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  JOUSTERS        {Burnt_Feathers}        (MF, nc, reluc, hist)

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Jousters
by Burnt Feathers ©


A war-horse slowly circled the stonework battlements of the
besieged and fallen Eydenwynche Castle.  Seated upon the mount's
back was a young knight, bent forward from the saddle, to more
closely observe a track impressed upon the ground.

Carefully the destrier picked its way down motte and over fosse,
away from the castle, to follow a shallow indentation in the
fields beyond.  Within minutes only the knight's head and
shoulders were visible as he urged his mount to follow this
obscured path.

At one point he suddenly veered away, as the knight put his horse
at a standing fence.  Once beyond this obstacle, he returned to
his original trail.  Following this line of advance, the knight
would inevitably pass near a cluster of wattle and daub hovels,
wherein dwelled the villeins of the demesne.

The knight halted to dismount before the least of these abodes. 
A single rap upon the spindly door nearly shattered it.  A
bloodied head immediately poked out through the doorway.

"I surrendered to the sergeant yesterday," the man whined. "What
further do you want of me?"

"Only that you show me your young."

"I have no child left.  My lad died a-yestermorn, defending yon
castle, as his lord bade him do."

"If you make me enter," the horseman declared, "I shall burn this
hovel to the ground, ere I leave again."

"Sire?" a dishevelled head slipped out the door beneath the
guardian's shoulder.  "What ill have I e'er done you?"

The horseman gazed closely at the youth.

"Are there no others of your age within this dwelling?"

"None, Sire."

"You do not claim a kinship here?"

"All my family died defending My Lord, yesterday, as did this
goodman's son.  They have taken me in, a poor replacement, as
they know I have naught else.  God grant me years, and I may grow
to be as good a landsman as him whom I replace."

"I fear God has other plans for you."

"My Lord?"

"My squire took a bolt from a crossbow through his breast, and
succumbed of his wound."

"I am sorry to hear of any goodman's death."

"This death  will have a greater effect upon you than most," the
horseman declared.  "Baron Redoubt has promised that I might have
my pick of any likely lad in this land to replace my loss."

"You would not choose me!" the lad exclaimed.  "Before the
battle, I studied to follow my father as a steward.  In truth I
know little of tilling the land, but even less do I ken the
duties of a squire."

"`Tis no matter," the horseman replied.  "I have a strong right
hand and a willingness to use it.  You do not appear slow of
mind.  I vow you shall learn your duties quickly."

"But there are others, better versed . . ."

The horseman raised a hand, "I have odd humours concerning whom I
shall employ.  Forsooth, I know not why, but my whimsey has
fallen upon you, and none shall say me nay."

The horseman leaped nimbly to his destrier's back.

"I have clothes befitting your new station that once belonged to
your predecessor.  Set yourself behind me, and we will be off to
the castle.  While I make my devoirs to the Baron, you shall
collect your new habiliments."

"I would rather follow you," the youth professed, "than ride
a-pillion on your steed."

"Black Tartarus bears no fair maidens, even if you were one," the
horseman scoffed.  "I mean for you to throw a leg over behind
me."

"Still, I should rather walk."

"Best run, then," the knight declared.  "I abide no tardy servant
in my employ and shall leave before midday."



* * *          * * *           * * *


With one hand upon the knight's waist, the other on the leading
reins of a well-loaded sumpter, the lad sat uncomfortably behind
his new master.

Sir Guy de Beynard, the lad had learned, was his new master's
name.  The very same knight who singlehandedly had held Low Cleft
Road, denying any hope of a counterattack upon the army encamped
about the castle.  This single knight had held back all succour
from the neighbouring villages.

The lad knew that not all which had occurred during the previous
day's battle had been as it seemed.  Still, simply by attempting
such a feat, the lad's new master had proven his mettle.

Crowned with success, that feat of arms had sped the castle's
fall.  My Lord, The Marquess of Claytor had been forced to cede
victory to His Grace, the Duke of Yaldrick, and the battle for
Eydenwynch Castle had ended relatively bloodlessly.

Had Sir Thomas possessed a son, there would have been no war. 
The castle would have been passed to Sir Thomas' son, naturally,
but the Lord of Eydenwynche had sired but a single daughter. 
That fair maiden had inflamed the passions of more than one
admirer -- suitors not only for her hand, but also jealous for
her lands.

Two distant neighbours coveted Eydenwynche Castle, His Grace, the
Duke of Yaldrick, and his rival for land in the region, The
Marquess of Claytor.  The style of wooing that both nobles
demonstrated could be more likened to bellicosity than to that of
concupiscence.

First, Lord Claytor had arrived to press his suit for the hand of
Sir Thomas' daughter.  Following Sir Thomas' sudden demise, the
Marquess found himself in sole possession of an ungoverned
castle.  He did then do more than press his suit upon the
orphaned maiden.

Lord Claytor did command the daughter of Sir Thomas to become his
wife.  In a jongleur's tale this might sound romantic.  To the
Sir Thomas' daughter it was a nightmare.  To escape, she leapt
from the tower window.

Throughout the night, with burning torches, the Marquess' men had
searched to discover where the girl's body had landed, all with
no success.   Upon the morrow, Lord Claytor arose to discover
that his rival's army was encamped about Eydenwynche Castle, and
that he had no further leisure to seek for the lady's remains.

Orsin, for that was how the lad styled himself, had spent a
fearful night in the villein's hut after the castle had fallen. 
It now appeared that he had passed through one exchange of
masters only to fall prey to a third master, perhaps even more
onerous.

"We shall rest the horses by yon brook," Sir Guy declared.  "Did
your apprenticeship, perchance, teach you the care of horses?"

"I know how much fodder to lay down for each beast," the boy
declared, "to last it through a winter."

"But not the actual feeding," the knight finished.  "You should
make a better merchant than a squire."

"I warned you that I was untrained."

"`Tis true," the knight waved the lad quiet, "nor did you
overstate your accomplishment.  Still, do I enjoy a goodly
challenge.  No doubt, making a first rank squire from a steward's
imp will be just such a contest."

The two rested their horses, while refreshing themselves with
water from a hillside freshet, stale bread, venison, and a wedge
of strong cheese.

The afternoon grew warmer as they left the winding path beneath
an over-arching forest, to pass along a track leading openly
between ploughed fields.

Well before nightfall they reached a small town on a major
byroad, and soon thereafter the Lyons Head Inn.

Trusting neither his newly-acquired squire's skill nor the
dedication of hostlers provided by the inn, Sir Guy saw to the
bedding down of his own mounts before retiring to their lodging.

The lad coloured, as a pair of serving wenches brought in their
evening meal.  He had been gamely aiding Sir Guy to come from out
his armour.

The knight, not unskilled with skittish colts, had allowed the
lad to assist only where he recognized a need.  At this time the
exacting demands upon a warrior's henchman were beyond the lad's
ken, and the knight was loth to begin his training that same
evening.

The morrow would do as well to mark the time when the lad left
his idle past behind, and began to yield at least an appearance
of his new station.

After their repast, the knight took up the honing of his
broadsword, while his squire bent in an ineffectual attempt to
polish the dents from Sir Guy's heavy shield.

"Enough of that," the knight declared, laying his broadsword
beside the bed, "that must await the armourer's hammer to be set
aright.  For now, to bed."

Without further ado, the knight stripped off his braies and
rolled onto the bed, his sword within easy reach.

The lad crouched down before the fire, as though to make himself
comfortable.

"Remove your clothes and get under the covers."

"I'd rather. . . ."

"Your place is either across the doorway, or at the foot of my
bed." Sir Guy snapped.  "If you block the door the drudge will
not enter to keep our fire lit, and this room will become both
dank and cold."

Crouching at the end of the bed, the lad shyly removed most of
his new clothing. Wearing only braies and a tunic he slipped
beneath the blankets at the bottom of Sir Guy's bed.

The fire burned down until its flickering light no longer
illuminated the room, and the inn grew silent.

During the night a drudge entered to replenish the fire.  As the
renewed flame radiated greater heat, the lad turned upon his end
of the bed, until he had rolled upon Sir Guy's feet.

Sir Guy awoke to a moment's confusion, lashing out with his foot,
he tossed his squire into the middle of the floor beyond the foot
of the bed.

One riven second later the lad confronted his naked lord from the
business end of a deadly broadsword.  The knight followed his
erstwhile squire's scuttling retreat backwards, to press against
the opposite wall.

As the feral gleam of battle faded from Sir Guy's eyes, it was
replaced by a leer which had twisted far too many a noble's
features, that this youth had encountered of late.

"Now," Sir Guy exclaimed, "let's see what kind of apprentice
steward they breed in Eydenwynche Castle."

Without further ado, Sir Guy grabbed a handful of tunic and
snatched it over the lad's head.  In the flickering firelight it
could be seen the lad was built most like a lady.

"No!" the unmasked squire cried as Sir Guy reached for his
victim's braies.  Heedless, the knight's fingers clutched at the
linen about the squire's waist, skinned them off thighs, down
legs, and free of feet.

No longer could there be any doubt.  Sir Guy's new squire was a
female.

Sir Guy rested the tip of his great broadsword on the floor, less
than an inch from the apex of his new squire's naked loins.

"This requires explanation," Sir Guy unarguably declared.

"It . . . It was my mother, sire."

"No doubt, it was she who made you a daughter," Sir Guy sneered,
"but who planned to pass you off as a son?"

"She thought that with the castle fallen my virtue was in
jeopardy," the girl stated, forcibly drawing her eyes from the
blade between her legs, to gaze into the piercing green glare of
her master eyes.  "How could she know that a daughter might be
safe, while a son could be taken?"

"It seems she chose ill for you," Sir Guy concluded, withdrawing
his weapon as he rose to his feet.  "As it happens, she chose
just as ill for me.  I have need of a squire, but little need for
a strumpet."

"I am no strumpet!"

"My good woman," Sir Guy replied, reasonably, "any female who
takes on the habiliments of a common knight's squire is either
already a strumpet, or shall soon become one."

"Wh - what mean you to do?"

"You may continue as you started."

"I can't continue as your squire!"

"No," Sir Guy agreed, "not dressed as you are."

"I shall not continue as your squire," the girl declared, "nor
ever put on those revolting clothes, again."

"Baron Redoubt gave you to me," the knight proclaimed. "And so,
mine you shall be, either as squire or as strumpet."

The girl crossed her arms over nubile breasts.

"Not as my squire, then," the knight asked rhetorically, "rather
as my strumpet?"

Without warning, the knight lunged, driving the point of his
sword into the wooden floor between the maiden's loins.  With his
other hand he caught his supposed squire by her forearm and
dragged the girl to her feet.

As the maiden's lips opened to form a protest, Sir Guy captured
them in a scalding kiss, squelching her objections against his
chest.  The knight took his own good time to enjoy his plunder.

With one arm about the maiden's waist, his other hand clutching
his sword, the knight carried her back to the bed that he had so
recently quitted, and tossed her in.

Returning his sword to within easy reach of the bed, the knight
joined the maiden before her scattered wits were gathered.

Again he took her lips, while his hands explored the scant
bounties of her breasts. Pressing his knee between the girl's, he
forced his way between unwillingly spread thighs.  At first their
melee was a random affair, as the knight used his knowledge of
coupling to force the girl beyond her depth.

After a time, the maiden cooperated, opening her lips to Sir
Guy's exploring tongue, arching her back to his kneading fingers,
wrapping her legs about the knight's waist.

She cried out in apprehension, as Sir Guy thickened lance
attained its target, and it skewered her.

For several moments she clutched at the knight, drawing blood
with her nails.  When the knight slowly eased back, a whimper of
dismay escaped from the impaled maiden.  Surging forward, Sir Guy
sounded the maiden's depth with his lance, producing an
unmaidenly grunt of pleasure.

For many minutes the two writhed and melded as the knight
introduced the maiden to the ecstasies of fleshy congress.  
Surging between her thighs, the knight drew the girl from her
artless virginity to gasp beneath a shuddering orgasm.  Only then
did he spill his seed.

Thrice upon that night, Sir Guy brought the maiden from her
slumbers to gasp and moan in ecstasy.  Cock's crow found her
pinioned beneath his weight, a portion of his might still lodged
within her.

Slowly twisting her body, the maiden managed to pry herself from
beneath the knight's dead weight, turning him upon his back in
the process.

Stepping from the bed, the maiden bent to clasp the heavy
broadsword.  Even using both hands, she was unequal to the task
of wielding the heavy weapon.

Instead, the maiden drew a poniard from its scabbard on the
knight's belt.  She carried it back to the bed, where she stood
hesitantly over the sleeping knight.  Finally, she carried the
dagger back to its waiting sheath.  She then returned to the
sleeping man, curled up at his side, and drew the coverings about
them.

The maiden's feet, made icy from their contact with the bare
floor, pressed against the unwieldy warrior.

"Ugh!" he had grunted as the initial contact was made.

With a faint smile curling her lips, she warmed her feet upon the
calves of her despoiler.   Several minutes later, as the maiden's
eyes were drooping back toward sleep, Sir Guy spoke.

"`Tis a wise course, My Lady.  A dead man gives little comfort to
one afflicted with cold feet."

"Oh!" The girl's eyes were again, wide open.

"As my cher amie," the knight said, amusement warming his voice,
"you will find our travels less onerous than as my squire."

"No!" the girl exclaimed, sitting up suddenly.  "I will be your
squire, but never ask me to be your lover."

"`Tis a little late to make that distinction," Sir Guy replied,
chuckling.  "Nor have I the least intention of surrendering the
conquests that I have made this evening past."

"I am quite aware that you would not," the maiden replied,
ducking her eyes, "My objection is to showing a public face as a
wanton."

"If you do remain as my squire," Sir Guy allowed, "it will be
easier upon my purse.  Even the rags of a strumpet would cost me
considerable coin.  If you are content to wear the cast-off
clothes or my former rascal, I shall not object."

"And treat me as your squire," the girl added breathlessly.

"I fear I have never used a squire as I did you this evening
past." Sir Guy returned with laughter in his voice.

"In public," the maid continued through clenched teeth, "or when
we are in another's company."

"That works no hardship upon me," Sir Guy agreed magnanimously,
"though I fear you will live to regret your bargain."

"Your word, Sir Knight.  In public I am your squire."

"You have my word, my . . . er . . . lad.  You have my knightly
oath upon it."

Two naked humans shook hands formally in a well-bolstered bed, as
early morning sunlight streamed over them through the room's
uncurtained casement.

"And to prove my word good," Sir Guy proclaimed, spying the
maid's naked rump uncovered to this light, gifted her with a
resounding slap with his cupped hand.  "Get up, bumpkin! `Tis
long past time when a seemly squire still lays abed."



* * *          * * *           * * *



That first morning set a precedent that each succeeding morning
continued.

Sir Guy was most assiduous in his rutting throughout the night
watches.  In the morning he awoke to a humourous bent.  In this
content, the maiden found that she would be hard pressed to
preserve her countenance.

He was finicky about the adjustment of his braies, forcing her to
run her hands intimately over them, smoothing the linen folds
about his thighs.  Next, his hose must be carefully drawn up each
muscular thigh.  Once his tunic had been lowered over his head,
and smoothed about his heavy torso, the maiden's close attention
was no longer required.

He flung his cotte about his body with little regard.

He then allowed his squire the privilege of dressing herself. 
Nor was he abashed about halting her actions to smooth down a
wrinkle or fold.  She needs must feign serenity beneath the
fastidious ministrations of his intrusive hands.

In the night, at least she was free to react and to voice her
emotions.  While dressing, she must stand pliant and
uncomplaining beneath his teasing fingers.

And he was teasing, of that she was certain.  Although, when such
an accusation was made, he rebuked her roundly.  Orsin had never
learned to dress as a man, Sir Guy declared.  As he had given his
oath to treat Orsin as his supposed squire, he must be allowed to
assist in perfecting her disguise.

By the time they were both fully dressed, the maid was all
a-throb and wishful for one last opportunity to make use of the
bed they had recently quitted.  Instead, he was in the hall,
calling for ale, bread and cheese to break their fast.

Only after eating did Sir Guy buckle the belted scabbard about
his waist.

Not since that first day had he worn any special armour.  Rather,
his appearance was that of a merchant or travelling noble. 
Except for his broadsword, and the crossbow lashed to his saddle,
all his armour travelled on the back of his sumpter, with the
rest of the baggage.

Sliding his sword into its scabbard, and tucking the light helm
beneath his arm was squire Orsin's cue to throw open the door,
then follow in his master's wake.

During these days of travel, both learned somewhat about the
other.

The knight learned that Orsin was not the maiden's name, as his
squire had first informed him, but that it was rather Eldwice,
daughter of Rob, the Tiller.  The knight smiled, but continued
calling her Orsin, even in the thickened speech of passion.

Another piece of intelligence Sir Guy soon grasped about the maid
was that she was well content to mate.  In this, she was as
unlike the pale, courtly women he had known, as it was possible
for a woman to be.  Although she held herself aloof while
travelling as his Squire, at night the maiden revelled in their
coupling.

She made no mention of this strange fact, but when he had teased
her overmuch of a morning, he could see her body trembling.  Did
he but set her tumbling back across the bed, and she would come
into his arms with as little hesitation at midday as she had at
midnight.

The maiden learned that her master, Sir Guy de Beynard, was the
younger son of a noble family.  With no calling to the church, he
had been trained up as a knight, by default.

After some brief experience, he had little good to say for war
and even less for crusading.

They lived simply, but well, so the exact size of the knight's
purse was unknown.  He had certainly been a mercenary in Baron
Redoubt's levy of warriors pledged to support His Grace, The Duke
of  Yaldrick.

The maiden knew she should consider Sir Guy as much an enemy, as
she did the Marquess of Claytor, the Duke of Yaldrick, and both
their camps.  Only with difficulty could she equate the
rapturous, loving creature who shared her bed, or the handsome
teasing boy who tormented her each morning, with the barbaric and
brutal men whose visit to Eydenwynche Castle had been so ruinous.

Only on that day, shrouded in weapons and armour, had she seen
any similarity.  Remembering that time, she wondered how she
could surrender herself now to such a man of war.

"Isthipple Manor," Sir Guy pointed to a raw-timbered manor house,
surrounded by a pealed-bark palisade, built in a fresh assart. 
"We are but a single hour from Tydeau."

His squire cast a questioning look.

"Tydeau Castle is the goal of this journey," the knight informed
his squire.

"Is Tydeau not at peace?"

"But, of course!" Sir Guy replied.  "What made you ask that?"

"You . . . you are a warrior, My Lord."

"Only when my plans go awry."

"My Lord?"

"You said you were taught to reckon the fodder you must lay up to
keep a horse over winter."

"I did."

"I blundered and lost a purse I had thought was mine.  To keep my
mount, I had need to sell my sword.   The only noble with both
gold, and a need for my sword, was Baron Redoubt.  Thus it was, I
went to war.

"I was able to hold the high ground without slaughtering any of
the opposing pack of fools," Sir Guy cocked an eye at his silent
squire to see how this pronouncement went down, "whose only crime
was loyalty to their neighbour."

"You could not support my . . . my Lord, I suppose?"

"Your Lord was dead," the knight replied roughly, "or had you
already pledged fealty to The Most Honourable, The Marquess of
Claytor?"

"Never!"

"`Tis as well I arrived with His Grace, in the train of Baron
Redoubt," Sir Guy asserted. "Otherwise, My Lord Claytor would
have had his allegiance pledged by all his new vassals, even
though it were at sword point."

His squire glowered.

"Now, we are returned to my usual pursuit."

"And that is?"

"Single combat," Sir Guy proclaimed, "to the fall.  I ride only
for a golden purse, and nearly as great a glory an' I slaughtered
infidels."

"You joust," the squire exclaimed, "for gold?"

"For gold," Sir Guy assured his squire.  "Jousting for brass
leads only to poverty."

"I mean not for glory," his squire corrected, distastefully, "but
only for gold."

"Did you see anything gloriously done at Eydenwynche Castle?"

"No!"

"Nor I," Sir Guy told his squire. "That is why I joust for gold."

"But why joust at all?"

"What else is open to me?  I am a second son.  I felt no call
toward the church.  I followed a single crusade and saw little of
merit in the urging of those men of God.  I shall not be one with
them, again.  Finally, I am of noble birth, and would not bring
shame upon my family by learning some simple, honest trade."

"Could you not stay to work upon your family's land?"

"Our family is better at peace," Sir Guy smiled, "when I and my
brother are well separated by distance."

"And so you joust at Tydeau."

"At Ridgewort Field, just beyond the walls of Tydeau Castle," Sir
Guy corrected.  "Tydeau holds a Tournament each Spring.  It is
ever my first of each new spring's events.  With the cold weather
not breaking until a fortnight ago, perhaps not all the
contestants have come."

"Does that matter?"

"The prize remains the same, no matter the number of entrants,"
Sir Guy explained.  "One never knows whom one might meet in the
lists.  I took a fall last autumn that cost me dearly. Moreover,
it left me in need of Baron Redoubt's gold to see me through the
winter."

A moment later, the knight dismounted and withdrew a carefully
folded pennant from the sumpter's pack.  He slipped it over the
point of his lance, and remounted.  With his white-on-crimson
gonfalon flying, they approached and entered Tydeau Castle.



* * *          * * *           * * *



With the walled city of Tyford in the distance, Tydeau Castle was
nothing like Eydenwynche and the village which sheltered in its
valley.  Orsin had never seen such magnificence.

The stall in which Sir Guy's magnificent black, Tartarus, was
stabled would have elegantly housed a large family from
Eydenwynche Village.  The guest room she shared with her master
was superior to most found in Eydenwynche Castle.

For several hours they sat at table, the knights together, served
by diligent squires.  The maid had seen it done, and had a little
practise on their journey, but never before had her service been
contrasted against so many with proper training.

Sir Guy seemed undisturbed and wholly at his ease.  As he fed, he
would cut a succulent morsel from the joint and set it to the
side of his trencher.  His squire would then snatched it up, to
stuff it in his mouth.

"What's this de Beynard, feeding your lad at table?" one knight
snickered.

"`Struth, it is a dainty lad, but mayhap you've mistaking him for
a lady?"

"He's a growing boy, Agonast" Sir Guy answered easily, "would you
have me starve him in service to my consequences?   Comes
tomorrow, and you'llas lief he sat in your place digesting your
share."

"Oh, ho!  Do you hear how this cock crows?" the knight protested.
 "One would think he had taken the purse already.  Do you really
have such contempt for your fellow knights?"

"In truth, I do not," Sir Guy replied, unmoved. "Save only, I
have seen you upon a saddle, an' you were half way to rolling in
the dirt without any aid of mine."

A shout of laughter went up, with various knights either
maligning or defending Sir William Agonast's ability to stay his
saddle.

"One thing is unclear," the gadfly, Sir William returned.  "When
I best you on the morrow, does your squire become my property,
along with your horse and armour?  Mayhap I will see how far this
treating him as a lady may be carried."

"I had not heard that one's squire was in jeopardy," Sir Guy
replied pleasantly, with a thoughtful glance at the burning ears
bent above his table.  "If such is so, a word of caution,
Agonast.  The lad is young, true, but possessed of an elder
brother with a singularly deft hand with a battle axe.  I fear
any passage of arms with him would leave you forever
open-minded."

This sally brought forth another roar of laughter, and with much
braggadocio their conversation drifted from Sir Guy's squire to
other topics on the morrow's tournament.

Each knight retired early, for one last scrutiny of the armour
they would use in the coming contest.

That night, Orsin was assiduous, first in her duties to a
slightly distracted master, and then in their coupling once the
light was extinguished.

"Child," Sir Guy stopped to ask her, "you don't fear what that
rogue, Agonast, said?  Even should I fall, no winner shall come
to carry you away."

"That was not my worry."

"What then?"

"You could die."

"Doubtful," Sir Guy grinned, "even if I fell.  Do you see me with
a lance piercing my heart?"

"I've ne'er before seen a joust," his squire admitted.

"Fear not.  By Tydeau's rules, it would be an oddity to see any
deaths on the morrow.  A handful of broken limbs, mayhap, a score
of strained and fractured ribs no doubt, but scant chance of any
death.

"Still, I dare not fall tomorrow," Sir Guy added solemnly,
"another such outpour of gold as last autumn, and it may as well
be my blood, for I have a need of gold.  Especially now."

About to ask what Sir Guy's special need for gold was, Orsin was
silenced by her knight's lips pressed against hers.

Willing hands encircled  her master's neck, drawing him near as
she returned his kiss with ardour.  With the knowledge she had
gained during the preceding days, Orsin allowed her lips to part.


At this invitation her mouth was invaded.

Strong fingers grasped the back of her neck while Sir Guy drank
from her lips.  Meanwhile, their allies claimed her breast,
kneading its flesh between firm deft fingers.

Leaving her mouth, a trail of kisses burned the tender skin from
her mouth to ear where Sir Guy had passed.  The knight's lips
then traced a fiery trail down the column of her throat, to
ascend an excitedly throbbing breast to its rose-hued peak. 
There his lips remained, nursing to satiation.

Sir Guy's fingers kneaded the flesh of his supposed squire's
breasts fluting over her erect nipples.  The captivating touch
upon Orsin's breasts drifted downward, passing lightly across the
heated skin of her belly, bowed upward through the exertions of
the other hand lifting from beneath.

The maiden's breath was almost snatched from her when Sir Guy's
impassioned mouth, demanding lips and flickering tongue, followed
across her abdomen's sensitive surface.

Calloused fingers traced across the satin skin, drawing lower
with teasing slowness, toward her trembling loins.

Fingers sought gently downward, to both comb and tangle her
thickly-matted nether hair, then to press within her slickly
welcoming entrance.

The hand beneath Orsin, moved from her waist to her rump, raising
her pelvis, sliding fingers along her nether crease, to draw one
thigh well apart from its other.

As his hands met, Sir Guy spread both thighs, raising the
maidenly pelvis, to present her nether lips, agape, before his
eyes.  With an open mouth, the knight pressed his lips firmly,
tongue outstretched, to the exposed treasure.

"G-goodness!" Orsin stuttered, "What are you doing!"

"Shh!" Her master commanded.  "This is the only thing of value I
gained from three years crusading.  `Twas taught me by a Saracen
woman."

As her eyelids drooped and her thoughts congealed, Orsin thanked
Providence that she had was owned by a crusader.

Meanwhile, Sir Guy's alert and watchful gaze observed the maiden
he had dubbed squire react to each nuanced stroke and caress.

He watched as her smaller body strained to conform to his
ministrations, each gesture giving herself away, even as he took
her.

Afterward, they slept; knight in squire, man in woman, wrapped in
each other's arms, in the large, ornate bed of a privileged room,
in a heavily fortified castle.  The morning would see the
tournament commence.  Before the morrow was out Sir Guy may be
hailed the champion or may lie broken upon the ground, but in
this night's joust he was victorious.


* * *          * * *           * * *



The morning of the joust, Sir Guy left his squire sleeping in
their bed to visit the stable, from whence he took black Tartarus
for a morning canter.  Returning to the stable, he slipped a coin
into the hand of an enterprising hostler and bade him see to his
mount's welfare.

He returned to his room carrying a trencher of broken meats and a
flagon of heavy mead.

An unceremonious swat on the backside awoke his sluggard squire.
Seated at the foot of the bed they broke their fast and shared
the mead.

Sir Guy then washed his body in a bucket of water and began his
preparations for the joust.

As the knight drew a fresh pair of braies about his waist, Orsin
perceived that this morning was unlike any previous.  Her master
was not in his usual humour.  Instead of the intimate teasing
that had marked their normal routine, Sir Guy was both distracted
and sober.

With his own hands he drew garments upon his body and adjusted
each article without their usual byplay.  His squire was left
with naught to do but hand her master each garment and armament
in an orderly succession.

Once Sir Guy's hose were fastened, he buckled a sturdy leather
belt about his waist.  He then drew thick quilted cuisses,
stuffed with horsehair, up each leg and tied them in place, where
they would protect his lower limbs.

Next, heavy mail chausses were drawn over the cuisses and tied in
place, supported by strong leather laces attached to the leather
belt.

Sir Guy pushed his arms into a long-sleeved, knee-length linen
tunic and yanked it into place.  A crimson gambeson came next,
also stuffed with horsehair and quilted to pad his upper body
from the harsh protection of the mail hauberk that followed.

With the assistance of his squire, the heavy cuir-bouilli was
placed upon Sir Guy's body.  The boiled-leather sleeveless vest,
falling to his knees, was composed entirely of pockets containing
rectangular steel plates.

Last came a linen surcoat bearing the white on crimson de Beynard
colours to ennoble all beneath.

Sir Guy tied a cap of padded linen about his head to cushion the
unmerciful protection of his helm which the knight then placed
upon his head and fastened unto his shoulders.

As the first fanfare from the tournament grounds sounded, Sir Guy
fastened ailettes bearing de Beynard devices upon his shoulders.

"Come," Sir Guy spoke to his grim-faced squire as he buckled his
great sword about his waist, "Your baptism has thus far been an
easy one.  Most times we dress in a pavilion.  That means the
squire cannot lay slug-a-bed halfway through the morn."

He then led his daunted squire to the stable where an already
harnessed and caparisoned mount awaited.  Orsin slipped the de
Beynard pennant over the tip of Sir Guy's lance, and they set
forth toward the bright flags and pavilions of the tournament
grounds.

Sir Guy set his war-horse, Tartarus, at a stately walk while his
squire trotted at his stirrup.

"I first approach the Earl and his Countess," Sir Guy instructed.
 "While I am about that, choose a dozen sturdy lances from the
array.

"Earl Tydeau requires that no lives be put at risk for his
amusement, so all lances will be tipped with a coronal," the
knight grinned, "not the steel tips of war.

"Be ready to hand me a new lance before I enter the lists.  I am
not to go first, so watch the other squires and do likewise."

Earl Tydeau, as did many others, organized an annual joust in
defiance of both a Royal and a Papal decree forbidding the sport.
 Although his rules differed in an attempt to restrict the
carnage, he followed the ususal method of scoring.

A single point was scored by shattering one's lance upon an
opponent's body.  Double points were awarded if the lance
shattered against the opponent's helm. Contestants rode three
times to the best score, or more to break a tie.

If a knight was unhorsed by his opponent, he immediately lost the
match as well as his horse and armour.

Before each passage, a successful contestant could withdraw,
taking what spoils he had accumulated, while surrendering his
chance at the golden prize.  Thus, he would ensure that he would
keep what spoils in horse and armour he had already won from his
opponents.

For those that stayed the course, the rules changed only in the
final tilt to name the Tourney's Champion.  In that event, there
was no complicated counting of broken lances or hits upon shield
or helm.  They rode until one fell, or could no longer hold lance
and shield before him.

Only if both contestants fell in the final passage would the
judges' tally of carefully counted hits be consulted to determine
their Champion.

Crowning the last man mounted was both an obvious and a fair way
of determining the winner.  Tydeau wanted no contested
championships and the damage such grudges could bear.

After the champion had been determined, diverse smaller purses
were distributed for various technical feats, as determined by
the judges' reckoning.  This was, in its way, a modest attempt to
assuage the financial sting of defeat for those who had been
vanquished.

Each passage through the lists would be accomplished singly,
since Tydeau eschewed melees and all other manner of combat.  My
Lord was an enthusiast of The Joust, and wished to savour his
sport.

The jousters that Tydeau's tournament attracted were always the
cream of the competition.  It was deemed more glorious to fall
while at the cynosure of a Noble Patron's eyes, as well as those
of a thousand enthusiasts, than an insignificant win in the midst
of a crowded field.

The munificence of Tydeau's purses, doubtless had aided in
fostering this opinion.

There were a few, a bitter few, who claimed My Lord's restraint
of the bloodier options of his passion could be laid to His
Lady's squeamishness.  Nonetheless, My Lady, Countess Tydeau sat
beside her husband, a spectator at every joust My Lord's whimsey
produced.  If she had alternate views, she kept them to herself
and earned her husband's gratitude.


Trumpets sounded and Sir Guy trotted forth, one of a score of
knights competing for the purse of gold.  They paused before The
Earl of Tydeau and His Countess, each competitor dipping his
colours as he called out his name and in whose service he rode. 
Many owed fealty to mighty nobles from the surrounding
countryside, but a number, as Sir Guy, were in their own employ.

Another fanfare blared and the field of riders split into two
groups of ten, trotting toward either end of the field.  Sir
Guy's mighty black drew to a halt beside that knight's supposed
squire, then another fanfare echoed.

Two knights, by their yellow on green, black on blue devices,
participants of the previous evening's feast, rode, each against
the other along the chequered rail.  Their lances, denuded now of
pennants,  were levelled each at the other's throat.

They crashed together with the combined grunts of men and mounts,
the clatter of struck metal, and the splintering of wooden
lances.

Both men held to their saddles and slowly cantered back to their
waiting squires who held out  fresh lances.  The trumpets sounded
and the two galloped at one another again.

The knight with the black on blue device took his opponent on the
edge of his shield, it skidded and caught point against his
coat-of-plates.

The shock lifted the man from his saddle, tossing him back
fifteen feet, where he rolled amid a clatter of metal, the
snapping of wood, and perhaps, cracking of bone.

He lay very still as attendants rolled him onto a litter and
carried him from the field.

One after another the knights sallied forth.  For some the first
pass resulted in a fall, always a sickening sight and sound. 
Others, required several passes before one gained any advantage
in points scored against their opponent.

Finally, Sir Guy cantered forth.  He held, awaiting the marshal's
signal.

With the drop of the flag, Sir Guy's mighty destrier gathered his
haunches beneath him and sprang immediately into a pell-mell
gallop.

Watching, Orsin tried to will Sir Guy's lance lower toward his
opponent's chest, but his master carried it tilted high above his
opponent's helm.

A frozen second before impact, the oncoming knight leaned forward
to guide his lance against this incompetent opponent.  Before
that lance could reach him, Sir Guy warded off his opponent's
barb with his shield and dropped his point to visit the shock
unto his adversary's shoulder.

The blow peeled Sir Guy's opponent from the back of his mount and
sent him sprawling upon the ground.

When Sir Guy returned, his stallion's hooves were dancing,
excited by this familiar work.

The knight called for the lance bearing his pennant, and as Sir
Guy's late fallen competition was carried from the field, ten
knights on high-couraged chargers pranced forward to salute the
Earl and his Countess.

While Sir Guy was making his devoirs to the Earl and his Lady,
Orsin noted a faint fracture along the length of Sir Guy's
exchanged lance.  Immediately, the squire discarded it for
another, which, to her unpractised eye, looked straight and true.

A flourish of horns and The Joust continued.

This time, Sir Guy had drawn a giant of a man atop a huge
rawboned beast.  He sat so tall and thick-limbed that Orsin,
remembering the unclothed man who shared her bed, thought Sir Guy
dwarfed.

In that moment both the squire, and the woman who was the squire,
feared for her knight.  She gave no thought to the trouble she
would experience if Sir Guy were killed and her dissembling
discovered.  She thought only of the man, so alive and vital in
her bed, so enthralling in her arms.

In her mind she saw him dead, and her heart froze.  In that
moment she knew that Sir Guy's supposed squire was in truth
enamoured of her knight.

Unknowingly, Sir Guy plunged recklessly into the lists.  If there
was a fault, it was that Tartarus had taken a path farther than
necessary from the chequered barrier.  It would be to Sir Guy's
disadvantage, as he was the smaller knight with the shorter
reach.

Clods of earth flew from the destrier's hooves driving the pair
toward their fateful meeting.

In the final galloping pace, black Tartarus lunged nimbly
sideways, as he plunged forward.  Sir Guy's lance presented its
tip closer than his opponent had anticipated.

Once past the leading edge of his opposition's shield, Sir Guy
shifted his threatening lance.  It struck home, betwixt his
adversary's ribs.

The lance tip crashed against steel plate over mail hauberk,
padded beneath by a quilted gambeson, not unlike Sir Guy's
protection.

Still, the force of the blow delivered with all the weight of an
iron-sinewed knight atop a charging war-horse was too great to
dissipate.  The knight folded, and was tossed backward,
somersaulting amid a clatter of crashing metal.

Sir Guy returned to Orsin's side, presenting a splintered lance
tip to his squire.

Quickly, she chose another, but passed him the lance bearing his
pennant.  By the time the last defeated knight quitted the
churned ground of the lists, Sir Guy was ready to venture forth,
his white on crimson gonfalon fluttering.

Sir Guy returned, to take up lance, and sally forth again.  This
time, in the first pass, a lance tip struck his shoulder.

In the following passage, his squire could not help but notice
that Sir Guy's shield was held lower, as though his shoulder were
numbed by the blow.

Sir Guy's opponent noticed this weakness as well.  With a rush he
tilted his lance so it would again strike the exposed shoulder. 
As their thundering mounts charged by, Sir Guy raised his shield
and diagonally redressed his lance.

The opponent's lance exploded in the impact of a flush hit of
wooden lance on metal shield.  Meanwhile, Sir Guy's lance struck
his opponent below the breast.

In that moment the jouster was rolled backwards across his
steed's haunches, by the force of the blow delivered from Sir
Guy's disintegrating lance.  He landed in a sad, tangle upon the
field.

Three knights carried their pennants before the Earl and his
Lady.

As one winner met the knight who had not been partnered for the
last sally, Orsin handed Sir Guy a well-inspected lance.  She
smiled brightly up at her Lord and lover, while he in a droll
humour slowly lowered one eyelid.

The trumpets blared with solemn emphasis as the final contestants
rode out to take their place in the lists.

As it happened, Orsin recognized Sir William Agonast, the knight
who had jested with Sir Guy on the previous evening.  Now they
both sat their mounts with no trace of humour or camaraderie.

The trumpets blared, the marshal's flag dropped, the chargers
strained, and the knights were well-launched, one upon the other.

On the first passage, both knights hit flush upon the other's
shield and splintered their lances.

On the second pass, Sir Guy's lance shattered, turning Sir
William's shield, but had lost the length it required to reach
its goal.  His opponent's lance struck a glancing blow, sliding
up to clank rudely against the side of Sir Guy's helm.

Emerging from the lists, Sir Guy threw down the fragments of
lance to reach up and resettle his dented helm.

Orsin, with every fibre in her body calling out for Sir Guy to
give up this lunacy, handed her master another carefully chosen
lance, with a weak smile frozen upon her lips.

Again they rode at the other, shields before bodies, lances
pointed toward each other's eyes.

Except for the slight lather on each jouster's mount, there was
little difference from a thousand similar charges in any number
of  tilting yards.  Each line was perfect, all movements timed,
as they rode together in the lists.

In the final seconds, instead of moving his lance, Sir William
held point on Sir Guy's helm, to force Sir Guy's shield to an
awkward position.  A strike thus might catch Sir Guy off balance,
and mayhap, throw him from his charger.

Instead, Sir Guy leaned forward behind his shield, dropping point
a fraction of a second before impact.

Sir William struck shield, turning Sir Guy's body as it glanced
by, while Sir Guy's lance turned an edge of Sir William's shield
to strike below the collar bone.

Sir Guy's lance shattered, but this time it carried enough shock
to toss the wily Sir William back several lengths of his horse,
where he landed in an unconscious heap.

"Sir Guy has  won The Joust!" the words echoed in Orsin's mind. 
She wanted to cry, she wanted to bawl, instead, she cheered
herself hoarse.



* * *          * * *           * * *



While the crowd pressed around their new champion, Orsin lead
Tartarus back to his stall.  There, so many hostlers and stable
hands vied to assist with the new champion's charger that the
squire found little for her to do, save oversee.

The squire made certain that the sweating destrier was treated
with all the proper esteem that Sir Guy would wish.  Under the
circumstances there was little to fear that all would not be
done, and that, over done.

A courier carrying an official-looking scrip had to bellow
several times before anyone approached to take his mount in
charge.  When a young stable boy did, the courier hastened toward
the castle with a harried expression.

Orsin held Tartarus by the bridle, rubbing the great charger's
nose as he wuffled into her hand.  Meanwhile,  the mount was
rubbed down, curried, watered, fed, and finally set to drowsing
in his stall.

The supposed squire set one of the more mature hostlers to guard
Tartarus' rest, then hurried to the castle.

As Orsin entered the main hall she saw Sir Guy holding a weighty
leather purse in one hand and a silver chalice in the other.  The
hall was filled with celebrants.  Even the courier, now minus his
official-looking scrip, had his hand upon a flagon of ale.  All
were laughing and talking at once.

"A health to Sir Guy de Beynard, future Baron of Beynard Park,"
the Earl declared, his voice stilling all others.

"Sir Guy!"

The man of the hour motioned a white-faced squire to his side.

"Here, drink," he commanded.

"What's this!" the Earl's jovial expression faded into one of
query.  "You think you require a taster here?"

"Oh, Geoffrey," objected the Earl's Lady, "let the boy drink."

"Considering my new dignities," Sir Guy chuckled, "one must have
some regard for traditions."

A shout of laughter from the Earl followed this sally.

Immediately, his countenance was regained sufficiently to urge
Orsin, "Go ahead, boy.  Taste your master's wine."

Orsin tasted.  It was stronger than expected, and the liquid felt
thicker.  The squire swallowed a mouthful, then immediately
choked, coughing over its unexpected strength.

"What's the matter, boy," the Earl inquired, "never drank winter
wine before?"

"No . . . Sire."

"Quite right, barely got your mother's milk off your breath," the
Earl declared.  "De Beynard, why don't you have a squire who's
old enough to be weaned?"

"I had one, My Lord," Sir Guy replied, "but he hadn't the knack
of getting out of an arrow's path."

"What?" the Earl's eyebrows shot up, it seemed to Orsin,
alarmingly high.  "Oh, you're referring to that Eydenwynche
affair.  Bad business, that.  Shouldn't have thought you'd get
yourself involved in it."

"I needs must do something, after my troubles at the Bridgeport
Field Joust," Sir Guy replied evenly.

"Should have come to me," the Earl declared decidedly.  "You
can't tell me that you find Baron Redoubt's company preferable to
mine.  And if you don't find my Lady Gwyneth a better hostess
than his Lady . . . I can't remember her heathenish name!"

"Wilhelmina," Sir Guy supplied. "And sharing table never was at 
issue.  I was to patrol his land, and occasionally ride escort. 
Before my contracted time had been served, His Grace was pressing
for a siege.  Baron Redoubt needs must send up a levy for
support.  And so, we both went to war."

"And a rare mess they've made of it amongst them," the Earl
complained.  "I never met Thomas of Eydenwynche, and his lady
died many years ago, but had he not a daughter?"

"Lady Oriole Avere of Eydenwynche was the only Avere alive after
Sir Thomas died," Sir Guy stated woodenly.

"How came she to die?"

"She leaped from a tower window to escape an unwanted suit.  In
his fever for the lady's inheritance, I fear that My Lord, The
Marquess of Claytor was a trifle pressing," Sir Guy stated
sourly, "or so soldiers in the Marquess' pay said, when urged to
explain the lady's disappearance."

"You saw her body?"

"No, I was off down some road keeping fools with scythes and
quarter-staves from joining the slaughter out of a misplaced
sense of loyalty."

"Are you certain she died?"

"It was a high tower, My Lord," Sir Guy spoke bluntly.  "What use
is there to look for her?  She could not reclaim her land."

"His Grace is without wife at the moment," the Earl replied.  "He
could at least have been made to support her.  That way, the
blood of an Avere  would continue to flow in the veins of the
masters of Eydenwynche Castle."

"No!" Sir Guy exclaimed.  "The girl would rather jump out a
window than have Claytor, how much quicker would she jump to
avoid Yaldrick."

"`Tis truth," the Earl agreed with a sigh.

"Before tonight's solemnities," Sir Guy grinned, "I must beg to
be excused."

"Certainly, lad," the Earl agreed, cheerful once more.  You want
a bit of rest and a clean tunic, no point coming into your
honours tired and ragged."



* * *          * * *           * * *



"What is that?"

"What does it appear to be?"

"A woman's gown."

"`Tis exactly so! Put it on."

"Now?" Orsin looked perplexed.  "Here?"

"Assuredly," Sir Guy extended the gown to his squire.

"Someone may see me?" Orsin resisted, stepping back.

"And why should you not be seen wearing women's clothes?" Sir Guy
demanded loudly. "You are, after all, a woman."

"But, I have been your squire."

"That folly," Sir Guy declared, "ends here and now."

"Where did you get these clothes?"

"The Countess is not such a fool as Geoffrey," the knight told
his supposed squire.

"The Countess!" Orsin cried. "She knows?"

"Almost immediately," Sir Guy confirmed.

"What must she think?"

"She thinks that it is high time we were married," Sir Guy
declared.  "I agree with her."

"Married?"

"If you jump out another window, My Lady Oriole," Sir Guy stated
flatly through clenched teeth, "I swear that I shall follow you."

"You know!"

"Since first we met," Sir Guy agreed.  "I came following your
tracks from the castle."

"You were never fooled?"  This seemed to work almost as an insult
upon the lady.

"Had he been a sight quicker of mind, or body, the Marquess might
have seen where you landed upon the garrison roof."

Sir Guy grasped the lady's shoulder and pressed the gown into
Lady Oriole's unresisting arms.

"It was rather a long jump, especially for a lady," the knight
continued conversationally, giving the girl time to adjust to one
more change of gender in her young life.  "I suspect you have
been raised more a lad than a lady since your mother's death."

Lady Oriole Avere of Eydenwynche gulped, then agreed, "It was a
dangerous jump, but I could stay no longer with that . . . that.
. . ."

"Exactly," Sir Guy agreed, "and had you awaited the morrow, you
would have beheld both the Duke and Claytor slobbering over you.
This way, Claytor held the castle like a rat in a birdcage, when
His Grace arrived expecting to issue an ultimatum to your father.


"I wish I had been present to see Yaldrick's face!"

With the lady concentrating upon visions from the past, Sir Guy
assisted her in doffing the livery of a squire.

"How could you follow me?" Lady Oriole inquired, standing naked
and unaware while she plumbed past mysteries.

"First, I heard of your miraculous disappearance."

The supposed squire vanished beneath the draperies of a fine
lady, only to reappear, dishevelled but dressed in a pale yellow
linen undergown.

"Next," Sir Guy continued, holding a golden silk over -tunic out
toward the emerging lady, "I saw that climbing vines had been
broken and pulled away from the wall.  And that, at a place where
no attack had been launched."

Lady Oriole raised her arms, and Sir Guy lowered the lacy
confection upon his transforming squire, as though he had a
lifetime's experience as a lady's maid at his back.

"Nor were the vines strong enough to hold anyone climbing up," he
suggested, assisting neatly with the ties. "They were only strong
enough to briefly retard someone's descent."

A moment of silence followed while the dusky golden sleeves were
positioned on milady's arms to trail downward, nearly touching
the floor.  Its hem, at the back, straightened to form a
graceful, flowing train.

"But, how could you follow me," the maiden entreated, "after an
entire army had surrounded the castle?"

"The castle was never actually surrounded," Sir Guy allowed. 
"The roads were held in force, but only a scattering of archers
encircled the walls to harass any defenders upon the
battlements."

Kneeling before his lady, the knight smoothed a stocking up her
leg, and tied the garter about her calf.  After a week of
meticulous assistance with her toilet, the lady failed to note
the indelicacy of what he did.

"Do you mean,"  Lady Oriole of Eydenwynche demanded, with all the
supercilious contempt of a long line of Averes behind her wrath,
"that lickspittle Marquess surrendered without a fight?"

With an appreciative eye on the outraged lady, Sir Guy deftly
drew on, and gartered her other stocking.

"Once a battering-ram could be seen from the barbican, and
Claytor learned that no neighbouring levy would get through to
lift the siege, that doughty hero surrendered quickly enough."

Dark golden cords, knotted and interwoven with stones of large
polished amber, were cinched about the maiden's waist as her
knightly maid continued.

"I doubt not that this blunder shall ever gain him a wife with
lands for dower," an imp danced in the knight's eyes.  "My Lord,
The Marquess of Claytor would do well to tighten the defences
about his own demesne. Undoubtedly they will soon be tested."

Sir Guy presented a comb and pier glass to the maiden, urging her
to make use of them.

"No, stay!" Lady Oriole commanded.  "How were you able to follow
my tracks?"

Pausing only to assure himself that although the maiden attended
him closely, she was indeed tidying her head, Sir Guy continued
the explanation of his success.

"Few soldiers have such dainty feet, My Lady, not even in their
youth.  That was always the weakest part of your disguise," Sir
Guy confessed.

"I followed the path that I thought you most likely would have
taken. I felt certain that old sheltered drift behind the castle
would be your probable route.

"It is just such a path that I should have chosen, if I wished to
depart unseen."

"A guess?" the lady considered, then objected. "No, you were too
cocksure, you browbeat Rob, the Tiller, and cozened me into
revealing myself."

"Occasionally the ground became too hard, or other prints
obliterated them, but a single tiny footprint was all that I
needed to assure me," Sir Guy continued, "that I had not strayed
from your trail."

Although the maiden's hair had been made neat it was too short to
plait.  A shimmering golden veil was passed upon her head, to be
held in place by a delicately-filigreed gold circlet.

Lady Oriole had lost all resemblance to the squire, Orsin.

"You were wearing a blue gown, were you not?" Sir Guy commented,
unfortunately halting the lady as she was about to place her foot
into a slipper.

"How could you know?" she demanded, spinning around.

"A few threads were caught and left behind where you climbed the
fence," Sir Guy grinned.  "From there the ground had been worked
regularly, so I could easily follow your footprints leading
straight to your tenant's house."

"And dragged me out like a felon," she accused, her chin rising.

A realist where women were concerned, Sir Guy sank to his knees,
and placed the slippers upon the maiden's feet with his own
hands.

"You have never met His Grace, The Duke of Yaldrick," he
explained, rising once more.  "He is no Marquess of Claytor. 
These last few days, no doubt, he has been searching for you.

"Oh, he may think he is only looking for a dead body.  Still, he
is most likely grilling your tenants in the belief that they
secretly buried it.

"He is not a patient man, My Lady Oriole.  Torture will be his
next weapon."

"I must stop him!"

"How?"

"I don't know," the maiden replied slowly, with a groan.

"I do," Sir Guy announced, taking the maiden's hand in his.
"Marry me."

"Marry you?" Lady Oriole's hand fled from his touch to her mouth,
where her teeth worried at a knuckle.  "Could I?"

"If His Grace knows you are alive, and married to me, he will
have no reason to bother your people," Sir Guy stated.  "Married
to me, there would be no need, nor possibility, for you to marry
him."

"If I only could," the maiden cried, the longing in her voice
feeding Sir Guy's soul.

"Nothing could be easier," the knight crowed.  "Now that you are
once more a maid, it should not even shock the priest."

"Your family," Lady Oriole questioned. "When they learn that I
have been running about dressed as a boy. . . ."

"You have been running about dressed as a boy with me, don't
forget," Sir Guy advised, a note of seriousness entering his
voice.

"But, it was while you were not dressed as any boy that I had
reason to discover how much of an innocent you are -- or were. 
You cannot become a stain upon mine honour, Lady Oriole?"

"Stain upon your honour," Lady Oriole echoed.

"Certainly," Sir Guy replied.  "The Countess knows that you have
shared a room with me as my squire.  Soon Geoffrey will learn,
also.  A knight is not supposed to use a Lady so."

"You were saving my life. . . ."

"Knighthood is a demanding vocation," Sir Guy stated severely,
"Come, My Lady, help me keep my knightly vows."

A bubble of laughter broke from Lady Oriole, "Your family will
never believe. . . ."

"My family will never know," he interrupted,  pushing his Lady
through the door and escorting her down a corridor.  "When they
learn that you are the last Avere of Eydenwynche, they will
doubtless think I am a better schemer than ever they reckoned."

"I have no claim to Eydenwynche," Lady Oriole declared, a marshal
glint entering her eye as the two hurried along the corridor.

"At present, no," Sir Guy agreed, "but the future is in the lap
of the gods."

"Not war!" Lady Oriole commanded.  "After today, I could not bear
to see your life in jeopardy, ever again.  No more jousting and
no more wars!"

"Yes, but. . . ." Sir Guy began, as Lady Oriole's chin climbed
higher.

"Your people," he assayed.

"Could not someone else. . . ." Lady Oriole temporized.

"Fight my battles?"  Sir Guy was incredulous.

He suddenly halted, a mischievous smile crossed his features,
then he hurried her forward, again.

"If Geoffrey could be moved to petition the King on behalf of an
orphan. . . ." Sir Guy muttered.

"You mean you're not going to marry me?"

A roar of laughter shook the corridor, "No escape that way, my
Lady.  The case would be for the protection of a Lady, loco
parentis.  That she was subsequently married would have no
bearing upon what occurred while she should have been under the
protection of the King.

"We might try that for a couple of years," Sir Guy mused.  "As
long as the case stands before the court, Eydenwynche and all its
land remain in chancery, but that should keep your people safe
from His Grace.

"If that fails, we always have recourse to force of arms," Sir
Guy concluded, raising a hand before Lady Oriole's protesting
mouth. "First, however, I shall desire at least a brace of sons
to see my inheritance safe."

"What!  But. . . ."

"Shush, woman!" Sir Guy rebuked Lady Oriole, "We are about to
enter a chapel.  Now is the time to act demure and speak words of
agreement.  We have the whole of our lives to wrestle and
bicker."



* * *          * * *           * * *



If Lady Oriole was surprised to see Earl Tydeau, his Countess,
and twenty noble guests in the castle's chapel, she was given
little time to betray that fact.  Tydeau with his Lady, preceded
Sir Guy and his supposedly betrothed Lady from the chapel
entrance to where a stout priest in Benedictine garb awaited
them.

With her cropped hair decently covered by a heavy golden veil
that swathed both her head and throat, and a shimmering gauze
veil obscured her features, Lady Oriele should have felt more
secure.  Surely no noble in attendance could see in her the
fledgling squire who had participated in that day's Tournament.

She would have been more content, had she known with what
scrupulous chicanery the few who had sufficient opportunity to
memorise her features had been excluded, including even the noble
jousters with whom she had shared table the previous evening.

The priest heard the couple through their wedding vows. 
Privately decrying the missed opportunity to preach to such a
gathering of mighty nobles, but cognizant that the feast to
follow that day's joust was beckoning all, he offered a short
benediction, and Amen.

They were married. The Lady Oriole Avere of the recently fallen
Eydenwynche Castle had plighted her troth with Sir Guy de
Beynard, the second son of Baron de Beynard of Beynard Park and 
Ruddley Manor.

Her status had changed from a grubby, insignificant squire, to
the bride of a Champion Jouster, a noble son, and the one man who
both stirred her blood and fired her senses.

She thought she had arrived at a safe sanctuary.  She would have
preferred a few moments of quiet contemplation after the
hurly-burly of the day's events.  Since she had not arrived at
any safe sanctuary, it was undoubtedly wiser that her companions
conspired to keep the Lady bemused by a flurry of celebrations.

The happy couple were congratulated and toasted in a small
saloon, which was small only in comparison to the Great Hall. 
There the guests joined in an early supper, barely two courses
and removes, but still no mean accomplishment, considering the
hours of Tournament feasting to follow.

As the wine flowed, the party became more riotous and ribald, but
not even the Countess, Gwyneth Tydeau, presiding from a seat
opposite her husband, looked askance.  She kept her eyes
anxiously upon the young, rosily blushing bride.

At a signal from Countess Tydeau, the ladies rose and left the
gentlemen at table.  They retired to a luxurious bedroom where
the bride was prepared for the final nuptial ceremony.

Lady Oriole was aided by two of the most senior maids in the
castle.  From out of her wedding finery and into a gossamer thin
nightgown she was ably assisted.

She wished the other ladies would leave, so she might ask the
Countess from whence came her feminine attire.  In the midst of
such elegant company, however, she was too shy.

"My dears, I must ask you all to leave for now," Lady Tydeau
announced. "This dear child has been motherless since childhood.
I shall take it upon myself to counsel the new bride with what
advice and encouragement I may impart before the gentlemen
arrive."

Amiably showing the ladies from the bedroom, she then shooed out
her maids, who had finished drawing back the covers to reveal
blindingly white sheets.

As the door closed the Countess, Gwyneth Tydeau, spun about with
tensely cast features.

"We have little time," the Countess declared, rather mysteriously
"but you dare not falter.  Do as I say, and trust in your
husband.

"You shall doubtless lose your countenance, but keep your head,
girl.  I know Sir Guy would never hurt you, but remember this: It
is critical that you should feign suffering.  Further, show no
pleasure in the deed.  That would also be disastrous.  Do these
things unquestioningly, and trust in your husband's cunning."

With her curious speech delivered, the Countess opened the door.
Some few ladies entered, but more still remained outside in the
antechamber.

Men's voices could be heard approaching.  The Lady Oriole looked
about for somewhere to hide her state of dishabille from their
view.  She pounced onto the bed and drew high the coverings.

"`Twas a whey-faced drab, we thought so shy an innocent,"
declared the slurred speech of a noble wedding guest whose senses
had been more drowned in his potations than should be expected
thus early, "but when the sheets were seen, `twas nary a drop
upon them.  Then we knew the cause of the punke's pale
complexion.   Fear!

"What Geoffrey?  Oh, right!  No harm intended, I assure you."

Lady Oriole sat upon the bed, the coverings clutched about her
chin as Sir Guy entered the room dressed in a blue velvet robe. 
In the antechamber behind him crowded the gentleman from the
wedding party.

Certain things heard, but vaguely understood, crowded into
Oriole's head.  Amongst some of the nobility it was customary to
have guests witness the result of the bride's nuptial coupling. 
An immediate inspection of their sheets would attest to the truth
of the bride's virginity.

Were the bride to fail the test, the marriage could be annulled
and the marriage settlements voided, but why would Sir Guy care?
 There were no marriage settlements!

"Come, my own sweet Lady," Sir Guy's voice spoke clearly and
distinctly. "`Tis time we set about having the deed done."

Shedding the blue velvet robe, he revealed  a night gown which
hung to his knees.  In one motion he raised the covers and joined
her beneath them.  Sitting astride her legs, he kissed her once,
passionlessly, then pushed up the hem of her transparent
nightgown.

For a moment he seemed to fumble at his loins, then with an oath
of impatience he drew his offending night gown up over his
shoulders.  This action provided the nearest ladies with the
vision of a broad muscular back to compare against their own
husbands.  Then, he balled up the night gown and flung it to one
side of the room.

Sir Guy hovered above his Lady.  She felt him at her entrance,
alien and coldly wet.  He drove home with a savagery most unlike
her affectionate lover, the nails of one hand clenched upon her
buttock so painfully that she screamed before she realized that
she had been instructed to do precisely that.

She remembered to take no pleasure, as Lady Tydeau had instructed
her, but it was wasted advice.  Sir Guy, her gentle, giving lover
was not the man who bedded her.  It was a stranger closeted with
her in their nuptial bed chamber.

Sir Guy, the Champion Jouster, was there protecting His Lady from
the disparagements of a cruel society, by allowing her no
pleasure in their public act.

As his warlike actions had protected nearby villagers from
joining battle at Eydenwynche Castle, in just such a fierce
manner was he protecting His Lady Oriele, now.

"If only," she thought, "there was any use."

The rapid thrusting between her loins suddenly ceased.  For a
moment Sir Guy clenched his body, then roared out in orgasmic
release.

A few seconds past in silence, as Sir Guy lay, supposedly spent,
upon his Lady.  Finally, he sat up and looked about.

"I should imagine you are looking for this," Gwyneth Tydeau
proclaimed, holding out a balled-up night gown, "or do you intend
to quit the bed as you are, and affront all the ladies present?"

Sir Guy ducked his head, accepting both the night gown and the
rebuke.  He then bounced out of bed and into his blue robe. 
Turning, he assisted his bride in donning her green velvet one.

As Sir Guy led her to the side of the room, the two maids
entered, to strip back the covers and reveal Lady Oriole for the
strumpet that she was.

Would Sir Guy renounce her?  If so, why had he insisted on their
marriage?  He, better than any, knew her condition.  What was in
his mind?

A sudden mummer passed through the room.

Lady Oriole could not look.  She felt her shame as a fierce blush
suffused her face.  To the unknowing in the room it was a perfect
performance of a prettily embarrassed innocent.

"Another virgin plucked by God!" the tipsy noble hallooed. 
"What? I . . .  what? Oh, all right, Geoffrey."

"Sorry, Beynard, no offense intended.  It's Tydeau's wine what
has me rocked."

"No offense taken, Repplewaithe," Sir Guy addressed Tydeau's
tipsy guest. "Your function here was to observe the virtue of my
bride.  She may have wished a more sedate pronouncement, but she
could not have asked for a keener judge."

Wondering what Sir Guy could be talking about, Lady Oriole peeked
over her shoulder.  To her amazement she saw the two maids
raising a white bed sheet to brandish a small but vivid red
stain, amid other diverse wetness upon the central portion of the
sheet.

It was irrefutable proof that she had come to her marriage bed a
virgin, and Lady Oriole could not imagine how Sir Guy had managed
the miracle.  She only knew that it was he who had seen "the deed
done," as he had predicted.

"Come along, my dear," Countess Tydeau admonished Lady Oriole
after the gentlemen had trooped out in Sir Guy's wake. "No doubt
you wish to retire, but you will feel much better afterwards, for
a little wash first."

"Lady Sanctyon, will you lead the ladies to the Hall.  I shall
just see that my protégée is comfortable before rejoining you."

Once Lady Oriole had reached the privacy of yet another of the
castle's many private rooms, she found a small wooden tub some
inches deep in water.  As she entered, a maid was tipping more
water into it.  When the maid was satisfied with the temperature,
she nodded to her mistress.

"Thank you Greizel.  You may go, now."

"Yes, my Lady," the maid smiled as she bobbed a curtsy to the
Countess, and an envious look at the new bride, then left quietly
through the door.

"Thank God that ordeal is over," the Countess sighed deeply.

"Hop into the tub," Gwyneth instructed.  "There's no telling how
deeply he soiled you."  She cast a sharp glance at her blushing
guest and added, "I know, my dear.  Your man had to have at least
one confederate.  I am pleased that he chose me.

"Many years ago, I knew your mother, and I have known Guy de
Beynard since he was breached.  It pleases me that you have found
each other, more pleased that I was able to assist."   A low
chuckle escaped, as she added, "And I was most diverted by how
your young thatchgallows carried the thing off."

"Do you know how?"

"Not a whit," the Countess avowed primly, then continued, "I can
honestly say, that I saw blood upon your sheets, as can all the
others.

From what Sir Guy required of me, I can doubt that the blood was
yours, but few people will ask for my opinion, and no one can
compel me to give it.  I, and everybody else, saw what was
needful that we see, and there's an end to it."

"I don't know why it was necessary?" Oriele began.

"It was necessary!" the Countess declared.  "You were in a
perilous position with no protector save Sir Guy, and he a de
Beynard."

"What do you mean, `and he a de Beynard?'"

"Child, the de Beynard's are the most insufferably self-important
family in all Christendom.  Luckily for mere mortals, they are so
few, and for you, that you caught the heart of the only one worth
his salt.

"If that knock-in-the-cradle brother of his hadn't . . . no, I
mustn't speak so of him, now . . . especially not with you."

The Countess sat on a stool by Oriole's tub and spoke in a more
composed, and compelling voice.

"No one cared for the boy your man once was, so you must love
him, child.  Fill his empty past with a loving present.

"I was an unwanted child.  A girl, and plain, with no dowery, or
especially high family.  Life could have been drear and
cheerless, but Tydeau passed, and for no accountable reason
anyone could discover, chose me.

"It was a love match.  Yours is a love match, too.  I perceived
that  anon, which is why I helped you, each to the other.  Men
try so hard for honour and loyalty and bravery that sometimes
they forget they need love most of all.

"Love your man, child.

"Here is Greizel, with towels and a fresh gown.  She will put you
to bed, and sleep.  Sir Guy will be stayed, no doubt, by the
crowd in the Great Hall.  When you awaken, he will be with you as
your husband.

"And you can tell him that between the pair of you,"  the older
lady declared emphatically, "you did not meet the priest a moment
too soon!"



* * *          * * *           * * *



A score of times Sir Guy had wondered if the night was too young
for him to leave Tydeau Castle's Great Hall.  He wished to join
his bride.  He intensely desired to learn which woman was truly
the one he had married.

Was she in fact Orsin, the scowling independent-spirited lass,
gritting her teeth to forswear all assistance and tenderness?

Was she Lady Oriole, the achingly beautiful bird of paradise who
glided through their wedding, throwing off both sparkling looks
and shy smiles, as she had throughout their Wedding Feast?

He hoped that she was not doomed to remain the scared child he
had accosted and then abandoned in their marriage bed.  How he
longed to rush back and comfort her.

That first frightened look had nearly unmanned him.  He had to
carry through the point, bear the shock, hoping to carry the day,
and make amends on some future passage.  He just hoped she would
understand the necessity.

He also prayed that at least some portion of the supposed squire
who had warmed both his bed and his blood rather overmuch of late
could be found.

"Damn this infernally gregarious, brilliant, racketing, gorging,
rioting, inebriated, smelly horde of so-called humanity," Sir Guy
cursed the celebrants of his victory.

Had he ever really wished to join their company?  Now, he only
wished to escape to the peaceful sanity of his Lady Oriole, in
whatever guise she chose.

Whoever she might be, he could challenge Orsin's composure and
find pleasure in her attempt to take it in manly stride.

Were she the bird of paradise, he would gladly follow and insure
no rudesby tried to ruffle her feathers.

Lord, he would comfort the scared child, assure her she would
never be frightened again, and try to help her see why it needs
must have happened once.

And if she was his boon bed companion, how he would work to
remove the foul stench of that public onslaught from out of his
mouth.

"God deliver me from this assemblage!" Sir Guy prayed audibly.

"`Sa pleasure!" Lord Repplewaithe sloshed an arc of wine
dribbling liberally across the table as he summoned a lackey,
"Bring Sa' Guy sam hammage, he's alrea'y hadda  fine ten'er
bird."

Icily, Sir Guy repressed his desire to do violence upon his most
valuable witness.

The only use, on God's green earth, for The Honourable, Baron
Repplewaithe, was that, like anything poured in his mouth could
eventually be poured out his boot, so too did anything poured in
his ear eventually pour from out his mouth.

Even more important was the indisputable intelligence that he was
so frequently in the company of the present Baron de Beynard,
when he poured out those inebriated tales.

Repplewaithe's indiscretions were legendary.  If he gained
possession of any information, no matter how sensitive, he would
eventually betray it while in his cups.  Since he was forever in
his cups, no one dared trust the tosspot with any shred of their
honour.

It was a risky venture bringing Repplewaithe into his enterprise,
but that was what made it so irresistible.  The very fact of the
sot's undependability made him the perfect dupe.  No one would
question information garnered from Algernon Repplewaithe's loose
lips.

If any sham was being perpetrated, Repplewaithe would needs be
kept strictly away.  Both the information that the inebriated
noble dropped, and the fact that he had gleaned it with his own
eyes, assured any auditor that the intelligence was undeniably
genuine.

It was just such species of double thinking that had brought Sir
Guy safely home so often in the joust.  Now he was applying the
same deviousness to this game of congenial politics.

Sir Guy realized that such employment would be more his world now
that he had married His Lady Oriole.  Especially with her so
adamant that he quit the joust.

He had a quick mind, Sir Guy realized, when he needed it.  Until
this day, he had never place much reliance upon it, placing all
his dependance upon using his nimble body.  With marriage and
responsibility his jousting would shift quarters.

That, he thought with a grace note of sadness, was what age
brings to everyone.  Then, a brief memory of His Lady's smile
lightened his mind, erasing all sadness.  Everyone must grow up
eventually.

"And every sot must succumb to his libations," Sir Guy thought
with satisfaction as Repplewaithe's head thumped upon the table.

"Here, you two, approach," he called to a pair of idling lackeys.

"Lord Repplewaithe is unwell," he said, taking personal
satisfaction from the double meaning. "Carry My Lord Baron to the
room prepared for him.  Gently!"

"Lord," he thought, with a vague feeling of self-loathing  "will
this new jousting end with me truly caring for the welfare of
notorious tosspots?"

Nonetheless, he pressed a silver mark into each lackey's hand,
entreating them to have a care for his friend.

As he stood, Earl Tydeau waved a hand across the room of noisy
celebrants.  For a moment, Sir Guy considered the likelihood that
he might feint overlooking the Earl's gesture, and go instead to
His Lady's couch.

Even while he move toward Tydeau, Sir Guy realized that with the
coming passages between himself and his family, and to settle the
affairs at Eydenwynche, it would be well to ingratiate his noble
host.

With amusement, the knight realized that he had moved in answer,
before his mind had settled how best his actions should be
played.   In some instances, he told himself, the body goes
before the wit, at other times the body goes only at the wit's
urging.

From outside, none could divine his reason.  Only he, himself,
knew the reckoning.   He had best not mistake the score.



* * *          * * *           * * *


In a room of state in Tydeau Castle a bruised, battle hardened
male body lay naked beside a softly rounded, petite, and equally
naked, female body.

Visually the contrast was striking, but it was also misleading. 
In truth, their personalities were each the other's match. 
During the past week they had tested their passions many times,
one upon the other, each time conquering all, save the other.

"You are an unkind husband," Lady Oriele de Beynard proclaimed,
without rancour.

"I am?" Sir Guy sounded genuinely surprised, rising from their
bed to pad naked across the room to the fireplace.

"You know you are!" his lady responded, sitting up to address him
from their bed.    "A kindly husband would satisfy his wife's
curiosity.  You revel in her torment."

"What is tormenting your curiosity, my sweet?" Sir Guy inquired,
as he crouched before the dying embers.

"You know full well what torments me," his Good Wife avowed. 
"`Tis how you arranged that virginal stains should appear upon
the sheets from our bedding, when we both know it could not be."

"Has that tweaked your curiosity?"  Sir Guy chuckled, stirring up
the embers with a poker.  "I rather though you would accept it as
proof of your virginity.  Now, I learn that you construe it to be
some kind of trickery."

From the bed, Lady Oriele de Beynard directed a rude sound toward
her new husband.

"Very well," her husband replied, watching as a small flame grew
from the embers.  "`Twas quite simply done.

"The blood was of an ox, newly butchered for today's feast.  It
was borne in a bladder made from a sausage casing, modest enough
to be hidden within my hand. "

Sir Guy piled several lengths of wood about the flame, then sat
back upon his heels to wait.

"While I dressed for our meeting," Sir Guy continued, "I was able
to secret both the bladder and a jewelled pin within my hand.  At
the proper time I pierced the bladder and drained it onto my . .
. er . . . member."

A flash of white teeth was turned toward the lady seated
tailor-fashion in the centre of their bed.

"I got rid of the evidence by hiding it in the folds of my
balled-up night gown, which I tossed to the side of the chamber."

Sir Guy turned back to the fireplace.  "It was that simple."

"But, Lady Tydeau gave back your night gown," Oriele objected. 
"There was neither blood on it, nor any bladder within, either."

"Of course not!"  Sir Guy agreed.  "Neither was the crumpled
night gown that Gwyneth Tydeau gave me, the same one I had tossed
away, earlier.  Surely you realized that she was my confederate."

Sir Guy put down the poker, and stood before the rebuilt fire.

"She said. . . ."

"What exactly did she tell you?"

"Only that she saw blood on the sheet," Oriele recalled.  "She
doubted that it was mine, but no one would ask her for her
opinion."

"Yes, and if they did, she will either turn the questioner off,
or perjure her soul without a qualm,"  Sir Guy declared, as he
strode back to their bed. "I have not many friends, but those I
have, are worth the having.  They are now your friends as well."

The bridegroom settled upon the bed whereon his bride sat, his
arm encircling her waist.

"The Countess is no fool," the knight chuckled.  "She knows that
I requested two identical gowns, one already balled up and jammed
behind the clothes press.  When I tossed the first one to the
floor, Lady Gwyneth's portion of the deceit was to switch them,
while I kept all other eyes upon me.

"If Gwyneth Tydeau could not anticipate what would happen, at
least she knew once it was accomplished."

"And I was so certain that all was about to be made public,"
Oriele explained.  "I saw none of your trickery.  Even after it
was done, I could not imagine how it had happened.  I knew only
that you were responsible."

"It was necessary that you be kept unaware," Sir Guy, explained,
one hand tightening upon her shoulders, as his other hand brushed
back hair from her face.

"In this last week I have seen you in the guise of a counterfeit
squire, and have never known how you eluded detection," a gentle
kiss was applied to Oriele's temple to alleviate any pain his
words bore. "You are, my love, such a poor deceiver.

"It seemed essential that you be left in the dark.  Your true
reactions, as a supposed innocent, were much more believable than
anything you could have counterfeited."  The brave knight nuzzled
his lady's ear, in entreaty, "I am sorry.  Am I forgiven?"

"Forgiven!  For saving my good name?" Lady Oriele inquired, "I
should think not!  You deserve that I grant you a boon."

"This day in Tydeau's Chapel, you granted my boon." Sir Guy
replied, then with a smile added, "and this evening, and last
night, and all the nights that separates this from the night
which followed the fall of Eydenwynche Castle."

The gallant knight's hand moved to enfold his lady wife's breast
between gentle fingers while he drew them both back upon the
bed's support.

"My Lord Husband," Lady Oriole de Beynard inquired, while
languidly observing her husband's intimate handling of her
person, "what shall you do now that you are a jouster no more?"

"I could derive some income by putting Tartarus out to stud," Sir
Guy de Beynard replied, stretching luxuriously.  "With myself, I
thought, I could do similarly."

"Oof!" my lord exclaimed, as a sharp elbow dug into his ribs.

"In truth," Sir Guy corrected, "I thought we could live happily
upon the prospect of your expectations.  As well that, as upon
the prospect of my own expectations."

"What are your expectations, My Lord?"

"Ah!  I thought you were not attending when the betrothal
contracts were being proclaimed.

"Ow!  Really, Oriole, either you must stop jabbing me with those
wicked elbows, or I must grow a thick layer of padding like
Geoffrey is wont to wear."

An indelicate snort was the only indication that Lady Oriole
attended.

"There is really no point in fussing about expectations, until my
parents arrive."

"Gwyneth . . . I mean, Countess Tydeau said your parents would be
arriving in two days.  I had supposed she thought we should have
waited the ceremony until their arrival."

"Did you ask her?"

"No, for she added that we had almost left the marriage until too
late."

A silence hung in the room for several pregnant seconds.

"Well, we did, but that is not how she meant to be understood,"
Sir Guy explained. "Doubtless you realize that, Gwyneth, Countess
Tydeau, is a various minded old harridan, but she makes a good
friend."

"If your parents care for you so little," Oriele interrupted,
"why do they come now?"

"They cared little once, but that was in the past," an
unpleasantly harsh burr rasped in Sir Guy's throat.  "They care
greatly now, that is our present encumbrance.

"My brother had but to drink himself into his grave before my
parents could bring themselves to care what comes of me."

"Your brother is dead?"

"A goodly month hence," Sir Guy volunteered. "About the time I
anticipated the end to my service to Baron  Redoubt.

"Before they learned of my whereabouts, I had been sent forth
already, scouting in advance of Yaldrick's army.  Every courier
they dispatched found me only just departed.  A courier finally
contacted me today, following the joust."

"A courier!" Lady Oriole exclaimed.  "I think I saw him arrive."

"Possibly," Sir Guy snorted.  "The message he carried commanded
me, upon pain of their displeasure, to not participate in the
Ridgewort Field Joust.

"That is what Lady Gwyneth meant about marrying on time.  Once my
parents arrive, I needs must be thrust into mourning for poor
dead Waldo.  A year to waste while everything stands at odds.

"No doubt Gwyneth's comment held a jibe against our not staying
the priest's blessing, as well.  She is not above employing a
veiled barb, nor turning two thoughts with a single word.

"Most likely," Sir Guy confessed, "her real intent was for you to
herald her statement to me.   It would be in character for her to
chide me, through you, for rushing my gates."

"I don't care," Lady Oriole avowed, "at every hand, I learn Lady
Gwyneth has done me good service.  She made you welcome at
Tydeau, when you came a-jousting.

While I never wish to see you do it again, I realize that at the
time, the jousting was necessary.  Eventually, that brought you
to Rob, the Tiller's hut, just when I most had need of you.

"Lady Gwyneth knew I was a girl in a lad's garb, but instead of
turning me out of my britches and out of doors, she rather
planned my nuptials.

Now I learn that before your parents could arrive, she rushed us
through our vows, so circumstance could not delay them for a
year.  If not worse.

"How many friends like Lady Gwyneth," Oriele inquired, "can one
person expect to encounter?"

"Ah yes, you may say that as often as it finds you pleasing," Sir
Guy chuckled. "Were I to do so, an' Geoffrey would start to
splutter like an old kettle."

The wily knight caught his bride's arm before her elbow could
make contact with his ribs.  So the sprightly bride mounted her
husband, sitting across his loins.

"Still, he continued, undaunted, "you are a remarkable woman,
wife."

"I am?  Why?"

"Few women of my acquaintance, upon learning that their husband
was the heir to a great estate, would roll over and attempt to
ride him like a steed."

"Exactly how many, husband, are those few women?"

"Yourself included, My Lady Bride, but one."

"`Tis well!"

"`Tis very well."

With one calloused hand on either side of her waist, Sir Guy
raised Lady Oriele above his body.  A moment later she grasped
his biceps in a clawing grip, as he slowly lowered her onto his
erect phallus, until it was lodged deep within her body.

"Oh!" she moaned, as he rocked her body forward, then again as he
slid her back.

Holding her astride, Sir Guy rocked beneath, as he moved her upon
him, both riding, and being ridden, to their destination. 
Panting and sweating they pitched forward and back, from side to
side, as profound sensations were agitated within their beings.

Twice Oriele quickened and crested, only to wilt beneath a flood
of ardour, but still Sir Guy continued to buck and plunge toward
his own reward.

As she slumped against him, Sir Guy grasped his wife's waist,
twisted his body, and agilely reversed their positions.  With
greater purchase from above, the knight redoubled his efforts, as
Oriele, clutched at his shoulders and dug her heels in behind his
back.

Sobbing as if in sorrow, but clinging as for life, Oriele
continued though several long minutes, until finally their effort
was rewarded with an ardent rush of seed.

Gasping where they lay, the two lovers were swiftly conquered by
sleep.

Much later they stirred.  The moon was high in the sky, shining a
silver light through their casement to awaken the newlywed
couple.

Slowly they moved, and resettled in a more comfortable, if less
intimate embrace.

"To how big an estate are you heir?"  Lady Oriele asked her mate,
picking up their conversation where it had been left earlier that
evening.

"Beynard Park is only twice the size of Eydenwynche, but the
manor house is quite new, very formal, with every possible
extravagance of ostentation.

"While Raddley is four times over the size of Beynard, it is
quite undistinguished.  Mere mortals could be made comfortable
there, much like at Eydenwynche, I suspect.

"My parents, send stewards, they never actually dwell at Raddley.
  We shall most like house ourselves there until Eydenwynche is
returned."

"Sooth! Do you believe Eydenwynche may be returned?"

"When the Earl of Tydeau and his Lady Countess," Sir Guy
declared, "discuss such an occurrence over a custard of chicken
and pigeons, it becomes all save inevitable.  My Lord Geoffrey,
the fourth Earl of Tydeau, you know, never indulges in fancies."

Sir Guy drew his bride tightly against him.

Placing her head on Sir Guy's shoulder, her hand upon his breast,
and a bent knee across his leg, the bride snuggled against her
Lord and master as a delighted smile played about her lips.

Finally, Lady Oriole de Beynard informed her husband, as her
eyelids drooped, that while she had been vanquished in this
encounter, she would awake refreshed upon the morrow, and their
Joust would continue. 


                            fin

                         
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