14

14

“Freda?” Aimee called quietly, knocking on her new kinswoman’s door. “Are you awake?” She had risen ridiculously early and had washed and dressed over an hour ago but had not wanted to break her fast alone. Golda had scolded her as she dressed Aimee’s hair in a heavy, gold beaded hairnet, for she had risen at the crack of dawn. ‘And far too early, Miss Aimee!’

Aimee had not admitted it, but in truth, she had hoped for a glimpse of Lord Kentigern before he left the house that morn. To her disappointment, by the time she had dressed and adorned herself, he had already left, and since then, she had been racketing about the house quite by herself.

On impulse, she had gathered up a handful of her glass topped hairpins to gift to Freda after she had seen the sad state of Freda’s own a couple of days before. The door swung open, and Freda stood in her shift, her hair stood about her in an untidy cloud. “Oh, Aimee!” she said distractedly. “Oh, I scarcely know what I am about this morn. And you already dressed and looking so fine!”

Aimee took one look at Freda’s nervous state and stepped into the room, resolutely closing the door after her. “You have plenty of time, Freda,” she assured her. “I could not sleep and woke betimes. Allow me to assist you in getting ready.”

“So very kind,” Freda twittered, dropping her hair comb and glancing nervously toward the bed. Aimee followed her gaze and to her surprise found a large ginger cat curled up on the covers. “Oh dear,” Freda said twisting her hands together. “I-I do hope you do not mind my co-opting the kitchen cat. Such a comfort, I always think, and such very good company.” She looked to be on the verge of tears as though anticipating a telling off.

“Of course not!” Aimee assured her smoothly. “I did not know we even possessed a kitchen cat, truth be told.” One of the cat’s eyes flickered open to glint at Aimee a moment before he decided she was not worth the effort and shut it again.

“Oh, most houses do,” Freda answered fervently. She twisted about to retrieve a moth-eaten mantle which had fallen off one of her bony shoulders. “They always seem to find their way to me by hook or by crook. I’m afraid Trude always gets rather cross with me appearing with cat hairs all over me. I always think they are such instinctive animals, though. As though they sense a creature who is in sympathy with them and seek them out.”

As she spoke, Freda drifted across the room toward her wash basin, the shawl slipping off her other shoulder and trailing along behind her.

“You have warm water to wash?” Aimee asked, kneeling to retrieve the fallen hair comb and carrying it to the dresser where Freda’s beads and veil lay in an untidy heap. She set the hairpins next to them and shook out the linen veil.

“Oh yes! Ingrid was good enough to bring me some when she woke me.” Freda set about washing her hands vigorously. “She is attending Magnatrude, so I usually shift for myself. It will be quite the luxury,” she twittered, “to have you help me dress, Aimee, dear.” It was at this point she noticed Aimee frowning over the creased veil.

“Oh dear, I am afraid I have always been a very untidy and disorganized creature,” she apologized. “I was so tired when we got back last night …”

“Well, it must have been rather late,” Aimee answered sympathetically.

“Oh, it was!” Freda seized eagerly on the excuse. “I was quite ready to drop! The Countess of Strethneal was so very accommodating that we tarried for far too long, and I fancy the dear earl was heartily glad to be rid of us. But there, Magnatrude could not be dragged away by wild horses!” She bit off her words with a sigh. “Though in truth, I must confess, my dear,” she added conscientiously. “I usually throw down my things any old how. It is a disgraceful habit, and my poor nurse used to scold me dreadfully.”

Aimee smiled. “I am sure there are worse faults to possess. I have bought you some new hairpins, Freda, for I noticed the other day your own are looking in sad repair.”

“Oh, Aimee! How kind!” Freda’s pale eyes filled once more with tears. Aimee’s heart went out to her. She was starting to suspect that Freda was so used to being overlooked by everyone except household cats that she was pathetically grateful even for a few copper hairpins.

“It is nothing,” Aimee hurried to assure her. “I have dozens of them.”

Freda was drying herself off now and started toward her before halting with a loud “Oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand and stared transfixed at Aimee.

“What is it?” Aimee asked, straightening up. “My gown?” She held out her arms so that Freda could get the full effect. Suddenly, she was filled with misgiving. “Do you think it is too much?”

But it was not the gown which held Freda’s gaze but the brooch pinned beneath the insignia of the Kentigerns. “My brooch!” she breathed, then seemed to catch herself and colored violently. “Your brooch, I mean!”

“Yes,” said Aimee, touching a hand to the large silver heart. “Does it not look fine? All polished up and with the dents worked out?”

“Oh, it looks magnificent!” Freda sobbed, with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Freda!” Aimee said with dismay. “Why are you crying?”

Freda shook her head, flinging out a hand. “Do not pay it any attention!” she begged. “It is simply that I am a little overcome!”

“Come and sit on this chair,” Aimee said, walking over to her and ushering her to sit before the looking glass. She rested her hands on Freda’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “It is quite the nicest thing that I own.”

Freda’s mouth formed an unspoken ‘oh’, and she gazed at the brooch in their reflection. “I can scarce believe it,” she muttered and colored again before dropping her gaze. “And for it to be your favorite adornment too, but perhaps you said that just to please me.”

“No,” answered Aimee, beginning to run the comb through Freda’s hair. “I said it because it is true. What do you think of the pearl my father added? Would it originally have had a pearl embellishment?”

“It looks beautiful!” Freda opined. “But as to its originality, I’m afraid I could not say. By the time it was passed to me, it bore no jewels whatsoever.” She scrunched up her face. “I think my mother mentioned it had a sapphire, but I could not say for certain, for it was many years ago, and I did not have the slightest expectation of being able to restore it.”

Between the two of them, they managed to get Freda into her new gown of red satin.

“Oh,” Freda said, turning this way and that as she tried to admire the effect in the looking glass. “I do think the sleeves are most cunningly cut,” she said holding up one skinny arm to show the trumpet shape. “Does it not almost make me look elegant?” Her enthusiasm had given her a pretty flush in her cheeks.

“It looks very well indeed,” Aimee told her. “But I am determined to fetch Golda now to dress your hair, otherwise it will not match the effect of your handsome outfit. And you must borrow a veil from me as this one is so sadly crumpled.”

Freda protested that it was far too much trouble to go to just for her but was overruled. Golda duly tamed her fine flyaway hair and fixed a veil with a wide gold border to the top of her head. “For it matches your surcoat very well indeed, Mistress Freda,” Golda told her sternly.

“Oh, the surcoat,” Freda murmured. “I had almost forgotten.” She glanced at the over-robe of brown and gold. “And very nicely it will go with my amber beads too!”

Both she and Aimee were far too excited to eat much at table. Freda was just telling her that she had not been to a tournament in ‘why, it must be quite ten years’ when Magnatrude came into the dining chamber. Aimee was so surprised to see her sister-in-law taking any meal bar supper below stairs that she almost dropped her slice of bread.

“Good morning,” Magnatrude murmured and seated herself with scant ceremony. She was wearing the maroon velvet gown she had worn to Aimee’s wedding. It was clearly a grand gown which had seen better days. This time, she had teamed with a close-fitting velvet cap which concealed her hair almost completely and looked very severe. Over this was draped a very translucent silk veil without any structure underneath it. Aimee thought she looked more like she was going to her own execution than a royal tournament.

“Oh, er, good morning, dear,” Freda replied. Clearly, she was just as distracted by Magnatrude’s appearance as Aimee was. The two of them exchanged startled glances. Aimee wondered if her sister-in-law was making some sort of point about attending only under sufferance. She shrugged at Freda, and they both looked up as Matthews entered the room. He coughed and stood with his back to the wall, letting them know he was available to escort them when they were ready. They waited only while Magnatrude ate a plate of baked fish and then left for the palace.

*

“Aimee!” Aimee turned her head and smiled politely as Freda introduced her to yet another pair of nobles, when she would much rather be concentrating on what was happening in the field. She looked up at the towering male and the diminutive female stood beaming at his side as she rose to her feet and performed an obligatory curtsey.

“This is the Marquis and Marchioness Martindale,” Freda twittered excitedly. “Their estate in the north is not far from where the Bartree lands always stood.”

There was an awkward silence as everyone was reminded of all that Lord Kentigern had once lost. It trembled on Aimee’s lips to point out that the lands had now been restored to him, by dint of their marriage, but an inner voice pointed out this might appear rather crass.

“And this is our son and heir, Viscount March,” the exquisite little marchioness announced, filling the gap with proud words. She gestured toward an elder woman following in her wake who wore an enormous white wimple and carried an infant who could surely not be more than a year old.

Aimee froze, unsure what the form would be in this case. To be on the safe side, she performed another curtsey in the direction of the baby.

“This is the Lady Kentigern,” Freda continued in her thin, high voice. “Who has lately married my cousin.”

The marquis cleared his throat. “I was glad to hear,” he said gruffly, “that Kentigern’s fortunes have picked up.” He looked as though he wanted to say more but seemed uncertain how to proceed. “It never sat easily with his neighbors that he should lose everything,” he added in a low growl, and his wife placed a hand on his forearm. At that, he looked down at his marchioness who sent him a reassuring smile. He visibly relaxed.

“You must forgive Guy,” the marchioness said, leaning forward conspiratorially. Aimee’s eyes widened at this lapse in formality. “He is always somewhat ill at ease here in the southern capital. He attends court for my sake alone,” she added. “He is the very best of husbands.”

“You are southern,” Aimee blurted with surprise, and the marchioness burst out laughing.

“Oh yes, but he stopped holding that against me a long time ago!”

“Mathilde!” the marquis rumbled, a slight flush mounting his cheeks.

“I am only teasing,” his wife hastened to assure him, but she rolled her eyes speakingly in Aimee’s direction. “We must visit with one another when you are in residence at Bartree Castle,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I look forward to having a neighbor with whom I have so much in common.”

“That was kind of her,” Aimee murmured to Freda as the Martindales moved away. For she must surely know that as a merchant’s daughter, Aimee did not have so very much in common with her after all. Unless, of course, she did not know. Somehow, though, considering the amount of curious stares being shot in her direction, Aimee fancied that the marchioness must surely know.

“Such a pretty little thing, is she not?” Freda said aloud, echoing Aimee’s own thoughts. “The marquis clearly dotes on her which, you know, was a great surprise to everyone. For you see, Martindale had a great many sanctions imposed on him after the north fell. His marriage was one of the conditions he was forced to meet before he was freed.” Freda dropped her voice. “Remind me to tell you about the feast where I first clapped eyes on his marchioness. It was a very great scandal in our part of the world and a nine days’ wonder, I assure you.”

Aimee opened her eyes wide. Now what did that mean? she wondered, glancing after the Martindales. As she watched, the marchioness turned her laughing face up toward her husband, and as though unable to do otherwise, he stooped at once to kiss her mouth. “They seem a most devoted couple,” she observed wonderingly.

“Oh, they are,” Freda enthused. “It quite gives one hope that one day all of Karadok will be healed and unified.”

Freda’s comment startled Aimee a little. She had almost taken it for granted that the country was no longer torn asunder. Of course, her whole life, she had scarcely strayed from the southern capital. As a southerner, on the winning side as it were, it was easy enough to believe that all was now as it should be. Aimee shifted uncomfortably in her seat. For the first time, it occurred to her that she might not receive the warmest welcome in the north.

“Ah, here comes Magnatrude,” Freda observed, and they stood to give her wide skirts room enough to move into their box. “You have just missed the Martindales, cousin.”

Magnatrude’s face fell. “Freda,” she tutted, berating her cousin as she dropped onto the bench. “You must know how particularly I wished to see our neighbors! Did you not tell them I would return directly?”

“No,” Freda answered forthrightly, a hectic flush entering her sallow cheeks. “For their purpose in approaching was to request an introduction to Aimee, not to ask after you!” Magnatrude was clearly astonished by this tart response from the usually meek Freda. Her mouth fell open, and she made a faint spluttering noise, though words seemed to fail her.

Freda turned determinedly toward Aimee. “Are you enjoying the spectacle, cousin?” she asked with an exaggerated civility, clearly demonstrating the attention she felt Aimee was due from her sister-in-law. Magnatrude’s color deepened as Aimee made some polite rejoinder.

“I wonder when we will see my lord take to the field,” Aimee murmured, glancing once more to where the milling knights were taking position for the second stage of the melee.

“As to that, I am not certain,” Freda responded. “But we are sure to spot him. Really, you cannot miss him.”

Which was true enough, Aimee reflected, considering his size. A good many of the knights were tall and even broad, but few possessed her husband’s impressive build. “Oh!” she uttered, sitting up in her seat. “Is that not Sir Renlow d’Avenant? My brother-in-law,” she elaborated, leaning forward as she tried to make out his device.

Though really, she reflected, she was still not at all aware what the crest of the d’Avenants even was. Unlike her, Ursula had not seen fit to embellish all of her bridal trousseau with her new husband’s emblem. She felt a pang of unease when she thought of Ursa. Not seeing her since made her worry that something must be amiss. Was it possible that she had been wrong to persuade her sister into marriage?

It was a new and uncomfortable notion that had assailed Aimee in the early hours of a sleepless night. If only she could snatch a moment’s conversation with her sister, she thought, biting her thumb nail, she could be easier on that score. But though she had cast about most diligently on arriving at the teeming palace grounds, she had searched in vain. She could spot neither hide nor hair of her sister in the crowds and had long since concluded she could not be present.

“I believe it is Sir Renlow,” Freda said consideringly. “For I can see some hair curling underneath his helm, and it is that precise shade of hair that he possesses. He wears it rather long, does he not?”

“He does,” Aimee agreed automatically. “Let us support him in this round,” she said impulsively, turning to Freda and touching her forearm. “It adds a certain enjoyment to being a spectator, or so Ursula and I thought at Kellingford.”

“Of course, my dear,” Freda responded at once. “I have not watched Konrad compete in an age,” she confessed, wrinkling up her eyes. “Why, it must have been before the war that I last watched him,” she observed with faint surprise.

“Really? It has been that long?” Aimee murmured, as she watched the two separate sides forming into their mock battle lines. In truth, she was not so very surprised to hear this. She had started to form the impression that the Bartrees were not the closest of families.

“Sir Renlow’s side are wearing the red arm bands, are they not?” Freda observed as Magnatrude leaned across her to address Aimee.

“The Strethneals are approaching,” Magnatrude interrupted them. “They are an earl and countess, so you must be sure to observe the correct depth in your curtsey.” When Aimee’s expression did not show sufficient gratitude for this honor, she added stiffly. “Konrad particularly asked me to introduce you to them!”

Aimee sighed and came to her feet. The Strethneals were duly introduced, and Aimee was scrupulously polite. The earl was a man of middling height with a rather forgettable face. His countess stared at Aimee rather hard and addressed some remarks in an aside to Magnatrude in a manner which Aimee thought rather rude. It seemed ill breeding was not the only excuse for poor etiquette. “And now we must go in search of the Martindales,” the countess said, turning back to Aimee. “Perhaps we could introduce you to them at some point,” she added in a rather condescending manner.

“The Martindales have already introduced themselves to Aimee this morning,” Freda replied promptly. “And the marchioness invited Aimee to visit with her at Acton March.”

Lady Strethneal’s smile froze. “Oh,” she replied. “I see.” Some inner struggle seemed to wage for a moment before she managed to force out, “When you journey north, you must come and visit with us too, Lady Kentigern, at our residence, Jennings Park.”

Aimee performed her curtsey and turned back to the arena. To her disappointment, the participants of the melee seemed to have descended into a chaotic cloud of dust and flailing limbs. Around the edges lay various inert bodies. “Oh dear,” she muttered. “Did you happen to see what became of Sir Renlow at all?”

“I’m afraid not,” Freda replied apologetically.

Unable to make sense of the struggles below, Aimee let her attention wander to the royal balcony where the king sat next to his yawning queen. For some reason, Aimee had thought the king would be taller. In all the ballads, he was the golden Argent lion, famed for his warlike prowess.

Somehow, he did not look at all like she had imagined he would. His arm rested on the ledge, showing a slashed and puffed sleeve and a large gold ring on one finger. He had a square face, a pugnacious expression, and his hair was more tow colored than gold.

His queen by contrast was dark, with olive skin and a regal bearing. Her glossy hair was caught up in a caul studded with pearls, showing off a long and graceful neck. At her throat she wore a heavy necklace of gold and green stones which Aimee imagined must be emeralds.

“The queen is very beautiful, is she not?” she said aloud.

“Oh yes. That is, I suppose she is,” Freda replied doubtfully. “Though for my part, I think she is one of those women who appears attractive due to her bearing, rather possessing any true purity of feature.”

Aimee turned to Freda with surprise. “How so?” she asked curiously.

“Well,” Freda flushed. “I only mean that her supreme confidence so impresses her audience that they all agree she must be worth looking at!”

Aimee regarded Freda with interest. Once she got over her shy awkwardness, Freda had plenty to say for herself, she realized. She was a good deal less reserved than Ursula, for instance, who would never dream of saying something like that about so lofty a personage.

Then again, she reflected, perhaps Freda only felt that way because she saw Queen Armenal as a southern usurper. “Was the northern queen a great beauty?” she asked, deciding to test her.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Freda replied absently. “I never saw her at close quarters, but King Magnur was as ugly as a squat toad.” At Magnatrude’s shocked gasp, Freda gave a guilty start. Aimee giggled, and after a moment, Freda joined her with a nervous titter.

“You two are behaving abominably!” Magnatrude hissed. “Have you been drinking strong wine to let your tongues wag so?”

“No,” Aimee responded at once. “But that is a very good notion! I am feeling somewhat parched.” She turned back to where Matthews stood in attendance. “Matthews, would you be able to procure us some cups of wine?” Discreetly, she passed him a purse of money. “And please procure some refreshment for yourself. The sun is becoming very warm at this point.”

“Yes, milady.” He took himself off and returned within minutes with a jug of wine, three cups, and a foaming tankard for himself. When Magnatrude refused her share with a stony shake of her head, Aimee shrugged and set it instead at her feet. She was just straightening up when Freda gave an excited gasp.

“It looks as though the next event must be about to start!” A flurry of squires had entered the ring bearing an array of banners which they paraded about the arena, displaying the colors of the various knights. “There! Our colors!” Freda squeaked as a yellow and blue pennant came into sight. She reached out and clutched Aimee’s hand in her bony fingers in a gesture of solidarity that she found quite touching.

Aimee held her head up high, filled with pride to see the likeness of the portcullis she had stitched so lovingly being flourished now before this huge crowd of spectators. Hearing a murmuring in the stands around them, she realized that people must have noticed how closely Aimee’s own gown echoed the Kentigern banner in every way.

She felt her cheeks grow hot as she saw people pointing and talking behind their hands. It suddenly occurred to Aimee that she might have gone rather too far with flaunting her husband’s colors on her body. Had she committed some sort of chivalric faux pas?

Mercifully, the next banner, a red field bearing a panther of black in a walking stance, one claw raised, caught the crowd’s attention away from her, and a mighty roar of approval went up from the masses.

“Dear me!” said Freda. “This one must be quite a southern favorite.”

The wheels of Aimee’s recollection turned. She cast her mind back to the very first tournament she had ever attended. Who had won that one? A famous southern champion, she seemed to remember, with curling dark hair and a handsome face. Vawdrey, she recalled with effort. Sir Something Vawdrey.

“Vawdrey,” she said aloud. “That is his name, I believe. I have seen him compete before, and he is a great crowd pleaser.” She glanced up at the royal box. “I believe they call him the King’s Champion.” Both Magnatrude and Freda looked strangely disconcerted by this information. “What is it?” she asked. “What have I said?”

Magnatrude looked away, but Freda reached out to touch her sleeve. “’Tis naught, Aimee. Only that – well, Konrad used to bear the same title. For the – er –” For the northern king, Aimee realized. Oh. “I mean, in different times,” Freda finished with effort.

Aimee swallowed and nodded. How strange it must feel for northern nobles to attend these events, she realized, which must mirror in many ways the court at Menith, where they had previously served as courtiers. She took a sip of her wine in an effort to dispel such sober thoughts.

The squires were now lining the edge of the field with their banners, standing well back. Trumpets were raised and blasted, and some twenty or so horses entered the arena from the left and the same number from the right.

“It’s Konrad! It seems this time there will be a mounted charge,” Freda announced excitedly.

“Yes,” Aimee agreed, striving to regulate her suddenly shallow breathing. How funny, she thought, to remember how differently she had viewed his emergence into the competitor’s field previously. Then, he had seemed like some sort of terrifying monster about to lay waste to all around him. Whereas now, she could point and say, ‘Who, that? Oh, that is my husband, you know.”

What a pity, she reflected ruefully, that there was no one to hand that she could brag to. It was pointless saying it to Freda or Magnatrude, who knew him far better than she did. Glancing up at that moment, she met the eye of a lady in the next box who was gazing at her with a lively interest.

Aimee flushed with the uncomfortable thought that her face must have betrayed what she had been thinking. The lady looked most definitely amused. She lifted a hand in greeting, and Aimee returned the gesture, a little hesitantly, but with a smile. She jabbed Freda in the ribs with her elbow. “Who, pray, is that lady over there?” she hissed.

Freda glanced across. “I do not know any of these southern nobles,” she answered apologetically. “We could enquire. Which do you mean?”

“The lady with the golden hair in the rose-colored gown.”

Freda looked again. “Do you mean the – the – er,” Freda faltered, and Aimee realized she did not wish to refer to the fact the lady was heavily pregnant.

“The one who is expecting,” Aimee supplied helpfully.

Magnatrude leaned forward and spoke in the discreet, low tone she clearly thought her kinswoman should display. “That is the Countess of Twyford,” she murmured. “An old and venerable northern title,” she added. “The current bearer only acceded to it in the past year. Dear Elizabeth was telling me of it only yesterday.”

“She is very lovely,” Aimee observed, surreptitiously stealing another look at the countess. While it was true, the skin on her face was far from unblemished, Aimee did not think this detracted in any way from a very charming profile. The countess was not wearing her spouse’s colors of black and white, Aimee noted with unease. She glanced down and suddenly wished fervently that she was wearing any other of her own gowns.

“The rumor is, she used to be the greatest beauty in all the south,” Magnatrude added, as though unable to stop herself from sharing a piece of salacious gossip. “Before she was struck down with the scarlet pox, that is.”

“Oh!” Freda lifted a hand to her mouth, and she and Aimee exchanged wide-eyed looks. “How tragic!”

“Well, she is still a fine-looking woman for all that,” Aimee said, feeling her color rise. “After all, what are a few scars?” She stared steadfastly ahead at the arena as an awkward silence greeted her words. She focused on the horned helmet and the looming figure on the huge destrier. He was magnificent, she thought, her bosom swelling. And he was hers!

Magnatrude coughed. “Prevailing opinion places her husband, the earl, as the favorite to win this afternoon’s joust,” she continued loftily.

“The Earl of Twyford jousts?” Freda asked, sounding startled.

“Before he was the Earl of Twyford, he was one Garman Orde,” Magnatrude imparted. “A very great northern champion.”

Aimee turned her head at that. “Oh, I had not realized they were one and the same. He won the joust at Kellingford last year and is a very fierce competitor.”

Of course! She remembered now, the heavily veiled lady who had accompanied him and so captured her own and Ursula’s imagination. There had been that terrible stand collapse, and Aimee had watched, her heart in her throat, as Sir Garman had dug his wife out of the rubble with his bare hands. She had been enthralled by his eventual win and the victory lap he had taken with his wife sat up on his charger before him.

Unable to resist the temptation, Aimee glanced over again at where the countess sat, serene and round with child. Love must have restored her looks to her, she thought, tears springing sentimentally to her eyes.

A cheer from the crowd had her quickly turning back. The king’s flag must have been waved as the two sides were now riding toward each other with their swords drawn. They wore colored armbands, one side green and the other yellow. Lord Kentigern’s arm displayed a green band.

“None of them are bearing spears,” Aimee realized suddenly, turning to Freda. “At Kellingford, they had spears.”

Freda looked bewildered. “Oh, do they not?”

Aimee wondered if there would be many more differences between the royal and the rural tournaments but did not have time for further speculation, for the two sides had met with a jarring clash of steel. Dry dust flew up from the ground and obscured everything as sword arms flailed and shields were raised to deflect the blows raining down on them.

“Oh dear!” Freda flinched. “I had forgotten the wanton savagery of it all!”

The trumpets blasted again, and the horses wheeled about, the two sides separating again and retreating to the opposite side. At least three men had been unhorsed in the hostilities. The squires ran forward to catch their horses by their reins and lead them out of the arena.

One knight sat upright, clutching his helmet, but the other two were lying insensible in the dust. Aimee noticed that instead of being claimed for ransom by the knights who had unseated them, the fallen were instead helped to their feet or dragged from the ring by attendants whose express purpose seemed to be retrieving these unfortunates. Two of those hobbling toward the exit wore green armbands. As they were helped out, the squires withdrew their flags from those displayed. Aimee leaned forward but did not recognize the crests of those being folded up and put aside.

“How do they determine the winning side?” Freda asked in faltering accents.

“Presumably,” her cousin pointed out witheringly, “by the side with most still seated after a certain number of charges.”

Aimee wondered if this was true. If so, it vastly differed to Kellingford, where there had been no prescribed number of charges. There, they had simply continued to scuffle until the final man stood. She supposed it made sense that things would be more organized at a royal tournament.

“Don’t forget your wine,” she prompted Freda who was stood looking dazed as the royal standard of the golden lion was raised ready for the next charge.

“Oh yes,” Freda murmured, sinking down onto the bench and raising her cup to her lips. “I think I’ll just sit a while if you don’t mind, dear.”

“Of course not,” Aimee assured her over the thunder of hooves from the second charge.

The heat was growing almost oppressive in the stands by the time the number of knights had been whittled down to less than ten. The last two knights had fetched each other off and tumbled to the ground, still struggling with one another. When they attempted to continue sparring on foot, officials had interceded, and they were forced to break apart.

Aimee watched as they took the news with very bad grace. One flung out of the arena while the other dragged off his helm to argue the decision. “How strange,” Aimee murmured, for she had certainly seen knights sparring toe-to-toe at Kellingford. It must not be allowed here, though. Aimee recognized the short blond beard and handsome features of the infuriated competitor, even though they were streaked now with dirt and sweat and contorted with anger.

“Who is that?” Freda wondered aloud. “He is exceedingly good-looking, is he not?”

“’Tis Sir Jeffree de Crecy,” Aimee responded disapprovingly. “And in my opinion, handsome is as handsome does.” To her eye, Sir Jeffree looked every inch as proud and disagreeable as he had when she had seen him compete before. She almost fancied she could see the arrogant curl of his lip as he shoved the unfortunate attendant backward, sending him sprawling to the ground.

At their exchange, a lady sat on the bench in front of their own turned around to glance at them. Aimee did not recognize the lady, though in truth, she looked rather out of place among all the silks and satins, for her gown was extremely plain and somewhat homespun in appearance. Aimee wondered how she had managed to secure a seat in such a prominent position unless she was a servant to some grand lady.

The crowd started to boo, though whether it was because of the argumentative knight’s behavior or the fact he was not being permitted to fight on, Aimee was not certain. Sir Jeffree showed no sign of caring either way. He flung his helmet on the ground so hard it bounced and then turned on his heel and stormed out of the ring.

“Such conduct,” Freda tutted, looking shocked.

“Most unbecoming in a knight,” Aimee agreed, as the remaining knights reformed their lines. She was distracted again by the lady in the homespun gown, who was summoning a page from the sidelines. Aimee watched as she gave him a coin and partook of a cup of wine with every sign of enjoyment.

Decidedly, she was not a servant of anyone here present, Aimee thought. For some reason, Sir Jeffree’s ignoble exit seemed to have cheered the woman considerably. She looked quite invigorated as she sat up in her seat and looked around with renewed interest in proceedings.

Aimee was so absorbed in her observations that she quite missed the last charge. Only the blast of several horns recaptured her attention.

“Oh, is it over?” Freda exclaimed, sounding confused.

Aimee glanced down at the arena. “There is only one yellow band remaining on his horse,” she observed. “So, then the green side must be the victors.” Her eyes sought out her husband, but to her disappointment, he had not removed his helmet as the others were doing. She would like to have seen how his expression looked when celebrating a win.

After some bustling by the squires and the attendants, the remaining yellow knights left the ring and the greens lined up to salute the royal box. The king rose and lifted his hands to signify the watching crowds should cheer the victors.

“It is quite deafening, is it not?” Freda quavered. “I declare my ears will be ringing tonight.”

Aimee nodded, but she was watching the victorious knights clapping each other on the back. A couple of them went so far as to grasp Lord Kentigern’s shoulder, but she noticed he did not return the gesture. It seemed he was not at all physically demonstrative when it came to his emotions. Was he smiling behind his visor? Aimee doubted it. Somehow, he seemed isolated and quite alone down there, for all he was flanked by a knight on either side.

Did nothing bring a smile to his face, she wondered sadly. She wanted to ask Freda what he had been like as a boy but sat among this noisy crowd was not the time for such questions. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Lord Kentigern would triumph this afternoon and would find winning the joust more an occasion for celebration?

It grew steadily hotter as the afternoon progressed, and soon, all three women in their party were feeling the effects. Halfway through the jousting, a red-faced Freda was forced to remove her surcoat, though she did it with much lamenting and embarrassment.

“The red satin gown is entirely suitable to wear without it,” Aimee assured her as she folded the garment and set it on the bench beside them. “And you will feel a good deal cooler now.”

The jousters had been steadily whittled down from the starting fifty to now only four men remaining. They comprised of Lord Kentigern, Sir Roland Vawdrey (or Viscount Vawdrey as he now seemed to be addressed by the announcers), the Duke of Twyford, and a popular knight called Sir Edward Bevan of Knollesley. From the buzz of speculation in the crowd, it could be any one of them’s win, though Sir Edward was clearly the underdog.

“This southern heat is so oppressive,” Magnatrude huffed tetchily, flapping her veil. “I wonder that everyone can stand it!”

Neither Freda nor Aimee made reply to so obvious a statement, and so she turned instead to Matthews, requesting he bring her a cup of ale. To her visible annoyance, he turned at once to Aimee for confirmation of the order.

“Yes, Matthews,” Aimee agreed smoothly. “That sounds a very good notion. Do fetch us a pitcher so we may all quench our thirst.” She passed him her purse again, and he bowed and disappeared into the crowd.

Magnatrude’s color rose. “How closely you guard your purse, sister,” she said pointedly. “I suppose you must have learned that at your father, the merchant’s, knee.”

Freda drew in a sharp breath, but before she could check her cousin, Aimee responded.

“Not as closely as you, sister,” she replied at once. “Did you expect Matthews to pay for your refreshment with his own coin?”

“Of course not!” Magnatrude snapped contemptuously. “My brother would have reimbursed him in due course.”

Aimee narrowed her eyes. Her sister-in-law was sweating profusely and looked to be in extreme discomfort. Even so, she could not bring herself to let such a comment pass. “I wonder if you would even have remembered so paltry a sum,” she said aloud. “Paltry to a baron’s daughter, that is, though not to a servant.” Her words were quietly spoken but held a sting. She doubted very much Magnatrude would have remembered to pay Matthews back. “My father, the merchant, taught me many things,” she said gravely, rising from the seat. “Including the prompt payment of debts. If my manners offend you, doubtless it is the disparity in our upbringings which is at fault.”

Magnatrude’s face was scarlet by this point, though whether it was from the hot summer sun or Aimee’s response, she neither knew nor cared by this point.

“Where are you going, Aimee?” she heard Freda cry as she walked to the end of the bench. “I think Konrad competes next.”

“I am going to stretch my legs and find some shade,” Aimee flung back over her shoulder and was glad to hear her voice sounded steady. She could feel the angry tremble in her fingers as she clenched and unclenched them. She had, had quite enough of Mistress Magnatrude, she seethed as she stalked down the steps with a rigid back. It was one thing to slight her, but she would not tolerate snide remarks about her father spoken to her face! Who did Magnatrude imagine she was anyway, to look down upon Gerold Ankatel, the wealthiest merchant in all Karadok?

Choking back angry words that made her throat burn, Aimee turned and paced the narrow walkway that separated their stand from the next. When she reached the next flight of stairs, she wheeled about and retraced her steps. She was fuming and still shaking with anger.

If there was some form she was supposed to follow, such as giving Matthews her monies to caretake, no one had troubled to inform her of it! She came to a halt and bit her lip. Was that what one was supposed to do? Ursula had taught her to keep a firm hold of her purse and to know where it was at all times.

She supposed it probably was different for nobles. She tapped her foot angrily as she contemplated the fact. Now she came to think of it, she had never seen Lady Wycliffe handling a coin in the entire month they had stayed with her. Plunking her hands on her hips, it occurred to her perhaps they considered the handling of vulgar coin as beneath them somehow?

“Milady,” the gruff voice made her turn in alarm, but it was only Matthews. “You can’t be down here by yourself,” he said apologetically. “It ain’t safe. Not for a fine lady like you to be unattended.”

Aimee nodded, though for a moment the words ‘I am not a fine lady’ had hovered perilously close to the tip of her tongue. It was no good taking out her anger on Matthews who was simply being conscientious. “I will just tarry a moment longer, Matthews, if you would not mind waiting,” she forced herself to say on an outward breath. “It is a good deal cooler down here, out of the sun.”

He nodded and reclined against one of the low separating walls, as she re-trod the same path for one final time in a vain attempt to soothe her ruffled feathers. She did not like her sister-in-law, she finally admitted to herself. And Magnatrude did not like her. It was not the end of the world and certainly not the first instance of such discord among in-laws. Even those who were all on equal footing. She shut her eyes and lowered her shoulders, breathing deliberately in and then out again. Another clamor went up from the crowd, and Aimee reflected that she had probably missed the final two bouts. She turned back to Matthews and forced a smile. “Let us return to the box.”

Hot tears pricked at the back of her eyes as Aimee climbed back up the steps to their stand. She did not want to return to her seat, she realized dully. Which was ridiculous. To act as though this spat with Magnatrude had spoiled everything was indescribably foolish. This moment was what she had been daydreaming about since Kellingford. Why, then, was she letting it be spoiled by the opinions of someone she did not even respect?

She was not the sensitive one, she reminded herself. That was Ursula. It wasn’t like her to take someone’s criticisms to heart. Then something flashed into her mind with unpleasant clarity. They were her sister’s words from before her marriage.

“Anyone whomarries outside the rank they were born into would need to be hardy of nature indeed.”

Ursula, she thought, had been right all along. She had been na?ve where Ursula had been shrewd, she thought swallowing down a sudden lump in her throat. She had thought herself resilient enough, but Magnatrude’s refusal to accept her kinship had been steadily chipping away at her confidence since her wedding day.

Perhaps if Lord Kentigern had proved himself an attentive bridegroom, she could have withstood it, but he had been far from that. She remembered how she had stood alone at the bottom of the stairs to hand out the wedding favors to their attendants. Far, far from that. When she emerged blindly into the sunlight at the top of the steps, the arena fell into a deathly hush.

As her dazzled eyes adjusted, Aimee realized that all eyes in the arena were fixed on their box. She cast about in bewilderment. What had happened? Why was everyone staring at them? Then she saw it. The extended lance and the flower garland crown which a lady was taking from the proffered tip. That was what everyone was looking at, Aimee realized with a rush of relief, and not at her after all.

Her eyes sought out Freda for reassurance, but when she picked her out from the crowd, she knew something was very wrong. Freda had a hand over her mouth, and her eyes were stricken. Aimee felt a pang of dread. What was wrong? Her heart lurched. Had Lord Kentigern been injured? Then the murmuring started, growing louder and louder until it seemed almost deafening.

Aimee’s head span. She looked back at the lady with the flower garland and found she, too, was staring at Aimee with a frozen look on her face. She had not placed the crown on her head, just held it in her hands as though she was uncertain what to do with it. To her surprise, Aimee realized the tourney queen was the humbly dressed woman in the drab gown who was sat on the bench in front of theirs.

A sudden presentiment of dread crept along her spine and up to her neck where the fine hairs stood on end, and Aimee shivered in spite of the heat. Slowly, her eyes traveled along the length of the lance, tracking it back to its master, the knight that held it, sat so proudly on his horse at the foot of their stand. Even if she had not known him by sight, the colors on his shield matched so precisely her heraldic gown that every man, woman, and child in the audience must know they were a matched pair.

A sudden burning sensation in her chest jerked her out of her stunned stupefaction. She glanced down stupidly at her chest as though expecting to see at least a dagger, if not a spear had pierced her to the quick. There was nothing there, save the emblazoned crest of the Kentigerns to mock her. As she turned dizzy, it dawned on Aimee that she had not drawn breath in the last few moments and that was what was causing her pain. She dragged in a gasp of fortifying air and teetered a moment where she stood.

Every impulse in her screamed at her to turn and flee back down the steps from whence she had come, away from the prying eyes and the scalding humiliation of the scene playing out in front of her. She was poised perfectly for flight, her rioting thoughts screamed at her. Flee, flee from everyone, back to what she knew. Back home to her father and sister that loved her.

But no, she could not do that, another voice counseled. That was what all these fine folks no doubt expected from the upstart, low-born bride Lord Kentigern had been saddled with. Aimee’s spine stiffened. Instead of pelting back down the steps, she curled her fingers into her palms and plastered a smile to her face. No doubt it looked more like a grimace, but it was the best she could manage, when inside her heart was shattering into a hundred tiny pieces.

She slid one foot forward and then the other as she made her way toward the central aisle of the stand. At least she hoped she was, for she had the strangest feeling that her head was floating off her shoulders, while her body was falling, falling into the depths of hell. Only the grainy wooden floorboards beneath the soles of her feet reassured her that she was still grounded and moving forward. Fortunately, the soles of her best slippers were so thin, she fancied she could feel every bump and knot in the wood.

The speculation of the crowd felt deafening by this point. She barely knew what she was doing when a hand grasped her arm in a tight grasp.

“I have you,” came a harsh voice. “It’s this way.” She did not recognize the voice at first. It was Magnatrude, she realized dully, who had pulled her arm through hers and held it in so firm a grip now as she led Aimee toward their bench. How strange. Her sister-in-law was speaking, she realized. Aimee looked at her lips and saw them moving, but she could make no sense of the steady stream of words. It didn’t matter, she realized. The words didn’t matter, only the actions.

One phrase muttered through gritted teeth suddenly did make sense to her stunned brain. “You’re doing well. Don’t stop now.”

Aimee nodded and smiled, smiled and nodded, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. “Where is Matthews?” she managed to ask between numb lips.

“Behind us. Do not worry, just keep moving forward.”

Between the two of them, they managed to reach the end of their bench. Aimee felt fit to drop, and if it were not for Freda’s welcoming arms, helping her down onto the seat, she might well have sunk to the floor.

“Oh, my dear!” Freda said in a choked voice and was immediately blasted by Magnatrude’s icy gaze.

“Do not undo all her good work now,” her sister-in-law said fiercely. “Pass her that goblet.”

Wine was pressed into her hand, and Aimee raised it to her lips with nerveless fingers. She managed a glance toward the arena and found Lord Kentigern had retreated to the center where he and a second knight were awaiting the king’s commendation. Vawdrey, she realized was the runner-up. They both knelt awaiting the command to rise.

Aimee moistened her lips with wine and tried to moderate her grip on the goblet stem. She could still feel curious, burning gazes directed at her, but strangely enough, she felt more clammy than hot. Her gaze fell on the lady in the brown dress, who was sat in front of them with her back very straight. The garland lay neglected on the bench beside her, for it seemed she had no desire to wear it on her head. She had a small patch of sweat at her middle back where she had perspired through her woolen gown.

With an effort, Aimee dragged her gaze away. Not for the wide world would she want anyone to notice the direction of her stare. He had given the tourney crown to another. She felt raw, a figure of pity and ridicule. Holding her head high, Aimee wished she could sink through the floorboards.

This dress, too, she thought wretchedly, made things worse. If only she could rip it from her body. Devoutly, she wished she had been led more by her sister’s advice. Ursula had known the dress was too much, and Aimee had not heeded her. How much she would have been spared if she had only listened to Ursa’s wise counsel. Freda’s hand lightly covered her own, and Aimee turned her head to give her a reassuring smile.

From the pained look on Freda’s face, Aimee guessed her efforts were not convincing. Freda leaned forward and whispered, “She has gone.”

Aimee blinked. “Who has?”

“That woman,” Freda replied, nodding significantly.

Aimee ventured another glance in front and saw the empty spot on the bench. The beautiful garland of summer flowers lay forlornly in the spot she had vacated. Aimee felt another pang. How highly she would have prized such a gift, and yet the woman in the brown dress had rushed away and abandoned it!

It really did seem the final insult to the whole debacle. She sat and smarted, barely noticing the flurry of approaching footsteps until the royal pages were stood in front of her, bowing low. One of them was speaking in a clear, boyish voice. “Her majesty, Queen Armenal, requests your presence in the royal box, milady.”

Aimee blinked. A royal audience! At this, her lowest, most disgraced hour. She looked hopelessly, first at Freda and then at Magnatrude.

Her sister-in-law nodded grimly. “We shall accompany you, of course,” she said, looking as though the prospect were something akin to mounting the executioner’s block.

“Of course!” Freda agreed hurriedly, though she had turned very pale at the prospect.

Aimee tried to remind herself as they followed in the wake of the youthful pages that she had always dreamed of such an honor. In her dreams, of course, the moment was vastly different to this one. She did not feel sticky and wilted from a day sat packed in the stands on a hot summer’s day. She had not been scorned by her own husband in favor of another woman. She did not look like a prize idiot.

The royal box was flanked with guards and attendants. Aimee was waved through, but Freda and Magnatrude were bade to sit and wait on the outer edges. Her majesty was all benevolent smiles. Aimee gave her lowest curtsey and hoped she did not look the crumpled wreck she imagined she appeared.

“My dear Baroness Kentigern!” the queen welcomed her, as though she were quite an old friend. “Come, approach me.”

She turned to frown at the ladies-in-waiting who flanked her. “Shoo! Away with you! How closely you do clamor! All of you shall retreat now,” she commanded imperiously. “Apart from Jane.” She turned back to Aimee who was approaching with some trepidation. “Jane is wholly trustworthy and shall not betray our confidences.”

Aimee’s eyes widened. Confidences? She could see no sign of the king, who had absented his own seat and must have taken himself off. The ladies-in-waiting fluttered away from the queen like a flock of pretty birds, leaving only one who stood very demurely and quietly to the queen’s right. With much dragging of feet and clear reluctance, the gaggle filed out to the outer benches of the stand casting a good many glances and pouts over their shoulders.

“Stupid creatures,” the queen complained bitterly. “If you only knew what it was like to be surrounded by fools all day. All the sensible ones have lives outside of court, and I am left with the dregs!”

Unsure what else to do, Aimee bobbed another curtsey by way of reply. The queen patted the brocade footstool that matched her own chair. “Come and seat here beside me. You must not be shy, for I am quite delighted to make your acquaintance. You have enlivened an event that threatened to be most dull!”

Aimee approached and hitched her skirts carefully before sinking down onto the cushioned footstool. The queen extended a graceful hand to her, and Aimee dutifully kissed it.

“I thought so,” Queen Armenal exclaimed, capturing Aimee’s chin and turning her head, first one way and then the other. “Why, you are quite a pretty creature! Certainly, far too pretty to be married to that brute Kentigern! They say your father is the richest merchant in all Karadok. Is that so?”

Aimee’s head whirled at the queen’s rapid change of subject. “I believe so, Your Majesty.”

“Certainly, he must be a very cruel man,” the queen commented thoughtfully, releasing Aimee’s chin to cup her own. “Who cares only for his coffers!”

“Oh no, Your Majesty!” Aimee objected, quite horrified that the queen should think such a thing. “My father is the most kind and considerate of men.”

“Kind? Considerate?” The queen seemed astonished. “But how can this be?”

“He has always been the best of fathers.”

The queen seemed much struck by this and nodded slowly. “Ah, nowI see,” she said, with dawning comprehension. “Your greatest desire in life, it was to be a great lady?”

“Oh no, Your Majesty!” Aimee gave a bitter smile. “I was a good deal more foolish than that.”

The queen tipped her head to one side. “But I do not think you look like a fool,” she said. “And I am quite an expert on these matters, I assure you!”

“Oh, but I was,” Aimee argued bitterly, quite forgetting one should not disagree with one’s monarch. “The biggest fool in all Karadok!”

The queen’s eyes gleamed, and she seized Aimee’s hands in her own. “You shall tell me now, all about it! Jane!” she said turning her head sharply. “Fetch for us now the wine and the honey cakes!”

Aimee did not know quite how it was, but when she sat back a half an hour later, she had poured out all her woes into the queen’s interested ears. It had all tumbled out, her ridiculous infatuation, her desire to win Lord Kentigern’s heart, her disappointed love. Her chest had heaved, her cheeks had turned a deep poppy red, and there had even been a few tears. The queen, bored with reserve and discretion from her courtiers, was highly gratified.

“And now, to crown his folly, he makes another woman the Queen of the Tournament!” Armenal declared wrathfully. “It is too much! It is an outrage!” She rolled her r’s in a magnificent manner. “It is not to be borne!”

Aimee strove to get control of her wobbling bottom lip. She was not used to be indulged in her passions. Usually, Ursula’s sensible attitude tipped a bucket of cold water all over them. Suddenly, it occurred to Aimee that her sister would not think it a good idea to air her grievances like this and certainly not in such exalted quarters. She regarded the queen doubtfully. “Y-you do not think I have made a mountain out of a molehill?” she gulped.

“A mountain out of a molehill?” the queen echoed, sounding mystified by the expression. Then its meaning seemed to occur to her. “What a droll saying! But no!” Queen Armenal assured her. “You were oh-so dignified when all eyes they were riveted on you. Quite the grand lady, I assure you. For one moment, I held my breath, I wondered if you might not snatch the crown from your rival’s head.” The queen flashed her an apologetic look. “I did not know then that you were so nice in your manners.”

It occurred to Aimee that the queen had expected her to act like some fishwife in a common market brawl. Then her words registered. “My rival?” she blurted in dismay. “I do not suppose,” Aimee hated herself for even asking, but she could not help herself, “that your majesty knows who – who that lady was that my husband crowned?”

“You may be sure I do!” Queen Armenal said with a benevolent air. “When I saw the drama unfolding in your box, you may be assured that I made the enquiries. I had, of course, heard all about Lord Kentigern having married a commoner,” she continued smoothly, and for some reason, Aimee found it hard to take offence. “But I had not heard so much as a peep about Sir Jeffree de Crecy’s tumble from grace!” She turned impetuously to Aimee. “Tell to me, are you acquainted at all with Sir Jeffree?”

“I have seen him joust before on two occasions,” Aimee admitted, wondering why the queen had strayed so far from the point. “He – He always seemed a most proud man.” Aimee was hesitant in her description, not liking to use the real words she would have liked to have used, such as arrogant and disagreeable.

“But yes!” the queen agreed delightedly. “Me, I would say that always he seems like he has a stick up his bottom.” Aimee choked on the tentative bite she had taken of her honey cake. The queen waved a hand. “I am not a native of these parts and I do not have the natural reserve. We will dispense with it between us, for I can see your nature is also very easy and open like my own.”

Aimee nodded though she cast an uneasy look at the lady-in-waiting. Her grave expression did not alter by so much as a twitch of her eyebrow, so Aimee turned her attention back to the queen. “I do not quite understand what bearing Sir Jeffree has upon the matter,” she admitted.

“Oh, do you not?” The queen regarded her a moment, a small smile playing about her lips. “Tell me, are you aware at all that Sir Jeffree has recently taken a wife?” She sat back and regarded Aimee with amusement.

“He has?” Slowly it dawned on Aimee that the queen saw some connection between this fact and her own predicament. “You mean – ? That lady is – ? But surely not,” Aimee faltered. Surely, that lady in the plain woolen gown could not be the wife of one such as Sir Jeffree?

“But yes,” the queen nodded. “That drab creature is the new Lady de Crecy.”