Chapter 6
Rosalind stared out the hallway window to the bustling city of Edendale. Nearby hawkers cried their wares, and children dashed squealing about the busy streets.
As a small child, like nearly every other girl in her tiny village, she had played at being a duchess in this very city. Of being captured by an evil villain and a handsome knight coming to rescue her. But lady’s maid in an elegant townhome would do quite nicely for the real world. She would have more than enough adventure on the morrow if Gwendolyn had her way.
Enough daydreaming. Rosalind desperately needed this position and could not afford to muck it up. Too well she remembered those days after her father’s death when disaster and deprivation had struck their family. The hungry whimpers of her younger brothers and sisters yet called out to her. She could never risk losing this position and subjecting them to that again. But Lord Barnes had been dismissing servants one after another since he returned.
Thank the good Lord he had no idea what she and Gwendolyn had been about earlier this day, nor what they planned for the morrow. But Gwendolyn was her best ally in this place, not to mention quite dear to her, and Rosalind did not wish to disappoint her mistress.
As she entered Gwendolyn’s bedchamber, the oddest sight met her eyes. Lady Barnes examined her daughter’s twisted form much as a physician would a patient.
“Thrust your left leg to the side a little further please. Hmm . . . better.” Lady Barnes tapped a finger to her lip and walked a circle around her Amazonian child. Though Rosalind had never considered Gwendolyn overly large, even she must admit that next to her diminutive mother, Gwendolyn appeared a hulking figure.
Tonight Gwendolyn would be officially presented at the duke’s court, although she seemed not at all excited. She looked beyond lovely for the occasion in a rare velvet dress of midnight blue with sweeping sleeves inlaid with a gilded fabric and glimmering jewels stitched across the fitted bodice.
Yet her mother frowned. “You must keep your shoulders straight, of course, but try dipping your head demurely to one side—like so.” Lady Barnes demonstrated.
Gwendolyn followed suit, bending her neck at an awkward angle so that her ear nearly grazed her shoulder.
“Excellent!” Lady Barnes clasped her hands to her chest. “That takes off a good two inches and adds a soft touch of femininity as well.”
By Rosalind’s way of thinking, Gwendolyn’s ample curves and artfully arranged golden tresses provided quite enough femininity, but it was not her place to say so. Gwendolyn shot Rosalind a silent plea for help.
“Now bend your supporting knee,” Gwendolyn’s mother said.
Already teetering in her bizarre position, Gwendolyn dipped her knee, completing her transformation from lovely noblewoman to humpbacked troll.
“Perfect! Why, altogether we have reduced your height by nearly half a foot.” Lady Barnes pressed her hand to her mouth in delight. “Your father will be so proud.”
Gwendolyn grimaced. “Nonsense. I shall get a crick in my neck and a cramp in my leg bent over like such. And however shall I dance?”
Lady Barnes’s pretty face twisted in confusion. “I had not thought that far. Rosalind, what do you suggest?”
Dare Rosalind mention the troll? “I do understand your concern to make Lady Gwendolyn appear shorter. But do you not agree that in doing so you have created a silhouette that appears both more withered and rather stout?”
Lady Barnes sighed. “Goodness. This is true. I had not considered that by making her shorter, we would draw attention to her girth.”
“Which would be a pity, for she is by no means fat. And she shall not be able to perform that graceful walk we have been practicing if she is hunched over. Perhaps just a slight dip to the knees and bend to the head,” Rosalind said.
Gwendolyn shifted her stance.
Her mother resumed her circular path around Gwendolyn. “Do you feel more comfortable now, darling?”
“Yes, Mother. I suppose I could manage this way.”
“That puts her beneath the average height of a nobleman. And might I suggest,” Rosalind dared to add, “that if she dances or converses with a man taller than herself—which, rest assured, many shall be—she need not worry so much about her height. I fear such concerns shall cause her to grow nervous and awkward in her conversation.”
Lady Barnes put a hand on her hip and tilted her head. “I think she shall fare well enough. We have been rehearsing her banter, and she has been instructed to smile and giggle, to flutter her lashes and turn her eyes to the floor as oft as possible. Men are quite susceptible to such tactics.”
“Are you all quite finished discussing me as if I am not in the room?” Gwendolyn sneered.
“Tut, tut, tut!” her mother said.
Gwendolyn pasted a syrupy smile in place of the sneer.
“Much better.” Lady Barnes raised herself on tiptoes to place a kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “Never fear, darling. Once a handsome young man catches your fancy, our efforts will make perfect sense.”
“As if Father cares who catches my fancy,” Gwendolyn grumbled.
“Now, what have I been telling you?” Lady Barnes stomped her petite foot upon the stone floor. “You must curry your father’s favor. Charm him alongside everyone else, and he shall give you your way.”
“Like he has given you your way over the wine issue?” Gwendolyn cocked a brow.
Her mother’s cheeks flamed bright red. “That is . . . different, and rather unkind of you to mention.”
But Gwendolyn’s harsh statement did its job in closing the subject. Rosalind still did not know if the baron might relent from finding a domineering husband for Gwendolyn as he had threatened. Rosalind for one could not imagine life trapped with such a man.
Of course these days she could only imagine life with one virile, jovial, and entirely unsuitable man. Despite her strict instructions to herself, her mind wandered to Hugh’s attractive face day and night. Rosalind managed to hold back a groan of pain. Why was it that she could offer such excellent advice to Gwendolyn, while in affairs of her own heart, she behaved like a half-witted sot?
At that moment, Gwendolyn’s troublesome little pup Angel, who had been drowsing upon the hearth, streaked in a flash of white across the room and stole Gwendolyn’s blue silk slipper from where it sat near the bed.
“No! No, you bad little dog!” Rosalind grabbed for her, but Angel took that as an invitation to play. She ducked under the bed and flew out the other side.
Rosalind dove over the mattress but wasn’t quick enough. She chased the dog about the bed, slipping as she rounded the corner and nearly crashing into Gwendolyn’s mother.
“Good heavens!” Lady Barnes squealed, clutching her hands to her chest.
Mischief, perched on his imperial pillow throne as usual, seemed to think the chase a grand idea and joined in the fun, jumping down to grab the matching slipper and dash about as well.
“Stop that at once, both of you,” Gwendolyn demanded in a stern tone of voice. “Bring!”
The absurd little dogs obeyed their mistress like a tiny battalion of well-trained soldiers. Meanwhile, Rosalind held back her huff of frustration.
“Good girl, good boy,” Gwendolyn said as they dropped the slippers at her feet, and she gave them each an affectionate pat.
Lady Barnes straightened her mantle. “I cannot believe I let you drag those troublesome creatures along.”
No sooner had she said as much, than Angel stood upon her hind legs and commenced to clawing at Gwendolyn’s gorgeous gown, all the while whining to be held.
“And now she shall mess your gown!”
“All is well, Mother.” Gwendolyn shooed away the dogs and held up her slippers for inspection. “You see. No harm done.”
Rosalind marched to the door and opened it. “Out, both of you.”
Angel’s eyes popped open wide, and she scurried through the door. However Mischief stared at Rosalind, clearly taking her me
asure.
“Now!” Rosalind pointed to the hall.
After a moment the dog casually trotted away, as if it had been his idea the entire time.
Once the door was safely closed, Lady Barnes performed a check of Gwendolyn’s attire. “Everything seems to be in order. You truly are divine, darling. Do not let an obsession with your height destroy your confidence.”
“I am not the one obsessed with my height. Would it not be better to find a man who does not mind? Surely some might prefer a tall woman to give them large sons. I cannot crouch all night.” Gwendolyn stood to her full stature, straight and strong like the female warrior she was.
Lady Barnes’s smile stretched across her lovely face. She had not smiled so in weeks, her withdrawal from alcoholic drink causing headache after splitting headache. But then again, this was the first time Gwendolyn had spoken of finding a man without throwing a rebellious fit.
“Do not think of it as crouching. Think of it as being demure,” Lady Barnes said, clutching her daughter’s arm with affection. “Men like to feel superior, and we must help them maintain that illusion. We are the pedestals upon which they perch, silent beneath their esteemed feet, elevating their masculine strength with our beauty.”
Good heavens, pedestals? Rosalind adored a strong man as much as any woman. However, that was taking matters quite too far. No wonder Lady Barnes let her husband trample upon her so.
Though the words threatened to burst from her, she managed to exchange them for more tactful ones. “I prefer to think of a man and woman standing side by side, offering mutual support. But never fear, Lady Gwendolyn, all will be well. Everyone shall love you tonight.”
Or so Rosalind hoped. Gwendolyn had a kind heart and a quick wit, but she also had an explosive temper that could easily get her into trouble. Rosalind offered up a silent prayer that this evening might go well.
And on the morrow, Rosalind would play squire to Gwendolyn’s Sir Geoffrey Lachapelle. If Gwendolyn could somehow survive the next day with her health, dignity, and identity intact, all might yet turn out well.
Tension clamped upon Rosalind’s shoulders as she considered the price she might pay if caught as a participant in this addlebrained scheme. Gwendolyn did not fully understand how desperately Rosalind needed this employment. However, as Gwendolyn took the biggest risk—and seemed to somehow require this experience to soothe a wound deep in her soul—Rosalind could fathom no option but to support her.
Allen patted the firm flank of his horse—bedecked in red and gold, much like Allen himself—as they awaited in the jostle of knights and steeds outside the gate to the tournament arena. Together he and Thunder could do this thing. They had little choice, other than running home to Lord Linden in failure and an awkward existence next door to Merry and Timothy.
Barely able to sleep last night due to his nervous excitement, Allen had spent hours in prayer, communing with the Divine until the wee hours of the morning. In God’s presence alone he had found peace and rest. But it would not hurt to whisper up one last petition. He pressed his face into the shiny brown coat of Thunder’s neck for a moment of private contemplation.
Lord, not my will but thine be done today. Let me move by your power and your spirit. Give me courage, strength, speed, and agility. But most of all, give me wisdom and peace to accept if your plans are not the same as mine. . . .
A chorus of trumpets sounded, snatching his attention. Allen’s head snapped up. The time had come. He mounted his horse and filed into line with the rest of the knights, festooned in a rainbow of colors and branded with crests of hawks, lions, horses, and the like. Many of them were followed by squires carrying banners and pennants.
A pretty serving girl offering a cup to a particularly hulking knight on horseback caught Allen’s gaze, but the awful fellow backhanded her across the cheek just as quickly and sent her sprawling backward. “I have no time for silly refreshments.”
She hid her face in her hands.
The procession moved forward before Allen could say a word in the maiden’s defense, but he hoped he might have a chance to put the abusive fellow in his place today. He supposed not every knight could be chivalrous, even in a place called Edendale.
They entered the tournament arena, surrounded on each side by tiered galleries, their walls festooned with colorful coats of arms. As the knights paraded past the crowd, common folk cheered and waved kerchiefs, hollering and stamping. Children hopped up and down and climbed upon their parents’ shoulders for a better view.
A better view of him. Sir Allen of Ellsworth. Son of a peasant farmer. Now a hero of the realm. He would say he had dreamed of this moment his whole life, except that he had never dared to until a few years ago. Until fate had turned him an outlaw, and an exceptional woman named Merry Ellison had turned his life topside-turvy.
He had never even seen a tournament until he was twelve and his father had taken him to the nearby town of Farthingale. Pain sliced through Allen at the memory. How he missed his father and his brother, who had been so cruelly butchered by King John, and his mother, who had died years earlier of a fever. How he wished they could see him now. But he must do this thing without them.
His pulse pounded in his ears. As his eyes scanned the frenzied crowd, his head grew light and swishy. For a moment he thought he might waver upon his horse, but he managed to gather himself together. He had trained long and hard for this moment.
After passing three-quarters of the way around the field, he fell into line alongside the horse that had been in front of him and faced the grandstand. Its more formal galleries, like open-air rooms, featured gatherings of noble men and women dressed in bright silks and furs.
Exquisite young ladies draped themselves over the ledges to wave and throw kisses to their favorites. One tossed a kerchief to the ground, which a fine-looking knight lifted with his lance. He flicked it into the air and caught it as the crowd went wild once again.
Over the din came the cry of the herald. “Hear ye! Hear ye!”
The noise settled to a quiet roar.
The herald continued. “I give you our beloved duke, His Grace, Justus DeMontfort of North Britannia.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
Then a man in understated clothing stepped forward. He wore his golden brown hair and beard trimmed short. The duke lifted his chin and surveyed the arena. Allen liked the look of him. Old enough to exude wisdom and experience, yet young enough to offer an air of vitality. Kind, yet in perfect command.
“My dear and faithful servants of North Britannia.” The duke swept a hand from his right side to his left. “My esteemed guests.” He nodded to the noblemen on either side of him. “And most importantly, our valiant knights who shall fight today.” He actually bowed to the knights before him, lowborn Allen of Ellsworth included.
Pride and humility, confidence and insecurity waged an epic battle inside Allen’s chest. He could hardly fathom he was here. Before the duke. A handsome knight on a fine steed.
The duke reached back to squeeze the hand of a striking woman with dark hair wearing a burgundy gown. “My fair duchess and I welcome you all to this celebration of a new and—with all hope—lasting peace in the realm of England. Long live King Henry.”
The crowd echoed the words, and Allen spoke them with gusto. “Long live King Henry.”
While hiding away in the forests, running for his life along with the many children of their group, he had feared this day when England was ruled by a just king might never come.
The duke directed his attention to the knights once again. “Brave warriors, as we commence the games today, be honorable, be courageous, be chivalrous, and be strong. But most of all, go hand in hand with the God of all creation.”
Tears sprang to Allen’s eyes. So it was true. This was a righteous, God-honoring region. He had feared it might not be possible after living under the ruthless and evil King John for so long. How Duke Justus had maintained this bastion of goodness and truth, he desired
to discover.
“Let the games begin!” the duke said.
The herald raised his hand and called over the crowd, which again had commenced its cheering. “The rules of today’s tournament shall be as such. Each set of competitors shall begin with a joust. If both competitors keep their seat, they shall continue jousting until at least one falls. If only one falls to the ground, his opponent shall be declared the victor.”
A year ago, although he was a well-trained warrior with a sword, Allen would have never dared to engage in a joust, but so much had changed in that short time. Confidence won the battle in his chest, for he could unseat any man in Lord Linden’s service.
“If both should fall to the ground and only one rises to his feet, that man shall win. If both stand to their feet within the allotted time, a sword fight will commence.”
He glanced to the nervous-looking knight at his left in green and gold and to the one in blue and white at his right, with a youngish face peeking through his open visor. No problem there, but tomorrow, as Allen rose through the ranks, matters might prove more challenging, for he had noticed some fearsome competitors among the group.
“If one man should be pinned, lose his sword, or surrender, the other shall be victorious. If the battle reaches a stalemate, Duke Justus shall decide the winner.”
All sounded fair to Allen. This tournament would proceed much as his training rounds in Lindy.
“After all competitors have battled, the winners shall move to the next round until a single champion is declared and a prize of gold coins awarded.” The herald raised a fist overhead. “Prepare to fight.”
Allen sighed as he turned his horse back toward the gate. Having registered his entry late in the day, he would have a long wait before him. But he simply must win that prize, both because he needed to curry the duke’s favor and because his small savings would not last long in this wealthy city.
For a moment he wished he had a squire—or better yet, an entire retinue—with which to while away the time. He was naught but a stranger in a strange land. But he had his faithful steed, Thunder, and God, his constant companion.
Chivalrous Page 6