And now a witness had emerged. A witness who could testify to his running from the enemy.
Edith had paid for the sweetmeats before she realised she was free. Her mother was still talking to Sir Baldwin in a low voice some way off, and neither was glancing in her direction, they were too involved in their own conversation. Hugh was watching a man testing a bow. They had moved since she had left them, and that gave her the excuse she needed. She bent her gaze towards where they had been – she could easily say she’d thought they’d still be there – and under the cover of a small group of passers-by, she walked back steadily the way she had come, towards the ring where the swordsmen had been.
They were no longer fighting, although their swords were still there lying on a table with other weapons: daggers, long-bladed knives and iron-shod staffs lay with axes and cudgels. She meditatively went to them and felt the edge of one of the swords. The blade was chipped and notched where it had hit the other, and there was a fine sheen like oil on it. When she took her finger from it, she saw that it was blood; there was a red stain on her hand which made her pull a face in disgust. She didn’t want to mark her new tunic, so instead she wiped her fingers on the table’s edge wondering whether it was the blood of the shorter man. It probably was, she reckoned. The taller man was almost unmarked.
The loser wasn’t attractive, but Edith admired his courage in standing against an opponent with so much greater reach. It was silly of him to get into a fight like that, silly but brave, she felt, and she wondered what they could have been fighting over. Perhaps it was foul words, for men so often insulted each other with ‘villeinous and blasphemous swearing’ according to the local priest, but Edith hoped that there was something more honourable at the heart of their battle. Perhaps it was a fight over a woman.
It was a lovely thought, that two men should fight for one woman’s favour. She imagined that they might fight over her, and smiled at the idea, hugging herself gleefully as a most unchaste thrill ran though her. That, she decided, would be best: to have two men risk their lives to impress a woman who would then grant her favours to the winner and hold him up, still bloody from his encounter, to everyone’s adulation – that would be really good. Everyone would judge her magnificence and beauty by the blood shed to win her.
And it would show her mother and father that she was no longer a child to be commanded at their whims: to ‘go there, come here, do as you are told,’ she snarled to herself.
That was the trouble: her parents couldn’t see she wasn’t a baby any more. Standing haughtily near a fence-post, Edith considered the field and the milling people while she brooded on her parents’ unreasonable attitude. They seemed to think that she needed to be constantly supervised and protected. It was so stupid! If she was left alone, she would be fine. She knew how to protect herself. She certainly didn’t need to be locked up at the house like one of her father’s prisoners at Lydford Gaol. Not that she was ever locked in, exactly, but it came to the same thing, being told she couldn’t go to Tavistock to see Susan when she wanted. Susan could go out more or less when she wanted, but no, Edith had to stay in. She’d told them, if they were worried, they could send Hugh with her to look after her, but although her father had initially said yes, that permission was immediately withdrawn when Simon heard that she had already asked Margaret and Margaret had meanly said no.
It was Mother’s jealousy, Edith decided. Margaret couldn’t bear the thought that her daughter was more beautiful than her. Pure spite, that’s what it was. Well, she’d have to change her mind, that was all. Edith refused to be tied to the house just because of the misguided emotions of her mother. There were times when Edith almost thought she hated her mother.
‘Hello, my Lady.’
She glanced up at the sound of the voice, low and respectful, with a hint of passion. ‘Good day,’ she said coldly. Although she had liked the look of him earlier, she had not forgotten the group standing at the fence, one of them making that disgusting sign to her. This squire was with them, she recalled, sitting upon the fence.
‘I have never before met a woman with such an enchanting smile. You make the sun seem dim.’
She tried unsuccessfully to keep her features neutral. ‘I think you’re a little over fulsome, sir,’ she lied.
‘I am not. I was drawn to this place just by the magnetic power of your beauty, which would outshine Helen of Troy or Venus herself. Your smile could cure a man’s wounds, your touch would make him invincible, your–’
‘Enough! God’s blood, sir! After your friend was so crude and unpleasant, too.’
‘My friend?’ he enquired.
‘Your friend, that nasty boy who was with you earlier and made an unpleasant sign to me. And now you try to make me dizzy with your hyperbole. Do you always wait until your companions have insulted a woman and then introduce yourself to her in such terms?’
‘Never! May I fall dead if I ever praise another woman!’ he swore with well-concealed dishonesty, a hand pounding his breast. ‘I have seen you, and I can wish for no other. If a friend of mine annoys you, point him out to me and I shall make him regret his words or deeds. My heart is engaged. Whatever I do from now on, I do in your honour; whatever prowess I display, I do so to demonstrate the magnificence which you yourself possess; any feats of arms I achieve, I achieve solely by the power which your beauty lends to my arm. Everything good I do from now on, I do for love of you.’
Her heart fluttered and she felt a sudden faintness. All thoughts of her parents were gone as she studied his face from beneath lowered eyelashes. Tall, well-formed, with good thighs and ankles, he had the body of an athlete, with strong shoulders and thick biceps. His handsome face was to her very finely moulded, with a small scar over one brow. His eyes exhibited only fervent desire for her. This was the first time a man had expressed such devotion – especially at such short notice – and it was intensely gratifying. Once more she struggled to keep her smile at bay while trying to sound mature and reproachful.
‘You think me some easy woman to tempt with your vows just because I am young? I am scarcely of Canonical age, when you must be full five years older.’
‘What does age mean to lovers? We are old enough to marry, my love. Would you consider me?’
She held up a hand, seriously startled. There was a definite feeling of attraction to this fellow, but to speak of marriage was one step too far.
‘Ah – I have scared her! My love is too strong for her, may God forgive me. I shall leave you, my Lady. If my death would remove the fear I have put into your eyes, I shall seek it instantly.’
‘Be quiet a moment!’ she scolded. ‘Are you always this overblown? I won’t speak of marriage. It’s ridiculous! If I were to marry a man without asking permission of my father, it would be a man whom I loved, and I can hardly love you. I don’t know you.’
‘I don’t know you, but I love you already,’ he countered with a sly grin.
That sudden twist to his mouth made him more normal, reduced his previous words to the level of flirting. She was comfortable with that, and could herself smile. ‘Perhaps, but I doubt even after all this whether you’d seriously want to wed quite yet. And I couldn’t wed a mere squire, anyway,’ she added, glancing away, feigning disinterest. ‘My father would hardly be happy to see me thrown away on a nobody.’