“Oh no, sir,” Hawise replied. “There’s Ada and Margary too, but they’re out in the fields today.”
“I see.”
Lenora crossed the room to where pans were laid out with dressed, prepared meats for the evening meal. ‘Twas plain that the staff at Matchings Farm were an industrious lot and could not be a greater contrast to the ramshackle household at Cofton Grange.
“You are content to remain here, Berta?” Lenora asked.
“Oh aye,” her servant replied. “Hawise assures me there is plenty for me to be going on with.”
“We’ve always work for another pair of hands,” Hawise said with a chuckle. “There’s enough clothes for washing and mending to last a sennight!”
Garman had crossed the room and opened another door, so Lenora made haste to follow him. Outside, she found him with his arms crossed, staring out past the neat kitchen garden to the neat fields beyond. She came to stand silently next to him, strangely wary of the stormy expression on his face.
“My parents eloped,” he said gruffly.
“Oh!” His words took her aback and for a moment she was silent. “So that’s why your grandfather is so upset,” she said slowly. He gave a brisk nod. “But that’s my fault! I’m the one who persuaded you to elope.”
“It’s of no matter.”
“But if your grandfather…”
“He’ll weather the storm,” he said dismissively.
Lenora bit the side of her mouth. She wasn’t so sure. “This is not the homecoming you probably envisaged—” she started, but he cut her off with a short mirthless laugh.
“It’s not far off,” he said. “Don’t trouble yourself.” She turned to look at his stony profile unsure what to say that wouldn’t make things worse. She had never been the most tactful person. “There’s a tournament the day after tomorrow,” he said abruptly, scattering her wits even further.
Lenora felt a lurch of alarm. “You’re not competing?” she asked in some dismay.
“It’s only a half day ride from here. At Kellingford.”
She turned to look at him squarely. “You mean to abandon me here, then?” For some reason, she felt hard-used, though in truth, a mere three days ago the plan would have sounded fine to her. “Even though your grandfather cannot even look me in the eye!”
“He’s never been able to look me in the eye,” she thought he muttered under his breath, but she must have misheard him.
“Well, I mean to come too!” she said with determination.
At this, he turned to face her. “Oh do you?” he said, his look sweeping her up and down. He uttered a short laugh.
“Something amuses you?”
“You’ve never been to a rural tournament in your life before, have you?”
“I have not,” she agreed affably. “But I enjoy the royal ones very much and I am convinced ‘twill be a most interesting experience.” He snorted. “You’ll take me though?” she asked with more confidence than she felt, her hand stealing into the crook of his arm. For some reason it was imperative that she did not part with him yet. She didn’t really want to consider why she felt that way. Maybe, she thought suddenly, they should have left the green ribbon binding them at their hand-fasting for longer. He might have had a point about that. After all, despite his words, he had not bedded her yet. That meant their union was not consummated if anyone should challenge it. “Garman?”
He gave a start when she said his name, as though he’d been absorbed in thought, and looked down at her hand on his arm for a moment before he spoke.
“Aye,” he rumbled. “I’ll take you.” Then after the faintest hesitation, he added, “Wife.”
Lenora beamed at him. Really, it was almost as if he had heard her thoughts!
15
They started out early the next morning at daybreak. Berta wrapped them up some bread and cheese and promised faithfully to keep a watch on Fendrel in their absence. As for Garman’s grandfather, he did not make an appearance. Garman’s expression was rather grim as they set out, but the more distance they put between themselves and the farm, the lighter his mood seemed to grow. He was practically affable by the time they drew near to the village of Kellingford. At least, Lenora thought, as close to affable as he ever approached. His good mood seemed to take a downturn however, when Lenora catching sight of the standards and flags, decided it was time to draw her veils down over her face.
He rolled his eyes. “Is that really necessary? I thought you said it was only courtiers you feared.”
“But surely there may be some here competing this day?”
“Maybe one or two,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “But this is a small affair, and you won’t find it frequented like the royal tourneys.”
“Well,” Lenora said cautiously. “If there aren’t too many famous names, maybe I’ll reconsider.”
“I can’t hear you behind that curtain,” Garman replied coldly. She didn’t quite believe him, but even so, she lifted up her veils and repeated it.
“It’s nothing like the royal tournaments,” he said, sounding rather bored.
“Are they so different then?”
“Yes.” It was all he gave her, just one word. She waited a moment or two for him to elaborate, then realized he wasn’t going to bother. Oh. She supposed she would have to find out for herself. Holding her veils to one side, she looked around with interest as they approached the main field where the majority of the tents were set up. To her surprise, she found herself recognizing quite a few of the devices. Certainly more than she’d expected to. There was de Crecy’s black tree on a white field, and Kentigern’s portcullis on a banner of blue. In fact, all the major players seemed to be here, she noticed with sudden misgiving.
“I thought you said these provincial tournaments were not such glittering affairs!” she said accusingly. “Yet I can see all the usual crowd. Look - Lord Kentigern is here,” she said, pointing toward his banner. “And de Bussell too, and de Crecy!” He turned in his saddle to look at her, his expression startled. “I recognize their crests,” she said by way of explanation. He did not look pleased by her knowledge. “I told you I like to watch the tournaments,” she finished lamely.
“Aye, but not to that extent!”
Why did he look so put out that she knew all his competition’s shields? “I know what your device is too, if that’s any consolation.”
He snorted. “It’s yours now too,” he pointed out.
“I hadn’t actually thought of that,” she admitted. What a shame it was so plain and unromantic. She would have much preferred to have had a heraldic beast as their crest. “What does the gate signify?” she asked, thinking of the black field with a white gate on it.
“I couldn’t tell you. My father chose it,” he replied shortly, and turned his attention away from her toward the distance.
Lenora’s eyes widened to hear his coat of arms was that recent. She was just pondering to herself, that if so, surely, he should know the blazon and reasoning behind it, when out of the corner of her eye, she spotted it. A red fluttering banner with a black panther.
“Oh no!”
He turned back to her with some exasperation. “What now?”
She pointed to the banner. “Vawdreys,” she said hollowly and let her veils fall back over her face.
Garman scanned the field with narrowed eyes. “What of it?”
“You may remember I said I was not overly keen to run into my family,” she replied testily. “Sir Roland Vawdrey being an extended member of said family.”
He brooded on this a moment. “It does look,” he conceded grudgingly. “Like most of the crowd from the Autumn Royal Tournament came on here. A lot more than usually turn up.”
She supposed that was a close as to admitting he’d made a miscalculation that Garman would come. “You’ll understand then, why I choose to wear my veils here?” she said in a muffled voice.
He grunted. “If you must.”
“Will there be man
y ladies in attendance?” she persisted.
“There isn’t usually. Sometimes the host may have some womenfolk.” He shrugged.
“Who are the hosts here at Kellingford?”
He shot an irritated look her way. “The Kellingfords,” he said, in the manner of one speaking to an idiot.
Lenora had never heard of anyone by that name and had just opened her mouth to say as much when an eager official bounded in their direction.
“Welcome, welcome gentle sir and your lady fair,” he bade them, though the last words were spoken a little uncertainly as he caught sight of Lenora’s heavy veiling. “May I take your name, sir knight?”
“Sir Garman Orde and his wife,” he answered brusquely.
Lenora lifted her head sharply at his words. He had not given her name. Did he mean for her to remain incognito? Her veiling would enable such a stratagem after all.
The official beamed at them as he flourished his quill and scratched their entry across his scroll. “And your shield?”
“Black field, white gate.”
“There are several pavilions set up in the south meadow that are not yet taken,” he told them.
Lenora followed the direction of his waved hand to see a field set out with several tents. She assumed the ones that weren’t draped in colored flags and banners were the unoccupied ones.
“I require the use of a squire when competing,” Garman said after glancing in that direction.
“And to set up camp?” the official asked, peering behind them, and seeing no attendant retinue of servants.
“We will need water for washing,” he replied shortly. “I can see to the rest of it.”
The scribe glanced up in surprise, but something about Garman’s expression set him hastily scribbling again. “Very good, sir.”
Lenora wondered about the provision of meals and somehow, she had not realized she would be expected to sleep under one of the strange linen constructions. When Garman drew rein, and set off in the direction of the tents, Lenora smiled at the official, then remembered she was swathed in veils and nodded her head instead. He sketched a bow and she set off after her husband. He seemed to be heading for the pavilion set farthest back from the others. Somehow, it seemed rather typical of him that he would shun the company at large. By the time she had caught up with him, he had already dismounted, tied his banner to a pole outside and disappeared under a hessian flap. Lenora made haste to follow.
Inside, she found him stowing his armor into one corner of the shelter. Lenora swept her veils back and peered around the tent with interest. Three low cots were positioned in the center, a small rather rickety looking table and one empty trunk. Lifting the lid to peer inside she found this empty, presumably for their use.
“It’s a bit bare,” she said critically. “Did we bring our own bedding?”
“Aye,” he said, tossing a bundled pack onto one of the beds. “You can make them up, if you’re in need of a rest.”
Lenora eyed the bundle with interest. “Very well,” she said gamely. She was still struggling to unravel the knots when he re-entered with a second lot of baggage which he flung down on one of the narrow bunks.
“We’ll push these two together,” he said, pointing at the two bunks he had not strewn with his armor. They were rather small, Lenora reflected, gazing from the woven mattresses to the bulk of her husband. She would easily fit into one though. She unraveled the blankets and separated them into two piles. Then it occurred to her, that it would likely grow rather cold at night, sleeping out of doors under such flimsy shelter.
“Perhaps we should sleep in the same cot,” she said tapping her finger against her chin.
He gave her an odd look. “We won’t fit on one,” he said shortly. “Unless you mean to sleep atop me.”
“I just mean, I’m just not sure there’s enough blankets for me to sleep in the third cot,” she explained.
He looked at her, frowning. “Who said you were sleeping in the third cot?” he asked, pushing the two together.
“Oh.” Lenora gazed back at him blankly. “I just assumed,” she said lamely. “I mean, I’ve never slept outdoors before, so I didn’t know the etiquette.”
“It’s the same as anywhere else,” he said. “A man sleeps with his wife.”
Lenora found her face growing rather red. “But you said not many knights brought their ladies with them.”
He straightened up. “What difference does that make?”
Lenora bit her lip. She was floundering here. “No matter,” she said and shook out the first blanket to lay it over the woven mattress. To her surprise, Garman caught up the other end and started wordlessly to make up the bed with her. She was glad he did, for in truth, she had never made a bed before and though she had a vague idea, she had to watch him carefully to discover how the corners were tucked. “This is a strange mattress,” she commented. “It’s not stuffed at all. Just woven materials slung between the outer frame.”
“You’ll grow used to them.”
From this, Lenora deduced he expected her to accompany to further tournaments in future. She felt a surprising lurch of pleasure at the notion, and had to bite her lip to keep from smiling as they piled five more blankets on top. “Will we be warm enough?” she asked, surveying the result doubtfully.
“You’ve got me as well,” he answered. “I’m as good as another five blankets.”
Before she could respond to this boast, he turned toward the opening where a discrete cough heralded the arrival of servants.
Lenora hastily scrabbled for her veils as they entered carrying two bowls of hot water which they set down on the small table.
“Your host, Sir Roger Kellingford wishes it known that supper will be served in the Great Hall,” one of them announced. “At seven.”
Lenora widened her eyes at Garman, but not surprisingly, considering her coverings, he did not react.
“Excuse me, husband,” she was forced to pipe up. “But I would rather take some repast here. Alone.”
Garman frowned at her. “Why?” he asked pointedly.
Lenora clenched her hands. “I find myself much fatigued from our journey.”
He gave her a searching look. “You should have told me,” he said gruffly and to her surprise added, “We’ll take our supper here.”
“I did not mean that you should take your meal here,” she protested as the servants piled back out, but he just shrugged.
“I’m not overly fond of the social aspect in any case.”
Was her husband a misanthropist, Lenora found herself debating as she hitched her veils aside once more to wash her hands and face in the tepid water. Doubtless the water had been hot when it had left the kitchens, but the house would be some distance away. Drying her face off, she turned back to watch Garman unbuckle another pack. Every move was swift and sure, as though he had done this dozens of times. Perhaps he had. She wondered at his disinterest in the other knights. Her cousin had always taken her to task for not being invested in her fellow mankind, but Garman seemed to take it further than she ever had!
“Do you not have any particular acquaintance among the other knights whose society you seek out?” she asked impulsively.
“Gods no!” He sounded horrified at the notion.
“Is that not unusual?” she asked slowly. “I mean, surely there is some kind of comradeship among the knights.”
He snorted. “Is that how it appears from the spectator’s box?” he mocked. “That we all get along?” He lifted out the contents of the pack and began sorting it into neat piles. “Get on the bed,” he said nodding toward it. “Take your ease.”
Lenora opened her mouth to point out she wasn’t tired, when she remembered her excuse for not eating with the others. Instead, she slipped out of her ankle boots and climbed onto the bed. Lying on her back, she folded her hands across her stomach. “I would not say that precisely,” she said guardedly. “But I suppose I did imagine that there would be a good deal of common ground
among your number.”
He carried some clothes over to the trunk and deposited them therein. Apparently, her surmises did not warrant a response. She lifted her head off a cushion to watch him. Probably she should take the hint and let the subject drop. “So, you don’t like anyone?” she found herself persisting instead. He lifted a broad shoulder and let it fall. “What if I were to ask who has earnt your respect as a fellow knight?”
He exhaled noisily. “Are you asking me who is the strongest competition?”
“No,” Lenora answered tartly. “For I already know that. I watch the jousts, remember?”
He cast a skeptical glance her way. “Oh really,” he muttered.
Lenora raised a finger. “Lord Kentigern,” she said distinctly. Then added a second finger. “Sir Roland Vawdrey.” She passed over that one hurriedly and lifted a third finger. “Sir Jeffrey de Crecy.” He made no comment. “On a good day Armand de Bussell can put in a good performance, but he is somewhat inconsistent.” Garman’s eyes had narrowed. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “What?” asked Lenora hopefully. “Do you disagree?”
He held his silence a moment, then said raspily: “Vawdrey, Kentigern and myself are generally considered the best.”
“Is that not what I just said?”
“You made no mention of me,” he flung at her.
“I was listing your strongest competition,” she pointed out with dignity.
He snorted. “I haven’t lost to de Crecy in a twelvemonth! As for de Bussell…” The contemptuous curl of his lip spoke volumes.
“I meant no insult,” Lenora said, lowering her head back onto the pillow.
“Doubtless you admire the figure they cut sat on a horse, more than their prowess in the field,” he said scornfully.
Lenora considered this. “De Crecy is handsome to be sure,” she said thoughtfully, thinking of his short golden beard and his piercing blue eyes. “But to my mind, his looks are somewhat marred by his manner.”
Garman stalked over to the chest and started stripping to the waist for his wash. As though the words were dragged from him, he turned and looked back at her over his shoulder. “What of his manner?” he growled.
The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2) Page 12