The Greatest Knight by Elizabeth Chadwick

throat tight with emotion, "and tell her that apart from my freedom, my most pressing need is for clean bandages. If I can have them, I will be in her debt for ever."
    The servant hovered until William had finished the wine and, without another word, snatched the cup from him and hastened away.
    William fell into a feverish doze. The servants erected trestle tables and the Lusignan party was served with a hastily assembled meal. William's patroness sat with the other ladies at a side table, attending studiously to her food. Not once did she glance in his direction and no one brought him food.
    Having eaten, the de Lusignan brothers and their host retired to the private solar on the floor above, the ladies accompanying them. The one in the yellow gown paid no attention to William, but followed the men, her gaze modestly downcast.
    William's part of the hall grew quiet. No one ever settled near the piss corner unless forced and with the weather being fine, folk were content to relieve themselves outdoors. The dining trestles had been stacked against the walls and men began laying out their pallets, ready to retire. William tugged his stinking, louse-infested horse blanket over his shoulders and sought sleep, but his pain and discomfort were too great to grant him that blessing.
    "Messire..."
    The voice was soft yet vibrant. William turned over and struggled to sit up, his wound pounding. The woman in the yellow gown stood before him. Bound with ribbons of gold silk, her jet braids fell to her waist and her eyes were as dark as polished obsidian. "My lady," William acknowledged in a voice hoarse with pain. "I must thank you for your kindness earlier."
    "I would offer any wounded man the same," she said. "To see you thus treated makes me ashamed but I cannot go against the will of our overlord."
    "I understand, my lady."
    "Do you?" She smiled cynically and shook her head. "You said you needed bandages." Stooping, she placed a large loaf in his hands, so fresh that it was still slightly warm. For a moment, the stench of his surroundings was overlaid by the homely aroma of the bread and the spicy scent emanating from her garments.
    William had to swallow before he could speak. "Thank you, my lady," he said huskily. "I will not forget your charity."
    "Perhaps," she murmured, giving him a sceptical look from her great dark eyes. Gathering her skirts to hold them clear of the soiled floor rushes, she left the hall. William looked down at the loaf. The golden crust was cracked in several places and it was from these that the appetising smell was leaching. He broke a piece off one particularly damaged end and saw that the middle had been hollowed out and replaced with several tight rolls of linen bandage. His vision blurred and he had to cuff his eyes. So small an act of compassion, yet beyond price. He meant what he said; he would not forget.
    At dawn, they left the castle and headed deeper into the Limousin with its numerous hidden forests and gorges. William had cleaned his wound with water begged from one of the hall wenches, and bound it with a strip of new bandage. The girl had told him that the lady's name was Clara, and he consigned it to his memory so that he could light a candle for her soul next time he was in a church.
    William was young and strong; fortune was with him and his injury healed cleanly, except for a slight limp when he was tired. With his flair for being sociable good company, he steadily eroded his enemies' hostility, whilst keeping an essential rein on his own, and by high summer, they had almost accepted him as one of their own.
    As the Lusignan brothers rode between their allies, claiming sporadic succour and support, news came to them that Guillaume de Tancarville, Chamberlain of Normandy—and also William's kin—had replaced Patrick of Salisbury as governor of Poitou. The Lusignans grilled William for details of de Tancarville's character, his methods and his men and William cheerfully fed them a