Chapter 21
THE TALE OF THE THREE SISTERS
The Baroness breathed in the freshness of the morning.
The crisp air filled her with such completeness it was as though she had inhaled perfection.
Every cell, every nerve, every fibre of her soul resonated and was revived by the cool, clear, vital atmosphere.
Anticipation stoked her heart as she followed the directions given to her by the page.
The stables were on the far side of the castle and it was with relief she saw her steed, Valour, leaning out of his stall, welcoming her with a chirrup.
‘I wish to practise jousting in the lists,’ she called to the chief groom, waiting for the usual derogatory comments concerning women who wished to tilt. However, none came and, in an instant, the yard buzzed with activity.
The armourer and the blacksmith fitted her armour and two liveried squires brought a trolley with an assortment of lances.
She tested the weight of each, selecting a simple painted weapon of perfect balance.
Her armour shone and, as she moved, she noticed it fitted her better than it had since it was first forged in her own land.
‘My lady, a number of our knights have requested the honour of a bout,’ said the herald. ‘They await in the lists should you wish to accept their challenge.’
‘My lord, it would be both an honour and a pleasure,’ replied The Baroness, delighted to have her skills treated with respect and accord. ‘Come, Valour,’ she said to her horse as she mounted, ‘let’s dance, you and I.’
With a whinny, the horse kicked his hooves and they rode into the lists.
At first, they rode backwards and forwards, allowing both The Baroness and Valour to flex their muscles, to refocus their minds.
The Baroness felt her blood coursing, her body taut, powerful, twanging with the intense excitement only combat could command.
Valour shuddered, snorting eagerly, as keen as his mistress to show his skills.
The Baroness returned to her starting position, but before she could accept her lance from the squire, she saw him, the lone person in the empty stands. The man who had called her a freak, unnatural, an abomination. She blinked against the glare of the sun and he was gone.
‘We shall follow your cue,’ called the marshall to The Baroness.
With a last fearful glance towards the now empty stands, she nodded to the herald, who raised his flag and her first competitor rode into view.
She pushed her visor over her eyes and bringing Valour around, watched for the flag to drop.
A roar went up from the other knights, The Baroness touched Valour’s side and they flew forward.
Valour’s hooves pounding across the soft ground, dust flying all around them, The Baroness lowered her lance into its cradle, braced herself and, with the roar of challenge, her lance found its mark.
She screamed in exultation as her competitor was unseated. Valour danced and bucked in delight, The Baroness raised her lance into the air, then with a whoop of victory she returned to her starting point and waited for the next challenger.
Knight after knight tilted against The Baroness and Valour.
Each was bettered and, although The Baroness knew she had skill – she had not been beaten in the joust for many, many years – a drop of doubt entered her mind and she wondered whether the knights of the castle were pandering to her ego, diving rather than being truly vanquished.
Would they wait until the end before the taunting and ridicule began?
Fear rose in her heart like poison at the cruelness of men.
She knew many were good, kind, careful with the hearts of others, but it had been her misfortune to know many with darkness in their souls.
All her life, her terror was being considered different.
Her love of horses, the joust, the sword, the companionship of one woman.
When she had been forced into marriage, her husband had whipped her twice a week, determined to beat her into submission.
He had forced his sister to watch, laughing with cruel glee as he promised this, too, would be her fate if she did not succumb to his dictates.
One day, The Baroness was told her sister-in-law had died of a fever in the night and, in despair, she had run for her life to her sister, The Queen, in her remote dower house.
A new challenger rode into the lists and both The Baroness and Valour felt a change in atmosphere. All around, the watching knights held a collective breath, an inhalation of such anticipation it even stilled the spring breeze.
The new opponent was clad in an armour of dazzling white.
It shone with a clarity and purity, exuding an ethereal light.
The visor of the White Knight’s helmet was lowered, this antagonist’s brilliant white horse pawed the ground, sparks emanating from its silver hooves.
Even Valour paused, watching the stunning beast, his head tilted to one side with curiosity as though he had never encountered such a creature and doubted it was truly a horse.
The marshall called the riders to attention, the herald raised the flag and as The Baroness and Valour waited in the unnerving silence, she counted their thudding hearts – beating in time. The flag dropped as though in slow motion and, moving as one, Valour and The Baroness leaned into their tilt.
Even before it happened, The Baroness knew her fate.
The lance of the White Knight connected with her breastplate, lifting her from Valour’s saddle and tipping her backwards.
She awaited the pain, the confusion, but there was none, instead she found herself turning in a perfect somersault; landing, miraculously, unharmed on her feet, as though she were a circus acrobat in a pre-rehearsed tumble.
The White Knight trotted towards her, the visor still in place.
‘Good, Sir,’ said The Baroness, bowing low. ‘May I see the face of the champion who has such skill?’
‘Of course,’ the White Knight replied.
The White Knight pulled off her helmet, her light brown hair tumbling to her shoulders, her deep, dark eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘You have done well,’ said the woman who had long haunted The Baroness’s dreams. The woman who had captured her heart when they were girls. The woman she had believed was dead. ‘Once, you asked if our love would ever be worthy. Do you know the answer to this question yet?’
The Baroness stared at her in bewilderment, but before she could speak, the White Knight blew her a kiss, then turned her horse and rode away in a cloud of white dust.
From behind, The Baroness heard a cough and turned to see the man, her husband, the brother of the White Knight.
‘Will you dare to follow?’ he asked. ‘You know the consequences will be severe.’
The Baroness hesitated, then, throwing the man a look of contempt, she vaulted back onto Valour, squeezed his sides and they cantered to the tent beside the tiltyard, where she knew without knowing, the White Knight awaited.