baron St. Briac, who led the charge, Madeline saw at last. As she watched, biting her lower lip, he bore down on an armored knight mounted on a magnificent black destrier that bore the prince’s trappings. Above the thunder of hooves striking hard earth, the sound of steel ringing against steel rose in cold air.
“Take him,” Madeline whispered fiercely, wanting John to triumph as much as she wanted the earl to take a blow. “Knock him senseless.”
“Oh, he did!” her companion trilled in delight. “He did.”
To her profound disappointment, Madeline saw that the wrong man had carried the day. ‘Twas John who wavered in his saddle, clearly dazed from a blow that had slipped under his guard and dented his golden helm. Fear knotted suddenly in her chest as she watched him tip slowly sideways.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t let him fall, she prayed desperately, her hands pressed to her mouth. With a sob of thanksgiving, she saw de Burgh spur his mount next to the black and catch the stunned man before he could slip out of the saddle. When John regained his seat, de Burgh leaned forward to catch the black’s reins, then threaded through the surging mass to the woven wicker pen where squires waited with fresh arms and saw to the needs of captured knights.
The lists, as the safe haven was termed, lay directly below the hill where the women watched. In some disgust, Madeline saw de Burgh remove his great bucket-shaped helm and run a hand through sweat-flattened, sun-streaked hair. The prince did the same. Even from her high perch, Madeline could see John’s rueful laugh as his gloved fingers measured the dent in the gilded metal. The two warriors, only moments before fierce enemies, now stood side by side in companionable accord.
The battle was done soon after that. A few knights fought on, their frenzied fight carrying them far across the broad valley and through a small village that lay in their path. Frightened serfs peered out of mud-and-wattle huts as the war-horses churned their fresh-turned plots into a muddy morass. But one by one the victors claimed their prizes, and the clash of sword on shield slowly died away. The weary knights retired, captives in tow, to the lists.
The sound of horns cut through the cold air as the king himself rode out to acknowledge the victors of this engagement. Although now well past his fiftieth summer, King Henry was still a formidable figure in the saddle. He sat tall and straight, the golden lion emblazoned on his tunic catching the sun’s gleam. Pausing before his son, he said something to John, who shrugged. The king rested his forearms across the cantle and leaned down to hold discourse with Lord Ian.
They were settling the terms of the ransom, Madeline knew. De Burgh would claim John’s destrier, of course. The costly war-horse, worth more than a small manse, always went to the victor. Most like, Ian would also come away richer by a fortified castle or two—as if a person of his wealth needed them, Madeline sniffed. Of a sudden, her enthusiasm for the tourney faded.
“’Tis colder than a sow’s belly out here,” she said to Lady Nichola. “What say you we return to the castle?”
The other woman laughed and tossed her veil over her shoulder with a coquette’s practiced ease. “As you will. I’ll admit my toes are like to fall off, they’re so frozen. I just hope I get the use of them back before the banquet and dancing tonight.”
As they galloped across the winter-browned earth, their escort at their heels, Madeline decided to use the hours this afternoon to prepare for the great feast that would celebrate the tourney. Will would follow at her heels most of the night, if she let him, which would displease his brother mightily. If she had to deflect de Burgh’s cold glances all night long, she needed the armor of her best looks. Ignoring a twinge of guilt at using the boy as a pawn in what had become a silent war between her and his brother, Madeline plotted her strategy with all the skill of a great marshal.
The first step in her campaign, she decided, was a bath. She knew the servants would be heating great caldrons of water for the returning knights. A few copper pennies delivered by Gerda would divert one of the wooden tubs, and sufficient buckets of hot water to fill it, to the ladies’ bower.
She had barely stepped into the steaming water, dotted with scattered rose petals, when a knock sounded on the door to the tower room. Madeline sank down in the wooden tub until the scented water covered her shoulders. Then Gerda lifted the latch.
“Aye?”
A gangly page in parti-color hose and a loose knee-length tunic stood on the threshold. His eyes rounded at the sight of Madeline in the tub.
“Don’t ye be gawking at my mistress, lad,” Gerda admonished. “What do ye want?”
“I have a message for the Lady Madeline de Courcey from Ian, Lord de Burgh.”
Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Madeline plucked a linen towel from the stool beside the tub to cover her breasts and swiveled to stare at the page. What? Was the battle between her and the earl to be joined so soon? “Well, what is it?”
“Your pardon, lady, but Lord Ian requests your presence immediately.”
Madeline felt her jaw sag at the imperious summons.
“He awaits you in the solar just behind the great hall. I’m to lead you to him.”
She waved a wet, disdainful hand. “Inform the earl that I’m otherwise engaged. He may seek me out after the banquet this eve if he desires discourse with me.”
“But, my lady…”
“Shut the door, Gerda. The draft chills the water.”
A satisfied grin curved Madeline’s lips as she slid back down, letting the warm water wash over her shoulders once more. She rested her head against the rim of the tub and wished she could see de Burgh’s face when he received her response.
She regretted that wish mightily not ten minutes later. She was on her knees, head bowed for Gerda to rinse the soap from her hair, when the wooden door to the tower room crashed open.
Gerda shrieked and jumped back. The jug she’d been using to sluice water over her mistress slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.
Madeline sloshed around in the tub, pushing through the curtain of hair that cascaded over her face. Soap stung her eyes and blurred the figure who stepped into the chamber.
“My lord, ye cannot come in here!” Gerda’s dismayed warble had Madeline scrabbling for a linen towel.
“Get you gone. I have business with your mistress.”
“Are you mad?” Madeline swiped the soap from her eyes, then clutched the linen frantically over her breasts. “Get out of here!”
De Burgh ignored her, addressing the maid. “You may wait outside and attend your lady when I have said what I will to her.”
Gerda sent Madeline a helpless look.
“Go,” she ordered. “Go and summon the king’s guard.”
When the maid scuttled from the chamber, de Burgh turned to face Madeline. His blue eyes surveyed her coldly, from the soap-filled mass of hair that tumbled over her shoulders to the swell of her breasts under the wet linen.
He must have come straight from the tourney, she thought furiously. He’d removed his great helm and the greaves that protected his shins, but under his mud-spattered
