It was the thing about a tournament. The women always expected a tumble, he reflected as he stepped along in her wake. Bugger the ideals of courtly love – the main thing was, it gave an excuse to any woman who wanted to fondle another man’s body rather than her own husband’s.
Of course some gave no thought for their danger, while others positively hankered after a fling with a lad like William because he represented danger; a few more simply didn’t care what their husbands thought of their affairs. It was as if some women thought that they had the right to emulate the debauched behaviour of Guinevere with Lancelot – but God help those who were found out.
Privately William often found them rather sad even as he tupped them. The idea that supposedly honourable women could behave in such a manner was disgraceful… but only a fool would refuse the sweet taste of their lips and bodies or turn down the exquisite pleasure they offered.
And this one was perfection. From the look of her heart-shaped face, she could have been the Madonna Herself. High brow, arched eyebrows and a mouth with a natural pout that gave her a come-hither, wanton look. With lips like hers she could suck the rivets off my helmet, he thought admiringly. Her attraction lay not only in her face: her body looked firm and taut, as sleek and fit as an Arab-bred pony, strong without being unfeminine, while her gait was as proud and smooth as a queen’s.
It was strange that her husband allowed her to walk about the place with only a scruffy-looking fellow to protect her. Astonishing. Some men could be incredibly carefree with their women. Well, William wasn’t going to let this beautiful filly slip through his grasp without a fair attempt to come to grips.
He caught up with her, bowing with his most appealing smile, a slight twist to one corner, an eyebrow raised. ‘My Lady, you eclipse the sun.’
‘Go bull your mother!’ the man at her side grated. He was shorter than William, heavy-set and strongly-built, but from closer to, an even more villainous-looking fellow. William felt sure that he was only some servant.
After his defeat at Edith’s hands, William was not going to accept a second refusal so easily. He gave the man a surprised glance, but he clearly was not wealthy: the cloak he wore was thin and worn, his tunic faded, his shirt threadbare, his hose of the roughest and cheapest fustian. The husband of this woman would surely be clad in similar finery to her own, velvet and rich fur trimming. No, this fellow was only a guard, William considered. Ignoring the servant, he returned to his open admiration of the woman. ‘My Lady, I have never beheld such perfection before. May I–’
‘Are you deaf, churl? You are asking for trouble – now shut up and clear off!’
William bridled. He drew himself up to his full height and met the man’s furious expression, but then he saw the other take a slow pace forward and reach for a small knife at his belt. His own hand moved, but he had scarcely gripped his hilt when he felt the sharp point at his throat.
‘If this was anywhere else, I’d have cut your balls off and fed them to you by now. Leave the lady alone, brat,’ the man hissed.
‘I was not talking to you, but to the lady,’ William said, taking a swift backwards step. His blade was out now, and he stood with the knife held low, ready to strike.
‘Well, if you want to talk to my wife, you have to talk to me first, you misbegotten piece of shit! I don’t like little half-grown bastards trying their bollocks with her.’
‘My Lord, I am sorry,’ William blurted. ‘I meant no insult to you or your Lady, but I didn’t realise she was married. My compliments to you.’
Sir Walter Basset was not interested in Squire William’s apologies. His anger was fanned by the boy’s thoughtless behaviour and he gripped his knife, tempted to launch himself upon the squire as William strode away. Just as he was about to chase after the lad, there was a touch at his forearm.
‘He’s not worth it. Bollocks, you say? Do you think he has any?’
Sir Walter shuddered with the release of tension and thrust his knife back in its sheath. The nearness of violence had thrilled his blood. He loved to fight, loved the rush of energy that flooded his body and filled his soul, but when some little shit like that tried to get his leg over Helen, there was always a harder edge to his rage. Helen was a beautiful woman, one any man would be proud to have dangling on his arm or adorning his bed, but Sir Walter was keenly aware that others envied him and wanted her for themselves. Let them try! He would cut off the prick of any man who poked it too near his woman. Cut it off and feed it to the crows. The whoreson needed a lesson and Sir Walter would be happy to teach him.
‘Husband? Shall we return to our tent so I can prove my loyalty?’ she chided him gently.
He chuckled gruffly as the boy receded in the distance, swallowed by the crowd. ‘You’re sure he didn’t insult you? If you think he deserves it, I’ll make him eat his own liver.’
Helen Basset smiled at her man. ‘There is no one but you, husband. That young fool will realise that when he sees you destroying your foe in the tournament.’
‘If I see him there, I’ll kill him,’ Sir Walter swore.
Geoffrey saw Alice from a distance while he was exercising his master’s horse, and he reined in, ambling along gently some distance behind her, twirling a switch in his hand.
There was a gleam at her temple: surely a strand of her hair had come astray from her wimple, and it glinted bright gold when the sun streamed between the tree-boughs overhead. She moved with an easy, long-legged gait that he would have recognised from a mile away, or so he told himself, and then he grinned at the inanity of the thought. With his eyes, he’d be lucky to see more than a blob at a hundred yards, let alone a mile.
But from this close he could discern her figure, her walk, her tallness… and her beauty. For Alice was very beautifuclass="underline" her eyes were large and as blue as cornflowers on a bright summer’s day, her lips were full and soft, tasting faintly of the spices she chewed, her brow was broad and as pale as the rest of her flesh.
And what flesh! His fingers itched to touch her again, to feel her soft skin, to smell her odour, as sweet and heady as a strong wine! She was everything he had hoped, on that day when they had sworn their eternal love and exchanged their vows, and now, seeing her so close, he was on fire to lie with her again.
Alice had the face of an angel, a face that Geoffrey wanted to kiss again and again. The sooner he could announce to the world that they were wed, the better. Ideally at the church door while here in Oakhampton. That would be best, while the tournament was still in progress, with all the Lord Hugh’s knights and bannerets in attendance. Of course Geoffrey would have to be knighted first, but he saw no impediment to his securing that honour: he was wealthy enough in his own right, he had the support of his master, Sir Ralph Sturrey, and he was old enough to be granted his spurs. With the inbuilt confidence of a man who could name all his ancestors even before the invasion of King William the Bastard, a man who still owned his grandsire’s sword, rusted and chipped as it was, Geoffrey knew he would become a knight of renown.
He had to. The thought brought a shiver to his frame. He must deserve his woman’s faith in him, true, but there was more to it than that. His recent history as a warrior left much to be desired. If news of his failure of courage was to be bruited about, he would become an object of ridicule, a joke, a nickumpoop. Geoffrey didn’t want that, but he should be safe. All those who had witnessed his desertion at the Battle of Boroughbridge were dead.
Not that he doubted for a moment that his wife would remain loyal. She was wedded to him now, before God, and if accusations of cowardice were levelled against him, Alice would support him.