Once a Knight (15 page)

As Alisoun approached
the training area, she asked, “Why are all these people lingering here, hanging on the fence, when they have work to do?”

With relish, Sir Walter said, “They're having their eyes opened.”

Alisoun didn't like that. She didn't like Sir Walter's attitude or the way he held her elbow as if she would try to escape. Stopping, she disengaged his fingers from her arm. “I can walk alone, I thank you, Sir Walter.”

“We'll see, my lady.”

Then he strode on ahead and held the gate for her.

An open fence surrounded the training yard, built to retain the destriers in case a knight was unhorsed during an exercise. Alisoun entered with caution and looked around. Lady Edlyn and the house servants, the stableboys, and the washerwomen hung over the rails, all watching the scene unfolding before them with the same dazed, horrified expressions. Ivo stood with his arms crossed over his massive chest, disgust tying his
forehead into a knot. Gunnewate leaned against the fence, picking at his few teeth and staring as if he couldn't credit his eyes.

Alisoun followed their gazes and saw Hugh, her oldest, most talented squire, on his warhorse, facing Sir David and King Louis across the tilting run. Both men wore hauberks that glinted in the sun, and open-faced tilting helmets, and they held ash lances and great curved shields. They were waiting for the signal from Andrew, who seemed to be waiting for Sir Walter. When Sir Walter nodded, Andrew shouted and the men charged at each other.

Hooves pounded the beaten ground as their lances reached out. Alisoun held her breath as each made contact with the opposing shield. They squealed as they scraped, then David's lance shattered in three places, and he lurched in the saddle. Hugh's lance slid off David's shield and caught him across the chest, knocking him off Louis. The spectators gasped as he landed on the ground with a clatter of armor.

He didn't move.

Hugh leaped from his horse, handed the reins to Andrew, and ran toward David's prone body. Louis skidded to a halt and trotted over to examine his master. Alisoun, too, started toward him.

No one else moved. Everyone just stared with vacant, disbelieving expressions, and she realized what had happened.

This wasn't David's first defeat by Hugh.

“He's been here all the morning—on the ground, most of the time. His swordwork isn't the equal of Hugh's. He almost lost his head when Hugh swung a mace. And now he's proved that his jousting is pathetic.” Sir Walter kept pace with her as she walked, and he didn't bother to disguise the triumph in his tone.
“The legend is dead. Sir David of Radcliffe is nothing but a washed-up, has-been failure.”

She wanted to hit Sir Walter. She wanted to take a lance herself and knock him heels over helm.
Didn't he realize what he had done?

Louis reached David first and sniffed him, then released a moist snort that made him flinch. Hugh arrived next and gently pushed the destrier away, then turned David over. David released a heartfelt groan, and Hugh muttered, “Praise the saints.”

Finally Alisoun knelt beside them and assisted Hugh in removing David's headgear. His helmet had gashed the bare part of his cheek, and only the padded arming cap he wore had saved him from further cuts. His eyelids fluttered open and the black of his pupil had expanded to cover the brown. Then they reacted to the light and shrank, and Alisoun sighed with relief. “Is anything broken?” she asked him.

“Nothing of importance,” Sir Walter said.

Again she wondered—
Didn't he realize what he had done?

David took a few quick breaths before he replied. “Nay.” He closed his eyes as if the light hurt, then opened them again. “Maybe a rib. Bruising.” His gaze slid to Hugh. “Your patron saint…should be George.”

Hugh's hands trembled as he helped Alisoun remove David's gauntlets. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I never thought—”

“Say no more. You're the best I've ever faced.”

David's gasps between each word warned Alisoun of extensive and painful bruising on his chest. She stood and snapped her fingers.

Like stone figures brought to life, the spectators moved. The stablemaster sent his underlings for a plank on which to lift David. Mabel, Alisoun's alewife, was
also her best healer, and she hobbled into the training yard and knelt on the other side of David, asking him questions about his pains. Heath climbed the fence and ran toward Alisoun, begging for instruction, and Alisoun sent her into the keep to boil water for the poultices they would make. Lady Edlyn walked briskly toward the keep also, and Alisoun knew she had remembered her duties.

But no one spoke unnecessarily. No one teased David about his defeat. They could scarcely stand to look at him, and Alisoun could scarcely stand to look at Sir Walter.

Instead she looked at Philippa. Covered with the dirt of the garden, holding the baby, she presented a placid facade as she stood outside the fence, but Alisoun sensed the renewed fear that curled through her. Sensed it, because she felt it herself.

“'Tis as I suspected all along.” Sir Walter sought her attention. “'Tis the reason I requested your ‘legend' assist me. No knight retains his abilities without constant diligence, and yon legend has not set foot in the training yard since his arrival. I surmised his command of his art—if ever, in truth, there was such command—had faded, and I could no longer bear to have you so deceived.”

Still Alisoun refused to meet his gaze. “Deceived? You no longer wished me to be deceived?”

Sir Walter spoke loudly enough for those around them to hear, and he even had the gall to rest a paternal hand on her shoulder. “I know it is painful, my lady, to find you've been made a fool of, but—”

At last she allowed herself to say the words which haunted her. “Don't you realize what you have done?” She controlled her features, she controlled the volume of her voice, but nothing could stop the whiplash in her tone. “My people had thought themselves safe, pro
tected by Sir David of Radcliffe. Now they'll live in dread again, and rightly, for my enemy would hear of David's failure, and reap the reward.”

Sir Walter's hand fell away.

“Sir Walter, if you wish to remain at George's Cross, stay out of my sight. I will do my duty. I always do my duty.” She looked up at him, this stupid knight with his jaw clamped tight and his eyes bulging. “And in the future, have faith that I will know what that duty may be.”

She turned her back on him, joining Mabel as she scolded David for trying to stand when he was clearly unfit. By the time they had placed David on the plank and lifted him, Sir Walter had disappeared.

 

David could have walked into the keep on his own two legs, but one look at Alisoun dissuaded him. She was going to throw him out as soon as he could leave, and humiliation already burned like a hot coal in his gut.

He'd been defeated. Again. The last time had been bad enough. It had been in front of the king and the court, and that pompous ass who proved himself David's superior had ground every last, bitter admission of surrender from him. No one who had seen that combat came away thinking he had been anything but soundly scourged.

But this time! He'd been defeated by a snot-nosed youth who hadn't even been knighted. Probably hadn't been blooded. Who hadn't even been born when David started his career. Defeated in front of every person in this castle. The shame made him want to curl up, to run away, to never again look on their faces.

If it had been up to him, he'd stand, take Louis and leave, never looking back. But he couldn't. His people,
his daughter especially, depended on the coins his employment brought.

And he'd come to think, this last month, that Alisoun depended on him, too. Not just for defense, although his reputation—or his former reputation—had probably served her well. But because she was the loneliest woman he'd ever met, and she didn't even know it. She kept so busy with her schedule that she'd never learned to laugh, to show affection, to have fun. The seasons defined her existence by the duties they imposed, not by the rhythm of life they sang, and he feared one day she would wake and realize that her youth had fled and she had nothing. Why he felt he should be the one to change that, he didn't even understand. Maybe his old granny could have told him. All he knew was that he courted Alisoun for her lands, for her wealth, and for the rare jewel of her smile.

So he allowed the men to carry him on a plank up to his chamber and dump him, none too gently, on the bed. He didn't restrain his groan at such rough handling, and he admired the scolding Alisoun gave them, but he didn't imagine for a moment the crisis was past. He would have to think, and think fast. He had to do more than mourn the loss of his legendary status—a status he had scorned when he had it and missed bitterly now that it had vanished—to retain his advantage.

So he shut his eyes as they stripped him and listened for Alisoun to exclaim sympathetically about his bruises.

She didn't. She didn't say a word.

The alewife commanded that the men drag the table to the side of the bed so she would have somewhere to place her medicines, her bandages and warm water. She handled him rather briskly as she washed him, for she was a wise woman and knew he wasn't hurt so badly.
But the pain with each breath told him he had broken a rib, and she wrapped his chest tightly in linen strips.

Then she flung a light wool rug over him and left, and he was alone—so he thought.

Opening his eyes, he jumped. Alisoun stood close to the bed, staring at him. He couldn't believe she had gotten so close and stood so quietly. Too quietly.

His instinct told him to be cautious, and he always obeyed his instinct. In a low, gentle tone, he said, “My lady.”

She didn't answer. She still just stared, and it struck him as odd. If he didn't know better, he would have thought her unconscious of the ramifications of his defeat. She wasn't; he'd heard her chide Sir Walter. So why did she look at him—at his body outlined beneath the cover—with such a curious intensity? She might have been a butcher considering a lamb for slaughter.

Quite an odd experience, to feel like a lamb. “My lady, I never lied to you. When you came to the tavern to hire me, I told you I was no longer the greatest warrior in England.”

She still didn't speak. She simply laid a hand on the thigh of his leg and pinched it as though testing it for meat.

He raised his voice a little. “And your Hugh is magnificent. I doubt that anyone here realizes how magnificent.”

His hands lay on top of the rug across his stomach, and she stared at them.

His fingers twitched. “But that's no excuse. Some skills are lost to me forever. The speed of youth is gone. But with practice, I can become a warrior to be feared once more.” The warmth of her palm began to work on his flesh. The strength of her gaze began to work on his mind. If she had been another woman, any other woman, he would have wondered if this clinical survey meant she was considering him for a bed partner. But
not Alisoun. She had over and over again demonstrated that her mind worked in a logical manner. Although—his own logic floundered—why she was looking at his body when it had proved inadequate for her combat purposes, he did not know. “Let me stay. I can teach Hugh many things, and he is ideal to bring me back to prime condition.”

She didn't answer, and he jiggled his leg. “Lady Alisoun?”

She jerked her hand back, then stared at the palm as if it belonged to someone else.

“Shall I stay longer and establish that I am worthy of your trust?”

She looked at him and wet her lips. He could see the word forming.
Nay
. She was going to say
nay
.

But she didn't. She said, “Aye,” then looked as surprised as he felt. But she repeated it firmly. “Aye. You can stay. If you practice every day with Hugh. But only until after the market on Lammas Day. 'Tis less than a month away, and if you haven't improved by then, then you must go and I…” Her lips trembled, then firmed. “I'll have to organize the defense of George's Cross myself. I suppose that's what I should have done to begin with. It would have been more efficient.”

His reaction was instinctive and immediate. “Defense is a man's job!”

“I've had two men to do it, and both failed me.”

He flushed and turned his head away.

“I beg your pardon.” She placed her hand on him again, but this time on his shoulder. “You have done as I hoped and kept trouble away with your mere presence, but we can no longer depend on that. Everyone in the village knows that Hugh defeated you by now. They'll gossip to any chance-met merchant, and soon all of Northumbria will have heard. I'll not don armor, of
course, but my safety depends on organization, and my organization has proved superior to any man's.”

Taking her hand from his shoulder, he shoved it back at her. “And if you succeed, my lady, what use will you have for a man?”

He saw it this time, he knew he did. A flare of interest, of hot intent, then with her hand she stroked his ribs. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

That wasn't an answer, and he replied curtly, “I can perform my duties.”

“Good.” Her fingers fluttered down his hip and away. “Good.”

As she left the room, he watched the sway of her hips thoughtfully.

There would always be one reason a woman would need a man, and from Lady Alisoun's expression, David could have sworn she'd decided to investigate the possibilities.

 

“My lady sent me in here with a tray.”

David stopped contemplating the darkness captured by the bed canopy above and turned to contemplate Eudo. The lad stood in the open doorway holding a laden dinner tray. He stepped into the room, set the tray on the table beside the bed and, using the candle off the tray, lit the candles Heath had placed earlier.