well enough to bring honour on himself, his colleague and his country, but not so well as to harm the Anglais. That was what the code of chivalry said.
For a moment, he pondered taking pity on the young man. He had a few crumbs of chivalry left in his trencher. A very few.
He could ride the requisite three passes with a gentle touch and allow his opponent to leave the field with his pride intact.
But men said one thing and did another. They gave an oath of fealty, then deserted their posts at battle. They swore to protect women and then raped them instead.
They cared nothing for honour, only the pretence of it. Some days, it seemed as if life was only a giant disguising with everyone pretending to be what they were not.
He was tired of pretending.
Today he would protest the only way he had left. Not to kill the young man, no. But embarrass him? That, he could do. That, he would enjoy.
His destrier shifted beneath him, stamping cold, hard ground that did not yield. He looked to the side, the starter gave the sign and he kicked his horse to ride.
* * *
Cecily refused to applaud the first Frenchman’s victory until Isabella nudged her in the ribs. ‘The dark-haired Frenchman fought masterfully, don’t you think?’
Forced into clapping, she did so without enthusiasm. ‘How can you say anything good about a Frenchman?’
‘You talk as if he were an infidel. You forget my father’s French blood.’
Yes, it was French blood flowing through the royal veins that had entitled King Edward to claim the throne of France. Cecily felt no such tie. Men like these, perhaps even these men, had killed her father. And then after his death had come her mother’s...
She sighed, chastened by Isabella, and gazed back out on the field. With a helmet covering his face, the blond warrior in the blue-and-gold surcoat looked even more threatening, as if he were not human at all. She could only hope he would not wound Gilbert. Of course, this was not war. No one died in a tournament.
At least, not very often.
The herald gave the sign, she sent up a prayer for Gilbert’s safety and braced for another drawn-out contest with lance and sword.
The horses charged, hooves pounding the turf, blue and gold galloping towards green and white. Atop his horse, Gilbert sat off-centre, unsteady, while the Frenchman rode as solid and immovable as Windsor’s walls. She held her breath, as if that would make a difference. They were going too fast, what if the Frenchman really—?
Lances clattered on steel. Something flew across the field. A lance tip? A glove? Gilbert’s horse reared.
Then, Gilbert lay flat on his back, his green-and-white surcoat covering the earth like spring grass.
She jumped to her feet. Was he wounded? Or worse? Not another loss, please...
The Frenchman backed his horse away, so the beast would not accidentally trample the boy. As Gilbert’s squire scampered on to the field, Gilbert sat up unaided and removed his helmet. Without the protection of his armour, shadowed by the man towering over him on the horse, he looked as young and thin and untried as he was.
But, thank God, unhurt.
Isabella arched her brows. ‘I fear your scarf is a lost cause.’
‘It was hardly a fair match. And since it was not, the French knight should have been chivalrous enough to spare the boy.’
‘I don’t think that one cares for courtesies. His friend, however...’
And as Isabella spoke, the French knight, the warrior Cecily had wanted to see toppled, turned his horse and left the field.
This time, there was no applause.
Westminster Palace—that night
Cecily scanned the cavernous Hall of Westminster Palace from the edge of the dais as servants bearing flambeaux wandered among the crowd. Torchlight flickered, casting shadows over the faces, and she studied each one, searching for her future.
Would the tall earl from the West Country be chosen as her husband? Or perhaps the stout baron from Sussex who had recently buried his wife?
Yet French hostages dotted the crowd as well, marring her mood. She was not inclined to feign politeness to more of her father’s killers. At least, surely, the one who bested Gilbert would dare not show himself tonight.
Determined to impress the visiting kings with the full power and glory of his court, King Edward defied the darkness of the night. The high table was crowded with bronze candlesticks and dozens of twinkling flames.
Yet, for Cecily, memories lurked in the shadows. When her father was alive, he sat at the king’s table. When her mother was alive, they whispered their judgements of the ladies’ gowns. The scarlet that Lady Jane was wearing, her mother would have admired—
‘Cecily? Did you hear me?’
She leaned forward to catch Isabella’s whisper. ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’
A frown creased Isabella’s face. ‘Attend. Father has had good news about Scotland. He’s in a bounteous mood and not as clear-headed as usual,’ Isabella whispered. ‘You may find yourself promised to the nearest available lord before the night is over.’
Cecily looked around the hall, steeling herself. ‘Has he mentioned anyone in particular?’
Isabelle shook her head. ‘Not to me.’
She did not know who she would marry, yet she knew he would be an Englishman, loyal and strong. A man the king could trust as implicitly as he had trusted her father, for Losford Castle, Guardian of the Channel, was the most important bulwark in all of England, the one that could keep England’s enemies away from her shores.
It could only go to a man for whom duty was all.
As it was for her.
She had grown up knowing this would be her lot, always. She was the only child of the Earl of Losford and sole holder of the lands and title. She would marry as her parents, and the king, decided.
‘Do you think about him?’ Isabella’s question brought her back.
‘I think about my father every day.’ Not that she had seen him every day while he lived. Like all men, he had spent much of his life at war in France.
‘I meant your husband. Who he might be.’
Strange question to come from a woman long unmarried. Yet Cecily’s father had not hurried her marriage, either. Even as she passed an age to be wed, her world had remained her parents, their castle and the court.
She’s not ready, her mother had whispered to her father.
But the death of her parents had rent her world so thoroughly that she wondered whether even a husband could make it whole again. ‘I think only that I will accept the king’s choice.’ As was her duty.
