Betrothal (Time Enough To Love) (10 page)

Geoffrey’s grin widened. “Nay. ’Twas made ere our quarrel. I look forward to it eagerly.”

“I as well.” Thomas returned the grin. “Especially to claiming my prize.”

A scowl washed away Geoffrey’s good mood. The memory of Alyse’s eyes sparkling at the thought of dancing with Thomas surfaced. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

“You presume much.” He fought to speak carelessly. “I suspect the wagering will fall in my favor on this event.” The image of Alyse arm and arm with his friend, winding their way down a line of dancers appeared in his mind’s eye.

The victory
must
be mine
.

He shook his head to dispel the vision. “In truth, I mean to win and keep Alyse’s dances for myself.”

Thomas chuckled, though he watched Geoffrey’s face keenly. “You may have the advantage of size, but I am confident I have the skill to best you. I will make sure you give the fair Alyse to me at least this once.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. “’Sblood, Thomas. Why do you wish to partner her? You had ample chance ere now.”

His friend shot him a grin the devil himself would have been proud of. “Because now is when ‘twill prove most entertaining.”

Geoffrey groaned. His friend would play this game, danger be damned. ‘Twas his way to stir mischief whene’er he could.

Thomas leaned back in his chair, foot propped on the cold grate. “But tell me, how did Lady Alyse receive you? I’ll wager she would have happily sent you both to perdition when she discovered Patrick’s treachery.” He tilted his head and gave Geoffrey a pensive stare. “Though you were far too pleased with yourself when you entered just now for her to have chastised you in any large measure. Did she yield to your persuasion, then?”

A little more mollified when he remembered how much she had yielded to him, Geoffrey smile
d and poured himself some wine. “I expressed my gratitude for her good will most enthusiastically. And she received my ardent affections with more than a little willingness.” His groin stirred at the memory. “I do sorely look forward to that marriage bed.”

“Why not an early bed then, Geoffrey? You have never been bashful before if you wanted a woman.”

Geoffrey rounded on him, eyes narrowed. “Take care, my Lord Braeton. Lady Alyse is a gentlewoman, no country wench to be dallied with.”

Thomas’s lips curled in a smirk. “I beg your pardon, Sir Geoffrey. I meant no offense to the lady. I am, however, amazed that the bonds of marriage affect this much of a change in you. I seem to recall you saying, and quite often at that, that women were meant to serve your pleasure by your leave and for no other purpose. Yet now I am to believe that a few saucy words from a child of,” he paused, “how old?”

“Ten and seven years,” Geoffrey replied grudgingly.

“Ten and seven years,” Thomas continued, “and you are the smitten courtier, sick for love and rushing to defend a maiden’s honor.” He stared at Geoffrey, a smile playing around his lips. “Correct me if I speak amiss, but did you not tell me you vanquished the virtue of a maiden a scarce fortnight ago, without so much as a quiver of contrition?” He sat comfortably, with the look of a man who would wait years for an answer. “Pray, my lord, explain this miraculous discovery of a conscience.”

Geoffrey’s scowl deepened at Thomas’s stinging words. He raised his cup to drain it then set it down hard and proceeded to pace about the room. He doffed his clothes, down to his chausses, in preparation for bed, darting covert glances at his friend, as though searching for an answer rather than withholding one.

Indeed, Thomas spoke truth. He had taken his ease of women freely since his thirteenth year. That he had dallied with a maid recently was true as well. But, simply put, they were not Alyse. His pace slowed finally and, after pouring another glass of wine from the sideboard, he returned to sit across from Thomas, who had remained silent the while.

Geoffrey rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “By God, Thomas, I fear I am undone.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “Who would have thought it of me? I have bedded wenches aplenty. But now I think of none but her. Though I become the butt of many a jest, I do seem besotted.” He raised his head to cut his eyes toward his friend then glanced down again. “Once she forgave me this evening, I could scarce keep my hands off her.”

With a low laugh, Thomas got up to pour himself another cup of the sweet wine. “I suppose it had to happen to you some time, Geoffrey. We all find love differently. I am simply surprised this innocent has you wrapped around her finger, and has remained a virgin.” He chuckled at his friend’s discomfiture.

Geoffrey groaned and flung himself out of the chair and began to pace anew. “Aye, the maid is a maid still. But only just.” He took a deep breath and shuddered at the remembrance of her sweet body pressed against his. “She proved so apt and willing a pupil under my mouth, I swear I was sorely tempted to take her there in the courtyard. Indeed, I could scarce prove my self-restraint. And though I have sworn not to have her before we are wed, it may be a vow I cannot keep.” The memory of Alyse in his arms, her mouth on his, rose and Geoffrey fought again the stirring in his loins. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and sat heavily in the chair.

Thomas threw back his head, laughing heartily. “You are a monk by choice then?”

Geoffrey sighed regretfully. “Aye, I have sworn to hold myself from her until I speak the nuptial vows.”

His friend shook his head. “For nigh on two weeks? I would not put money on that wager. Of course, a betrothal does not preclude you seeking your pleasure elsewhere if your need is too great. Neither does a marriage, for that matter.”

“Peace, Thomas” Geoffrey shook his head. “I will not speak for you, but as for me, ’twill not be the way in my marriage. I can think of none other than Alyse I would lie with now.” At Thomas’s look of incredulity, his resolve deepened. “Mock me if you must, but I say ’tis true. I would be with her and no one else.”

“Then, my friend, I wish you joy of her, for she has certainly bewitched you. I see a changed man before me and am amazed.” Thomas’s words rang with sincerity, though Geoffrey saw doubt in his face.

For himself he had no doubts: he would love Alyse de Courcy until death, if not beyond.

“These twenty gentlemen from lands near and far have come before your presence, gentle Majesties and ladies, recommended by your good grace, in as humble ways as they can beseech you to give unto the best jouster a crown of gold, and unto he who is second best a chain of gold, and unto him who follows third best a clasp of gold.”

The herald of arms cried the joust for the final day of the tournament, just as he had for the past three days. Today, however, Alyse had cause for dismay. Unlike the previous days, Geoffrey and Lord Braeton would compete, and a cold cramp of fear sat in her belly.

Two knights immediately took their places at opposite ends of the tiltyard and, without a signal, began their run. Alyse barely had time to see that neither horse bore the colors of either of her champions, before both knights’ lances shattered in a spray of splinters as they passed. The impact sent a shiver through the pavilion in which she sat and she gasped at the violence of it. Even after three days, she could scarcely bear to watch.

Neither combatant being unhorsed, they rode to the ends of the field, took up fresh lances and commenced a second run. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of something else. Something pleasant. The happiest thought she could muster was her part in the procession on Tuesday, resplendent in blue, Geoffrey riding proudly by her side. She smiled even as the clash of the jousters made her wince. Eyes squeezed shut, she recalled their glorious ride through the banner-lined streets of London. A moment that would stay with her all her life.

The first three days had been spent watching the splendor of the tournament, Geoffrey at her right side, Lord Braeton on her left. Sweet days during which both had vied for her attention, though the latter gentleman had given equal consideration to Lady Carlyle, seated on his left. That lady’s smug look had annoyed Alyse exceedingly. The woman was already married and could have no hopes of the earl. But they had been partnered in the procession, so perchance Lord Braeton felt responsible for her.

Alyse had laughed a great deal with the two gallants as they teased various knights about their performance on the field. With both of them beside her, the terrors of the joust had receded. She had enjoyed herself, which she had not expected to do.

As they watched the different events, Alyse had managed to draw Lord Braeton’s attention to her. They had not quite dallied, but they had passed a private jest or two between them. If only he had made his intentions clear to her. Several times, he had looked sharply from her to Geoffrey and his wicked grin had appeared. But nothing more. Mayhap he waited until he had won the joust and secured her as his partner. Then he would declare himself.

Geoffrey had spent much of the time glowering, until she had repented her neglect of him and redoubled her efforts to engage him in conversation. He had warmed to her then, summoning all his courtly charm to explain the action on the field. Then, surreptitiously, he had kissed each of her fingers, sending a shower of tingles through her that chased thoughts of all else from her mind.

Today, however, with Geoffrey and Lord Braeton’s first joust perhaps only moments away, Alyse found she could think of nothing save their safety. She took no comfort in the pageantry and pomp of this spectacle, as an icy dread gathered near her heart.

She opened her eyes in time to see one knight manage to land his lance on the other’s chest, toppling him from the horse. Alyse, nerves stretched taut, rose out of her seat, stifling a cry. Recalling herself, she dropped back down quickly, and glanced from side to side. Thankfully, her movements had gone unnoticed as the crowd in the gallery gasped and a hum of conversation circled the enclosure. She needed to mask her fears. Such displays were deemed unbecoming one of her station.

Squires raced out to attend the fallen combatant, unlacing his helm and assisting him to rise. When the helm came off, Patrick Sullivan lay there, appearing somewhat dazed and winded. He was helped off the field while his opponent rode to the far end of the lists and the next seeded pair began their run. From the corner of her eye, she saw Maurya hurry from the gallery to tend to her brother.

A quick glance at the combatants assured her Geoffrey was not competing in this match either. She breathed a sigh of relief, though the reprieve would be short. Leaning over to her neighbor on the right, Lady Catherine Mandeville in Princess Isabella’s service, she asked, “Do you know the victor in this match, Lady Catherine?”

The stately blonde, attired in green as Lady Orgeluse, turned to her and whispered, “’Tis a challenger from France, I have been told. Sir Guy de Valere.”

Alyse jerked upright at the name. “Guy de Valere?” Her voice cracked. “Are you sure, Lady Catherine?”

“Aye, Lady Alyse. Know you of this lord?” Lady Catherine turned cool gray eyes toward her, interest evidently piqued.

“Aye. He is well known to me, for he is from a neighboring estate north of my father’s. I did not know he competed here.” She refused to meet the courtier’s frank stare. “Thank you, my lady.”

Alyse signaled a servant who brought her a goblet of wine.

Guy de Valere
. Her heart thudded at the name.
Why do you show up now, my lord?

She shook her head to clear it, took the cup with a trembling hand and drained it. Comfort came in many forms.

I may well be drunk before Geoffrey even takes the field
.

She gathered her scattered thoughts into a memory of Guy from her childhood. Him towering over her, cupping her chin and raising her face so he could stare at it. Such an odd, almost paternal, action. Mayhap the reason he had always seemed so much older, though the difference in their ages could not be more than ten years. During her infrequent visits home, he had pressed his suit vigorously. And each time she had been glad to hear of his rejection. ’Twould have seemed like marrying her father.

Now her father’s decision had been made in favor of another. Would Guy challenge Geoffrey to a
pas d’armes
? Yet another way for her betrothed to be killed.

Alyse noted the return of Lady Maurya and hurriedly rose to meet her, glad of the distraction from her disturbing thoughts.

“How is Patrick, Maurya?”

“Ah, he is well, Alyse. Well indeed.” Maurya’s voice was steady, but her drawn face told its own tale about Patrick’s injury. “’Tis a fine hard head the lad has, and it serves him well when he insists on such pursuits.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“He leads a charmed life, I vow.” Maurya chuckled. “Though I think he may be standing throughout the banquet this evening.”

Alyse gave her a quizzical look. “Did you not say he hurt his head?”

Maurya shot back a mischievous glance. “Nay, Alyse, I said he had a hard head and ’tis true. But this time he landed hard on his softest parts, if you take my meaning.”

“Aye, I do.” Alyse laughed for the first time that day. “I suppose I shall not be having that dance with him this evening then?”

“Nay! ’Twould take more than a little hurt to keep Patrick from dancing with the ladies. You mark my words, you will get your dance, Alyse. Though I doubt ’twill be a boisterous one.” She smiled again then made for her seat.

Alyse settled once more to watch the joust, in time to see a horse, wearing the familiar green and white caparison of Lord Braeton’s house, speed toward her. She bit her lip as Braeton splintered his lance on the other knight’s shoulder, pivoting him in the saddle and almost unhorsing him. She shuddered at the force of the blow and reached again for her wine cup. After two more passes, in which he also landed solid hits, the match was awarded to him. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. She had not realized him so skilled in jousting. The challenge match yet to come that afternoon loomed large in her thoughts. Which knight did she hope would carry the day? The unsettled feeling in her middle increased.

The next match captured her attention and the pit of her stomach dropped away completely when Geoffrey took his lance and moved his horse, Saracen, into position. She did not want to watch, but her gaze was riveted to the tall armored figure on the huge black destrier. Her breathing sped, her heart pounded in her chest as Geoffrey began his pass.

The scene before her seemed to recede, much the way Geoffrey himself had the night they met. Accompanying that dizzying sense of rushing backward were images that flashed before her eyes: a knight on horseback, a lance shattering on his helm and knocking the helm free from his head. Shards of the splintered lance piercing his face, his neck.

Alyse snapped out of her reverie at the dull, deep crash made by the impact of a lance broken on armor. She raised her gaze in time to see a knight topple from his horse. A white horse. Then everyone cheered as Geoffrey and Saracen raced toward the end of the lists. A cry rose from her lips as she could suddenly breathe again. One hit and it was over, thank God. Elation coursed through her, only to stumble to a halt at the realization he would be jousting again shortly. And in the challenge match.

Alyse stifled a moan and stood abruptly. Unable to sit any longer, she moved out of the gallery, making her way to the brightly colored silk tent set up behind the berfrois. She did not need to use the ladies’ convenience pavilion, but she had to move or scream. With the prayer that no one would stop her, she strode quickly past the tent and out into the open field beyond. Her head spun from a mixture of excitement, fear and wine.

A great shout went up behind her as another pair of combatants took the field. She fervently wished herself anywhere but here, and began to run toward a stand of trees to her left. By the time she reached the first of the tall oaks, her heart pumped so fast she had to catch hold of the tree and lean against it, panting.

Cheers from the berfrois signaled the completion of the last match of the first round. She had to go back. Had to watch him in the next round, and the next, and the next.

Tears of fear and grief trickled down her face as she tried to push the images from her mind. They refused banishment and, tiredly, she let them play out again, hoping that would satisfy the terror.

Another joust, another time. The blow of a lance on metal. Running onto the field. Blood flowing through his golden hair, seeping into the ground. Holding her beloved as he breathed his last. She clenched her fists, willing those images away.

Instead, she deliberately filled her mind with memories of Geoffrey. Of their first meeting, that first breakfast, their tryst under the rose bower. Each image precious because it had been shared with her love.

Alyse’s heart beat faster.

Her love.

‘Tis true
.

A shiver chased through her body. The mere thought of him quickened her pulse, made her long to see him, feel his strong arms around her.

She had been a fool.

Geoffrey, not Lord Braeton. No conscious decision, just an awareness she would not be content with anyone except the great knight to whom she was betrothed. With whom she belonged. Like a key turning surely in a lock, her heart clicked into the place meant for it. Slowly her breathing calmed, and she looked toward the tilting field. She would return to cheer him on to victory and pray he lived long enough for her to confess her love.

As she hurried back to the gallery, with sudden longing she wished she and Geoffrey were already married. Already one in body and soul. That way they might at least have shared themselves…as she had not with—

Alyse shook her head.
I cannot dwell on past regrets
.

She regained her seat as the second round of matches commenced. The field had narrowed to four combatants—the winners of the first round. The first two, Guy and Lord Braeton, readied their mounts.

Alyse leaned forward, intent on keeping herself distracted from the deadly activity on the field. She set herself instead to gauging each knight’s array of skills. Which one would be easier to defeat in the event Geoffrey advanced to the final round?

In the first pass, both knights broke lances. Then in the second, Guy managed to land his blow, but Lord Braeton was thrown backward and missed his target. The French knight appeared to have an unnaturally long reach—a true benefit in this game. The third pass saw Braeton miss again and the match awarded to Valere.

Disappointment tasted bitter on her tongue. Belatedly, she realized she would have preferred Lord Braeton advance to the final match rather than Guy. Such a pairing would have given Geoffrey an advantage, having jousted many times against his friend.

Now he faced the last winner of the first round, Sir Roger Delaney. Alyse took a deep breath as their match began. All three passes saw Geoffrey’s lance shatter on Sir Roger’s torso, giving him the clear victory. Her shoulders slumped in relief as he rode off the field, having scarcely been touched so far that day.

A respite was called before the final match between Lord Valere and Geoffrey, during which many of the ladies surrounded Alyse, congratulating her on her betrothed’s victories. She forced herself to smile and mumble her thanks for their good will, but thoughts of the match to come overwhelmed her.

All too soon, she found herself taking another deep breath and plastering a smile on her face as the combatants roared down the field. She could not take her eyes off Geoffrey, so she saw the full force of the lance as it shattered against his torso, knocking him back in his saddle. Her heart tried to leap from her chest as he fought for control of Saracen. In the end, he managed to stay astride the stallion and land his own blow on Sir Guy. That gentle also reeled, seeking his balance. Alyse watched the man struggle to remain upright, willing him to fall and put an end to this barbarous pastime, but Guy kept his seat as well.