himself of his cloak, surcoat and mail. He now wore a plain leather tunic with a glossy black sheen, a white shirt beneath it laced at the neck, as well as black woollen breeches and the worn boots free of mud. His belt was wide, likewise of leather, and his scabbard and broadsword hung at his side.
Between his clothes and his hair, he looked more like a barbarian than ever, or a man who saw no need to adorn himself with fine garments to make an impression.
The courtiers who’d been discussing the game fell silent, and Eloise didn’t seem to know where to look.
“You appear surprised to see me, Francis,” Lord Armand said as he came to a halt beside Adelaide. “I’m delighted to see you looking so well, but then, when one is far from battle, one is more inclined to keep one’s health. Won’t you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?”
His gaze flicked toward Adelaide and although he gave no outward sign of recognition, a sense of familiarity, even of intimate acquaintance, sent a frisson of warmth and excitement through her—an unwelcome sensation. After all, she was no desperate woman eager for a man’s approval. She would rather that he hate her, or at least dislike her.
“This is Lady Eloise de Venery and Lady Adelaide D’Averette,” Francis said through thinned lips. “My ladies, may I present Lord Armand de Boisbaston, whose vanity and presumption are apparently undiminished by his recent incarceration, and despite surrendering the castle he was charged to defend.” He looked pointedly at Adelaide. “I would caution you, my lady, to beware this man’s honeyed tongue.”
How dare Francis mock a man who’d risked his life for his king when he’d never done anything more dangerous than participate in a tournament? “He doesn’t seem to be speaking very sweetly of you, my lord,” she very sweetly noted.
A furrow appeared between Francis’s brows as if he was displeased, or perhaps confused by her response. “That’s because I’m not a beautiful lady. Armand de Boisbaston’s reputation, however, is well-known.”
“Indeed it is,” Randall FitzOsburne declared, the words bursting out as if he would explode if he didn’t speak. “He’s the best and bravest knight in England!”
“You flatter me too much, Randall,” Lord Armand protested with a smile that had nothing of modesty about it. “William Marshal is the best and bravest knight in England, and Europe, too. If I could claim but a portion of his skill and honor, I’d consider myself fortunate.”
“Honor?” Francis scoffed. “I believe you left that in Normandy.”
Anger flared in Lord Armand’s brown eyes. “At least I had it once to lose.”
“Do you insult me, my lord?” Francis demanded.
Didn’t Francis notice the ire in the tightness of the man’s features? Adelaide wondered. The little line of anger between the slanting brows? Did he really want to come to blows with this man?
“I merely made an observation based on your reference to my sojourn in Normandy,” Lord Armand coolly replied, the tone of his voice at odds with his obvious rage. “I cannot be responsible for how you interpret it. You seem to have developed a rather thin skin since I’ve been away, Francis. Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time at court.”
“While you seem to have forgotten how to dress for it. My servants are better attired than you. Have you not even a knife with which to trim that unkempt mop of hair?”
“Since I was forced to give nearly all that I possess to regain my freedom after fighting for the king, I have no finer clothes to wear. As for my hair…”
Lord Armand glanced first at Adelaide, then smiled at Eloise. “Do I look so very awful?”
Eloise blushed and lowered her eyes, and shook her head.
He turned next to Adelaide. “What about you, my lady? Would you say my hair looks like an unkempt mop?”
Adelaide reminded herself that she was at court for a reason, and it certainly wasn’t to fall under a handsome man’s spell. If Eloise or Lady Hildegard or any other lady of the court wanted Lord Armand, they could have him.
“No, I would not,” she replied. “It does, however, make you look quite savage. Should we next expect to see your face painted blue like a Pict? Or will you be wearing the horned helmet of a Northman? Is there some reason for this unusual hairstyle, my lord, or do you simply enjoy shocking people and being the center of attention?”
As Francis guffawed, the expression that came to Lord Armand’s face made her want to squirm.
“Someday, perhaps, my lady,” he said, “I will tell you why I haven’t cut my hair since I was taken prisoner. I doubt, however, that you’d understand.”
Adelaide blushed with shame, and she wanted to apologize, but she didn’t dare. She had a reputation to maintain, even if it wasn’t one she particularly relished.
“Pay no heed to what he says, my lady,” Francis said. “And you, my lord, had best take care how you speak to one of the king’s wards.”
Lord Armand didn’t look the least bit worried. “Tell me, Francis, while I was in the Comte de Pontelle’s dungeon, where were you?”
Francis straightened his shoulders. “I, too, was serving the king.”
“I’m sure you were, in your own way,” Lord Armand agreed with more than a hint of mockery in his voice and eyes. “We cannot all bear arms in battle.”
“And some of us can barely walk,” Francis shot back, his gaze darting to Randall FitzOsbourne, who blushed bright red.
That was truly a low blow. Randall FitzOsbourne couldn’t help being crippled.
The slight smile remained on Lord Armand’s face, but his eyes filled with renewed rage and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. So did Francis’s.
Eloise blanched and Randall FitzOsbourne looked worried. Adelaide, however, was quite sure Lord Armand could defeat Francis in a contest of arms, and Francis deserved to be humbled.
“By the teeth of God, is something amiss among my courtiers?” the king called out.
They all turned to see John striding toward them. Everyone had been too intent on the exchange between Sir Francis and Lord Armand to notice his arrival.
As always, John was expensively and ornately dressed, in a long tunic of ivory cendal, heavily embroidered around the neck, cuffs and hem. His belt was gilded, and he wore a large gold brooch with a ruby in the center. Rings sparkled on his plump fingers, and his hair shone with oil. The odor of expensive perfume wafted from him, overpowering the more delicate scent of the roses nearby. The queen and several of his routiers followed, trying to keep up with the king’s brisk pace.
Regardless of the presence of his queen, the king leered at Adelaide when he came to a halt. “I suppose these two bold cockerels are glaring at each other because of you, my lady.”
“Your Majesty,” she replied, keeping her tone and expression carefully neutral, “I was merely passing the time of day with Lady Eloise when these gentlemen approached me.”
“I see.” The
