A Perfect Knight. Anne HerriesЧитать онлайн книгу.
down at the water, though her heart beat faster and brought a becoming colour to her creamy complexion. A blush touched her cheeks, but she did not answer him at once, for it was true that she had chosen solitude that afternoon.
She was a particularly beautiful girl, her dark hair only partially hidden by the sheer veil she wore attached to her headdress of green and silver, her eyes a wonderful blue that made people look at her twice. Her dark lashes were long and silky; brushing her cheek as they did when she closed her eyes for a moment, their effect on men was startling and they had been mentioned in more than one poem to her beauty. She was the kind of woman that men dreamed of having in their bed, a tantalising temptress, with red lips that begged for kisses, her seeming innocence merely fanning the flames of their desire.
For the past several weeks someone had been sending her poems and small gifts of flowers. As yet her admirer had not spoken directly to her of his feelings, merely leaving his tributes where he knew she would find them on her walks or delivering them by means of a page who was sworn to silence.
‘I wished to be quiet for a little…to think…’ she said at last, bringing her eyes up to meet the man’s suddenly.
‘I would pay a forfeit for your thoughts,’ de Froissart offered, as she was silent once more. ‘For I do not like to see you so sad.’
‘You need pay no forfeit,’ Alayne replied. It was a game often played by the courtiers, and the young men tried to win kisses and more from the ladies. ‘I was thinking of nothing in particular. Only that it is pleasant to sit here in the sun and yet…’ A sigh escaped her and she did not go on.
‘Can it be that you seek something more, Lady Alayne? Something fine and perfect, an intimacy not often met with, and seldom found in marriage…’ He plucked a long stem of grass and chewed the end, his eyes watching her. The tip of her tongue moved nervously over her bottom lip, the act unconsciously sensuous and arousing fires of which she was completely unaware.
‘I have no wish to marry again,’ Alayne said, getting to her feet with a fluid, graceful movement. She found any talk of marriage unsettling. It was, of course, because her father, the Baron François de Robspierre, had tried to force her into a second marriage that she had sought protection from Queen Eleanor. ‘Marriage is for making alliances and securing territory. Love is another matter.’
‘You speak truly,’ de Froissart agreed at once. She was lovely, and like many others at the court he dreamed of her, of having her as his lover. ‘The intimacy of which I dream is beyond compare. To admire from afar the lady I worship is more than I could ever ask, but to know her, to share that exquisite intimacy, would indeed be heaven.’
Alayne’s cheeks were heated. Was the Baron de Froissart her secret admirer? His words to her that afternoon seemed to indicate intense feeling on his part. Yet she was not sure of her own feelings. She had heard much of this perfect love from other ladies of the court, but was she ready to begin such an affaire? There was a part of her that longed to know the true love of which the troubadours sang so sweetly, but another that shrank from any physical contact.
‘Alayne! Will you not sing for us? Her Majesty begs you come to her.’
Her thoughts took a new direction as a pretty young woman came towards them. Marguerite de Valois was a popular member of the court. She received endless tributes from her admirers, but she withheld her favours from all. Some of them had been set foolish tasks by the Courts of Love to try and win her, but she remained aloof, giving no man more than a nod in passing no matter what they did to please her.
‘Willingly,’ Alayne cried and went to meet her. She was glad of the interruption, for the Baron had made her uncertain, a little nervous. She liked him well enough as a friend, but any attempt at intimacy frightened her.
Marguerite glanced at her flushed face as she joined her. ‘It is not for me to advise, Alayne, but I would be wary of de Froissart if I were you.’
‘You do not like him? He is generally liked at court, I think.’
‘As to that…’ Marguerite shrugged. Her long fair hair was covered by a silver veil caught from a little cap, her green eyes thoughtful as she looked at Alayne. ‘You are very beautiful, Alayne, and wealthy. There are men who would do anything to secure such a prize. I do not deny de Froissart’s charm. I say only that I would not trust him.’
‘You know that I do not wish to marry again?’
‘I have heard that your marriage was not happy…’
‘I prefer not to remember,’ Alayne said, a closed look coming to her face as she forced the cruel memories back to that tiny corner of her mind where they habitually dwelt. ‘My father wished me to marry again so that he could gain advantage from my widowhood for himself, but the Queen forbade it. She has given her word that I shall not be forced to marry against my will.’
‘You are fortunate,’ Marguerite said with a sigh. ‘I shall be married when I am seventeen whether I wish it or no.’
‘It is the lot of most women,’ Alayne said. ‘My father was furious when I sought the Queen’s protection. He considers I am his property to dispose of as he wishes, but I shall not be sold again!’ Tears sparkled in her lovely eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Her wedding night had been unspeakable and it was only the sudden demise of her husband, who was so many years her senior, that had saved her from further humiliation at his hands.
Marguerite pressed her hand and smiled. It was because so many women were forced into unhappy marriages that the code of courtly love had gained so much popularity in the languorous climes of Aquitaine and southern regions of France. How much sweeter the stolen kiss of a young lover than the clumsy embrace of an uncaring husband!
But the court was waiting for Alayne to sing for them. She was led to the place of honour beside the Queen’s gilded throne. She smiled and curtsied respectfully to her friend and champion.
‘Sing for us, Lady Alayne,’ the Queen requested. ‘Sing something sweet that will bring tears to our eyes and gladden our hearts.’
‘Yes, your Grace,’ Alayne said and, taking a lyre from one of the other ladies, began to play a haunting melody, the pure notes of her song catching the attention of all those gathered in the glade that warm afternoon in the year of Our Lord 1167.
It was a song of love unrequited, of a lover left to weep alone and die of a broken heart, and of a love so pure and tender that it touched the hearts of all those who heard it.
Her song was of a perfect knight, a man who chose death rather than bring harm to the lady he adored. But where, Alayne wondered, would she ever find such an honourable knight? She did not believe that he existed outside the songs of the troubadours.
‘His Majesty bids me visit the Queen at her court in Poitiers,’ Sir Ralph de Banewulf said to his cousin Harald of Wotten as they talked that afternoon in the great hall of Banewulf Manor. Banewulf had begun as a fortress in the days of William the Conqueror, but a new house had been built adjacent to the tower in more recent times for the sake of comfort. ‘I cannot refuse Henry’s request, though you know I have no love of the court these days.’
‘It will do you good to leave this place and seek company,’ Harald replied with a frown. His cousin had been in mourning too long for the wife he had married at nineteen and lost barely more than a year later. Berenice had died of a fever after giving her husband a son, Stefan, and the boy was now a sturdy lad of five years. ‘Besides, it is time that you gave me Stefan for his training as a squire. Most lads would have entered school a year since. You do him no favours by leaving him to the women, Ralph.’
Ralph was silent for a moment, his expression harsher than he realised. He was a man that others respected and feared, a strong, powerful man with stern principles and standards few could follow. Yet when he relaxed and smiled he was pleasant to look upon and had an unconscious charm. Women admired him, but he was often thought unapproachable, and it was said that his heart had died with his young wife. When he spoke at last, his words were just and considered.
‘You