Книга - A Perfect Knight

A Perfect Knight
Anne Herries








“Do you think me a wicked wench because I laugh when the courtiers try to court me?”


She didn’t know how tempting she was as she stood there, her head tipped back, challenging him. Had he been young and carefree he would have been tempted to crush her in his arms and tell her that she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen—but that way lay only pain and grief, and he had been burned before.

“How can I think you anything when I do not know you?”

“I know you heard Baron de Froissart asking me what would win my heart earlier this afternoon. I gave him no reason to hope, nor have I encouraged others. It is the way of the Court to jest over such things.”

Sir Ralph bowed his head. Was it possible that she was that innocent? It hardly seemed likely. She had been wed before and must surely know her own power? Once again he felt an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, but crushed it ruthlessly. It was madness! She was not for him.


Dear Reader,

It is a great pleasure to tell you about the Banewulf Dynasty, which I have written for your pleasure and mine. I have always loved the idea of knights wooing their ladies in the courtly way, and so my first story begins at the Court of Love in Poitiers. It was here, so the troubadours tell us, that the art of true Romance began. In those far-off wondrous days knights would do anything to win the heart of their lady, but no true knight would take a lady by force. Indeed, it was a matter of honor to protect, honor and adore your lady, often from afar. To suffer the pangs of unrequited love, to languish at your lady’s feet, was a feeling so exquisite that a man might die of it and think himself in Paradise.

Alayne is accustomed to knights trying to win her, but none can touch her cold heart until Sir Ralph de Banewulf—who calls himself an imperfect knight but is in truth a very perfect knight—comes into her life. She has vowed never to marry again, for her first husband was a wicked brute and no true knight. It is only through learning to love and trust again that Alayne can find happiness for herself and begin the dynasty that will live on in Stefan and Alain de Banewulf.

I hope you will have as much fun and delight in reading these as I did writing them. Please visit my Web site—www.lindasole.co.uk—and tell me what you think of my stories. I’d love to hear from you.

Anne Herries




A Perfect Knight

Anne Herries







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ANNE HERRIES,


winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association Romance Prize 2004, lives in Cambridgeshire, England. She is fond of watching wildlife, and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books, although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment and to give pleasure to her readers. You are invited to visit her Web site at www.lindasole.co.uk.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen




Chapter One


A layne watched the shallow stream as it burbled and chuckled over boulders worn smooth by the passage of time, its waters so clear that she could see the tiny creatures that lived on the sandy bed. Behind her she could hear the laughter and chatter of the courtiers. One of the ladies was playing a lyre; others ran hither and thither screaming with mirth as they indulged in foolish games.

The sun was too warm for playing games, Alayne thought. She sighed as she trailed her fingers in the cool water of the stream. Was she growing weary of the endless pleasures offered at the Court of Love? Poitiers was often so named because of the troubadours, who sang of that fine courtly love of which many dreamed and few truly found. Sometimes Alayne believed that ‘fine’ love was merely a myth; she wearied of all the intrigues and found the life shallow. And yet where else could she go? There was nowhere else where she could be safe and protected as she was here.

A tiny shudder ran through her as she thought of the fate that awaited her if she were to leave the court, and she knew that she would rather waste her days in idle pleasure than be at the mercy of those who wished to control and manipulate her life. Her lovely face was sad as the memories came back to haunt her—the reasons why she had fled her home.

‘Alayne! Alayne, come and join us,’ one of the ladies screamed as she ran by, hotly pursued by a young knight intent on snatching the kisses he had won from her, which she now refused to pay. ‘Save me from this wicked seducer, I beg you.’

Alayne smiled at their foolishness, but shook her head. She was in no mood for joining in their play; besides, she suspected that the lady fully intended to be caught once she had reached a secluded spot within the gardens. It might be nice to be kissed by a handsome lover, Alayne thought, and sighed—if only she could be as carefree and as happy as that girl!

Little though she knew it, her sadness was reflected in her lovely face and noticed by more than one knight present that day, for she was the kind of woman who attracted attention without seeking or wanting it. There was about her something that drew men to her, like moths to the flame.

Her thoughts were far away from the court at that moment, trapped in the recent unhappy past. It was almost a year since she had in desperation sought the protection of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was a distant kinswoman of her mother’s. Alayne had always admired the Queen. At the age of twenty Eleanor had taken the Cross and gone to the crusades with her husband King Louis VII of France, but that marriage had been annulled and Eleanor wed to Henry of Anjou, now Henry II of England. And there had been no one else Alayne could turn to in her distress.

‘Why so thoughtful, my lady?’

Alayne glanced up as she heard the voice of the Baron Pierre de Froissart, a little smile of welcome on her lips. He was held by most ladies of the court to be both handsome and charming, for he had a pleasant singing voice and an attractive manner.

‘I do not give my thoughts so lightly, sir.’ She pouted her lips at him, an unconscious teasing in her eyes that sent a fierce thrill of desire through the knight who looked down at her.

‘Will you let me sit with you, lady?’

‘Assuredly, sir. I am weary of my own company.’

Pierre de Froissart laughed and sat on the dry grass beside her, a look of amusement on his face. He sought her out most days, though he had never tried to court her. Alayne knew that several ladies sighed over him and gave him encouraging smiles. She suspected that he might have paid court to more than one lady, though such affaires were always kept secret.

It was an unspoken rule that courtly love should remain private. A troubadour approached his love in secret, offering his tributes of poems, songs, flowers or pretty trinkets. The lady would acknowledge the offering or not as she pleased. Indeed, it was the secret nature of the courtship that lent it excitement.

‘Yet I think it is by your own choosing that you sit alone, lady. There are many who would court you had they the chance. You keep your admirers at a distance, I think.’

His eyes saw too much! Alayne’s dark lashes veiled her eyes as she glanced down at the water, though her heart beat faster and brought a becoming colour to her creamy complexion. A blush touched her cheeks, but she did not answer him at once, for it was true that she had chosen solitude that afternoon.

She was a particularly beautiful girl, her dark hair only partially hidden by the sheer veil she wore attached to her headdress of green and silver, her eyes a wonderful blue that made people look at her twice. Her dark lashes were long and silky; brushing her cheek as they did when she closed her eyes for a moment, their effect on men was startling and they had been mentioned in more than one poem to her beauty. She was the kind of woman that men dreamed of having in their bed, a tantalising temptress, with red lips that begged for kisses, her seeming innocence merely fanning the flames of their desire.

For the past several weeks someone had been sending her poems and small gifts of flowers. As yet her admirer had not spoken directly to her of his feelings, merely leaving his tributes where he knew she would find them on her walks or delivering them by means of a page who was sworn to silence.

‘I wished to be quiet for a little…to think…’ she said at last, bringing her eyes up to meet the man’s suddenly.

‘I would pay a forfeit for your thoughts,’ de Froissart offered, as she was silent once more. ‘For I do not like to see you so sad.’

‘You need pay no forfeit,’ Alayne replied. It was a game often played by the courtiers, and the young men tried to win kisses and more from the ladies. ‘I was thinking of nothing in particular. Only that it is pleasant to sit here in the sun and yet…’ A sigh escaped her and she did not go on.

‘Can it be that you seek something more, Lady Alayne? Something fine and perfect, an intimacy not often met with, and seldom found in marriage…’ He plucked a long stem of grass and chewed the end, his eyes watching her. The tip of her tongue moved nervously over her bottom lip, the act unconsciously sensuous and arousing fires of which she was completely unaware.

‘I have no wish to marry again,’ Alayne said, getting to her feet with a fluid, graceful movement. She found any talk of marriage unsettling. It was, of course, because her father, the Baron François de Robspierre, had tried to force her into a second marriage that she had sought protection from Queen Eleanor. ‘Marriage is for making alliances and securing territory. Love is another matter.’

‘You speak truly,’ de Froissart agreed at once. She was lovely, and like many others at the court he dreamed of her, of having her as his lover. ‘The intimacy of which I dream is beyond compare. To admire from afar the lady I worship is more than I could ever ask, but to know her, to share that exquisite intimacy, would indeed be heaven.’

Alayne’s cheeks were heated. Was the Baron de Froissart her secret admirer? His words to her that afternoon seemed to indicate intense feeling on his part. Yet she was not sure of her own feelings. She had heard much of this perfect love from other ladies of the court, but was she ready to begin such an affaire? There was a part of her that longed to know the true love of which the troubadours sang so sweetly, but another that shrank from any physical contact.

‘Alayne! Will you not sing for us? Her Majesty begs you come to her.’

Her thoughts took a new direction as a pretty young woman came towards them. Marguerite de Valois was a popular member of the court. She received endless tributes from her admirers, but she withheld her favours from all. Some of them had been set foolish tasks by the Courts of Love to try and win her, but she remained aloof, giving no man more than a nod in passing no matter what they did to please her.

‘Willingly,’ Alayne cried and went to meet her. She was glad of the interruption, for the Baron had made her uncertain, a little nervous. She liked him well enough as a friend, but any attempt at intimacy frightened her.

Marguerite glanced at her flushed face as she joined her. ‘It is not for me to advise, Alayne, but I would be wary of de Froissart if I were you.’

‘You do not like him? He is generally liked at court, I think.’

‘As to that…’ Marguerite shrugged. Her long fair hair was covered by a silver veil caught from a little cap, her green eyes thoughtful as she looked at Alayne. ‘You are very beautiful, Alayne, and wealthy. There are men who would do anything to secure such a prize. I do not deny de Froissart’s charm. I say only that I would not trust him.’

‘You know that I do not wish to marry again?’

‘I have heard that your marriage was not happy…’

‘I prefer not to remember,’ Alayne said, a closed look coming to her face as she forced the cruel memories back to that tiny corner of her mind where they habitually dwelt. ‘My father wished me to marry again so that he could gain advantage from my widowhood for himself, but the Queen forbade it. She has given her word that I shall not be forced to marry against my will.’

‘You are fortunate,’ Marguerite said with a sigh. ‘I shall be married when I am seventeen whether I wish it or no.’

‘It is the lot of most women,’ Alayne said. ‘My father was furious when I sought the Queen’s protection. He considers I am his property to dispose of as he wishes, but I shall not be sold again!’ Tears sparkled in her lovely eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her wedding night had been unspeakable and it was only the sudden demise of her husband, who was so many years her senior, that had saved her from further humiliation at his hands.

Marguerite pressed her hand and smiled. It was because so many women were forced into unhappy marriages that the code of courtly love had gained so much popularity in the languorous climes of Aquitaine and southern regions of France. How much sweeter the stolen kiss of a young lover than the clumsy embrace of an uncaring husband!

But the court was waiting for Alayne to sing for them. She was led to the place of honour beside the Queen’s gilded throne. She smiled and curtsied respectfully to her friend and champion.

‘Sing for us, Lady Alayne,’ the Queen requested. ‘Sing something sweet that will bring tears to our eyes and gladden our hearts.’

‘Yes, your Grace,’ Alayne said and, taking a lyre from one of the other ladies, began to play a haunting melody, the pure notes of her song catching the attention of all those gathered in the glade that warm afternoon in the year of Our Lord 1167.

It was a song of love unrequited, of a lover left to weep alone and die of a broken heart, and of a love so pure and tender that it touched the hearts of all those who heard it.

Her song was of a perfect knight, a man who chose death rather than bring harm to the lady he adored. But where, Alayne wondered, would she ever find such an honourable knight? She did not believe that he existed outside the songs of the troubadours.



‘His Majesty bids me visit the Queen at her court in Poitiers,’ Sir Ralph de Banewulf said to his cousin Harald of Wotten as they talked that afternoon in the great hall of Banewulf Manor. Banewulf had begun as a fortress in the days of William the Conqueror, but a new house had been built adjacent to the tower in more recent times for the sake of comfort. ‘I cannot refuse Henry’s request, though you know I have no love of the court these days.’

‘It will do you good to leave this place and seek company,’ Harald replied with a frown. His cousin had been in mourning too long for the wife he had married at nineteen and lost barely more than a year later. Berenice had died of a fever after giving her husband a son, Stefan, and the boy was now a sturdy lad of five years. ‘Besides, it is time that you gave me Stefan for his training as a squire. Most lads would have entered school a year since. You do him no favours by leaving him to the women, Ralph.’

Ralph was silent for a moment, his expression harsher than he realised. He was a man that others respected and feared, a strong, powerful man with stern principles and standards few could follow. Yet when he relaxed and smiled he was pleasant to look upon and had an unconscious charm. Women admired him, but he was often thought unapproachable, and it was said that his heart had died with his young wife. When he spoke at last, his words were just and considered.

‘You are right, Harald, and I know it. I have been remiss with Stefan. He grows too independent for his nurse. He must be schooled, for how else will he gain his knighthood? You shall take him with you this afternoon, my friend. I beg only that you will have a care for him for his mother’s sake.’

‘You had no need to ask. I loved Berenice dearly, though she was but a distant cousin of my mother’s.’ Harald hesitated. ‘You will not wish me to say this, Ralph—but you should think of marrying again. A man needs a wife to give him sons.’

‘Pray do not!’ Ralph held up his hand, a look of grief sweeping over his hard features. ‘My demesne is large enough for my ambitions and I have a son to inherit all my lands. Why should I need more?’

Harald refrained from giving him the answer he knew would be unwelcome. Children died all too often of virulent fevers or accidents. He himself had five sons and two daughters, having married for a second time within six months of his first wife’s death. It was the way of the world, for women were lost in childbed and there was no sense in repining. Life must go on and one woman was much the same as another in his experience.

‘I know you loved Berenice, but—’

‘Please!’ Ralph’s plea was a command, and a nerve twitched in his cheek. ‘Let us speak of other matters. What think you of this quarrel that rumbles on between the King and Sir Thomas à Becket?’

As Harald launched into a tirade against the King’s quarrel with the Archbishop, Ralph drew a breath of relief. He did not wish to discuss the fragile young wife, who had not been strong enough for childbearing. His hands clenched at his sides as he felt the familiar ache in his breast. He had grieved for a life needlessly lost. How could he ever think of marrying again when his unkindness, his thoughtless desires, had killed Berenice?

And there was the secret guilt that haunted him, because, though he had desired her, as a young man would for her beauty and sweetness, he had never truly loved her. She had proved too young and too foolish to hold his affections, and he feared that his reserve, his coldness, had destroyed her. She had known that he did not love her and because of that she was dead. It was a heavy sin for which he had done penance these past years.

He had let the women fuss over Stefan as they would, because his son was a permanent reminder of Berenice’s tragic death, but his weakness would reflect badly on the boy. He must be schooled and trained in the arts that would make him first a page, then a squire and then worthy to receive his knighthood. Harald of Wotten was a good man and just; he would look after Stefan and oversee his education and the boy would be sent home to spend feast days with his father. It was the end of one part of their lives and meant that Ralph had no ties to hold him to this place and must begin to think of the future.

The King’s request that he journey to Aquitaine and seek out Queen Eleanor at her court was one that he felt bound to honour, for he had received his own knighthood at Henry’s hands.

King Henry II was in Ralph’s estimation a worthy ruler of England. Henry had rescued the country from the chaos it had fallen into under King Stephen’s reign and instituted many reforms. He had subdued Wales and regained northern territories that had been lost to Scotland, but he had also brought in a law pertaining to the trial of churchmen who had transgressed, which had aroused the fury of many influential men. The most important of these was Sir Thomas à Becket, a stubborn man who had refused to bend in this matter of a law he felt unjust.

For the moment Ralph was not prepared to take sides. It was, he believed, a matter between the King and his Archbishop. Ralph’s loyalty was to the King and his mission to visit Queen Eleanor. The marriage between Henry and Eleanor, at first passionate and fortuitous for both, had deteriorated these past years, and Henry had heard rumours of his wife that displeased him. Some said that Eleanor meddled in matters of state that did not concern her, that she planted treason and sedition in the minds of her sons, turning them against their father. She had left England because of a quarrel with her husband and Henry was not altogether happy with her behaviour since. It was Ralph’s task to carry letters to the Queen at Poitiers and bring back her answer.

For the moment that was all that mattered; this personal unrest, this feeling of emptiness, must be put aside. Ralph had devoted his life to the welfare of his son and the people on his estate. In the future he must begin to look elsewhere for a purpose to his life. Once, when he was young and full of shining ideals, he had thought of taking up the cross and going to the crusades, but that was before his careless behaviour had killed Berenice… Now he knew that he was not worthy. He was, in fact, a most imperfect knight.



The court had spent the day hawking on the marsh-lands beyond the forest. Alayne’s peregrine had flown well, its speed, strong flight and tenacity much admired. Indeed, she had received more than one offer to buy the bird, but refused to part with it.

‘I love my sweet Perlita,’ Alayne said to one gentleman who persisted with his offer. ‘I shall never part with her for gold or jewels. She is far too precious.’

A party of ladies and gentlemen were riding close enough to hear her answer and one of the gentlemen asked what would buy the peregrine, if gold would not.

‘Why, nothing, my lord,’ Alayne replied, her azure blue eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘She shall never leave me unless I choose to give her.’

‘A wager! A wager!’ cried several voices.

‘I’ll wager the Lady Alayne would more willingly give her love than that bird,’ one of the ladies cried and trilled with laughter.

‘For shame!’ another voice said. ‘She cannot be won, for many have tried to win her smiles and received naught for their pains.’

‘You are too unkind, my Lord Malmont,’ Alayne said and laughed at the man who had spoken. ‘You may have a smile for the asking, but the man who would win both me and Perlita must first win my heart.’

‘Set me any task and I shall perform it,’ he quipped, hand clenched dramatically against his breast while his eyes danced with merriment. ‘For to win both you and that hawk would be a prize indeed.’

‘You mock me, sir. I think you prize the bird more than the lady,’ she replied and made a face at him, for she knew him to be another lady’s admirer. ‘I do not believe that I shall ever love. My heart is made of stone. I cannot love any man.’

‘A challenge!’ cried Baron de Froissart. ‘The lady’s denial cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. We must have a contest for the heart of this lady.’

Several gentlemen murmured agreement and there was much laughter and jesting as the party rode back through the forest to the palace.

Alayne found there was good-natured but fierce competition as to who should have the honour of helping her dismount from her palfrey. She laughed at their eager faces, then summoned a young page standing nearby, causing the knights to pull faces of dismay and complain that they had been overlooked for a mere stripling.

‘I am not to be so easily won, gentle sirs,’ she told them with a smile and gave her peregrine to the page, warning him to take good care of her before jumping down from her horse unaided. ‘If I am to be won, it will be no simple task.’

She was immediately asked to set her challenge, but merely smiled and shook her head before walking into the palace. The coolness of the thick stone walls met her immediately, seeming dark and making her shiver after the heat of the sun. For some reason she felt uneasy, though she did not know why she should, nor what reason she had for feeling that way. The light-hearted exchange between the courtiers was no more than happened any day, though she was not usually singled out. Other ladies were more inclined to respond to such teasing and enjoyed setting tasks of heroism or skill for their admirers to perform.

She was foolish to be anxious. Yet the prickling sensation at the nape of her neck was intense. Turning, Alayne saw that a man was standing a little way off. He was partially hidden by one of the huge stone pillars that supported the arched ceiling above the great hall. She could, however, see that he was tall, powerfully built, with broad shoulders: an impressive man dressed in the English fashion in cloth of black and silver, his dark, almost black hair straight and just long enough to brush the neckband of his tunic. His features were strong, harsh, his mouth set hard as if he disapproved of all he saw about him.

Alayne knew that she had never seen him at court before and, for one moment, as their eyes met, she felt something stir within her. He had such intent eyes, the irises a deep grey that seemed flecked with silver—or was that a trick of the sunlight that came slanting in at the high window?

Alayne felt her spine tingle as she looked deep into those mesmerising eyes and felt the pull of his personality. Who was the newcomer and why was the tingling at the nape of her neck even stronger now than it had been? Was she being warned of something? Why was he staring at her in that particular way? And yet there was something about his expression that made her think he hardly saw her, that he was lost in some lonely place in his thoughts. He seemed brooding, distant, as if nursing some secret sadness.

Hearing the others enter the hall, the noise of their chatter and laughter filling the echoing space, the strange feeling of being threatened left her all at once and she laughed at herself. She had nothing to fear. The Queen had promised she would not be forced to marry and there was no reason why she should. For as long as she had Queen Eleanor’s protection she was perfectly safe.

‘Ah, there you are, Lady Alayne,’ de Froissart cried as he saw her. ‘We thought we had driven you to flight with our teasing.’

‘No, indeed, sir,’ Alayne replied.’

‘Since you will set no challenge, we have decided to be judged by the court. The best amongst us shall compete for your favour at a tournament,’ he said, eyes alight with wicked mirth. ‘The winner earns the right to court you.’

‘I am not to be won by such a contest,’ Alayne said, but could not keep from laughing. The teasing look in the Baron de Froissart’s eyes made her heart beat wildly despite herself. He was a charming man and of all the courtiers she liked him the most, though she did not believe that he, or any man, had touched the inner citadel within her. Sometimes she believed that her heart was dead, killed by the brutality of the man she had been forced to wed when she was little more than a child. ‘I promise only a token to the winner, but my heart is not so easily captured.’

‘Then what will win you?’

‘I do not know,’ Alayne admitted. ‘My love, if it is ever given, will be for a gentle knight; a strong, true, loyal knight who lives by his ideals.’ Her eyes were for some reason drawn to where the stranger stood, but he was no longer there. She felt disappointed though she knew not why, recovering herself almost at once. ‘This is but foolish nonsense, sir! Who can say where love comes from? We find it where we least expect it and cannot love to please others. Do the poets not say that the greatest pleasure of all is to languish for a love that is not returned?’

‘Cruel! Cruel lady,’ de Froissart cried and smote his fist against his breast. ‘So be it, we shall labour for the prize of being the knight who languishes at your feet without hope for love of you.’

She turned from him at once, hiding her amusement. The Baron was indeed a charming companion and she took little notice of his teasing, for she had decided that he was not the one who had been sending her poems and flowers. She rather thought it might be one of the young pages, because she had seen him watching her with a yearning expression that had touched her heart. Life at court was sometimes difficult for the pages, who were at the beck and call of all, and she had seen more than one young boy in tears when he thought himself unnoticed.

‘You must fight for whatever pleases you,’ she replied and left him staring after her.

‘Cruel enchantress,’ de Froissart called after her. ‘You break my heart, lady.’ He waited for some response but, lost in her thoughts, she hardly heard him as she made her way towards the twisting stair that led to the turret room she shared.

Alayne’s habit of taking solitary walks about the gardens had made her aware of such things. She sometimes saw a snatched kiss or a clandestine meeting between a lady and her knight, but she kept such glimpses to herself; these things were secret and must be respected, and the tears of a page were every bit as sacrosanct to Alayne. She had once given a scarf to a boy in tears, doing her best to comfort him after his master had beaten him. She rather suspected it might be this boy who had been leaving tributes for her.

Walking up the curving flight of stone steps that led to her solar in the west tower, she was thoughtful. It might not be Baron de Froissart who had been leaving her tributes, but she had a feeling that he was taking an interest in her. She was not sure how she would react if he made a direct appeal to her as a potential lover. She did not think she would mind being kissed and treated as an object of reverence and desire—but what if he demanded more?

Alayne’s marriage had taught her what brutes men could be at certain times, especially if their desires were frustrated. Some of the ladies talked of the joys of fine love, but could it ever be as sweet as the troubadours claimed in their songs? Alayne’s own experience had been very different, and she recalled her marriage, which had in truth been no marriage, with only horror and revulsion.

Alayne shared her chamber with Marguerite de Valois and was not surprised that the lady was already there, changing from her outer garments of surcote and heavy wool tunic into a softer, lighter robe of cloth of silver, which she covered by an over-gown of deep blue. She smiled as Alayne entered and began to disrobe, taking off her plain white wimple. The wimple covered her head entirely and was more modest when out riding than the fantastic headdresses that the ladies adopted for court wear.

‘Did you chance to see Sir Ralph de Banewulf in the hall?’ Marguerite asked as Alayne shook her head, letting the shining mass of dark hair tumble down her back. ‘My father told me he was expecting to see him here by today at the latest. He brings letters from the English King to her Majesty.’

‘I saw someone new,’ Alayne said. ‘A tall, dark man, rather stern looking—’ She broke off as she remembered his eyes and the way he had seemed to stare at her.

‘Yes, I dare say that was he. His mother was cousin to my father. Sir Ralph is widowed these five years. His wife died some weeks after giving birth to their son. She was very beautiful and they say he still grieves for her.’

‘That is sad,’ Alayne said, remembering the brooding, almost haunted expression she had seen in the stranger’s eyes. ‘Such faithful devotion to a wife’s memory is not often found.’

‘No, that is true. Most men marry again as soon as possible for the sake of getting more heirs. I think he must have loved her very much. It is romantic—like the songs the troubadours sing for us.’

‘Yes, it would seem so,’ Alayne agreed, remembering the expression in the newcomer’s eyes. Perhaps that explained his stern manner. He was hiding his grief. ‘I did not think men married for love. It was not so in my case. My husband’s lands joined my father’s on one side. They arranged the match between them for their mutual benefit. My father said they were both stronger for the alliance, more able to defend their own demesne from any attack. My son was to have inherited all their lands in time and my father was disappointed that I did not give him the grandson he craved.’

‘But you were married only a few weeks.’

‘My husband had an accident the day after our wedding. He—he was drunk and fell down the stairs.’ Alayne’s eyes held the sparkle of tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to weep. ‘He broke his back, but did not die at once. I nursed him for some weeks, but he did not recover.’

She turned away as the bitter memories crowded into her mind and would not be denied. Baron Humbolt had cursed her with his every breath, blaming her for his inability to be a true husband to her. His hatred had been hard for a young girl to bear, as had the cruel, crude language he used to her—the language of the stews. Almost as humiliating as the way he had tried to use her on the wedding night.

But she would not think of that! She had promised herself that she would never allow another man to humiliate her in that way.

‘I am so sorry,’ Marguerite said. ‘It is little wonder that you have no wish to marry again. My father says it is almost time to arrange my marriage…’ She broke off and sighed deeply. ‘I hope he chooses someone kind, someone I can like.’

‘He has not spoken of his choice for you?’

‘Not yet, though…I think he may have someone in his thoughts, but I cannot be sure.’

Alayne guessed what was in her mind. ‘You think he may approach his kinsman? Sir Ralph de Banewulf?’

Marguerite blushed. ‘Perhaps, but I must not presume. These things are a matter for discussion and contract. Sir Ralph may not wish for such a match.’

‘Is there no one you like? Someone you would choose to marry if you could?’

Marguerite’s blush deepened. She hesitated for a moment, conscious of Alayne’s eyes on her, then said, ‘There might be, but he has not yet won his knighthood. My father would never permit me to wed a lowly squire.’

‘Does he love you?’ Alayne was intrigued. She was not sure why, but she had the feeling that her friend was not telling her the whole truth. There was someone—but was it really a squire who had yet to win his spurs? ‘Do you love him?’

‘It would be foolish of me to love him,’ Marguerite said and for a moment sadness flickered in her lovely eyes. ‘I know I must marry as my father dictates.’

‘Yes, I suppose you must.’

Alayne knew that her friend had no choice but to obey her father. Having been married and left in possession of a small but adequate fortune in her own right, Alayne had been able to seek protection from her Majesty. It was not the same for Marguerite.

‘Perhaps you will be lucky,’ she said, more to comfort her friend than in belief. ‘Come, if you are ready, perhaps we should go down. The Queen may need us.’

Marguerite nodded, smiling as if determined to banish her fears. ‘I hope Sir Ralph has arrived,’ she told Alayne. ‘I am looking forward to meeting him.’

Alayne’s thoughts returned to the man she had noticed earlier. He had seemed so cold, almost angry. Why was that? Had his expression when he looked at her been disapproval as she had at first thought or merely the sadness habitual to a man who was still grieving for the wife he had lost?




Chapter Two


T he company was very merry that night, the courtiers still teasing Alayne, the knights devising tests of skill and courage that they seemed determined to carry out in her name. She could not refrain from laughing at their foolish banter, though she continued to be firm that she would give only a trinket to the winner of the tournament and that her heart was not to be so easily won.

‘You must forgive them their foolishness,’ the Queen told her as she bid her sit on a stool at her side and tell her how this talk of a tourney had begun. It was a rare privilege to sit in the Queen’s presence and not given to many. ‘They grow restless at court and need this contest to rid themselves of too much energy. It would behove most of them to take themselves off to a war somewhere.’

‘Why do men like to fight, your Grace?’ Alayne asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘My father quarrels with his neighbours and his men fight amongst each other.’

‘It is in their nature,’ replied Queen Eleanor. ‘And a true knight is brave in battle. I have always admired Saladin, despite his infidel beliefs. He is a true man and a clever soldier—but most men are faithless and we do well to remember it, Lady Alayne. Happiness lies not in the personal life, but in power, especially if you are a queen.’

Alayne sensed that the Queen was angry, but before she could ask her what had occurred to arouse her ire, she saw that a man was approaching them. It was the man she had seen standing in the shadows of the great hall when she returned from hawking. He bowed low before the Queen, his eyes dwelling on her for a moment and seeming to register both approval and admiration.

Eleanor of Aquitaine was a handsome woman with nut-brown hair and dark eyes, but there was much more than beauty to this woman. She was clever, proud and spirited, more fitted perhaps to kingship than some men. Alayne had heard it said that she took a keen interest in matters of state, not only in her own province but in England, encouraging her sons in defiance of their father. At the moment, her eyes were flashing with annoyance and something in the way she looked at the stranger told Alayne that her anger had something to do with him.

‘So, Sir Ralph,’ she said, ‘I trust my servants have made you comfortable? You have your own chamber?’

‘Why yes, your Grace,’ he replied. ‘I did not need so much. A place to sleep by the fire in your hall would have been sufficient. I do not expect to remain more than a few days.’

‘My husband has asked weighty questions in his letters,’ Eleanor returned a little harshly. ‘It may be some weeks before I am able to find the time to answer them as I would wish. In the meantime I would not have his messenger given less than a warm welcome to my court. You must make yourself at home here, sir. We live comfortably, as you will find; there is food in plenty and entertainment. Indeed, my knights have planned a tournament in this lady’s honour. Lady Alayne will be Queen for a day and receive all the honours due her. Perhaps you might care to join in the tourney? It will help to pass the time while you wait for my answer.’

Sir Ralph bowed, his dark eyes narrowed as they centred on Alayne’s face. For a moment he was silent and she felt her cheeks grow warm under his scrutiny as he seemed to measure her. Had he found her wanting? His cold manner seemed to indicate that he had and she lifted her head proudly in response, stung by his seeming contempt. He had no right to look at her that way!

‘I have heard much of the lady,’ he said and his voice was deep and soft, sending a little shiver down her spine. ‘It is said that she has a heart of stone and cannot be won in such a contest.’

Alayne met his look without flinching, knowing that he had heard her laughing challenge to Baron de Froissart. It was disapproval she had seen in his eyes more than once, she was certain of it now! Did he think her vain, a heartless flirt who enjoyed having the knights risk life and limb in a vain effort to win her favours? For even though the contest would not be to the death, as was sometimes the case when knights sought revenge or a redress of honour, there was always a chance that they might be badly hurt or wounded.

‘I have promised no more than a token to the winner,’ she said, a look of pride on her face. She little knew how her eyes sparkled or that anger enhanced her beauty. It was a part of her witchery that she was truly unaware of the power she held over men’s hearts and bodies, the power to make them burn for desire of her. ‘It is a foolish idea, but their own. I would have no one fight for me, Sir Knight. I would advise you to ignore the challenge, for it is mere nonsense.’

‘I thank you for your advice, lady,’ he said and made her what she thought a mocking bow. She little knew that the stranger had felt the sensuality of her beauty despite himself, his body responding to her in a way that he had not felt for many years. His frown of displeasure was for himself, his own weakness, rather than for her. ‘It is many years since I took part in such a tourney and I fear I would not be a worthy challenger. You must, I pray you, excuse me.’

He bowed to the Queen once more and walked on, leaving Alayne smarting. Who was he to dismiss her in such a way? She felt as if he had thrown water in her face. She was insulted by his manner and resolved to have nothing more to do with him.

‘English manners,’ the Queen remarked wryly as he moved away. ‘You must not mind him, Alayne. The English are often arrogant and too sure of themselves. I met many such as de Bane-wulf when I resided in that land; they are as cold as their climate—though some are good men. Loyal if they give their heart to a cause, though not always with their ladies.’

It was King Henry’s infidelity that had caused her to quarrel with her husband and leave England.

Alayne was thoughtful. ‘I have heard that Sir Ralph mourns the wife he lost five years since.’

‘Yes, I have heard that too,’ the Queen said. ‘I believe I remember Berenice. Her father brought her to my court once. She was a gentle, shy girl, and fragile. She might have been better in a convent than married to a man like that.’

‘What do you mean?’ Alayne asked. ‘Is he cruel and unkind?’

‘No, I think not,’ Eleanor replied. ‘But there is passion there beneath the ice. Do not be fooled by that cold manner, Alayne. Sir Ralph is a lusty man and his wife would need to match him. I think Berenice would be too gentle, too easily crushed—poor child. She was but fourteen or so when they married, fifteen when her son was born, and delicate. She could not survive the strain of giving birth to a child and never recovered. She was struck down with some kind of wasting fever, I have heard, and died in terrible pain.’

Alayne crossed herself. ‘Poor lady. I fear there are many who die in such case, your Grace. The birthing of a babe can be a dangerous thing for women and too many are taken by a fever.’

‘It happens, particularly when the woman is too slight and fragile, but for a strong woman it is not such a terrible thing. I bore sons and lived, Alayne—and I believe you would too. If that is your reason for fearing marriage?’

Alayne shook her head, her cheeks crimson. ‘No, your Grace. I told you my story. I would have gladly given my husband a son if—if he had been other than he was.’

‘Well, well, I shall not embarrass you,’ Eleanor said and patted her cheek. ‘You know that I shall not allow you to be forced into an unhappy match, but one day you may change your mind, and then I shall be happy to give you to the man you choose to wed.’

‘I do not think that day will come.’

‘Is there no one here to stir your heart, Alayne?’

‘None that I would take to husband.’

‘Ah, then perhaps there is someone you would choose as your lover?’ Eleanor laughed as she saw her flush. ‘No, I shall not tease you. There, I release you now. Mingle with the company and send Marguerite to me. I have something I wish to say to her.’

Alayne made her curtsy and went to find Marguerite. She passed on the Queen’s message, then glanced around the large chamber, which was full of ladies and their knights, intent on making merry. A troubadour was singing a love song to a small group of ladies, who seemed entranced by his words. Several other ladies were taking their ease on banks of cushions; others sat more primly on hard wooden benches or stools, listening to conversation. The art of witty conversation was greatly prized at Queen Eleanor’s court. Alayne debated whether to join one of these groups, but decided to take one of her solitary walks instead.

She liked to walk alone in the evening air. At this time of year it did not grow dark for some hours yet and the air was warm.

As she went out into one of the many sheltered courtyards, she caught the perfume of night-scented blooms and inhaled with pleasure. A little stream tumbled over an artificial fall of rocks into a pool where tiny fish swam and Alayne stood for a while, watching them, before a slight sound behind her made her turn. A man was standing there, watching her, and the sight of him made her heart jump, though somehow she was not afraid of him, as she sometimes was of others.

‘It is late for you to be here alone, Lady Alayne.’

‘I often walk alone, sometimes in the evenings. I do not fear it while I am under the Queen’s protection, sir.’

‘There are some men for whom that would mean nothing,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘No matter how innocent the lady, some would violate her given the chance—I have seen men of that ilk here this evening. Even if you think no harm to make mockery as you do, lady, you would do well not to give them the chance to take cruel advantage of you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Her heart had quickened and now she was afraid of the intensity she saw in his eyes. He seemed to be accusing her of deliberately inciting the men who courted her. What could he mean? ‘Are you…?’ Her breath caught and she could not go on as she saw his hands clench at his sides.

‘Nay, Lady Alayne,’ he replied. ‘You have no need to fear me, for I would not violate any lady, whether she be innocent or the wickedest wench alive.’

Something in the way he was looking at her made Alayne think that he disapproved of her and she raised her head proudly. ‘You seem to criticise me, my lord. Do you think me a wicked wench because I laugh when the courtiers try to court me?’

Again, she didn’t know how tempting she was as she stood there, her head tipped back, challenging him. Had he been young and carefree, he would have been tempted to crush her in his arms and tell her that she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen—but that way lay only pain and grief and he had been burned before.

‘How can I think you anything when I do not know you?’

‘I know you heard Baron de Froissart asking me what would win my heart earlier this afternoon. I gave him no reason to hope, nor have I encouraged others. It is the way of the court to jest over such things.’

Sir Ralph bowed his head. Was it possible she was that innocent? It hardly seemed likely. She had been wed before and must surely know her own power? Once again he felt the overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, but crushed it ruthlessly. It was madness! She was not for him.

His manner was stern, seeming to disapprove as he said, ‘I beg your pardon if I have misjudged you in any part, Lady Alayne. I am a stranger here and your ways are not my ways.’

‘No. Therefore you should not judge.’

Her eyes sparkled with defiance as she met his chilling gaze. She was not used to such brusque manners from the knights who courted her with sweet words and songs—and she did not care for it.

‘You are very right,’ he agreed and inclined his head, a faint, rueful smile about his mouth, softening it so that she was suddenly aware of a foolish desire to be kissed. But not by him. No, certainly not by him! ‘I have clearly insulted you, which was not my intention. I would say only that my advice holds true. It is not wise for a woman as young and lovely as you to walk alone, either at night or during the day.’

Sir Ralph bowed to her once more, turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him in frustration. She thought him cold and arrogant, though his assurance came from within and was not the posturing of a fool. He was a man who knew his own power and authority, and lived by it. Yet beneath the ice she had sensed heat, a passion that had seemed to burn her, touching a place within her that she had believed no man could reach.

No, no, that was nonsense! She had merely found him interesting, a complex character. It was not as easy for her to read his mind as some other knights, who showed their feelings openly. What was it that he wanted to hide? And why had he chosen to warn her that she might be in danger? Was it true? Was she in danger even here?

She shivered suddenly as a chill touched her spine. Surely he was making too much of the risks? No one at court dare disobey the Queen, for she would punish them heavily if they did, especially if they flouted the rules of chivalry that she had set for her courtiers.

Alayne had always believed herself perfectly safe wherever she went at court, but now the shadow in the corners became menacing and she retraced her steps swiftly towards the hall, the light of the smoky torches and the laughter of her friends.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Baron de Froissart called to her as she made her way towards a group of ladies. ‘We wondered where you were, lady. Sir Jonquil has prepared a poem for you—will you hear him?’

‘Yes, yes, you must hear him!’ clamoured a dozen voices. ‘We want to hear his poem!’

Alayne smiled, her confidence restored in the familiar atmosphere of laughter and teasing. She was foolish to let the brooding of that strange English knight upset her!



Sir Ralph did not immediately return to the hall after leaving Lady Alayne, though he was relieved to see that she did so almost at once. He frowned as he wondered what had made him speak to her as he had. It was not his business if she chose to walk alone, nor if she flirted carelessly with men he considered unworthy. She had been married and must understand the danger she courted.

No woman could look and act as she did and be as innocent as she would have it! There was something about her that had drawn him despite himself, a witchery or enchantment that made his blood pulse in his veins. She claimed to be innocent of guile and for a moment he had almost been swayed by those proud eyes, but he had learned not be moved by a woman’s tears and looks of reproach. Berenice had been young and foolish, but the Lady Alayne was very different. Any man foolish enough to let himself be caught in her toils would surely rue the day he had met her!

Ralph had heard much of the fabled Court of Love and of the rules of chivalry surrounding it. Such nonsense would no doubt appeal to vulnerable young women, who thought it amusing to tease and arouse the men who courted them, but Ralph knew too well that all men were base. It was dangerous to walk too near the edge with men in whom the beast lived near the surface—even he had been tempted to taste the honey Lady Alayne’s lips seemed to promise and it was unkind memory, not chivalry, that had held him from the brink. If it were not for the memory of another woman’s tears… His thoughts were diverted as he heard voices, close by but in the shadows.

‘De Froissart wants her. If he has his way, she will be his lover and perhaps more ere too long has passed.’

‘He plays games. She is not to be won so easily. She ignores my tributes as she ignores me. She has set her face against marriage and cannot be reached.’

Two men were arguing, their voices sour and heated, and Ralph sensed instinctively that they were discussing the Lady Alayne.

‘But if she were to change her mind?’ the first man said. ‘This tourney in her honour may win her. You know how the ladies love to watch good sport, and she will be the Queen of the day. Her head may be turned by all the excitement. De Froissart is a past champion. There are few that could succeed against him. He will win the right to court her and, if she yields to him as a lover…’

‘You think her father would demand marriage as the price of her honour if he knew?’

‘The Baron de Robspierre seeks power and fortune. De Froissart is rich enough and popular at court. I have heard him speak of winning honour at England’s court. The lady’s father would welcome such a match.’

‘I would see him dead first!’

‘Then you must enter the lists against him. You must receive her favour. Gain her confidence and make her like you. All the ladies love a brave warrior. Many a wench has fallen into my arms after watching me fight. Take her while she is hot for you! Once she is yours, you may find a way to tame her.’

‘I have not the skill to defeat de Froissart in a tourney. Others, yes; I believe I might prevail with them, but de Froissart is a mighty warrior.’

‘Play the coward’s part and you will lose your chance.’

‘I have a plan…’

The voices were growing fainter, as though the men had walked on. Ralph strained to listen, but he could no longer hear what they said and was unsure which direction they had taken. He did not know the voices, but recognised the greed and evil that drove them to their wicked plotting.

Ralph had made inquiries concerning the Lady Alayne earlier that evening, for she intrigued him and he knew that she was wealthy in her own right, but she was also her father’s heiress for he had no other children and no brothers or close kin. It seemed that Alayne was even more vulnerable than Ralph had first thought. Her beauty and that way of smiling, that hint of pleasure that lay deep in her eyes, that warm, sensual allure she exuded without being aware of it, were all potent and enough to make her a prize for any man even had she not been wealthy.

His warning, delivered in a moment of anger, though more with himself than her, had been against violation of her person and her trust, but now it appeared that she was in danger of losing much more: her freedom and perhaps even her life one day. For such men as he had overheard were ruthless and she would be but a pawn in this plotter’s game.

Something deep inside him rose up to deny such an eventuality. No, they should not harm her! Not while he lived. The next moment he gave a harsh laugh at his own reaction.

What was it to him? She had shown her feelings openly. She did not like him. She had been angered and insulted by his advice earlier. If he tried to warn her of this plot, she would probably not believe him. Besides, what did he really know?

He had heard two faceless voices speaking in the dark, discussing the tourney. No doubt many of the knights had spoken in similar terms of their chances of winning the lady’s favour. One of those he had heard wished to gain the lady for himself, most likely because of the rich lands her father owned and the fortune her husband had left her. Her father and husband had clearly thought to unite their lands through the lady’s sons, but she had none and was therefore the greater prize for unscrupulous men. Once married, her husband would own all that was hers, and if her father should die soon after a vast fortune would be the husband’s for the taking. She would be her husband’s possession, his chattel, to use as he would. That thought turned Ralph’s stomach sour and made him scowl in the darkness.

Ralph scorned the greed that spurred such men, but he knew it to be a powerful vice. He had married for a far different reason, and yet he had brought Berenice nothing but pain and a cruel death. He was as base as any other of his sex, though he had strived to be better, to earn back his self-respect, and he had suffered for his carelessness.

He could not stand idly by if the Lady Alayne was in some danger, for he would be as guilty then as he was of Berenice’s death. If he had acted differently that day…if he had only taken the trouble to try and understand his wife…but that way lay only madness. He could not give Berenice back her life, but he might help Alayne.

Should he speak to the Queen about what he had heard? Ralph knew that Eleanor had been angered by the tone of Henry’s letters and what she had heard of her husband’s infidelity. It was unlikely that she would listen to anything Henry’s messenger had to say, especially as he could offer no proof.

He would be foolish to try. Ralph wrestled with his thoughts. He was not responsible for Lady Alayne’s safety! She was nothing to him, nor could she ever be. Yet something about her had stirred feelings he’d believed long dead, buried beneath a mound of grief and anguish.

He had been bidden to languish here at Poitiers until the Queen was disposed to answer her husband’s letters. That might be a matter of days, weeks, or months. The time would hang heavy on his hands, yet he would use it to discover what he could about the men who plotted to use Lady Alayne for their own ends. Perhaps if he had proof, the Queen would listen if the lady would not?

Until he had overheard that whispered plotting, Ralph had considered Baron de Froissart the lady’s greatest risk amongst the knights. He was clearly enamoured of her and meant to seduce her if he could with sweet words and brave deeds, but these other, secret plotters were a more potent danger. They planned to take by stealth what the lady would not give willingly, and that was something no true knight could ignore. He was bound by his oaths of sacrifice and chivalry to protect the innocent and punish evil.

Ralph decided that he must do what he could to save the lady from the evil that threatened her, even if he earned naught but her scorn for doing so. Perhaps if he could help an innocent lady—for in his heart he believed her thus, despite her flashing eyes and enticing smiles—he would in some small way repay his debt to Berenice.



Alayne and Marguerite helped each other undress. They both had serving wenches to care for their clothes and wait on them when they required service, but they often sent the girls to their pallets of straw early out of pity. It was a hard life at the palace for serving wenches. They spent their time fetching and carrying from dawn until dusk, snatching food in the kitchen from the remains of what was brought to the nobles’ table, and avoiding the clutching hands of both the serving men and their masters. There were a brood of their children somewhere about the palace, born in corners and hidden by their mothers until they were old enough to become of use in the kitchens or stables.

‘Sir Ralph spoke to me,’ Marguerite said, a flicker of pleasure in her pretty face as she unfastened Alayne’s intricate headdress and removed it for her, laying it on an oak coffer beneath the narrow arched window. It was dark outside now, for a cloud had passed across the moon. ‘He seems a very perfect knight, chivalrous and kind. Did you chance to meet him, Alayne?’

‘Her Majesty introduced us,’ Alayne said, deciding to say nothing of her further meeting with the English knight. ‘He did not say very much, except that he had no wish to fight in the tourney.’

‘He was knighted by the English King,’ Marguerite said. ‘I believe he was a favourite at that court before his marriage. He served the King in his struggles with rebellious nobles, so I have heard. I do not think him a coward, Alayne, even if he does not wish to fight.’

‘No, I think perhaps you are right,’ Alayne said, remembering the hint of steel in his voice as he had warned her against the folly of walking alone in the evening. ‘I dare say he thinks such pastimes foolish and a waste. If he fights, he does so in a good cause, I would judge.’

She had helped Marguerite to remove her headdress and now she pulled off her own tunic and ran barefoot to the bed in her shift, seeking the warmth to be found beneath the heavy coverlets. Even in summer the stone walls of the palace kept out the heat, and in winter it was so cold that they slept beneath piles of furs on top of their silken quilts.

They had undressed by the light of one rush tallow, which Mar-guerite extinguished before she joined Alayne beneath the covers.

‘May God bless and keep us both this night,’ she said and crossed herself. ‘I think I like Sir Ralph,’ she whispered softly as she settled down to sleep.

Alayne smiled to herself in the darkness. Marguerite clearly believed her father would do his best to arrange a match between her and the English knight, and seemed content that it should be so—despite her confession that she loved another.

Of course Marguerite had no choice but to obey her father, as Alayne had had none at the time of her marriage. She was not cold, but a little shiver ran down her spine as she remembered her horror on learning that she was to wed a man of her father’s age, and the fear had begun as she saw the way he looked at her. Then, on her wedding night, when she had bolstered her courage to the limit to accept whatever he did to her, she had discovered that he was incapable of bedding her.

A tear trickled from the corner of her eye as she recalled his efforts and his abuse. When at last he had realised it was useless, he had struck her across the face, making her lip bleed. She had wept into her pillow as he left her bed, swearing and cursing her as though his inability was her fault. She had not known it then, but he had spent the night drinking strong wine, and in the morning he had greeted her with more drunken fumbling and abuse.

Leaving her to weep again, he had gone charging from her chamber and tumbled headlong down the stone steps of the tower. It would have been better if he had died instantly, for his back was broken and he was in terrible pain from that moment on until he finally died. Alayne had taken the brunt of his cruelty as she nursed him, ridden all the while with guilt—for it must surely have been something in her that had made him unable to be her husband. He had told her that she was a cold bitch and no proper woman.

His accusations and bitter curses had made her life miserable until he finally died, mercifully, in his sleep one night. Alayne had given thanks for her release and his, but then her father had told her that within six months she would be married again.

‘You are too young to be a widow,’ he had told her. ‘Besides, if we are clever, we may find another suitor of more consequence than your fool of a husband, Alayne. Valmont’s lands are not adjacent to ours, but they are near enough to make it a good choice. And there is always de Bracey…’

‘Never!’ Alayne cried, turning pale. ‘I do not know how you could suggest it, Father. That man is—’ She shivered and could not go on. ‘He frightens me. Besides, you quarrelled with him over land that he stole from you.’

‘All the more reason that you should wed him,’ her father said. ‘Your sons will inherit it all, Alayne. Think of that—think of the power such a fortune will bring to your sons.’

Alayne pushed the thoughts from her mind. She had believed them almost banished, but the English knight had brought them back to her with his warnings. She ought to know that men had their baser side, for she had witnessed it at the hands of her husband and her father. Her father had struck her when she defied him, threatening to force her to obey him, but she had outwitted him and lived safe at court these many months. Yet her mind was never quite at ease, for she knew that her father was a stubborn man and would not easily relinquish his plans for her.

She closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind so that she could sleep, but all she could see was the face of the English knight. His eyes seemed to burn with a fire that seared deep into her soul, causing her to moan softly and bite her lip. No man before him, not even de Froissart, had managed to make her so restless. There was inside her a yearning, a need that she could not identify, but she knew it had begun when he’d looked at her so strangely in the walled garden.

‘Why do you plague me so?’ she asked him in her thoughts. She had been at peace with herself until he came, but something had changed and she was not sure why he troubled her so.




Chapter Three


I t was a part of Alayne’s duty to wait on the Queen in the morning, taking her the cup of sweet wine that she drank on breaking her fast and helping her to rise and dress for the day.

‘I have given permission for the tourney,’ she told Alayne as she drank deeply from the cup, the wine having first been tasted by the servant who brought it to her chamber. ‘It will take place next week. Today is Saturday and tomorrow is the Lord’s day, so we may not begin until the following day. The heralds shall announce it and ride into the villages about so that the people may come hither to enjoy the spectacle. We shall proclaim it a day of feasting and rejoicing.’

‘I believe the knights are excited about the contest,’ Alayne said. ‘I must think of a suitable token to give the winner.’

‘It need be no more than a scarf or a trinket,’ the Queen said. ‘Yet I think they hope for something more.’

‘Then they hope in vain,’ Alayne said with a frown. ‘But I will not give so little as a scarf. They must fight for something of value. I shall give my gold bangle that was a wedding gift from my father.’

‘Is that the one wrought with vine leaves in the style of the Romans?’

‘Yes, the very one,’ Alayne said, looking pleased because the Queen knew of it. ‘Do you think it suitable?’

‘It is very fine work and quite valuable,’ Eleanor said. ‘Are you sure you wish to give it, Alayne?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Alayne assured her. It was less personal than a scarf would be and, although she thought it pretty, it reminded her of things she would rather forget. ‘I have others I prefer.’

‘Then so be it—the bangle shall be the prize,’ the Queen said and nodded. She gave a sigh and frowned as if something displeased her. ‘It would be exciting if we had a new champion this time. De Froissart usually wins and it grows stale to see him vanquish them all. I think it a shame that he does not take himself off to join the Knights Templars and fight in a worthwhile cause.’

‘I have heard that the Baron de Froissart fought in the crusade as a young lad, your Grace.’

‘Indeed, he did,’ she said and smiled. ‘I was there and saw him win high favours, which he had from my first husband’s hand. He was a page of no more than eleven then and fought as bravely as any squire. He was seventeen when he earned his spurs. None can call him a coward and, since he chooses to languish at our court, we must accept him—but I still think it a shame that he wastes his skills in play when he might fight in a more worthy cause.’

Alayne smiled and made no comment. The Queen liked strong brave men about her, and she would not really want de Froissart to leave her court. She was out of temper over something, and Alayne suspected it was to do with the letters from her husband, King Henry II of England. It was whispered that he had several times been unfaithful to her and that she had left him because of it.

Eleanor of Aquitaine was a powerful woman and a wealthy heiress. Her lands were coveted by many, but she guarded them fiercely and quarrelled with her husband instead of giving him the homage that she should as his wife.

When the Queen was ready, she asked several of her ladies to walk with her in the palace grounds. Alayne was of the party chosen, and as she strolled in the sunshine, chattering idly with her friends, she thought about de Froissart. He had won the last three tournaments, which was of course why he had suggested a tourney. She knew he hoped for a prize other than the bangle she had offered, but she was not sure of her feelings towards him.

It was true that he sometimes made her heart race when he teased her. Occasionally he would let his hand brush against hers, and he had recently twice helped her dismount from her palfrey. She had sensed that he wished to kiss her, and when he talked of fine love she knew that he meant he wanted to make love to her in the manner the troubadours sang of, with gentle wooing and languishing looks, the touch of a hand, and a stolen kiss—but for how long would he be satisfied with such privileges?

She could not allow the ultimate intimacy for which he longed. By the rules of courtly love it was for her to allow or to deny; this was her privilege as the lady in the affaire. To be kissed, touched with reverence, courted as an object to be admired and worshipped from afar—yes, she could accept and even welcome such a love. But in her heart she knew that that would not suffice for long. Allowed such privileges, a lover would want more and she could not. She could not!

‘What troubles you, sweet lady?’

Alayne jumped as the man who had been uppermost in her thoughts caught up with them, matching his steps to hers as she strolled in the gardens. She glanced round and saw that the Queen had turned back with her ladies. She had been dreaming and not realised that they were returning to the palace.

‘I was thinking,’ she said and smiled at him as he reached for her hand, raising it to his lips to kiss it lightly on the back. The look he gave her seemed to bathe her in warmth and a little tingle of pleasure ran down her spine as he released her hand. He was gentle and courteous, and it was pleasant to be courted in this way. If she had not experienced her husband’s vile baseness, she might have welcomed de Froissart’s courtship. ‘So it seems you will have your way over the tourney, my lord. Are you pleased?’

‘It is a matter of sport only,’ he said and for a moment his eyes met hers and there was no laughter in them. ‘Do not fear that I shall press for more than you wish to give, my lady. You are beautiful and you must have guessed that I languish for love of you—but I would not have you less than willing. I may win the tourney, but it gives me nothing I had not before.’

Alayne’s heart beat faster. He was charming and she found him pleasing, but still there was a reserve in her. Besides, he did not arouse that restlessness in her that the English knight had done with just a look!

‘I have given a bangle as your prize, Sir Knight, but you have not won it yet.’ Her eyes teased him. It was pleasant to idle in the sun and talk this way with a friend. ‘There may come a challenger to unhorse you.’

‘I wish it might be so,’ he said and sighed, and for the first time Alayne saw the truth of his heart, realising that there was more to this knight than she had previously imagined. ‘I grow stale and bored at this court, Lady Alayne. It is only your presence that keeps me languishing here.’

‘Then perhaps you should go,’ she suggested. ‘Where would you go, my lord?’

‘To England,’ he replied. ‘I have heard that there are unruly barons there that plague the King and I would take service with him.’

‘You do not think of taking the Cross again?’

‘I have been to the Holy Land,’ de Froissart replied. ‘I paid my dues to the church. In truth, I have thought of other things…’ He shook his head. ‘No, the time is not right. Forgive me, lady. I know this kind of talk does not please you.’

Alayne stared at him in surprise. His words seemed to hint at something she had not suspected. She had thought he teased her merely in the hope of becoming her lover, but it seemed he thought of deeper matters. She turned away from him, walking back to join the Queen and her ladies as they went into the palace.

‘Where have you been?’ Marguerite asked her. ‘Her Majesty says she will sit in the walled garden this afternoon with her tapestry. She wants you to sort her silks for her because you have the best eye for colour. I gave her the wrong blue last time and we had to unpick the stitches.’

Alayne nodded. She would be glad of something to occupy her mind. She had thought herself safe to indulge in a mild flirtation with de Froissart, but if he wanted her as his wife… She shook her head. No, she did not want to be his wife. She did not want to be any man’s wife!

‘I was dreaming,’ she answered her friend. ‘And de Froissart stopped me. I did not realise you had turned back.’

As they entered the palace, she turned round to glance back. There was no sign of Baron de Froissart, but she saw the English knight looking at her and he was frowning again. Why did he always seem to frown at her? What had she done that made him so disapproving?

Alayne’s heart jerked and then raced wildly, her breathing becoming almost painful. His eyes seemed to penetrate her mind, to seek out her thoughts, to strip her naked to his gaze. And he did not appear to be pleased with what he saw. Oh, what did it matter?

And why could she not simply dismiss him from her thoughts?



Ralph set out to follow de Froissart a few moments after Alayne had disappeared inside the palace with the other ladies. He had not meant to listen to their conversation, but what he had chanced to hear had made him realise that the lady had little to fear from that knight. It seemed that he had misjudged de Froissart; he wished to marry her and that would be the best thing that could happen to her. Once she was safely wed, she would no longer be at the mercy of unscrupulous rogues who sought her for her fortune. De Froissart was in love with her and he had an adequate fortune of his own.

There was no doubt that it would be a good match for Alayne. She needed an iron hand in a velvet mitt to tame her, for there was fire in her though she pretended to modesty. The baron loved her and was therefore the best person to be on the watch for her safety. Besides, Ralph had been thinking about that whispered conversation and he suspected that whoever had been thinking of entering the lists against de Froissart plotted some mischief. It would be as well to warn the baron of his own danger and Alayne’s.

He was out of sight of the palace and at the edge of the forest when he heard the shouts and sounds of fighting. Someone was being attacked! Ralph was wearing court dress and no armour, but he did have his sword at his side. He found it wiser to have his weapon to hand at all times when outside the palace.

Running towards the sounds of the struggle he saw what he had half-expected to find—the Baron de Froissart was surrounded by six ruffians. They were not knights but stout fellows armed with cudgels and were laying about de Froissart as if they meant to kill him. Giving a cry of outrage at such knavery, Ralph charged into the fray, his sword drawn. As they heard his battle cry the men turned, looked startled, and then fled as one into the forest.

Ralph did not bother to give chase. De Froissart was lying on the ground and, from the moans issuing from his lips, Ralph knew that he had not arrived in time to save him from injury. He knelt on the ground at his side, turning him over gently and frowning as he saw the blood on his head and more seeping through the sleeve of his tunic.

‘Forgive me, I should have come sooner,’ he said as he helped the baron to rise and heard his muffled cry of pain. ‘What harm have those scurvy knaves done you, sir? I think you have suffered a wound to your arm, but what more?’

‘A few blows to the head, but I think my right arm is worst. It may be broken.’ A moan of pain broke from the baron, but he gritted his teeth and allowed his rescuer to tend him.

Ralph gently rolled back his sleeve and examined the arm with gentle fingers, then he nodded his head. ‘Yes, I believe there may be some damage, but not, I think, a serious break. Let me help you back to the palace and summon a surgeon, my friend. I think you will mend in time for I have seen much worse wounds than this recover.’

‘I thank you for your help,’ de Froissart said, swaying slightly as Ralph helped him to his feet. ‘Had you not arrived, I fear they would have killed me.’

‘I had not realised you were in danger until this morning,’ Ralph said. ‘I knew someone meant to win that tournament and the Lady Alayne by fair means or foul—but I am at fault, for I did not realise this was his plan, to disable you first.’

‘Pray tell me more!’ de Froissart glared at him. ‘Do you say this was a plot to stop me taking part in the tourney?’

‘I believe it may have been,’ Ralph replied. ‘It was to warn you of a possible plot against you that I followed you when you left the Lady Alayne a few minutes ago. I believe someone is desperate to win her and her fortune and will do whatever he thinks necessary to stop any rival from carrying her off as his bride.’

‘What knave has done this? I’ll spit him like the swine he is!’ de Froissart cried and then half-fell as the pain in his arm almost overcame him. ‘At least, I shall when I am myself again.’

‘I know not his name. I heard only a few whispers last night in the gardens.’ Ralph smiled at his frustration. ‘At first I did not realise what they meant and then it was too late to discover the identity of the plotters. I can promise you the time will come when you may repay this debt,’ he said, ‘but not soon enough for you to win the tourney.’

‘But that was his purpose!’ de Froissart said and winced as he tried to move his arm. ‘If I do not take part, some other fool will win the chance to court her—possibly Baron de Bracey’s son Renaldo. I know his father covets her lands and he covets her. Between them they are the veriest rogues, the son worse than the father. This is the kind of thing they would plot between them!’

‘There were two of them,’ Ralph agreed. ‘One seemed to hesitate while the other ordered. It may be that you are right and it was de Bracey and his son. I do not think I know them, but you will have your squire point them out to me and I shall keep an eye on them.’

‘But you must do more than that,’ de Froissart said and halted his slow, painful walk to fix him with a fierce stare. ‘You must enter the lists and defeat de Bracey. If he wins, Alayne must let him be her champion for at least a few hours and I do not trust that scurvy knave. He will find some way to take advantage of her.’

‘I believe you care for the lady?’

‘Damn your eyes! What business is it of yours?’ de Froissart growled. ‘If you must know, I would marry her if she would have me—but that father of hers soured her for marriage. She was forced to take a man near old enough to be her grandfather and I believe he treated her badly, though she will never speak of it to anyone. The Queen whispered to me that she was most unhappy in her marriage and would not easily trust another man, and so I have been gentle in my courtship of her. I cannot tell whether she loves me in return—but I would do whatever she asked of me.’

‘You would protect her,’ Ralph agreed, ‘and she is in sore need of protection. We must do something to make certain that de Bracey’s son cannot win the right to court her. Is there no one apart from me who would fight in your stead?’

De Froissart’s eyes narrowed in reply. ‘I have heard that you are a worthy fighter, de Banewulf. Fight as my champion and protect the lady from those rogues, for my arm will not be stout enough to do it myself.’

‘It is a while since I entered the lists,’ Ralph replied reluctantly. He had no love of the tourney—too many men were injured in what was a vain cause and he fought only in a just one. ‘I train as always, for I believe it keeps the body well and the mind alert—but I have no heart for fighting. The last time I fought I killed a man who was my friend. I fought in anger and vowed I would not fight other than for my King and country again.’

‘We have all done things we would rather forget,’ de Froissart said, his interest caught by Ralph’s unthinking confession. ‘Did you intend to kill him?’

‘No. He was trying to tell me something I did not wish to hear,’ Ralph said. ‘I grew angry and we fought. I knocked him to the ground and he struck his head against a metal anvil—we were in the stable-yard near the blacksmith’s forge—and his skull cracked open. We did all we could to save him, but it was hopeless. Later, as he lay dying, he told me that he had lied to make me angry to bring me out of my grief, and then he smiled at me before he died.’

‘What was the lie that made you so angry?’

‘He told me that the child that led to my wife’s death was not mine but his.’ Ralph’s face was dark with sorrow. ‘But he lied and I knew that he lied. My anger was as much for myself as for him. I killed her by my unkindness and I killed him in my anger. For a time I considered taking up the Cross as my penance, but I knew that I was not worthy. God’s knight must be worthy of the honour to bear his symbol.’

‘I know what you mean,’ de Froissart said, nodding. ‘I too have killed in anger and that is why I will not take up the Cross again—but you wrong yourself, de Banewulf. You did only what other men have done before you and your sin is not so great as many.’

‘Yet I cannot forgive myself.’

‘Then make this tourney your penance.’ de Froissart threw the challenge at him. ‘If you feel you owe your friend and your wife a debt, take up the sword in their names as well as mine. For if you do not, I fear for the Lady Alayne’s safety.’

Ralph stared at him in silence for a long moment, and then inclined his head. It meant that he must break a sacred vow, but he would speak to the priest and ask for a penance to set him free.

‘I shall do as you ask, but I cannot promise that I shall be victorious. I have trained with my men as I told you, but I have not fought to win since the day I killed Christian Payton.’

‘Have the surgeon patch me up and I shall watch you train,’ de Froissart told him. ‘Then we shall see what we shall see…’

‘You should be in your bed, my friend.’

‘I am no weakling,’ de Froissart growled and stifled a moan of pain. ‘Let me only have my arm bound and give me a glass of good strong wine and I will watch you fight. Aye, and cheer the loudest of them all when you beat those knaves!’

Ralph smiled, realising that he had begun to like the man despite himself. ‘I bow to your judgement and pray that I may do your faith in me justice.’



Alayne listened to the gossip circulating that evening. The courtiers could talk of nothing but the attack on Baron de Froissart. Most cried shame that such a thing could have happened, for it was whispered by all that whoever was behind the attack had hoped to take unfair advantage by making it impossible for de Froissart to participate in the tourney.

‘It was wicked knavery,’ Marguerite said to Alayne. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘I do not know.’ Alayne frowned. She was feeling chilled as she had on the day of the hunt, when the tourney was first suggested.

The Queen frowned over what had happened and spoke of cancelling the tournament, but the courtiers begged her not to spoil their fun, and when de Froissart put in a belated appearance at supper that evening he added his pleas to the others.

‘I beg your Grace will not cancel the tourney,’ he said in a loud voice so that all might hear him. ‘For whoever has done this thing will be thwarted by my champion if he thinks to win by foul means.’

‘Your champion?’ Everyone was agog to know who he meant and whispered one to the other as they tried to name the knight who would fight in de Froissart’s name. ‘But who will you choose? Is he a stranger to court?’

‘He has been here but a few days,’ de Froissart said and smiled at Ralph, who stood just behind him. He was in great pain, for he had drunk only wine and refused the healing potion the surgeon had given him, saying that he would not sleep until he was certain that honour had been satisfied. ‘I speak of Sir Ralph de Banewulf…’ Hearing the murmurs of surprise, he held up his uninjured arm for silence. ‘Sir Ralph saved my life, for I foolishly went unarmed too near the forest and was attacked by those foul brigands. Had he not arrived in time, I fear I might be dead—but as you see, I am not.’

Alayne’s heart caught as she heard his words. The English knight had not wanted to fight in the tourney—why had he changed his mind?

Queen Eleanor was looking at him. ‘Is this true, Sir Ralph? Do you fight as de Froissart’s champion?’

‘Yes, for he has asked it of me and I am in honour bound to do as he asks.’

She inclined her head, a little gleam in her eye. ‘I believe this tourney may be interesting after all. Since you make it a matter of honour, sir, I shall let the contest continue—with but one small change. You fight for a gold bangle and for the honour of sitting with the Lady Alayne at the high table as we feast afterwards. I know there was some foolish talk of fighting for the honour of courting the lady, but this I forbid. Whoever wins has only the bangle and her companionship for the evening, nothing more.’ Her eyes swept over the assembled company. ‘Do you all agree, good knights?’

There were murmurs of agreement all round, but Ralph noticed the scowling faces of a few knights, and he whispered to de Froissart who looked in the direction of two men standing together. It was clear by their harsh dark looks that they were father and son, though the father had run to fat, his face and hands podgy and white. If he was not mistaken, the knave was riddled with the pox, thought Sir Ralph—and that was the man who had thought to seize the Lady Alayne for himself! Or was it for his son? The younger man looked healthier, but his mouth was vicious.

No, by heaven, they should not have her! Ralph made the silent vow to himself, angered that they should have dared to think themselves worthy to approach her. Yet they had thought to steal her from de Froissart by secretly disabling him—perhaps they had thought to murder him, and might have had he not overheard their plotting.

‘I am so sorry you are wounded, sir.’

Hearing a gentle voice behind them, Ralph saw that the Lady Marguerite had approached them and was talking to de Froissart.

‘It was a mere scratch,’ de Froissart replied nobly, if not entirely truthfully.

‘You should be resting. It was a mercy that Sir Ralph was close by to help you, my lord.’

‘I have much to thank him for,’ de Froissart replied.

Ralph’s attention wandered, his eyes searching the company, looking for Alayne. She was standing a little apart from the other ladies, a pensive expression on her face that touched him. Why was she so sad? He had thought her light-hearted and teasing, a temptress who enjoyed her power over the knights, but now, seeing her when she thought herself unobserved, he realised that there was more to the lady than he had first thought.

‘Excuse me, I shall leave you for a moment,’ he said to de Froissart, but was cut off as the Queen stood up to address her company.

‘I do not know whether the attack on Baron de Froissart was by brigands or not,’ she said and her expression was stern. ‘But if I discover that this was an attempt to stop him fighting in the tourney—or if anything similar should happen to his champion—I shall banish the perpetrators for life, and their estates shall be forfeit.’

There was a gasp of surprise from the courtiers, for this was a harsh punishment and they had seldom heard their Queen speak so coldly to them. It was clear that she was very angry, and that she would not hesitate to carry out her threat if she were disobeyed. Banishment from the court and the confiscation of lands was something that most knights would not risk. Defeat in the tourney meant the loss of armour, but that was a mere trifle compared with this threat.

‘Did someone try to harm you because of the tourney?’ Marguerite asked and looked at de Froissart in distress. ‘That was a terrible thing to do, sir.’

‘We may never know their reason,’ was all that de Froissart would say. ‘I thank you for your concern, but I think that if you will excuse me, lady, I must follow your advice and seek my bed.’

Marguerite looked concerned. ‘Yes, of course. Do you wish for help?’

‘My friend here will help me. I fear I should be too heavy a burden for you, fair lady.’ He made her a shaky bow and then hissed at Ralph. ‘Get me out of here!’

‘Foolish,’ Ralph scolded as he put his arm about the baron, who was almost fainting on his feet, but had insisted on accompanying him to the hall. He forgot his intention to seek out Alayne as he hastened to assist de Froissart. ‘Come, I shall see you to your bed—and you shall take the surgeon’s potion to make you sleep or I shall know the reason why. I need your help to hone my skills in the morning or this tourney will be lost—and, despite the Queen’s decree, I dare swear the victor will claim his rights as he sees fit.’

‘And you must be the victor,’ de Froissart said and scowled at him. The pain in his arm was fierce, but it receded a little as they argued, which was of course the other’s intent. ‘You fight well enough, but must put your heart into it, de Banewulf. As my champion you shall not shame me—or you shall answer for it when I am well again.’

Ralph laughed, though he believed the threat real enough. They understood each other and had formed a bond of friendship. De Froissart was a true knight and would make the Lady Alayne a good husband. Something deep inside Ralph protested at the thought of her wed to any knight other than himself, but he quashed it ruthlessly. She was not for him. He would not take another bride.

Alayne watched as they left the hall together. She had been shocked and distressed to hear the news of such a wicked assault on the baron, the more so because she was afraid that de Froissart might have been attacked because of her. But who would do such a thing? Surely none of the courtiers was so base as to take unfair advantage? Yet there were some that she distrusted, some she took good care to avoid.

Glancing across the room, she saw that both Baron de Bracey and his son Renaldo were present this evening. A little quiver went over her and she felt afraid. She would need no warning from Sir Ralph to stay close to her friends this night.

She was not sure which of the de Bracey men she disliked the most. The baron was revolting and diseased, if rumour be true, but the son was evil. He had come to her home with his father once as a boy and she had seen him tormenting her kittens. When she had remonstrated with him, he had laughed in her face and told her she would wake up and find them missing one day. She never had, but she had lived in fear of it for months.

And this was the family into which her father would have her marry! She knew her father did not hold her in affection, but how could he contemplate such a match? She had only seen the de Bracey men at court a few times; they were not popular and did not come as often as some. Why were they here now? Was it possible that Baron de Bracey had made up his differences with her father? Her father would force her into any marriage that showed him some advantage, she knew—but she would rather die than be married to either of the de Bracey men!

She looked away, controlling her feeling of revulsion towards the men as she saw the Queen beckoning to her. Crossing the room to Eleanor’s side, she made her curtsy and, taking up a lyre, began to sing for the company. She ought to have gone to de Froissart as Marguerite had, she thought regretfully. It would have been polite and kind after his courtesy to her, but his declaration that morning had made her a little afraid of him. As a courtly lover she found him acceptable, but as a husband…no, that was impossible. Alayne sighed. She was not sure that she would ever find any man acceptable to her in that way.

Yet even as she denied it, the features of the English knight came to her mind. She recalled the way his eyes had seemed to devour her in the garden the previous night, his expression in part angry, in part—what? Perhaps hungry was the best way to describe the look he had given her. She could not be sure. She knew only that she had not felt the fear or revulsion that came to her when other men looked at her that way.

There was something that drew her to Ralph de Banewulf, though she was afraid to admit it, even to herself. It could not be that she had begun to fall in love with him—could it?

No, no, she was sure that she could never love, so what was it that caused such restlessness in her, making it almost impossible for her to sleep? Why was it that she had such fevered dreams, dreams in which the English knight took her in his arms and kissed her so sweetly that it made her whole body sing?



Sunday was for devotion and Alayne attended mass four times in the royal chapel. At all other times there was feasting, music and dancing in the halls of the palace, but on the Lord’s day the courtiers were expected to be sober and respectful.

The ladies spent most of the day at their devotions and their needlework, while the men often went out riding. Alayne suspected that they sometimes found taverns in the villages where they could drink and sport with the wenches, though, of course, some of the knights were genuinely devout and refrained from sport of any kind.

It was after supper, which the Queen had taken privately rather than in the hall, that she first heard the whisper from Marguerite.

‘They say that Sir Ralph asked her Majesty’s permission to keep a vigil in the chapel last night,’ she told Alayne as they were going up to their chamber. An early night had been decreed so that all might be ready to gather on the common at first light for the tourney to begin. ‘It seems he had vowed never to fight in such a tourney again, and the priest granted him absolution of his vow, his penance to lie prostrate before the cross all night.’

‘I wonder why he took such a vow,’ Alayne said, her brow wrinkling in thought. ‘Do you think he had committed some great sin?’

‘My father thinks him a good man,’ Marguerite told her. ‘There are bound to be rumours, of course, but I cannot think him capable of evil. And he is devoted to his wife’s memory. She died suddenly, they say, of a fever.’

‘I thought she died after giving birth to her child?’

‘My father told me she had recovered, but then her illness returned suddenly. Sir Ralph thought she was well again and they say he blamed himself for neglecting her—but it cannot have been his fault. He is a good man, do you not think so, Alayne?’

‘Perhaps. I do not know him, but I do not think him evil,’ Alayne replied, avoiding Marguerite’s gaze. The English knight confused her and she did not wish to continue speaking of him. ‘Have you heard aught of the Baron de Froissart? I have seen nothing of him since the other night and I asked the Lady Angelica for news, but she said she had heard he was prostrate on his bed this afternoon.’

‘Well, I do not know how that may be,’ Marguerite said. ‘My father told me the baron was watching Sir Ralph practise with the sword this morning for three hours.’

Alayne nodded, looking at her curiously. ‘Has your father said anything more of your marriage?’

‘No…but he says that he may take me to the English court soon. My Uncle Godolphin is much favoured by the King and it seems that my Aunt Isabelle wishes to see me. I have cousins of marriageable age.’

‘Then mayhap your father has not made up his mind about your marriage yet,’ Alayne said. ‘Perhaps your squire may yet be knighted in time.’

‘Oh, no,’ Marguerite denied and glanced away, her cheeks pink. Alayne sensed that she was embarrassed, perhaps wished that she had not mentioned her feelings for the young squire. ‘That was but a foolish fancy. He is too young to be married and I—I believe an older man might make a better husband.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Alayne agreed, ‘though not too old. You would not like that, Marguerite, believe me. I think Sir Ralph and de Froissart are perhaps of a similar age…’

‘The Baron de Froissart is the elder of the two by some three years,’ Marguerite said and blushed again as Alayne gave her an inquiring look. ‘My father told me that Sir Ralph is the same age as my brother Eduardo and I—I know that de Froissart is older than my brother, for they were once good friends.’

‘You did not tell me that,’ Alayne said. Perhaps it was because Sir Ralph was so stern in his manner that she had thought him older. ‘I thought you did not like de Froissart?’

‘Well, it is not exactly that I do not like him…’ The lady blushed. ‘I should not have said what I did to you, Alayne. There was some quarrel between Eduardo and Pierre de Froissart when they were training together as squires. I thought it more serious than it was. My brother told me the truth of it recently and it was merely a squabble, because Eduardo was disciplined by his master—for some minor transgression that Pierre had reported. He was but thirteen at the time Pierre went off to the crusades and resented that he was too young to go with him.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Alayne replied, noticing that her friend was overcome with her embarrassment and that she had used the baron’s familiar name several times. ‘So you think that de Froissart is trustworthy after all?’

‘As much as any man,’ Marguerite said and turned away as they entered their chamber. She yawned as she disrobed, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘I am tired and we must be up early if we are to be ready in time.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Alayne replied. She was beginning to suspect that her friend was more interested in de Froissart than she would admit, and that her story of being in love with a young squire might not be true. Why should Marguerite have lied about her feelings? Unless she had believed that Alayne was interested in Baron de Froissart herself? Could she have been a little jealous and spoken hastily? ‘Goodnight, and may the Lord bless and keep us.’

Marguerite was already snuggling down beneath the covers, her eyes closed. Alayne slipped in beside her, closing her eyes and trying to sleep, but her thoughts were crowding in on her, making her restless. It seemed that Marguerite was as uncertain of her feelings as Alayne was herself—and that the girl knew the Baron de Froissart much better than she had imagined. If Marguerite’s brother had been de Froissart’s friend, it was likely that the families had met often…

Something was still puzzling Alayne as she finally fell asleep, but she could not quite grasp it. Besides, it did not matter now—far more important was the contest the next day, and the identity of the eventual winner.

As her eyes closed and she drifted into a pleasant dream, Alayne saw the face of the victor as she handed him his prize.



People were crowding on to the common land where the tourney was to be held that morning. Men, women and children of all ages, talking excitedly, the young ones running around like playful puppies, pulling at their mother’s skirt and begging for treats from the hot pie seller. When the Queen and her ladies arrived there was already a sea of faces assembled. Merchants and their wives, dressed in their best, labourers taking an unexpected holiday from their constant round of toil, beggars looking to steal or beg a few coins, peddlers carrying their wares on trays and entertainers of all kinds, the atmosphere one of excitement and anticipation.

‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Marguerite whispered to her. ‘Oh, do look at that man eating fire! It must cause him pain, wouldn’t you think?’

‘I expect it is a trick,’ Alayne said. ‘My nurse told me that all such entertainers trick us in some way.’ She smiled as she saw the doubts in Marguerite’s eyes. ‘But it is exciting to watch, I do agree with that.’

However, she could not help feeling excited herself as, with a fanfare from the heralds, she was led to the place of honour on the dais, which had been erected beneath a canopy of billowing silk. The ladies of the court were chattering, watching as she was announced the Queen of the tourney, some a little jealously, some merely pleased to be a part of all the excitement of the day.

Her heart was beating nervously as she took her seat to the cheers of the people. For one day her rule was law, at least in matters of the tourney and the knights who competed for the honour of sitting with her that night at feast. As was her due, she was being enthusiastically hailed as the Queen of Youth and Beauty, taking precedence over the true Queen for the moment.

It felt strange to be seated higher than the Queen, but, when Alayne hesitated, her friend and protector smiled at her and nodded approvingly.

‘It is your right,’ she said. ‘Be wise, my lady, for remember, today your word must be obeyed.’

‘I pray that I shall be worthy of the honour, your Majesty.’

Alayne looked about her. To one side were the tents and banners of the knights taking part in the contest. Their squires had worked through the night to have everything ready for their masters, and it was a matter of honour with them that their lord should wear the best armour and ride the best prepared charger.

‘Listen, Alayne,’ the Queen said. ‘They are ready to begin.’

The heralds had begun to blow a fanfare before announcing the names of the knights who had entered the lists. Then a great cheer went up as the people shouted for their favourites. Mounted on great chargers, the heavy horses snorting, their breath making clouds on the morning air, the knights began to parade before the courtiers. Each rode along the line of ladies and gentlemen, bringing his destrier to a halt before the ladies and bowing both to the Queen of the day and Queen Eleanor. Each knight tipped his lance in salute as he paraded and confirmed his willingness for the contest.

Some of the knights were wearing favours tied to their arms, which had been given by the ladies they admired. A few of the knights looked hopefully at Alayne, but she merely smiled. She would show favour to none, even though her heart did a strange flip when Sir Ralph de Banewulf tipped his lance to her. She noticed that he wore no favours, and that his colours of black and silver were more impressive than most. He was a proud knight, his stern features giving no sign of his own feelings about this contest.

‘I shall pray for Sir Ralph to win,’ Marguerite whispered as he rode away. ‘But it is a real challenge this time, for they say that he is not battle hardened and will not last the course.’

‘I pray that he may not be hurt,’ Alayne said and discovered that the palms of her hands were warm and damp for some reason. Why should it matter to her what happened to this knight?

‘I believe he may surprise us all,’ the Queen said, her eyes bright with anticipation. The English knight had added some spice to the tourney.

‘What will happen now?’ Alayne asked, gripping her hands tightly together so that they would not tremble and reveal her inner tension.

Queen Eleanor explained that there were different forms that a tourney could take. Sometimes the knights rode into the mêlée, meeting opponents at random, unhorsing those they could, fighting on foot if they were unhorsed for as long as they could.

‘Any who are still on their feet at the end retain their honour and their armour,’ Eleanor said. ‘However, the vanquished are obliged to give it up to the victors.’

‘Let us pray that is all they lose,’ Alayne said in a low voice that only those closest to her could hear.

She knew that sometimes those unhorsed fell, never to rise again, dying of their wounds, and carried off by faithful squires and pages. She thought that she would find it unbearable should the English knight lose not only his armour but also his life.

This day, however, the knights were to meet in single combat. To be unhorsed meant the loser must retire from the lists. Quite often a knight would be satisfied if he remained unhorsed and did not enter again, for it was often a way of settling personal quarrels, but the victors could all ride again if they wished until the last challenger was vanquished and the victor remained. The stewards of the day were responsible for matching the first pairs and they announced the names of the knights who would ride against each other in the first contest. Alayne strained to hear as the pairings were announced.

‘Sir Renaldo de Bracey to meet Sir Jonquil de Fontainbleau,’ announced the herald. ‘Lord Malmont to meet Sir Henry…’

‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite whispered, but Alayne was intent on the herald and hardly heard her. She listened carefully as the names were read out, her heart missing a beat when it was announced that the English knight would ride for Baron de Froissart against Sir William Renard.

‘Is Sir William skilled in the joust?’ Alayne whispered to Marguerite. Her nails had curled into the palms of her hands and she felt quite sick with apprehension. She was relieved when her friend gave a little shake of her head. Until this moment Alayne had not thought it mattered who won the contest, but now quite suddenly it was very important that Sir Ralph should be the victor.

‘I think it should be an easy contest for Sir Ralph,’ Marguerite whispered and Alayne breathed again.

All the knights had retired to wait until their contest was called. The first pair rode at each other furiously, the thud of their chargers’ heavy hooves and the noise of lances striking against shields making hearts beat faster. Then there was a gasp as one of the knights was unseated and only a ragged cheer for the victor.

‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite cried as he went down from the first thrust of de Bracey’s lance. ‘I fear that he is better at singing his poems than jousting.’

‘I do hope he is not badly wounded.’ Alayne watched anxiously, for Sir Jonquil was a gentle knight and one of her favourites. ‘No, he is on his feet.’ She watched as the vanquished knight tottered off the field with the assistance of his squire and page to the cheers of the crowd: Sir Jonquil was popular, the man who had defeated him was not liked. ‘I fear he will be feeling mighty sore by nightfall.’

‘I dare say his vanity is as much bruised as his body,’ Marguerite said and laughed. She was clearly enjoying the contest, as were the other ladies who watched and cheered their favourites. ‘To be vanquished so soon is a humiliating experience for any knight.’

‘He should not have entered the lists.’

‘I believe he wanted to impress a lady.’

‘Poor Sir Jonquil,’ Alayne said. ‘I hope she will not scorn him for his failure.’

‘Do you not know?’ Marguerite’s brows arched. ‘Sir Jonquil is one of your most devoted admirers. His poems and songs are all for you, and the looks he sends in your direction can leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he is devoted to you.’

‘No, no,’ Alayne denied, her cheeks heated, but she was prevented from saying more by the herald’s fanfare.

The next contest was more strongly fought, the knights riding against each other twice before one was sent flying from the saddle. He did not rise himself immediately and was carried off the field by his squire and two young pages.

‘Do you think he is badly hurt?’ Alayne asked anxiously.

‘I believe he suffered a glancing wound to his side,’ Marguerite said, ‘but he was probably winded by the fall. His armour would have protected him from the knight’s lance.’

All the knights wore a suit of chain mail beneath their tunics and surcotes, and they had a small, round, metal heaume beneath a similar covering of mail that protected their head and necks.

Five more contests took place before the one that Alayne longed and yet feared to watch. Several knights were carried from the field, but the word was that none were seriously hurt, and Alayne relaxed a little, but then it was time for Sir Ralph to ride against his opponent.

Alayne took a deep breath, her palms wet and sticky again. She wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the sight that she dreaded, yet found that she could not remove them from the English knight. She was drawn to him. His tunic was white with a black rampant lion emblazoned on the chest, his shield black and silver; it bore the same coat of arms, but with a small bear at the tip.

‘Why is the emblem on his shield different to the arms on his pennant and tunic?’ she whispered to Marguerite.

‘The bear is his own personal emblem,’ Marguerite replied and leaned forward to call encouragement to Sir Ralph. ‘It is the mark of a man who has shown great bravery in battle and granted only to a few.’

Alayne knew that the English knight was about to commence his contest, but could not call out in the way that Marguerite had, for her throat was tight with fear.

‘God be with you, sir,’ she whispered, her heart catching as the two knights rode at one another. Both lances struck, but one knight remained seated while the other went flying to the ground. Alayne let out a sigh as she saw that de Banewulf was the victor of this contest. Fortunately, the other knight seemed merely winded and after a moment was helped away by his friends.

‘It seems that Sir Ralph is more skilled than was thought,’ Marguerite said a little smile of triumph on her lips. ‘Oh, well done, sir. Bravely fought, sir knight!’

Several of the ladies were cheering, though the knights who had not chosen to take part looked glum. It seemed that de Froissart’s champion would give a good accounting of himself, and thus earn more than his share of admiration from the ladies.

But what was happening? Sir Ralph was riding towards where Alayne and the ladies sat. He tipped his lance towards them, and then cried out in a loud voice, ‘I challenge all those who would wish to ride against me. I will fight all comers in the name of Baron de Froissart, the Lady Alayne and my late wife, the Lady Berenice. If unhorsed, we will fight on in hand-to-hand combat should the unhorsed knight wish to continue.’

Alayne looked at the Queen, her heart beating wildly.

‘Can he do that?’ she asked, for she had never known such a challenge to be thrown down before. It was usual for the victors of the first round to ride perhaps twice or thrice more before the eventual victor was declared.

‘That is a matter for you, your Majesty,’ Queen Eleanor said and smiled at her. ‘Such judgements are in your power. It means that some knights will be saved from riding again, because only those that wish to fight on under the new terms need do so, while the others retire with honour—and retain their armour.’

‘I see,’ Alayne said as she realised that this would save some knights from unnecessary pain and injury. Having proved their worth by surviving the first round, they could now retire with honour and make sure of keeping their costly armour. It was a brave and generous offer on the part of the English knight, and one that she approved. She got to her feet and smiled down at Sir Ralph, taking a scarf and holding it out to him. He lifted his lance so that she could tie it on. ‘With this token I make you my champion. To win this tourney all must defeat the English knight, Ralph de Banewulf.’

‘You do me honour, lady,’ he said, saluted with his lance once more and rode away.

Alayne’s heart hammered in her breast. By throwing down his challenge, Sir Ralph had saved others pain and humiliation, but what of him? He must meet each knight who chose to ride against him, and for how long could he remain undefeated? She almost wished that she had refused permission, yet somehow she knew that he had thrown down his challenge for a reason.

‘How brave and bold he is,’ Marguerite said. ‘I do not think that many will take up the challenge.’

‘I pray they will not.’

There was an excited buzz around the field, for the contest had taken a new direction. Before it had been no different from a dozen other contests held here previously, but now a new sense of purpose held the spectators in thrall. This English knight was clearly a bold warrior for all that he had not fought a tourney for some time, and only the bravest of the French knights would dare to take up the challenge he had thrown down.

Some few minutes passed before the heralds blew a fanfare and then announced that two men had taken up the challenge. One was Lord Malmont, the other Sir Renaldo de Bracey; Lord Malmont was to try his hand first.

The two knights rode fiercely at each other; Lord Malmont’s lance snapped as it hit the shield of the English knight, but he was not thrown. He wheeled his horse about, riding back to take a new lance from his squire, and then rode hard at Sir Ralph once more. This time the blow he received lifted him in the saddle and he was thrown from his charger’s back, landing on the ground and lying as if winded for some moments, before rising to his feet.

‘Will you fight on, sir?’ Sir Ralph asked, but Malmont lifted his hands and shook his head.

‘Nay, I am well defeated, my friend. I yield to you…’ he said and then, on a little sigh, he swooned and fell to the ground once more as his squire came running to assist him.

‘Your champion does well,’ Queen Eleanor said as she leaned towards Alayne, a gleam in her eyes. ‘I think we have been misled. He is a worthier warrior than we had thought.’

‘He said only that he did not wish to fight, your Grace,’ Alayne said, feeling a strange urge to protect his honour. ‘He never claimed that he was not well able to acquit himself if he so chose.’

‘You do well to speak up for your champion,’ the Queen replied, a little smile flickering on her mouth, but quickly hidden. This tourney was proving even more amusing than she had expected.

There was a few minutes’ pause before the herald announced Renaldo de Bracey’s arrival. The two knights faced each other across the space between them and the atmosphere became suddenly tense; if all the other contests had been fought in a spirit of comradeship, this would not be. There was something about de Bracey’s manner that seemed to bode ill for the brave English knight. De Bracey was not much liked by his fellow knights, and yet he was respected for his skill with the lance and the broad sword. He would not yield so easily!





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