Tournament Prize

by Ling, Maria

  "I meant, they handle the finances for the group." Leofe's cheeks carried a distinct blush. "It's easier, you know. They all share out the common tasks. Guillaume deals with the horses, Matilda with armour and weapons, Roland attendants and tactics. And so on."

  Caroline watched her with renewed attention. Mother always stressed the art of changing the topic of conversation as a remedy for every gaffe. Leofe was either a natural talent, or someone had tutored her with equal care.

  "You've travelled with them long?" Caroline enquired in her blandest tone.

  "Since Roland and I were married." Again that tender smile, the fleeting touch of a rounded belly. Then a flurry of excited pointing. "There he comes, now."

  Caroline composed herself to watch. She tactfully refrained from questions during the actual encounter, though afterwards attempted to elucidate what underlay Roland's comprehensive demolishing of his opponent. Leofe proved articulate, if a little incoherent, and she settled sufficiently during the fights that followed to give clear insights into each. Caroline began to enjoy herself. Once she clicked her tongue in irritation at a shoddy hold, and was startled to see the offender lose his grip at first blow. If this kept up, she'd be able to match Father in conversation by evening.

  "There's Alan," Leofe said -- unnecessarily, for Caroline had already sat up alert, the moment a taut figure rode up. She felt sure she would have recognised him even without the familiar evening blue of his surcoat. Now she held her breath as he paraded at a measured step down the length of the stand. His horse danced a little as he paused in front of her and dipped his lance. Caroline smiled and bowed acknowledgement, flushed with the warmth that thrilled down her body and rippled over her skin. Whispers flew around her, she sensed them though they lay just under her power of hearing, she had an agreeable sensation of being the topic of pleasant conversation for the day.

  It made an enjoyable change from being surrounded by exasperation and disapproval. Almost she thought she'd like a suitor, now.

  Not that she wished to marry. She didn't see the point. Certainly she couldn't imagine the carnal meeting of the bedchamber -- no, that thought didn't appeal to her at all. Except maybe in the privacy of her own fantasies... but the moment she placed a real man within those bounds, the notion chilled her. She couldn't bring herself to believe there was any such thing as true desire, flesh to flesh and skin to skin, even though Mother had said...

  Caroline blushed, itself a rare event. Mother had said that with the right man, her body would know its own wishes and how to satisfy them.

  Ever since that particular conversation, Caroline had been more determined than ever to keep men away. Never to marry. Because she couldn't bear to imagine herself desiring a man, and showing it, and worse still, allowing him to... satisfy her.

  "Are you well?" Leofe asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice.

  Caroline fanned herself with one hand, pretended to chase away an errant fly. "Yes, thank you, quite well." She fixed her attention fully on Alan, who had reached the far end of the lists and now turned to face his opponent.

  She longed, all of a sudden, to ask Leofe about married life. About men, and beds, and the making of children. But she couldn't, not here and now and in front of all these people. Besides, it wasn't as if they were close friends.

  But she didn't really have anyone else to ask. Except for Mother, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. It made it all seem too real.

  "Are you happy being married?" Caroline blurted out. "I mean, er, with all the travelling and such."

  "Blissfully." Leofe shone. Caroline felt a stab of envy. "It's so wonderful to be with Roland all the time. And we're very comfortable, you know. Some ladies don't like to travel, and I suppose it must be rather inconvenient with children. I suppose I'll find out soon. But we bring all we need with us in the carts, and I do have a manor in my own name. I'll probably go back there in a month or so, and remain until after the birth. Perhaps longer. I truly don't know. Roland says he'll give up fighting this season, come back to it after we're both settled. Baby and I." Her smile blossomed across her face, making her luminous with beauty. Caroline gave up the tussle with envy and allowed it to submerge her.

  "I've never travelled," Caroline admitted. She'd never much wanted to, either. Though now she felt an urge to move past the boundaries she'd known all her life, to see what lay beyond the horizon. She'd journeyed in thought, through study and reasoning. Now, to her surprise, she wished to travel in body too.

  "It's marvellous," Leofe said. "But, of course, one does get a little sore." She grinned, impishly. Caroline laughed.

  The trumpet sounded. Both knights broke into a gallop, lowered their lances and charged. Caroline watched for the moment of striking, wanted to know if Alan aimed high to push his opponent off balance and topple him or else strike low and unseat him. Either could bring victory, according to Leofe, and an accurate strike -- provided it was not a mere glancing blow -- would itself earn a point.

  Caroline surprised herself with a sense of gratitude that she didn't have to keep score. Her father had men assigned to that task. Nevertheless, she hoped to see Alan do well. Which he did, struck clear and true and so hard the other man wavered in the saddle, then slid to the ground. Alan turned the horse, rode slowly towards the fallen man, rested the tip of the lance against the surcoat. The knight lay still, both hands open and weaponless. Another trumpet blast announced the bout as over and won.

  Alan raised his lance, swung his horse neatly around with barely a movement of boots or gloves, dipped the lance low before Caroline. Who could not stop a smile from spreading across her face and shining through her eyes. She felt it, glowing as sunlight on open meadows, the scent of which reached her on the breeze.

  Alan rode on. For a fleeting moment she imagined bestowing the victory kiss on him -- she liked that notion, dwelt on it a little longer than she ought -- but there were plenty of men yet to see, they massed along the lists now, swapping jests and wagers. She could hear some of them, though the words blurred together. In truth, she wanted only to watch Alan -- and she did, from the corner of her eye, saw him dismount and rejoin his friends, leaving horse and lance and shield to the care of his squire. He didn't glance at her, and she pushed down her disappointment at that. It wouldn't be proper to stare, for him any more than for her.

  Courtesy was all very well, she understood her own role in this display, each man must acknowledge her as he passed. But she wished for more from Alan -- and he'd given more, in truth, because his salute had been deeper and longer than any of the others. Or so she imagined, liked to imagine, while she nodded to man after man and watched them charge, and pretended to care.

  So many of them, she thought the afternoon would never end. But finally there was a pause, during which acrobats vaulted across the lists and jugglers tossed patterns of flying things over and under the rails in a dizzying display. When they were done, a herald read out a long string of names, the men who must meet again and again to determine the winner. Caroline winced at the name of de Rous, but beyond that could only rejoice that Alan and his friends were all included.

  The chosen knights mounted and readied themselves. This did hold Caroline's attention. She leaned forward, studied each man in turn, strove to recollect style and force and accuracy. Quailed a little at the thought of Alan meeting either of his friends, they'd all fought well. But he would prevail, she was sure of it, he simply must.

  "What do you think?" she asked Leofe, who was watching with equal intensity. "Who among them will emerge triumphant?"

  "Roland, naturally."

  Caroline fought against temptation, and lost. "Care for a wager on that?"

  "Oh!" Leofe flushed with delight. "You are learning! Yes, if you please. Two marks, and no pay should either fall to another man. Or a woman," she added conscientiously. "Matilda is very skilled."

  "Really?" Caroline sat tall, tried to pick out the lone lady among the armoured figures. Hard to tell -- but that must
be her, surely, between Alan and Guillaume. Shoving back as they jostled her, evading Roland's attempt to trip her up and kicking him smartly on the shin instead. Such children. Caroline caught and removed a grin.

  "Name your man, then," Leofe said.

  Caroline started. Could there be any doubt on the matter? "Alan de la Falaise."

  Leofe's eyes widened. But she merely said: "Very well," and continued to study the field.

  Which Caroline ought to do likewise, the more now that she had a wager riding on the outcome. But the detestable lord de Rous had decided to join in the fray, and acquitted himself well enough to be among the final dozen too. He preened now, in full view of her, greeted her parents and several of their friends, but passed her by with a chilly stare. Caroline preferred it that way, she felt sick whenever she glimpsed him, and her discomfort grew with the murmurs and stifled laughter that rippled around her as he rode past.

  She found occasion to busy herself with some imaginary adjustment to her shoe, and emerged only when de Rous was safely away. By which time she realised that Alan had likewise paraded past her. Being occupied, she'd missed the chance to smile and return his greeting, to make some little show of favour.

  Caroline cringed with embarrassment and dismay. Oh, she was a fool. He'd think her rude now and full of pride, without manners enough to offer him even the least of acknowledgements. When she'd meant to do more, wanted to, he was the one bright spot of this entire tournament.

  Though Leofe seemed pleasant, too. Caroline turned to her as to a friend. "I'm so sorry -- I missed my own favourite. Would you apologise for me, when you meet him again? I don't know if I'll get the chance, and I'd hate for him to think me uncivil. It's these shoes." Caroline held out one blameless leather slipper. "They rub so."

  "I don't think he'll mind," Leofe said with a smile. "But I'll tell him."

  "Thank you," Caroline breathed. And felt instantly foolish and awkward. She would have done better to say nothing at all. Now anyone might think that she -- that there was some question of -- but of course she wasn't going to marry a man she'd only just met, merely because he discussed Anselm and Avicenna with her, and flew to her defence when loutish lords took advantage, and made her shiver just to see him or think of him or hear his voice.

  Besides, he might not even be single.

  Caroline stole a sideways glance at Leofe. "So are they all married? Roland, obviously, and Guillaume and Matilda. Geoffrey?"

  "No." Leofe shook her head. "He and Alan are single still."

  Well, that was something. "I suppose it's difficult to find women willing to leave a settled home and head off to a life on the road."

  "Many already travel as part of an entourage," Leofe said. "Wives bring their gentlewomen, fathers their daughters, brothers their sisters. There is great society, and of course they all know each other, because they've been meeting on and off for years."

  "Naturally." Caroline tried to envisage whole families meeting and parting, over and over, while the years rolled by. "So there are courtships on the road, also? It sounds a little..." She hesitated. "Indiscreet."

  "As to that, I can't say." Leofe's tone had altered: it lay flatter and colder than before. Caroline stole another glance, and found that the woman had fixed her attention elsewhere.

  Oops. "Forgive me," Caroline said humbly. "I am rather too outspoken, I know. My parents did make me promise I'd be more circumspect, but all my good resolutions seem to have melted away in the sun."

  "No, no." Leofe shot her a disarming smile. "It's only that... well, I thought he behaved despicably last night. If you will allow me to say so about one of your guests."

  "Oh!" Caroline followed the direction of her gaze, and found the ghastly de Rous leering at a lady in one of the side stands. "Thank you. I was most dreadfully embarrassed, and well scolded afterwards you may be sure. It is good to hear someone takes my side." She'd aimed for a light-hearted tone, but her voice came out bitter and hurt. She'd been so angry and disappointed, with her parents most of all. They ought to have taken her side, to have protected her to the best of their abilities. Instead they had sent her out there alone and unarmed, then blamed her for refusing to accept the tawdry groping of such a sordid and cowardly man.

  But she didn't say any of that, didn't dare to. Leofe had no reason to want to listen to that sort of nonsense. Not now, when the danger of any repetition was past.

  Caroline felt a deep sense of relief. She might not have had the most fascinating of days, but at least she'd been safe from such repulsive attentions.

  "That's awful," Leofe said with decision. "No woman should have to tolerate such behaviour." She hesitated, seemed on the verge of adding more, then subsided. "Guillaume offered to slice him up yesterday, but Geoffrey said it wouldn't be polite to your parents."

  Caroline laughed. "Just as well, probably. I appreciate the thought, though." And she did, not least because she wished she had the capacity to act on it herself.

  She held her breath, now, as Alan faced his opponent. Cheered as he struck him from the saddle in a flurry of splinters from his lance.

  "Damn," Leofe muttered under her breath. "That shouldn't have happened."

  "I thought it was the done thing," Caroline said, confused. "Designing the lances to break on heavy impact, so as to minimise the risk of injury."

  "Oh, definitely. But the break should be a clean one. Alan won't be pleased. And I feel sorry for the armourer when Matilda goes after him."

  "I see." Caroline promised herself never to anger Matilda.

  "There's Roland." Leofe sat up eagerly, one hand on her belly in that discreet instinctive caress. Caroline smiled at the bump, then turned her attention to Roland and watched with new interest as he dispatched his opponent.

  Other men met, charge after charge, but she took little notice of that beyond a polite smile and the occasional raise of her hand to the victor. Instead she watched the cluster of men over by the far rail, bareheaded now and intent on their competitors. On occasion Roland waved to Leofe, who waved back with a jubilant smile. Caroline held her breath each time, and was gratified to see Alan's face turn towards her in brief acknowledgement. She nodded back, ventured a stronger smile than she'd given any other jouster, wished she could be as demonstrative as Leofe in displaying her feelings for him.

  Not that she had any. Surely not. She'd only just met him. Whereas Leofe and Roland were married, and expecting a child, which meant they'd...

  Caroline flushed. She didn't like to imagine such things. Though Alan's face hovered before her, his gaze intent on her alone. And his hands. And his lips.

  "Now we'll see," Leofe said with satisfaction.

  Caroline started. She quelled the heat that had spread through her body, cooled her thoughts and wished she could cool her face also. But that was beyond her power.

  Roland dismissed another opponent. Caroline clapped politely, then returned her attention to Alan. Who fitted his helmet and mounted his horse, and accepted a lance from his squire.

  Caroline flicked an absent-minded glance at the other end of the field. Then caught her breath, and stared in frank dismay as her nemesis de Rous rode forward and couched his lance.

  Caroline suppressed a whimper. Alan could beat this man, of course he could. With that secure seat and firm hold, the elegant bearing that made him appear freshly stepped into a cleared hall and about to begin a measure to fine music, he must surely prove victorious. Still as he sat in the saddle, the horse underneath him seemed to dance: arched its neck and lifted its hooves high, an animal filled with confidence and joy.

  "Is that a good horse?" Caroline whispered. "It seems so."

  "Excellent," Leofe replied. "Roland says Alan has a better hand with horses than anyone he's ever met, save only Guillaume. They're both highly skilled -- and always at each other over it. Guillaume won Alan's best horse off him years ago and won't let him have it back. Alan took this one off Guillaume at the last meet."

  Caroline smiled a
little at so relentless yet amicable a fight. Then held her breath and watched entranced as the riders faced each other across the open ground.

  There came the trumpet blast. The men charged at each other, lances levelled and shields ready, crashed together and split apart. Both still firmly seated, both with broken lances. They rode back along the outside fence to their respective squires, tossed aside the maimed weapons and accepted new ones in their place.

  Three charges was the rule, for this section of the meet. If they could find no result after that, both would continue to joust against other men.

  At the second blow, Alan wavered in the saddle and Caroline just choked back a squeal. He held on, righted himself and rode back to his starting point, appeared calm and unaffected. Her own breath came in short bursts, she feared broken flesh and bone under the glitter of armour.

  "I hope he gets him next time," Leofe said viciously, and glared at de Rous who sauntered along as if already declared the victor.

  They stormed at each other anew, and this time Alan's lance slammed into the lord's shield so hard that it forced the enemy back and over. De Rous hung for a moment, scrabbled for a hold, but then succumbed and slid to the ground. Caroline, openly rejoicing, blew a kiss to Alan, who dipped the stump of his lance and grinned at her under the nose-piece.

  "Wonderful!" Leofe exclaimed, laughing and clapping. Alan saluted her too, then rode away to rejoin his companions. Roland grabbed him on the dismount and pulled him into a headlock.

  "What is the quarrel between those two?" Caroline asked, mystified.

  "Oh, they're always pushing and shoving each other," Leofe said with a faint blush and an indulgent smile. "Roland is... very physical."

  The men fought on. Caroline breathed a secret sigh of relief as Roland's horse developed a limp and he was forced to withdraw. Leofe's interest waned after that, though she proved a valuable source of commentary on technique. A little later, Roland came up the steps to join them, still in armour and smelling of sweat.