the fallen champion, and stared at Troye de Valois. His few supporters cheered, but most were shocked. For the two knights, however, there was no regret on either side, only male acceptance of youth and that some things must come to an end if others were to have a beginning.
Troye was triumphant and gave a yell, shaking his clenched fist in the air, the adrenalin pumping fast through his veins and bunching his muscles with heady excitement. Yet later, at the end of the day, when he went to the King’s dais to collect his prize, Troye saw a little girl with long auburn hair clutching at the rails as she stood in the gallery above watching the proceedings. He recognised her and smiled, but she only stared solemnly back at him. She turned and ran to a blonde woman who could only be her mother, judging by the similarities in fine features and blue eyes, despite the startling difference in hair colouring that gave him a moment’s pause for doubt. Yet the child flung herself down in the vacant seat beside the woman and folded her arms across her little chest. Troye collected his gold ingot, his handsome features giving cause for many an admiring glance from the ladies in the stand. His own true love was many miles from London, and his vows to her he did not take lightly. Yet there was one female he cast his glance to—the maiden who would a knight be, and he bowed to her, smiling at her grudging little nod in salute of his victory, a gesture remarkably mature for one so young.
Ellie was devastated to see her uncle fall in the lists. She had felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes, and yet they were staunched by her traitorous admiration for the knight who had this day proven himself the victor. He was very handsome indeed, very strong and bold and skilled at all forms of the art of combat. Ellie could not help but lose her heart to him. Soon they left Arundel and set off for home. Her uncle recovered quickly enough from his broken arm and bruised head, and her Aunt Beatrice announced her heartfelt relief that at long last her husband was ready to concede that his body was not as strong as his ego, and the time had come to retire.
Her father, Lord Henry Raven of Ashton, did not take them to tournaments again for a very long time, and when at the age of twelve Ellie experienced the changes that shaped her for womanhood, she put away her tunic and her wooden sword, at her mother’s insistence. She resigned herself to being a lady. She found other pursuits to enjoy, and as the years passed she found that it was not such a burden to be a lady. Indeed, she took great pleasure in dressing in becoming gowns of silk, of learning how to manage a household efficiently, and from her Aunt Beatrice she learned simple herbal remedies for everyday ills. Ellie greatly enjoyed listening to the tales told by travelling troubadours, tales of heroic deeds performed by handsome knights of exceptional courage and valour. None of them could compare to her Uncle Remy, of course. In her eyes he was the most handsome, and the most brave, of all knights in the kingdom, yet he was, after all, her uncle and he could not fill the space in her heart that yearned for love. A space that she had already assigned.
Her mother groomed her for her future life, which would be as wife to a knight of good standing and mother to his children, gently schooling her in the arts of being a lady and a woman. Ellie became aware that her face was considered to be beautiful and her slender form desirable. As she grew older she noticed that both had an effect upon the opposite sex, yet she felt that much was lacking in all the males of her domain. What Ellie wanted was a hero. A real man, a man of strength and honour and courage and valour, a man who had fought in battles and overcome all adversity, and who was not afraid to stand up and be counted, as in the troubadour’s tales. She knew of such a man, and over the years had heard his name mentioned many times. She was fourteen when she realised that all men must measure against the standard that was Troye de Valois.
Such a man did not exist in Ellie’s very small world, for most of the eligible knights had gone to Wales over the years to fight the King’s good fight, or now to Scotland as Edward sought to bring to heel the passionate and rebellious Scots. There remained at Castle Ashton, and in their neighbourhood, only young boys training as pages and priests; officials of the king’s new judicial system, sheriffs and reeves and judges; ancient men too worn and weary to climb into the saddle and resigned to a life as Lord Raven’s hearth knights. Perhaps if it had not been so, and she had met young knights in the usual way, she would not have clung to the image of Troye de Valois. She harboured him ardently within her heart, where neither logic nor absence could persuade her love to fail. She waited impatiently, anxious for Mother Nature to complete the nurturing process and for her body and her mind to emerge as a full-grown woman.
On his eighteenth birthday Rupert was selected to join the King’s Own Guard, serving as a cadet in the elite company of men guarding the king’s life with their own. Eleanor pointed out to her father that it was unfair that Rupert should have this advantage while she, a marriageable heiress, rusticated in the countryside. Her mother fully agreed that only at the court of King Edward would a suitable husband be found for their Eleanor and, at last, they made the journey to London that Ellie had dreamed of for many years. She was sixteen, and her greatest asset was not in the shine of her long auburn hair or the beauty of her face, nor the graceful shape of her figure, but the inner glow of love that shone from within. Her love for Troye de Valois had never ceased nor faltered over the years and, while her parents pondered on suitable bridegrooms, Ellie had no doubts about the man whom she wished to marry.
Chapter One
Cheapside, London—August 1295
Crowds of people had been waiting all morning for the procession that was now approaching, and a wave of cheering billowed on the warm morning air. The blast of trumpets vibrated on an elusive breeze, stirring dozens of colourful banners that adorned the stands on either side of the lists, and echoed in miniature by the pennons fastened on the end of the lances carried by the knights who would be competing in the tourney.
Resplendent in full armour, the knights gleamed silver-bright in the sunshine, helm-less that they might be seen by the adoring crowds, who had their well-loved favourites, and their loathlings. Above the noise of cheering, the jingle of harness and clop of many hooves upon the dusty road as they entered the stadium, there was also the sibilant hiss of jeering. It was well known that some knights won by ruthless methods other than skill, and whilst all knights must possess a brutal aggressiveness or lie slaughtered upon the field of battle, the manner in which it was applied was a matter hotly debated.
At the head of the procession rode the marshals and the constables, dressed in their frogged livery and full of smug satisfaction at their own importance, for it was they who would keep order, it was hoped, when male tempers raged hot and uncontrollable. Yet they were not held in adoration as the knights were, who each followed behind his own herald. At the forefront of the twenty knights invited to compete this week rode the champion of England, and the people’s darling—Troye de Valois.
His chestnut stallion danced, swinging his noble head as Troye held the reins with skilful yet casual ease. His dark hair had recently been cut short to the nape of his neck, so that in the hot summer sun he did not sweat unduly within his great helm. The crowd cheered even louder at his passing. Harlots hung from balconies and windows, eager to catch his attention. From their fingertips fluttered flower petals and ribbons cut from their chemises, for there was nothing more erotically alluring than a handsome man graced with a pair of broad shoulders and clothed in a masculine aura of strength, courage and danger.
Troye narrowed his eyes against the sun and the adulation, in equal measure. He had no doubts that once his rear end landed too often upon the dusty ground, he would be darling no more. At thirty-one he harboured no illusions about the younger men eager to bring about his downfall, and he smiled with rueful acknowledgement, waved his hand in salute, thanking the people of London for their praise, and yet prepared for their inevitable rejection.
Turning his horse into the stadium, he lined up with the other knights before the gallery of spectators, dominated by the King’s dais, bedecked and swagged with colourful bunting and garlands of ivy and ribbon rosettes. The sun slanted sideways, burnishing his deep tan and accentuating the
