Текст книги "The Stone Rose"

Автор книги: Carol Townend

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

‘Good day,’ Conan said, ensuring his damaged arm was tucked well out of sight.

Lantern jaws masticating, the tall groom checked the fall of the dice and grimaced. ‘God rot you, Samson,’ he said, good-naturedly, ‘you’ve had the longest winning streak in history.’

Samson smiled and threw again.

‘Pretty mare you have there,’ Conan said, regarding Samson and his lucky dice.

The groom with the straw brought his overhanging brows down. ‘What’s that to you?’

Conan glanced meaningfully at the dice-thrower whose head was bent low over the makeshift table. ‘If you’d permit a stranger to advise you?’

The straw was removed. ‘Advise me?’

Conan lowered his voice and jerked his head at Samson. ‘Aye. He bears watching, does that one.’

The Duke of Brittany’s tall groom leaped the rope barrier and was at Conan’s side in an instant. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Try turning out his sleeves. I think you’ll discover the reason for his good fortune.’

‘Loaded dice?’

Conan nodded, and heard the hiss of the groom’s indrawn breath.

‘Jesus God! If you’re right, that snake’s filched a fortune.’ He lifted his voice to a bellow. ‘Samson! Freeze, you worm!’

***

‘Le Bret,’ Duke Geoffrey handed Alan a parchment upon which he had scrawled a few lines, ‘see this reaches my lady wife, will you?’

Alan bowed and thrust the Duke’s letter down the front of his tunic. ‘I’ll see to it myself, Your Grace.’

Duchess Constance of Brittany’s white silk pavilion was pitched next to the Duke’s. Having delivered the note, Alan stood in the shade under the Duchess’s awning. He could see between the two rows of retainers’ shelters to his own tent halfway down the line. It was easy to pick out because of the two triangular patches that were visible from this side. A hooded man was walking past his tent at that very moment.

With sudden insight, Alan stiffened, and turned all his attention on the cowled figure. A thick hood in August? The man was hiding his face. Would he do that if he were honest?

The figure paused outside Alan’s tent and showed uncommon interest in the triangular patches in the canvas.

Concluding that he had caught a sneak thief in the act of sizing up a likely place to rob, Alan started casually down the string of tents. Like most sensible people, Alan carried his valuables on his person. He hoped his cousin did the same. By the time he was two-thirds of the way down the line, the hooded figure had lifted the tent flap and ducked inside. Half expecting a shriek that would tell him that Gwenn was resting inside, Alan abandoned any pretence of indifference. He snatched out his dagger and charged through the opening.

‘Christ aid!’ the fellow squealed.

Alan caught a glimpse of a taut, unshaven face and two terrified eyes, but the light was poor in his tent, and until he had the man outside...

The thief had disembowelled one of the saddlebags and Gwenn’s spare bliaud was strewn over the groundsheet. Knife up, Alan lunged, delivering a cut to the thief’s calf. The wretch yelped. Another knife gleamed dully in the shadows. His opponent was breathing hard, and he retaliated. It was a wild, awkward blow and easily deflected. Nonetheless, Alan’s feet tangled in Gwenn’s gown. He kicked himself free. A dog barked, and a ball of grey fur hurtled through the tent flap. Yellow teeth sank into one of Alan’s boots. Alan couldn’t shake it off. Whilst he was distracted by the dog, the thief slid past him. His breath was foul.

Alan dived, caught an arm and held on. The man whimpered as though he’d severed a tendon. Steel streaked silver past Alan’s eyes and Alan jerked back. The thief wriggled, kneed Alan in the groin, and fled. The mangy grey ball loosed hold of his boot and shot out of the tent.

Doubled up in the entrance, gasping with pain, Alan watched them go. There was something odd about that man. He had no shoes, but that in itself was not significant. Alan sharpened his gaze. The man’s right hand was missing. So it was not the first time the knave had been a-thieving. His punishment had obviously failed to reform him. Alan pushed to his feet and dusted himself down. There was no need to chase him. Thieves were usually cowards. Having burnt his fingers here, he’d not be back. ‘Foiled you this time, my friend,’ Alan murmured. After stowing Gwenn’s belongings in her bag, he returned to the Duke.

***

Alan didn’t mention the thief to Gwenn or Ned, but while he arranged for his cousin’s introduction to Duke Geoffrey, he advised Ned to stick near to the tent, saying that the summons to the Duke’s presence might arrive at any moment.

While Gwenn sheltered from the afternoon sun in the relative cool of the tent, Ned had stationed himself outside, craning his neck to see past the other tents. His hungry blue eyes were trained on the distant lists, where a handful of knights were practising, ready for the tourney which was set to begin in two days’ time.

Gwenn wiped her damp brow with the back of her hand and sank languidly onto her bedroll. She could hear the clashing of swords, and wondered at the men who could don full armour in August and fight, just for the glory of it. She was tired as well as hot.

Alan’s tent was cramped, and she had not found it easy to sleep hemmed in on the one hand by her husband, and on the other by Alan. On the first night, she had been so worn out by travelling that she had dropped off almost at once, only to be shaken from her dreams minutes later by Ned. She had twisted round to peer at him. ‘Ned?’

‘If you want a cuddle,’ Ned’s voice was aggrieved, ‘I think you should stick to your husband.’

With a rush of embarrassment, Gwenn realised it had been Alan’s side she had been burrowing into.

‘I...I’m sorry, Alan,’ she mumbled, overcome with confusion as Ned dragged her proprietorially into his arms. And that had been that. Except that it hadn’t been as simple at that, for afterwards she had felt afraid to close her eyes in case, in her sleep, she should roll over and find herself once more pressed against Alan’s tense, muscled body.

Now it was day, and she could rest. ‘I think I’ll sleep,’ she said to Ned’s back outside the tent flap.

He turned, honest Saxon features registering anxiety. ‘You’re not sick are you, Gwenn?’

‘I’m not sick. Just hot and a little weary. Why don’t you go and watch the knights?’ This was not the time to tell him he was to be a father, not when he was distracted by the excitement of the coming tournament and his hopes that the Duke would employ him.

‘Alan said to wait here. He might send for me.’

‘If he does, I’ll direct them to the field. Don’t worry, if the Duke summons you, we’ll find you.’

Ned glanced longingly over his shoulder, divided between what he saw as his duty to Gwenn and his desire to watch the activity at the lists.

‘Go on, Ned. I’m poor company at the moment, and I just want to rest.’

‘I won’t be long,’ he promised. Before Gwenn blinked he had gone.

***

Later that afternoon, the Duke’s messenger, a well-favoured young Breton with a bushy thatch of curly brown hair and brilliant brown eyes, swaggered up to the tent asking for Ned Fletcher. He was wearing an antique, battered gambeson which Gwenn assumed to have been handed down to him from one of the Duke’s knights. His chausses were filthy, and a large rent flapped open at his thigh. He had a cut on his hand, and both his face and hair were slick with sweat. He looked as though he’d galloped all the way from Jerusalem, and Gwenn was taken aback that the Duke should permit such ill-kempt men to assist him. The messenger seemed careless of his appearance, and on sighting Gwenn in Captain Alan le Bret’s quarter’s, an interested light sparked in the deep brown eyes. He produced a practised smile.

Gwenn ignored both the interested light and the too-charming smile, and waved in the direction of the lists. ‘My husband’s over there.’

A lanky lad, the messenger was standing too close, as though he thought he could try to dominate her with his imposing inches. ‘You’re married to the man who was foolish enough to get his master killed?’

Gwenn stiffened, discomposed for a moment as a spasm of pain ran through her. Ned’s former master and her father were one and the same, but the messenger was not to know that. She eyed him coolly. The Duke’s messenger was insolent, and he had not yet controlled that irritating leer. Then Gwenn realised the young man misconstrued her hesitation. His grin was actually broadening. Arrogant young pup. ‘Aye, I’m married,’ she said, icily.

‘Dommage,’ the young man murmured, ‘what a pity.’ Giving her a courtly bow, he took her hand, and before she realised what he was about, he lifted it to his lips and deposited a series of swift kisses on her knuckles. ‘However,’ he continued in a brighter tone, ‘if you are the wife of this Ned Fletcher, I see I shall have to take him on.’

‘Take him on? You?’ She reclaimed her hand. ‘What are you saying? It’s not up to you, surely?’

The messenger bowed. His eyes were positively smouldering. ‘Oh, but it is. My squire is ailing, and,’ ruefully Gwenn’s courtier indicated his filthy, torn clothing, ‘as you see, I am in dire need of another.’

‘But....but....?’ Gwenn swallowed. She had been grossly mistaken as to this man’s identity, this was no lackey. ‘Wh....who are you?’

‘Raoul Martell, madame.’

‘You...you’re a knight?’

Another bow. Another assured, infuriating grin. ‘Indeed, and at your service, madame.’

‘Ned’s used to a captain’s position,’ Gwenn blurted, and could have bitten her tongue out, for she did not want to stand in the way of Ned finding the work that he wanted.

Sir Raoul raised a brow. He was one of those rare people whose eyes could dance while he frowned. ‘You think your husband unsuitable for me?’

‘Unsuitable? No, of course not. It...it isn’t that,’ Gwenn back-tracked hastily. This was Ned’s chance to set his foot on the noble, knightly ladder. ‘My husband’s a hard worker. I’m sure you would find him very suitable.’

‘You say he’s watching at the lists, Mistress Fletcher?’

Raoul Martell pronounced her name as though he were caressing it, and his eyes were so dark they had no light in them at all. Gwenn shivered, and edged towards the tent flap. ‘Aye. You’ll find Ned at the lists.’

‘How will I know him?’

‘He’s taller than most, with thick flaxen hair.’ A reckless demon made her add, ‘He’s very handsome.’

Undaunted, Sir Raoul gave her a bow worthy of the Duchess Constance herself, and went jauntily towards the lists.

***

Though the post was temporary, Ned jumped at the chance Sir Raoul offered him. He was so keen to prove himself an able squire that he did not leave Sir Raoul’s side for the rest of that day. He carried the knight’s lances and saw to his horses – a wealthy man, Sir Raoul had more than one mount. Ned cleaned and sharpened his master’s sword, he had Sir Raoul’s second hauberk mended, and all the while he was hoping that his diligence would be rewarded by permission to assist the knight when it came to the grand tourney.

Ned apologised for his neglect of her, but Gwenn hadn’t minded. She had been feeling queasy, and was only too glad to be left to her own devices. Besides, Alan seemed to have time on his hands, and he visited her more than once that afternoon. On the first occasion, he startled her by mentioning that he had informed the Duke of the injustice visited on her family by François de Roncier. The Duke had promised he would look into it. Dryly, Alan had added that large wheels turned slowly. Gwenn sensed that he was unhappy at his Duke’s lukewarm response. On his second visit – to fetch his spare dagger – he informed her that he planned taking a lengthy leave of absence from the Duke after the tourney, which strengthened her feeling that he was disillusioned with his carefree Duke. By the time Alan appeared for the third time, she was wondering if Ned had asked him to keep an eye on her. She did not wish to be an imposition.

At dusk she lit their fire, and she and Alan sat before it, staring into the crackling flames, waiting for Ned. ‘There’s no need to keep coming back to the tent tomorrow, Alan,’ she said, hugging her knees. Like baleful yellow eyes, cooking fires and braziers were winking into life all about them. ‘It must be irritating for you, having to see to me,’ she pressed on, ‘but I feel safe. I’m only a bowshot from the lists, all I have to do is call out, and a dozen cavaliers would rush to help.’

Alan’s head came up. He remembered the ragged thief he’d chased from the tent. It was more than likely the wretch had gone for good and would not harm a woman, but one never knew. Earlier, at the time of the evening Angelus, the heavy evening air had brought the echo of Paris’s distant cathedral bells into the tiltyard. While the bells were ringing, Alan had seen a cowled figure skulking behind the King’s cookhouse. It seemed unlikely that the thief would risk capture by being caught in the same place twice, but he had a powerful suspicion it was the same man. Alan had managed to get a glimpse of the fellow’s features the second time. It was Conan, the pedlar from Vannes. He was therefore not entirely sure that Gwenn was safe. If her husband could not be with her, then he must. But he did not want her alarmed.

‘It’s not an imposition,’ Alan said, sincerely. ‘My duties have been light of late, and I enjoy your company.’

Conscious of a tug in the region of her heart, Gwenn looked away. ‘Why thank you, Alan,’ she said, voice husky. ‘I...I like your company also.’ A black brow twitched upwards, and she was moved to enlarge. ‘I never have to pretend with you. I can be myself. You make me feel at ease.’

‘At ease,’ Alan murmured softly.

She had the obscure feeling that her remark had displeased him.

‘Like with Ned?’ Alan forced the question through his lips, not because he wanted to, but because he found he had to, though he knew he couldn’t expect an honest answer. To his astonishment, she tried to give him one.

‘N...no. Not at all like Ned. Ned’s predictable, while you’re...you’re not predictable at all.’

He laughed. ‘And this unpredictability puts you at ease?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Some people can be predictable, but it’s not at all reassuring. You’re not inclined to judge, Alan, maybe it’s that. No. It’s not that. You’re cold–’

‘Cold?’ He shot her a hooded look. If only she knew. He did not feel at all cold towards her. Ned’s wife, he reminded himself. She is married to my cousin; she is my best friend’s wife.

‘Aye. You’re detached, but I like that. You’re careless of other people’s views.’

‘Careless?’

‘If their ideas don’t match yours, you don’t seek to convert them. You let them be. You wouldn’t impose your will on anyone.’

Alan reached out, and though he knew he should not, he gently drew his fingers across the back of her hand. He felt absurdly like a poacher, and even more so when wine-dark colour ran into her cheeks. Gwenn bent her head over their water pot. Shamefully reassured, he said, ‘So that’s what you meant, my Blanche. For a moment there I was worried. I thought you were telling me you’d lost your liking for me.’

Her head jerked up, her eyes flashed. ‘Liking for you? What are you talking about? I’m a married woman, Alan le Bret, and don’t you forget it!’

The sinful mouth curved, transfixing her gaze. ‘I don’t forget it, not for one moment, I assure you, sweet Blanche. But sometimes, I wish you might.’

Gwenn glared at him, her feeling of warmth and contentment had gone. ‘Oh, don’t you start, Alan,’ she said, wearily. ‘I’ve had my fill with Sir Raoul.’

Instantly, Alan dropped his teasing mask. ‘Martell’s been pestering you?’

‘Like the plague. Sometimes I think that the only reason he agreed to take Ned on was because...’ She bit her lip, afraid her suspicions would come over as arrogance.

‘No need for false modesty,’ Alan said. ‘He’s one of the wolves I was telling you about.’

‘He’s a pain in the neck. He sends Ned off on a wild goose chase, and then comes here. I’ve made it plain I’m not interested.’

‘I’ll have words with him.’

‘Please don’t. I’ll deal with it myself. The grand tourney begins tomorrow, and Sir Raoul has promised that Ned will be his squire. I’ll...I’ll not hazard that for the sake of one day. If Sir Raoul is angered, he might change his mind.’

Sober grey eyes captured hers. ‘You swear you’ll speak to me if he bullies you?’

Gwenn nodded. She had not been able to mention this to Ned, but telling Alan had eased her mind. That was what she liked about Alan. He would flirt with her, but the moment he sensed she was uneasy, he would stop. Alan le Bret was sensitive. The discovery pleased her.

***

Ned crept late to bed that night, and before he fell asleep he told Gwenn that he had prevailed upon Sir Raoul to reserve her a place on the Duchess of Brittany’s dais, near to her ladies-in-waiting. He seemed to regard this as something of a coup.

Gwenn was not at all sure she wanted to watch the tournament. She put her disquiet down to the fact that she did not want to watch any sort of a fight, even a regulated one. She had seen all the fighting she ever wanted to see at Kermaria.

‘Ask for Lady Juliana,’ Ned said, ‘Sir Raoul’s fiancée.’

‘Sir Raoul has a fiancée?’ Gwenn asked, momentarily startled out of her feeling of unease. Alan caught her eye, and winked. She hunched a shoulder on him and tried to ignore him.

‘Oh, aye,’ Ned gave a jaw-cracking yawn, ‘a lovely, gracious lady, they’re to be married at Christmas. God, but I’m tired.’ Another yawn, and Ned slung a heavy arm over Gwenn’s waist. ‘Ask for Lady Juliana. She’s been told to expect you. She will make sure you have a good view...’

Ned’s voice trailed off, and Gwenn guessed he was already asleep. She wasn’t sure she wanted a good view. A good view of what? Another bloodbath?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A little before dawn, the sky was a speckled tapestry of pale, fragile stars. In the jousting field, the heralds were up before the birds, rubbing sleep-dazed eyes as they scurried to and fro across the arena. There was always another last-minute task to complete. It was still dark enough for them to need the torches set at intervals along the perimeter fence, and golden flames streamed from the iron stands like maidens’ favours in a gentle, gusting wind. The wind brought with it the fragrance of enough fresh-baked bread to feed an army.

Indeed an army was encamped round the field. Men had tramped there from Gascony, there were knights from the Aquitaine, knights from Toulouse, there were even a group of swarthy-complexioned young bloods come from as far afield as Navarre. There were people from Brittany. Fortune-hunters had come in their droves from every corner of Christendom. There were duchesses, ladies, women and whores. There were princes, dukes, and lords; there were beggars and pedlars, cutthroats and thieves – an ill-assorted army, whose aim was, since it was peacetime, to polish rusty war skills. And if it should chance that blood was let, then so much the better.

The Church might send its bishops to mouth the official line, which was to rail against the tournies as a terrible waste of life and limb. His Holiness the Pope might regret the loss of life, might worry that the tournament was used to settle ancient feuds, but these clerical, other-worldly, opinions were ignored. In the main, the view was that a drop of judicious blood-letting never harmed any army. On the contrary, it made eyes all the keener, and hands took more care. In England, the Church’s official line was heeded. Here in France it was disregarded. Besides, everyone knew that the Bishop of Paris had a place reserved for him on the royal stand.

The participants lived in the hope that they would be among the victors – a tournament could be a lucrative source of income for the successful knight. It was designed to be similar to a war, in that a captured knight would have his harness and his horse taken by the victor. Since for many knights their warhorse represented all their wealth, this could be disastrous; and, as if the loss of their horse was not enough, the captured knight was also expected to negotiate a ransom to free himself. For the landless knight with no revenues, a tourney offered chances of riches, and at this one, the largest to be held in a decade, the pickings would be rich indeed. But it was not easy, the risk of great losses was high. Waldin St Clair had made a dazzling career at the jousts, but not many knights had his skill or stamina.

The sun climbed. Its long, bright rays tumbled over the fences and ran across the sand that, ominously, had been sprinkled on the jousting field. One by one, the stars winked out. The torches were doused. The rest of the army woke, crawled to their tent flaps, and squinted at the sky.

Swallows soared over the fields and woods around Paris. As the shadows shortened on the river of primrose sand in the lists, the birds, unconscious that this was to be an arena of war, saw only a place where they could find food. By the time their flight carried them over the encampment, the city of tents was deserted, left to derelicts and strays foraging silently among upturned cooking pots. Tent flaps and pennons trailed listlessly in a slack breeze. Having scooped insects from the air over the encampment, the swallows flew over the sand in the lists.

The stands groaned under the largest crowd in Christendom. Those who had no place on the stands pressed up to the fence. They got in the way of the horses, were shrieked at by red-cheeked heralds trying vainly to impose some sort of order on the proceedings. Beyond the lists, the paddocks were a confusion of stamping horses, jingling bits, and harassed grooms. Within hailing distance, the combatants waited, placing wagers while they affected a patience and calm that fooled no one. The air crackled with excitement.

Gwenn had found Duchess Constance’s dais. From the outset, Lady Juliana had taken pains to welcome her. ‘Your first tournament?’ she had exclaimed. ‘You must be very excited!’

Gwenn wasn’t excited. To be honest, she didn’t want to be here, but she held her peace. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. The fighting wasn’t real, after all; it wouldn’t be like Kermaria.

‘Here, take this stool,’ Lady Juliana went on, blithely unaware of Gwenn’s doubts. ‘My fiancé is to take the field at noon, and your husband’s assisting.’

‘Ned’s not taking part?’ Gwenn asked, going cold all over.

‘Taking part? A squire? Heavens, no. But he’ll have my husband’s lances to hand and–’

‘Don’t you worry?’ Gwenn blurted.

‘Worry?’ Lady Juliana put a tuck in her brow, in well-bred confusion. ‘Why should I worry?’

‘In case Sir Raoul is injured. It seems so dangerous, so pointless.’

Lady Juliana fixed Gwenn with a disdainful look. ‘Pointless? It’s vital practice they are getting, Mistress Fletcher. If you are feeling faint-hearted, I think you should leave.’

Hastily Gwenn shook her head. ‘No, I’ll stay.’ Ned was proud to be involved in a tourney, and if he wanted her to watch, then watch she would. For a moment, she was tempted to reveal to Lady Juliana that she was niece to Sir Waldin St Clair, Champion of Champions. But she hastily dismissed the thought. She had not seen Count François de Roncier at this tourney, but in this large crowd that meant nothing. He or one of his spies might well be here, and it was best the St Clair name was never mentioned. ‘It... I merely felt queasy for a moment. It has passed.’

Lady Juliana cast a knowledgeable eye over Gwenn’s slim figure. ‘You’re breeding aren’t you, my dear?’ Gwenn’s jolt of surprise gave Lady Juliana her answer, and she lowered her voice, honouring Gwenn with a confidence. ‘You and the Duchess alike, we pray. As that is the case, there is no shame if you have to leave the platform for a moment. The Duchess will understand. It is different when we women are carrying.’

Gwenn sat on her stool, knowing in her heart that the babe made no difference. She would feel distanced from all this, even if she were not carrying Ned’s child. The women filling up the Duchess’s stand were dressed in their brightest raiment and chattering like starlings. Sir Raoul, fully armoured and with his visor up, walked over to make his bow. As though someone had waved a fairy wand, the gossiping stopped. The knight drew all eyes. Gracefully acknowledging the Duchess, Sir Raoul bowed over Lady Juliana’s fingertips.

‘Bon chance, Sir Raoul,’ his fiancée said formally, without a trace of emotion.

Sir Raoul inclined his head a fraction. He looked at the tongue-tied women, white teeth flashed, and he loped towards his charger. The twittering began again.

And so it was whenever one of the combatants approached the stand. The chattering would cease, and the women would hold their breath while greetings were exchanged. Was the silence brought about because the women were wondering whether it was the last time they would see that particular combatant alive? How could they stand it? How many times had Lady Juliana had sat through similar proceedings? Either the woman had nerves of steel, or no nerves at all. Perhaps it came to the same thing. It’s all a show, Gwenn thought, but it’s a deadly show. God guard them from hurt.

A brace of swallows were diving gracefully over the field as Sir Raoul rode out. He was the first to take to the field. Ned was standing by the barrier, and if it hadn’t been for him catching her eye and gesticulating wildly, Gwenn would not have known it was Sir Raoul, for she had not marked his colours, and when he was sealed in his armour, with his pot pulled down over his face there was no recognising him. Aware of Lady Juliana rigid at her elbow – so the woman did care – Gwenn was careful to maintain an expression of neutral interest. Sir Raoul’s huge, brown warhorse thundered the length of the course, sending great clods of earth and clouds of sand flying in its wake. As soon as the knights clashed mid-field, the swallows vanished.

On his second charge, Sir Raoul’s ash lance – Ned had told Gwenn it was ash – hit his challenger’s shoulder with such force that the shaft gave way with a crack. Vicious fragments shot abroad. Gwenn held her breath while Sir Raoul’s hapless opponent rocked sideways, desperately scrabbling to maintain his seat, but the blow had been too much, and slowly, almost gracefully, Sir Raoul’s rival sank into the churned-up sand. It had been decreed that there was to be no hand-to-hand fighting until later in the day, at the mêlée. Then fortunes would change hands. At the moment the knights were merely flexing their muscles and sizing up the opposition. Sir Raoul’s current foe was out of the competition, until later.

Gwenn watched the vanquished knight’s squire catch the fleeing warhorse. The knight was hauled to his feet and surrounded by commiserating friends. He limped off to the tents, where refreshments awaited him.

The trumpets sounded.

The sand was raked.

A different squire ran onto the field, dragging another rack of bright-tipped lances up to the fence. Sir Raoul wheeled his charger about, lance in rest. A second challenger lined up, gonfanon aflutter. His mount was champing at the bit. This knight had Sir Raoul unhorsed on the third charge. He was bruised, but not badly hurt, and he followed the path of the other downed knight, towards the consolations offered in the King’s refreshment pavilion.

And so it went on. Charge, miss. Charge, hit. Charge, crash, fall. Rake sand. Trumpets. Charge, crash. Charge...

Stifling a yawn, Gwenn longed for the evening to come and to bring with it a cooling wind. The bold August sun smote them all through the light white silk which shaded the Duchess of Brittany’s stand. Gwenn glanced up at the fringe of the canopy. The ermine dots on the pennons undulated in a frustrating dream of a breeze, which was enough to make the flags sway, but not enough to cool her. Gwenn was sticky. She was uncomfortable. The dais smelt unpleasantly of sweat. She wanted to go and lie down in the quiet of Alan’s tent.

A glance at the Duchess showed her a lady enthroned in a high-backed cushioned chair which had sides like an abbot’s stall. Duchess Constance’s face showed polite interest, and it never wavered.

How did she do it? Gwenn had a cramp in her thigh. She longed to get up and stretch her legs. At least Duchess Constance can rest her back, Gwenn thought, with a rush of frustration. And the Duchess no doubt knows everyone here. It was difficult to feel involved when she did not know any of the combatants. Not that Gwenn wanted to feel involved, but it might have driven away the feeling that she wanted to get up and run and run till she had put as much distance between her and this stupid tournament as she possibly could. If her feelings had been engaged, she would no longer have been so horribly aware that, of all the crowd, she was an oddity, for she wanted it to be over and done with as quickly as possible.

A murmur of excitement ran through the ladies on the Duchess’s dais, dragging Gwenn from her abstractions. Wearily, she looked at the field.

At the far end of the lists, the King had climbed onto a grey charger that was richly caparisoned in azure and gold. A wooden replica of his shield had been set up on the central dividing barrier. After a token pass at his friend, Duke Geoffrey of Brittany, King Philip was to give the signal for the single combat to finish, and the day’s mêlée would begin. Penned in like cattle behind the gates, the chivalry of Christendom waited for this charge to be done. When the King’s baton fell, their turn would come. Dreaming of glittering prizes, and held back by a flimsy wooden bar, the knights were a mass of shifting helms.

Casually, smiling, King Philip of France tossed a jewel-encrusted gauntlet into the sand. The princes were to use spears. Confronting the King, at the near end of the field, was Duke Geoffrey. The Duke was astride a fearsome charger, black as sin. Decked in the Duke’s fluttering white and black colours, the Duke’s warhorse looked brash and bold enough to terrify his Royal opponent into submission. He twitched his flowing tail and tossed his plaited mane. The beast’s nostrils were flared and he was foaming at the bit. The sight unlocked a recollection of Waldin swearing to Ned that horses loved tournies as much as men. The black charger was as eager as the knights held in check behind the fence. Gwenn’s heart sat heavy in her breast.