by Maria Ling
The Tournament Prize
by Maria Ling
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Maria Ling
Cover image copyright Ingus Evertovskis - Fotolia.com
Published by Byrnie Publishing
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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***
CHAPTER 1
"You'll marry and like it." Charles de Louvain braced himself in his cushioned seat and glared at his errant daughter, who glared back just as fierce from her own. Shame she wasn't a man, or he'd let her have it with fist or cudgel -- or sword, damn her impertinence.
But he didn't like beating a woman, and never a child. Hadn't the stomach for it, no matter how many times his wife called him soft. She slapped the girls herself, though never in his sight. Took a rod to Caroline once, and that was the only time he'd ever struck his own wife. Never again, on either count.
"I won't." Caroline stood her ground. "I don't care to."
"Caring doesn't come into it. What do you think I've raised you for, if not to make a useful alliance?"
She chose not to answer that. Wisely, in his opinion. "Anyway, no man has asked."
No. That was a grief and a fret to him. He had nudged a few of his old friends over the past couple of years, since some of them were widowers and some had sons to offer, but they hawed and hummed and turned the subject. She wasn't much of a beauty, truth. Not ugly -- radiant in his eyes, though if he forced himself he could regard her as other men must, and admit that his was too generous a vision -- but with an odd angular face, strong jaw and suspicious eyes, as if she weighed all men on the scales of justice and found them wanting.
Her beliefs, too, were not of an ordinary sort, and she was uncommon forthright in expressing them. Charles had asked her to speak softly when in company, at least: he had no desire to go to war with prince or bishop. She respected his wishes, and for that he was grateful, but among those she considered as family she was less guarded. No man who knew her wanted her in hall or bed.
The fault was his, Charles thought with a twinge of guilt. He'd indulged her too far, he acknowledged it. Deprived of sons, he'd turned his eldest daughter into some unnatural substitute: a half-man monstrosity ill fitted to draw the favour of men.
To be sure, there were those who'd whip sense and meekness into her. Charles was half tempted to cajole one of them into a match. But he couldn't do it. Couldn't bear to imagine that proud spirit broken, her innocent body seared and humbled. No, he'd let her be.
Except that she must marry. It was becoming an embarrassment. He had three other daughters approaching a suitable age, all younger than she, but he couldn't well market them while she remained single.
"You can't choose a convent," he said. "I don't have the means to buy you a good place."
"And I have no vocation to be a nun," Caroline replied with fearsome honesty. "Possessing one of those is generally considered essential."
"Don't believe it." He'd heard stories, oh yes, though none fit for the ears of maidens. Of which five surrounded him -- maidens, that was, though pert little ears sat pricked on each dainty head. Eight girls, all living, and never a son to show for all the blood and screams. God, he would drown in a surfeit of daughters.
"Marry a rich man," his wife Madeline said. "Think of your sisters. They all need to be well disposed of, too."
"Sold off, you mean," Caroline retorted. "Like prize horses, fit for any man to ride."
Madeline raised a hand.
"My dear," Charles said. He'd meant to remonstrate with Caroline, but his wife's hand sank down again.
It was just as well, perhaps, for Caroline's body had tensed as she sat up a little straighter. For a moment there he'd almost believed she might hit back if struck. And then it would be the rod for sure, and he'd have to be the one to wield it. No child struck a parent, it was against all the laws of God and Nature. He could not permit such a sacrilege in his own house.
"Daughter," he said now, "that was a coarse and unwarranted remark. Apologise this instant."
Caroline glared at him. But she was fond of him in her way, he knew that, as he was of her. A moment of rancour passed, and then she found her loyalty again. "I beg your forgiveness," she said in a softer tone. "It was ill done of me."
Some poor man would lose half his life in taming her. But she was worth it, Charles told himself. She was. He had to believe that.
"Your sisters all need to be provided for," he reasoned. "As the eldest, it is incumbent on you to help me in this matter. Make a good match, with a man minded to assist his new family in any way he can. And make it worth his while. You understand?" He couldn't speak plainer, those maidenly ears were already pink with strain, and his wife directed such a look of warning at him that he faltered. No mystery where Caroline had her resolve from, or her pride either, though he fancied that he carried a little of both himself.
Damn all girls and women. He preferred the company of men. In the heat of temper many things might be spoken, but swap a few sound blows and all was well again.
"No," Caroline said in a cool tone. "I don't understand at all. Please enlighten me, Father."
"Well, I -- " Charles caught his wife's eye. "Never mind about that. You'll discover it in time. What I'm saying is that a good sensible sort of man, with a few estates and some profitable appointments, with perhaps a little something to inherit in due course -- "
"I hardly know where to begin," Caroline broke in. "So many such men attend me each week, pleading on their knees for my favour."
Yes. Well. "If you hadn't done such an excellent job of driving them away -- "
"Of course, I should have remembered. Men's delicate little feelings must be spared at all times. Don't worry, Father. Bring them all, bring an army of them, and I shall simper and prance and show no more independence than a figure in a tapestry. I promise."
Damn the girl. "If you would be serious for a moment -- "
"But I am." She widened her eyes, and flushed a little with emotion. Anger, no doubt, and yet there was allure in it too. Some lucky man would see the strength in her, the passion, the drive, the spirit that strove to rise above all mundane things and create a better and juster world -- would see that and love her, as Charles did, for all her faults.
"You are not being serious," Madeline said. "Your father has introduced several suitable men to your notice, and mentioned several more. Have you taken the least care to make yourself attractive to them?"
"I wouldn't know how," Caroline retorted.
"Then learn," Madeline snapped. "Haven't I taught you how to hold a civil conversation, whether in Latin or Flemish or French, how to dress with taste and hunt with grace, how to dance and sing and play the lute?"
"Indeed you have," Caroline admitted. "And I thank you for it. But you also had the goodness to provide me with tutors who encouraged me to think."
"A mistake," Madeline said. "Anyway those were your father's choice."
Charles winced. The accusation was all the more painful for being true. "I thought a sensible man would want an intelligent wife."
"You wanted an excuse to fritter away the evening hours discussing points of theology," Madeline shot back. "Much good it did you, or me, or her."
Quite so. He'd been self-indulgent there. "In any case, we are now where we are."
"Difficult
to be anywhere else," Caroline muttered, but subsided when he stared at her. Then roused herself to renewed objections. "Father, I don't want to marry. And even if I did, where are all these admirers you think so highly of, and who wait only for my consent?"
"Flanders is crawling with men of good family," Charles growled. "Choose one. Any one. Just let it be a man with both money and sense. And family feeling. Loyal. Steadfast. Courageous. Good lineage and sound connections. Also -- "
"My dear," Madeline said, "if he's rich and willing to take her, that's enough. At this point, I don't think we can ask for more."
Charles struggled for a moment, but he had to see the justice of her words. "That still rules out anyone in our usual circle of friends."
"I have no wish to travel," Madeline said. "Besides, the younger girls would be so difficult to manage. Can't you ask our friends to ask around among their own acquaintance?"
"I don't know that they go abroad much either," Charles muttered. "Not now they're all settled men with families grown. Back in the day we used to travel to tourneys together, it was all life on the road then." He permitted himself one wistful sigh. "Wish I'd had a son or two who'd grown into that world by now."
Caroline leaned forward, reached out and took his hand. "I know you'd rather I'd been a boy. I'm sorry, Father."
"Not that, girl." He held those dear fingers between both his own hands. "I wouldn't have you any different. Except in manners, maybe. But there should have been boys."
"I tried my best," Madeline said coldly. "Eight times."
And all still alive, by a miracle he ought to give thanks for every day. Too easy to take that for granted, and forget those harried days and nights while fever burned in those he loved the most.
"I know you did," he said. "No wife could have done more."
He was grateful, of course he was. Eight fine girls living, and dearer than his own heartbeat. But sons, even just one, to ride with and fight with and teach all manly things to. A youth to make him remember his own years of strength and adventure, to show off at tourneys and boast of to all his friends --
"A tournament," Charles said slowly. "We could host one. Here."
"Have you entirely departed from all sense?" Madeline demanded, her voice still harsh with grief. "Whatever could we gain from that? Hundreds of men descending on our fields and pastures, wanting food and lodging and pageantry and display. Brawls to settle and injuries to tend, and nothing left after but debts and debris."
"We met at a tourney," Charles said. "Do you remember?"
She wavered then, softened in eyes and lips -- because it had been a match of affection once, on both sides. "How could I forget?"
Charles moved one of his hands from Caroline's, and used it to reach for and clasp his wife's. Who surrendered it willingly, as she'd done on that magical afternoon a generation ago.
"We'd gain hundreds of men," he said. "Not all rich or of good family or even single, I agree. But a fair selection of suitable matches. We'll find one who'll take Caroline's fancy, never fear."
"I don't doubt it," Madeline said, trying for a waspish tone but not quite succeeding. "The question is, will he or anyone else like her?"
***
"Come try your courage, come try your skill! Nobles, gentles, knights old and young! Mass on Sunday morning for all who wish to attend, then jousting and other manly displays until evening, with the grand tournament across open terrain throughout the Monday following."
The herald worked hard to drum up enthusiasm among the crowd that thronged the inn, but in truth every man here had heard it before. Dozens of times. There were tourneys held every week or so, somewhere on the circuit. You couldn't spend your life travelling from one to the next without growing weary of the criers and their false conviction that this would be the meet to end all meets.
Even so, news of a small one in the near neighbourhood always got a hearing. Little cost in time or coin, to venture off the main roads and take a tilt for pleasure. Men listened with half an ear, swapped quizzical glances amongst themselves, weighed the chances of a prize worth the risk to their limbs.
"We could try our luck," Alan de la Falaise suggested, with a glance around at his companions who hunched over the meal set out on the notched table. Youngest and newest of the band of brothers he now belonged to, he had little right to speak at all. But they were sound lads, and heard him out when he did. And none of them scoffed at the chance for battle.
"A purse of gold to Monday's victor," the herald went on, "and a purse of silver to Sunday's champion. Bestowed with a kiss from Maid Caroline herself, eldest daughter of our illustrious host -- and still unmarried, singles all. As yet unspoken for, though her beauty surpasses that of moon and stars."
"Plain as ditchwater," someone called out at the back. Laughter followed, not cruel. No one much cared what the girl looked like. It was the size of her purses they wanted to ascertain.
"Lovely as a saint in heaven," the herald called back, with a scowl.
"I saw her once." The offender, nothing daunted, raised a tankard by way of salute. "Couldn't get my horse to stop until the third field after."
This time the laughter proved raucous. A fight between men over a lady's beauty -- or lack of it -- was always a source of amusement.
"How much gold?" Geoffrey, one of Alan's companions, threw out the question everyone wanted answered.
"A bulging purseful," the herald replied. "French minted not two years ago."
"How big a purse?" Geoffrey persisted.
The heckler held up thumb and forefinger, to unfettered mirth from the rest of the men.
"It's bigger than that," the herald protested, and brought the roof down.
"My lord's cock is bigger than that, is what he means." The heckler grinned at his audience. "Which may be truth, or it may not. Who's to say?"
"You can say," Roland called -- another of Alan's companions and never at a loss for bawdy jokes. "Where did you ride to so hard and fast, after you took fright at my lady Caroline?"
"Your lady Caroline, is she?" The heckler whistled. "And here I thought you mounted only the best English mules."
Alan winced inwardly. Roland's wife had been an English peasant girl before he raised her up, and no one ever forgot it. But most men on the tourney circuit had learned by now to speak of her only in terms of warmest praise.
Guillaume, the fourth man in their little band, raised his head to fix the heckler with a death stare. An insult to one was an insult to all, and Guillaume never passed up the chance for a fight. As Alan knew to his cost -- his jaw and ribs, broken more than a year ago and long since healed, still ached in an easterly wind.
Alan had won revenge of a sort since then, and it had earned him admission into the band. Now that he counted Guillaume as a sword-brother, he'd developed a grudging respect for the man. There was not a fiercer temper or a more powerful strike to be found in any knight Alan had met. Which made him the best of allies, if not yet a friend.
But it was Roland who spoke, and that only to say: "I'll meet you at dawn, sir, in the field behind the church. Have a priest take your confession beforehand."
"Why so formal?" the heckler retorted. "I'll meet you now if you like, outside or in."
"Gladly." Roland stood up. Men dragged tables and benches aside to clear a space for combat.
Alan watched the fight with interest. He rated Roland highly. All three of his new companions were excellent fighters, as they needs must be to make an independent living off their skills. They fought on fields crowded with the armed retinues of rich lords who could afford to hire the best. Took horses and armour and ransom enough to make a quiet little fortune themselves.
So he never doubted Roland. But since he'd never had occasion to meet this heckler before, he watched the man with close attention. It always paid to know one's opponents, present or future.
"He's good." The fifth member of their band, and the lone woman among them, watched likewise. Alan cast her a sideways
glance. Matilda, his friend and sister knight, married now to Guillaume. It had pained him at the time, that wedding -- he thought highly of her, as a woman and a fighter, and had dared to entertain hopes of his own. But those were dashed, and he'd grieved, and for a while he'd struggled to accept the new order of things.
Now, though, he was content. They were happy together, she and Guillaume, and Alan had discovered great pleasure in seeing her so full of joy.
For himself, well. He could do with a woman, granted, but what he searched for Matilda couldn't give. He realised that now, after the first flurry of desire had passed. She was his equal in every respect, on the field and off, and he respected that. But what he wanted, really, was a woman who could meet him in bookish pursuits, argue politics and theology and the study of God's world. Fighting he enjoyed, and intended to continue for as long as strength and health lasted. But he'd been fortunate in being raised with sharp-minded tutors, and their conversation he sorely missed.
Companionship he was well provided with, travelling and fighting among friends. Pleasures of the body he could take as he wished, because every tourney had its attendant women looking for a fit young man to bed. But he didn't want that, not really. Had allowed himself a few encounters, more to save face in front of his comrades than for any strength of desire. It had been enjoyable, no question about that, but it wasn't the way for him. He wanted marriage, a settled woman who could talk to him and argue with him and show him perspectives other than his own.
Well, he'd have to stop by a convent school some time and see if they had any suitable girls to market. He couldn't offer much of a life, because he intended to stay on the road, but this part of Flanders had proved an excellent fighting ground. He'd be happy to stay in the region, buy himself a profitable manor with the fortune he'd gained so far. If he could find a woman willing to live in it, and provide him with the society he longed for, remaining within a few days' ride of her would be no hardship.
Alan considered the likelihood of finding such a woman. Not high, was his conclusion. Irritably he watched Roland demolish the heckler, until the man knelt and sued for mercy and pleaded that the lady Leofe was the finest example of womanhood anywhere on God's earth.