Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Page 14

  She would select her songs to ease the soul of the young squire’s grieving father and stepmother, and she knew her fellow troubadours, Brian of Orkney and Andreas, would do the same.

  Andreas met her when she entered the hall. ‘Lady,’ he said with a gallant bow. ‘The day’s greeting to you.’ Lifting the harp out of her hands, the pudgy musician guided her to one of the linen-covered side tables. ‘Brian and I have saved a place for you between us.’ He grinned at his fellow harper.

  Brian of Orkney hunched his slim frame over to make room on the bench. ‘My lady,’ he breathed, a faint smile hovering over the sensitive mouth, ‘I am glad you join us this evening. We shall weave a fine web of music.’

  He eyed Andreas, who was settling Leonor’s harp in a safe corner of the room.

  ‘Andreas,’ Brian called to him, his lips twitching. ‘Who will play first this evening?’

  The bulky harper’s eyes looked puzzled for a fleeting instant, then his expression cleared. ‘Lady Leonor should play first, followed by you, Master Brian.’

  Leonor smiled. Whether by design or accident, Andreas and Brian between them had restored at least some of her spirits. Trial or no, she was not defeated yet.

  When at last a lull fell upon the assembled diners, Jannet nodded from the head table, and Leonor rose to retrieve her harp. Seated, she played a virelai she thought would ease Count Roger’s heart.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a young page skip past her, then slow to a respectful pace as he approached the high table. He whispered into the count’s ear, then scampered away.

  The count unbent his lanky frame, kissed his wife and left the hall. Leonor sighed. Such were the duties of one born to the manor. The count had not even time for his grief. Distracted, she skipped two verses and finished sooner than she planned.

  She drew to a close her second song, about an enchanted nightingale, but Count Roger still had not returned. Whatever it was that detained him must be important, else he would not miss the music he was so fond of.

  Her breath caught. Was it about her trial by combat tomorrow? Resolutely she laid the thought aside and concentrated on the final flourish that ended her song.

  Next, Brian of Orkney presented two gentle, sweetly sung offerings, and then Andreas followed with an ornamented ballad requiring much skill. His meaty fingers danced over the gut strings, notes tumbled like rippling water, clear and sweet against the darker tone of his voice.

  With Andreas’s final work, a gay riddle song in triple time that brought a smile to everyone’s face, the second evening of the competition drew to a close. Leonor no long cared who won.

  She rose to retire, but Jannet signalled to her from across the crowded hall. She waited as the young countess made her way to her side.

  ‘My apologies for Roger’s absence,’ Jannet began, her melodious voice dropping so that Leonor alone could hear. ‘He was called away. Two knights requested the count’s presence at the armourer’s hut—something about tomorrow’s tourney.’

  Leonor scarcely heard her words. Her mind buzzed anew with grim thoughts of the coming day. She pressed Jannet’s small, warm hand and turned away to seek out Baudoin be Beziers.

  ‘My lord?’ she said, lightly touching his shoulder.

  The knight bolted off the trestle bench and bowed over her hand. ‘Lady Leonor, I bid you good evening.’

  ‘I came to wish you well in the lists tomorrow. And later, in the trial by com—’ Her voice choked off. She could not say the word.

  Baudoin coughed. ‘Fear not, lady. Right will prevail. I will fight to the death on your behalf.’

  ‘I pray it will not come to that, Sir Baudoin. You are a good man, and I would mourn your loss.’

  Again Baudoin leaned aside and coughed, and when he met her gaze she glimpsed tears in his eyes. He tried to speak, but could not. Leonor pressed his gnarled hand, turned and fled to the room off the pantry to find Benjamin.

  ‘Now, then, little one,’ her old tutor said, awkwardly mopping at her tears with a huge silk handkerchief. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I cannot bear it, Ben. If I should die…’

  Benjamin squeezed her shoulder. ‘Hush, Lea. You will not die.’

  ‘I would not mind dying so much, it is just…I would never see Reynaud again. And,’ she choked out, staring down at her embroidered slippers, ‘I do not wish to die in pain.’

  ‘You will not die,’ Benjamin said softly. ‘Not of unrequited love, and not at the stake for a murder you did not commit. Your champion, de Beziers, is seasoned and tough, never mind his age. Not all old men are as helpless as I feel at this moment.’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you for being here with me, Ben. In truth, I am frightened.’

  ‘In truth, little strong heart, you have good cause to be frightened.’

  Leonor slipped into the spectators’ pavilion and took a seat on the wooden bench next to Jannet. The young woman squeezed her icy hand. ‘I pray it goes well for you today.’

  ‘I pray the same,’ she murmured. She took a calming breath and looked about her.

  The day was hot and cloudless. Sunlight beat down from a sky the colour of brass, and she was grateful for the shade afforded by the multicoloured silk awning over her head. Finches chattered in the branches of the plane trees bordering the lists. Pages passed chilled wine among the noble ladies, who craned their necks in search of this knight or that as they sipped.

  In the distance, the piping of a jongleur rose over the general din of preparations. Leonor’s heart raced ahead of the rhythm of his tabor and she suppressed a shudder. She downed a sip of the spiced wine and tried to think.

  In a few hours her fate—her very life—would be decided by two knights on a field of battle. The skill of two combatants had naught to do with guilt or innocence, but she knew she must submit to the charade of a trial by combat, for that was how Christian law was administered in this land. How different from the ordered practice of law in Granada. Were it not for Reynaud, she wished with all her heart she was gazing on the mountains of her homeland instead of the hills of the world outside.

  But there was Reynaud. His bronzed, even features, his low voice that moved always on the quiet rivers of her mind. If he were dead, she would feel it in her bones, and a cold, black shadow would shroud her heart.

  She looked out beyond the lists to the gold-brown hills and bit into her lower lip. In truth, if Reynaud was killed, she wished to join him in death. The thought of how bleak life would be without him made her stomach clench.

  But God alone knew his fate. And hers. Within the hour He would decide whether she lived or died. Seated in a high-backed chair on the other side of Jannet, Count Roger signalled the scarlet-clad herald. With a blare of the shawms, the trial by combat began.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Leonor sat rigid on the bench, arms locked across her rib cage, straining to catch a glimpse of her champion, Baudoin de Beziers. At last, the older knight trotted on to the field just as Bernard de Rodez was accepting a cup of wine from his squire.

  ‘De Beziers is a capable knight,’ Count Roger remarked to Jannet under his breath. ‘But he is ageing. He fights with skill, yet…’

  Leonor flinched. Against de Rodez, Baudoin had little chance. Her throat closed. If her champion lost, would they drag her away and…?

  She wrenched her thoughts from the spectre of flames licking at her limbs. Concentrate on the moment and trust in God. She lifted her gaze from her trembling knees and came to instant attention.

  A hooded figure, a monk by the look of his coarse brown robe, worked his way through the press of onlookers until he reached the fence enclosing the jousting field.

  Another blast of the shawms. ‘Single combat,’ bellowed the herald. ‘Baudoin de Beziers challenges Bernard de Rodez in the matter of charges brought against the Lady Leonor of Granada.’

  Leonor entwined her fingers until they ached. Jannet reached out and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. Desperately
she willed her breathing to slow, her heart to cease its hammering.

  The Hospitaller mounted and leaned down to take his helmet from the squire. Snapping the nosepiece down over his face, he guided his warhorse on to the field of packed sand where Baudoin de Beziers waited. The wispy burgundy veil Leonor had given him as a token fluttered from the crest of his helmet. At his nod, the two musicians raised their shawms to their lips.

  Before they could make a sound, a single rider appeared at the far end of the field, stepping briskly forwards on an unfamiliar dark horse. A dull black metal helmet sat on the broad shoulders, and a plain black surcoat swept down over black chainmail. Even his shield was painted black, and no identifying device was painted on the polished wood.

  The herald strode to meet the strange knight. The two men spoke briefly, their voices indistinguishable over the buzzing of curious onlookers. At last, the herald nodded, pivoted and caught Count Roger’s eye. A long look passed between the two men. The herald then moved to the centre of the field and raised his hand.

  ‘Will Baudoin de Beziers yield to the Black Knight?’

  Baudoin hesitated, then stepped his horse to the pavilion where Leonor sat. He dipped his lance towards Count Roger, then lifted off his helmet and spoke to Leonor.

  ‘My lady, willingly would I fight on your behalf, but another now claims the privilege.’ He bowed his head. ‘I will yield only to your wishes.’

  Tears stung into her eyes at the elderly knight’s gallant words. Baudoin was willing to fight—and likely die—for her. And for what? She knew herself to be innocent of de Rodez’s charge. But in her heart she knew her ageing champion, however brave, was no match for the Hospitaller.

  ‘Yield to this stranger knight, my lord. My life is in God’s hands. If it is to be, I would rather a knight unknown to me die rather than you, whom I know and hold in respect.’

  De Beziers saluted her with his lance and, with a final nod at Count Roger, turned his horse towards his sky blue tent at the meadow’s edge.

  The mysterious Black Knight moved on to the field. The dark warhorse, the plain black high-pommelled saddle and unadorned shield were unfamiliar to Leonor. And to Jannet as well, from the expression her face.

  Leonor twisted her fingers together in her lap and darted a glance at Count Roger. Without looking at her, the count signalled a servant, then leaned back in his tall chair to sip his wine, his eyes thoughtful. With his free hand he reached to pat his wife’s wrist. ‘This should prove interesting, my dear.’

  ‘Interesting!’ Jannet raised her eyebrows and leaned towards Leonor. ‘Interesting?’ she murmured. ‘How like a man. For you, it is life and death. For him, it is merely “interesting”.’

  Leonor’s throat was so tight she could not respond. Life and death it was. She wondered how her unknown champion viewed the impending battle—as merely interesting? He had put his honour, even his life, at her service. Was it not life and death for him, also?

  She studied the figure on the prancing, black-caparisoned steed and saw no sign of fear or even unease. He sat on the horse as still as a statue, not even flicking the reins. Waiting.

  The black helmet turned towards her for a brief moment, and behind the narrow eye slits she saw a slight movement. Then the knight raised one mailed hand, saluted her and reined away.

  Bernard de Rodez rode on to the field, the rich scarlet of his horse’s trapper contrasting with the black surcoat and white cross of the Hospitaller order. His squire, a pudgy lad with a wide leather belt bisecting his fustian tunic, leaned attentively over the wooden fence outlining the field, his eyes avid.

  An ear-splitting blast of the shawms rent the air. Before the sound faded, a young page slipped under the fence and sped to the Black Knight’s side. Reaching up, he pressed something into the knight’s outstretched hand.

  Her burgundy veil! Baudoin had sent the unknown knight her favour. Bless the man for such a chivalrous gesture. Dear God, let it bring the stranger knight good luck!

  With his own hand, the knight removed his gaunt-lets and attached the strip of gauzy sarsenet to his helm, then leaned down to speak to the boy. Only now did Leonor note that the Black Knight had not even a squire to attend him. Was he some outlaw knight? A mercenary who fought not for honour, but for ransom?

  A chill swept over her. This man did not even know her. Likely he cared not whether his deeds proved her guilty or innocent; a renegade knight who fought for horses and armour and wealth from ransoms. For a fleeting instant she wished her old champion, Baudoin de Beziers, back again.

  Ah, no. Her chances were better with the unknown knight, whatever his identity, or his motives, than with a great-hearted but ageing warrior. She drew in a shaky breath and grasped Jannet’s hand. ‘Truly, you are right, my friend. It is a man’s game, in a man’s world, is it not? My life seems of small importance.’

  Jannet nodded. ‘You are frightened,’ the young woman murmured, pressing Leonor’s icy hands. ‘Do not despair, my dear. Roger has grown fond of you. I am sure he will not deal casually with your fate.’

  Leonor was not so sure. In her experience men were pragmatic to an extreme. They did what was politically necessary and lived with the consequences.

  And Bernard de Rodez? He was a snake.

  Why, then, should she trust this nameless knight?

  Because you have no choice, a voice reminded. Because at this hour and in this place, you are but a woman accused.

  She gritted her teeth. And the options open to a woman were defined by…She groaned aloud. Men.

  She glanced at Count Roger. He met her gaze, the pain of his son’s death barely disguised in his keen blue eyes. Roger was a fair and just man. Though he had suffered a great loss, a loss for which she now stood accused, surely the count would not let her die for something she did not do?

  Roger dropped his eyes before her perusal and leaned forwards, intent on the jousting field.

  Would he let her die?

  The shawms blared again. ‘The Black Knight sends a challenge to Bernard de Rodez,’ the herald bawled into the still, dusty air. He pivoted and repeated the message once more in each direction to make sure it was heard by all present.

  Near the jousting field, Leonor noted, an odd sight was unfolding. A tall, hooded monk left the spectators’ ranks and was slowly but deliberately making his way through the crowd to the fenced inner corridor reserved for squires and other retainers. He positioned himself next to the Hospitaller’s young squire, then pulled up his hood to hide his face and turned towards the field of battle.

  Bernard de Rodez stepped his mount into position, tested the weight of his lance and turned to face his challenger. On the other side of the wooden barrier, the Black Knight sat on his horse without moving a muscle, his lance couched under his arm.

  Count Roger raised one hand. The shawms sounded the charge, and de Rodez dug in his spurs. Leonor’s chest constricted.

  The Black Knight surged towards him, keeping his lance up. At the last moment, he aimed the tip at the Hospitaller’s helmet.

  The Black Knight’s lance shattered. As de Rodez thundered past, he wheeled his horse and quickly repositioned himself. But now he was without a weapon.

  Leonor’s heartbeat tripled. With no squire to serve him, no attendant of any kind, the unknown knight would be unable to re-arm himself.

  But, no! A knight rode forwards from the sidelines and offered his own lance. She recognized Baudoin de Beziers.

  Another shawm blast, another charge. The two opponents again spurred their warhorses towards each other, and Roger gulped his wine.

  This time the Black Knight struck de Rodez’s shield with such force that he reeled in the saddle.

  Count Roger grunted. ‘One strike each.’ He tipped his head towards Jannet. ‘That one is no stranger to battle,’ he remarked in an undertone.

  ‘Which one do you mean, husband?’

  His eyes riveted on the field, the count did not answer.

  Jannet caugh
t Leonor’s gaze and rolled her eyes skyward. Les hommes! she mouthed. Quel mal de tête!

  Both knights repositioned themselves and signalled their readiness. The shawm players raised their horns. Leonor shut her eyes. Please, let the stranger knight not be defeated!

  At the clash of impact, her lids flew open.

  Both lances had snapped. De Rodez dismounted immediately and strode towards his squire. The lad advanced, holding out a two-edged sword.

  Leonor held her breath. The Black Knight had neither sword nor attendant. She watched him turn his horse towards the spectators’ gallery and raise both hands, showing that they were empty. Then he dismounted and moved purposefully towards de Rodez’s squire.

  No, towards the tall monk!

  From under his robe, the hooded figure produced a fine sword, its hilt encrusted with crimson gems. The stranger knight stepped forwards and lifted it out of the monk’s hands.

  A gasp went up from the crowd. Was the sword known to some of the onlookers? Leonor squinted her eyes to get a good look at the weapon.

  She had never seen one like it before.

  A cry went up from the knights of Toulouse, bunched together at one end of the field. They recognised the sword! Was her champion then one of them? A knight of Toulouse?

  She racked her brain to recall their faces. None she remembered were as tall as the Black Knight.

  The herald lifted his arm for silence, and the field quieted. ‘Combat will continue with swords. And,’ he added, drawing a tired breath, ‘because this trial shall be settled by force of arms, combat shall continue…’ he paused for a split second and caught Count Roger’s eye ‘…to the death.’

  A great roar went up. Jannet clutched her husband’s arm. ‘Roger, you cannot. You—’

  He turned an impassive face towards his wife. ‘An eye for an eye,’ he muttered.

  Leonor froze. He could not mean it. Surely one death, even if it was his own son, could not mean…

  But he did mean it. She could see it in his face. Her stomach roiled. She remembered how Bernard de Rodez had killed young Jean du Clary on the first day of the tournament, the vicious pleasure on his face as he drove his sword into the young knight’s throat.