Chapter 13
Ranulf did not attend the burial of Sir
Tancred. He knew it would remind him of Olwen’s interment, and he
was not ready for that. He sent Edmund in his place and, taking the
dead knight’s horse, rode to the shrine where Tancred had taken the
princess, just last month. There, in quiet, with only a busy
squirrel and a squawking jay for company, he prayed for the gray
knight, who had in truth been too old for the gouging, hacking
world of the tourney.
Take care of
her, Sir Tancred pressed in his mind.
“I will,” Ranulf vowed. He knew how he
would do it, too.
Work quickly before
Giles makes his move, warned Olwen, her voice so clear that
he whipped round to see if she was standing by his shoulder, his
heart thundering with impossible hope.
He was alone. Sorrow gnawed at him
afresh, with black razor teeth, and he gripped the token in his
fist very tight, fighting the dark mood until his knuckles cracked
and his eyes lost water. He could not give in, not now; he could
not fail his brown maid princess as he had his wife.
Only when he had returned to Tancred’s
horse did he open his hand and discover the scrap of pale silk in
his palm.
“We must get back to her, Hector,” he
said.
The charger snorted and tossed his
head, spurring off as soon as Ranulf mounted him. They rode back
smartly to camp and past the camp to Castle Fitneyclare, where
Ranulf paid a groom well to tend Hector and then settled on the
dais in the great hall to wait for the return of Lady
Blanche.
“Can we leave tonight?” Teodwin asked.
He was looking haggard, less well groomed than usual. Edith
suspected they all were.
“I cannot see how, without our being
noticed,” she said. She was tired, feeling unclean, and beset by
memories of Gregory. Sir Tancred was in the ground and she missed
him terribly: his scratching at the tent flaps, his kindness, and
yes, his admiration. It had been very pleasing to be so
adored.
Now there was Ranulf: suspicious, a
friend of Giles. Could she trust him? Dared she?
Dear God, there is
Giles himself.
She could sense his interest, deadly as
a snake’s. He would find an excuse to come here, she knew. She had
retired after the service and had put Maria and Christina to bed,
not daring to sleep herself. She needed some energy and wit to keep
her former master at arm’s length, without provoking him. She could
not make him her outright enemy.
She racked her brains, then found the
answer.
“I am for the castle.” She rose off the
stool and plucked her heaviest cloak off a peg. “Is the captain of
Sir Tancred’s guard still outside?”
“For the moment, yes. He and his men
will be off tomorrow, and Christina with them.”
“Tonight will be enough for my
purposes.” It had to be. “I will ask the
captain to escort me to Lady Blanche, and for the rest of his men
to look after our camp. Teodwin—”
She paused, wanting to be sure he heard
and attended to her next words—“If I remain at the castle tonight,
then you and the others go with the captain and his men tomorrow.
Take the wagon and valuables and leave the tent. I know it is a
shame to leave it behind, but you may mingle with the men-at-arms
and their followers easily enough, and so escape, but the tent
coming down will be noticed.”
Teodwin scowled. “What of
you?”
“I will be well enough, believe me,”
Edith replied, fibbing with her accustomed ease. She forced herself
to smile. “You know I always do well.”
Surely the other villagers would be
safe if Tancred’s men were with them. Surely Giles would depart as
soon as he learned she was not here. Surely Teodwin would see the
sense of her plan if she was forced to remain at Castle
Fitneyclare.
Surely Lady Blanche would agree to what
she was about to propose?
Lady Blanche arranged her skirts more
carefully over her seat and looked down from the dais into the
subdued great hall. Eating a scratch supper at the trestles, the
knights and men were quieter than usual, with no catcalls, no
demands for music or more ale. Any other evening and she would have
been glad of the silence, but not at the cost of losing Sir
Tancred.
And now the wretched Eastern Princess,
who had never condescended to appear in the great hall before
today, was approaching, escorted by the captain of Sir Tancred’s
guard. Along the great table, Lady Blanche saw Sir Ranulf half rise
and Sir Giles, who had more manners, glance at her and her lord,
ready to take his cue from them.
Courtesy compelled her to greet the
princess, invite her to table beside her on the dais, call for cup
and plate for her, where Lady Blanche would have preferred to
ignore her. With no knight in her company, the princess was a
nuisance, unescorted, a danger to married knights.
She was at least dressed modestly for
once, with a great furling cloak covering her usual outlandish
costume.
No doubt she is
pox-marked behind that veil, Lady Blanche reflected, as she
had many times before, and smiled, then hid the smile.
“Princess. A sad day, is it
not?”
“Indeed it is, my lady.”
The princess did not pick at the soft
bread or cheese on her trencher and would not even sip the wine.
Lady Blanche took a larger gulp from her own cup, exasperated with
the younger woman. She thought of a very pleasing, most pat
suggestion that Sir Ranulf had made to her earlier that evening:
that the princess’s camp be incorporated into his. Sir Ranulf, who
was still standing, waiting to catch her husband’s
eye.
She nodded to the black knight but Sir
Giles, sitting beside Sir Ranulf, also spoke.
“My Lady Blanche,” Sir Ranulf began, as
Sir Giles said, “My lady, I would beg a boon.”
Both men broke off and into the silence
the princess said, “I, too, would beg a boon, my
lady.”
By custom Lady Blanche knew she should
ask the princess to go on, but, as her husband leaned over the salt
to stare at the veiled figure, she pointed at Sir
Giles.
“Pray, continue, Sir
Giles.”
The tall, dark-haired Giles rose and
bowed. He was as handsome as any knight from a romance, Lady
Blanche thought, hearing her maids commenting between themselves,
behind their hands, on his proud bearing and good
looks.
“My lady, my request is simple. The
princess needs a protector now that Sir Tancred is gone. I would be
that knight.”
Lady Blanche stopped her jaw from
clenching in anger. She had not expected such a demand and disliked
the attention it brought to the creature seated on her right—as if
she needed any more! Bitterly, she regretted asking Sir Giles to
speak first, especially as the men on the benches stirred and
banged their cups on the wooden boards, and Ranulf spat something
she did not hear at his taller, more comely companion.
“Madam, please!” Even the princess
would not be still, but was clenching her gloved hands in her lap,
tension making her as stiff as a church statue. “Please, believe me
when I say that I need no protector. I am the same as I ever was, a
Princess of Cathay, a traveler in your good lands, and all I would
ask is your generous grace of a few days, so I may
mourn.”
“I propose another answer,” Ranulf
interrupted, pitching his voice easily above the princess’s. “Let
her be the next prize of the joust.”
“No!” Giles and
the princess together were on their feet, shouting.
“Excellent! Excellent!” Lady Blanche’s
husband Lord Richard was clapping, his ragged mustache quivering as
he roared his approval. “As Master of the Joust, I say yes, ’tis
excellent sport!”
Spurred on by the tumult as the rest of
the great hall burst into laughter, shouts, and applause, he added,
“I will give a dowry also. Let the battle commence tomorrow, in
memory and honor of Sir Tancred!”
Lady Blanche took a very long drink of
wine and prayed for the rest of the day to be over.