final day of the tournament dawned as fair and crisp as all the rest. It was to be a day of miracles. I was Queen of the Lists, offering my glove—the partner of the one I had bestowed on Jonty—to John Holland who made me the object of his gallantry.
On that day he fought, demon-possessed. No one could defeat him. He was brave and bold and entirely admirable in his defeat of his opponents.
I crowned him with laurels: presented him with the purse of gold.
After supper I danced with him, conscious only of the clasp of his fingers around mine, the agile strength of his body. Never had I felt so full of life and joy. All sense of duty and discretion was set aside, all the warnings cast adrift. Henry and the Princess meant well, but I saw no dangers in my demeanour, even when Sir John stole another kiss on my wrist.
‘You should not.’
‘Would you rather I did not?’
‘Would you desist if I did?’
‘I would think about it …’
And he would do exactly as he pleased. And since John Holland loved no one but himself, he was no danger to me. And since my father did not see fit to reprimand me, then why should I not enjoy my knight’s company?
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