25

25

“I do not think I have seen Sir Armand compete before,” Aimee said thoughtfully as another knight fell victim to his gauntleted fist. “Is he always this … formidable?”

Poor Sir Fulke had again gone crashing out of the battle early in the clash, but they had not had much time to mourn this, for both Konrad and Sir Armand were cutting swathes through the opposition.

Sir Douglas shook his head without taking his eyes off the field. “I have never seen de Bussell fight quite like this before. I had heard he was impressive at Areley Kings,” he conceded after a faint pause. “But I thought that must have been a fluke or exaggeration. He will surely win the autumn royal tournament if he retains his zeal.”

Sir Douglas pondered. “I can’t even see the likes of Vawdrey or Orde vanquishing him.” Then he seemed to remember his present company. “Though mayhap Lord Kentigern would give him a good fight,” he added hurriedly.

Aimee’s eye had already traveled to the opposite end of the field where her husband was dragging two fallen knights by their feet toward the waiting Jakeman. “Tell me, how are ransoms collected from those you defeat in battle?” she asked curiously.

“The correct form is to present the sum at the celebratory feast that evening. Of course, some knights do not attend the feasts, so in reality, you can just send along your squire with the fee to spare your blushes,” Sir Douglas explained.

“Does my husband not attend the feasts?” Aimee guessed shrewdly. Her companion nodded his head, looking pleased she was so quick to catch his meaning. “But how does one ensure that all fees are paid?” she persisted.

“Some knights have tokens printed with their crests to give as pledges,” he explained. “They hand those over as a marker to redeem at a later point.”

“I see,” Aimee mused. It still seemed an exercise of trust to her. She supposed it was a question of honor and principle, but she knew her father would have required a more secure means to ensure his debtors paid their dues.

“I think de Bussell will get today’s trophy for most impressive in the field,” Sir Douglas pronounced with confidence.

“You cannot yet be certain of that,” Aimee objected. “For it seems to me that both my husband and even Sir Jeffree in the first bout fought just as many opponents this day.”

Sir Douglas made a sound of cautious agreement. “That may be so,” he conceded. “But it is Sir Armand’s performance that draws the eye.”

“I disagree,” Aimee said lifting her chin, though in truth, she herself had been staring in astonishment as Sir Armand outfoxed his opponents. Konrad was grim and steady in his progress. He methodically lay waste to all who stood against him, while Sir Armand seemed to be lit up from within.

Her heart sinking, Aimee was forced to admit, to herself at least, that Sir Douglas spoke nothing but the truth. Watching Konrad fight was not a joyful, but a jarring sight. His delivery looked bone-crunching, though undoubtedly there was skill involved and technique.

“What was it Kentigern called it?” Sir Douglas asked in an awed-sounding voice.

“Divinely guided by the spirit of battle,” she replied absently.

The two of them watched as the inevitable moment grew closer. The moment when Lord Kentigern and Sir Armand would be the last men left standing on the field. Already, Aimee could feel her stomach tensing into knots of nervous anticipation.

“He is going to triumph, is he not?” Aimee asked hollowly. Sir Douglas did not answer, but she felt comforted by his presence all the same. Clearly, his bond to her husband was a considerable one, though a good deal of it consisted of hero worship.

Still, Konrad seemed … benign in his attitude toward his young friends. Almost kindly, she decided, and for some reason, Aimee found herself suddenly wondering if that was the kind of father he might make to any sons they might have.

All such pleasant reflections were brought to an end when Sir Leonard was first defeated by the combined efforts of two blue sashes. He fought hard but could not withstand their coordinated attack, crumpling into the dust and rolling painfully onto his side before staggering to the sideline where he collapsed into a heap.

“Oh no!” Aimee breathed, covering her mouth. “I hope he is not too badly injured.”

“Probably more his pride than anything,” Sir Douglas answered gloomily. “At least he made final five by the skin of his teeth,” he pointed out, and Aimee saw that was just about true. Both Sir Armand and her husband stood over insensible foes they had already dragged to the edge of the field. “That should console him in any case.”

Sir Armand turned his head and seemed to be weighing up his opposition on the field. Apart from Lord Kentigern, there was only one other orange armband remaining. He started toward him with a disconcerting spring in his step. As for Konrad, he immediately made for the two other red sashes who had just defeated Sir Leonard.

Aimee watched him swing his sword with such ferocity that the first of the knights fell to his knees from the force and the second knight’s sword went flying from his hand in a spinning arc. A ripple of excitement went up from the crowd as Sir Armand similarly made short work of dispatching the other orange knight.

When the two red knights held up their hands in acknowledgement of defeat, her husband pointed meaningfully toward Jakeman, and they trailed their own way toward the manservant with slumped shoulders.

“Here it comes,” Sir Douglas said, leaning forward in his seat.

The two knights started walking toward each other, and the crowd sat up, a wave of excitement breaking over the benches.

Twenty minutes later, Aimee had wrung her scarf into a limp rag, and Sir Douglas had leapt twice to his feet in excited anticipation. The combatants seemed evenly matched, but even Aimee’s untutored eye could see that the longer the fight continued, the greater Sir Armand’s advantage grew.

Konrad was surely breathing hard now beneath his helmet. Aimee could only imagine how exhausted he must be under the combined weight of his armor and his mighty broadsword. When he wielded it, swinging high and wide, Sir Armand was one of the few present who was both tall and strong enough to withstand the onslaught.

The minute Konrad’s attack was done, that was when her husband seemed at his most vulnerable, for Sir Armand was devious and seemed always to be prodding for an opening in his defense, setting Konrad onto his back foot and rocking him with a counterattack which managed to be both subtle and unanticipated.

Sir Armand seemed always to be looking as though he were doing one thing and then switching to another. Even Aimee could see his footwork was clever and light for his size, where Konrad’s tended to be more heavy and lumbering.

Sir Douglas swore under his breath. “At least Kentigern’s strong as an ox,” he said. “He has the strength to keep going where a normal man will grow exhausted.”

Aimee bit her lip. Her own inclination told her that Sir Armand was not an ordinary opponent. She suspected that the longer the fight continued, the tighter the traps Sir Armand was weaving would grow about Konrad’s limbs.

Even as the thought occurred to her, she saw the trap sprung and muffled her cry with her hand as Sir Armand saw his opening and pressed his advantage. She closed her eyes and heard the mingled gasps and cries from the watching audience.

“Is it over?” she asked, even as she opened one eye to watch her husband drop his sword and yield.

“It is over,” Sir Douglas answered with a groan.

Konrad reached up to wrench off his helmet, showing his hair drenched with sweat and a face quite red with exertion. He dragged his breath in and out a moment before extending his arm to Sir Armand.

A grinning Sir Armand clasped wrists with him, and Aimee saw their lips move as they exchanged some words. Aimee saw Sir Armand laugh, and both stood a moment catching their breath and conversing until Sir Chaucey approached to officially proclaim the winner.

Aimee felt herself slump with relief in her seat. Sir Douglas began a spirited theory on the change in Sir Armand’s combative style as Aimee watched her husband’s relaxed face and attitude. He truly displayed at his best, she thought dreamily, when you saw this side of him. He clapped Sir Armand once more between his shoulder blades and then, pausing only to retrieve his sword, stalked from the ring.

“Where will he go now?” Aimee asked, interrupting her companion’s excited chatter.

“To wash and scrub up, I should not wonder,” Sir Douglas hazarded. “He will be soaked through with sweat.”

Aimee glanced back toward the sidelines where she saw Jakeman had already dismissed the hostages and was scurrying off, likely to heat water for his master. “Could you kindly escort me back to my tent, Sir Douglas?” Aimee asked.

“Right gladly,” he responded at once, offering his arm.

“Thank you.” Aimee felt keen to return, though she was not sure Konrad would be much in the mood for the celebrations after his defeat.

By the time they had navigated the crowds at the sedate pace Sir Douglas seemed to think fitted to a lady and made their way to the first meadow where the Kentigern tent stood, Aimee could hear her husband’s voice from within.

As they approached, Jakeman came out carrying two large empty pitchers. “My lady,” he greeted her. “His lordship is taking his wash. Should I bring out two chairs?” Aimee guessed this was the discreet servant’s way of warning her his master was naked.

She turned to Sir Douglas. “You will want to return to your own pavilion to wash, I expect, Sir Douglas.” She thought he looked a little crestfallen. “Perhaps you would like to return here directly after and bring Sir Fulke and Sir Leonard with you once they have cleaned up? I have brought some wineskins with me and some sundry foods I thought would travel. Perhaps Jakeman could fetch us three more chairs and another table, and we could take our ease this afternoon in one another’s company?”

Sir Douglas brightened at once, rubbing his hands together. “I can answer for all three of us that we would be delighted, Lady Kentigern, if you truly think his lordship would be agreeable.”

“Yes, of course,” Aimee replied blithely. After all, if he was not, then he could always loll on the bed within while the boisterous younger knights sat outside. She could move between the two where her presence would be most welcomed.

Jakeman nodded and went haring off in search of the additional furnishings.

“I will see you presently, then,” Aimee said, and with a final wave to Sir Douglas, she ducked inside the pavilion.

Konrad was stood facing away from her, vigorously soaping his chest. Aimee caught her breath. As always, she felt completely awed by his powerful physique. Clearing her throat, she let him know she was present, tearing her devouring eyes away from the view. Even the size of his calves and thighs was a source of wonder to her. She had never really seen his rear before, and she found the sight strangely enticing. She could stand and stare at him all day if only he would give her permission!

“Do you need any help?” she offered croakily.

He glanced over his shoulder. “No, keep your distance. I’m filthy,” he said shortly.

Aimee heaved a sigh of disappointment. “When you are clean, I have some salve for sore muscles,” she offered. “I could minister it, if that would be agreeable to you?” She held her breath for his answer.

When he gave a throaty rumble, she decided optimistically to take this for assent and made for her saddlebag. She soon found the bottle of green gelatinous fluid which her father imported from Samare. It was extracted from the fleshy leaf of a plant that grew there in abundance and was purported to contain soothing qualities.

“I have invited your friends to join us presently,” she said in a conversational tone. “I thought I could serve the wines and the flatbreads and cheeses I brought with us, and we could sit outside in the sun.”

He nodded, but made no other rejoinder, and Aimee carried the lotion over to the bed and sat down as Konrad stood in a large basin and emptied two jugs of water over his head to rinse away the soap. Grabbing a large drying cloth that Jakeman must have set aside for him, he wrapped it about himself and made his way toward the bed.

Aimee could see he winced with every step. “You are footsore?” she asked sympathetically.

“My whole body is sore,” he corrected her as he gingerly lowered himself onto the mattress.

“This should help,” she told him brightly, showing him the bottle. He turned his head toward her, looking at her face rather than the bottle. “What is it?” she asked lowering it. “Konrad?” She pulled a face. “Or should I call you my lord?” She glanced about the interior. “For I suppose this counts as a bedchamber, strictly speaking.”

He looked uncomprehending a moment before his face turned a little red and he cleared his throat. “How about you forget I ever said that?” he suggested. “I only meant – well, I like how you talk to me in general. When you’re unguarded in speech, I mean. But I especially like it when we’re naked in bed together.” He shrugged his bare shoulders. “I’m pretty sure you could call me anything there and I would like it.”

Aimee regarded him in surprise. He reached slowly across the bed and touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. Aimee leaned into his touch a moment before raising her hand to lightly clasp his own. “You were very impressive today,” she said hesitantly, not knowing how to respond.

“Not as impressive as de Bussell,” he grimaced, letting his hand drop.

“I thought you were. It was just luck that he won out in the end,” Aimee insisted. “Either one of you would have been a worthy winner.”

He gave a short laugh. “You are biased in my favor.”

“Always,” she agreed and again his eyes sought hers.

“I just think you like me best when I lose,” he said in an odd tone.

“Win or lose, you are the one my gaze is drawn to,” Aimee admitted, drawing the stopper from the bottle. She did not dare look at his face as she admitted the fact. The scent was fresh and smelled of the leaves from which the balm was made. “Shall I do your hands or your feet first?” she asked cheerfully.

“Both ache,” he admitted with a groan.

“I’m not surprised after jolting and jarring your bones the way you do.” Aimee reached across and drew one of his hands into her lap. She spread the balm over his chafed knuckles first, working it into the dry skin by circling her thumbs. “Will you let me do all of your limbs?” she asked when he closed his eyes and relaxed against the bed with a sigh.

“All of them?” he asked drowsily.

Aimee decided to take that a yes. Turning his hand over, she smoothed the thick liquid over his calloused palm and along his fingers before rubbing vigorously. When that drew a groan from him, she reflected that gripping the hilt of his sword had likely left his palm aching and sore. She redoubled her efforts, circling her thumbs with increasing pressure as she moved over the area of his large hand, working the joints of each finger.

Interestingly, he never voiced any objection, however hard she pressed and pummeled, so Aimee decided brisk and firm was the method to employ. She did both hands and feet and then the front of his arms and legs, his chest and stomach, bunching the drying sheet about his hips as she worked so she could reach those thick thighs and then his muscular stomach.

“Konrad?” she murmured breathlessly, leaning over him. “Can I do your face?”

His eyes sprang open at once. “My face?” he asked, looking as though he had been disagreeably startled out of slumber.

Seeing the tension entering his frame again, she said quickly, “It does not matter, if you would rather I did not.”

He lifted a hand from the mattress before letting it fall again. “No, you can do it,” he said, looking as though he meant to say more but could not form the words.

“Would you rather I stayed away from the scarring?” Aimee asked carefully.

He did not speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was low. “If you want to touch it, you can,” he said gruffly.

Aimee nodded and tipped the bottle into her palm. “Tell me if anything does not feel nice,” she said setting her hands against each side of his face.

“You won’t hurt me,” he grunted. “There is very little feeling in that side of my face.”

Aimee smoothed the lotion against his cheekbones and then massaged it into his cheeks, her fingers light yet firm. The scarred side of his face felt tight and tough under her fingers. Aimee wondered regretfully if it had been fresher, would she have been able to manipulate it back into supple skin?

“I wish I could have been there when you were recovering,” she said pressing her lips together. “I do not think they can have taken good care of you as I should have.”

He let out a huff of laughter. “Very likely not. It was the not the place for a lady though,” he said grimly, and she guessed he must have been a prisoner at the time.

“I would not have been a lady,” she pointed out. “But the daughter of a spice and herb merchant.”

He looked amused but did not pursue this line of conversation. Instead, she felt him slowly relax as she ran her fingers along the line of his jaw and chin, up and over his brow, and down the sides of his face until he was breathing deep and easy again. Likely, she could get some special oil for the dark beard which he had kept tidily trimmed since their marriage.

“I need you to turn over,” Aimee murmured as his eyes drifted shut again.

“Mmmm, wha – ?” he said with a start.

“I need you to roll over onto your stomach so I can do your back.” She wiggled the bottle of lotion in his face, and comprehension dawned in his eyes. Aimee braced herself for objection, but when he rolled obligingly onto his front, Aimee breathed a sigh of relief. Her fingers were tingling and would likely ache later from overuse, but she was vastly enjoying herself.

Getting to run her hands all over the plains and bunched muscles of his back was a treat indeed, and Aimee reveled in the opportunity to enjoy his wondrous body in a manner she would never have dared to dream of a mere twelve months ago.

She thought of the Aimee who had sat enraptured at Kellingford and imagined telling her that one day she would have free reign and dominion over Lord Kentigern’s magnificent body. She would scarce have been able to comprehend such a thing. She let her hands roam more greedily than worshipfully over his shoulder blades, curving them forward over the muscles in the base of his neck, and heard him give a muffled groan.

“There?” Aimee asked gently. “That is where my sister always gets her aches and pains,” she said working her fingers into the knotted muscle. “Though her neck and shoulders are a good deal more delicate than yours.”

“That is where you learned this? On your sister?” he asked, his voice thick and husky, though whether it was with sleep or pleasure, Aimee was not sure. Perhaps both. For some reason, it made her pulse race and her own breathing quicken. Unable to resist, she leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the base of his neck. “Yes. She said I have healing hands.”

When he groaned again, she concentrated on the area that wrung it from him until he relaxed again under her fingers, and she drifted down over the backs of his arms and then down his spine until she reached the curve of his backside. Here she halted, adjusted the sheet which was a little twisted, and then moved down the bed to see to his tense calves and the backs of his thighs.

He was sore in his thighs and flinched at the cooling lotion, so she tarried on them a while, listening carefully for the telling hitch in his breathing. When she reached his buttocks again, she hesitated.

“Can I touch you here?” she asked curiously. When he did not answer, she realized he had drifted off into sleep. She hesitated, was it proper? But after all, he had touched her there, had he not? Chewing the side of her mouth, she peeled down the sheet, exposing his backside. How strange, she thought, but I find that beautiful too!

She poured the lotion into her palms to warm it a moment before she spread it over his firm buttocks, kneading and spreading her fingers over the supple skin. It was smooth and soft here instead of rough and abused. This skin had not been exposed to the elements or chafed beneath chainmail!

“You had better stop,” he said regretfully. “I am enjoying it a bit too much.”

Aimee’s hands halted even as she frowned over his words. “Why should you not enjoy it?” she puzzled.

He gave a huff of laughter and rolled lazily onto his back. “See?” He gestured toward his groin where the drying sheet was showing a good deal of disturbance. Aimee blinked. Oh. “If you are expecting visitors shortly,” he continued dryly, “then I need to enjoy myself a little less or I will be embarrassing myself.”

“Will it just go back down by itself?” Aimee asked curiously.

“It will,” he answered. “If I shut my eyes and think of something disagreeable for a while.”

Aimee thought about this. “Perhaps I ought not to have invited your friends to return,” she said with some regret.

“That is not helpful,” he replied. “Now I am thinking about what we would be doing if you were not such a keen hostess.”

“So am I,” Aimee agreed without thinking, and Konrad groaned.

“Stop talking, Aimee,” he growled, so she stood up and made for their packs again to start unpacking the wine and wrapped cheeses, leaving him in peace to get control of himself.

When she heard someone moving outside the tent, she moved to the entrance and saw it was Jakeman who had set down three chairs and a blanket.

“This is excellent, Jakeman. I wonder if you could find us a loaf of bread and three more wine goblets?”

“Right willingly, milady,” he said and set off again across the meadow. Aimee watched him with approval for a moment before ducking back inside the pavilion.

The bed rustled, and Aimee allowed herself the briefest of glimpses in that direction. Konrad was running a hand over his face. With a resigned sigh, he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. He flexed first one arm and then the other, a look of surprise spreading across his face.

Aimee hid her smile and carried the first of her packages outside to set on the table ready for their guests. She busied herself, laying out the cheeses, pickles, and nuts as Jakeman went back and forth emptying the basin of washing water and fetching more for her to wash.

She had just poured the first of the wineskins into a ceramic wine jug when Jakeman informed her that her water was readied, and Konrad came sauntering out looking refreshed and wearing a dark green tunic. “You look well,” she exclaimed in surprise.

“I feel well,” he admitted and dropped into a chair. “Quite revived, in fact. Thanks to you.”

“Mayhap you should bring me to all your tournaments, then, my lord,” she suggested boldly, before disappearing into the tent to complete her own hurried wash. By the time she emerged, Konrad had already been joined by Sir Fulke, Sir Douglas, and Sir Leonard. They greeted her enthusiastically, starting to scramble to their feet, until she bade them to take their ease.

Joining them, Aimee slipped into a seat next to her husband. She took a piece of buttered bread and cheese and accepted the goblet of wine that was pressed on her. “Have you all been regaling one another with tales of valor?” she asked, curious as to what they had been discussing. They glanced around at each other before her husband cleared his throat.

“We were just discussing de Crecy’s pavilion,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Sir Jeffree’s pavilion?” Aimee echoed, lowering her cup. “I do not think I have seen it.”

“No, you won’t have,” Sir Douglas agreed. “For it is not in this meadow but the next one.”

“Pray, what about Sir Jeffree’s pavilion makes it worthy of note?” Aimee asked.

“It is in his colors,” Sir Fulke admitted with more than just a hint of scorn. “And emblazoned with his crest.” Sir Leonard guffawed.

Aimee shrugged. “I do not see why you laugh,” she said critically. “For my part, I should dearly love a pavilion decked out in the Kentigern colors of blue and yellow.”

Sir Douglas cleared his throat. “You would not think that a trifle … ostentatious?” he ventured cautiously.

“No, I would not,” she replied stoutly, before remembering her disastrous heraldic gown. Oh. “This one is a good deal too plain,” she said hurriedly to cover up her embarrassment. Perhaps she was showing her upstart origins again!

Sir Fulke glanced over his shoulder. “Most will simply attach their own banner,” he explained. “I see you have not, though, my lord.”

Konrad shrugged. “Jakeman took the only one I had down to the arena. I do not bring spares.”

An awkward silence reigned over the group for a moment before Fulke spoke again. “If you don’t mind me asking, milady. What was it you meant by that comment you made before about de Crecy’s wife keeping him on his toes?”

“Yes,” Sir Douglas agreed. “I also meant to ask about that. For she seems a most pitiable woman to my mind.”

Aimee looked down at her interlaced fingers a moment. “I am not sure,” she said slowly. “I spoke aloud my observation without reasoning it through. It is only that, whenever I have observed that lady, she is not what you would expect her to be.” She hesitated, unsure of the word to select. “She is wholly uncowed by Sir Jeffree’s antics. If anything, she almost seems to derive a sort of dark amusement from them.”

They exclaimed at this, and she thought Konrad seemed displeased. “I did not realize she was his wife at the royal tournament,” she continued simply. “And when he was ejected from the melee, she summoned for more wine and seemed to be vastly enjoying the spectacle.”

“Aimee,” her husband growled as his young friends seemed unduly diverted.

“We are among friends, are we not?” she asked hesitantly “Must I guard my words so closely?”

“We may be among friends but …” Konrad bit off his words before starting again. “Relations between a man and his wife should not be bandied about as idle gossip.”

Aimee turned red, and glancing sidelong, she thought Sir Douglas did too. “Your pardon, I had not realized,” she apologized. Likely, she was being vulgar again. She would have felt free to say such things in front of Ursula or Freda, though Ursa would likely have reproached her, but male company was doubtless different.

Or perhaps it was a societal issue again? Her father discussed the marriages of his acquaintances, but perhaps the nobility did not do so. She tried to imagine the Wycliffes discussing the state of their acquaintance’s marriages and failed. They would think such a thing highly improper, she realized with a sinking heart. Sir Leonard cleared his throat and offered a judgement on some knight’s performance that day who Aimee had never heard of.

Instead of listening, she ate a handful of dates, a fig, and then two walnuts as she debated whether she should retreat inside the tent and leave them to their conversation of battle. Konrad’s hand settling over hers startled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to find him looking at her with a faintly questioning look on his face.

“My lord?” she faltered. Had he directed a question her way that she had missed?

“You have fallen silent,” he said.

Aimee was startled. “This displeases you?” She gave an awkward laugh. “I had thought to let you gentlemen converse without me adding a discordant note.”

“I did not mean to reproach you,” he said abruptly. “Or to stifle your speech. ’Tis only that ?…” He frowned a moment as though mustering his thoughts. “To me it seems the bond of matrimony is a sacrosanct one.” Aimee’s mouth fell open, and someone sat to her left gave a muffled cough.

Konrad’s frown grew more pronounced. “I heartily pity de Crecy and his wife,” he added heavily. “To be joined in life to someone without affection must be a terrible thing.” He gave her a level look. “Not everyone can be as fortunate as we.”

Aimee gazed at him, her breath coming thick and fast. “I – that is, when we married –” Suddenly, she became aware of three pairs of eyes avidly watching them and swallowed her words. It would surely not be appropriate to raise this now!

His thumb passed caressingly over her knuckles. “When we wed, you brought all the affection to the table,” he acknowledged. “As well as everything else. However, I hope I have never been accused of being a slow learner.”

Aimee swallowed, her head reeling with what he was saying. He had grown accustomed to her presence in his life? Perhaps, even fond of her? She lifted her goblet and took another hurried sip to mask how shaken she felt.

Sir Douglas sighed. “You make us quite envious, my lord,” he said.

“Not me!” Sir Fulke objected with a shudder. “No offense, my lady,” he added quickly when his friends upbraided him as unchivalrous.

“Farleigh is unlucky in his wooing,” Konrad said after a moment’s pause, catching Aimee entirely by surprise.

Was he … attempting to introduce a topic she would have interest in? The possibility made her heart lurch. “He is?” she asked, lowering her cup.

“Aye,” Sir Douglas agreed with a sigh. “The lady I most esteem does not look favorably on my suit.”

Sir Leonard snorted. “I daresay she is not even aware you are wooing her!”

Sir Fulke sniggered, and soon the tale of the perfect Lady Constance tumbled out along with Sir Douglas’s failure to engage her affections. Aimee found it most interesting, and the afternoon under the golden sun seemed to slip by after that. All three wineskins were drunk, the food consumed, and Jakeman dispatched to fetch more ale from the hall.

After Sir Douglas’s ineffective wooing, they heard all about Sir Leonard’s three grown sisters and how he must scheme and save to provide for them all, now he was the head of the family. “The misfortune of it is that the sole sister who possesses a dowry is the only one I do not want to be parted with.”

“How is it that this one sister possesses a dowry when the other two do not?” Aimee puzzled.

“Aye, well there you have it. She is not actually Leo’s sister at all,” Sir Fulke explained. “She was fully eighteen years old when he met her.”

“Her mother was only married to my father for a six month before he died,” Sir Leonard agreed. “But in any case, I am in no hurry to part with Sibyl. The other two, certainly,” he said pursing his lips. “But not Sybil.”

After that, they heard all about Fulke’s struggles to remain in his father’s favor now he had a stepmother and two stepbrothers to supplant him. “Perfect paragons, the pair of them,” Fulke said glumly. “Or so my stepmother would have you believe. And I can’t put a foot right in her book!”

By the time suppertime rolled around, Aimee felt well acquainted with all the young knights’ hopes and aspirations. They seemed a pleasant and straightforward bunch, and she was pleased Konrad could call them his friends. She took her husband’s arm as they made their way to Caple Hall for the evening banquet. The sun was so low in the sky that all the fields about them seemed bathed in a golden glow, and Aimee felt such a surge of contentment that she was forced to give herself a stern talking to.

She was not about to go and throw her heart at Lord Kentigern all over again. She had learned her lesson well and from now on would keep it well guarded. He did not want love from her, merely respect and affection. She would not permit herself to be disappointed by this, for in the first place, he had not even wanted that! They were learning to deal well with one another, that was all, she told herself firmly.

On arriving in the great hall, Aimee was pleased to see Aileen Howard was sat at the high table next to her new husband, Sir Darby. Lady Howard, too, seemed reconciled to the match, for she performed Konrad’s introduction to her daughter-in-law with a serene calm. To Aimee’s surprise, the de Bussells did not turn up to the celebratory banquet, despite Sir Armand’s day of triumph. Maybe they were celebrating just the two of them, she pondered. After all, Sir Armand must surely be exhausted after his exertions.

Conversely, the arrival in the hall of the de Crecys arm in arm caused quite a stir, as no one expected them to show. She fancied Sir Jeffree’s eyes strayed rather often to his wife’s profile with a faintly baffled look lurking in his gaze. Something had clearly happened between them, and Aimee felt most curious as to what it might have been. Whatever it was, Lady de Crecy seemed to have the upper hand to her mind. She looked composed and cool, where Sir Jeffree looked decidedly sheepish.

Tonight, Aimee did not feel self-conscious about the fact she was the most elaborately adorned in the room. She had debated removing her pearls or her brooch beforehand, but after all, she could scarcely leave them unattended in the pavilion, so instead, she had kept them on. Perhaps the several cups of wine she had drunk over the course of the afternoon had helped blunt any feelings of doubt.

Throughout the course of the meal, various figures kept materializing at her husband’s shoulder, hovering nervously. Aimee, catching sight of them, would tip her head to make Konrad aware of their presence, for half the time they stood at his left shoulder where he had something of a blind spot. Whenever he turned frowningly to see who it was, he found a stammering knight attempting to present their ransom to him from the melee.

Konrad would enquire their name, nod, accept their coin, and they would drift away stammering their thanks. “I’m blessed if I know why they keep giving it to me here,” her husband commented. “For they would find it far easier just to pass it to Jakeman on the morrow.”

Aimee, recognizing one knight in a rather threadbare looking tunic as someone her husband had declined to take for a hostage, guessed that they just wanted this moment of exchange with him. She could not say as she blamed them. If she were a young knight, she was convinced she would hang on his every word also. She wasn’t sure she would needlessly pay money for the privilege though, she thought watching the knight return to his friends looking flushed and triumphant. “He asked my name!” she heard him exclaim excitedly before he reclaimed his seat among them. She wondered if it was because he was so popular at Beres Caple that they dared approach him now, or if it was simply because he so rarely attended the evening banquets.

A sudden thought occurred to Aimee. “Do contestants never –” she broke off her words and frowned.

“What?”

“Try to – take advantage of the lack of vision in your left eye?”

Konrad shrugged. “It depends. Gallant fools like Vawdrey would never stoop so low.”

“Is Sir Roland gallant, then?” Her belief in knights had taken rather a battering since marriage to one.

“He’d be furious at anyone who suggested such a thing,” Kentigern acknowledged dryly. “But, aye, the King’s Champion is an honorable fighter.” He gave her a level look. “Vawdrey is young. In the war, he served briefly as a squire, nothing more.” He hesitated. “He wasn’t taught his craft on the battlefield.”

Aimee dimly realized there was some distinction being pointed out to her here. “I see,” she said slowly. “Sir Roland still believes in ideals, then? Like Sir Renlow.”

Kentigern laughed. “No one is quite as pure-hearted as Renlow. Before your sister came along, I thought him a likely candidate for the cloister.”

Aimee frowned. “Is there such a thing as monk-knights?” she asked.

Kentigern tipped his head to one side. “I came across a holy order of fighters once during the war, and they were some of the most ruthless I ever encountered. No, Renlow is something quite apart from their like.”

Aimee regarded him intently. Something was niggling away at the edge of her thoughts. “What of less gallant knights than Sir Roland?” she persisted. “Would they attempt to use your blind side against you?”

Kentigern huffed out a breath. “Some,” he admitted. “You must watch all your vulnerabilities around the likes of Orde. He would not let such a thing as chivalry get in the way of a win.”

Aimee lifted her chin. “I like Sir Roland,” she said defiantly.

“Everyone likes Vawdrey,” he replied scathingly.

“Even you?”

Her reply seemed to flummox him. His eye skewed away from hers a moment. “Even me,” he rumbled reluctantly. “Damn him!”

Aimee felt a flicker of triumph at this admission. “I did not take any instant liking to Sir Garman Orde,” she ventured experimentally.

“No one likes Orde.”

“Not even his wife?”

Kentigern shifted in his seat. “How should I know that?” he prevaricated, looking slightly hunted.

“I think you do know,” she persisted.

“Very well, his wife is biased in his favor.”

“Biased? Some might say she was in love with him,” Aimee argued. “’Tis plain evident for anyone with eyes to see!”

Kentigern snorted. “Likely, she feels indebted to him.”

“What do you mean by that? Oh, you mean because he overlooked her scars?”

“Scars!” he muttered derisively. “They are naught but a few pox marks.”

Aimee regarded him a moment in silence. “It is different in a woman, as I am sure you know. I heard she was the most famous beauty in all the land before she was stricken down with the red pox.”

Her husband shifted in his seat. “Orde does not seem to mind her mottled skin.”

“No, and isn’t that strange when, as you say, he does not have a chivalrous bone in his body? I wonder why that could be, my lord,” she flung at him in challenge.

Someone down the other end of the table dropped a knife, and at the same time, both Aimee and Kentigern seemed to recall they were not dining alone. They glanced down the table where their hosts and the de Crecys were watching them with interest.

Aimee cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure why she had suddenly taken up her cudgels, but remembering the wonderful moments she had glimpsed at Kellingford between Sir Garman and Lady Lenora, she could not bear to hear anyone suggest their bond was anything other than loving. Just because most marriages were not so fortunate did not mean that none were.

Toward the end of the meal, the redheaded musician approached her with parchment and quill in hand to take down the verses of The Tree, The Moon, and The Lover’s Promise.

“I protest,” Lady Howard said raising her voice from the head of the table. “Lady Kentigern should be singing that sweet song for us and not simply reciting the words for your benefit, good Master Jacobs.”

The musician bowed. “I confess I did hope that Lady Kentigern might grace us once again with her voice.”

“Nay, Mother!” Sir Chaucey cried. “We have the awarding of today’s prizes first. I declare that Lady Kentigern should sing at the close of our festivities, not at the commencement.”

At that, his brother, Sir Darby, looked up quickly. “Aileen has been practicing all day after taking Lady Kentigern’s instruction,” he said. “Perhaps they could sing it together?”

“But of course!” Aimee said, interrupting Aileen’s stammered protestations. “I was always in the habit of singing that song with my sister, so I am more accustomed to singing it in company.” From their brief practice that morning, she knew the other woman’s voice was pleasant though not particularly strong. Aileen gave her a happy smile by way of thanks.

Sir Chaucey walked to the front of the dais and cleared his throat. “It gives me very great pleasure,” he announced, “to award these purses of monies to the fifteen members of the winning blue team.” He announced the names, and Aimee sent an encouraging smile toward Sir Fulke who seemed embarrassed about receiving prize money when his own performance had been nothing outstanding.

They all clapped as the knights came up the dais to receive their winnings. Sir Chaucey set aside the winner’s trophy for ‘The Last Man Standing’ and two purses for Sir Armand, which would have to be delivered to his tent. “And now for the awarding of the second cup,” Sir Chaucey said, reaching for a handsome copper bowl.

“This award is a new one which we will be awarding this year. It is for The People’s Champion, the knight who garners the most appreciation from those of us watching in the stands. It is gauged by both the cheers and groans of the audience. This year at Beres Caple, we are unanimous in our decision to award this prize to the one and only Lord Kentigern.”

Aimee caught her breath as all eyes in the hall turned to look at her husband who sat beside her with a thunderstruck expression on his face. After a moment, the shouts of encouragement started, and he swung his leg over the bench and made his way to join Sir Chaucey. If anything, she thought Konrad looked rather more awkward about going up to collect his reward than Sir Fulke had. She clapped along with everyone else and could not help but laugh when some of the knights started drumming their feet on the flagstones.

After thanking them all brusquely, Konrad made his way back to her side clutching the copper bowl as though it might bite him. She guessed he had never won what amounted to a popularity prize before. His ears looked rather red as he lowered himself back onto the bench.

“What a lovely thing,” Aimee beamed at him.

He lowered his voice. “I am sure it would have been de Bussell’s had he bothered to show this eve.”

“I do not think so,” Aimee disagreed. “For it seems to me that you are the firm crowd favorite here.”

Konrad growled. “Aye, well …” he started but seemed unable to continue. Taking pity on his discomfort, she patted his hand and then rose from her seat to join Aileen Howard to sing their song as the closing entertainment of the evening.