Chapter 11
Ranulf was not at the head of the
straggle of knights, squires, and heralds fidgeting under the
canopy opposite the Lady of Lilies’s great tent, but he was
certainly in the first rank. He had decided to come, mainly to
sport again with the princess, but also because he did not trust
Giles. Giles might be a fellow warrior, a good companion in arms,
but Giles was also a womanizer, with open, handsome looks, blue
eyes, a glib tongue, and a winning way. Ranulf never understood why
so many women found Giles appealing, that arrogance of his masked
as confidence, but then he was no girl.
The princess is my lady
for this joust. I do not want Giles casting his shadow in my
light.
And there was the delectable matter of
those missing kisses. . . .
There was a general stir and
straightening from the heralds and squires beside him, and Ranulf
waved at the emerging princess. She was in blue today, with blue
gloves, and she carried a goblet of wine in her right hand. He
waited while she saw others, intrigued as to how she managed to sip
the wine without wetting her blue veil. She had a kind word and
encouragement for every knight and squire, mixed with pithy good
sense.
“What advice for me?” he asked, when
she came to him, walking on an instant path of flowers cast by two
dark-haired children. “Does my horse need a little more training to
become used to the clash of battle? Do I hold my shield too
high?”
“Do not join in combat with a scythe,”
she replied, not at all disconcerted by his questions, or his
blatant listening in, and laughing as he laughed. “How now, my
lord?”
“Are you joining the other ladies
today?” It was a way to ask if she would watch him at the
joust.
Her dark brows drew together. “Alas,
sir, I cannot. My maid is close to her time.”
He said nothing on that matter of
women, nor on the rumor that Tancred was ill. Again, looking over
her pretty camp with the strolling musicians and flower-clad
children, he thought it too lightly guarded.
He beckoned to her, and, when she
leaned in a little closer, said in a low voice, “Lady, where are
your guards? Where are Sir Tancred’s? I could send you some
men—”
“No need.”
As if she guessed she had been
ungracious, she added, “Do you wish a favor, my lord?”
Ranulf stepped back. She did not
understand, it seemed—or was she willful, blindly stubborn? Like a
blow from a mace, his memory brought him to Olwen, dead in his
arms: white and dead and stiffening. She had set out that fateful
morning with a tiny escort. She, too, had thought herself
safe.
The black grief poured over him and
through him as he spoke. “You concern yourself with trifles and not
your own safety? The security, too, of your people? These children
here”—he waved at the youngsters, feeling a fresh molten coil of
inner rage on their behalf—“how will you protect them and with
what—with daisy chains and soft words?”
“My lord—”
“No, not yours,” he said harshly. “Not
any lord’s, more’s the pity.”
“And you would announce that to the
cosmos, would you?” she retorted, her eyes slitted with
anger.
“You would do far better under a lord’s
protection, madam, but you are too foolish to see it.”
At once her color rose as if he had
slapped her. Staring down at her reddened forehead and blazing
eyes, he realized that he had made her situation worse: he had
indeed broadcast it to the world. Even as he groped for words to
undo a little of what he had done, she lunged at him, seizing his
arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Hear me, now,” she said, in a low,
dark voice. “I take care of me and mine, without your foul
insinuations!”
“I did not accuse you of lack of
care.”
“And I would rather be put up as a
prize than submit to yours!”
He wrenched his arm away. “That can be
arranged, madam.”
They were both too furious to back down
and he could see no way out of it; rather he was relieved when she
stalked off, her long flowing silks striking against his legs as
she turned about, almost tumbling onto the grass in her haste to
escape him. He put out a hand to stop her falling and she cried
out, “Do not help me, sir! I want none of it, or you!”
Behind them he could hear stifled
laughter—he knew of only one man in England who would dare to
laugh, even if Giles had the good sense to stop laughing. He slewed
about and there was Giles, hiding the smirk behind his hand and
staring at the departing princess.
“Suave as ever, eh, Ran?” he called,
tall and elegant in his best blue mantle, cool where Ranulf knew
that he himself was red with temper. “I see our Eastern Princess
approves you.”
“Go to hell!” Ranulf snarled, wanting
to drag the taller, more handsome Giles to the river and dunk him
into the mud. He stormed off, wishing he had never opened his
mouth, feeling as charmless as the most gauche of
squires.
She heard him, behind her, Sir Giles,
her former master, who had thrust her and the other villagers into
the church of Warren Hemlet and barred the door on them, leaving
them all to die. She wanted to scream, and run, and be sick;
instead she forced herself to walk.
Her anger at Ranulf was swallowed in a
greater horror. They knew each other, Sir Giles and Ranulf. Giles
had called him Ran—a nickname, surely? They must be friends. Ranulf
was a friend of her savage former master.
Now that I know this,
how can I trust him? If he is a friend of such a man as Giles de
Rothencey! How can he be?
Revolted, she felt clammy all over,
bursting into the great tent and falling onto her knees, shivering
in reaction.
“Take everyone else and go,” she said
through a jaw that felt as rigid as iron as Teodwin hurried to her.
“Sir Giles has come here, so get all our people out into the woods.
Go out through the back entrance. Hurry!”
To her relief, he did not waste time
asking more or arguing. As he herded the children and adults
together, whispering to them to be quick and quiet, Edith sped
behind the curtain to check on Maria, Christina, and Sir
Tancred.
All were still sleeping, and had she
been friends with the Almighty she would have thanked God; as it
was, she left them snoring and returned to the main tent.
Scattering cloaks and flowers—a chessboard, a copper cup, a rebec;
in truth, anything that came to hand—across the large sleeping
pallet of the village men that dominated the left hand side of the
tent, she hid their cloaks under a mound of things. She did not
think her former master would recognize any of the clothes, but she
wanted to make sure he did not.
Sir Giles did not know her as the Lady
of Lilies, and he had not truly known her as the smith’s widow of
Warren Hemlet and sister to the priest, but she knew him. She knew
him all too well.
She had warned the others just in
time—scarcely had Teodwin slipped through the small back entrance
and she was tying the flaps than she heard a quick, firm step
outside. Sir Giles had done what no other knight or squire had
presumed to do: he had come to her tent, without leave or
invitation.
His predictability angered and
comforted her at one and the same time. She knew what she was
dealing with.
Remembering, she ran now behind the
curtain to the widowed and single women’s side of the tent,
repinned her veil, flung on her largest silk cloak, found a
half-bulb of garlic that she was using as part of a wound potion,
smashed a clove on a stool, and smeared it rapidly over her
arms.
She snatched up a scrap of sewing that
the miller’s widow had been doing and took that with her into the
main tent.
“You must forgive Ran. He is still in
deep mourning since the death of his wife.”
As she had expected, Sir Giles had
entered the tent and was helping himself to a cup of wine. Edith
took a deep breath and approached him.
“I would know your name, my lord, since
you are in my place and helping yourself to my wine.”
For an instant Sir Giles appeared
disconcerted, but he soon smiled—the wide, open look he reserved
for ladies.
“Forgive me, I am as discourteous as
Ran!” Still clutching the wine cup, he bowed. “Sir Giles de
Rothencey.”
He did not say “At your service” or
thank her for the wine. Edith decided to keep him off balance—and
have him out of her tent as quickly as possible.
“Are you a friend of Sir Ranulf?” She
strolled to the wide doorway of the tent, hoping Sir Giles would
trail after her. “Twice now you have called him discourteous. Is
that what friends do in the West?”
He laughed, not in the least put off,
it seemed, by her garlic perfume, and worse, not in the least
ashamed of himself. “Do you wish to speak of him, my lady? I would
prefer to talk of you and your fabled beauty.”
He came alongside her, trying to peer
through her gauzy cloak by the greater light from the entrance.
Edith took a step sideways, hoping she was out of his
reach.
“Shall we sit outside? There is a bench
ready.” She knew she was too breathless, but if he assumed she was
wary of him, so much the better. In truth, it was not fear that
made her nervous but a loathing she was certain must show even
through her veiling. She wanted to shout out the names of the
villagers he had condemned, to hurl them at him like stones. Had it
not been for de Rothencey’s inhumanity, her brother Gregory might
not have died—or if he had, it would have been in
his own bed, not on the road.
Overwhelmed by that memory, the very
dust of the road seeming to rise up again to blow into her eyes and
to clog her lungs, she watched Gregory die again, pass away in
great heaving, shuddering gasps while she could do
nothing—nothing—to help him. Helpless, horrified, Edith shook with
rage.
“Are you sick?” The mask of the
courtier was abruptly tossed aside as Sir Giles backed rapidly
away. Edith managed a choking cough and his blue eyes widened with
alarm.
“I must take my leave of you.” He was
out of the tent, almost scrambling. “I will bid you, adieu,
and—”
He collided with Ranulf in the entrance
and then he was away, fleeing straight from her camp without a
single backward glance.
Edith knew she should do nothing but a
reaction overcame her; from being light-headed with fury she felt
she was floating. It seemed now that the clouds in the sky had
fallen to earth and had become her bed; a very soft, fluffy
bed.
“Take my arm and do not faint yet, I
will guide us back indoors. Faugh! You stink like a French cook. I
know Giles loves garlic, but this is too much,
Princess.”
“He thought me ill,” Edith rasped,
wondering why her throat was so dry and appalled at what he had
just told her. She had not known that of her former
master.
“And that is why he left? Not very
ardent. Up with you now.”
She was in Ranulf’s arms, being carried
to a stool. He set her down and brought her a cup of wine—not the
same cup Giles had used, for her former master had taken that with
him, she realized.
“Better?” Ranulf was kneeling beside
her, his arm across her back, supporting her, his other hand
lifting the wine cup. “Take another drink—I will turn my head if
you wish to unveil.” He glanced at the curtained-off section of the
tent and added, “How is Sir Tancred?”
“Sleeping.” Edith took the cup from
him; it gave her something solid to hold on to. “Thank you. I did
not expect to see you again so soon.”
Ranulf said nothing. She had gifted him
with the chance to explain, and part of him wanted to do so, and to
apologize for his harsh words of the morning. But then he thought
of Giles again—how long had Giles been alone with her?
He studied her bowed head, trying not
to breathe in as the stench of garlic hit him again. He knew almost
nothing of her—her name, her past, even most of her face remained
mysteries to him. He had seen her with Sir Tancred and thought them
as easy and innocent with each other as father and daughter, but
had she other lovers?
Giles cannot be her
lover. He does not know her. But then, he was in her tent today,
and they were alone, with no attendants. Am I mistaken? Are they
intimate? Are they playing everyone at this joust for fools? Such a
jest would be much to Giles’s taste, even if I think it ill
favored. Olwen always said he had a cruel wit.
“Too many mysteries,” he said aloud,
disliking everything.
“How do you compare us, Princess, Sir
Giles and myself?” he demanded, wishing to take the question back
the instant he spoke it.
She could not tell him: your friend sickens me. Like for like, her former master
was the taller, with eyes as blue as cornflowers against Ranulf’s
handsome brown eyes. Giles’s hair was as dark and well-fashioned as
finely carved ebony, contrasting with Ranulf’s fair-to-russet
shaggy mass, and he had a squarely handsome face, more
conventionally pleasing than Ranulf’s austere look. Ranulf’s face
was leaner, his nose and forehead were slightly sunburned, and he
was not so broad.
“You are the better fighter.” She was
suddenly tired of gallantry, of lies. “I know not if you are the
better man.”
He turned his head and looked at her
steadily. “We do not know each other, Princess. For all I know, you
may be betrothed to Giles. I cannot say for sure, yea or
nay.”
“I can for sure,” Edith began,
realizing she was beating her fist upon her knees before she
stopped. “Are you friends, even as he claims?”
Please let him say no.
Please let him say they hate each other.
“As much as warriors can be, yes. He is
a doughty man to have on your side in a fight, is
Giles.”
His simpleminded acceptance of Giles
sickened her afresh. She pulled away slightly, reluctant to lean
against his warm, sheltering arm, feeling a bolt of cold crawl down
her back.
“Why was Giles here, and alone with
you?”
That was straight on target, she
thought, blinking. “Should that be your concern?” For an instant
she almost confessed that Giles had not been welcome, that he had
stolen in without permission, but how could she say anything of
that nature to Ranulf? She could not tell Giles’s
friend that her people had fled in fear of their former
master. “Is it any of your business?”
“Maybe not, but I find it is.” Still in
a crouch, he spun on the balls of his feet and pointed to the open
entrance. “If word goes out that you admit knights without a
chaperone, you will be diminished, Princess.”
“I have Sir Tancred.” Why did he have
to say that? Diminished. She wanted to crawl
into the straw pallet and hide.
“Sir Tancred, yes—a knight who all now
know is ill.”
“He is recovering.” And
I pray when he wakes he will be well and willing to travel. We must
get away from here.
“Is Giles your lover? If he is, he
should be proud and open with it.” Ranulf cracked his knuckles
together, adding darkly, “I wager he likes to be secret, for Giles
loves his secrets, but it does you harm, Princess.”
“My lover? I never met the man before
today!” She could not believe what he was saying. She would not
have thought him so jealous, so remarkably stupid.
“He entered my place unasked and
unlooked for,” she snapped. “He makes a habit of
that.”
“How do you know? If, as you say, you
have not seen him before, met him before today, then how would you
know that?”
Edith flung down the cup and whirled
off the stool in a rush of silks, slamming her hands against
Ranulf’s shoulders, trying to push him down. It was like trying to
shift a boulder, but she could use words as weapons, and did: “How
dare you? I am a Princess of Cathay and I will not be questioned by
a northern brute of a soldier whom my father would not take into
his service as a pot-boy! Get out!”
He was crouched at her feet, staring up
at her, his lean features as set and rigid as steel, and as pale.
Without a word he rose and strode to the entrance, looked back at
her once, nodded, and was gone.