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Kellingford Tournament, October

If anyone had asked her, Aimee could have told them the precise moment she had fallen in love with Lord Kentigern. She and her sister had been sat in the stands at Kellingford, enjoying the rare treat their father had secured for them. Since his star was ascending, Gerold Ankatel had vowed his daughters, too, must become accustomed to the finer things in life. They would dress like ladies in gowns of silk and satin, wear dainty slippers upon their feet, and chains of gold about their throats.

The sisters had sat, arm in arm, awaiting the joust with mounting excitement. Aimee had been wholly unaware at the time that she had been about to lose her heart to another. Up until that point, she and her sister had been in perfect accord in their tastes. This was only the second tournament they had ever attended, and at the first, they had spotted the young and boyishly handsome Sir Renlow d’Avenant. He had quickly captured their admiration. His humble manners and his headful of curls would have been enough, but when they spied his tattered standard, dented armor, and faded shield, their sympathies had been firmly secured to his cause. Seeing him once again at Kellingford, they were quick to name him their favorite.

“What a truly estimable young man he seems,” Ursula had whispered shyly. “I do so hope he performs well here.”

“Not puffed up with his own consequence like that odious Sir Jeffree!” Aimee had agreed, thinking of the arrogant Sir Jeffree de Crecy, who they had watched triumph in the melee that morning.

Ursula’s eyes widened. “Aimee! Sister, you must not talk so!” Her sister had looked around nervously, lest any of the mixed company had overheard her.

Aimee sighed. “None heard me but you!” She greatly esteemed her older sister, but she did wish Ursula was not quite so proper and correct at all times.

“Oh no!” Ursula gasped in dismay, raising her fine cambric scarf to her mouth and covering it. The crowd groaned along with her in collective sympathy.

“What is it?” asked Aimee, looking up from where she had been trying to retrieve a sticky date from her own kerchief.

“You won’t believe who poor Sir Renlow has drawn for the joust,” Ursula said, tears starting to form in her eyes.

“Who?” Aimee asked, twisting in her seat to see who was entering the stadium. Her own mouth fell open at the sight that confronted her as the huge charger lumbered in, bearing its dread master. He looked like a demon from some terrifying text, promising dire punishment in the afterlife.

Had anyone had asked Aimee to imagine what a knight of hell would look like, without a doubt she would have thought of Lord Kentigern. With his horned helmet and black armor, he looked like some powerful creature of the underworld, come to drag his opponent to hell. Watching him in action only cemented this impression.

At their previous tournament, she and Ursula had sat in terrified silence, watching him reduce some unfortunate knight to a helpless victim in what seemed like mere minutes. He had wielded his freakish strength with brutal and destructive intent. At his win, the crowd had sat in complete silence, staring as he had drawn off his helmet to salute the royal box. For removing his helmet had revealed an even more terrifying sight – his disfigured features. He could not have failed to hear the audience’s reaction.

Ursula had hidden her face in her scarf, but Aimee had been unable to look away from the cruel and heavy scarring which covered the left side of his face. The eye on that side had to be blind, for it was completely white. At the king’s acknowledgement of his win, the crowd had broken out in a hasty smattering of polite applause. Kentigern had barely seemed to notice, exiting the arena as imposing and intractable as when he had stalked into it.

Watching him enter the field now, Aimee was filled with misgiving. “’Tis Lord Kentigern!” she breathed with dismay. “He’ll destroy him!” She glanced back at Sir Renlow, who was manfully squaring his shoulders and leading his horse to the starting position.

Ursula twisted her scarf. “That poor young man!” she moaned. “To be cut down in the prime of his life!”

“I don’t think they are actually permitted to kill one another,” Aimee said uncertainly, glancing about. All around her she could see the audience tutting and shaking their heads. They, too, felt bad for the handsome young knight who was seemingly doomed in the first round of the joust. It really was too bad!

“I don’t think I can watch,” Ursula said, lifting her scarf to shield her eyes. “Tell me when it’s over.”

Aimee nodded, only too familiar with her sister’s squeamishness. She straightened her own spine. Sir Renlow was facing his cruel fate so manfully that the least she could do was bear witness to his valor. She kept her eyes on his upright figure as he lowered his visor, poised ready for the off. She did not see the signal given but watched as his white destrier lurched forward. The thunderous barrage of the horse’s hooves seemed almost deafening as they pelted down the length of the field.

Despite her resolve, Aimee found her eyes squeezing shut of their own accord as the inevitable collision occurred. She heard the crash and splinter of lances, the heavy thud of a fallen body as it hit the ground.

“Is it over?” Ursula mumbled.

Aimee started to nod before she realized that it was the black horse that was riderless and not the white. She gave a squeak. “No!” she breathed. “I can scarce believe it!” All around, hushed sounds of wonderment were breaking forth from other spectators as they beheld the fallen figure of Lord Kentigern lying prone in the dust.

“What has happened?” Ursula asked urgently. “Is he dead?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Aimee said, though to her eye, it seemed Lord Kentigern was entirely insensible, he lay so still. She nudged her sister. “It’s not what you think! Sir Renlow has triumphed, sister!”

Ursula lowered her scarf and gaped at Sir Renlow, who remained in his saddle as though he, too, were frozen in disbelief. Ursula drew in a shocked and ragged breath as Sir Renlow dismounted and a page darted forward to throw a bucket of water over the stricken Kentigern. “No! Do not revive him!” Ursula burst out anxiously. “He will surely be furious!”

Sure enough, Lord Kentigern stirred and suddenly sat up, causing a buzz of consternation from the crowd. “’E’ll kill him!” someone opined from Aimee’s right. “Rip out his guts wiv his bare ’ands, you see if ’e don’t!”

To everyone’s horror, Sir Renlow started toward his fallen foe, a smile of singular sweetness spreading over his face. The arena fell into horrified silence at such foolhardiness. Lord Kentigern wrenched off his helmet, exposing his ferocious features, and clambered to his feet. “Boy!” he roared, and the crowd flinched.

Suddenly, the two opponents were embracing, or a rough approximation of an embrace that involved jarring blows to each other’s backs and a sort of grasping of each other’s shoulders. Sir Renlow had so wide a grin across his face that it looked like it would almost split in two. He was laughing, and Aimee could see Lord Kentigern’s beard moving as he spoke in what she could only surmise was a congratulatory speech, for she could not hear the actual words.

“I don’t believe it,” Ursula uttered in stunned accents, fluttering her scarf against Aimee’s shoulder. “Do you see that, Aimee? Lord Kentigern is happy for him! Actually happy!”

But Aimee could not answer. Her gaze was riveted to Lord Kentigern’s dirt-streaked face. She felt love’s arrow pierce her to the quick as tears flowed from her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks unchecked. Most noble Lord Kentigern!

Finally, she, Aimee Ankatel, knew what it was that poets wrote of in their rhyming couplets and celebratory verse. The clouds rolled back. Trumpets blasted. Birds sang. She had fallen in love, suddenly, wildly, madly in love. Not with handsome Sir Renlow, but with the mighty Lord Kentigern.

She had spent the rest of the day in a daze. She did not even remember her sister leading her out of the bustling crowds to meet up with their sponsor, Lady Wycliffe, for some refreshment. She could not have told anyone what she ate or drank or even what they had sat and watched for the rest of the afternoon.

The sisters had been transported back to Wycliffe Hall, and Aimee had been strangely silent as Ursula regaled their father and Sir Maurice at supper with the tales of the knightly prowess they had seen that day. Sir Renlow featured heavily in her sister’s narrative, and Ursula’s shining eyes and flushed cheeks were not lost on Aimee as she praised that knight’s impressive victory. It was not like her sister to gush or speak so freely, especially in front of a table full of strangers. Sir Renlow’s performance had evidently moved her greatly.

“And you, Aimee? Did you enjoy the tournament also?” her father asked, turning to her. “You are quiet, my child. It is not like you to fall silent as your sister chatters away like a bird.”

“Father!” Ursula protested, coloring hotly.

“I would think the two of you had swapped temperaments this day!” Gerold Ankatel joked.

“Nay, Father,” Aimee hurried to reassure him. “I am only thinking of – of some household matter I have left neglected at home.” She saw her sister’s surprise at this, for it was Ursula and not Aimee who was the conscientious one when it came to keeping house for their father.

Her father, however, saw nothing amiss with her hasty reply. “Well, well,” he had said kindly, patting her arm. “You must not fret about that now. We will soon return to Caer Lyoness, but I want you to make the most of your opportunities here. You are meeting many fine people, good nobles all, yes? You remember what Papa said about how our prospects are changing?”

“Yes, Papa,” Aimee hurried to assure him. She noticed the pointed look Lady Wycliffe exchanged with her husband. To mention such things in public was considered vulgar by people like the Wycliffes, even though they were happy enough to take Gerold Ankatel’s money in exchange for introducing his daughters to their circles. Seeing Ursula bite her lip, Aimee realized her sister was also aware of their host’s disapproval of their father’s frankness.

“Good, good.” Gerold Ankatel beamed at his daughters as they bade him goodnight and climbed up the stairs to the guest bedroom they were sharing at present. “That’s my good girls, making Papa proud.”

As she and Ursula had undressed for bed, Aimee cast many looks her sister’s way. Ursula washed and brushed her hair, sweetly oblivious to Aimee’s regard. As soon as the servant withdrew, Aimee sat on the edge of the bed, braiding her own long black hair. She asked lightly, “Do you suppose that Papa meant it? What he said about our being able to look in high places now for friends and acquaintances?”

Ursula set down the silver-backed brush. “I believe so,” she said gravely. “For you must realize, Aimee, you better than anyone, that Papa is now …”

“Immensely wealthy,” Aimee finished off for her.

Ursula nodded. “It hardly seems possible,” she continued in an awed voice. “But as you know, Papa now even boasts connections at court.”

“Yes, but –” Aimee bit off what she had been about to say, selecting her words carefully. “Money is not … everything.”

Ursula looked up quickly. “To be sure,” she agreed. “Papa may sponsor even the king himself, but …”

“He is still a merchant,” Aimee finished off heavily.

“Yes. And that is nothing for us to be ashamed of,” Ursula said in a rush of words. “For he came by his fortune honestly and is moreover an excellent man of business.”

“Oh, I agree! Wholeheartedly!” Aimee concurred hastily. “It is just that, to people like the Wycliffes, we will never be palatable company.” She hesitated. “It never occurred to me to enquire before, but why does Papa not accompany us on the visits we make with Lady Wycliffe?”

Ursula hesitated. “He does not want to ruin your chances, Aimee. Father intends a fine match for you,” Ursula said softly. “You are young and beautiful and will be heavily dowered. You can have your pick of all the land for husbands.” Her sister rose and crossed the room to climb into the canopied bed they were sharing.

Aimee fastened the end of her braid and did not speak the words that hovered on her lips. What of you, sister? Instead, she flung her braid over her shoulder and made her way around to the other side of the bed, climbing under the covers to lie beside her.

Once she was settled, Ursula leaned over and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.

“What of you, Ursa?” Aimee asked using the pet name from childhood. “Why should you not take your pick of husbands also?” It was somehow easier to ask that question in the dark.

“I am better at home with Papa,” Ursula answered swiftly without pause. “You know that when I was younger, I worked at Papa’s spice stall in the marketplace.”

“But Papa has so many assistants now. You have not had to serve spices in ever such a long time.”

“That is true,” Ursula agreed mildly. “But I still keep his books for him and make sure his home is comfortably run.”

“Papa could take a steward now and a bookkeeper,” Aimee persisted. “There is no longer any need for you to sacrifice yourself and run things for him.”

“I am happy to do it,” her sister said simply. “You must never imagine that I am not. Besides, I am good at it.”

Aimee frowned into the darkness. “And what about when I have left and am settled into my own house? Will you not be lonely without my companionship, sister? When Father is sat with his cronies, drinking wine, and sends you to bed so that they may speak freely?”

Ursula was silent a moment, seemingly pondering her answer to this. “You will want me to come and visit with you, I am sure,” her sister rallied stoutly. “And give me plenty of nephews and nieces to spoil. I will spend my evenings writing you long letters and practicing my lute.”

Aimee sighed, giving up on this approach. Her sister was too complacent in her role as the prop of their father’s old age. “What if Father were to remarry?” she flung out into the darkness. “What then? You would not even be mistress of your own home! His new wife could bring him stepchildren who would supplant you and steal your portion on his death.”

Ursula gasped, propping herself up on one elbow to look at Aimee, even though she would not be able to make out her features in the dark. “Aimee, where is this coming from?” her sister asked in troubled accents. “Father has never indicated that he is looking to take a second wife. Indeed, the way he speaks of Mama, I cannot imagine –”

“Oh fie, Ursula!” Aimee burst out. “He is so rich these days, he even pours coins into the king’s coffers! Do you imagine some canny widow will not soon have him in her sights! You are not blind; you must know that the Widow Hemmings has set her cap at him this past three years –”

“Aimee!” Ursula’s shocked tones sounded deeply grieved. “This is not a proper subject for us to be speaking of.”

“Ursa –”

“No, Aimee!” her sister cut her off resolutely, and her voice shook with emotion. “Please do not wound me by giving voice to such matters. It is not our place to judge Papa and –” Ursula broke off with a suppressed sob, and Aimee guessed her sister had dropped back onto her pillows and rolled away from her.

Aimee bit her lip. Upsetting her sister was the last thing she wanted to do. Any discussion of Mama always brought Ursula to tears. She remembered their sainted mother so much better than Aimee who was younger and had really been raised by her sister. “I did not mean to wound you, Ursula,” she said in a small voice. “It is my sincere attachment to you that brings me to raise such matters.”

“I know, Aimee,” her sister’s tearful voice replied after a heavy pause. “I do not mean to be vexed with you. You have always been warm of heart and impetuous of speech. It is one of the things that makes you so lovable.” Aimee felt her sister’s hand groping for hers in the darkness, and they clutched each other’s fingers tightly for a moment.

Aimee lay wondering if she should try a different approach. “Sir Renlow seems to be in dire financial straits,” she ventured and heard her sister’s softly indrawn breath.

“To be sure,” Ursula replied sounding slightly strained.

“It seems likely, then, that he might welcome patronage from one such as Papa?” Ursula did not answer for a full minute, and Aimee thought as usual her sister was likely measuring her words carefully before speaking them aloud. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “Do you know of any existing attachment or betrothal with regards to that knight?”

The pillow rustled, and Aimee guessed her sister was shaking her head. “I have never made enquiry,” Ursula said at last. “But I think … that is, I am sure that it would be a good match for you, sister. Would you like me to approach Papa on your behalf?”

Aimee lay silent a moment with astonishment, both that Ursula could think she intended Renlow for herself, and also that Ursula should suggest herself as an intermediary on such a matter. Ursula was so reticent that picturing her in the role of emissary was hard to imagine. “I was not thinking of myself,” she said at last, “but of you.”

This time, Ursula’s gasp was audible. “Me?” she said in stunned accents, the bedsheets rustling as she sat up in bed. “Aimee, what can you mean?”

Aimee looked in the direction of her sister’s dim white form. She wished she had not blown out the candle now. “I was thinking of Sir Renlow for you,” she said simply.

Ursula sat very still. “Aimee …” she said at last in wobbly tones. “Y-you must not think that I –”

“I can tell you admire him,” Aimee rushed on. “And I think you would suit him admirably.”

“No, no, dear sister,” Ursula protested. “He would be far better suited to you! You are so much closer to him in both age and beauty –”

“Just how old is Sir Renlow?” Aimee demanded, thinking of his youthful appearance with sudden misgiving. Ursula was rather on the shelf, in truth. She had turned down the only offer she had ever received and made herself too indispensable to their father, so he had been loath to part with her when she had reached marriageable age.

“I believe he numbers some two and twenty,” Ursula stammered. “The same age as yourself.”

“Well, but you are only seven and twenty. What does a couple of years signify when it comes to such matters?”

“Five years, dear,” Ursula corrected her painstakingly.

“After all, what is five years?” Aimee asked practically. “There are five years between us, but were ever any two sisters as close as we? Five years is hardly an insurmountable barrier to love.”

“Love?” Ursula echoed. “Aimee, my dear …”

“What is wrong?” Aimee asked patiently. Ursula was ever a worrier. It came of the fact she had been expected to pick up so many of their late mother’s responsibilities too young.

“You must understand,” Ursula said with some difficulty. “That among these nobles, love does not enter into such matches. It is other, more practical considerations that take precedence.”

Aimee waved a hand which her sister would not even see. “Oh, yes, to be sure!” she agreed airily. “Very well, let us look at it from that angle. You are a very wealthy heiress –” Ursula spluttered, but Aimee ignored her, plunging on. “And Sir Renlow is an impoverished knight in much need of funds.”

“Aimee –”

“You have so many sterling qualities and would make him an admirable wife quite apart from the wealth you would bring him.”

“I hardly think –”

“– you are capable, kind and honest, and –”

“I am not beautiful like you, Aimee,” Ursula interrupted her.

Aimee thought of Ursula’s dear face and felt her heart contract. “You are beautiful!” she insisted.

“No,” her sister contradicted her simply. “I have a looking glass, Aimee. As Papa has always said, you are his little beauty, and I am his capable one.”

“Oh, curse Father!”

“Aimee!”

“Oh well! I hardly think Papa is a judge,” Aimee huffed, thinking of the Widow Hemmings’s double-chin and rather prominent nose. “He just thinks plump women are pretty. I wish I was as slender as you are, Ursula. I daresay I will be quite stout before I am thirty. In any case, I will speak to Father on the morrow.”

“Don’t you dare, Aimee!” Ursula gasped. “Besides,” she added in a stronger voice. “Besides, it is not just these considerations which convince me I am ill-suited for such a match.”

“What, then?” asked Aimee, her ears pricking up.

Ursula lay back down on the mattress and let out a sigh. “I am not blessed with your sunny nature. I do not have your resilience.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Aimee wondered aloud. For no one knew Ursula’s retiring nature as well as she.

“Anyone who …” Ursula’s voice faltered. “Who marries outside the rank they were born into,” she carried on painstakingly. “Would need to be hardy of nature indeed and … and able to withstand the judgement and censure of others. You are strong of will, and such things would not affect you as much as I. Oh, Aimee,” Ursa confessed in a rush. “Ever since we have been staying under this roof, I have felt I am walking on eggshells, miserably aware of ?…”

“Every glance Lady Wycliffe sends our father’s way,” Aimee supplied for her and heard Ursula’s head turn on her pillow.

“You have noticed it too, sister?” Ursula sounded astonished.

“Of course. She winces and grimaces whenever Father speaks at their table. No doubt, she thinks he should sit there quiet as a mouse, profoundly grateful to find himself in such exalted company.” Aimee’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“That is just what she thinks,” Ursula agreed hollowly.

“Golda says Lord Wycliffe has drunk and gambled away their fortune, and they haven’t a pot to piss in.”

“Aimee!”

Aimee laughed. “I think of what Golda said every time I see Lady Wycliffe shudder, and it brings the serenest smile to my face. You should try it, sister.” She reached out and patted Ursula’s arm. “Now, try not to worry yourself to distraction. I will speak to Father on the morrow, and all will be well.”

“Aimee, you must not,” her sister murmured, but Aimee’s mind was made up. She could not concentrate on her own love for Lord Kentigern when her older sister’s future was not provided for. Something would have to be done.

Ursula deserved to have what she wanted for once, instead of putting her younger sister or Father first. Ursula admired Sir Renlow, and therefore, she would have Sir Renlow. By hook or by crook, Aimee vowed she would make it so.