CHAPTER 4

Sir Balduin was sure Triston meant to be helpful by sending him back to Poitiers. He had not come to the capitol in search of a peacemaking gift for Lucianna this time, but rather with a commission to check on Triston’s young cousin, Acelet de Cary, and see how he was advancing—or failing to advance—in Duke Richard’s court. No doubt Triston hoped to turn Sir Balduin’s thoughts away from his wounded heart back to the martial pursuits that had dominated nearly the entire arc of his life. From the time he had become a page at age seven, he had dreamed of winning his spurs. He had trained hard through his years as a squire until Triston’s father, only a few years Sir Balduin’s senior, had dubbed him a knight at twenty-one. And for the favor, Sir Balduin had served Sir Damien de Brielle faithfully, from fighting beside him in every skirmish and war to drilling Sir Damien’s sons to fight skillfully and boldly through their own young training, until the crippling blow at NAME BATTLE had laid him up so long that Triston had been forced to hire a new sword master at Vere Castle.

Triston still trusted Sir Balduin’s judgment and eye for proficiency in the battle arts, though, and hence trusted him to return an accurate report of young Acelet’s progress with the sword. Sir Balduin knew it did not bode well for a positive report when a servant at the ducal palace directed him, not to the training field where Duke Richard’s squire’s drilled, but to the “entertainment” taking place in the palace’s great hall.

Duke Richard Plantagenet, who had taken Acelet under his own tutelage after the young man had rescued the honor of the de Brielle house with a surprising victory against an older and better skilled accuser in a one-on-one challenge, appeared to Sir Balduin’s swift glance to be absent from the hall. Much of his court, however, was sitting or standing enraptured as a lithely built young man sat on the step of the dais, singing a haunting melody of a betrayed water nymph, in a tenor voice so true and sweet that even Sir Balduin’s pragmatic nature paused to listen in awe.

When the last dulcet vibration of the young man’s voice finally faded away, Sir Balduin shook himself from the spell and began to maneuver himself through the crowd of listeners. He reached the dais in time to hear the collective dreamy sighs of the women gathered nearest to the singer and observe the lovesick gazes they fixed on the flaxen-haired youth. Sir Balduin remembered the girl with the shining brown hair and soft, doe-like eyes who signed the loudest and won a warm smile from the youth. Linnet, Lisette—her name had been something of that sort, but Sir Baldin knew nothing of her beyond the memory of a budding affection Acelet had shown towards her while recovering of a wound incurred during the challenge that had won him Duke Richard’s patronage.

It appeared to take Acelet a few moments to come completely back to earth from his song. Sir Balduin’s toe tapped impatiently while he waited. He still wondered if it was more luck than skill that had won Acelet’s battle, for prior to that day, the boy had been annoyingly ramshackle about his training, despite his avowed desire to become a knight.

Acelet at last cast a gaze around his audience and caught Sir Balduin’s eye. His fair cheeks reddened, causing Sir Balduin to realize that he was frowning at the youth. Acelet stood up, made an undeniably graceful bow coupled with a very pretty speech of thanks for the audience’s attention, then excused himself, stepped down off the dais, and came to Sir Balduin’s side.

“I’m not shirking my practice,” Acelet said, before Sir Balduin could even greet him. “I tumbled Lucas off his horse this morning with my lance and knocked Conrad down with my staff. Sir Aigar says I am his swiftest student and had no objection to my spending the afternoon with my music. Triston said—”

“That you might pursue both interests until you made up your mind whether you’d rather be a knight or a troubadour,” Sir Balduin finished, aware of his young master’s bargain with his cousin.

Sir Balduin’s soldier’s heart could scarce conceive of anything more ridiculous than the latter choice for a young man born as nobly as Acelet had been. Before today, he would have scorned the languishing gazes the women sent after them as he steered Acelet through the crowd to a corner of the hall where they could converse in private. But the emerald ring that still burned its rejection against Sir Balduin’s breast where it hung within his shirt on a silver chain curbed the belittling comment on his tongue, quelled by the wistful sighs of the women they passed to reach a bench between two tapestries of a hunting and hawking scene.

“Sit,” Sir Balduin bade the young man, “and tell me how you fare here in Duke Richard’s court.”

Acelet waited until Sir Balduin sat down beside him, reluctant, perhaps, to answer from a position that set him at a disadvantage to the older man’s height.

“Sir Aigar praises my speed and the accuracy of my strikes at practice,” Acelet said. “Once a week, Duke Richard himself comes to watch us practice. He laughed when I disarmed Lucas with a maneuver he did not expect yesterday, especially when it made Lucas growl at me like a wolf deprived of his supper. At least, that’s how Conrad described it. I’ve never heard a wolf growl, have you? I suppose it can’t sound much different than an angry hound.”

“So you are making friends here?” Sir Balduin knew how competition could heat the blood of youthful squires, but the reference to the unknown Conrad heartened him. Acelet had not shown himself particularly interested in exploring friendships with their neighbors near Vere beyond a conniving villain who had exploited his youthful naivety. Sir Balduin hoped he had learned a lesson from the experience in judging men more wisely.

“Lucas is always taunting me about one thing or another,” Acelet said. “Conrad says he was Duke Richard’s favorite squire before I came.”

“This Conrad sounds like a good fellow.”

“Oh, he just says it to Lucas to annoy him. Conrad dislikes me, too. They all do, except for Jaufre and NAME.”

Sir Balduin dealt an encouraging slap to Acelet’s knee. “Well, do not take their remarks too hard(?). Young men can be jealous. It is best to ignore it if you can. Triston will be pleased that you have struck fellowship with at least a few of your fellow squires.”

Acelet stared at him from eyes that were as blue as a summer’s sky. “But I just told you I haven’t. Not that I care. They are all swaggering braggarts, though a few of them can feign a veneer of courtesy to please the ladies. But at heart they are like the duke himself, bullies and—”

“Have a care,” Sir Balduin interrupted sharply. Acelet remained as dangerously rattlebrained as ever to spout such criticism of Duke Richard right under the noses of the duke’s own court. “If you’ve been prattling remarks like that, it’s a wonder the duke has let you keep your head.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it to anyone but you and Triston anymore,” Acelet said, looking unperturbed by the rebuke. “And to Jaufre and NAME, but both of them agree with me, so I know I can trust them not to babble my words about.”

It was not that Sir Balduin held no sympathy for Acelet’s opinion of the duke. Allowed a choice, he knew that Triston would have thrown his allegiance to King Henry above his wayward sons, but circumstances had forced from Triston an oath of fealty to Duke Richard, and having so sworn, he would serve the duke faithfully to the death. And so, therefore, must every member of Triston’s house, including Sir Balduin—and Acelet. Sir Balduin knew that Triston hoped the favors Duke Richard had showered on Acelet these past X months would turn the young man into a loyal, if reluctant, adherent of the duke’s. Triston would be troubled to hear that instead, Acelet still denounced the duke’s character with such thoughtless abandon.

“Whoever this Jaufre and NAME may be,” Sir Balduin said, “they show you no friendship by encouraging you to disparage the duke. I trust they are not two of his knights. Such talk would be beyond deplorable from them, it would be treason.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you old grumbler. They’re not knights, they are troubadours. They’ve sworn no fealty to any man, so if they wish to complain a bit over the toss of a dice, their heads are quite safe. And I am being careful to keep mine safe too, for Lisette.”

It had never bothered Sir Balduin before that Acelet sometimes called him “old grumbler,” anymore than Acelet had ever objected to Sir Balduin calling him “young Acelet” when the youth was trying very hard to prove himself a man rather than a boy. But today the good-humored jibe stung. It caused Sir Balduin to reply more irritably than he might otherwise have done.

“Dicing with troubadours? Are you drinking/guzzling yourself to bed every night now, too? I suppose next you’ll be brawling and wenching and—”

He broke off at the look of shock that spread across Acelet’s face before his cheeks went scarlet with horror at Sir Balduin’s accusations. Such behavior would be only to be expected from young men Acelet’s age, but apparently Acelet’s head remained too firmly in the clouds of his own idealized concepts of chivalry to have entertained engaging in such vices himself.

“You think I would stain my honor and insult the woman I love with such lewd conduct? Because Duke Richard countenances, nay encourages wantonness among his knights and laughs when they fall into a melee in the middle of his hall, does not mean that I have allowed his court to corrupt me. I endure mockery from the likes of Lucas and Conrad, but I did not expect it from you.”

Sir Balduin gave the boy credit for spirit. It took pluck to rebuke a man more than thirty years his senior for a perceived lack of morals.

“Of course I do not mock you,” Sir Balduin said. “Your words—er, startled me, is all.” He would not admit to a ridiculous smart at being called “old” when he knew perfectly well that was what he was. “You are wise to hold yourself aloof from such pursuits. It will please Triston that you have not, as you say, been corrupted. I’d have a care if you’ve been gambling, though. The roll of the dice has started more than one inexperienced man down the road to the vices you deplore.”

“Gambling is in Jaufre’s blood. It lost him his wife. I don’t know what he sees in the dice. I played a handful of games with him and found it entirely tedious. He’s a dashed fine troubadour, though. He’s taught me the words for all sorts of shades for women’s eyes to incorporate in one’s poetry. I had no idea eyes came in so many variations, had you?”

“Do they?”

“Take Lisette’s eyes. Jaufre says I should never call them simply brown, but honey brown. I do not think they are golden enough to call ‘honey,’ but Jaufre said she would like it, and she does. It wins me her sweetest smiles when I sing of a honey-eyed damsel in one of my songs.”

“Does it?” Sir Balduin tried to strike a casual attitude when everything in him went suddenly quite alert. “And how would you describe, say, a pair of green eyes?”

Acelet thought for a moment. “It depends on the shade, of course, but one could use grass green or forest green or leaf green or sea green. And there are always the jewel tones, like emerald or jade. Women like their eyes compared to jewels.”

Sir Balduin had always thought Lucianna’s eyes reminded him of emeralds. He had given her an emerald ring precisely because it matched her eyes.

“Are there poetic words for women’s hair colors, too?” he asked.

“Oh, certainly, as many or more than there are for eyes. Take Lisette—”

“What about a redhead?” Sir Balduin held little interest in the poetic virtues of Acelet’s love. Despite Lucianna’s insistence that she thought Acelet and his songs foolish, Sir Balduin had seen a dreamy glow steal into her emerald eyes when Acelet had sung for them all at Christmas dinner.

**“Redheads?” Again Acelet took time to reflect. “Well, there’s copper and auburn and ginger—”

“Auburn,” Sir Balduin murmured. He had heard Siri call Lucianna’s hair “auburn” once.

“Just don’t call it foxy,” Acelet said, apparently too lost in thought to hear him. “Foxy is considered an insult, though I think the coat of a red fox is beautiful. But women don’t like it, so it’s best to stick to the other names.”

Sir Balduin followed Acelet’s gaze to where it drifted across the hall and came to rest on the girl with the honey-brown eyes—nay, Acelet was right, they were a deeper brown than honey—and the shining brown hair Sir Balduin had preempted him from describing. Lisette stood with a woman whose own hair was concealed with a wimple, though her face appeared youthful to be framed with a matron’s headdress. The latter woman frowned as Lisette sent a shy smile at Acelet, and received a like response from the young man at Sir Balduin’s side. The women hovered a sufficient distance to not overhear the men’s discussion, but Lisette had clearly drawn as near as she could to retain Acelet’s attention.

Acelet said he sometimes sang of honey-eyed damsels. He had expanded his repertoire since Christmas.

“Do you know any songs about red-haired, green-eyed damsels?” Again, Sir Balduin attempted to inject a mere perfunctory interest in his voice. “I may as well report your progress with your music, as well as with your sword and staff, when I return to Vere.”

Acelet’s eyes brightened far more at this question than they had when discussing his squire’s training. Brightened for an instant anyway, before blurring as though he were slowly drifting away into some other world. After several minutes, he began to sing in those same true tones that had greeted Sir Balduin’s ears when he’d entered the hall.