hand. Her touch was like a hot coal against the material of my tunic.
‘I fear not, my lady,’ I said. ‘I shall be with the lesser knights.’
‘Well, we must have a proper talk afterwards. You still have not played me any of your wonderful music,’ she said, with a smile that punched through my ribs. Then she was swept away with the other high lords and dignitaries to the places at the table on either side of Lord de Burgh.
I watched her all the way through that meal, eating and drinking mechanically, and wondering what it would be like to put my hand on her warm naked white skin, to kiss her lips. I could feel my member thickening in my braies and tried to concentrate on Goody, holding an image of my dead wife and our love together in my mind as I crumbled a piece of bread between palsied fingers. But in my mind Goody’s face became Tilda’s – the image of my wife and I entwined in our bed changed subtly. It was Tilda whispering in my ear; it was Tilda’s white hand between my legs gently stroking, teasing; it was Tilda’s buttocks curved into the cup of my pelvis …
‘Mother of God,’ I muttered, ‘get a hold of yourself. Goody is barely cold in her grave. Would you desecrate her memory?’
This was absurd. I barely knew this girl. I had met her twice and I was already ravishing her repeatedly inside my head.
‘Are you quite well?’ asked my neighbour at the table, an elderly monk from Caen.
‘No, brother, I fear I am very far from well,’ I said. There was a sprinkling of sweat on my upper lip, and my chest felt tight and heavy. I excused myself and slipped out of the hall.
I recovered my poise outside the keep and, after dunking my head in a bucket of water and standing in the brisk wind on the battlements for several moments cursing my weakness of mind and my sinful lust, I slunk back to my place on the bench.
‘Feeling better?’ said the old monk.
‘Yes, brother. A passing malaise, I am sure.’
But it was no passing malaise. I was possessed, heart and soul, by one notion. I must have Tilda Giffard as my lover, my mistress, my wife – I did not care which as long as she was mine. I wanted her with a passion, a physical pain that I had not felt since my early days with Goody. I felt that I would go mad if I could not have her. She called to me inside my head, in my heart, and in those lower, baser places, too.
Indeed, perhaps I was already mad.
After the dinner, I was invited by my Lord de Burgh to play my vielle for the company. I had offered to display my musical skills to the castellan long before, during my first few weeks at Falaise, but he had declined my offer brusquely. That afternoon, it seemed, he was disposed to be more friendly.
‘The Lady Matilda has told me you are a
trouvère
of great renown at Queen Eleanor’s court and elsewhere, Sir Alan. Perhaps you would honour us with a song today, if your duties permit.’
They permitted. Little John had taken the men out on a long-range patrol south to the Maine border some twenty-odd miles away, and would not be back before nightfall, and Kit was engaged in a thorough overhaul of my equipment and weapons – cleaning, oiling and mending them – in the East Tower. He had also told me he intended to repaint my shield with its image of a wild boar in black on a blood-red background. So I was a man of leisure that lovely afternoon and the thought of playing my finest music before Tilda made me a little light-headed.
And though Almighty God will no doubt judge me for the sin of pride, I have seldom played better than that afternoon in the hall in the keep of the Castle of Falaise. I started with a
canso
– a classic tale of doomed love between Lancelot and Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur. It was roundly applauded by my audience. Then I made them laugh with a bawdy tale about a hungry fox and a timid rabbit, a cheeky cockerel and a wise old owl. After that I took a chance and gave them a crude soldiers’ song that mocked
‘I fear not, my lady,’ I said. ‘I shall be with the lesser knights.’
‘Well, we must have a proper talk afterwards. You still have not played me any of your wonderful music,’ she said, with a smile that punched through my ribs. Then she was swept away with the other high lords and dignitaries to the places at the table on either side of Lord de Burgh.
I watched her all the way through that meal, eating and drinking mechanically, and wondering what it would be like to put my hand on her warm naked white skin, to kiss her lips. I could feel my member thickening in my braies and tried to concentrate on Goody, holding an image of my dead wife and our love together in my mind as I crumbled a piece of bread between palsied fingers. But in my mind Goody’s face became Tilda’s – the image of my wife and I entwined in our bed changed subtly. It was Tilda whispering in my ear; it was Tilda’s white hand between my legs gently stroking, teasing; it was Tilda’s buttocks curved into the cup of my pelvis …
‘Mother of God,’ I muttered, ‘get a hold of yourself. Goody is barely cold in her grave. Would you desecrate her memory?’
This was absurd. I barely knew this girl. I had met her twice and I was already ravishing her repeatedly inside my head.
‘Are you quite well?’ asked my neighbour at the table, an elderly monk from Caen.
‘No, brother, I fear I am very far from well,’ I said. There was a sprinkling of sweat on my upper lip, and my chest felt tight and heavy. I excused myself and slipped out of the hall.
I recovered my poise outside the keep and, after dunking my head in a bucket of water and standing in the brisk wind on the battlements for several moments cursing my weakness of mind and my sinful lust, I slunk back to my place on the bench.
‘Feeling better?’ said the old monk.
‘Yes, brother. A passing malaise, I am sure.’
But it was no passing malaise. I was possessed, heart and soul, by one notion. I must have Tilda Giffard as my lover, my mistress, my wife – I did not care which as long as she was mine. I wanted her with a passion, a physical pain that I had not felt since my early days with Goody. I felt that I would go mad if I could not have her. She called to me inside my head, in my heart, and in those lower, baser places, too.
Indeed, perhaps I was already mad.
After the dinner, I was invited by my Lord de Burgh to play my vielle for the company. I had offered to display my musical skills to the castellan long before, during my first few weeks at Falaise, but he had declined my offer brusquely. That afternoon, it seemed, he was disposed to be more friendly.
‘The Lady Matilda has told me you are a
trouvère
of great renown at Queen Eleanor’s court and elsewhere, Sir Alan. Perhaps you would honour us with a song today, if your duties permit.’
They permitted. Little John had taken the men out on a long-range patrol south to the Maine border some twenty-odd miles away, and would not be back before nightfall, and Kit was engaged in a thorough overhaul of my equipment and weapons – cleaning, oiling and mending them – in the East Tower. He had also told me he intended to repaint my shield with its image of a wild boar in black on a blood-red background. So I was a man of leisure that lovely afternoon and the thought of playing my finest music before Tilda made me a little light-headed.
And though Almighty God will no doubt judge me for the sin of pride, I have seldom played better than that afternoon in the hall in the keep of the Castle of Falaise. I started with a
canso
– a classic tale of doomed love between Lancelot and Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur. It was roundly applauded by my audience. Then I made them laugh with a bawdy tale about a hungry fox and a timid rabbit, a cheeky cockerel and a wise old owl. After that I took a chance and gave them a crude soldiers’ song that mocked
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