A Perfect Knight. Anne Herries

of their children somewhere about the palace, born in corners and hidden by their mothers until they were old enough to become of use in the kitchens or stables.

      ‘Sir Ralph spoke to me,’ Marguerite said, a flicker of pleasure in her pretty face as she unfastened Alayne’s intricate headdress and removed it for her, laying it on an oak coffer beneath the narrow arched window. It was dark outside now, for a cloud had passed across the moon. ‘He seems a very perfect knight, chivalrous and kind. Did you chance to meet him, Alayne?’

      ‘Her Majesty introduced us,’ Alayne said, deciding to say nothing of her further meeting with the English knight. ‘He did not say very much, except that he had no wish to fight in the tourney.’

      ‘He was knighted by the English King,’ Marguerite said. ‘I believe he was a favourite at that court before his marriage. He served the King in his struggles with rebellious nobles, so I have heard. I do not think him a coward, Alayne, even if he does not wish to fight.’

      ‘No, I think perhaps you are right,’ Alayne said, remembering the hint of steel in his voice as he had warned her against the folly of walking alone in the evening. ‘I dare say he thinks such pastimes foolish and a waste. If he fights, he does so in a good cause, I would judge.’

      She had helped Marguerite to remove her headdress and now she pulled off her own tunic and ran barefoot to the bed in her shift, seeking the warmth to be found beneath the heavy coverlets. Even in summer the stone walls of the palace kept out the heat, and in winter it was so cold that they slept beneath piles of furs on top of their silken quilts.

      They had undressed by the light of one rush tallow, which Mar-guerite extinguished before she joined Alayne beneath the covers.

      ‘May God bless and keep us both this night,’ she said and crossed herself. ‘I think I like Sir Ralph,’ she whispered softly as she settled down to sleep.

      Alayne smiled to herself in the darkness. Marguerite clearly believed her father would do his best to arrange a match between her and the English knight, and seemed content that it should be so—despite her confession that she loved another.

      Of course Marguerite had no choice but to obey her father, as Alayne had had none at the time of her marriage. She was not cold, but a little shiver ran down her spine as she remembered her horror on learning that she was to wed a man of her father’s age, and the fear had begun as she saw the way he looked at her. Then, on her wedding night, when she had bolstered her courage to the limit to accept whatever he did to her, she had discovered that he was incapable of bedding her.

      A tear trickled from the corner of her eye as she recalled his efforts and his abuse. When at last he had realised it was useless, he had struck her across the face, making her lip bleed. She had wept into her pillow as he left her bed, swearing and cursing her as though his inability was her fault. She had not known it then, but he had spent the night drinking strong wine, and in the morning he had greeted her with more drunken fumbling and abuse.

      Leaving her to weep again, he had gone charging from her chamber and tumbled headlong down the stone steps of the tower. It would have been better if he had died instantly, for his back was broken and he was in terrible pain from that moment on until he finally died. Alayne had taken the brunt of his cruelty as she nursed him, ridden all the while with guilt—for it must surely have been something in her that had made him unable to be her husband. He had told her that she was a cold bitch and no proper woman.

      His accusations and bitter curses had made her life miserable until he finally died, mercifully, in his sleep one night. Alayne had given thanks for her release and his, but then her father had told her that within six months she would be married again.

      ‘You are too young to be a widow,’ he had told her. ‘Besides, if we are clever, we may find another suitor of more consequence than your fool of a husband, Alayne. Valmont’s lands are not adjacent to ours, but they are near enough to make it a good choice. And there is always de Bracey…’

      ‘Never!’ Alayne cried, turning pale. ‘I do not know how you could suggest it, Father. That man is—’ She shivered and could not go on. ‘He frightens me. Besides, you quarrelled with him over land that he stole from you.’

      ‘All the more reason that you should wed him,’ her father said. ‘Your sons will inherit it all, Alayne. Think of that—think of the power such a fortune will bring to your sons.’

      Alayne pushed the thoughts from her mind. She had believed them almost banished, but the English knight had brought them back to her with his warnings. She ought to know that men had their baser side, for she had witnessed it at the hands of her husband and her father. Her father had struck her when she defied him, threatening to force her to obey him, but she had outwitted him and lived safe at court these many months. Yet her mind was never quite at ease, for she knew that her father was a stubborn man and would not easily relinquish his plans for her.

      She closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind so that she could sleep, but all she could see was the face of the English knight. His eyes seemed to burn with a fire that seared deep into her soul, causing her to moan softly and bite her lip. No man before him, not even de Froissart, had managed to make her so restless. There was inside her a yearning, a need that she could not identify, but she knew it had begun when he’d looked at her so strangely in the walled garden.

      ‘Why do you plague me so?’ she asked him in her thoughts. She had been at peace with herself until he came, but something had changed and she was not sure why he troubled her so.