Anne Herries - A Perfect Knight

‘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?

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.