20

20

Konrad dropped off Aimee’s brooch first thing on Bulwark Lane and extracted a promise that it would be ready on the next morn. Then, having gleaned the address from his father-in-law, he had called at another large townhouse situated at a five-minute walk from his own. Here, he had been admitted and led to a handsome sitting room to await Lady d’Avenant. As his sole purpose had been to visit with Renlow, Konrad had chafed rather at this, but the maid would not be brow-beaten. The master was convalescing, she told him pertly, and was not to receive any visitors without his wife’s say-so.

Konrad had given an exasperated sigh and walked over to the window to stare out onto the street. It was a fine view, though quieter than the one they enjoyed in Lime Street. The door opened and closed very quietly, and he turned to find Aimee’s sister stood in the doorway performing a neat curtsey.

“My lord, I am happy to see you. I trust my sister is well?” she greeted him politely.

“That she is,” he responded with a nod. “How is d’Avenant?”

“He is recovering apace,” she answered with a relieved smile. “Should you like to see him? It is good of you to visit with us.”

He nodded again, and she gestured for him to follow her up the wooden staircase. Ursula Ankatel looked well, he thought with surprise. She was dressed a good deal less fussily than when he had last seen her, and she looked all the better for it. Her hair, too, was simply arranged, without ornamentation, but that did not wholly account, he thought, for the subtle change that had taken place in her.

No, it was something in her manner, he thought. She had a sort of luminous calm and assurance about her that he did not remember her possessing previously. He could have sworn she was an anxious, highly strung type like Freda, but it seemed he had not done her justice. When Ursula reached a door at the end of the passage, she gave a firm knock and then walked in.

“Ah, there you are, Ursa,” Konrad heard a familiar voice greet her boisterously. “Where have you been this age? I vow you have been shamefully neglecting me all morning.”

Konrad stood at the doorway as Ursula swiftly crossed to the bed where Renlow lay in the midst of a pile of cushions. His face looked flushed, and his hair was tousled. One of his arms was bound up with a splint, and he had a good deal of nasty bruising on view up his neck and shoulder.

“Nonsense, husband!” she chided him affectionately and reached across the bed to take the hand that was not bound up with a splint. When Renlow tugged on her hand as though to draw her down to him, she said quickly, “Such good fortune, my dear. I have brought you a friend to visit and sit with you a while.”

Renlow glanced toward the door in surprise, though Konrad noticed he did not release his wife’s hand. His expression immediately brightened. “Kentigern! Come in, it is good to see you!” He struggled to sit upright, and Ursula immediately bustled about, placing pillows behind his back, helping him into a comfortable position.

When Renlow held an uninjured hand out to him, Kentigern found himself grasping it warmly.

“What have you been doing with yourself, you young fool?” he rumbled, shaking his head.

Renlow grinned. “Came unseated in the melee, like the biggest dullard in all Karadok.”

“This seat should be comfortable, my lord,” Ursula murmured, gesturing to a bedside chair. “I will leave you to exchange your greetings while I fetch some refreshment.” She sent a beaming smile their way and swiftly left the room.

Kentigern lowered himself into a chair, noticing the way Renlow’s eye followed his wife as she exited the room. He turned back to Konrad with a rueful smile. “I couldn’t have laid myself up at a worse time,” he groaned.

“Not true,” Konrad corrected him. “For there are no tournaments of note held from now until September. You have a good two months for your bones to knit.”

Renlow scratched his nose. “Aye, true enough,” he agreed absently. “Though I was not thinking of the tournaments precisely.”

Coming from someone who lived and breathed solely to compete, as Renlow did, his statement was an astonishing one. Konrad beheld him speechlessly. As though what he had said had only just dawned on him, Renlow coughed and reddened. “You are going to Beres Caple, my lord?”

“I am.”

Renlow looked a little wistful. “I hope you find sport worthy of you there.”

Konrad shrugged. Beres Caple was a minor tournament, ill attended by the more celebrated knights. “Wherever I go, there seems to be a target marked on my chest plate and someone thirsting for my blood.”

Renlow laughed. “Everyone wants to beat you, my lord. You should not take it as an insult, but as a compliment.”

Konrad grunted. It was true, he never took it personally, and even some unknown, local knight could put up a good fight if you caught them on a good day in front of a home crowd.

“Who else goes?” Renlow enquired.

“Probably a lot of obscure yokels. You know the sort.”

“Like me?” Renlow said without rancor.

“You may have started out that way,” Konrad acknowledged. “But you’re well established as part of the tournament crowd now. Even the king knows your name.” A slight frown marred Renlow’s brow. “What?”

Renlow shot him a curious look. “You did not say ‘southern’.”

“Pardon?”

“You did not say ‘even the southern king knows your name’. All you northern knights do that.”

Konrad paused to consider this. No, he realized with surprise. No, he had not. “Magnur is dead,” he shrugged. “We all need to move on with our lives.”

Renlow eyed him thoughtfully. “You are finding married life to your taste, then, my friend?” he said simply. “I’m glad.”

Konrad bit back a splutter. He had no idea where Renlow had drawn that conclusion from. He gazed back at him in bemusement. “What of you?” he barked to hide his discomfiture.

“How could it otherwise?” Renlow asked simply. “Ursula is an angel. I am the most fortunate of men.” His clear blue eyes were without guile, and Konrad guessed he would simply have to take his words entirely at face value.

“Did you know you were getting the elder sister?” he asked on impulse.

Faint color stole into Renlow’s cheeks. “No,” he admitted. “But it made sense, I thought, on reflection.”

“It did?”

Renlow smiled faintly. “Your wife has a strong personality. I think she has ruled the roost in her father’s house for a long time, while mine went overlooked.”

Konrad found himself bristling. “What do you mean by that?”

Renlow’s smile grew. “I meant no offence,” he said. “But have you not heard, my lord? How Aimee decided last summer that they should both be married? It took her a mere four months to wear her sister down. There is a reason, I think, that Ankatel did not buy us neighboring homes on the same street.”

Konrad shot him a shrewd look. “You think Ankatel is that discerning?”

“He would not be such a good man of business if he were not.”

It was on the tip of Konrad’s tongue to point out that if Aimee could be thought overwhelming, then her sister could be considered distinctly underwhelming. However, it was at this point that Ursula entered the room, followed by a plump woman carrying a tray of refreshments.

“Hilda and I have brought you wine and cakes, though you must mix water with yours, my love,” Ursula informed Renlow in an indulgent tone. Konrad observed Hilda with interest, remembering Aimee’s disapproval of the servant accompanying her sister into her new household.

The woman looked to be in her mid-fifties, with a mild, benevolent face and neat appearance. She set the tray down carefully onto a side table. Certainly, she made no overt attempt to usurp her mistress’s authority that he could see. Indeed, she consulted Ursula most scrupulously as to how much water she should add to Renlow’s cup.

“Yes, that will be excellent, Hilda,” Ursula murmured approvingly, as she moved to smooth Renlow’s pillow bearer. “I hope you have had a pleasant catch up.” She looked from her husband’s face to their guest’s with a faint question in her eyes.

“Very,” Konrad responded promptly. He knew for a fact that he would find Ursula’s conscientious solicitude irksome, but Renlow seemed entirely at ease with it as she passed him his watered wine. Yes, he thought, things certainly had worked out for the best. Though, how much of that was down to Ankatel’s astuteness, he was not so sure.

He passed another hour or so in their company. Ursula seemed pleased to hear that Aimee was accompanying him to Beres Caple. “She will enjoy that exceedingly,” she had replied with an approving smile.

He had the strangest impulse to shatter her newfound serenity with the news that Aimee had not enjoyed the one tournament she had attended since her marriage one bit. That, in fact, she had suffered a scalding humiliation, thanks to her thoughtless husband.

He squashed the notion as ignoble and absurd. He was the one that needed to atone for that mishap, not Ursula. The fault was his and so should the remedy be. Besides, he was not at all sure why he felt so unaccountably annoyed with his sister-in-law’s tepid attitude toward his wife’s wellbeing. It stood to reason that Ursula d’Avenant was wrapped up in coddling her new husband.

Maybe he should be flattered that she was so confident in his abilities to keep her sister happy? She could not know that Aimee would have to contend with disagreeable in-laws on top of a difficult husband in her new household.

It only occurred to Konrad as he walked out of their house at midday that he did not know if Aimee owned her own horse. If not, he would have to purchase her one, for it was half a day’s ride to Beres Caple. Turning about, he made for the house in Lime Street instead of the practice ground and was just striding down the passageway in search of his wife when he heard a strident voice from the dining chamber that he did not recognize.

“Well, you girls certainly got your money’s worth out of your father,” said the person disagreeably. “I only hope you do not rue the day that you got ideas above your station. If one of you had seen fit to accept my Willard’s proposal … but there! Clearly, you imagined yourselves a deal too good for an honest man …”

Konrad flung the door open, and Aimee, Freda, and the unpleasant widow from the wedding feast all spun in their seats to look at him. “Is someone casting aspersions on my honesty?” he asked dryly and watched the woman turn rather pink. What was her name? Stimson? Leeming?

“I’m sure his lordship must realize that was not my intent,” she answered with two spots of high color in her cheeks as she rose to perform her curtsey.

He glowered a moment before turning resolutely in his wife’s direction. “Have you a horse of your own, wife?” he demanded. “Or do I need to buy you one?”

“I already have one,” Aimee replied hastily. “The Widow Hemmings was just paying us her compliments.” She made a vague flapping gesture with her hand toward the old hag.

Hemmings, that was it. Konrad ignored the empty social pleasantries. The woman had come to vent her spleen and for no other reason. He wasn’t about to squander any more words on her, and he certainly had better things to look at. He scanned Aimee’s face. “You have sent word to that tailor yet?” he asked.

Aimee’s chest heaved, and he saw a spark of indignation flash in her eye. “I have been rather busy this morning, my l –” she bit off the word. “Konrad,” she corrected herself with a slightly self-conscious air.

He felt a surprising lurch in his chest when she spoke his given name and darted a quick glance at his cousin. Freda’s head was tipped to one side, and she was watching them rather like an inquisitive bird. Konrad cleared his throat. “Aye, well, make sure you do,” he said brusquely, then glanced about the room. “Where is my sister?” He directed the question at Freda, and she gave a guilty start.

“Oh,” she responded breathlessly. “It is the most fortuitous thing. The queen sent a messenger again this morning and, well, Trude answered the summons from the palace.”

Her words startled him. “Trude went to wait on the queen?”

“She did,” Freda agreed, looking faintly furtive. “She is most intrigued by the queen’s avowed task.” She paused and plucked at her skirts. “I only did not accompany her because well – er – needlework is not something I really excel at.”

“And I had too many arrangements to make for our upcoming tournament,” Aimee put in hurriedly in the manner of one also making an excuse.

Both of them were avoiding his eye, and he realized that neither of them had wanted to go to the palace. He gave a short laugh. “Well, if Queen Armenal will be content with Trude’s presence, then so be it.”

Aimee’s shoulders relaxed, and she and Freda exchanged a conspiratorial look.

“I must take my leave of you, Baroness,” their visitor cut in, sounding annoyed at the fact she no longer had Aimee’s undivided attention.

“Please give my compliments to Willard,” Aimee murmured as the older woman stood, gave a shallow curtsey, and stalked to the door.

“Why are you sending your compliments to Willard Hemmings?” Konrad asked testily before the door had even shut after her. “Is he ill?”

“No,” Aimee responded mildly. “But I have known him all my life.”

Konrad snorted.

“Will you take some refreshment now, cousin?” Freda asked quickly with a gesture toward the table. “Stirling has baked fresh loaves this morning.”

“No,” he answered curtly. “I need to get back to the practice field.” He hesitated. “Freda, while we are at Beres Caple, you should invite Ankatel to take supper with you here of an evening.”

Freda blinked. “I should?”

He nodded. “He – er – sits to an empty table these days.”

“Oh, the poor dear man!” Freda exclaimed. “Of course, if you think I should, Konrad.”

“I do. You could send word when Aimee arranges for her horse to be sent around.” He shot a glance at Aimee, whose eyes were very round. He wondered if it had never occurred to her that she could end up with the ghastly widow for a stepmother. “Do not forget the tailor,” he warned his wife direly and was heading for the door when he paused and turned back again.

“While he is here, he could fashion Freda another gown. Magnatrude also, if she intends swanning off to the palace on a daily basis.” Seeing they were both lost for words, he nodded again and made his exit.

Konrad was feeling pleased with himself as he set back off for the practice ground, and it was only when he had reached it that it occurred to him to wonder what preparations Aimee had needed to make for Beres Caple. The only thing he could think of was requesting her horse be brought around, which he had sorted, and the ordering of a new gown in his colors, which she plainly had not yet done. He frowned as he dismounted and was so distracted as he fastened Actaeon to a tethering post that he scarcely noticed the irate figure advancing on him.

“So, you’re here, are you?” Sir Jeffree de Crecy said with deep loathing, coming to a halt before him.

Konrad glanced about the mostly empty field. A few knights were drifting toward them, but for the most part, the more serious contenders had departed directly after the royal tournament.

“As you see,” Konrad grunted. “What do you want, de Crecy?” He turned to face the other man.

De Crecy’s blue eyes narrowed. “You intend on competing at Beres Caple?” he asked tersely.

Konrad nodded warily. “You?” He was pleasantly surprised to hear there would be some decent competition at least. You were unlikely to find a Roland Vawdrey or a Garman Orde present, especially not since those bastards had married. De Crecy was a stiff-necked, pompous ass, but there was no doubting his caliber as a competitor.

“I will,” de Crecy said stiffly. “And I trust you are taking your good lady wife with you,” he practically spat the words.

Konrad glared at him. “What’s it to you?” he demanded.

“Oh, naught,” de Crecy replied through gritted teeth. “Except I look forward to presenting her with the tourney crown, that’s all.”

Konrad opened his mouth on a sharp retort but felt a hand clapped to his shoulder.

“Kentigern, well met,” Douglas Farleigh hailed him heartily. “You are headed for Beres Caple – us too!” He gestured to another couple of knights close by. Konrad had seen them around but did not remember their names. They were southerners like Farleigh but returned his nod in a cautiously friendly manner. “Have you been introduced to Sir Leonard Symes and Sir Fulke Lowell?”

“Excuse me, Farleigh!” de Crecy seethed. “Kentigern and I were in the midst of some conversation before you charged in with your cronies!”

Farleigh glanced back blankly at the irate knight. “Oh, I did not realize. I thought you had finished your conversation,” he shrugged. “I can wait until your business is concluded.” He placed his hands on his hips and looked enquiringly from one to the other.

De Crecy ground his teeth. “I have said everything I intended,” he said stiffly and swung around to stalk away, still muttering under his breath.

“He’s been spoiling for a fight all morning,” Farleigh muttered under his breath. “Do not let him incite you.”

Konrad glanced at him in surprise. Had Farleigh been attempting to prevent an altercation? He was grimly amused. “Whatever else he may be, de Crecy is a professional,” he muttered. “He leaves all disputes for the field.”

Farleigh snorted. “’Tis plain you have not heard how he conducted himself at the celebration feast the other night.”

Konrad blinked. “He got in a fight?”

“A fight, you ask?” Farleigh answered, his lips twitching. He turned to his friends. “Fulke, Leo, Kentigern here asks if de Crecy got into a fight at the feast.”

They laughed. “It was a full-scale brawl,” the shorter of the two replied. “The king had to send in his guard to pull them apart at the point of a sword.”

When Konrad looked incredulous, Farleigh took over the tale. “De Crecy was trying to wring Throckmorten’s neck with his bare hands. Astleigh and Faversham were trying their damnedest to prevent him, but they couldn’t tear the bastard away.”

“De Crecy?” Konrad repeated in dazed accents. De Crecy who was always so stiff-rumped about his own consequence? De Crecy had disgraced himself in the king’s hall? “Why in the name of the gods?” he persisted.

“Throckmorten asked de Crecy’s wife how she enjoyed being tourney queen,” the third lanky knight replied, scratching the back of his neck.

Oh. That.

So taken aback by the tale was Konrad that not much later he allowed himself to be steered toward the same inn that he and Farleigh had frequented the previous day.

“Don’t you ever visit The Jennet Tree on Panyer Street?” he asked with disfavor, glancing about the general murk of the low beamed room. The place didn’t seem to possess any windows that he could see.

“Never,” Fulke replied, for he now knew that Fulke was the shorter and stockier of Farleigh’s friends and Sir Leonard the taller, leaner one. “Would you recommend it?”

“The ale is far superior to this establishment.”

“You don’t say?” Fulke looked intrigued. “This place is popular in our circles due to the name.” He nodded toward the fireplace where a battered looking chest plate and shield hung. The device meant nothing to Konrad, but he guessed it was some patron saint of combat here in the south.

Farleigh flushed. “Don’t be a fool, Fulke!” he begged. “It stands to reason Kentigern knows more of knightly circles than the likes of us, who have only been competing some two years or thereabouts.”

“Nay,” Konrad protested mildly. “For I have not moved around much in the company of knights outside of the arena.”

“Your pardon, Kentigern, if I gave offence,” Fulke said ducking his head by way of apology.

“None was taken,” Konrad replied truthfully.

In truth, the ale here was not so bad. “So then, finish the tale of the other eve,” he said, seeing some awkwardness had fallen over the table. “Does de Crecy face consequences for fighting in the king’s palace?”

Farleigh grinned. “That he does. Fifty gold ducats and he must perform a forfeit for her majesty the queen when she so desires it.” Kentigern grimaced.

“I’d lay a wager he would rather pay a hundred and be done with it,” Sir Leonard chimed in. “The queen is an ingenious woman,” he shuddered. “I should not wish to lie under such an obligation. You may be sure she will extract her due with the maximum discomfort on Sir Jeffree’s part.”

Konrad thought of Wymer’s dark-eyed queen and realized Sir Leonard had a point. He eyed him with a good deal more appreciation than he had before.

“Come, Leo, you are unchivalrous,” Sir Douglas chided his friend. “The queen does not deserve such a harsh summing of her character.”

Sir Leonard shook his head and shot a speaking look first at Kentigern and then Sir Fulke. Clearly, it communicated at a glance, Douglas knows nothing of women. Konrad agreed silently and took a swig of his ale.

“How goes your wooing with Lady Constance?” Fulke asked so forthrightly that Douglas winced.

“Slowly,” he answered in a hollow tone and shot a conspiratorial look at Konrad. “I have lately taken some good advice and hope it will speed my wooing.”

Konrad doubted it, if his young friend was referring to their conversation the previous day. He glanced across the table at Sir Leonard. “You are married, Symes?” he asked curiously.

Leonard shook his head. “Sisters,” he explained succinctly. “A whole brace of them.”

Sir Fulke snorted, sending the foam off his ale flying. “I keep telling you I would take one of them off your hands, right willingly!”

“I wish you would,” his friend retorted. “But you would not be so keen if you knew the size of their portion.” He glanced across at Konrad. “They are un-dowered and give me many headaches.”

“I can well imagine. I have one who never wed,” Konrad admitted, thinking of Magnatrude.

“So, she must needs reside forever at your table,” Leonard said sympathetically. “There’s only one of my sisters I could tolerate in that capacity, but alas, she’s the only one anyone would willingly take to wife!”

“Your sister Helen?” Fulke said, nodding his head sagely.

“Helen!” Leonard exploded. “Gods blood! I did not mean Helen, for that wench is the worst of the lot!”

Fulke bristled, but before he could argue, Douglas interrupted. “Miranda,” he guessed, looking supremely confident.

If anything, the color in Leonard’s cheeks climbed higher. “Miranda!” he echoed with disgust. “She’s not far behind Helen! No,” he said resolutely. “Sybil is the only one of the pack that I would entertain providing for the rest of my life.”

“Sybil!” both his friends cried in astonishment.

“Why,” Fulke burst out hotly, “she’s not even your full-blood sister!”

“She ain’t blood of his in any way,” Douglas pointed out with disgust. “Her mother was barely married to Leonard’s sire before he keeled over.”

Sir Leonard hunched a shoulder and scowled. “I still maintain her company is far superior to that of any of the others.”

“Strictly speaking, she’s not your actual sister though!” Fulke grumbled.

“No, she is not,” Leonard said with such vehemence that Konrad paused in the act of lifting his tankard to his mouth. He was filled suddenly with the strangest suspicions about the nature of feelings Sir Leonard harbored for this Sybil. He eyed the man askance and saw the guilty flush mounting his neck before he pushed back his chair.

“I’m off to the privy,” the younger knight growled and sloped off.

“Leonard can be a trifle morose sometimes, though he is the best of good fellows,” Fulke confided. “He has a lot to contend with at home, his father having died two years ago and left him with a lot of debt to cover. I’ll order us another pitcher, shall I?”

Konrad nodded as he watched Sir Leonard cross the room. He supposed, on reflection, that his own problems could be a good deal worse. The afternoon passed with surprising swiftness, and after leaving the other knights at the town square, Konrad swung by Bulwark Lane to check on the jeweler’s progress.

A blue sapphire now hung either side of the teardrop pearl, lending the silver brooch a far grander air. Blyfield only had a few more touches to add before it would be ready for collection. The jeweler showed him some new sketches he had made for other pieces. He had lately received a note which Magnatrude had sent around with her own recollections of her mother’s collection. These had proved a considerable help to him in his work.

Konrad approved the sketches and arranged to collect the brooch before they left for Beres Caple, when a sudden thought occurred to him. “By the way, can you recommend somewhere I can buy a strand of pearls?” he asked the goldsmith.

Blyfield considered the matter, pursing his lips. “Of what quality?” he asked.

“The finest.”

The jeweler nodded and named an establishment three streets over.