A Perfect Knight. Anne Herries

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