughed. “I have sworn allegiance to him, as my lord, but he is not as strong as I. He has fewer knights who follow him, and his castle is not as well situated for defense as Parmenie. He also likes to say that he is a prudent and thoughtful man, and it will have occurred to him that my attack was fully justified by his insult to me. To give him extra time for reflection, I thought it best to leave Bretagne, for he will see no purpose in attacking my lands if I am not even there!”
“This is recklessness!” said Blancheflor, but not entirely disapprovingly. “Suppose he does try to take your castle in your absence?”
“Yes, princess, I am a dangerous man,” said Rivalin, his tone again light and bantering and his grey eyes alight with excitement. “He will not attack Parmenie, for it is tall and impregnable, and I have left my steward there to defend it. His name is Rual; he is a most excellent man.”
“An excellent man who will, I trust, not quarrel with his liege lord,” she said, her voice neutral.
They had now reached the tents and pavilions. Blancheflor released his arm with a little bow before he could formulate a good answer. Rivalin bowed deeply in return. “I hope to see you in the dancing!” She nodded without answering and slipped into the royal pavilion. He looked after her several moments in silence before entering his own tent.
During the bohort long tables, spread with white cloths, had been brought out, and now plates and goblets were distributed, and steaming platters set out for the lords and ladies. Musicians began playing, and soon those who were not enjoying the fine food and drink of Mark’s hospitality were twirling across the short-cut grass.
Those who had fought in the bohort bathed and freshened themselves, then emerged to eat and dance. Rivalin came out of his tent with his chestnut curls still wet from the bath, took a glass of wine, and sought out the princess Blancheflor.
The western sky was streaked with red, and servants were settin
g up flambeaux to light the dancing. The princess, almost glowing among the shadows in her white dress, watched the dancers with a pensive expression. Several lords had already asked if they might accompany her in the dance, but she waved them all away with scarcely a word of apology.
“Will you honor me by being my partner?” Rivalin now asked, giving a deep bow.
Blancheflor met his eyes for a second, then looked away, but she nodded and let him sweep her into the dance. Pipes and lute played a merry tune. Couples held hands, stepping briskly to the music, then whirled away from each other and back together again. Rivalin did not know the dances of Cornwall, but the dances of Bretagne were close enough that he and Blancheflor soon drew all eyes as they spun and stepped together in time to the music. Several whispered that the young lord from Bretagne had not only won the flowery crown of the bohort today but Cornwall’s most precious treasure as well.
Inspired by the nearness and loveliness of his partner, he danced with as much energy as if he had not been fighting all afternoon. But even while dancing lightly and beautifully, Blancheflor’s face showed little enjoyment, and she looked at her partner only briefly. He smiled at her whenever he could catch her eye, but she never smiled back. When the musicians paused for the dancers to catch their breath, Rivalin asked, “Have I offended you in some way, my lady?”
“I am vexed with you,” she said in a low voice, “for you have hurt someone very close to me.”
He dropped to one knee and took her hand. “Princess, forgive me! If I have offended your brother, tell me how, that I might make amends.”
At that she did smile a little, but she quickly suppressed it and looked away over his head. “It is not my brother. In our pavilion an hour ago, he was telling me that you are the handsomest man and the best fighter that a king could hope would come to his festival.”
“But you disagree with him.”
Very faintly, so faintly that he could not be sure he heard correctly, she whispered, “No.”
“But who then,” Rivalin persisted, “have I hurt that you are so vexed? Are you perhaps familiar with Bretagne? Do you know my liege lord and think I was wrong to ravage his fields? Do you,” casting about for any possibility, “do you know my steward Rual and think I should have brought him with me to enjoy the hospitality of Cornwall?”
“I have never been to Bretagne in my life,” she said, frowning slightly.
“My knight, then? The man I unhorsed in the bohort? Is he perhaps close to you?”
“I would not recognize him if we met in the dance.”
The musicians were tuning up again. “Is it any use, my lady, to ask if you would dance with me again?”
A note of pleading had crept into his voice. At this she did smile, with a flash of her dimples. “I would enjoy dancing again, though it may further hurt one close to me.” And she caught up the hem of her skirt away from the grass and again stepped lightly beside him in time to the music.
V
The sun was several hours up the eastern sky when Rivalin emerged from his tent, yawning and running his fingers through his tangled hair. “Is there anything to eat?”
“If so, it’s at the castle,” said a knight. “The king and princess have not yet emerged this morning, and their staff do not worry about those of us camped here until the royal party arrives.”
“There should still be some provisions on the ship,” said Rivalin, but without enthusiasm.
“I thought you were feasting on looks of love, last night in the dance!” said a knight slyly. “Are not glances better than drink, and kisses better than meat?”
“If you are insulting the princess Blancheflor, you should stop now,” said Rivalin, but without rancor. “She is the most beautiful woman God has put on this earth since Eve, so even the thought of her should not be sullied by your jokes. And there were no kisses last night, and few enough glances. She says that I have hurt someone close to her.”
“Don’t tell us you’ve quarreled with King Mark already!”
Rivalin shook his head. “Why are you always so ready to think me quarrelsome? I only quarrel with those who have done ill to me. But the princess says that the king thinks very well of me.”
And when he had asked if she disagreed, she had answered, “No.”
He thought about this while he put on fresh clothes. If she too thought him an excellent addition to the festivities, why was she angry with him? And who could this person be whom he had hurt, this person she would not name?
If it was a suitor for her hand here at court, then why had she danced with Rivalin alone? Unless she was hoping to make the man jealous? At one moment she had seemed all friendly smiles, the next distant coldness. He almost hoped it was a rival suitor. If so, he would wait for the tourney—Mark was sure to announce a tourney soon—and tumble him from the saddle. A fall in armor at jousting speed would hurt much more than a fall in the bohort.
The party from the castle came out in late morning, accompanied by wine, cherries, and fresh cakes. The afternoon’s entertainments were simpler, song, storytelling, and jugglers. Some of Mark’s young guests paired up and slipped away, to talk quietly in pavilions far from the rest, but many sat on blankets spread on the grass to watch the juggling and listen to the minstrel.
Rivalin managed to position himself close to Mark and Blancheflor, and during the entertainment he kept giving her covert glances. More than once he caught her looking back at him, though she always looked away again immediately. She was wearing blue today, which brought out the color of her eyes, and her golden hair, braided with silver ribbons, lay softly across her shoulders. He tried not to think of what his knight had said, that kisses were better than meat, and found himself thinking of kisses anyway.
At one point several of Rivalin’s men entertained the royal party with athletic feats: somersaults, high leaps, clambering up three high on each other’s shoulders. Normally he would have joined them, but today he sat dignified in his place, and soon the minstrel began a new song.
When the minstrel tired several ladies volunteered to sing and play in his stead. All had sweet voices, but none held Rivalin’s attention until Blancheflor took the harp.
She took up a sad song of hopeless love, a song he knew with only slightly different words from back home in Bretagne. She did not look at any of the company as she sang, but off across the meadow, where the black towers of Tintagel castle rose above the trees and the dark green sea could be glimpsed through a gap.
“He has wounded me in the heart,” the maiden of the song complained, “wounded my heart so that it is no longer merry or gay. Alas! Will my heart ever recover, or will it pine forever for him?”
And Rivalin, sitting with the dappled sun across him and the noblest lords and ladies of Cornwall around him, suddenly thought he understood Blancheflor’s riddle.
Late in the afternoon, when the tables were being set up for the feasting, he said to her, “Will you walk with me, my lady, to stretch our legs and whet our appetites?”
She gave him the same look she had been giving him all day, quick, almost but not quite a look of pleasure, broken off immediately. But she nodded and took his arm, and they wandered away from the festivities with none but their shadows for company.
One of King Mark’s counselors leaned toward him. “Is this wise, sire?” he asked quietly, cocking his head toward the couple. “We scarcely know these men of Parmenie. Is Rivalin honorable? Are we sure he is even noble?”
But Mark shook his head with a smile. “He is brave, graceful both in the dance and the bohort, handsomely dressed, and well spoken. Why should I not trust him? And my sister is an excellent judge of men; if she finds no objection to him, I shall find none.”
Soon the sounds of talking and laughing faded behind Rivalin and Blancheflor, and only the swallows, swooping over the grass, were near them. Rivalin tried to find the words to say what he intended, surprised to find himself nervous. He was never nervous around ladies. He rubbed a sweaty pal
m surreptitiously across his clothes and began.
“This one whom I have hurt, this one who has vexed you—I think I understand. Let me tell you, lady, that I too have suffered a wound in someone very close to me.”
She stopped walking to look at him, look at him fully, and her eyes seemed like deep pools into which he could plunge and happily drown.
He caught his breath and forced himself to continue.
“When I say someone close to me, I mean of course my heart,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye. “For the heart is always closest to us of any living thing, as the philosophers tell us: the source of our life, the source of our love.” He paused, hoping for a response, but she stood stock still, listening without expression.
He pushed on. “For my whole life, Princess, my heart has been carefree, able to enjoy a hard-fought tourney or the sweetness of feminine beauty with equal ease. But all that changed when I met you. The first glance from your eyes pierced my heart to its inward parts. It suffers now without measure, for it cannot hope that you will return the love I bear for you.”
“So you understand that the joy of love is also a torment,” she said at last, very quietly. “And, knowing this, your heart now aches with love?”
“Burns with a fever of delight at your nearness, shivers with a chill of fear that you may spurn me. And may I ask—” he found his tongue dry, but swallowed and went on “—may I ask if your own heart feels anything like this?”
For a moment she did not answer, but at last she said, still very low, “You and I both have given pain to someone close to the other.”
He leaned toward her and, when a smile seemed to glisten in her eyes, he put his hands on her cheeks and gently tipped her face up to his. “You are both the source of my heart’s pain and the balm for that pain, my princess, and I pledge my love to you and you alone if you will have me.” He bent down to meet her lips and gently kissed her. In a moment, one of her hands crept around to the back of his head, and she pressed herself close against him.
Ashes of Heaven Page 3
