The Greatest Knight by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

warm as a lover’s breath. Hidden amongst the trees a cuckoo sent its throaty call in search of a mate.
    “In truth, madam, I believe that he has paid his debt,” William answered. “I doubt he will be as hasty to repeat the trick. My groom tells me that Blancart will need to be rested for a week, but that there is no lasting harm.”
    “You are generous.” Eleanor’s smile curled her mouth corners in a way that shortened William’s breath. Three months on from the Christmas feast at Argentan, he had grown more accustomed to Eleanor’s powerful sexual charisma, but her flirting still caused him to be deliciously disturbed.
    “Madam, if you had spoken to me earlier, I might have been less amiable,” he admitted ruefully.
    “But you are not one to hold grudges, William?”
    He shook his head. “Not over trifles, madam.”
    She tilted her head at him as if considering a puzzle. “You are perhaps the most good-natured man I have ever encountered. Promise me that you will not let the passage of time sour your temper or your temperament.”
    William smiled. “Depending on what the morrow holds, I promise.”
    Eleanor threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, very diplomatic, sir!” She leaned across to slap him lightly on the arm. “You will go far.”
    “I sincerely hope so, madam.” William bowed in the saddle, delighted to be bantering with her. And yet, beneath the banter, what was being said had a serious core. The Romans said that there was truth in wine—that men and women spoke their inner feelings when the grape loosened their tongues. But there was also truth in things cast lightly into a conversation: the sort of gossamer to be snatched as it passed, and then examined later in the open palm.
    The party stopped at a wayside stream bordering a hedged field to water their horses and refresh themselves with wine. Some of the men, including his uncle, dismounted, but William remained astride Fauvel, lowering the rein to let the stallion dip his muzzle in the swift running water while he himself drank from his leather travelling costrel.
    A squire, who had wandered a little away to take a piss in the bushes, suddenly yelled a warning and William looked round to see a conroi of knights galloping out of a copse a hundred yards away and thundering down on their own small troop. The squire ran, his legs a blur. William threw down the costrel. Reining Fauvel out of the stream, he was already unslinging his shield from its long strap at his back and thrusting his left arm through the shorter grips. He seized the lance that he had propped against a tree trunk while he drank and, couching it, spurred forward to engage the enemy.
    Salisbury grabbed Eleanor and bundled her back on to the Barbary mare. “Go, madam!” he shouted urgently. “Ride hard for Lusignan and don’t look back!” He struck the mare hard on the rump and Eleanor, after one shocked glance at the fast-approaching knights, lashed the reins down on the mare’s neck and took off with the speed of a storm wind.
    “Go with the Queen!” Salisbury commanded the closest knights. “Make sure she reaches safety…with your lives if you must!” With the enemy almost upon them, Salisbury drew his sword, threw himself on to his palfrey, and spurred towards his groom and destrier.
    As the knights closed in, William recognised the blue and silver shields of Geoffrey and Guy de Lusignan, with whom King Henry had been in dispute these long months. They were formidable warriors and it was plain that this was no chance meeting but a planned ambush. One of their number rode wide, clearly intending to intercept the Queen. William urged Fauvel across his path and bowled the knight from the saddle with a driving thrust of his lance. The warrior struck the ground with a jarring thud and his horse careered off, stirrups hammering its belly. William pivoted Fauvel, brought down another would-be pursuer, and then spurred to defend his uncle.
    Reaching his destrier,