*
In his tent, indifferent to it all, Alaun paced restlessly, a goblet gripped in one fist, his expression tending black. Raising the goblet, he took a hefty swallow; as he lowered it, his scowl was close to a snarl.
“What the devil’s biting you?” Roland, lying on a camp bed with Bilder fussing over him, felt compelled to ask. When Alaun showed no sign of replying, Roland added, “Or should I guess?”
“Not if you wish to keep charming the ladies with your smile.”
There was not the slightest hint of humor in the growl. Roland cast a glance heavenward and kept his lips shut. It had not escaped his notice that his cousin’s prize showed precious little interest in being won. It was, to his certain knowledge, the first time Alaun’s ego had been dealt such a blow.
Alaun drained the goblet, wishing he could thus easily dull the aggravation of a certain de Versallet witch. Her detachment came perilously close to insult, at least to his mind. Thus far he’d vanquished three men for her—what more did he have to do to drag a smile—any hint of encouragement—from her? She hadn’t asked to be won, but she should by now feel something for him. He knew she did, but she was clearly determined to deny him to the haughty last.
With a muted snarl, he swung about. His gaze fell on his armor chest—on the black band that lay upon it. For an instant he stared at it, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her in the night.
A feral smile slowly curved his lips.
*
Up in the stands, Blanche shifted restlessly. “Honestly, Eloise! I don’t know how you can sit there so calmly. Even if it is all for naught, don’t you feel anything over having such a man do battle for you?”
Eloise did, indeed, but was too wise to show it; neither Montisfryn nor her father needed any encouragement. Expectation gripping her, she kept her lips firmly shut on the excitement welling within, consenting only to bestow a coolly amused glance on Blanche before lifting her gaze to where the knights’ pennons atop their tents were snapping in the breeze.
Being won, even if it was all a sham, was proving unexpectedly enthralling.
Finally, a trumpet sounded, summoning the finalists to their marks. Theoretically, Eloise’s hopes now rested on William, yet her gaze went first to Montisfryn. To her, he loomed even larger than before, mounted on his black destrier. He’d ridden the same horse in every joust, yet the massive beast looked as aggressively intent as he had from the first. Just like his master.
Eloise sternly suppressed a shiver. She was about to turn away, to spare a glance for her brother, when a flutter of ribbon caught her eye.
Blanche had spotted it, too. “Montisfryn’s wearing a gage.”
A dark ribbon, it was tied above his left elbow. Eloise frowned.
“I wonder who gave it to him,” Blanche said. “And why, given the circumstances, he’s worn it?”
The answer came in thrilled whispers, and avid, intent glances directed at Eloise from every corner of the ground. For one blissful moment, she was at a loss. Then she focused on the black gage.
She stiffened. Her hands clenched in her lap; she could barely credit her senses. Then her temper exploded—helplessly, for she could hardly get down and march across the lists and demand her garter back.
Impotent, yet seething with fury, she shot a sizzling glare at her tormentor. He felt it—the wretch lifted a hand and saluted her! She could imagine his smile; thankfully she was spared the sight by his lowered visor. Her father’s stunned delight was hard enough to bear. Thanks to Montisfryn’s calculated perfidy, her sire, along with everyone else present, now thought she wanted him to win. That she wanted to be his prize.
She ground her teeth. Only years of training kept her seated, unmoving, her features blank, even more unwilling now to give him the satisfaction of her true reactions. Those he would have later. In private. When there were no requirements of correct behavior to restrain her in giving vent to them.
She was going to make him rue the day he had set his sights on her.
Naturally, all those present were thoroughly thrilled. All except Blanche, too shortsighted to recognize the gage, but close enough to sense her ire. “What is it?” Blanche hissed, annoyed at being left in the dark.
Eloise pressed her lips tightly together, then let out an explosive breath. “My garter.” She forced the words out through clenched teeth. The effort weakened her resolve; her temper went spiraling.
Stunned, Blanche turned to stare at her. “Your…?” She blinked. “Great heavens!” Abruptly, she faced the arena. “You’re going to have to tell me all about this sometime.”
Eloise barely heard. “How dare he—!”
Rage choked her. How dare he flaunt her loss so—using it to lay spurious claim to her favor? Beyond furious, she glanced at her gown. She’d worn neither gloves nor ribbons, but she did have a long scarf draped over her shoulders, the ends tucked between her breasts.
William, astride his great destrier, sat patiently at one end of the lists. Vibrating with suppressed rage, Eloise stared at him until he looked her way. Imperiously, she beckoned. William hesitated, then, reluctantly, walked his destrier over, coming to a halt before the stand. He raised his visor; his gaze, distinctly wary, went to the silk scarf gripped tightly between her hands. “What now, Eloise?”
“I want to give you my gage.”
William’s mount shifted, echoing his master’s start. “But you’ve already given your gage to Montisfryn. You can’t give your favor to both contestants.”
“I didn’t give Montisfryn any gage,” she ground out.
“But how…?” William stared. “He stole it?”
“Yes—no! Never mind!” Leaning forward, she looped her scarf about her brother’s arm.
William watched in increasing dismay. “Eloise, Montisfryn is getting ready to pummel me into the dust as it is. I don’t think this is going to improve his temper. Do I really have to wear this?”
“Yes!” She hung onto her temper with a visible effort. Giving William her scarf in clear view of all would call into question Montisfryn’s right to bear her “gage”. With a smile that was a warning in itself, she patted the floppy bow she’d unthinkingly tied about William’s arm. “There. Now go out there and pummel him into the ground!”
With that injunction, she sat back and glared, first at William, then, defiantly, at Montisfryn.
Almost sadly, William looked down at the floppy silk bow. He sighed gustily, then, shaking his head, closed his visor and turned back to the field.
On the other side of the lists, Montisfryn sat his great black, cloaked in a stillness so absolute it was eerie. If she’d been able to see his expression, Eloise might well have quit the stands.
Instead, she was still seated in the front row, hanging forward as eagerly as any lady, all thought of maintaining an aloof distance forgotten as the two knights thundered forward in the first pass.
Both lances shattered. Both knights rode the blows, remaining upright in their saddles.
It was a battle of the titans, a herculean endeavor as pass after pass brought no other result. Lances shattered and were replaced; both knights remained ahorse. Then, unheralded, in a clash that appeared no different from any other, Montisfryn went down.
There was a gasp; the ladies in the stands leapt to their feet, Eloise foremost among them. A hand at her throat, she stared, her heart beating wildly, her emotions in an even wilder tangle as she waited for the dust to clear.
Even before the swirling clouds had settled, she heard the roars and cheers. The knights, men-at-arms, and commoners standing about the ground had had a clearer view. As William brought his charger around and prepared to dismount, the haze lifted and Montisfryn was there, on his feet, his gauntleted hand extended for the sword his squire, already halfway to him, was carrying.
Sinking back to the bench, Eloise tried to work it out, then, defeated, she shifted along to tweak her father’s sleeve.
Grinning widely, he turned
to her.
“What happened?”
His grin cracked into a smile. “Montisfryn got bored. Just as well, for we would have run out of lances in a few more passes.”
“But what happened?” She could have shaken him.
Henry chuckled. “He took a fall. He wasn’t unseated—he rolled from the saddle using the momentum of William’s blow. See?” He pointed at the lance William’s squire was carting away. “It wasn’t broken. Under the rules, the score’s still even.”
“Oh.” She was grateful that the combatants, squaring up before the stand, distracted her father.
What ensued seemed, at first, no more conclusive than the jousting, at least not to her. Montisfryn and William traded blows, but it was obvious both were fighting well within their capabilities. Then her father sat forward, an oath on his lips.
Edging closer again, Eloise asked, “What is it?”
Henry’s gaze remained fixed on the contest. “Montisfryn’s up to something.”
She studied the heavily-armored figures banging on each other’s shields. Montisfryn had the advantage of both height and reach. He was also, she thought, fractionally stronger than William. However, against that, Montisfryn’s build, with his wide shoulders and narrower hips and long, if strong, legs, was more difficult to keep balanced, top-heavy as he was with armor. William was broad everywhere; even armored, he was difficult to topple. As most bouts ended when one of the participants landed on their backs in the dust, William’s build offset Montisfryn’s other advantages.
They were so evenly matched the fight looked set to last for hours. Or so it seemed to her.
Her father, however, had a deeper insight. “No, William!” he roared to his heir. “Don’t be tempted!”
William had as much chance of hearing him as of hearing a songbird in the forest. Her gaze locked on the combatants, Eloise tried to see what the dangerous temptation was. Hand-to-hand combat was not her forte, but after some minutes, she noticed that Montisfryn was moving rather more than he had in earlier bouts. He kept weaving back, out of William’s reach, often leaving her brother waving his mace at thin air.
Intrigued, she watched intently. Montisfryn did it again; this time, William shuffled forward, determined to land his blow. Montisfryn caught it easily on his shield, returning the favor with a crunch from his broadsword. She winced. The force behind that blow was frightening.
“Fool boy!”
Her father’s half-bellowed groan drew her attention. She was about to inquire why William was foolish to try to land blows on his opponent rather than swat the air, when her father answered unprompted in a bellow to her brother, “You’ll overbalance if you chase him!”
Whipping her gaze back to the action, Eloise finally saw what was exciting her sire’s ire. Montisfryn was used to his disadvantage. He guarded against the tendency to overbalance, shifting his feet easily despite the weight of his armor. William, rock-solid while he remained stationary, was not used to moving so much. Not only would the effort tire him, but he was being forced to extend more and more, subtly encouraged to overreach. If he did, slow as he was, he could be beaten into the ground by a faster and taller opponent.
That was, in fact, precisely Alaun’s intention. He’d quickly realized that standing and trading blows in the time-honored fashion would, very likely, end in his defeat. He and William were well-matched, but it was he who stood on trickier ground. A little more time had shown him his opponent’s weakness; he had promptly set about capitalizing on it. Nevertheless, it was a grueling fifteen minutes later before William finally made that one move too many.
Alaun pounced, raining blows on William’s head which William met with his shield, his feet scrabbling as, driven by instinct, he leaned back from the stunning force of the attack. That instinct cost him the match. He overbalanced and went down, landing on his back, clouds of dust shooting out on all sides.
When the dust cleared, William found himself looking up the long length of Alaun’s broadsword, from where its tip rested in the mail of his gorget to where the hilt was gripped in Alaun’s gauntleted fist. Instinctively, William tested his right arm, still clutching his mace, and discovered it was immobilized under Alaun’s left foot.
For a chill second, they eyed each other.
“Do you yield?”
Alaun’s disembodied voice floated down.
“Aye.” Signaling the judges with his left hand, William squinted up. “I’ll know better than to go dancing with you again.”
Alaun laughed. Switching his sword to his left hand, he reached down and trapped the trailing end of Eloise’s silk scarf between his gloved fingers. Jerking the bow loose, he looped the scarf about his fist. Then he removed both sword and foot and held out a hand to William.
He did not look up at the stands.
Clasping his proffered hand, William struggled up. “Twas a good fight, right enough.”
“Aye. We’ve given them a show they’ll remember.”
Together, they perfunctorily saluted the judges, then turned away. Alaun stretched, then held out his sword to Bilder, hurrying up. “Aah!—I need a hot bath. Why the devil can’t you fight with a sword?” He put up a hand to massage his left shoulder.
William chuckled. “Nay, a mace is a man’s weapon. My father carried one in all his campaigns—he’s survived well enough.”
“Amazing, if you ask me.”
Trading such knightly insults, they ambled from the field to the cheers and roars of the crowd. Their squires were waiting to strip the heavy plates from their bodies; hot baths and liniments were awaiting them in their tents.
Up in the stand, Eloise sat rigid, her fury in no way abated. The actual result had been distinctly anticlimactic; far from dwelling on it, her mind was moving swiftly ahead, charting her course, organizing her strategy.
She had expected to enjoy, in a distantly superior way, correcting her father’s and Montisfryn’s apparent misconception; now, she was relishing the prospect. But she would deal with them individually—her father’s motives were at least excusable. As for Montisfryn, she intended to deal with him as he deserved.
Her jaw was still clenched, her teeth aching; she forced herself to relax. She glanced at Blanche, who had remained, mercifully silent, by her side. “Tis time I spoke with my sire.”
Unfortunately, her father was surrounded by knights and the other judges, all exclaiming over and reliving the last joust. With a mental curse against the childish exploits of men, her icy demeanor intact, Eloise rose and turned toward the castle. “Come—I have duties to attend to. I will deal with this matter later.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Later” proved to be much later.
As the time for the banquet—the magnificent feast she’d spent days organizing—drew near, Eloise’s mood turned black. She paced her chamber, shooting dagger glances at the door. She’d yet to speak with her father. Despite numerous attempts since returning from the lists, she hadn’t been able to locate him. She’d finally dispatched a page carrying a carefully worded request for an interview to search the castle for his lord.
The page had returned, conveying her father’s intention to wait on her in her chamber. When, he hadn’t said.
Her temper simmering, she swung about. Her skirts swirled, gold silk beneath scarlet velvet. With her black velvet denied her, for she could hardly wear that, a reminder to all of Montisfryn’s “gage,” she’d opted for his colors. Given his penchant for wearing anything but, she felt confident he and she would clash hideously were he fool enough to come near her.
Close by the hearth, little Jenni, slim, brown-eyed, brown-haired with rosy cheeks—she’d ever reminded Eloise of a robin—was bent over a piece of darning.
Eloise frowned. “Tis time for the banquet, Jenni. I needs must wait for my sire, but you do not. Hurry down and take your place.”
Jenni looked uncertain. “Be you sure you won’t need me, lady?”
“Nay. I’ll join the table once I’ve spok
en with my father.”
Laying aside her work, Jenni quietly left; the latch had only just fallen behind her when it lifted again.
Eloise swung about; her father entered.
From under heavy brows, he eyed her frowningly. “Well, daughter?” Closing the door, he advanced toward the fire, to his accustomed place before the hearth.
Hands clasped before her, Eloise raised her chin. “I would discuss with you, Father, this wager you have lost to the Earl of Montisfryn. With due respect, as I was not a party to the proposal, and as my hand is my own to bestow as I please, I do not feel obliged to consent to marry Montisfryn regardless of his victory.”
“Naturally not, girl. I did not wager your hand—tis not mine to bestow.”
“You didn’t?” The chamber whirled. Eloise stared. A sudden sinking feeling assailed her. “Then what did you promise him?”
“You heard as well as anyone. I promised him that when he leaves this castle, you will be ‘in his care’.”
She frowned. “What mean you by that?”
“By all the saints, girl!—you know the laws about females better than I. You’re a wealthy, well-born widow—you must reside under some lord’s protection. Neither king nor courts will have it otherwise. When you left your convent, you returned to my care. You’ve lived here five years as my responsibility. I’m proposing to pass that charge, the responsibility for your safety, to Montisfryn.”
She literally doubted her ears. “Twas the…the responsibility for protecting me that you offered as prize?”
“Aye.”
“Did he know what you intended from the outset?”
“Of course—we discussed the matter before he accepted the wager.”
A scream welled in her throat; she set her teeth against it. The idea that Montisfryn had known all along just what her father intended, while she, so well-versed in women’s law, had missed the vital point, was enough to drive her to the brink of hysterical rage. She swung away. “Tis infamous!”
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