A Perfect Knight
Auteur·e
Anne Herries
Lectures
16,4K
Chapitres
13
Chapter One
Alayne watched the shallow stream as it burbled and chuckled over boulders worn smooth by the passage of time, its waters so clear that she could see the tiny creatures that lived on the sandy bed. Behind her she could hear the laughter and chatter of the courtiers. One of the ladies was playing a lyre; others ran hither and thither screaming with mirth as they indulged in foolish games.
The sun was too warm for playing games, Alayne thought. She sighed as she trailed her fingers in the cool water of the stream. Was she growing weary of the endless pleasures offered at the Court of Love? Poitiers was often so named because of the troubadours, who sang of that fine courtly love of which many dreamed and few truly found. Sometimes Alayne believed that ‘fine’ love was merely a myth; she wearied of all the intrigues and found the life shallow. And yet where else could she go? There was nowhere else where she could be safe and protected as she was here.
A tiny shudder ran through her as she thought of the fate that awaited her if she were to leave the court, and she knew that she would rather waste her days in idle pleasure than be at the mercy of those who wished to control and manipulate her life. Her lovely face was sad as the memories came back to haunt her—the reasons why she had fled her home.
‘Alayne! Alayne, come and join us,’ one of the ladies screamed as she ran by, hotly pursued by a young knight intent on snatching the kisses he had won from her, which she now refused to pay. ‘Save me from this wicked seducer, I beg you.’
Alayne smiled at their foolishness, but shook her head. She was in no mood for joining in their play; besides, she suspected that the lady fully intended to be caught once she had reached a secluded spot within the gardens. It might be nice to be kissed by a handsome lover, Alayne thought, and sighed—if only she could be as carefree and as happy as that girl!
Little though she knew it, her sadness was reflected in her lovely face and noticed by more than one knight present that day, for she was the kind of woman who attracted attention without seeking or wanting it. There was about her something that drew men to her, like moths to the flame.
Her thoughts were far away from the court at that moment, trapped in the recent unhappy past. It was almost a year since she had in desperation sought the protection of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was a distant kinswoman of her mother’s. Alayne had always admired the Queen. At the age of twenty Eleanor had taken the Cross and gone to the crusades with her husband King Louis VII of France, but that marriage had been annulled and Eleanor wed to Henry of Anjou, now Henry II of England. And there had been no one else Alayne could turn to in her distress.
‘Why so thoughtful, my lady?’
Alayne glanced up as she heard the voice of the Baron Pierre de Froissart, a little smile of welcome on her lips. He was held by most ladies of the court to be both handsome and charming, for he had a pleasant singing voice and an attractive manner.
‘I do not give my thoughts so lightly, sir.’ She pouted her lips at him, an unconscious teasing in her eyes that sent a fierce thrill of desire through the knight who looked down at her.
‘Will you let me sit with you, lady?’
‘Assuredly, sir. I am weary of my own company.’
Pierre de Froissart laughed and sat on the dry grass beside her, a look of amusement on his face. He sought her out most days, though he had never tried to court her. Alayne knew that several ladies sighed over him and gave him encouraging smiles. She suspected that he might have paid court to more than one lady, though such affaires were always kept secret.
It was an unspoken rule that courtly love should remain private. A troubadour approached his love in secret, offering his tributes of poems, songs, flowers or pretty trinkets. The lady would acknowledge the offering or not as she pleased. Indeed, it was the secret nature of the courtship that lent it excitement.
‘Yet I think it is by your own choosing that you sit alone, lady. There are many who would court you had they the chance. You keep your admirers at a distance, I think.’
His eyes saw too much! Alayne’s dark lashes veiled her eyes as she glanced 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 are right, Harald, and I know it. I have been remiss with Stefan. He grows too independent for his nurse. He must be schooled, for how else will he gain his knighthood? You shall take him with you this afternoon, my friend. I beg only that you will have a care for him for his mother’s sake.’
‘You had no need to ask. I loved Berenice dearly, though she was but a distant cousin of my mother’s.’ Harald hesitated. ‘You will not wish me to say this, Ralph—but you should think of marrying again. A man needs a wife to give him sons.’
‘Pray do not!’ Ralph held up his hand, a look of grief sweeping over his hard features. ‘My demesne is large enough for my ambitions and I have a son to inherit all my lands. Why should I need more?’
Harald refrained from giving him the answer he knew would be unwelcome. Children died all too often of virulent fevers or accidents. He himself had five sons and two daughters, having married for a second time within six months of his first wife’s death. It was the way of the world, for women were lost in childbed and there was no sense in repining. Life must go on and one woman was much the same as another in his experience.
‘I know you loved Berenice, but—’
‘Please!’ Ralph’s plea was a command, and a nerve twitched in his cheek. ‘Let us speak of other matters. What think you of this quarrel that rumbles on between the King and Sir Thomas à Becket?’
As Harald launched into a tirade against the King’s quarrel with the Archbishop, Ralph drew a breath of relief. He did not wish to discuss the fragile young wife, who had not been strong enough for childbearing. His hands clenched at his sides as he felt the familiar ache in his breast. He had grieved for a life needlessly lost. How could he ever think of marrying again when his unkindness, his thoughtless desires, had killed Berenice?
And there was the secret guilt that haunted him, because, though he had desired her, as a young man would for her beauty and sweetness, he had never truly loved her. She had proved too young and too foolish to hold his affections, and he feared that his reserve, his coldness, had destroyed her. She had known that he did not love her and because of that she was dead. It was a heavy sin for which he had done penance these past years.
He had let the women fuss over Stefan as they would, because his son was a permanent reminder of Berenice’s tragic death, but his weakness would reflect badly on the boy. He must be schooled and trained in the arts that would make him first a page, then a squire and then worthy to receive his knighthood. Harald of Wotten was a good man and just; he would look after Stefan and oversee his education and the boy would be sent home to spend feast days with his father. It was the end of one part of their lives and meant that Ralph had no ties to hold him to this place and must begin to think of the future.
The King’s request that he journey to Aquitaine and seek out Queen Eleanor at her court was one that he felt bound to honour, for he had received his own knighthood at Henry’s hands.
King Henry II was in Ralph’s estimation a worthy ruler of England. Henry had rescued the country from the chaos it had fallen into under King Stephen’s reign and instituted many reforms. He had subdued Wales and regained northern territories that had been lost to Scotland, but he had also brought in a law pertaining to the trial of churchmen who had transgressed, which had aroused the fury of many influential men. The most important of these was Sir Thomas à Becket, a stubborn man who had refused to bend in this matter of a law he felt unjust.
For the moment Ralph was not prepared to take sides. It was, he believed, a matter between the King and his Archbishop. Ralph’s loyalty was to the King and his mission to visit Queen Eleanor. The marriage between Henry and Eleanor, at first passionate and fortuitous for both, had deteriorated these past years, and Henry had heard rumours of his wife that displeased him. Some said that Eleanor meddled in matters of state that did not concern her, that she planted treason and sedition in the minds of her sons, turning them against their father. She had left England because of a quarrel with her husband and Henry was not altogether happy with her behaviour since. It was Ralph’s task to carry letters to the Queen at Poitiers and bring back her answer.
For the moment that was all that mattered; this personal unrest, this feeling of emptiness, must be put aside. Ralph had devoted his life to the welfare of his son and the people on his estate. In the future he must begin to look elsewhere for a purpose to his life. Once, when he was young and full of shining ideals, he had thought of taking up the cross and going to the crusades, but that was before his careless behaviour had killed Berenice… Now he knew that he was not worthy. He was, in fact, a most imperfect knight.
The court had spent the day hawking on the marsh-lands beyond the forest. Alayne’s peregrine had flown well, its speed, strong flight and tenacity much admired. Indeed, she had received more than one offer to buy the bird, but refused to part with it.
‘I love my sweet Perlita,’ Alayne said to one gentleman who persisted with his offer. ‘I shall never part with her for gold or jewels. She is far too precious.’
A party of ladies and gentlemen were riding close enough to hear her answer and one of the gentlemen asked what would buy the peregrine, if gold would not.
‘Why, nothing, my lord,’ Alayne replied, her azure blue eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘She shall never leave me unless I choose to give her.’
‘A wager! A wager!’ cried several voices.
‘I’ll wager the Lady Alayne would more willingly give her love than that bird,’ one of the ladies cried and trilled with laughter.
‘For shame!’ another voice said. ‘She cannot be won, for many have tried to win her smiles and received naught for their pains.’
‘You are too unkind, my Lord Malmont,’ Alayne said and laughed at the man who had spoken. ‘You may have a smile for the asking, but the man who would win both me and Perlita must first win my heart.’
‘Set me any task and I shall perform it,’ he quipped, hand clenched dramatically against his breast while his eyes danced with merriment. ‘For to win both you and that hawk would be a prize indeed.’
‘You mock me, sir. I think you prize the bird more than the lady,’ she replied and made a face at him, for she knew him to be another lady’s admirer. ‘I do not believe that I shall ever love. My heart is made of stone. I cannot love any man.’
‘A challenge!’ cried Baron de Froissart. ‘The lady’s denial cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. We must have a contest for the heart of this lady.’
Several gentlemen murmured agreement and there was much laughter and jesting as the party rode back through the forest to the palace.
Alayne found there was good-natured but fierce competition as to who should have the honour of helping her dismount from her palfrey. She laughed at their eager faces, then summoned a young page standing nearby, causing the knights to pull faces of dismay and complain that they had been overlooked for a mere stripling.
‘I am not to be so easily won, gentle sirs,’ she told them with a smile and gave her peregrine to the page, warning him to take good care of her before jumping down from her horse unaided. ‘If I am to be won, it will be no simple task.’
She was immediately asked to set her challenge, but merely smiled and shook her head before walking into the palace. The coolness of the thick stone walls met her immediately, seeming dark and making her shiver after the heat of the sun. For some reason she felt uneasy, though she did not know why she should, nor what reason she had for feeling that way. The light-hearted exchange between the courtiers was no more than happened any day, though she was not usually singled out. Other ladies were more inclined to respond to such teasing and enjoyed setting tasks of heroism or skill for their admirers to perform.
She was foolish to be anxious. Yet the prickling sensation at the nape of her neck was intense. Turning, Alayne saw that a man was standing a little way off. He was partially hidden by one of the huge stone pillars that supported the arched ceiling above the great hall. She could, however, see that he was tall, powerfully built, with broad shoulders: an impressive man dressed in the English fashion in cloth of black and silver, his dark, almost black hair straight and just long enough to brush the neckband of his tunic. His features were strong, harsh, his mouth set hard as if he disapproved of all he saw about him.
Alayne knew that she had never seen him at court before and, for one moment, as their eyes met, she felt something stir within her. He had such intent eyes, the irises a deep grey that seemed flecked with silver—or was that a trick of the sunlight that came slanting in at the high window?
Alayne felt her spine tingle as she looked deep into those mesmerising eyes and felt the pull of his personality. Who was the newcomer and why was the tingling at the nape of her neck even stronger now than it had been? Was she being warned of something? Why was he staring at her in that particular way? And yet there was something about his expression that made her think he hardly saw her, that he was lost in some lonely place in his thoughts. He seemed brooding, distant, as if nursing some secret sadness.
Hearing the others enter the hall, the noise of their chatter and laughter filling the echoing space, the strange feeling of being threatened left her all at once and she laughed at herself. She had nothing to fear. The Queen had promised she would not be forced to marry and there was no reason why she should. For as long as she had Queen Eleanor’s protection she was perfectly safe.
‘Ah, there you are, Lady Alayne,’ de Froissart cried as he saw her. ‘We thought we had driven you to flight with our teasing.’
‘No, indeed, sir,’ Alayne replied.’
‘Since you will set no challenge, we have decided to be judged by the court. The best amongst us shall compete for your favour at a tournament,’ he said, eyes alight with wicked mirth. ‘The winner earns the right to court you.’
‘I am not to be won by such a contest,’ Alayne said, but could not keep from laughing. The teasing look in the Baron de Froissart’s eyes made her heart beat wildly despite herself. He was a charming man and of all the courtiers she liked him the most, though she did not believe that he, or any man, had touched the inner citadel within her. Sometimes she believed that her heart was dead, killed by the brutality of the man she had been forced to wed when she was little more than a child. ‘I promise only a token to the winner, but my heart is not so easily captured.’
‘Then what will win you?’
‘I do not know,’ Alayne admitted. ‘My love, if it is ever given, will be for a gentle knight; a strong, true, loyal knight who lives by his ideals.’ Her eyes were for some reason drawn to where the stranger stood, but he was no longer there. She felt disappointed though she knew not why, recovering herself almost at once. ‘This is but foolish nonsense, sir! Who can say where love comes from? We find it where we least expect it and cannot love to please others. Do the poets not say that the greatest pleasure of all is to languish for a love that is not returned?’
‘Cruel! Cruel lady,’ de Froissart cried and smote his fist against his breast. ‘So be it, we shall labour for the prize of being the knight who languishes at your feet without hope for love of you.’
She turned from him at once, hiding her amusement. The Baron was indeed a charming companion and she took little notice of his teasing, for she had decided that he was not the one who had been sending her poems and flowers. She rather thought it might be one of the young pages, because she had seen him watching her with a yearning expression that had touched her heart. Life at court was sometimes difficult for the pages, who were at the beck and call of all, and she had seen more than one young boy in tears when he thought himself unnoticed.
‘You must fight for whatever pleases you,’ she replied and left him staring after her.
‘Cruel enchantress,’ de Froissart called after her. ‘You break my heart, lady.’ He waited for some response but, lost in her thoughts, she hardly heard him as she made her way towards the twisting stair that led to the turret room she shared.
Alayne’s habit of taking solitary walks about the gardens had made her aware of such things. She sometimes saw a snatched kiss or a clandestine meeting between a lady and her knight, but she kept such glimpses to herself; these things were secret and must be respected, and the tears of a page were every bit as sacrosanct to Alayne. She had once given a scarf to a boy in tears, doing her best to comfort him after his master had beaten him. She rather suspected it might be this boy who had been leaving tributes for her.
Walking up the curving flight of stone steps that led to her solar in the west tower, she was thoughtful. It might not be Baron de Froissart who had been leaving her tributes, but she had a feeling that he was taking an interest in her. She was not sure how she would react if he made a direct appeal to her as a potential lover. She did not think she would mind being kissed and treated as an object of reverence and desire—but what if he demanded more?
Alayne’s marriage had taught her what brutes men could be at certain times, especially if their desires were frustrated. Some of the ladies talked of the joys of fine love, but could it ever be as sweet as the troubadours claimed in their songs? Alayne’s own experience had been very different, and she recalled her marriage, which had in truth been no marriage, with only horror and revulsion.
Alayne shared her chamber with Marguerite de Valois and was not surprised that the lady was already there, changing from her outer garments of surcote and heavy wool tunic into a softer, lighter robe of cloth of silver, which she covered by an over-gown of deep blue. She smiled as Alayne entered and began to disrobe, taking off her plain white wimple. The wimple covered her head entirely and was more modest when out riding than the fantastic headdresses that the ladies adopted for court wear.
‘Did you chance to see Sir Ralph de Banewulf in the hall?’ Marguerite asked as Alayne shook her head, letting the shining mass of dark hair tumble down her back. ‘My father told me he was expecting to see him here by today at the latest. He brings letters from the English King to her Majesty.’
‘I saw someone new,’ Alayne said. ‘A tall, dark man, rather stern looking—’ She broke off as she remembered his eyes and the way he had seemed to stare at her.
‘Yes, I dare say that was he. His mother was cousin to my father. Sir Ralph is widowed these five years. His wife died some weeks after giving birth to their son. She was very beautiful and they say he still grieves for her.’
‘That is sad,’ Alayne said, remembering the brooding, almost haunted expression she had seen in the stranger’s eyes. ‘Such faithful devotion to a wife’s memory is not often found.’
‘No, that is true. Most men marry again as soon as possible for the sake of getting more heirs. I think he must have loved her very much. It is romantic—like the songs the troubadours sing for us.’
‘Yes, it would seem so,’ Alayne agreed, remembering the expression in the newcomer’s eyes. Perhaps that explained his stern manner. He was hiding his grief. ‘I did not think men married for love. It was not so in my case. My husband’s lands joined my father’s on one side. They arranged the match between them for their mutual benefit. My father said they were both stronger for the alliance, more able to defend their own demesne from any attack. My son was to have inherited all their lands in time and my father was disappointed that I did not give him the grandson he craved.’
‘But you were married only a few weeks.’
‘My husband had an accident the day after our wedding. He—he was drunk and fell down the stairs.’ Alayne’s eyes held the sparkle of tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to weep. ‘He broke his back, but did not die at once. I nursed him for some weeks, but he did not recover.’
She turned away as the bitter memories crowded into her mind and would not be denied. Baron Humbolt had cursed her with his every breath, blaming her for his inability to be a true husband to her. His hatred had been hard for a young girl to bear, as had the cruel, crude language he used to her—the language of the stews. Almost as humiliating as the way he had tried to use her on the wedding night.
But she would not think of that! She had promised herself that she would never allow another man to humiliate her in that way.
‘I am so sorry,’ Marguerite said. ‘It is little wonder that you have no wish to marry again. My father says it is almost time to arrange my marriage…’ She broke off and sighed deeply. ‘I hope he chooses someone kind, someone I can like.’
‘He has not spoken of his choice for you?’
‘Not yet, though…I think he may have someone in his thoughts, but I cannot be sure.’
Alayne guessed what was in her mind. ‘You think he may approach his kinsman? Sir Ralph de Banewulf?’
Marguerite blushed. ‘Perhaps, but I must not presume. These things are a matter for discussion and contract. Sir Ralph may not wish for such a match.’
‘Is there no one you like? Someone you would choose to marry if you could?’
Marguerite’s blush deepened. She hesitated for a moment, conscious of Alayne’s eyes on her, then said, ‘There might be, but he has not yet won his knighthood. My father would never permit me to wed a lowly squire.’
‘Does he love you?’ Alayne was intrigued. She was not sure why, but she had the feeling that her friend was not telling her the whole truth. There was someone—but was it really a squire who had yet to win his spurs? ‘Do you love him?’
‘It would be foolish of me to love him,’ Marguerite said and for a moment sadness flickered in her lovely eyes. ‘I know I must marry as my father dictates.’
‘Yes, I suppose you must.’
Alayne knew that her friend had no choice but to obey her father. Having been married and left in possession of a small but adequate fortune in her own right, Alayne had been able to seek protection from her Majesty. It was not the same for Marguerite.
‘Perhaps you will be lucky,’ she said, more to comfort her friend than in belief. ‘Come, if you are ready, perhaps we should go down. The Queen may need us.’
Marguerite nodded, smiling as if determined to banish her fears. ‘I hope Sir Ralph has arrived,’ she told Alayne. ‘I am looking forward to meeting him.’
Alayne’s thoughts returned to the man she had noticed earlier. He had seemed so cold, almost angry. Why was that? Had his expression when he looked at her been disapproval as she had at first thought or merely the sadness habitual to a man who was still grieving for the wife he had lost?
