A Knight's Vow by Lindsay Townsend

silver goblet so all could
see inside.
    “Even so, my lady will know from the dregs,” Guillelm observed in a deadly calm, speaking for the first time since his
seneschal had made his outrageous accusations.
    Paling slightly under his mottled, pockmarked skin, Fulk almost tossed the goblet to Alyson, who righted it before any
more of the sticky lees could be lost.

    She held it under her nose. “Spices, my lord, and a good
wine.” She licked a finger and dipped it into the cup, showing the trace of white powder to the assembled company and
then tasting it. “The powder is from the dried flower heads of
yarrow.” She drained off part of the lees, licking her lips. “It
is harmless.”
    “Yarrow is much used by witches,” Fulk countered.
    “And in loving cups,” Alyson replied.
    “‘Tis true, Lord,” Gytha gabbled, fixing tear-streaked eyes
on Guillelm. “I used the yarrow for your marriage. Seven
years of happiness, my potion will bring. I meant no harm,
before God-“
    “Peace!” rumbled Guillelm, as if wearying of the whole
affair, and he lifted the goblet from Alyson’s clasp and drank
down the lees. “Though in faith I need no potions, old dame.
Did you think perhaps that I was lacking?”
    The hall erupted into laughter, releasing the tensions of the
past few moments, and Alyson drew in a long, calming breath.
    “I will take Gytha to my chamber,” she murmured to Guillelm, and he nodded. Both of them knew they could not talk
until they were private.
    Alyson did not return to the great hall. She comforted
Gytha as best she could and made up a sleeping draught for
her nurse. Afterward, listening to Gytha snoring gently, she
wondered at Fulk’s spite. Had Guillelm not intervened as he
did, would Fulk have been able to turn the castle against
Gytha-and by association, herself?
    Peering through the wooden casement, Alyson watched the
moon rise and set while she listened to the increasingly rowdy
drinking games of the men. Was Guillelm often in his cups? The idea made her shiver, especially when she remembered
how his father, Lord Robert, had been whenever he had too
much malmsey …

    Before dawn, she laced her gown again and rebraided her
hair. Taking her favorite mortar and pestle from the smallest
oak chest, she slipped out of her chamber and down the stairs,
determined to do something useful, if only as a distraction
from her thoughts.
    Lord Robert had not allowed her a still room in which to
make her potions, but Alyson had found a small place for herself in a small lean-to off the stable block. In this she had a chopping table, and earthenware crocks, and even some glass bottles,
more precious than gold to her. In the lean-to she had bundles
of drying herbs hung from the slanting roof and fresh herbs laid
on shelves, a small brazier for stewing herbs and bowls for
steeping them. It was a cramped space, even for her, but with its
comforting smells of lavender, rosemary and thyme it always
felt like home to Alyson, reminding her vividly of the still room
at her father’s house. Now, when she crossed the threshold and
pushed open the door to the lean-to to its fullest, she opened a
sack of rose petals and ran her fingers through them, simply for
the pleasure their silky texture and delicate scent gave her.
    “So this is your secret place.” With that disconcertingly
silent tread of his, Guillelm had approached without her realizing. He was dressed in a plain mantle and leggings, very
different from the dark red robe with golden thread round the
neck and sleeves that he had worn at the feast last night. The
change made him look younger, easier to talk to.
    “Careful!” she warned, automatically stepping sideways to
protect her glassware.
    “You did that last night, using yourself as a shield.”
    “Yes” Suddenly they were straying into more difficult territory; she did not know quite how to go on, or what to say
about Fulk.

    “My seneschal was