The Stone Rose (60 page)

‘Aye. You’re detached, but I like that. You’re careless of other people’s views.’

‘Careless?’

‘If their ideas don’t match yours, you don’t seek to convert them. You let them be. You wouldn’t impose your will on anyone.’

Alan reached out, and though he knew he should not, he gently drew his fingers across the back of her hand. He felt absurdly like a poacher, and even more so when wine-dark colour ran into her cheeks. Gwenn bent her head over their water pot. Shamefully reassured, he said, ‘So that’s what you meant, my Blanche. For a moment there I was worried. I thought you were telling me you’d lost your liking for me.’

Her head jerked up, her eyes flashed. ‘Liking for you? What are you talking about? I’m a married woman, Alan le Bret, and don’t you forget it!’

The sinful mouth curved, transfixing her gaze. ‘I don’t forget it, not for one moment, I assure you, sweet Blanche. But sometimes, I wish you might.’

Gwenn glared at him, her feeling of warmth and contentment had gone. ‘Oh, don’t you start, Alan,’ she said, wearily. ‘I’ve had my fill with Sir Raoul.’

Instantly, Alan dropped his teasing mask. ‘Martell’s been pestering you?’

‘Like the plague. Sometimes I think that the only reason he agreed to take Ned on was because...’ She bit her lip, afraid her suspicions would come over as arrogance.

‘No need for false modesty,’ Alan said. ‘He’s one of the wolves I was telling you about.’

‘He’s a pain in the neck. He sends Ned off on a wild goose chase, and then comes here. I’ve made it plain I’m not interested.’

‘I’ll have words with him.’

‘Please don’t. I’ll deal with it myself. The grand tourney begins tomorrow, and Sir Raoul has promised that Ned will be his squire. I’ll...I’ll not hazard that for the sake of one day. If Sir Raoul is angered, he might change his mind.’

Sober grey eyes captured hers. ‘You swear you’ll speak to me if he bullies you?’

Gwenn nodded. She had not been able to mention this to Ned, but telling Alan had eased her mind. That was what she liked about Alan. He would flirt with her, but the moment he sensed she was uneasy, he would stop. Alan le Bret was sensitive. The discovery pleased her.

***

Ned crept late to bed that night, and before he fell asleep he told Gwenn that he had prevailed upon Sir Raoul to reserve her a place on the Duchess of Brittany’s dais, near to her ladies-in-waiting. He seemed to regard this as something of a coup.

Gwenn was not at all sure she wanted to watch the tournament. She put her disquiet down to the fact that she did not want to watch any sort of a fight, even a regulated one. She had seen all the fighting she ever wanted to see at Kermaria.

‘Ask for Lady Juliana,’ Ned said, ‘Sir Raoul’s fiancée.’

‘Sir Raoul has a fiancée?’ Gwenn asked, momentarily startled out of her feeling of unease. Alan caught her eye, and winked. She hunched a shoulder on him and tried to ignore him.

‘Oh, aye,’ Ned gave a jaw-cracking yawn, ‘a lovely, gracious lady, they’re to be married at Christmas. God, but I’m tired.’ Another yawn, and Ned slung a heavy arm over Gwenn’s waist. ‘Ask for Lady Juliana. She’s been told to expect you. She will make sure you have a good view...’

Ned’s voice trailed off, and Gwenn guessed he was already asleep. She wasn’t sure she wanted a good view. A good view of what? Another bloodbath?

A
little before dawn, the sky was a speckled tapestry of pale, fragile stars. In the jousting field, the heralds were up before the birds, rubbing sleep-dazed eyes as they scurried to and fro across the arena. There was always another last-minute task to complete. It was still dark enough for them to need the torches set at intervals along the perimeter fence, and golden flames streamed from the iron stands like maidens’ favours in a gentle, gusting wind. The wind brought with it the fragrance of enough fresh-baked bread to feed an army.

Indeed an army was encamped round the field. Men had tramped there from Gascony, there were knights from the Aquitaine, knights from Toulouse, there were even a group of swarthy-complexioned young bloods come from as far afield as Navarre. There were people from Brittany. Fortune-hunters had come in their droves from every corner of Christendom. There were duchesses, ladies, women and whores. There were princes, dukes, and lords; there were beggars and pedlars, cutthroats and thieves – an ill-assorted army, whose aim was, since it was peacetime, to polish rusty war skills. And if it should chance that blood was let, then so much the better.

The Church might send its bishops to mouth the official line, which was to rail against the tournies as a terrible waste of life and limb. His Holiness the Pope might regret the loss of life, might worry that the tournament was used to settle ancient feuds, but these clerical, other-worldly, opinions were ignored. In the main, the view was that a drop of judicious blood-letting never harmed any army. On the contrary, it made eyes all the keener, and hands took more care. In England, the Church’s official line was heeded. Here in France it was disregarded. Besides, everyone knew that the Bishop of Paris had a place reserved for him on the royal stand.

The participants lived in the hope that they would be among the victors – a tournament could be a lucrative source of income for the successful knight. It was designed to be similar to a war, in that a captured knight would have his harness and his horse taken by the victor. Since for many knights their warhorse represented all their wealth, this could be disastrous; and, as if the loss of their horse was not enough, the captured knight was also expected to negotiate a ransom to free himself. For the landless knight with no revenues, a tourney offered chances of riches, and at this one, the largest to be held in a decade, the pickings would be rich indeed. But it was not easy, the risk of great losses was high. Waldin St Clair had made a dazzling career at the jousts, but not many knights had his skill or stamina.

The sun climbed. Its long, bright rays tumbled over the fences and ran across the sand that, ominously, had been sprinkled on the jousting field. One by one, the stars winked out. The torches were doused. The rest of the army woke, crawled to their tent flaps, and squinted at the sky.

Swallows soared over the fields and woods around Paris. As the shadows shortened on the river of primrose sand in the lists, the birds, unconscious that this was to be an arena of war, saw only a place where they could find food. By the time their flight carried them over the encampment, the city of tents was deserted, left to derelicts and strays foraging silently among upturned cooking pots. Tent flaps and pennons trailed listlessly in a slack breeze. Having scooped insects from the air over the encampment, the swallows flew over the sand in the lists.

The stands groaned under the largest crowd in Christendom. Those who had no place on the stands pressed up to the fence. They got in the way of the horses, were shrieked at by red-cheeked heralds trying vainly to impose some sort of order on the proceedings. Beyond the lists, the paddocks were a confusion of stamping horses, jingling bits, and harassed grooms. Within hailing distance, the combatants waited, placing wagers while they affected a patience and calm that fooled no one. The air crackled with excitement.

Gwenn had found Duchess Constance’s dais. From the outset, Lady Juliana had taken pains to welcome her. ‘Your first tournament?’ she had exclaimed. ‘You must be very excited!’

Gwenn wasn’t excited. To be honest, she didn’t want to be here, but she held her peace. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. The fighting wasn’t real, after all; it wouldn’t be like Kermaria.

‘Here, take this stool,’ Lady Juliana went on, blithely unaware of Gwenn’s doubts. ‘My fiancé is to take the field at noon, and your husband’s assisting.’

‘Ned’s not taking part?’ Gwenn asked, going cold all over.

‘Taking part? A squire? Heavens, no. But he’ll have my husband’s lances to hand and–’

‘Don’t you worry?’ Gwenn blurted.

‘Worry?’ Lady Juliana put a tuck in her brow, in well-bred confusion. ‘Why should I worry?’

‘In case Sir Raoul is injured. It seems so dangerous, so pointless.’

Lady Juliana fixed Gwenn with a disdainful look. ‘Pointless? It’s vital practice they are getting, Mistress Fletcher. If you are feeling faint-hearted, I think you should leave.’

Hastily Gwenn shook her head. ‘No, I’ll stay.’ Ned was proud to be involved in a tourney, and if he wanted her to watch, then watch she would. For a moment, she was tempted to reveal to Lady Juliana that she was niece to Sir Waldin St Clair, Champion of Champions. But she hastily dismissed the thought. She had not seen Count François de Roncier at this tourney, but in this large crowd that meant nothing. He or one of his spies might well be here, and it was best the St Clair name was never mentioned. ‘It... I merely felt queasy for a moment. It has passed.’

Lady Juliana cast a knowledgeable eye over Gwenn’s slim figure. ‘You’re breeding aren’t you, my dear?’ Gwenn’s jolt of surprise gave Lady Juliana her answer, and she lowered her voice, honouring Gwenn with a confidence. ‘You and the Duchess alike, we pray. As that is the case, there is no shame if you have to leave the platform for a moment. The Duchess will understand. It is different when we women are carrying.’

Gwenn sat on her stool, knowing in her heart that the babe made no difference. She would feel distanced from all this, even if she were not carrying Ned’s child. The women filling up the Duchess’s stand were dressed in their brightest raiment and chattering like starlings. Sir Raoul, fully armoured and with his visor up, walked over to make his bow. As though someone had waved a fairy wand, the gossiping stopped. The knight drew all eyes. Gracefully acknowledging the Duchess, Sir Raoul bowed over Lady Juliana’s fingertips.

‘
Bon chance
, Sir Raoul,’ his fiancée said formally, without a trace of emotion.

Sir Raoul inclined his head a fraction. He looked at the tongue-tied women, white teeth flashed, and he loped towards his charger. The twittering began again.

And so it was whenever one of the combatants approached the stand. The chattering would cease, and the women would hold their breath while greetings were exchanged. Was the silence brought about because the women were wondering whether it was the last time they would see that particular combatant alive? How could they stand it? How many times had Lady Juliana had sat through similar proceedings? Either the woman had nerves of steel, or no nerves at all. Perhaps it came to the same thing. It’s all a show, Gwenn thought, but it’s a deadly show. God guard them from hurt.

A brace of swallows were diving gracefully over the field as Sir Raoul rode out. He was the first to take to the field. Ned was standing by the barrier, and if it hadn’t been for him catching her eye and gesticulating wildly, Gwenn would not have known it was Sir Raoul, for she had not marked his colours, and when he was sealed in his armour, with his pot pulled down over his face there was no recognising him. Aware of Lady Juliana rigid at her elbow – so the woman
did
care – Gwenn was careful to maintain an expression of neutral interest. Sir Raoul’s huge, brown warhorse thundered the length of the course, sending great clods of earth and clouds of sand flying in its wake. As soon as the knights clashed mid-field, the swallows vanished.

On his second charge, Sir Raoul’s ash lance – Ned had told Gwenn it was ash – hit his challenger’s shoulder with such force that the shaft gave way with a crack. Vicious fragments shot abroad. Gwenn held her breath while Sir Raoul’s hapless opponent rocked sideways, desperately scrabbling to maintain his seat, but the blow had been too much, and slowly, almost gracefully, Sir Raoul’s rival sank into the churned-up sand. It had been decreed that there was to be no hand-to-hand fighting until later in the day, at the mêlée. Then fortunes would change hands. At the moment the knights were merely flexing their muscles and sizing up the opposition. Sir Raoul’s current foe was out of the competition, until later.

Gwenn watched the vanquished knight’s squire catch the fleeing warhorse. The knight was hauled to his feet and surrounded by commiserating friends. He limped off to the tents, where refreshments awaited him.

The trumpets sounded.

The sand was raked.

A different squire ran onto the field, dragging another rack of bright-tipped lances up to the fence. Sir Raoul wheeled his charger about, lance in rest. A second challenger lined up, gonfanon aflutter. His mount was champing at the bit. This knight had Sir Raoul unhorsed on the third charge. He was bruised, but not badly hurt, and he followed the path of the other downed knight, towards the consolations offered in the King’s refreshment pavilion.

And so it went on. Charge, miss. Charge, hit. Charge, crash, fall. Rake sand. Trumpets. Charge, crash. Charge...

Stifling a yawn, Gwenn longed for the evening to come and to bring with it a cooling wind. The bold August sun smote them all through the light white silk which shaded the Duchess of Brittany’s stand. Gwenn glanced up at the fringe of the canopy. The ermine dots on the pennons undulated in a frustrating dream of a breeze, which was enough to make the flags sway, but not enough to cool her. Gwenn was sticky. She was uncomfortable. The dais smelt unpleasantly of sweat. She wanted to go and lie down in the quiet of Alan’s tent.

A glance at the Duchess showed her a lady enthroned in a high-backed cushioned chair which had sides like an abbot’s stall. Duchess Constance’s face showed polite interest, and it never wavered.

How did she do it? Gwenn had a cramp in her thigh. She longed to get up and stretch her legs. At least Duchess Constance can rest her back, Gwenn thought, with a rush of frustration. And the Duchess no doubt knows everyone here. It was difficult to feel involved when she did not know any of the combatants. Not that Gwenn wanted to feel involved, but it might have driven away the feeling that she wanted to get up and run and run till she had put as much distance between her and this stupid tournament as she possibly could. If her feelings had been engaged, she would no longer have been so horribly aware that, of all the crowd, she was an oddity, for she wanted it to be over and done with as quickly as possible.