Lady Knight (10 page)

Eleanor exchanged words with a few acquaintances as she worked her way out of
the hall. Her groom waited with the horses for her and her women.

One of the men of her escort cleared a path for their retinue through the busy
bailey and out of the gatehouse. Eleanor pointedly did not look across to the
tents and tourney field. More interesting to her far ranging curiosity was the
less gaudy sprawl of the stalls and booths of the hundreds of merchants come
with wares from all over the Eastern Kingdoms. Eleanor wondered what it would be
like to walk amongst the noisy, sweaty press. To hear a dozen languages.

“Is that not Lady Riannon?” Agnes said.

Riannon sat on her horse near the fringe of tents surrounding the tourney field.
Eleanor should not have been surprised that Riannon would enter the lists. She
was, after all, a knight. Although, if Lady Overwood’s story held water,
Riannon’s honour had been gained by deceit. Eleanor doubted that. No one who
knew Riannon would conceive of her lying about a matter of honour. One glance at
Riannon’s scarred face was enough to show her familiar with the sinews of war.
Her current interest probably meant she intended to participate in the contests.
She possessed the qualification of good birth necessary for entering the
tourney. Eleanor could not help that sour twist inside that always accompanied
any thoughts of fighting. And that charnel whiff of death.

Alan said something that made Riannon turn. The moment she saw Eleanor her frown
dissolved in a grin. Eleanor smiled. She stopped her horse and waited for
Riannon to join her.

“I’ve done my gossiping for the day,” Eleanor said. “I’m on my way to the
basilica. You’ve been looking for comrades?”

Riannon shook her head. “I was watching my brother Guy. He rides a practice
course.”

“Guy? He’ll have so many spectators and well-wishers that he’d not grudge me
one. If, that is, you’d not find my company too tedious.”

“I’ve not the breadth of wit to imagine you less than interesting, lady.”

Eleanor smiled as Riannon guided her horse alongside Eleanor’s mare.

Had Eleanor not met Riannon, the idea of a woman acting as a man might have
excited both her curiosity and revulsion. Yet, the person riding beside her
seemed anything but unnatural. Had Riannon appeared a woman masquerading as a
man, that would indeed have been grotesque. But Eleanor could not imagine
Riannon as other than exactly as she was.

They rode at a walking pace past the busy edge of the swollen market. Smells of
cooking and smoke drifted across the reek of refuse and over-ripe bodies.

“There.” Riannon nodded past Eleanor.

Eleanor turned and saw a man with skin as dusky brown as her mare’s coat.
Disappointingly, he wore normal tunic and hose. “Where would he come from?”

“Perhaps northern Themalia,” Riannon said. “Or the seacoast of southern Rhân.”

“Do the women look as dark?”

“Yes. They can be very beautiful.”

“You do not subscribe to the acme of beauty in fairness?” Eleanor said.

“No,” Riannon said.

Riannon signalled to a man carrying a tray of food. Instead of letting her
squire deal with him, she dismounted herself. The man nearly let his wares slip
to the ground when he dropped to his knees. Riannon purchased one of the
pastries and broke off a part to taste. Satisfied, she offered the rest to
Eleanor.

“This is a spiced cheese pie,” Riannon said. “A specialty of the Windward Isles,
off the western coast of Iruland.”

Eleanor accepted the pastry. The tangy taste appealed for its novelty, though
she would not be instructing her cook to seek out the recipe.

Their party generated considerable interest from vendors and shoppers alike who
stopped to gawk at the riders. Few dared approach Riannon unbidden. The more
enterprising tried to accost Agnes or Alan. Eleanor looked beyond them to the
uneven rows of stalls. Some merchants operated from the back of wagons. Others
set up trestle tables spread with their goods. Most simply arrayed their wares
on blankets spread on the ground.

“Is there something you wish me to fetch you, lady?” Riannon said.

“I was remembering,” Eleanor said. “As a young girl, I once escaped from my
nurse and walked two miles to a fair. I had heard of such places but had never
been allowed to visit one for myself. They sounded irresistibly interesting. Of
course, I was soon found and returned home. And whipped. But it was worth it. I
bought myself a set of ribbons. I hid them, for fear that they’d be taken from
me. They were woefully poor quality, but I kept them for years. They were
green.”

Riannon lifted her arms. “I cannot promise that you’ll find anything of interest
at this fair, but I swear no one will dare chastise you.”

Eleanor smiled and let Riannon help her to the ground.

The merchants goggled at the pair of them strolling down the dusty,
refuse-strewn road. The shoes, straw hats, mouse traps, wooden spoons, and
cloths were all of such inferior quality that Eleanor felt no temptation to buy
anything, and the stink was stronger and less pleasant at ground level, but she
enjoyed herself every bit as much as that longago little girl had when she
slipped loose of the restraints for a few hours.

They saw another dark-skinned man. Riannon beckoned to him. He, too, wore normal
clothes, but he bowed in a strange manner with his hand to his forehead.
Eleanor listened in amazement as Riannon spoke a few words in a guttural
language. The man’s eyes grew wide and he offered her the wooden box he carried.
Riannon gave him some coins and dismissed him.

“You speak their tongue?” Eleanor said.

“A few words,” Riannon said. “Sufficient to get my horse groomed, myself fed,
and to be able to tell someone that I think his parentage dubious.”

Eleanor laughed. She needed no coaxing to try one of the strange candied lumps
in the box that Riannon offered. To her surprise, the inside was a sticky, gooey
liquid that tasted of lemons and roses.

“These are a great delicacy,” Riannon said. “The chieftains of some of the
wandering tribes in the warm lands have more than one wife. They keep them
locked away from other men. The women must get bored. They spend their days
making themselves beautiful and eating sweets such as these.”

“I don’t think I’d like such a life.” Eleanor licked sticky sugar from her
fingers.

“It would be a sin to lock you away.”

“I suspect my father would’ve liked to restrain me more closely. And I wager
most men would be nothing loath to have tighter control of their womenfolk.”

“I am not a man.”

“No,” Eleanor agreed. “If you were, you’d likely not be indulging me this way.”

Eleanor threaded her hand through Riannon’s arm. When next they paused, Riannon
gently brushed some sugar grains from Eleanor’s chin. The contact produced a
tingling in her skin out of all proportion to the soft, casual touch. Eleanor
could not help then being aware of her hand on Riannon’s arm and the proximity
of their bodies. Not as two friends should be. Not as Eleanor had ever felt with
her waiting women. Comfortable, yet unsettling.

To Eleanor’s disappointment, Riannon did not remain once she had escorted
Eleanor past the market to the basilica area. Though, perhaps, an hour at prayer
in the basilica of Kamet would not be to everyone’s taste. Had Eleanor not
needed all the divine help she could recruit for the success of her negotiation
over her widowhood with the queen, she might have foregone the pleasure herself.

The lord priest’s principal secretary received Lady Barrowmere himself at the
basilica door. Her generous donations over the years, principally in thanks for
successful commercial and financial ventures, ensured her a warm welcome. The
secretary escorted Eleanor to the luxuriously decorated alcove where royalty
came to pray. A carved and brightly painted wooden screen wall shielded this
part of the basilica from rude eyes while affording a full view of the giant
gold scales suspended at the front of the basilica.

The secretary solicitously conducted Eleanor to a padded prayer cushion. Her
retinue remained behind her and had to cope with mats. As Eleanor prepared to
kneel, she heard a familiar voice. Riannon strode through a side door. Eleanor
smiled. The priest trailing Riannon looked anything but amused.

“The Lady Riannon is my companion,” Eleanor explained to the secretary.

After a hurried exchange between the priests, Riannon unbuckled her sword belt
and handed it to her squire.

Riannon’s long stride carried her quickly to Eleanor’s side. “Your pardon, lady.
It took longer than I expected to find these.”

Riannon opened her hand to reveal two green silken ribbons.

“Oh!” Eleanor smiled but felt as though she could weep. “Thank you.”

As she looked up at Riannon’s grin, Eleanor realised that if Riannon had been a
man, it would be easy to fall in love with her. When she should have been
clearing her mind for her religious devotions, she instead glanced sidelong at
Riannon kneeling beside her.

Eleanor forced herself to intone the prayer of presentation. The sunlight angled
in the glass windows and glinted off the brightly polished gold of the scales.
She inhaled the cloying incense and tried to clear her mind of all thoughts save
the contract she must negotiate with the queen. She wished Kamet, the divine
arbiter, god of balance, and lord of justice to favour her cause. She asked no
great boon, for she was willing to pay for what she wanted. She must strike a
balance between her needs and the queen’s. They must find that point where the
value of Eleanor’s worth to the queen as a reward for a man who had done her a
service weighed equally against the amount of silver Eleanor offered.

Eleanor felt no guilt, as she knew she transgressed the will of no gods in her
request. Twice married, twice widowed, she had fulfilled the purpose of a
daughter, and of a wife. That her womb had proven slow to take seed and too
quick to give it up could not be held a fault against her. She had undertaken
half a dozen pilgrimages to various shrines in her quest for a pregnancy that
she could carry to term. Her prayers had remained unanswered for no reasons
Eleanor could understand. That she had no appetite for subjecting herself to a
third marriage could be held as no mark against her. Even the queen had no will
for a new husband.

Eleanor opened her eyes to look at her two wedding rings. On her second
marriage, she had moved her first ring to her left hand. Green ribbons dangled
down the back of her hands from between her fingers. She smiled and cast a
glance at Riannon. Riannon had her head bowed and her eyes closed in deep
concentration.

Eleanor forced her errant mind back to her purpose. Widowhood. Imploring the
god’s help in securing her desired future.

While there were some women who required the prop of a husband, the only part of
being married Eleanor missed was not being alone. Although, both of her husbands
had spent much of their time apart from her. Lionel had devoted his days to
hunting and whoring. William had gone twice to war against the empire. Nor,
truth be told, had either proven satisfying on those occasions when they shared
her bed. Lionel had been a man with peculiar carnal needs, though as a young
innocent she had been in no position to know that his demands were strange.
William dutifully attempted to get an heir on her once a month during those
times he was not away fighting. His sexual interests, though, had been in other
men, not his wife.

Even if given the choice of every male vassal of the queen, Eleanor could not
point to one she desired as a husband. Like poor Cicely, she had heard many a
troubadour’s tale of heroism and romance. Unlike her niece, though, she never
suffered any disillusionment, for she had not truly believed all-consuming
passion to be any more common than dragons. Over the years, Eleanor’s
requirements in her ideal husband had refined along pragmatic lines.

Lord of Justice, I desire not another husband,
she prayed.
But if it be your
will that I marry again, he must be strong of mind and spirit, but I’d take ill
to being crushed of all occupation and usefulness. A man who is well-travelled,
yet one who hails from these lands that I may understand him. A man of
well-formed parts, but not of vanity. Pious, but not to the exclusion of
enjoying life. A man who sees me as more than breasts, womb, and rent-roll. He
must be able to sustain my levity with good part. Finally, he must be able to
defend us, our properties, and rights, yet not be so personally devoted to
endangering himself that he is likely to leave me a widow for a third time.

Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled at the shining golden scales.

You see, Lord God, what a hopeless matter it is. Such a man does not exist.
It’s best if I remain –
Eleanor squinted at a sudden dazzle of the sun setting
the polished holy balance ablaze. She averted her face and blinked the afterglow
of spots from her eyes. She found herself staring at Riannon’s unscarred
profile.

Riannon.

In every respect, Riannon fitted Eleanor’s criteria for her ideal mate. Save
one. She was not a man.

Eleanor frowned at the ribbons hanging between her fingers. Had Riannon been a
man… The mental exercise of substituting a masculine Riannon in her thoughts
proved facile. More difficult, because it required stark honesty about herself,
was the task of examining her likely responses to that male version of Riannon.

Eleanor lifted her astonished gaze to the giant scales.

Lord of balance, you have graced me with an answer that is not at all what I
expected. My ideal man is a woman. And I am in love with her.

Aveline watched her young nephew leave the chamber with his nurse. Gilbert was a
sturdy boy whose ruddy complexion and pudginess owed more to his father than his
mother. She hoped, for all their sake’s, that both Gilbert and his elder
brother, Edward, had inherited their mother’s mind and temperament rather than
their sire’s. Bardolf had been a braggart whose brains hung between his legs.
The gods alone knew why Mathilda mourned the death of that womanising carouser.
Thank all the divine powers that the worms had feasted on Bardolf before he had
an opportunity to ruin Mathilda’s claim to the throne. No brother-in-law had met
a more timely end.

“I’ll be sad when I must surrender Gilbert completely to tutors,” Mathilda said.
“Still, it’s better than parting with a daughter as a child to some foreign
court. I’m glad I have sons.”

“A few daughters would have been useful.” Aveline poured herself more wine.
“As, indeed, would more sons.”

“I’ll not marry again.” Mathilda shook her head and held out her goblet.

Since they were alone in the queen’s private chamber, Aveline poured for her
sister.

“I’d be the last to counsel you to such a step,” Aveline said.

“It’s bad enough to have to bury one husband,” Mathilda said.

“I rather think a live husband the greater problem. How could a queen obey her
husband and yet rule other men?”

Mathilda shrugged. “I miss him sometimes. At night. Not that I expect you to
understand.”

Aveline sat on a padded chest beneath one of the windows. “Why should I not?”

“You’ve never been married. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

One of Aveline’s eyebrows lifted. Mathilda’s eyes widened and she turned away,
but not before Aveline saw her blush. Aveline smiled.

“You should never ask questions, even unspoken ones, that you don’t really want
the answers to,” Aveline said. “None of my vows was chastity.”

“But –” Mathilda made a vague gesture with her goblet. “What if you’d had
children?”

“Would you not foster them for me? And claim kinship?”

Mathilda looked so comically shocked that Aveline was more amused than disgusted
with her prudishness.

“They’d be bastards,” Mathilda said.

“And every bit as useful as daughters of yours would be as marriage pawns for
building alliances. I suppose we could always betroth Gilbert to a Rhânish
princess.”

“Do we really want him to marry there? Is it wise of us to commit him so young?”

“I said nothing of commitment,” Aveline said. “There are many ways out of
betrothals. We just need the southeastern border quietened for a year or two.”

Mathilda frowned and dropped onto her padded chair. “Henry thinks we should
fortify the castles in the southeast and threaten King Renauld into taking his
unruly vassals in hand himself.”

Aveline sighed. “Cousin Henry might have a fine understanding of which end of a
sword to hold, but if he had to use his wits to shave with he’d not need to fear
cutting his own throat.”

Mathilda laughed.

“Promises are more versatile and useful coin than threats,” Aveline said. “And
far less expensive than fortifying castles. One need only keep promises bright
and shiny and tempting, but never deliver them. The last thing we need is to get
sucked into a wholly unnecessary war of Henry’s making.”

Any troubles Mathilda feared in the southeast lands could – must – wait. Aveline
needed every last man available to ride to the northwest once the Quatorum
Council published its call for holy war. Then the Earl Marshal could have his
glut of blood and plunder for the glory of the gods and earn his passage to
paradise by trampling infidel bodies underfoot.

“Henry should be thinking more of his girl bride,” Mathilda said. “Has he met
her yet?”

“I believe he sent a betrothal token rather than visit in person. Which I think
is wise. It’d not do to scare the poor creature witless ere she speaks the
vows.”

Mathilda looked torn between shock and amusement. “Is she that timid? Still, her
mother was not a spirited woman. I hope Henry did not send Guy to his bride.
That man could charm the hose off any woman.”

“And does so regularly.”

Mathilda laughed. “I was thinking it high time cousin Guy respectably settled.
There must be some heiress we can marry him to.”

Aveline toyed with the possibility of Guy marrying one of the many Rhânish
princesses. That might solve two problems.

“How about Lady Barrowmere?” Mathilda said. “Henry’s bride’s aunt. She’s a
wealthy woman. Guy has a partiality for her.”

“How rich is she?” Aveline asked.

“She was a co-heiress with her two sisters of their father’s estates. Plus she
has dowers from two husbands. Her first was Lionel of Torhill. A third of the
honour of Torhill alone would make her a prize for any man.” Mathilda nodded.
“She’s to see me tomorrow. I suspect it’s about her widowhood. She paid our
father well for the privilege. But I think giving her to Guy would be a far
better idea. Do you agree?”

Aveline stroked the side of her goblet. “I think we ought not be too hasty.
There’s no pressing need for Guy to marry. There might be better uses we can put
Lady Barrowmere to. Why don’t you leave her for me to think on?”

“What about my audience with her on the morrow?” Mathilda said.

Aveline shrugged. “Dissemble. Delay. Are you not also our father’s daughter?”

Mathilda again looked torn between laughter and dutiful disapproval. Amusement
won.

Aveline rose. “I must take my leave. I have to visit the grove house.”

“Is it true?”

Aveline paused with a hand on the door. “Is this the beginning of a
philosophical discussion on the nature of truth and perception? If so, might it
wait until the morrow?”

“I heard a rumour about Riannon. Our cousin Riannon. You remember her. The
outcast. Gossip has it that she’s here in Sadiston. And that Joan has received
her. You know everything. Is there truth in it? Has she dared return?”

Aveline smiled. “Not so much dared, as came on the end of a leash.”

Mathilda frowned.

“Riannon of Gast is alive, well, and in the city,” Aveline said. “She lodges
with Lady Barrowmere. She’ll be visiting you shortly to perform homage to you.”

“Ought I outlaw her?”

“For what reason?”

Mathilda shrugged. “Her father disowned her. Our father wanted her confined in a
cell.”

“They’re both dead. Riannon is here because I want her here.”

“In truth? For what reason? Do you plan something devious?”

“Speaking of devious, what make you of the imperial ambassador?”

Mathilda made an exasperated noise in accompaniment to an irritated gesture. “I
wish to the gods you had not advised me to accept the emperor’s offer of a visit
from his representatives. Every man from Henry to the pimply stable boy wishes
to cut them into strips. I can see nought of any good coming from this. If he or
any of his men gain a scratch, it’ll bring war. I do not want to go to war with
the empire. Aveline, you must help me.”

“If I have anything to do with it, no harm will come to any representative of
the empire whilst under the protection of your safeconduct.” Aveline lifted the
door latch. “Nor will anyone declare war on you.”

Aveline had quite different ideas for those imperial ambassadors, which required
one of them voluntarily relinquishing the protection of Mathilda’s sworn
guarantee of safety. Plans that required Riannon. Now, too, she had the disposal
of Lady Barrowmere to consider.

Eleanor had never wanted visitors less than that afternoon. She encouraged
Cicely to shoulder her share of the burden of hostess. To Eleanor’s relief, her
niece had finally developed signs of acceptance for marriage in two days time.
Even if it gave her something of the air of one approaching martyrdom, that
seemed preferable to shrinking timidity.

Eleanor moved away from the boisterous group at the hearth. For a woman who
revelled in company and conversation, she felt uniquely anxious to be alone.
She stroked the green ribbon tied around her girdle. Would Riannon notice? But
what if she did?

Eleanor took a moment to marvel at herself. Indecisive. Hesitant. Anxious. She
had no grounds to chastise Cicely for exhibiting those same traits.

When Eleanor had fancied herself in love before, the follow-up with a man had
been straightforward compared to what she now faced. Had Riannon been male,
Eleanor could have reasonably expected that he’d have some carnal interest in
women. But how was Eleanor to test whether another woman shared her surprising
attraction to one of her own sex?

A familiar man’s laugh drew Eleanor’s attention across the hall. For a
heartbeat, she thought she saw double. Two dark-haired, tall, strongly built men
walked towards her. The illusion broke with one being brightly attired and
bearded and the other clean-shaven and drab. Guy and Riannon. Brother and
sister. Eleanor’s gaze flicked eagerly between them as the pair neared her. Her
memory had not played tricks, for they were every bit as alike as she believed.
They could be the male and female version of the same person, though not the
contrast of masculine against feminine.

Riannon returned Eleanor’s smile with a guarded look and nod. Guy smiled. He
offered her an exaggerated bow in the manner of an actor’s comic parody of an
oily Marchionese courtier. “Lady Barrowmere.”

Eleanor retaliated with a prim curtsy. “My Lord Guy, you honour my humble
house.”

Guy laughed. “It’s safer breaking lances with a hundred knights than entering
the lists with you, fair lady. I always come away bruised. But I have
reinforcements now. Though, whether my little sister would side with me or you
is probably best not tested.”

Eleanor smiled. Guy, for one, had clearly accepted his unconventional sister in
his stride. Eleanor happily surrendered her hand for him to kiss.

Eleanor steered them both towards the tables that had been set up for eating.
She performed a rapid review of her guests. Strictly, they should be seated
according to precedence. Eleanor was not sure where that might put Riannon.
Erring on the side of inclination, she guided the queen’s cousins to places on
either side of her own.

“Do I compete with you, strange sister mine,” Guy asked as he rinsed his hands,
“for the honour of carrying this charming lady’s favour in the tourney?”

Before Eleanor could remind him that she offered her favours to no one, nor
attended any tournaments, Riannon said that she had no intention of competing.

“I could assure you a place on the lists,” Guy said. “If you lack introduction
to the heralds and marshal.”

“I thank you,” Riannon said. “But I’ve no great need of coin.”

Eleanor turned in surprise. “You do not compete merely for the gratification of
breaking men’s heads? Then, most assuredly, you must indeed be a female knight.”

“Or her purse is plumper than mine,” Guy said. “I can never have too many
ransoms.”

Eleanor turned a mock look of shock on him. “My lord, should you not, rather,
have spoken of winning honour and glory?”

“I would,” he said, “save you’ve never before believed that I risk my adorable
self solely to prove myself worthy of your most grudging smile.”

“True,” Eleanor said, “but that should be no disincentive to continued effort on
your part. Unless you wish me to think you inconstant and fickle.”

Guy chuckled.

Throughout the meal, Eleanor shamelessly encouraged him to turn the largest
share of his good humour and charm on Cicely sitting on his right side. Eleanor
turned to Riannon.

With Riannon on her left, this presented her scarred profile to Eleanor. The
disfigurement was not easy to look at. The badly healed flesh looked as though
it must still hurt. The slash gave her more than a passing resemblance to those
cautionary murals on temple walls that showed demons raking talons across
sinners’ faces. Unlike those terrified, shrieking figures, though, Riannon sat
silent and remote. Eleanor wanted to make her smile. And she wanted to touch
her.

Eleanor shifted in her chair. “It was most unwise of you to confess no interest
in the tourney.”

“Why is that, lady?”

“Because it encourages me to encroach on your goodwill. You see, though I enjoy
the bustle of a city, I like to take rides. But I often lack an escort.”

“I am at your service.”

Eleanor smiled. “You should’ve driven a hard bargain with me. Asked for
something in return.”

“I’ll be getting the reward I want.”

Eleanor paused as she reached for a platter of goose. Was that simply Riannon’s
formal manners? Had a man said that, how would Eleanor have interpreted it?

Riannon stabbed a slice of goose breast with her eating knife and offered it to
Eleanor. Eleanor looked up as she slipped a bite between her lips. When her gaze
met Riannon’s eyes, the contact jarred her as if it had been a physical contact.
Riannon quickly looked away.

Eleanor wondered. Her body had no mistake about her own response. She remembered
the first time Riannon looked at her, back in the garden at the Highford grove
house. Naked admiration. Ironically, Eleanor had interpreted it without any
cloud of doubt because she had believed Riannon a man.

But what of Riannon’s interpretations? She had more cause for caution and doubt
than Eleanor, for she knew Eleanor had been married twice. No reasonable mind
could deduce from that evidence that Eleanor would harbour an interest in one of
her own sex. The onus was on Eleanor, then, to convey the correct impression to
Riannon.

Eleanor smiled to herself as she reached for her cup. How ironical, after her
confusions and mental contortions of thinking of Riannon as male, that it must
fall to herself to perform the masculine role of declaring her interest in a
woman.