Once a Knight

  She nodded.

  “Every month,” he added hastily.

  “That is fair.”

  Again he examined her. He hadn’t previously thought her a fool, but he should have known. All women were fools—but so were men who imagined they could collect such wages on the strength of a vanished reputation.

  “One month in advance.”

  Opening her purse, she counted out the gold and held it before his eyes. “Is this sufficient guarantee of my good intentions?”

  But if she didn’t know, why should he tell her? She dressed well, she treated him as if he were a worm, she had guards who eyed her protectively…aye, she was wealthy, so what was the harm in shearing just a little of that fleece which cushioned her?

  Cautiously, he wrapped his fingers around the money, trapping it and her hand. He felt the delicate flesh and the chill of the gold. He thought how easily he could break her and how much he needed that money.

  Snatching his hand away, he polished the sensations from his palm as if that would polish away any deception. “I’m not the man you want.” He started for the door just as Sybil arriving holding steaming bowls, and he took a particular pleasure in brushing past her.

  “Hey!” Sybil squawked. “Come back ’ere. M’lady, I require payment.”

  “Pay her, Gunnewate,” the lady commanded from behind him, and one of her men-at-arms reached for his purse as the other stretched out an arm and blocked the exit.

  David stopped and contemplated the arm, then the massive fellow to whom it belonged. “Move, or I’ll move you.”

  The man-at-arms didn’t stir. David threatened him with a straight and evil stare. The man stared back, jutting his chin. David placed his hand on the hilt of his knife. The man drew his blade. David stepped back to make room for the fight.

  Then the lady said, “Let him go, Ivo.”

  Without a sign of regret or relief, without hurry or distress, Ivo brought his beefy arm back to his side and left the way open for David to leave.

  David couldn’t believe it. The big oaf submitted, not under the menace of David’s blade, but under the threat of a woman’s scolding. It wasn’t respect for a mercenary legend that made Ivo obey, but a single word from his mistress. Stepping close to him, David measured himself against Ivo’s chest. Ivo was taller, broader, younger, in every way David’s physical superior. Speaking into his face, David said, “Arrant coward.”

  Ivo flinched under the blast of stale, ale-laden breath, and he sneered. “Poltroon.” Then he bowed his head and slipped backward along the wall.

  Resentment cramped David’s gut. He could have used the combat. He needed to take out his hostility on somebody. Instead he marched through the door, prepared to storm off and leave this farce behind.

  Instead the sunlight hit him and he staggered. Damn, it was bright. Bright and unseasonably hot, just as it had been for the last two years. The drought. The damned drought had driven him from his home. Would it never end?

  The rays beat into his brain through his eyes, and even when he closed them, the lids proved inadequate protection. Clutching his face, he leaned against the wall and mumbled, “Bloody ale.”

  “It is not the ale, but your excessive intake that is at fault.” The lady’s precise voice ground at his nerves like a grindstone against Toledo steel.

  Bravely, he opened his eyes and shielded them from the sunlight with his hands. “Who are you?”

  “I am Alisoun, countess of George’s Cross.”

  She had appeared fair in the dim light of the inn, but now she positively glowed. White gown, fair skin—and were those freckles that marched across her nose? He squinted. Aye, definitely freckles—in defiance, no doubt, of Lady Alisoun’s desire. It cheered him to think something escaped the lady’s mandate.

  Persistent as David’s daughter and almost as fearless, Lady Alisoun asked, “Are you not Sir David of Radcliffe?”

  “I told you I was, and I didn’t lie about that. I told you I was no longer the king’s champion, and I didn’t lie about that either.” He turned away, ashamed, not wanting to see the contempt on her face. “’Tis the king’s champion you wish to hire, my lady, not me.”

  “You have truly lost the title?” Surprise lifted her voice from the deep richness which had marked it before to a more normal woman’s tone. “When did this occur?”

  “This morning.” His stomach roiled as he remembered. “On the tourney field. The legendary David of Radcliffe fell in defeat.”

  She was silent for so long, he looked back at her.

  At last she said, “’Tis tragic that you failed just when I have need of you, but I need a legend, not a one-time hero. I want you.”

  In a voice harsh with pain, he said, “By the saints, woman, don’t you see? I’m not the man I once was. Every fledgling knight in Lancaster has challenged me these last days just to brag they fought the greatest mercenary of our times. I defeated every one of them—beardless boys with more bravado than sense. But when I came up against a seasoned knight, I lost.”

  She excused him. “Your other trials exhausted you.”

  He paid her no heed. “I suffered abject, humiliating defeat.”

  She caught his hand and opened it, then placed the coins in it and closed his fingers around them. “Here are your first moon’s wages. The innkeeper has been paid as well. Should you decide to accept my employment, I’m at the Crowing Cock Inn. Be there by dawn.”

  “M’lady,” her man Gunnewate remonstrated. “Ye can’t give a scoundrel money like that and think ye’ll see him return!”

  David glared, wanting to kill him for his insolence, and realized he could see better now. Glancing up at the sky, he saw clouds gathering. Blessed, blessed clouds, here to break the drought.

  Lady Alisoun noticed them, too, and demanded her wooden shoes from Ivo. Lumbering like a trained bear, Ivo brought them and went down on one knee to place them over her leather slippers. Answering Gunnewate, Lady Alisoun said, “He is the legendary David of Radcliffe. He shall not disappoint me.”

  Sir David had better not disappoint her. If he did, this whole wretched journey and uncomfortable visit had been in vain, and she would have to return to George’s Cross bringing little more than a rainstorm.

  Without expression, Alisoun observed King Henry III hold court in the great hall of Lancaster Castle just as he had done every morning since he’d traveled north. Patiently, she waited for her chance to present her petition, all the while trying to ignore the presence of Osbern, duke of Framlingford, the king’s cousin and her most dreaded enemy.

  Osbern didn’t make it easy. He watched her with a smirk. Anyone who didn’t know them would believe them to be lovers. Certainly Osbern had taken care to represent them as such, and his power and influence were such that her dignified haughtiness only fed the rumors.

  After all, she was the widow Alisoun of George’s Cross, powerful and influential in her own way. Never mind that Osbern’s wife had been her best friend, and that her unexplained disappearance still created gossip. When coupled with Osbern’s insinuations and his rather spectacular masculine beauty, Alisoun’s extended sojourn as a single woman created speculation and made her long for the safety of home.

  Now she could go, for David would fulfill his duty. He had to, for he was the legendary mercenary. He even looked the part. His rangy form and grace proclaimed his strength. The threads of gray in his dark hair proclaimed his experience. Hard heavy brows lent a severity to his expression, and his eyes had seen much. Yet his mouth saved him from the ruthlessness of most mercenaries. He grinned, he grimaced, he pursed his lips in avarice. Every thought that crossed his mind, he expressed with his mouth, and without saying a word.

  She liked his mouth.

  Seeing that King Henry had finished with the lesser folk, Alisoun stepped forward and curtsied. Not too deeply, for her family’s bloodlines were no less ancient and noble than his, but a modest, respectable curtsy.

  Hale at forty-five, with a super
ficial charm that covered his capricious nature, King Henry responded with a nod. “Lady Alisoun, how good to see you at our court again. You attend every morning, flattering us with your attention. Have you some instructions to share this day?”

  He had a distasteful inclination toward sarcasm, especially with her. She didn’t understand or like it, for she knew full well an unhappy monarch could create problems for her and the lands which she held in her custody. So she smiled with constrained charm and said, “I take my instructions from you, my liege—”

  He snorted.

  “—And have only a humble request.” He looked her over critically, and she was glad she had worn her best scarlet velvet for this interview. It weighed on her like a knight’s armor, keeping her safe with its bulk and brazen beauty.

  “What request is that?”

  “I wish to retire from your most gracious court and return to my duties at George’s Cross. I have been away too long, basking in the sun of your presence.”

  He cocked his head and examined her. “You are getting rather freckled.”

  Laughter rippled through the courtiers.

  “I was already freckled,” she replied.

  Laughter grew and the king dropped his head as if in despair.

  She stared at him, and then, in confusion asked, “My liege? Have I displeased you?”

  “Never mind. Never mind. So you wish to withdraw, do you? Is there nothing you wish to take back to George’s Cross with you?”

  Wetting her lips, she tried to appear unaware of his meaning. “What would that be?”

  “A husband, of course.” His arm swept the great hall, indicating the courtiers who lined the walls.

  Her heart sank. King Henry was mad for marriage. He had used it as a diplomatic coup, uniting England with Provence in his marriage. He used it on lesser nobility, too, to advance his cause within the kingdom and out of it. Those successes gave him an immodest estimation of his own good sense—a good sense he had not proved in his rule of England nor in his choice of grooms for her. Now she dwelled at court, renewing the appetites of the men for her wealth and the appetite of the king for an alliance.

  Henry persisted, “You see here the flowers of my kingdom, the best of England, Normandy, Poitou, France. Is there not one here who fulfills your demands?”

  She could scarcely say that they did not, and so she protested, “My requirements are reasonable, my lord. Surely you agree to that.”

  He held up three fingers and counted them down. “Wealth, bloodlines, and responsibility. Isn’t that right?”

  Her throat caught in dismay at the way he beamed in triumph, but she cleared it and answered, “That is correct.”

  “Then I have a suitor for you.”

  He had caught her unprepared. “That’s impossible! I’ve been to court every day, watching to see who might petition to wed me, and—”

  “Is that why you’ve been here?” He looked down at his hand, clenched in a fist. “To give me guidance, should any man dare?”

  She didn’t like this. She didn’t like the king’s attitude nor Osbern’s superior leer. Someone had been whispering malicious rumors in the king’s ear, and she knew the culprit. An importune pang of longing for George’s Cross struck her like hunger for a wholesome broth after a diet of sweetmeats, but she fought it away. The solemn facade she’d created after so much youthful training remained in place, and she said, “I would not dream of offering you my advice. I am only a lowly woman, and you are the king of England.”

  “You do remember,” he said. “Then listen well, Alisoun of George’s Cross. For husband, I give you Simon, earl of Goodney. Can you think of a more suitable mate?”

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t. Simon of Goodney carried his nobility, his wealth, and his responsibilities well. A distinguished man and a recent widower, Lord Simon held lands in Poitou where the king wished to strengthen his ties.

  She’d been paired with him at the table. She’d listened to his nasal voice. Her stomach had churned when he’d breathed and chewed through his open mouth. She’d seen the food which encrusted his eating knife. And she’d dirtied her eating knife with a drop of his blood when he’d groped her breast with his filthy fingers.

  Nevertheless, she knew where her duty lay. Regardless of her feelings, she had to protect George’s Cross, and a husband would be an asset. More, this precarious and dangerous situation which plagued her would surely vanish in a husband’s custody.

  But a husband would also increase the possibility of discovery and the chance she would be unable to fulfill her vow. Dread ran in her veins, but, God help her, she could see no relief from her dilemma. “The earl of Goodney is indeed a fitting husband for me, and I thank you for consideration.”

  “Does that mean you’ll not chase him away?” the king demanded.

  “Chase him away? I do not understand.”

  “Five men I’ve sent to you.” King Henry struck the arm of his chair. “Five! And not one has been able to withstand your lashing tongue.” When she would have spoken, he pointed his finger into her face. “One even went on Crusade and never returned.”

  “He was not worthy.”

  “And the other four?”

  “They were not worthy, either.” When he would have spoken, she swept over his objection. “My liege, I am no green stalk of wheat who wavers in the contrary breeze.”

  He seemed to ponder that. “That’s true. You’re more like a stalk of yellow wheat stiff with overripe grains.”

  “Exactly.” She congratulated him on his apt simile, then frowned at the stifled giggles that sounded from the crowd. What did the foolish creatures find so amusing?

  “How old are you now?” Osbern slipped the question in like a thin knife through her ribs.

  She ignored him. It was rude of him to step between her and the king in their conversation. Rude, typical and…menacing.

  “She’s twenty-six.” King Henry answered for her. “The oldest widowed virgin in England, and probably the Continent.”

  Charm oozed from Osbern’s dashing figure, giving him a sheen most men envied. His short dark hair shone almost purple, like a blackbird’s wing. His blue eyes blazed with the heat of interest. His sleek body rippled with muscle when he moved, and when he smiled at Alisoun.

  Dear Lord, how she hated him. Hated him, and feared him.

  “Not still a virgin, surely,” he said.

  King Henry froze, then turned slowly to face his cousin. “Do you have personal knowledge of this?”

  In that drawling, detestable tone, he said, “Personal knowledge of the Lady Alisoun would be—”

  “Death.” King Henry interrupted. “I would kill the man who claimed to have deflowered the finest example of English womanhood.”

  Osbern didn’t move. Only his eyes moved, flicking from King Henry to Alisoun and back again, and she saw realization dawn. His desire to insult and implicate her had taken him beyond the bounds of courtesy and into the realm of royal displeasure. He might be Henry’s elder by five years, but Henry was the king and now Osbern would have to scrape. With the grace that characterized his every movement, he swept a bow to Alisoun, a bow that somehow included King Henry and the whole court. “No doubt the Lady Alisoun is yet fit to bear the very symbols of purity which distinguish the Virgin Mary herself, and I would fight the man who insinuated otherwise.”

  King Henry seemed to accept the apology, but Alisoun did not. How could she? She had guarded her reputation and her virtue as a sacred trust, and her name would now be on the lips of the gossips because of one short visit to the court. A mere apology could not wipe the stain away.

  But she had been too well trained to waste time mourning what couldn’t be mended. Instead, she answered the king. “Five men you have ordered me to wed, my liege, but I am a mature woman with simple requirements of my spouse, requirements which have not wavered through the years of my widowhood. I am a noblewoman of royal descent, so my husband must be noble. My wealth is considerable,
so my husband must noble. My wealth is considerable, so my husband must be wealthy. I am responsible and dedicated to maintaining my wealth and position, so my husband must be equally dutiful. I tested those men who were noble and wealthy to see if they could be molded into fit and responsible mates. Invariably, they fled, but Simon, earl of Goodney will show his nobility by his consistency. I thank you, my liege, for—”

  Running footsteps interrupted her. Before Alisoun could see him, she could hear him—Simon of Goodney, shouting in nasal tones, “Stop. My liege, stop! I refuse! I will not marry that woman.”

  3

  The damned witless woman had left without him.

  David stood in the common room of the Crowing Cock Inn, cursing all women and Alisoun of George’s Cross in particular. He’d learned from his wife what idiots they were, but yesterday Alisoun had behaved like an average, rational person. Like a man.

  Now here he stood with her money in his pocket and no way to deliver his services.

  Well, if she didn’t want him, he wasn’t going to chase after her. True, she’d said dawn, and some might even say the sun was now approaching its zenith. But Lady Alisoun ought to realize that when a man drank as much as he had the day before, it would take time to sleep it off. Aye, how could he attend the silly woman with a head that ached and a stomach that rebelled? He’d been doing her a favor by hugging his pillow this morning. Furious, he swung his leg over the bench by a table and bellowed, “Bread!”

  A girl scurried to do his bidding while her innkeeper-father watched with approval. “Will ye be needing more than bread?” the man asked. “We have a hearty venison stew.”

  David looked around the Crowing Cock Inn. No dark, louse-ridden inn would do for Lady Alisoun. She stayed with the best and no doubt thought she deserved it. “Aye,” he snarled. “I’ll have a bowl, and some fine cheese as well.”

  “At once, sir.” The innkeeper himself brought the cheese while the girl presented the bowl. The innkeeper examined David. “Godric, master of this house, at yer service. Ye’re Sir David of Radcliffe.”