Tournament Prize

by Ling, Maria

  "Stop flirting with my friends," he teased Leofe, who laughed and kissed him. Caroline watched them with surreptitious envy. This she wanted, a love that was both passion and companionship, a man who could talk and tease and share her interest as well as enjoy her... well... no, it was best not to think about that. Not with Leofe and Roland so close and so obviously in love, not with Alan making ready to face his next opponent -- oh dear God, it was Guillaume, who towered like a fortress at the far end of the rails.

  "He'll never do it," Caroline whispered anxiously, clutching her hands together and biting her knuckles.

  "Alan?" Roland said. "Probably not. Guillaume's the very devil when the spirit's on him. But watch out for the dip and charge. Alan's got that down to a form of art by now. I rather think he's about to prove himself."

  "Do you find it difficult fighting against your friends?" Caroline asked, watching the two men stare each other down, for all the world like sworn enemies.

  "No," Roland said. "We have our own rules, and we live by them. Never drawn against each other at the tourney proper, always fight together as a team there. But in the jousting and displays, it's every man out for what he can get. It's all for pride, this." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Oh, Guillaume's in a fighting mood today. Look at how he's handling that lance."

  Caroline looked, and quailed.

  The men charged. Right at each other, with lances levelled, and crashed into each other with such force it was a miracle they did not split asunder. Caroline shrieked as Alan toppled, caught her breath as he clung to his horse and righted himself, bit her knuckle hard as he slumped over the streaming mane and pressed the stump of his freshly broken lance to his belly. Felt ready to weep as he raised his shield to Guillaume in token of surrender, and slowly rode away off the field.

  "Huh," Roland said. "I don't envy Matilda right now. Fancy a wager, love?"

  "Not a chance," Leofe retorted. "Guillaume will win."

  Caroline didn't care to watch. She fixed a false smile to her face, and stared clear across the lists to where Alan dismounted, slowly, and was helped to the tents by a page.

  ***

  Well, that was embarrassing. Alan held a poultice to his bruised belly and winced at the recollection of such a dismal failure in front of his chosen lady. Who had a smile worth fighting for, he'd wanted to bring down every knave of a man who dared compete for her kiss. Which would go to Guillaume now, because he'd come off the field as the afternoon's victor. Crowed unbearably over it, until Matilda shoved a leather glove into his mouth. Alan thanked her for that, it spared him doing the honours with a mail-clad fist.

  Since then things had been quiet in their little enclave, which was a mercy. At least it gave Alan the chance to sit and curse himself in peace. Which he did now, freely and colourfully, while the page brought liniments and bandages and fresh clothes.

  Stupid. He should have gone in low and fast, as he'd planned to do. It was the only way he'd found to get Guillaume. Some ridiculous urge had come over Alan to match strength against a man twice his bulk, when cleverness and finesse might have won him the day. Roland would curse him out for a born fool -- and what was worse, be right in doing so

  "Greetings, fallen one." Geoffrey strode in through the open flap of the tent. "Still on your death-bed, or are you planning to come and watch Guillaume in his glory?"

  "I'll come," Alan muttered, because he was damned if he'd hide away in shame. "Just let me get to the point that I won't disgrace the proceedings by vomiting all over him."

  "Be my guest," Geoffrey said. "He made me look a right fool, took out the man who bested me without so much as breaking sweat. I don't know. Might be time for me to retire after all."

  "You won't," Alan said with certainty. Geoffrey threatened to leave the tourney scene after every poor showing, it wasn't worth taking any notice of.

  Geoffrey slid onto the spare stool and toyed with a clean bandage. "I might. After the season's over. Say Eastertime, maybe." His glance wavered. "There's a lady."

  "Which of the multitude?" Alan asked sarcastically, because with Roland and Guillaume both happily married, and himself disinclined for roguery, Geoffrey was the only man in their little tribe who upheld the proud tradition of tourney men as roving lovers.

  "No one you know. English."

  "God," Alan said blankly. Leofe was pretty enough, but even so --

  "Not Saxon English," Geoffrey hurried to explain. "Norman. In England. You know."

  "Right," Alan said, not knowing at all. "Well, goodbye and good luck."

  Geoffrey unravelled the bandage, then rolled it up again, quick and neat with long practice. "She's married."

  "That complicates things." Alan took the bandage off him and put it to its proper use.

  "Yes," Geoffrey admitted. "It does. Never mind. I'll find a way to arrange it."

  "Don't go killing her husband," Alan said. "Kings and bishops frown on such measures."

  "So I'm told." Geoffrey scowled at his wrist, twice broken and never altogether healed. "Now if this damned thing would just hold together, I could make enough of a fortune to buy him off. Get him to put her aside for something or other. Consanguinity, maybe."

  "Fine. You do that." Alan stood up, swaying only slightly.

  "If she wants it," Geoffrey added. "I don't really know. We didn't have much chance to talk during my stay."

  "Don't tell the ladies," Alan quipped. "Too much for their delicate ears."

  Geoffrey winced. "That's not what I meant. Forget I spoke."

  "Done. So you won't be retiring any time soon?"

  "Never so much as crossed my mind." Geoffrey held out a ready arm as Alan swayed a bit too far. "You sure you're up to this?"

  "Of course." Alan straightened up and forced a cheerful smile. "Got to put on a brave front."

  "Jesus and his mother," Geoffrey said. "Take that grimace off your face before you kill the horses with fright."

  Alan complied, and managed something wearier but more genuine as he met Caroline's concerned gaze the moment he stepped inside the hall. She was held captive by her parents and a bevy of older men, most of whom had not fought this day. He limped across, endured sundry taunts along the way, glared at Guillaume who preened before an admiring circle of younger knights. Fetched up at last just a step or two from the woman whose company he craved, and who was due to kiss the arch-fiend behind him once the banquet itself had begun.

  For the hundredth time he cursed himself. Should have gone in low, with the dip and thrust he'd worked so hard to perfect, and which Guillaume had yet to counter effectively.

  Caroline tore herself away, with a deft sidestep he'd have liked to see her try on the battlefield, and won through to where Alan stood. Which caused a jubilant flutter in his chest, driving out the nausea.

  "I'm so sorry," she told him. "You were wonderful."

  "Fell to a better man," Alan said, though it cost him. "But thank you."

  "Roland said you had some trick you didn't use." Her eyes watched him, clear and light as spring water. "I'm sure you'd have won if you had."

  "Maybe." It wouldn't do to boast. "I've had some success in the past."

  "Why didn't you use it, then?" Her tone was neither accusatory nor condescending, simply puzzled as by some mystery she longed to solve.

  He couldn't admit the truth -- that he'd wanted to show off before her. "It's unwise to rely too far on a single move. Once your opponents develop an effective defence, you're back where you started. I'd hoped surprise would count for something, but in the event I was wrong."

  "What a shame," Caroline said. "I did so want you to win."

  "She had money on it, you know." Roland sneaked up unexpectedly and patted Alan on the back. "Bad luck. She won't blow you kisses any more. You've cost the fair maiden a tidy sum."

  Caroline's faced hardened with determination. "No, he hasn't. The wager depended on neither of you falling to other men. Or withdrawing, for that matter. Which meant you were out of the r
unning before he was."

  Roland laughed. "That's true. Poor beast's never been the same since he got his leg trapped in a fence last year. But he wants to fight -- dances out of his stall once he realises the colours are on. Got no sense at all." His tone was affectionate.

  "Sounds like his master," Leofe teased from just behind him. Alan pulled back a little to give her room. That brought him a step closer to Caroline, which suited his fancy well.

  "He might do for a lady's horse," Roland said. "If you think you can handle him."

  "I can try," Leofe said, without much confidence. "But he's so big."

  Roland grunted agreement. "He needs to work. Can't stall him forever, and I won't put him down. Never found one with a better heart."

  Alan, watching Caroline, detected no spark of interest in her eyes. "You don't care for horses?" he asked in bewilderment. He'd lived around them all his life, knew their moods and wishes better than his own. A knight was made or broken by the horses he rode -- that had been his mentor's watchword, and it was Alan's now.

  "I don't know much about them," Caroline admitted. "If they carry me, I'm grateful. Beyond that, I leave it all to the grooms."

  "God," Alan said, startled out of courtesy. "This must be remedied. You can't continue in such ignorance."

  "Then will you undertake my education?" Caroline teased, with such an arch look in those beautiful eyes that his heart stopped. "I have it on good authority that you are quite the expert horseman, so if you will venture the task I place myself entirely in your hands."

  Alan smiled, because she could not mean it seriously. But he allowed himself a moment's delight at the imaginary hours he would spend in her company, teaching her to value the best and most loyal of creatures.

  "And here's the man himself." Roland shifted aside, one arm around Leofe. "Bastard," he added. Guillaume, with his own arm secure around Matilda, merely grinned at him.

  Alan was heartened to note little enthusiasm on Caroline's face. She greeted Guillaume and offered congratulations, but beyond that remained aloof. Much to Alan's relief, because he'd seen the effect those dark good looks had on women young or old.

  "How do you take your kisses?" Roland asked. "Guillaume here is well skilled -- " He jumped aside, barely evading a punch from the day's victor, and pushed Leofe into safety behind Alan. Who took a step forward to shield both her and Caroline from any stray blows.

  "But he no longer uses it," Matilda said firmly. She laid one hand on Guillaume's forearm, and he returned to her meek as a foal. Frightening, the way marriage could tame a man.

  Roland pulled Leofe back from Alan's protection. "Quit trying to steal my wife. I saw your little salute out there on the field."

  "Always do homage to beauty," Alan retorted. "A maid and a matron, each of them lovely as a spring morning. Wouldn't you have fallen, too?"

  "Shut up," Geoffrey said from beside him. "That's my line."

  Caroline, flushed-cheeked and star-eyed, turned to Alan and drew breath as if to speak. Then was cut off by the call to table, and offered him a grimace of regret instead.

  "Horses," Alan said, spotting the only opening available to him if he wanted more of her company. "I'm perfectly serious. Talk to your parents." Who bore down on her now, and took her away.

  "Call at the house," Caroline said, and then was claimed. She glanced back once -- twice -- and he raised one hand in acknowledgement as he'd done on the field, and wished for a lance to dip by way of salute. Because she was beautiful, with eyes that shone in a determined face, and she read his own favoured authors, and she --

  "What happened to you?" Roland demanded. "I could have sworn you knew how to nail Guillaume by now. Don't tell me baiting him's become my job again. I have a wife and child to think of."

  "Shut up," Alan said distantly, still entranced by the sudden revelation of Caroline as a woman he could -- or rather of course not, because he wasn't looking for a wife. Nor she for a husband, surely.

  A woman like her could have anyone for the asking, and her parents must have arranged a match by now. One of the men who surrounded them, settled and respected and already familiar to her family and herself. While he was nobody, a minor scion of a minor family, with no pretensions to greatness beyond the tourney field. Where he held his own, and more besides, but where men like Guillaume still taught him the value of experience. Bastard.

  "I'll nail you next time," he said without rancour, because the failure was his alone.

  "You can try," Guillaume replied, all insolent confidence. Alan wished he could emulate that. Why should Caroline look at a quiet young jouster, when lions in armour were presented for her delectation.

  "Kiss her and you die," Alan growled -- and was mortified to find he'd spoken the thought aloud.

  Roland whistled. "Like that, is it? Well, you don't have much competition. A mere hundred knights or so."

  "I'll bed her this evening and tell you what she's like," Guillaume teased. Rage flashed through Alan's body, from the deep of his belly and out through his fists.

  Guillaume reeled back, one hand clutching his nose. Blood seeped bright between clenched fingers.

  "Well played." Geoffrey gave a slow clap. "Can we save it for tomorrow evening, gentlemen? Got an appointment on the field of battle in the morning."

  Alan glared at Guillaume, who raised an unbloodied hand in token of peace.

  "Come on." Matilda pulled Guillaume's bloodied hand aside and inspected the damage. "That'll teach you, won't it? Oh, very nicely done." She nodded to Alan. "There's a broken nose if ever I saw one."

  Alan silently berated himself. He'd never lost control like that. And now the team might be down a man for the tournament.

  He took his place at table as the herald directed, refused to glance at his companions or towards Caroline at high table. Seldom had he felt such a fool.

  The food arrived, and he must have eaten, for his half of the trencher was empty by the time Charles de Louvain rose for the ceremonial speech. Alan listened without hearing to what must no doubt be the usual collection of platitudes -- until a stray reference to Abelard caught his notice. Then he paid closer attention, and found the man a dry-witted sort well acquainted with the skills of rhetoric. Delighted and entertained, Alan paid close attention to the rest of the speech, and applauded without malice as Guillaume rose to receive a bulging purse and a chaste peck on the cheek from a blushing Caroline.

  Alan would rather have seized both for himself, but that was no matter now. Time to consider how best to win the gold and second kiss promised for tomorrow. He appraised Guillaume's hastily-wiped features, already beginning to swell. Shouldn't prove too much of a problem. Guillaume had fought on while bearing worse injuries than that. The heat of combat carried a man further than ease and comfort ever could.

  Which promised well for tomorrow, Alan reflected. If he could but regard every other knight on the field as a rival for Caroline's affection, his team was bound to stand victorious at battle's end.

  ***

  CHAPTER 4

  "I have found a man," Caroline announced.

  "Guillaume?" her father replied. "Fine boy. Pity he's married. I remember his father, back in the day, always used to -- "

  "Not him," Caroline said. Rude as it was to cut her father off, she had to or they'd never get off the subject of old reminiscences. He'd stayed with the banqueting knights long after Caroline and her mother withdrew, and spoke endlessly this morning about men he'd once fought alongside.

  "Who, then?" her father asked.

  "My lord de Rous," her mother said warmly. "He's been gracious enough to forgive her appalling outburst. If we can only convince him that she doesn't really care for books -- "

  "Not him either," Caroline replied, rather more sharply than intended. That idea was too dreadful to contemplate. "I wouldn't marry him to save my life, so you can give over thinking about it."

  Her mother glared. "It's no time for you to be picky, miss. He's rich and well thought of,
with excellent connections, and he's been charming enough to indicate a tentative interest in taking you to wife. Such promise for your sisters!"

  "Alan de la Falaise," Caroline said in a firm tone. A smirk crept onto her face. Guillaume had taken the opportunity, as she feigned a kiss, to whisper in her ear: 'My friend hopes for your favour tomorrow.' That thrilled her so much that she'd kissed him for real, at which he'd grinned as if to an old friend. She'd chosen her new sash, a bright sky blue to match his darker tone, and had it wrapped and ready in an old cloth. Now if she could only find a way to get it into Alan's hands...

  "Who?" her mother demanded, mystified.

  "You remember, Mother. He spoke to you. Said he enjoyed my conversation."

  Madeline blinked. "Oh yes. There was someone at some point, wasn't there? I don't recall who, exactly."

  Caroline decided to appeal to her father. "One of Guillaume's friends."

  "The quiet chap," Charles said with a nod. "Handles a lance deftly. Apparently he's gained quite a reputation, especially in the preliminaries, and promises well in the open tourneys. I look forward to seeing how he does on the field today."

  Caroline basked in her father's praise of him. "And he wants to teach me about horses. I said he was welcome to call at the house if he wished."

  "You said what?" Madeline paled with outrage. "Kindly do not take it upon yourself to invite anyone here. Your father and I will decide whom to permit to call."

  Caroline kicked herself. She had ruined the opportunity with her ill-timed frankness.

  "Let him come," Charles said tolerantly. "Though what you need to know about horses, that I can't teach you myself -- "

  "Apparently he's very well regarded in that respect," Caroline said, bold with new success. "And I didn't mean that I'd be alone with him, Mother. Just that he could discuss such matters in more detail here, without so many other calls on my attention." She turned her attention on her father. "He reads Anselm, you know. And Avicenna."

  "Does he indeed?" Charles mused, then nodded to his wife. "We must invite him, my dear. The whole point of this tournament was to get Caroline meeting young men."