Free The Champion by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

cries from the stalls, the banter of the knights; the clang of smithy tools on weapon steel, and the duller thud of that weapon steel upon wooden shields. It was a life she would soon be leaving behind, and despite its hardships and uncertainties, she knew that she was going to miss it.
    She stopped as an entourage of riders blocked her path – a nobleman and his lady escorted by two squires, two serjeants and a maid. The nobleman was in his middle thirties with a paunch bulging his ruby silk tunic and the porcine features of good living. The woman was a slender vision in a gown of the palest blue-green silk, embroidered all over with tiny golden flowers. Her head was covered with a gauzy veil, held in place by a thin gold-coloured circlet, and her braids hung free beneath it, pale blonde as new butter. She was perched upon a pretty white mare and the harness was of expensive red leather decorated with a row of tinkling little bells.
And ilka tet of her horse’s mane,
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
     
    Thus had Alexander entertained them with a ballad about a man who encountered the queen of faeryland on a grassy knoll one day and was held in thrall by her for seven long years.
    The company rode on, and Monday followed their progress with wistful eyes. Her work-roughened hands tightened on the cloak, and she vowed to herself that one day she would ride upon a milk-white horse and wear embroidered silk against her perfumed skin.
    Enquiries among the booths and stalls sent her down to the river bank in search of Alexander. Women scrubbing their laundry and keeping a watchful eye on their splashing children directed her upstream, and at last she found him, seated in the shade cast by a willow tree. His shirt sleeves were rolled above his elbows, the laces at his throat dangling open as he bent over his lectern. Now and then he paused to consult a wax tablet at his side.
    As if sensing her scrutiny, he ceased writing and glanced over his shoulder. Then he smiled. ‘Mistress Monday?’ he said, in both question and greeting.
    ‘Your new cloak, it’s finished.’ Seating herself beside him, she put the garment down on the grass. ‘I know it’s not the time to be thinking of winter,’ she added with a rueful glance at the burning blue sky.
    He set aside the lectern to examine and admire the cloak. ‘When I do need it, I will remember the day on which it was given and it will make a cold day seem warmer,’ he said gallantly, and inclined his head like a courtier.
    Monday blushed with pleasure. ‘We both sewed the seams, but the embroidery is mine.’
    ‘And very fine it is too. Even a great lord would be proud to own such a cloak.’
    Her face reddened further at his compliment. She lowered her eyes and plucked at the grass stems around her skirt. ‘The cloak wasn’t the only reason I came to find you.’
    ‘No?’ He stoppered his ink horn to prevent the contents from drying out, and cleaned the tip of his quill on a scrap of linen. Then he leaned back on his elbows and gave her his attention.
    She told him about the position her father had been offered and how it extended to him and Hervi too. ‘At Lammastide, we are to enter the service of Bertran de Lavoux.’
    ‘Does your father know him?’
    ‘I do not think I have ever heard Papa mention his name. Why do you ask?’
    Alexander shrugged. ‘Normally patrons recruit men with whom they have ties, either of blood-bond or obligation. After that, they take on recommendation.’
    Monday gave him a disapproving scowl. ‘Have you not heard the saying “Never look a gift horse in the mouth”?’
    ‘A man who does that is quite likely to find himself holding a nag,’ Alexander retorted, then with a sidelong glance said more gently, ‘Still, if it is a genuine offer, then it is excellent news. A roof and food throughout the winter, wages too.’
    Monday was silent for a moment, deliberating whether to remain with him or take umbrage at the clouds he had put in