Once a Knight (5 page)

Squaring his scrawny shoulders, Fenchel projected a fierce hostility. “Who's askin'?”

“Forgive me, Fenchel, I have been remiss.” Alisoun watched David and saw that greed had replaced his antagonism. That, she understood. That, she expected, and she ignored the tiny disappointment that nagged at her. “As my reeve, you should be acquainted with the legendary mercenary Sir David of Radcliffe.”

Fenchel should have replied rudely, making his disrespect clear. That was the method by which he and Lady Alisoun taught the unworthies they could not have the lady of George's Cross.

Instead Fenchel stood silent, silent so long she turned to look. Her man—
her
man—stood looking at David of Radcliffe with admiration and awe. “Fenchel?” she said.

He shook himself as if waking from a dream, and spoke to David in tones of reverence. “Forgive me, sir, but
ye
are the legendary mercenary, David o' Radcliffe?”

“That's me,” David agreed.

“Oh, sir.” Fenchel pressed forward. “Oh, sir! We've told tales o' yer exploits fer years. How ye killed a boar bare-handed when ye were naught but twelve, an' how the king himself knighted ye on the field o' battle when ye held twenty French knights at bay—”

David corrected him. “Sixteen and fifteen.”

Fenchel paid no attention. “How ye won the armor an' saddles an' horses o' all the best knights in the kingdom, then sold 'em back fer a pretty profit.”

Holding her hand to her heart, Avina interrupted. “All except one, a young knight seekin' t' better himself. Rather than take that poor lad's only possessions, ye gave 'em back an' taught him t' fight, an' he is yer devoted man t' this day.”

“Sir Guy of the Archers.”

Alisoun saw that Gunhild finished the tale. All the villagers knew the stories about the legendary mercenary David, and all of them stood, wide-eyed, and stared at him as if visitationed from heaven.

“Look!” Fenchel pointed to the sky. “'Twas clear before, but 'tis cloudin' up now. Mayhap Sir David has brought us luck.”

Everyone stared at him, then at Alisoun. “In sooth, I do so pray.” Privately, Alisoun admitted that she had experienced that same thrill when she met him. Even facedown in the mud, he had had a prestige about him, but somehow, riding with him to George's Cross had lessened her reverence. Now all she could remember was his pride when he had pissed farther and longer than either Ivo or Gunnewate. Just like any other man, he seemed to think she took his measure by the size of his bladder—and extremities.

So her villagers' worship caught her unaware. Seeing them now, seeing how they pressed toward him and touched his boot with reverent fingers, how the women tightened their bodices to plump their bosoms, both embarrassed and infuriated her. David needed no more fuel to feed the fire of his vanity.

Then she caught his eye. Sheepishly, he grinned, shrugged, and said, “Old legends die hard.”

And she realized—that's why she'd hired him. To give her people a feeling of confidence, to ease their fears for her. To frighten off that shadowy, unseen menace. In fact, there had been no incidents on this trip.
She knew that for the first time in months, she'd gone three days without the sense of being watched.

For that she owed him more than money, and as graciously as she could, she said, “I offer my home, Sir David. Make it yours.”

Stunned by the riches in her demesne, he accepted, all the time fearing he gaped like a roast pig. True, he was nothing but the son of a baron, and a poor baron at that, but he hated feeling so much like a dairy maid before the king. Yet when he thought about Alisoun's twelve sacks of wool, he was in awe. He didn't even have enough carts to haul twelve sacks of wool, much less enough sheep to grow the fleece. Twelve sacks would support his estate for years!

Lady Alisoun smiled at him, a smooth, practiced movement of her lips that conveyed hospitality. Then she spoke to the peasants crowding around him. “I have returned with grain to keep us until harvest.” Slowly the crowd turned to her. “When the carts have reached the castle, it will be counted and distributed, but remember, good people, that this must last until we've brought in our own crops, and if this summer is as dry as the last one and the one before that, it will be a hard winter. So take the burden of extra work with good cheer. Let us be sure that not one of our folk is lost to sloth.”

Fenchel had regained his good sense, for he called, “Hear, hear!” and the crowd responded.

Then they broke up. Fenchel and Alisoun moved to one side of the square. The men strode toward the fields, the women walked toward the large barnlike structure which held the wool.

Well, most of the women walked toward the shed. Some of them had found something amiss with their clothing. Gunhild held her skirt up, adjusting the garters that held her stockings…except she wore no
stockings. The sight of her bare leg almost stopped David's heart, and her flirtatious glance made it clear she appreciated his appreciation.

Pish! He tore his gaze away and found it immediately captured by Avina. Her shift seemed uncomfortably adjusted, and she unlaced her bodice and adjusted her breasts with a hand beneath each. They thrust upward and the dark nipples shone through thin—

He jerked on Louis's rein and, disgruntled, Louis jerked back. “She wants to bed a legend,” David told him. “She doesn't care about me.”

Louis snorted, and David had to agree. His groin ached from long disuse, and Louis knew that David's mood markedly improved with regular swiving. The damned horse danced in place to give David another chance to stare, and David found himself watching the melons that swayed so enticingly.

Alisoun paid him no attention. She didn't care about him. She wouldn't even notice if his glance lingered on the flaunted…“Nay!” More forcefully, David directed Louis to move on, and the horse did. Only a fool would gawk at a servant when the mistress was available—especially when the mistress was single and so wealthy her estate produced twelve sacks of wool for market.

After all, it wasn't as if Alisoun were homely. No, indeed. Her face was very…attractive. And her figure was acceptable…what he had seen of it beneath her voluminous cotte. And her hair flowed down her back like a glimmering river of…molten iron? His gaze lingered on the wimple and gorget she always wore just to thwart him. At least it seemed that way. Red. He'd swear he'd seen red in the dark, but how could such a reserved woman sport such an audacious color?

He shook his head. No, it must be bland blond or reserved brown.

As David rode toward Alisoun, Fenchel backed away, veneration manifested in every line of his slight body. Yet Alisoun watched David, and he would have sworn he saw a flash of cynicism.

Blast the woman! He was observing her again, trying to decipher emotion that another woman would have gladly shared.

“My village women are lovely, are they not?” She stared behind him, where Avina and Gunhild still posed, and he had to fight to keep his eyes focused on where he was going. “They admire you a great deal, and if you wish to linger here, you would still be welcome at the castle when you arrive.”

“Me?” He widened his eyes in what he hoped was innocence. “I hadn't noticed any individuals among your village women. I only noticed that everyone seemed plump and happy.” Remembering Avina's bounteous breasts, he thought,
overflowingly plump
. “It is a tribute to your husbandry that your people are so well fed.”

Solemnly, she considered him, then nodded. “My thanks. Without offense, may I assume that your estate has not fared so well?”

His injured pride blazed fiercely. Through stiff lips he said, “You may assume that.”

“Perhaps you would care to send one of my men to Radcliffe with the first month's gold you have earned.”

You have earned
. Not “that I paid you,” but
you have earned
. It was a generous offer sensitively put, and that surprised him. She hadn't been overly sensitive about his previous humors—chiding him for his late arrival, yawning when he won the pissing contest, openly doubting his ability to protect her. But for a woman with twelve bags of wool, he could forgive and forget. “That would be most courteous of you, lady. I
thank you for your kind thought. I'd be grateful when a man may be spared.”

There. That comely speech surely proved his fitness to be her consort. A most peculiar expression marred her features, as if she smelled something nasty. Quickly, he examined the bottoms of his shoes, then glanced back to review Louis's footsteps. Neither of them had stepped in something malodorous.

Her horse moved on before he could ascertain the reason for her expression. “Is your steward to be trusted with such a sum?” she asked.

“Aye, he is.” He grinned at her back. “He is Guy of the Archers.”

She swung around in the saddle and stared, wide-eyed, clearly astonished. “There is really such a man?”

Well! That
was
a mask she wore. Emotions seethed beneath it. And he'd just proved that he could strip the mask away. “Did you think the legend all lies?”

“Nay, I…nay, it is just so very difficult to realize that the legend lives within such a common…that is to say, that you are the repository of such extraordinary…”

He would have been offended, but he understood. Being a living fable encompassed a difficulty most people could scarcely comprehend. Women lusted after him, sure that his thistle—undoubtedly the largest in the world—would induce ecstasy. Men clung to his every word, gathering insight where none existed. Everyone expected him to be wise and sincere, and he'd learned one thing well—sincerity was hard to fake.

David knew he was just a man, and when others got acquainted with him, they knew it, too. Disillusionment set in, but he was never less than himself and never asked anyone to believe more than the truth.

Alisoun had gone through all the stages, and right now she looked at him through eyes that saw
him
.

She nodded as if they'd said something important in their silence. “I'll send someone right away.”

As he rode beside her up the winding track, he concluded that a decisive woman was not all bad. Above them on a hillock, George's Cross Castle rose like a rocky intrusion on the green, misty mountain. The curtain wall snaked around, mossy green and impenetrable gray. On the highest point, lit by the late afternoon sun, the keep rose, a serpent's fang of smooth black stone. The place frightened David—as it was supposed to.

Alisoun beheld it fondly. “Home,” she whispered.

She behaved as if George's Cross Castle would protect her, but she'd hired him for more than the ride from Lancaster to the castle. She'd hired him to protect her, even at her beloved home. Because someone had threatened her? Because…“What's this tale of an arrow shot at you?”

“An arrow?”

He had hoped to startle her. He hadn't succeeded. If she'd been cool before, now she was glacial. Icy, unemotional, uninterested.

He didn't believe it for a moment. “Ivo blurted it out last night. He was angry because I wasn't prepared to protect you from murder.”

“Murder?” Bringing her palfrey to a halt, she turned to face him with a sincerely amused smile playing around her lips.

It aroused his suspicious.

“I love Ivo, I really do. He's been my personal man-at-arms for years. But I'm sure you realize he's a bit weevil-headed, God bless him. He sees danger where there is none. You'll forgive him.”

Louis stood taller than the palfrey. David stood higher than Alisoun. Together, the stallion and the man towered over Alisoun and her mount, and it gave him a
feeling of superiority. False superiority, he knew. Alisoun hoarded the truth and dispensed only as much as she believed necessary.

“M'lady.” A male voice hailed from the top of the curtain wall. “M'lady, ye're home!”

Alisoun looked up and waved, then waved again. David saw the line of heads bobbing around the crenelations. These were her people, and if she escaped into the welcome of her servants, he would lose his chance to question her in private. He reached for the reins of her palfrey; she pulled them aside and said, “You're our guest. I'll ride ahead and have them prepare your bath.”

He almost fell out of his saddle. If Louis hadn't moved to catch him, he would have. “A bath?”

“A knightly bath. The honor which is bestowed on every knight who visits.” Her voice deepened with relish. “It is proper.”

“Not at my home.”

“Of course not. That's obvious.” As enthusiastic as he'd ever seen her, she waved at her people. “You have no woman to perform the service.”

He couldn't pretend that he didn't know about the custom. He did. He had been a guest in other great homes, been bathed by the wives and daughters of his host—but not for a long time, and never when he'd been celibate for so extended a period. “Your maids are going to give me a bath?”

“Certainly.”

“Not you?”

“Nay.”

He heaved a sigh of relief.

“I'll supervise.”

We squires were in the training yard that day, and I'll never forget the look on Sir Walter's face when he heard Lady Alisoun had brought Sir David of Radcliffe back to George's Cross
.

Hugh was almost a man grown and as good as any experienced knight. Sir Walter bragged about him, and noblemen came from miles around to watch him spar and to try to woo him from Lady Alisoun's tutelage with promises of an early knighthood and plunder from battle. Hugh bided his time, knowing that Lady Alisoun would treat him generously when the moment came
.

Andrew was seventeen and not nearly as impressive to my young eyes. And Jennings…well, Jennings was but fourteen, superior only to me, but never letting me forget it. Hugh and Andrew were sparring under Sir Walter's critical gaze while Jennings and I fought with wooden swords, and Jennings was defeating me soundly
.

Sir Walter had grabbed my arm and was berating me as a stupid lad when one of his toadies from the village
came running, yelling that the lady of George's Cross had arrived. Sir Walter broke off his tirade and shoved me away. “She made it back, did she?” he said. “About time, and then some
.”

The toadie leaned against the gate and held his chest, panting from the run up the steep hill from the village to the castle, but he didn't let exhaustion defeat him. “Aye, Sir Walter, but she has a knight with her
.”

Sir Walter couldn't have known, but he must have been preparing himself for something, for he wheeled on his dirty little informer and grabbed him by the neck. “Speak
.”

The toadie clawed at his throat, and Sir Walter released him with the command. “Now
.”

“
Sir David of Radcliffe
—”

The toadie got no chance to say more. Sir Walter flung him further than he had flung me, and with considerably more virulence. I would have run from the expression on his face, but I was already running for the outer gate. Running to see the legend
.

I clambered up the great oak smack in the middle of the bailey, crawled as far out on a limb as I could, and peered through the leaves. The drawbridge was straight ahead. I could see all the way down the hill to the village, and I got my first glimpse of Sir David of Radcliffe
.

From a distance, he was everything an eleven-year-old boy could desire in a hero. He was tall and broad, seated on a milk-white charger who I knew to be King Louis. As he got closer, my awe grew greater, for clearly he cared nothing about anyone's opinion. He slumped in the saddle. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, and beneath that, dirt stained them. His bottom lip stuck out much like mine when my lady commanded me to take a bath, and when Sir Walter stepped onto the middle of the drawbridge, my hero's attitude didn't change
.

I relished the coming confrontation
.

 

Looking now at Sir Walter's furious expression, Alisoun wondered if she should have warned him of her intentions. But when she left, she hadn't known if he would be there when she got back, or if she would succeed in finding and hiring Sir David. And if she'd told him, he might have left before she did, and she had needed him to protect the castle during the time she was gone.

Ah, well, now she would pay for her silence. “Sir Walter,” she greeted him. “Is all well within the castle?”

“Assuredly,” he snapped, his gaze brooding on David. “I always fulfill my duties.”

David didn't seem to notice the animosity which clouded the atmosphere. He still sulked, and his destrier—an animal with a mind, if she'd ever seen one—adopted a like attitude. Louis's head drooped, his back swayed, and he clomped onto the drawbridge like a farm horse far gone with age.

What Alisoun wanted to know, of course, was whether any other incidents had occurred, but Sir Walter knew what she wished and refused to acknowledge it. She didn't dare ask. How could she, without alerting David to the circumstances? Her experience with Sir Walter had taught her that men viewed the harassment done to her as justice for a feckless act, and she didn't dare tell David for fear he would turn and leave—and she needed him. Another glance at Sir Walter confirmed it. She needed David
now
.

David didn't respond when Alisoun introduced him, but Sir Walter stood stiffer, straighter, reaching for a height he didn't have. “Sir David. Your reputation has preceded you.”

“It always does. Are you going to stand in the middle
of the drawbridge forever, or are you going to move aside for your lady?”

Alisoun sucked in her breath. So David did comprehend the unspoken challenge. Did he not care? Did he dismiss Sir Walter as insignificant? Or did he have a plan?

She looked at the morose man and disconsolate horse again. He
couldn't
have a plan.

Louis moved forward, apparently on his own initiative. Sir Walter came face-to-face with the massive horse. Louis kept moving. Sir Walter stepped aside. It was all very quick, very smooth, very deliberate. She followed in Louis's wake, allowing David to push objections aside and draw her along behind him.

Inside the massive outer bailey, shouts of relief and satisfaction greeted her. Children came running, muddy from the fishpond. Women rose, stiff from weeding the garden, and waved. The milkmaids came to the door of the dairy and her falconer lifted his newest bird to show her. Ah, it was good to be home. Good to know her people rejoiced in her safe return.

Before her, the inner walls rose higher. With a confident swagger, David rode toward the gatehouse. Mingled with the calling of her name, Alisoun heard masculine hails of “David! Sir David of Radcliffe!”

He raised a negligent hand toward the men-at-arms who clustered together on the wall walk. They scattered when Sir Walter shouted, but David didn't flinch. He fell back until Alisoun reached him and they could ride, together, into the inner bailey. Sir Walter hurried to catch them. He had been the castle's warden and Alisoun's right hand; his position had just been changed, and without a word being uttered.

Alisoun wondered if becoming a legend wasn't partly due to an ability to read a situation and assess it immediately.

The four stories of the keep rose sharply in the center of the inner bailey. No windows or doors sliced through the thick stone on the first level, but serving women hung from the tiny window slots above. They clustered on the wooden stairs that led to the second level entrance. Edlyn stood alone on the landing, hands clasped at her waist, waiting calmly to greet her mistress.

Pleased with her ward's dignity, Alisoun sent a special smile of approval toward the girl, and Edlyn beamed. The cook stepped out of the kitchen shed with fork in hand and brandished a plucked goose. Alisoun nodded, and Easter grinned broadly. Easter knew what Alisoun liked. The baker opened the great oven and in a rush of fragrant steam, removed a loaf with his wooden paddle. Kneeling, he offered it, and even from the distance Alisoun could smell the scent of cinnamon she loved. She started toward him, ready to accept the loaf, and behind her she heard the muttered exclamation. “Mercy o' me, but you're rich.”

She wanted to ignore him. She meant to ignore him. Instead she turned around gracefully. “You're not the first man to notice that,” she said in a low voice with only a hint of an edge.

“I imagine not.” David fingered his reins and watched his hands. “At Radcliffe, the only time we kill a goose is if someone's ill—or if the goose is.”

She wanted to laugh, but she wasn't sure he jested. The mighty Sir David seemed abashed and in awe. Looking around once more, she saw her home through his eyes. The castle walls contained all the necessities of life. The well sat in the middle of the inner bailey. The storerooms beneath the castle contained supplies enough to repel a siege for six months. She'd grown up with the wealth, but she'd been taught to be kind to
those less fortunate. Was Sir David less fortunate? He might not have her resources, but he was a man.

Men were the kings; they held all the land. Men were the fathers; they forced their daughters to do as they were told. Men were the husbands; they beat their wives with rods.

Yet David was one of the small landowners whom the drought had hurt. He looked at her and saw a way to repair his fortunes, and what harm could he do? She understood him completely. She knew he'd charmed her because of her money, and it wasn't as if she were unpracticed in repelling likely suitors. As kindly as she knew how, she said, “After your bath, you can eat the whole goose if you wish.”

He looked up at her. He had brown eyes, she realized with a start. Brown eyes, the color of old oak, brown hair so dark that the strands of gray gleamed like pewter, and a tanned face that had witnessed too many battles, too much hunger, too little kindness. For just one moment, he looked at her as if
she
were the hapless goose, ready for the plucking.

Maybe she shouldn't put him in charge of her castle.

Had she said it aloud? She didn't think so, but he must have read her thoughts, for he said, “Nay, my lady, it's too late for second thoughts now.” Then his expression changed, becoming mischievous and a bit rueful. “I'll hold you to that promise and eat the whole goose.”

She'd been so sure of him, but that one glimpse of his soul left her cold and quaking. Perhaps it would behoove her to remember that he had started with nothing but a knighthood and now possessed both legend and property. That should satisfy any man. She risked another glance at him.

He didn't look satisfied.

But she had a duty. Her role of hostess required the rituals of hospitality. Her people expected it of her. Alisoun expected it of herself, and she had no tangible reason to deny him. She accepted the loaf of bread, wrapped in a cloth, and thanked the baker.

After all, David wanted to gobble up her poultry, not her lands. She broke the loaf open, and he watched with an avid kind of wonder as the soft bread steamed. She took a bite. He observed every movement of her mouth with his own slightly open. Self-conscious, she chewed quickly, then licked a crumb off her lip. She heard his intake of breath. He must be very hungry.

Quickly, she passed it to him. “Share this loaf in welcome,” she recited. “Bless my house with your presence forevermore.”

“As you command, my lady.” David turned the loaf until he reached the place she had eaten. Then he tore the loaf with his teeth like a ravenous wolf with tender flesh.

Did he mean something by his gesture? Or had the fears of the past moons prodded her imagination to new heights of absurdity?

David passed the loaf on to Sir Walter as if unaware of her emotions.

Sir Walter also broke and ate the bread, although from the expression on his face, it might have been baked with bitter horse chestnut. She lost sight of the loaf after that, knowing it would be passed as far as possible and tiny bites taken from it as part of the welcome ceremony.

The keg of ale took longer to arrive, hauled from the keep's cellar on the shoulders of one of her largest men. Again she was given the first cup. “It's my latest,” her alewife told her. “And a fine flavor it is.”

Alisoun drained it to the bottom. “One of your best,” she assured Mabel.

The gray-haired woman winked at her, then refilled the cup and passed it to David. The wink she gave him was considerably more salacious, and he winked back with a smile that would melt iron. The gathering group of servants watched, fascinated, while he drank, observing each bob of his Adam's apple with deference. Alisoun didn't know whether to be amused or exasperated, but Sir Walter knew just what he thought. Taking his own cup from his belt, he filled it with ale and broke the chain rather than drink after David. It was a gesture noted by all, but nullified by the fight which broke out among the men. They all wanted to drink from the same cup as David.

It seemed to Alisoun a good moment to slip away. Dismounting, she found herself face-to-face with Sir Walter. Seldom was she without the skills to diffuse a situation, but today she was speechless. She waited for him to speak. He glared. She turned away toward the keep. He caught her arm.

“Why did you bring him here?” His hands rose toward her shoulders as if he wanted to grasp them and shake her. “What have I done to earn your contempt?”

She kept her fingers relaxed at her side and her face expressionless. “I have great respect for you. Together, we have kept the peace and dispensed justice in George's Cross for years.”

“I always said so. I
always
said so.” He took deep breaths, his nostrils flaring with each inhalation. “You're the lady. You make judgments and I dispense the justice and direct the punishments. You pay me to be the one the peasants hate.”

He spoke nothing less than the truth. Castle folk knew who directed his actions, but his mediation gave them an outlet for their ire other than their beloved lady.

He went on. “If the folk have been complaining, I
can change my ways. Be less strict with their transgressions.”

She knew that in her absence, Sir Walter ran the castle with a stern hand. The exuberant welcome which always greeted her return from her travels told her that. Now she wondered if he disapproved of her tact, discretion, and mercy. His obvious hostility made her wonder a lot of things. “No one has complained about you.”

“Then why—”

“Hey!” David appeared beside them, relaxed from his intake of ale and grinning like a dolt. “My lady, you promised me a bath.”

Sir Walter began to growl deep in his chest, like a dog who smells a challenge.

“So I did.” Alisoun faced Sir Walter. “If you would excuse me?”

“I will not!” He lunged for her arm again and struck David in the back.

Somehow, David had slipped between them, and he seemed unaware of the blow. With his hand on Lady Alisoun's shoulder, he guided her toward the keep. “Your hospitality is faultless, my lady. Even bathing should be a pleasure under your auspices.”