CHAPTER TWENTY

 

The official events were well under way by late morning. By then the lords and ladies had broken their fasts in due style and ceremony, many of them barely recovered from the festivities the night before. Precisely at ten, heralds lined the parapets and blared a warning to all malingerers; criers read from scrolls of parchment listing the day’s activities. The jousting fields started to fill with spectators several hours before the first run between the more popular champions was scheduled to commence. The early courses were between the younger knights who, due to their eagerness and clumsiness, often provided the best blood sport of the tourney. These matches rarely went more than a single pass, and most of the victors trotted off the field, happy just to have survived.

Strong attempts were made to safeguard against the actual danger of death on the field. But blunted or not, the tip of a lance striking square in the chest could stove the ribs inward and pierce the heart as easily as it could send the unfortunate recipient tipping out of his saddle to crack his spine under two hundredweight of armour.

Judges were positioned at intervals along the field to signal fair or foul play. Most of the matches were random and usually drawn to avoid pairing known antagonists together, but there were also the personal challenges, like the one between Dag and Roald of Anjou, that kept the excitement of the crowds at a peak and sent waves of genteel maidens swooning en masse into the arms of their serving women.

Everywhere lances were held aloft, their pennons fluttering in the wind. Men-at-arms stood an attentive guard around the perimeter of the jousting field. They wore full protective armour of cuir bouilli and held their pikes and bills at rigid attention to discourage any curious pedestrians from wandering onto the courses. Multicoloured silk pavilions had sprouted around the outside of the palisades overnight where knights dressed for combat and waited to hear their names called to the lists. Squires, pages, and servants hustled to and from these war pavilions laying out armour and weapons, inspecting all for minute flaws, expending copious amounts of spittle and oil in feverish attempts to have their lords gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight.

The best of the best, the champions of France and Normandy were well known to their loyal followers. Wagers changed hands as fast as fleas when the names of the upcoming ranks of contestants were announced by the heralds, none so fast or feverish as those placed on the outcome of a contest between the Prince of Darkness and anyone foolish enough to challenge him.

The object of so much speculation stood naked in all his muscular splendor, the light from the small iron brazier shivering over the solid plates of molded brawn. The strong, sloped column of his neck was held rigid, the eerie, colorless eyes stared straight ahead as Fulgrin finished the ceremonial bath and began rubbing him with oil of willow ash and camphor. In the background, they could hear the clash of steel and the roaring cheers of the crowd. Periodically, the ground beneath them reverberated with the impact of several tons’ worth of enraged horseflesh charging headlong down the tilting course.

Fulgrin, noting his master was even more sullen than usual, peered up from behind the pillar of one limb and offered a scowl. “You could have earned us an extra five hundred marks by now had you roused yourself earlier.”

“By day’s end, we will have earned more than enough to satisfy even your greed.”

“My greed? I was not the one who consented to this unholy pact. I was quite content to remain in Orléans, for that matter, dining on rich foods and stroking the thighs of soft women.”

Griffyn glared down. “You could try stroking a little softer now. I would appreciate having some skin left when you have finished.”

“Hah! Oversensitive today, are we? Out all night like a cat, saddle-galled and foul-tempered this morning … dare I ask who the lucky wench was—or did you even trouble yourself to learn her name?”

Griffyn twisted his lips in a prelude to answering but was forestalled by the sound of a woman’s voice outside the pavilion. She did not wait for the knave to announce her; she lifted the flap of the door and stepped inside, her crystalline eyes going directly and unabashedly to one of the more formidable muscles on Griffyn’s body.

“Am I interrupting?”

Griffyn did not trouble himself with a reply, nor did he make any attempt to shield himself from Solange de Sancerre’s intimate scrutiny as she strolled forward and walked a full, slow circle around him, close enough the diaphanous veiling she wore over her hair brushed his shoulders and tickled the powerful display of rock-hard flesh across his chest. Her gown of rich red samite had been fitted snugly to the voluptuous shape of her upper body and showed considerably more of the smooth white shoulders than was customary. Wresting the eye away from the ripe fullness of her breasts was a thick gold torque worn around the slender throat, the band a full three fingers in width and studded with rows of glittering gemstones. Circling her slender waist was a girdle of fine gold links fashioned to resemble chain mail, crossed in front to form a deep, shimmering vee over her belly.

She finished her inspection and the startling green eyes lingered a moment on his face, before glancing at Fulgrin. “You may leave us, churl. I would speak a few moments alone with your master.”

Fulgrin put his hands on his hips and would likely have challenged her business there had Griffyn not caught his eye and signaled him out the door.

“An impudent devil,” she mused after he had gone. “I could teach him some manners, if you like.”

Griffyn reached for his braies. “I thought it was agreed there would be no further contact between us.”

“The agreement was between you and Bertrand,” she murmured. “I would never be so hasty as to promise such a thing.”

She watched him step into the undergarment and draw it up to his waist, but before he could pull the thongs closed in front, her hands interceded and did the fastening for him. “Moreover, I thought it only hospitable to let you know someone was cheering you on.”

She laid her hands flat on the granite plane of his belly and skimmed them upward, her fingers spread wide to fully appreciate the mass of solidly sculpted muscle. “I had hoped to see you at the grande fete last night.”

“I prefer not to dine in the company of men I might kill on the morrow.”

“An understandable aversion, though I have never suffered for it myself.” She pursed her lips and continued skimming her hands across the powerful contours of his shoulders and down his arms. “Still, it would have been the perfect opportunity to rouse Robert Wardieu’s fighting ire. He was prickly as a thorn bush, especially after the younger brother had a gauntlet thrown in his face.”

“I am surprised you did not arrange to have it thrown in his.”

She smiled and let her fingers slide off his wrists and trace boldly onto his hips and around to the juncture of his thighs. “We thought to save that pleasure for you.”

“How considerate.”

Her smile widened and she gazed down. “Merde,” she breathed, “but you are a healthy enough beast. I may have to wager some coin on you myself.”

“Was there something specific you came to see me about? I have my first match in less than an hour.”

“Actually … or should I say specifically … Bertrand is worried that you might be losing some of your concentration.”

“My concentration is fine.”

“Nevertheless”—she leaned forward, sending her tongue in a swirling wet circle around his nipple—“he thought you might require a little extra incentive.”

“You?” he asked mildly.

She laughed and used her teeth to pinch the sensitive nub of flesh before she straightened. “What I would want to do with you, my lord, would take much more than an hour. No, he merely wanted me to show you this.”

Still smiling, she watched his face intently as she unfastened the gold cords that bound the front closure of her tunic The crimson samite fairly popped wide over the straining swell of her breasts, revealing a layer of embroidered silk beneath. The garment was obviously too small for the task at hand, and most of the ribbons were tied at the outside limits, leaving wide gaps of flesh showing beneath. But there was no mistaking whose it was or where he had seen it last.

The change in his expression was barely perceptible, but to someone accustomed to searching for the slightest betrayal of emotion, it brought forth an exaggerated sigh. “Not exactly my taste, what with all these wretched little ivy leaves and mawkish flowers, but the silk is of exceptional quality and I have no doubt the owner would be grateful for its return.”

Griffyn’s eyes met hers and turned as cold as hoarfrost. “You have been following me.”

“Not personally, no. I find riverbanks too cold and damp for comfort. But I understand it was a demonstration of vigor worthy of an appreciative audience.” She started to draw the silk cords tight over her bosom again. “Poor Gerome. He wore out three whores trying to ease his frustrations. He did so have his heart set on being the first to bed the Wardieu bitch. Tell me—” She looked up, her eyes sparkling with polite interest. “Was she a virgin still?”

Griffyn forced himself to unclench his fists. “I hardly noticed. It was a pleasant diversion, nothing more.”

“Nothing?”

He reached for his shirt and sneered. “What were you expecting to hear? That we have pledged undying love and plan to marry within the week?”

“God’s blood, I hope not. Gerome was vying for the privilege himself. An outlandish expectation, I agree,” she added dryly. “But he feels cuckolded nonetheless.”

“Tell him my shield is hung in plain sight. I would be more than happy to oblige his wounded pride in the lists.”

“Gerome prefers to seek his revenge in dark corners.”

Griffyn nodded. “I will heed the warning.”

“Heed this as well: Bertrand does not like surprises. This”—she plucked at the chemise before it disappeared beneath the samite—“came as a complete and unpleasant surprise.”

“Tell him … it was merely a way of insuring Wardieu’s cooperation.”

The green eyes narrowed. “His cooperation?”

“Can you think of a better way to rouse the fighting ire of a brother than to boast of covering the sister?”

She watched him warily as he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Are you saying … you deliberately seduced her?”

“I am saying I dislike leaving things to chance. Now, unless you truly would like me to lose concentration”—he paused and stared meaningfully at the voluptuous shape of her breasts—“I suggest you let me finish making my preparations.”

He turned his back, dismissing her with a coolness that might have been convincing had she not seen that initial, fleeting glimpse of shock in his eyes. The chemise had startled him, angered him, and unsettled him, and as Solange smoothed her tunic and preened the wings of her veil, she started toward the door of the pavilion.

“It was indeed clever of you to provide such indelicate insurance,” she agreed. “Gerome, I think, would feel somewhat appeased if he could recount his midnight adventure to the gathered throngs. It would, of course, be done only if all else failed. But it would be done,” she assured him softly.

She smiled at the look he cast back over his shoulder, then lifted aside the flap of the door and walked out into the sunlight.

Fulgrin caused it to be shoved aside again a moment later as he hastened back inside. “Tell me she was the one who kept you out all night and I shall start hunting now for a new master.”

“I would not willingly spend time with her unless I emptied her fangs of poison first,” Griffyn muttered, still staring at the door of the pavilion.

Fulgrin peered at him closely. “I gather she was not here just to wish you luck?”

“She was here … to make certain I was not suffering from a change of heart.”

An eyebrow lifted cautiously. “She is under the impression you have a heart to change?”

Griffyn only glared and thrust his legs into a pair of woolen hose. “Did you manage to find out anything about the Welshman?”

“Ahh. A timely change of subject, as always.” He started to fasten the forty-odd leather points that held Griffyn’s hose snug to his thighs. “You did not give me much of a description: no nose, no ears, no fingers, no toes … but the braids helped. That and the fact some of Wardieu’s men have been discreetly asking after the whereabouts of a wool merchant named Dafydd ap lowerth.”

“A wool merchant?”

Fulgrin stood and helped Griffyn into the heavily padded aketon, tightening the crampons that ran down beneath the arms. “It seems he was once a guest at Château d’Amboise. A welcomed guest, so I gather, for he married one of the local widows and lived in the village until such time as his wife’s death sent him searching for some useful—albeit reckless—way to overcome his grief.”

“Are you saying he was a spy for the Black Wolf?”

He prodded a thigh forward into a pair of leather leggings. “Likely used to carry messages back and forth to England.”

“Messages? Between Amboise and … ?”

Fulgrin straightened and lowered his voice dramatically. “Pembroke.”

Griffyn’s frown caused a deep furrow across his brow. It was the second time in as many days Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer’s name had been linked to William Marshal.

“As for Bertrand Malagane’s interest in land in Lincoln, it appears to be genuine … unless there is some other reason you can conceive of why he would send Gerome de Saintonge to England.”

“Saintonge is going to England? When?”

“As soon as the last pennon flutters down over the field on the morrow. What is more, he has hand-picked his troop from the most bloodthirsty vultures his barracks have to offer, including Engelard Cigogni and Andrew de Chanceas—two of the worst carrion-feeding jackals ever to put their swords up for hire. This, of course”—he paused for effect and snapped the last buckle into place—“after they have slit your fine throat ear to ear.”

Griffyn looked at him askance.

“Truly. ’Tis likely why the count was so generous with his coin; he had no plans to leave you alive long enough to spend it. And before you scoff at the notion, kindly consider it was at great peril to the sanctity of my own throat that I uncovered this information.”

Griffyn had no intentions of scoffing; Fulgrin’s talents for gleaning knowledge from solid rock had ceased to amaze him long ago. It had also kept him alive more times than he could count.

That Bertrand Malagane had already made plans for his demise came as no huge surprise; he was probably intending to show that he was so appalled and outraged by Robert Wardieu’s death, he had arranged to have the champion’s killer slain in retaliation. Moreover, he had probably also arranged to have it “discovered” that he, Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay, had been paid to kill Wardieu … and in good English sterling.

“Shall I have the rouncies packed and ready for a hasty departure when you come off the field today?”

Lost in thought, it took a moment for Griffyn to focus on Fulgrin’s face. “What?”

“Leave? Rouncies? Tonight?”

“Why would we do that?”

“Oh … to keep the blood flowing through our veins, perhaps?”

Griffyn frowned and signaled for his hauberk. “I am not worried about Cigogni or de Chanceas.”

Fulgrin’s grunt was directed partly at the cavalier dismissal of the two most deadly and dangerous assassins in Normandy, and partly at the weight of the chain mail tunic as he strained to heft it over his master’s shoulders.

“I am glad to hear you are not worried,” he muttered, and returned to the chest for the mail chausses, which he laced around his charge’s thighs and calves with less than his usually precise strokes. “I, of course, will sleep with both eyes open and knives clutched between all my fingers and toes, but I am glad to hear it will trouble you not at all.”

“Certes, it will not trouble me tonight … since it would make no sense to kill either of us until after Wardieu is dead.”

Fulgrin’s squint-eye watered slightly as he glared in fulminating silence at the tall knight. He helped him into his cuirass—a vest of inch-thick bullhide boiled in wax and molded to fit the shape of chest and back—then bracers for the upper and lower arms, greaves and sabatons to fit over the legs and boots, rounded aillettes for the shoulders that would deflect the force of all but the most powerful blows.

His face was pouring sweat by the time he handed up the padded bascinet for the head and the mail hood with its descending gorget of pennyplate, the links strong enough to shield the throat but flexible enough to raise or lower as required. The final layer was the gambeson—the surcoat of rich hunting green silk emblazoned with the gold falcon in full wingspread.

“And when he is dead,” he finally demanded. “What then? Do we wait for them to come to us?

“Either that, or we go to them.” Griffyn held his arms out while Fulgrin strapped his sword belt around his waist and fetched the great serpentine weapon from the chest. He ran his fingers lightly along the warning etched on the surface before he sheathed it, then, with a final adjustment to settle his gear, strode out of the pavilion and into the bright sunlight.

At almost the same instant, Brenna was blinking the sunlight out of her eyes as she crossed the common and approached the entrance to the bowers. Robin was on one side, Richard and Geoffrey LaFer on the other. Will and Sparrow were with Dag, helping him prepare for his match with Anjou; they would join them in the royal dais in short order, hopefully in time to see Dagobert’s ceremonial progress around the field.

Brenna had felt clumsy and all thumbs as she had dressed for the spectacle. She was thankful she had not brought Helvise with her, for the maid’s sharp eyes would surely have seen the tender pink patches of skin everywhere on her body—conspicuous reminders of rough beard stubble and greedy lips. As it was, her bliaud was altogether too form-fitting and silky over flesh that was too tender to want constant reminders of the equally silky, tender hands that had stroked over her body all night long. Her overtunic was a rich, rusty gold velvet that molded her breasts and emphasized the trimness of her waist, and while she knew the gown was flattering, she would have preferred a plain holland tunic that would not have drawn quite so much attention to her sex.

Convention required her to cover her hair, and at least the plain white wimple and veil looked innocuous enough, held in place by the thin circlet of unadorned gold. The day was warm and brilliant under a clear blue sky, but her flesh felt unaccountably chilled and her hands clammy as she waited, first with Richard, then with Geoffrey LaFer, as Dag dressed for his match. Under normal circumstances, she supposed she would have been just as excited and full of merriment, just as eager to watch the opening procession of drummers, trumpeters, lords and knights and ladies. She would have been honoured to sit in the same bower as Prince Louis and flattered that their host, Bertrand Malagane, kissed her hand and complimented her on her fair countenance. She would have gasped in awe with the rest of the crowd to see the burly champions arriving at their pavilions, surrounded by squires and handlers sagging under the weight of weapons and armour. She would have shivered deliciously to hear the names of the most ferocious contestants who had come together to compete in the pageantry of the Enterprise of the Dragon’s Mouth; names like Mauger the Murderer, Eustace the Widow-Maker, Ferrau the Pitiless, Blondel the Damned, as well as the legendary assassin Loupescaire (whose legend had lost some of its lustre when a forewarned victim had arranged to have both his feet chopped off).

Into this company had also come the fearsome Prince of Darkness, the self-proclaimed Devil Incarnate, and while Robin was showing remarkable restraint thus far, there was a tautness around his mouth that suggested Sparrow might have to keep his knife unsheathed. He was amiable enough to the Dauphin and answered questions on tactics and strategies with a patient enough demeanor, but there was the underlying impression that he wanted desperately to be on the field, not watching from a wooden bench.

This business with Dag and Roald of Anjou proved none of them was really safe from the recklessness of his own honor.

Tossed into this cauldron of simmering tension was now the spectre of Griffyn Renaud. As Will had pointed out, he had not come all this way to sit and watch the pageantry; he had come to fight, to prove his mettle, possibly to try to win the prize of six hundred marks. Before last night, of course, she would not have cared if he threw himself against Lucifer and all the demons of hell. Before last night she could not have cared less who he fought or what the outcome. Now, however, she found herself chilling at the thought he might well end up broken and bleeding under the hooves of some paladin’s charger. On the way to their seats in the bower, she had found herself looking anxiously at each pavilion they passed—she did not even know his colors, for pity’s sake—hoping to see, hoping not to see his broad shoulders clad in mail, waiting for his call to arms.

It was also the custom for a knight to beg the favor of carrying a lady’s token—a sleeve or scarf—into the lists and to fight in her honor. This was usually done during the ceremonial progress around the field when the knight stopped and dipped his lance before the lady whose affection he sought. If she accepted, she fastened the token to the weapon and promptly melted, beyond capability of speech and breath, into the waiting arms of envious companions. Brenna did not even want to think what would happen, how she would respond, what Robin or the others would do if Griffyn Renaud chose to single her out in this fashion. She would indeed melt—into a nerveless, senseless puddle on the floorboards where she would remain, fixed by shame and guilt in utter disgrace.

She groaned softly to herself and tried valiantly to concentrate on the jousting.

Dag was to meet his opponent in the west half of the enclosure. The field had been divided in two by a barrier decorated with cloth hangings, and each of these in turn had a low, single-hung wooden tilt to define the course and insure the riders remained in their own lane. Bowers for the spectators flanked the field, blazing with colors and waving pennons. At either end of the huge rectangle were recets, designated areas of refuge where knights could catch their breath between runs and rearm. Many more pennons flew there, for lances were leaned upright against the palisades, some painted in the colors of their lords, some banded, some spotted, all hung with a flag bearing the arms of the champion.

The jousts themselves were staggered so as not to detract one from the other, also to provide continuous entertainment and thrills while the one list was being cleared of debris. Each time two challengers took to the field, they rode a ceremonial progress around the outer ring of the entire field to salute the judges and give homage to the Dauphin. Brenna peered anxiously at each contestant as he entered the enclosure and began his progress, but in full armour, with pot-shaped helms obscuring all but a narrow strip of their faces, they were mostly anonymous, identifiable only by the devices emblazoned on their gambeson and shield. There was a herald reading names at the outset of each match, and Brenna listened closely each time he stood and consulted his scroll of parchment, but did not hear the name she sought in the first three contests, and then it was Dag’s turn and she temporarily traded one set of fears for another.

“Can you see him?” she asked, craning her neck to see around Richard’s broad shoulders.

“There.” He pointed to the entrance of the enclosure. “By God, he makes a fine cut of a fellow, I must admit, no thanks to my tutoring.”

Sparrow, his attention divided ungraciously among the other burly men-at-arms whose duty it was to stand guard over their masters, heard the comment and leaned forward to glare.

“Your tutoring, you great heaving peewit? Your tutoring has thrust him into this peril despite all common good sense. Your tutoring may earn him a dented head and cracked bones.”

His lecture was cut short as Robin hissed him into silence. They were seated two rows back from the Dauphin and the Count of Saintonge, and at the sound of Sparrow’s voice, Malagane’s silver head turned and he glanced back.

“Lord Robert! You must be proud of your younger brother. He does indeed cut a fine figure. We can only hope it will be as fine at the end of the joust,” Malagane added, inviting the Dauphin to share a good-natured laugh, “since he is the only one representing the black-and-gold this day.”

Robin and Richard both stiffened and Brenna put a hand on each arm. She felt like a fawn caught between two lions, although she was not entirely unsympathetic to their plight. The Dauphin was narrow-nosed and spent a good deal of time looking down it, while Bertrand Malagane resembled a cobra she had seen once at a fair: sleek and smooth and quick to strike with a venomous tongue. Seated on his right was Solange de Sancerre, and behind was his son, Gerome de Saintonge, whose head swivelled to note the slightest move Brenna made. She caught him staring openly and outright at least a score of times, always with a leering, lopsided grin that made her feel as if she were naked from throat to waist.

Brenna forced herself to ignore them all as Dag approached the dais. He did make a splendid sight. He rode a gleaming black destrier fully caparisoned in an ebony silk saddle cloth trimmed in gold bands and tinsel, the saw-toothed hem falling almost to the beast’s knees. The warhorse was a knight’s most valuable weapon in battle, and beneath all the rich finery they carried nearly as much body armour as the rider. A croupiere molded of cuir bouilli fit the shape of the hindquarters and a fan-shaped poitrail guarded the breast and shoulders from a misplaced—or deliberate—strike from a lance. The noble head was covered in a leather chanfrein that exposed only the eyes and kept the animal focused straight forward.

Dag’s own helm was flat-topped, painted in black with gilding along the seams and joints. It consisted of metal plates bolted and screwed together to surround the head and neck, offering limited visibility through a hinged visor that could be lifted when on parade, or was lowered to signal readiness at the start of a charge. His visor was up now as he rode around the enclosure and caused his beast to dance a caracole in front of the royal dais. Prince Louis nodded to acknowledge the salute, as did Bertrand Malagane, and Dag cantered on toward the Bower of Beauty where a dozen or more hopefuls leaned forward in their seats and drew a collective breath.

The same dozen melted back in obvious disappointment as the youngest—and some may have thought the handsomest—Wardieu rode past, not stopping until he reached the far end of the enclosure, where Timkin was waiting with his shield and lance. Roald of Anjou, meanwhile, had also completed his progress and was waiting, like a large mound of crimson dough, for a cinch to be tightened on his saddle.

In short time, the two challengers signaled the judges they were ready. Visors were dropped and gauntlets adjusted to insure a firm grip on the hilt of the lance. Squires handed up shields and reins were gathered tight. There was a flourish of trumpets as the marshal raised the small linen couvre-chef and glanced one last time at each champion before dropping it.

Dag’s charger was first off the mark, its powerful hooves carving up the soft turf, raising great clods of dirt and hurling it back as he quickly built to full speed. From the opposite end of the list, Roald of Anjou bolted forward, the point of his lance stretched out across his steed’s neck, his massive bulk leaning into the wind to seek the perfect balance.

It was a sight to inspire awe in every breast, regardless of the combatants, for horse and rider moved as one, straining forward with silks and tassels flowing, lances aimed straight and true, bodies moving to the rhythm of power and fury and steel-edged nerve. The ranks shuddered on both sides of the field as the two mighty beasts converged. The tips of the lances passed, the shafts seemed a moment to stream together as one, then the clash, the screech of metal on metal, the flying sparks and screams of the horses as the impact staggered both and sent them rearing up on hind legs.

Dag had missed his mark and, as the two horses churned apart, Brenna could hear Richard bemoaning a lost opportunity and Sparrow cursing all fools to perdition.

The two challengers rode to the end of the tilt and wheeled their horses around, waiting until each was set before they launched themselves down the course again, black-and-gold rushing at breakneck speed toward the streaking blur of vermilion. It was a matter of seconds only until they met at the halfway mark, and this time Dag’s lance struck squarely on Roald’s left shoulder, wrenching him back with such force the stem of the lance split and shattered. Despite the heightened and reinforced trousse-quin on his saddle, the bulbous lord from Anjou found himself reeling sideways off the leather. His horse spun, further upsetting his balance, and the weight of his upper body armour did the rest, dragging him out of the saddle, spilling him on the ground in a cloud of dust and thrashing hooves. There he stayed, his arms and legs flailing like an overturned bug, and there he remained until the attendants raced out and helped hoist him to his feet.

There was laughter in the crowds and much snapping of fingers as Dag’s charger pranced back to his end of the enclosure. It was a clean win and almost anticlimactic to see all the flags in the judges’ hands go up to confirm the victory. Roald, in a fury over the humiliation, struck one of the attendants across the face and pushed another to the ground in his haste to clear the field.

“I never doubted it for a moment.” Richard chuckled.

“I should have tried for five hundred!” Geoffrey laughed in agreement.

Brenna turned to respond but was caught by the sudden deep hush that had fallen over the crowd. It was so quiet, where there should have been applause and cheering, she could hear the rustle of the silk pennons stirring overhead in the breeze. Searching for the cause, she had only to look at the sea of faces around her and to follow their rapt gazes to where the second of two new contestants were entering the enclosure.

No one needed to ask who he was. Both the dark knight and his destrier were clad in green silks and black leathers, with shield, pennons, and gambeson blazoned with the gold falcon identifying him as the Prince of Darkness.

“So,” Robin murmured. “We see the devil in the flesh at last.”

“A great hulking bustard,” Sparrow agreed in solemn tones.

Unlike Roald of Anjou, whose weight was centered around his girth, the dark knight’s power was concentrated across his shoulders and chest, the latter aggrandized further by the bulk of armour and the fearsome gold falcon in full wingspread. He sat straight and tall in the saddle, looking neither to the left nor the right as he took to the field.

“Now,” announced Bertrand Malagane in a voice loud enough for those in the back row of seats to overhear, “we shall begin to see some true fighting skills. You have heard, of course, that he has chosen not to restrict himself to three challenges, but has offered his shield to all comers? It should make for an interesting afternoon.”

“Interesting and bloody,” Richard muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“Who is he fighting first?” Robin asked, straining forward to see around an offending banner that temporarily blocked his view.

“Savaric de Mauleon,” Geoffrey LaFer provided from his slightly higher vantage point in the row behind.

Robin nodded approvingly. He liked Savaric, had spent a good portion of the previous evening in the company of the spirited young champion from Gascon, and was generous with his praise for the other man’s considerable talents. “He is not afraid to meet a lance head-on and straps himself into his saddle to insure he does not leave it any too soon.”

“He might want to reconsider the buckles this time,” Richard said quietly. “Have you seen the other’s lance?”

A similar awestruck observation was already beginning to ripple through the ranks of spectators, for the weapon was not blunted by the conventional coronal. Instead, the metal cap tapered to a single point, the only concession to civility being that the tip was squared.

“He is not come to play at games,” Sparrow remarked.

Robin’s face had hardened into a mask and he said nothing, but the more practical eye of Geoffrey LaFer noted other ominous refinements in the paladin’s armour. “His mail, if mine eyes do not deceive me, is double-linked! And the helm is most unusual—I do not think I have seen its like before.”

“Nor have I,” remarked the Count of Saintonge, proving his hearing was excellent despite the surrounding buzz of conversations. “But I understand it is a style gaining favor in Germany and Flanders, for the plates are almost completely smooth, and the rounded top offers no seams or ornamentation to catch the point of a lance. What do you think of it, Lord Robert?”

“It looks practical,” Robin admitted, his teeth clipping every word.

All eyes in the crowd were on the Prince of Darkness as he rode to the royal dais and tipped his lance in a salute to his host and Prince Louis. Up close, he made an even more formidable impression, for the visor had but one slit running left to right, and because he had already hooked it in place, there was only a slash of darkness where his eyes should be. The double linking of his armour made his arms look as if they were encased in solid sheets of steel, heavy enough to daunt all but the strongest of men, thick enough to deflect all but the mightiest of blows.

He seemed to wait until he was certain everyone in the bower had satisfied their curiosity, then turned and rode directly back to his recet, forgoing the customary progress around the rest of the field. It was a blatant discourtesy to the rest of the gathering, who began to hoot and hiss and shout their disapproval. By contrast, Savaric de Mauleon, who was good-looking and dashing and everyone’s favorite, won rousing applause and cheers of enthusiasm from each bench as he circled the entire field. Nearly every maiden in the Bower of Beauty offered tokens without waiting to be asked, and by the time he had completed his progress, his lance fluttered with every color of the rainbow.

The two knights took their positions. The crowd stilled and waited for the judges, who were still debating furiously among themselves over the legality of the square-tipped lance. The marshal hastened over to the dais and expressed his concerns to the Count of Saintonge, who in turn gave his ruling that the lance was acceptable, but if Savaric de Mauleon chose to decline to fight, it would be perfectly understandable.

The crowd jeered again at the implied slur against their favourite's courage, and whether he would have liked to embrace the offer or not, honor forced Savaric to refuse it. The marshal returned to his seat and raised the couvre-chef … and without further adieu, dropped it.

The two destriers broke evenly from the line, but the Prince of Darkness’s steed was obviously superior in speed and sheer thundering fury. He ran with his head forward and his silks streaming, so swift to gain full gallop, he carried the contest into Savaric’s half of the course and was on him before the knight had his lance fully raised and steadied. The squared tip of the paladin’s lance slammed directly into the flat of Savaric’s shield and jerked him back with such force, the raised backing of his saddle snapped and sent buckles flying off in all directions. Savaric himself was lifted into the air and seemed to hang there, suspended at the end of his opponent’s lance for several rampaging paces, finally falling in such a crump of dust and cracking metal, the crowd continued to hold its breath, to sit in stunned silence as if they could not believe their eyes.

“He made it look as if he was plucking a fly off a piece of meat,” Richard murmured.

“A dead fly,” Sparrow agreed. “Deader now than before, I warrant.”

Robin was on his feet. Savaric had not yet moved so much as an arm or leg. The attendants ran out bearing a litter between them, and some of the gawping tension in the crowd was transferred to the almost casual manner in which the Prince of Darkness cantered to the end of the course and turned into the recet without looking back, as if he needed no judges or cheers to confirm the results.

It was a win. It was also the first serious injury of the tournament.

Robin’s gaze remained fixed on the dark knight and the frown tightened across his brow as Malagane lifted his wine cup in a salute.

“Have you ever seen so straight a lance, so determined a course? God’s blood, I dare swear we could declare him champion now and save a deal of broken bones and barber’s fees.”

The proclamation won a laugh from the Dauphin and several of the other guests.

“Who does he fight next?” Solange inquired, feigning a yawn.

“The Castilian, Pedro the Cruel,” another provided helpfully.

“Unless, of course, he has injured himself since his boastings last night,” said a familiar voice.

Robin’s gaze was pulled away from the field and settled on the grinning face of Gerome de Saintonge. Sparrow, sensing trouble in the air, moved closer to Robin and curled his hand around the hilt of his eating knife.

“Sit you down,” he hissed. “The man is offal. Dung. Wormrot. He is a frog turd, not worthy of being scraped from your boot!”

There was a call for fresh wine to fill the Dauphin’s cup, and Sparrow took advantage of the distraction to tug openly on Robin’s tunic and literally haul him back down onto his seat.

On the field, meanwhile, another pair of combatants were beginning their progress, neither of them drawing more than a polite spattering of applause from the spectators. The entire crowd seemed poised on the edge of their seats, waiting in breathless anticipation for another chance to see the Prince of Darkness in action. He had not left the enclosure after his match, which signified another upcoming in short order. His squire was with him and a handler for the horse, but overall he looked confident, almost a little bored as he watched the pageantry.

Brenna could not have said who the challengers were, what colors they wore, how many passes they made or who emerged the victor. She shared Sparrow’s uneasiness, especially when she looked around at one point and saw that Will had joined them on the dais, but instead of taking the empty seat she indicated, he shook his head and remained at the rear, staring hard at two men who were lounging against the barricades. Their faces were not familiar to Brenna, but they obviously were to Will, for he stood as tense as a bloodhound, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The crowd broke her concentration again as a general stir and swelling of noise indicated the interim match was over and the Castilian was entering the tilting grounds. His horse was caparisoned in gold and blue, a magnificent roan with thickly feathered fetlocks and a high, proud step. His armour was gilded and ornamented in the Spanish style, complete with a tall, sky-blue cluster of ostrich plumes in his helm. He had dark, intense eyes that glowered boldly through the raised window of his visor as he passed the dais, and when he stopped in front of the Bower of Beauty, he dipped his lance like an accusing finger toward his betrothed, a petite, ashen-faced girl of no more than fourteen years who could only stare in terror at the dark knight waiting at the far end of the field. She tried to tie a length of purple scarf to the end of her lover’s lance, but her hand shook so badly, the silk slipped and drifted to the ground.

The crowd gasped and groaned, for it was a bad omen. The girl fainted into a crush of sympathetic arms, and it was just as well she remained unconscious during the next ten minutes, for her affianced fared no better than Savaric de Mauleon. The Prince of Darkness struck him hard and high on the first pass, the tip of his lance catching the Castilian at the base of his helm, shattering his collarbone and nearly ripping his head from his shoulders.

A third challenger managed to remain astride for two passes, but only because his destrier veered at the last minute—which earned resounding jeers from the spectators and a subtle shift of favor toward the champion from the east. The shift became stronger with the next blare of trumpets, for Draco the Hun was well known for his underhanded tricks and fouls, and was rarely anyone’s favorite. He gave the Prince his best challenge thus far, stretching the joust into three passes, but even then, there was a sense that he was only being toyed with, like a mouse being tossed around by a cat to prolong the pleasure and the play. And in the end, he went the way of the others, carried off the field on a litter dripping blood. By the time it was Ivo the Crippler’s turn to enter the tilt, the crowd was on its feet, stamping and cheering for their awesome new champion.

By this time also Robin was tight-lipped and white with frustration. Richard was in little better condition, and Dag, who had joined them in the dais after stripping out of his armour, merely sat shaking his head each time the judges ignored an obvious foul. Many more flagons of wine had been consumed in the royal bower and the snickers were growing louder, the glances bolder, the questions more brazen as the Wardieus were consulted on the methods they might have used to unseat the usurper—had they been disposed to fight him, that is.

For this, his sixth and final joust of the afternoon, the Prince of Darkness acquiesced to the demands of the screaming spectators and took a full progress around the enclosure, his silks rippling like green fire under the late sun, the gold threads of the falcon almost blinding where it flew on his breast and shield.

He had changed horses after his last bout, and it was not until he had rounded the far end of the palisades and started down toward the royal dais that Brenna found herself staring more at the beast than the man. The main body of the destrier was concealed beneath the cloths and armoured padding, but it could be seen that this charger, like his last, had been gray in color—not uncommon in itself. But what drew her attention now, and what shocked her like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown on a hot day, was the sight of the single snow-white cuff banding the left foreleg.

Desperate to be mistaken, frantic to be somehow faulty in her memory, she looked up at the knight’s visored face as he drew abreast. The steel of the helm creaked softly as he turned to face the honoured guests. He eased back on the reins and slowed his destrier to a prancing halt, and while every eye in the bowers watched and every breath was held in anticipation, he raised a gauntleted hand and lifted the slotted visor enough to reveal the two black slashes of his eyebrows and the luminous, ice-washed eyes below.

“God’s day to you, my lords … ladies,” Griffyn said casually. “I trust you are all enjoying the spectacle thus far.”