Tournament Prize

by Ling, Maria

  "Very likely," the lord beside her was saying. "He's made quite a name for himself in the preliminaries. Been concentrating more on the ranged battles since he took up with that lot."

  He gave a cursory nod towards one of the lower tables, where Alan and his friends clustered. Caroline allowed herself to look, and to smile. At which moment Alan glanced up to where she sat, gave a faint bow, and smiled back.

  Lord de Rous raised one hand in brief acknowledgement, evidently imagining the gesture was meant for him. Just as well, Caroline scolded herself, though her heart beat faster and she resented the need to remain politely attentive to her immediate company.

  "But I don't think he'll win," de Rous continued. "No. Too much talent around for me to risk a wager on that. I'll bet on a place in the final dozen, though. And three ransoms or more during Monday's event, without having to ransom himself."

  "You're confident in his skill, then," Caroline ventured. De Rous ignored her, simply continued his discussion with the other men as if she hadn't spoken at all. Caroline grappled with her temper, and lost. "What wager shall I place on your own performance, sir?"

  That got her a supercilious stare. "Madam?"

  "Am I safe on wagering a place in the final dozen for you also? And three ransoms against none for yourself?" She'd just about understood what he meant by those terms, and hoped she'd repeated them correctly.

  "You may safely do so," de Rous replied. "If you would care to place a little something on the winner's spot for each day, that would also suit. I am tempted by that kiss."

  Caroline winced. She had tried to put that out of her mind. Mother's idea, of course.

  De Rous leaned closer -- too close, making her feel the heat of his breath on her face. His hand groped at her thigh. "Two kisses," he murmured. "After that, we'll see what happens."

  "Please do not touch me," Caroline said, holding on to manners and temper both.

  He just laughed and squeezed her thigh. "Learn to enjoy it, girl."

  Caroline shifted, tried to get away -- but he forced her down so hard that she quailed. Pain sprang through her leg.

  "Don't try to resist me," he said. "I've tamed fiercer fillies than you."

  Caroline clutched her wine glass. Then thought of her parents' reaction if she threw it in his face.

  "I do not require taming," she said in a voice that shook with anger and disgust. "But I do ask you to behave with the courtesy due from a guest."

  His face froze. "Don't lecture me, bitch." He shoved his hand deep between her thighs. Caroline threw the wine in his face, and smacked him in the teeth with the glass for good measure. It broke, and fell in shards all over his tunic. A great cheer went up from the lower tables. De Rous' groping hand withdrew.

  Caroline rose, hot and shaking, and stalked away. That took her past Alan's group -- who all, to a man and a woman, rose and bowed. Matilda added a rude-looking gesture in the lord's direction. Caroline tried to smile, but she was on the point of crying. So she just strode out of the hall, and went to hide among her sisters.

  ***

  "What a shit," Roland said. "It'll be a pleasure to break his face tomorrow."

  Alan muttered agreement, but he was more preoccupied with thoughts of Caroline. It was obvious, from the smirks of the lord de Rous beside her and the sudden change in her behaviour, what must have occurred.

  She'd looked absolutely distraught as she marched past him. He wished he had the right to go to her, make sure she was well looked after. But that wasn't his place, he had to trust it all to her family. Which gave him little comfort, as he watched her parents who sat rigid at the high table, wearing frozen smiles and attempting to pretend nothing had happened. The erring lord wiped his face with his sleeve, said something inaudible to the other men, and laughed -- a little too high and sharp. Alan caught the sound, and didn't like it at all. Men who pretended amusement to hide their rage were generally out for revenge.

  "We'd best keep an eye out for her the next couple of days," Alan said. "Just in case he tries to get even."

  "Slice him up," Guillaume said with customary subtlety. "Then he won't be in any condition to harass her."

  "There is that," Alan conceded. He cast his eye over the other tables. A knot of men sported the de Rous colours, and leaned together in too-casual talk. Probably trying to avoid getting entangled in their master's displeasure. No obvious resentment on his behalf, which was a good sign. Still, worth watching them too.

  He loved the tourney scene, for the most part. To be sure, there was always a certain amount of sharp practice, underhanded deals, sly vendettas. But he knew how to handle that, it was no longer new or discomfiting, and he wasn't entirely innocent himself.

  Men who harassed women, though, he would never grow to love. There were always some of them around. Which made him seethe, and issue challenge where he could, and chafe at not doing more.

  "Worth having a quiet word, do you think?" he asked Matilda, who was eyeing de Rous with a hostile glare.

  She pulled a face. "Not unless the lady wants it. Could make things awkward for her."

  Alan nodded. "I thought so, too."

  "Of course," Matilda went on, "we could make a concerted attack against him on Monday. Should be worth a sizeable ransom. Got quite a retinue with him, though. It's a risk."

  Alan grunted agreement. They'd have a hard fight to win through and capture the man. It would be worth the money he'd have to pay to free himself, but the true cost might come later. Only a fool made enemies among powerful men. Alan didn't have much of a position himself, he couldn't afford to draw excessive hostility.

  But the five of them together, plus their own attendants, made a force to be reckoned with.

  Besides, he'd cheerfully be the first to break a bone or two in that sneering face, and take the consequences on himself. Especially if it meant he could be of service to a lady prepared to argue Anselm and Avicenna with him.

  "Let's do it," he said. Matilda laughed, and leaned aside to brief Guillaume.

  ***

  "He is not a man to anger," Madeline said severely, as the cart rolled along the lane that led down into the next valley. "Rich and powerful, with connections to two abbots and -- somewhat distantly, I admit -- to a royal house. You would do well to -- "

  "I don't intend to seek a position at court or take holy orders," Caroline snapped. She was glad of the gloom under the cloth that covered the cart, for at least it soothed her puffed and stinging eyes. Mother had made her bathe them before setting off for the second banquet. Which held all the appeal of a session in purgatory, for Caroline.

  "His influence goes far beyond that," Madeline said. "Appointments to high office, grants of land or rights, lucrative wardships -- "

  "Those all go to men," Caroline said tartly. "Or hadn't you noticed?"

  "Not always," Madeline replied with frozen calm. "Which you would know, if you spent less time reading men's silly stories and more time taking part in the real world where women live. But be that as it may. You have sisters who wish to marry, and their husbands must gain some advantage by doing so."

  Caroline shot her a suspicious glance. "When did a woman ever hold high office, or extensive land in her own name?"

  "I know of several," Madeline replied. "A few were in our hall earlier. I could have introduced you, if you had been less preoccupied with insulting an honoured guest."

  "He pawed at me," Caroline snarled.

  "He did not. You lie because you want to sabotage this entire event. And you were unforgivably rude."

  Caroline stared at her mother, who sat stone-faced in the gloom. "I can't believe you would accuse me of such a thing."

  "For the remainder of this tournament," Madeline said, "I expect you to behave with impeccable manners. Under no circumstances will you indulge in such an appalling show of ill temper. If you do, believe me when I say you will regret it."

  Caroline choked back her rage. This wasn't the time, even she could see that. She would h
old herself back, and appeal to her father as soon as she could. But tears of grief at her mother's betrayal welled up behind Caroline's eyes and pressed hard to emerge.

  "I don't understand why you hate me so," Caroline managed.

  The cart stopped. Men's voices gathered behind the cloth.

  "I don't hate you. I love you dearly. But you are a terrible daughter." Madeline's expression of loathing changed to a charming smile as the cloth was tugged away.

  Caroline followed, doing her best to mimic courtesy while hiding the painful cramp around her heart. Mercifully, the neighbouring lord arrived to lavish attention on Madeline, while his wife took Caroline's arm and led her companionably into the hall.

  The families had visited back and forth many times over the years, and Caroline was already at home in this place. But it shone now, festive with colours and shields and numerous lamps, thronged with a crowd much like the one she had left. Though the man seated beside her at table -- a baron de Niege -- proved both pleasant and courteous, and in her relief she could not help but smile and wish him success.

  "Much obliged," he said comfortably. "My wife would like to see me do well. Though it's my son you'll need to watch out for. Fights against me, the impertinent devil. Says he can side with anyone he pleases, and he's chosen those within. Reckons they'll have a better chance, but we'll see if we can't level those hopes on Monday."

  "I must have met him earlier, then." Caroline tried to recall a younger version of her companion. Add darkness to the hair and freshness to the skin -- it could be the very man Guillaume almost came to blows with. "Oh. Yes, I believe I did. There was a little altercation. A man short of thirty, wearing a jacket trimmed with squirrel fur?"

  "That'll be him," the lord agreed. "Who did he pick a fight with this time?"

  "A man by the name of Guillaume, of my father's acquaintance."

  Her companion laughed. "Ah, Guillaume -- he's famous for his temper, you know. Ralph will have enjoyed baiting him. They'll have it out tomorrow in the lists, I should think. Get it settled before the tourney on Monday. Wouldn't do to carry a quarrel into the open field. Men get hurt that way. I recall a time -- before you were born, I should think -- " He went on to reminisce, while Caroline nodded politely and feigned comprehension.

  "Pity he died," the raconteur added. "We'd have liked to see him back on the tourney field. With his son, too. I tell you, there's nothing delights a man more than going into combat -- even if it is only for sport -- with his own son beside him. He'd have been proud of young Alan. Though why the lad wants to drift around with a band of vagabonds, when he could take up a good position in a lord's pay, I don't understand."

  "Alan?" Caroline repeated hesitantly.

  "De la Falaise, he calls himself -- after his birthplace, I believe. You'll have seen him earlier, perhaps, among those within. Quiet chap, shadows Guillaume's bunch of marauders. Don't ask me why, because I don't know. But he has a way with a lance -- and with a sword, too. Wouldn't surprise me if he makes his mark tomorrow. And with Ralph against me also..." The baron shook his head with a grin. "I'd better drink in moderation tomorrow night, and get early to bed."

  Caroline sought for an innocuous way to turn back the conversation. "I suppose you will also want some hours for study and contemplation. Do you read Avicenna? I gather that his views on horsemanship are sound."

  "I don't read," her companion declared. "Never learned, never wanted to. Leave it to the monks, say I. Now let me tell you about the time I faced down a pack of scoundrels out to ambush me -- "

  Caroline suppressed a groan of despair, stitched together a smile, and resigned herself to boredom.

  ***

  CHAPTER 3

  Caroline shifted delicately to keep her numb legs from growing roots, nodded agreement whenever anyone spoke, bit a tongue already sore from the pressure of her teeth.

  She'd been harangued at length before breakfast, by both her parents in disturbing concert. If the whole point of the tournament hadn't been to introduce her to eligible suitors, Caroline was quite sure she'd have been hidden away out of sight for the rest of the event. But things stood as they did, and she must remain in full view. Under what practically amounted to a vow of silence.

  She'd been ordered in set terms to speak of nothing except the weather and the great skill of the contestants -- regardless of whether she understood it or not. And to do nothing, unless expressly told to by either parent.

  So she sat. And smiled. And agreed that the day was indeed sunny, with only damp ground and a few drifting clouds to betray the rain that had passed swiftly during the night, and that the shields and surcoats and banners and tents did make a most marvellous display, and that late summer was indisputably the best time for tournaments.

  The youths' games led the way, an endless succession of tilts and weaves. Yes, it probably was very skilful, she doubted she could match the young men's ease in the saddle and the accuracy with which they touched tip to ring. But all she saw was sameness, so many attempts at the quintain and rings, so many swerves through a thicket of poles. It was dull. Repetitive. She wished she understood what the others saw, with their claps and cheers and cries of "Well done!"

  At last it ended, and the odd arrangements were cleared away. The young men ranged on opposite sides of the field, still on horseback, lances ready. A trumpet blared, and one man from each side rode out in front. They dipped their lances towards her, then broke into a gallop and charged at each other, so fast that she gasped. A crash of lance on shield, the splinter of breaking wood, and they returned each to their own line.

  So it went on. Caroline nodded polite acknowledgement to each greeting, clapped with the rest of the audience, smiled until she thought her face would break. When it was finally over, and the herald announced that food stalls were set out in the field behind the stands, she could have cried with relief.

  Though all the change it afforded her was the chance to move at a slow walk, and to pretend interest in yet another throng of strangers. She ate, and nodded, and smiled. Wished death and disaster on every guest, and on her parents for forcing her to endure this dreadful event.

  Almost she wished she'd made an effort to be pliant and submissive to the dull men Father had tried to foist on her over the past year or so. At least she'd only have one of them to please, instead of this crowd.

  "So difficult to choose a champion." A pregnant lady offered a hesitant smile. "They are all splendid."

  "Oh," Caroline said, and "Yes", and "I really don't know which was the best" -- though she didn't mention that the choice of today's victor would be made for her. Fortunately, because she really hadn't seen much difference between the various youths, and doubted she'd see much between the men. Except one, perhaps. She'd looked for him during the morning, but without success.

  "Well," the lady said with a distinct warming of her smile, "I shall be choosing my own favourite this afternoon." She touched her belly lightly as she spoke, without awareness, as if the caress emerged from some deep love within her heart and not from conscious thought at all.

  "Of course," Caroline said, niggled by an odd sense of having missed something. The woman did seem vaguely familiar.

  "Roland is a splendid fighter," the lady went on, then added conscientiously, "as they all are. He likes the open charge best, though."

  "I see." That would be Monday's event, Caroline reminded herself. "But he competes today also, I hope?"

  "Oh yes. I think he just wants to tease Alan, to be truthful." The smile shone. "Keeps saying he'll get himself drawn against him tomorrow. But he won't. They fight together or not at all."

  Alan...? Caroline's heart quivered. And then she had it, she knew exactly who the lady was. Alan's friend's wife. The one with a name like a sneeze.

  "Would you sit with me for the afternoon?" Caroline asked. "Help me understand the men's games. I am not exactly knowledgeable about these events." She lowered her voice. "In all honesty, I can't tell what's skilful and what's no
t."

  "Oh." The lady started. "I thought for sure... You were so convincing this morning."

  "Glad to hear it," Caroline said drily, then kicked herself. Another slip. "I tried my best."

  "Do you know," the lady said quietly, "I didn't use to know the first thing about it myself. But Roland taught me. It's actually very interesting, once you understand what's happening."

  "Really?" Caroline's spirits brightened. "Go on, then. Tell me what I should be looking for." She hesitated. "I'm so sorry, but... I'm afraid I have forgotten your name."

  "Leofe."

  "Ah." Caroline recalled a thin-lipped tutor with a worrying taste in cloaks, who would often reminisce about his mother. "Saxon?"

  Leofe flinched, visibly. "Yes."

  Caroline kicked herself smartly on the ankle, the motion concealed by her dress. English Saxon, of course. "Would you be more comfortable speaking Frisian? Or Latin, that would do very well."

  The smile had vanished entirely from Leofe's face: she looked anxious now, and bewildered. "Only English or French. I'm sorry."

  "Never mind." Caroline shook herself. Not everyone shared her tastes, as Mother was forever emphasising. "French suits me perfectly." She listened with close attention, and rising interest, as Leofe's hesitant voice warmed into confidence and enthusiasm when describing each consideration that might give one combatant the advantage over another.

  "There's Roland!" Leofe exclaimed later, as they took to the stands together. Caroline pretended to direct her gaze at the knight indicated. In truth she was looking a little behind him, past a towering figure being jostled by a lesser one -- that would be Guillaume and Matilda, Caroline cudgelled her brain to restore each name to memory -- to a pair of lighter-stepping men, shoulder to shoulder in friendly confederacy as they surveyed the field.

  "Alan and Geoffrey laying bets," Leofe said. "They're very good at it. Clever at money. Roland lets them handle all the finances."

  "Lets them?" Caroline repeatedly absently, watching as one of the pair paused and bowed in her direction. She hid a smile, and raised one hand in languid reply. It wouldn't do to seem too excited, or Mother might announce the wedding there and then.