With a rustle of silks and brocades, the noblewomen of Champagne and France shuffled along the bench to make room for her. Before she knew it, Elise was sitting on a plump cushion next to Countess Isobel. She felt out of place among these tightly laced, perfumed ladies. She didn’t belong here! Feeling utterly trapped, she stared at the handrail in front of her and wondered how soon she could make her excuses. There were rules here, an etiquette that was likely to be as stringent as the Rule she had encountered at the convent. Elise had found it hard enough to follow convent rule, but here—she’d didn’t have a clue. She would surely make a mistake and cause grave offence.
‘You are singing, Elise?’ Lady Isobel asked.
‘Yes, my lady, I am singing.’ Elise wasn’t going to mention Pearl. She would say nothing about all the months she couldn’t sing, months that must be made up for if they were to survive. There was no point, Countess Isobel couldn’t be expected to understand a life that was so different from hers.
‘Where are you staying, not in Strangers’ City, I hope?’
Elise smiled sadly. The way the countess lowered her voice as she mentioned Strangers’ City was yet more proof, if proof be needed, of the chasm that had grown up between them. Countess Isobel was never likely to set foot in a place like Strangers’ City. Once, they had braved the Black Boar together—something like that would never happen again. Count d’Aveyron wouldn’t stand for it.
‘I was staying in Strangers’ City.’
Several curious pairs of eyes fixed on her. Ladies were leaning close to hear her responses. Wide, avid eyes raked her up and down, assessing her gown, her veil. Elise lifted her chin and toyed with one of her plaits, twisting and untwisting the cherry-coloured ribbon. Thank goodness she had dressed with care. She had no real idea why she’d chosen the silvery damask. Instinct, she supposed. Pride. Even though she never dreamed Lady Isobel would invite her on to the ladies’ stand, it had given her confidence to come to the Field of the Birds in a good gown.
Countess Isobel’s eyebrows rose. ‘Was?’
Elise’s cheeks burned. ‘I am in lodgings now.’ She shot a sideways glance at one of the other ladies and wondered whether the woman would be shocked to learn that her lodgings had been found for her by Gawain Steward, Count of Meaux. What would these ladies make of that?
Trying not to be obvious, she studied them. Which one was Lady Rowena? The willowy one to the left? Or the child on Lady Isobel’s right hand? She might even be the bosomy woman sitting slightly behind them...
‘Your lodgings are in town?’
‘Yes, my lady, in La Rue du Cloître.’
‘Very nice.’ Lady Isobel’s eyebrows went up another notch. ‘You are fortunate to have found them.’
‘Indeed.’ Another surreptitious glance had Elise coming to the conclusion that Lady Rowena couldn’t be the child on Lady Isobel’s right. She was far too young. No, Lady Rowena must be either the willowy lady in red or the woman behind her. Both of them were depressingly pretty. Not that it signified.
Elise touched the countess’s arm. ‘My lady, I thank you for inviting me up here. I hope you understand how sorry I was to leave Ravenshold at the turn of the year.’
‘I was worried when you first vanished, but your message put my mind at rest.’ Lady Isobel paused, smiling. ‘However, it’s good to see you in person. It was a hard time for me and I never thanked you for being such a support. I have missed you.’
‘You are too kind.’
‘No, truly.’ The countess’s eyes lost focus. ‘Immediately after you left, the whole castle was in an uproar. Why I remember, Gaw—’ A trumpet blast cut Lady Isobel off mid-flow, and everyone’s gaze shifted to the field. ‘We shall catch up with our news later,’ she whispered. ‘The review is about to begin.’
* * *
Count Lucien d’Aveyron was taking part in the preliminary jousts. Both he and Gawain were to lead their team as they paraded round the field.
Gawain hooked his helm over the pommel of his saddle and guided The Beast to Lucien’s right hand. The Beast’s red caparison fluttered like flame. The griffin on Gawain’s shield glowed.
Lucien’s standard—with its black raven on a blue ground—hung over the ladies’ stand. When Gawain glanced towards it, he felt a distinct chill. Not long now. He would soon meet Lady Rowena. The cold feeling settled in his innards. It was odd how he’d never given marriage much thought before this. He had blithely assumed that marrying would be an easy matter. Once his bride had been decided upon by the King and his uncle, he had never thought to question their choice. He’d been pleased to hear about Lady Rowena’s famed beauty. He’d been pleased he would be marrying an heiress with the right connections in France. Today that meant nothing. He simply didn’t care. All he could think about was a pair of soulful dark eyes. He rolled his shoulders. He would do his duty, of course, but...
‘Lucien Vernon, Count d’Aveyron,’ the herald cried, as he read from the scroll listing Lucien’s titles and honours. The crowd roared. Lucien had restored these tourneys to their former glory. Indeed, he had improved upon them so much they were even better than they’d been in his father’s day. It had certainly made him popular. Given that Lucien was patron of the tournament, Gawain gave him precedence, restraining The Beast until the herald announced his own name.
‘Gawain Steward, Count of Meaux, Lord of...’
This wasn’t Gawain’s demesne, but he had been steward of Ravenshold and his family had held Le Manoir des Rosières for generations. Gawain had a fair number of supporters in Champagne. The Beast surged forward amid a chorus of shouts and applause. His hoofbeats made a hollow sound—the field was as dry as bone.
The ladies’ stand came into sharp focus and at a stroke, Gawain was deaf to the cries of his well-wishers and blind to all but the black raven on Lucien’s standard. When he reined in, a grey dust cloud hung in the air. His throat felt as though half the grit in Champagne was lodged in it. He could do with a pot of ale to wash it away.
On his left, Lucien had his visor up. He was performing a circus trick that was a favourite with the ladies—his destrier was bowing a knee and lowering his head. It was a tricky manoeuvre for a horse, particularly when bearing a fully armed knight. The blue silk caparison rippled about the horse’s legs. The ladies clapped and smiled and turned their gazes expectantly on Gawain. A little silence fell.
‘Your turn,’ Lucien murmured, with a grin.
‘Hell fry you, Luc.’ This was a challenge Gawain couldn’t ignore, though for the first time in his life he felt like turning tail. It wasn’t the thought of meeting his betrothed. It was the thought of all those women—noblewomen—watching him. He didn’t like it, but it was clear there was no escape. He must equal Lucien’s trick. His mouth went up at the side. He wouldn’t equal Lucien’s trick; he would better it. He clicked loudly with his tongue, leaned forward in the saddle, signalling with knees and hands and voice. ‘Dance, Beast. Dance.’
Slowly, majestically, The Beast rose on his hindquarters and pirouetted around. The field seemed to shift and Gawain lost sight of the ladies. He could see the rooks flying over a stand of trees, he could see the far end of the lists, his red pavilion, the squires wheeling out the lance racks...
As the ladies came back into view he heard a sigh from the stand. The crowd roared approval. The Beast’s forelegs thumped on to the baked earth and Gawain found himself looking at a pair of soulful dark eyes. His mind seized up.
Elise. He saw no one else. He shoved up his visor. What the devil—was his mind playing tricks?
No, there she was, idly playing with the cherry-coloured ribbon binding her hair. Gawain clenched his jaw and felt his cheeks scorch. Elise. Her gown was a subtle grey damask that wouldn’t look out of place at the French court. Her veil was light as gossamer. She looked beautiful. Ladylike. He felt a frown form. Why was she her
e? Beautiful though she was, she really shouldn’t be on this stand.
Lady Isobel must have invited her. Lord, was he to meet Lady Rowena with Elise watching his every move? Could this meeting get more difficult?
Lucien was still ahead of him. He had ridden up to the barrier and Countess Isobel was leaning over it, busily fastening a blue favour round her husband’s arm. All too soon, Lucien backed away, abandoning him to his ordeal.
The countess gestured Gawain forward. Fixing his eyes on her, determined not to look at Elise again, Gawain approached the rail.
‘Count Gawain.’ Lady Isobel’s gaze was resting on his face in a puzzled manner, her expression arrested. He saw her shoot a glance in Elise’s direction. ‘It is a pleasure to see you here today.’
‘The pleasure is mine, my lady,’ he murmured.
‘My lord.’ The countess made a gesture and the lady on her right hand rose from her seat. ‘Permit me to introduce Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe.’
A child. Somehow Gawain kept his face steady. He was looking at a child tricked out in a crimson gown that matched the roses on her cheeks. Silk rustled as she moved. Her veil—a filmy blue affair—was held in place by a golden circlet. Red gems winked at him and a plain gold cross hung about her neck. The gold was real, no doubt of that, and the gems in the circlet had to be rubies. A curl of unease went through him. There was something staged about Lady Rowena’s appearance. Both the gown and the ornaments had been carefully chosen to match his colours and he couldn’t fault that. It was a courteous gesture. Yet...
Looking past the show, Gawain saw only a very young girl. She looked painfully nervous.
Lady Rowena is a child. A skinny child.
The child came forward and a tiny white hand was placed briefly in his. It trembled slightly.
Behind her, none of the ladies moved. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, including Lady Rowena. Her blue eyes were wide and as she studied him, the roses seemed to leave her cheeks. Lord, could this get any worse? He doubted it. Lady Rowena was afraid. Of him? Of rejection? Gawain was glad he had his visor up. With luck it would make him less intimidating.
Gawain tried to ignore the unsettling thought that a pair of brown eyes were watching him. He put a smile in his voice. ‘Lady Rowena, it is a great pleasure to meet you.’
‘Th-thank you, my lord.’ Her voice was pleasing—even though it was shaking almost as much as her hand.
‘I hope you will do me the great honour of accompanying me to the banquet tonight?’ he said, gently.
Her hand jumped in his. Long eyelashes swept down, hiding her eyes from view. ‘Yes, my lord. I...I look forward to it.’
This was the moment she should offer him her favour. When nothing happened, he pressed her fingers. ‘Lady Rowena?’
‘My lord?’
‘Your favour?’
‘Oh! Yes, yes, of course.’ A crimson scarf appeared, the edge banded with gold. His colours again. Lady Rowena might be quivering with nerves, but she had been well schooled and everything had been carefully thought out. She fastened her scarf around his arm.
‘Thank you, my lady. I will strive to do you honour.’ Bowing his head at his betrothed, Gawain wheeled The Beast around, giving ground to the other knights lining up to pay their respects at Countess Isobel’s stand.
The rest of the review passed in a blur. Gawain ought to be studying their challengers, but his mind wasn’t on it. He checked the length of his stirrups. Changed his mind—twice—about which sword he would use and bawled at Aubin when he was slow. His concentration was broken. Several times he caught himself glancing in the direction of the ladies’ stand, and several times he checked himself.
He mustn’t allow himself to become distracted. Just because Elise—he swore and broke off the thought before it was formed and started afresh—just because Lady Rowena was sitting next to Countess Isobel there was no need for him to keep looking at that stand.
Beside him, Lucien’s harness creaked. Lucien cleared his throat and jerked his head towards the ladies. ‘Well, what do you think? Pretty, isn’t she?’
Gawain looked blankly at Lucien. He was trying not to think about any of the ladies on the stand and it took a while for the question to penetrate.
‘Gawain, did you hear me?’
Gawain shook his head to clear it. ‘She’s stunning,’ he managed. The crimson scarf on his arm seemed to shiver.
Lucien tipped his head to the side. Waited. Lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is that all you have to say? You finally get to marry the heiress of your dreams, the heiress who looks like an angel, and all you can say is that she is stunning?’
Gawain set his mouth in a firm line. ‘What else is there to say?’ He frowned. ‘She’s a child!’
Lucien gave him an odd look. ‘She’s seventeen. Young, yes, but certainly old enough.’
‘Seventeen?’ Yes, Gawain seemed to recall being told as much. To his mind, she looked about twelve. ‘She’s a child.’
The review was almost over. The last of the knights on the Troyes team was approaching Countess Isobel’s stand. Ladies were fluttering favours in the fellow’s face but he ignored them all. The knight was staring at a quiet figure in a silver-grey gown. Gawain stiffened. He saw Lady Isobel speak to the man, gesturing at the many favours before him. The knight shook his head. He was gazing at Elise as though bespelled. He must have asked for her, for the countess beckoned Elise to the rail.
A pulse began to thud in Gawain’s temple. He was vaguely aware of Lucien talking to his squire, Joris. Something about the use of blunted lances at the beginning of the tourney. Gawain didn’t catch much of it. He was too busy watching Elise as she smiled gently at the knight. She twitched the cherry-coloured ribbon from her hair and fastened it about his arm. Saluting, grinning from ear to ear, the knight retreated and went to take his place in the Troyenne team.
His shield was parti-coloured—black and red, with what appeared to be a white dove in the centre. Gawain couldn’t place the colours. His guts were in a knot.
‘Luc, who’s that fellow?’
Lucien broke off and looked over. ‘Hmm?’
Gawain pointed. ‘The knight who has just joined the Troyennes? Who is he? His shield is parti-coloured, red and black. The device looks as though it’s a silver boat.’
‘That’s Sir Olier of Les Landes.’
Elise was back on the bench beside the countess, and it seemed to Gawain her cheeks were flushed. The countess directed a remark at her and the flush intensified.
‘Les Landes?’ Gawain felt himself frown, observed that Lucien was regarding him altogether too thoughtfully and snapped his visor down. He didn’t want Lucien to read too much into his interest. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘His holdings are in the south-west, in the Aquitaine, I believe. It’s a large estate, though the land is pretty poor. Why?’
‘No reason, just couldn’t place him.’ Gawain jerked his head at the lance stands. ‘I hope we begin soon. The waiting’s interminable.’
Lucien laughed. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
* * *
This wasn’t Elise’s first tournament and she had mixed feelings about them. As she looked out at the lists, at the standards that had been set up along the fence, at the forest of brightly painted lances in the racks, she recalled the last time she’d been at the Field of the Birds. She’d been with Lady Isobel then too, but they’d not seen any jousting. One of Count Lucien’s household knights had been murdered before events had got underway. Elise had seen the body. The poor boy—he’d been young for a knight—had been knifed. His blood had splashed on to Count Lucien’s pavilion; blood every bit as bright as the crimson on Gawain’s shield.
She bit her lip. Blood. Gawain’s shield was the colour of blood. How odd, she’d always thought the red in Gawain’s colours
represented fire, but it could equally well be blood. He was a warrior. Heart in her mouth, she swallowed. Holy Mary, don’t let his blood be spilled today. She wasn’t sure she could control her reaction if he did get hurt.
‘Elise, are you all right?’ Lady Isobel asked, quietly. ‘You look pale.’
Elise grimaced. ‘I was recalling the last time we were here.’
‘You are thinking of Sir Geoffrey.’ The countess gave her a reassuring smile. ‘That was tragic, but don’t forget it was unrelated to the actual tourney. It was connected with the theft of that relic from Conques.’
‘I remember.’
‘I doubt there will be bloodshed today,’ the countess continued. ‘Lucien has decreed that lances will be blunted at the outset. They are merely training.’
Elise couldn’t help but shudder. She found herself looking first at the colours of the Troyenne knights, and then at those of the knights mustering at Count Lucien’s end of the lists. ‘It’s war they are training for, my lady. War.’ She felt vaguely nauseous. What if Gawain were hurt? What if he won? Lord, she wasn’t sure she could control her reactions either way. If he won a point she’d be hard pressed to remain in her seat. And if he were unhorsed...
I love him. I don’t want him to be hurt. It occurred to her that the wife of a warrior like Gawain would have to get used to feeling like this. Of course, a wife might not care for him as much as she did. But if he did get hurt—ladies ought to be trained in the healing arts. Lady Rowena looked alarmingly young. Did she have the right skills?
The bench creaked as Elise craned her neck to see past the countess. She caught Lady Rowena’s eye. ‘Excuse me, my lady?’
Lady Rowena turned large blue eyes on her. ‘Yes?’
‘My congratulations on your betrothal,’ Elise said. Her voice sounded strange. The words almost choked her.
‘Thank you.’
‘You have been waiting for this moment for a long time?’ Elise could feel Lady Isobel looking curiously at her, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had to know that if Gawain were hurt, Lady Rowena was competent to care for him.
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