My Lady's Favour

Chapter 5

Richard

I'm under some kind of enchantment. I can't tear my eyes away, and my ears delight in the sweetness of Lady Elena's voice. Her eyes stay closed as she sings, her lovely face reflecting every emotion of the lay. Thank Fortune 'tis not a song of death or lost love, for I swear it would make me weep. How strange, that after all the trouble and pain of the last few years, I should find such pleasure in my uncle's castle, a place I've avoided so long.

Such a beauty! She holds herself well. An elaborately-edged mantle hangs from one shoulder, partly concealing the lady's tight-fitting kirtle; she has a slender figure, but a tempting one. The tightly curled braids visible beneath her couvre-chef are fair, and her skin flawless and lily-white. A pair of the bow-shaped lips much-lauded by troubadours have been gifted to her, soft pink in colour but unsmiling. I wonder—does she ever smile? I must watch for it.

I curl my fingers tightly in the wine-darkened folds of my robe, and watch my knuckles whiten. Courtly love after the French fashion, admiring a lady from afar but never acting upon it ... when did I pick up such a bad habit? Mayhap when I realised that my affaires always end in disaster. I don't know if it's my fabled bad luck or not, but it seems that love, for me, will always be a poisoned chalice.

The hall fills with movement and noise. The ladies glide away to make preparations for bed, servants start clearing the empty goblets and damping down the fire. The other knights wander off to relieve themselves, or take the air and stretch their well-filled stomachs, but the Lady Elena remains, staring at the harp she has played so well.

She rises, cradling it carefully, and I leap to my feet to help her, but she doesn't see, and runs full tilt into me.

"Your pardon."

At exactly the same moment she says, "Forgive me, I was not—" but then her voice falters.

My hands hover by her shoulders to steady her, but she's too precious, too perfect, to touch. "My fault, lady. I shouldn't creep about like a cat. Something I'm oft accused of doing."

"The instrument isn't mine." She takes a step backwards. My closeness seems to have unsettled her—she presses a hand to her stomach to recover herself.

I shift my gaze—unwillingly, I confess—to the instrument she carries. Damn my ill-luck! There's a ragged scar in the wood where my belt buckle has scored it. I felt it go as we collided, but was too intent on the lady to give a thought to the harp.

"I regret, the harp is damaged."

"So's your belt. A stone is missing from the clasp. They're ... jaspers, aren't they? They're most fine."

She crouches down, searching among the newly-laid rushes for the missing jewel, while I steady the harp with one hand. She thinks I can't see her flushed face. I say nothing, not wanting to embarrass her further.

A harsh male voice behind me exclaims, "What's this? Elena of Bucknell grovelling to my cousin?"

Elena cringes. It's my cousin Gilbert, grasping her by the elbow, and dragging her to her feet. His face is bent insultingly close to hers as he growls, "Have you no dignity left?"

Were he not my cousin, and I his guest, I would plant my fist in his face. I clench my jaw as the Lady Elena steps away from me, forcing her eyes submissively downwards.

Then she shoots me a worried look, and I pray she doesn't take my scowl for disapproval of her. Best I get Gilbert away from her, and distract him with a compliment about his battle charger, or his new scabbard.

But he has only half my attention as I steer him away. I see one of the castle women hurrying towards Elena, and strain my ears to hear their exchange.

"What's wrong?" The lady takes Elena's arm.

"Nothing. I'm just not certain I sang as well as I might this evening."

Liar. Gilbert has belittled her, in front of a guest—that's why she's upset. I should not be listening to this conversation. Gilbert's telling me about a boar hunt, which would normally hold all my attention.

But not tonight. Tonight, I am a changed man.

"Oh no! Your singing was beautiful," says Elena's friend. "Everyone enjoyed it. Especially Simon of Sarisbury—I can tell he enjoys a good ballad. I wonder what I should play next time that will please him."

"Whatever you choose will suit, I'm sure," Elena replies. "I shall refuse to play on the morrow, Dorigen. I'm sick of being paraded like a dancing bear, sick of the constant disapproval of Gilbert de Waltham and his family, and sick of having people like St Aubyn scowl when Gilbert reminds him that I'm Elena of Bucknell, the traitor's daughter. Sometimes I think I should run away and put my case to the King, just throw myself on his mercy."

"Ah," says the Lady Dorigen, "but is he likely to offer you clemency, or the return of your lands? More likely he'll just bed you, and discard you when he grows bored."

I shudder at the thought of this fair damsel being ravished by King Edward. She hangs her head, fists clenched, and I'll swear I can see the glitter of tears on her lashes.

Gilbert and I have strolled so far away now, that I can barely hear her response, but I think she's saying, "I can cope with the grim attentions of Gilbert—by now I've come to expect the occasional insult from him, and have hardened my heart against it. So why am I so devastated by the disgust on Richard St Aubyn's face, a man I never knew before today?"

A sudden chill strikes my soul and I yearn to go back and reassure her that nothing could be further from my mind. But I'll not give Gilbert reason to notice her, lest he berate her for nothing again.

I can't bear to have her disliking me. But how may I convince her of my good regard without irking my cousin? I fear it will need more subtlety than I possess.

Mayhap I'd best just leave matters in the hands of the Fates and hope that they will, for a change, be kind to me.

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