27

27

Konrad woke in the early hours to the sound of light rain drumming against the roof of the pavilion and an unaccustomed feeling coursing through his large body. He lay a moment, blinking in confusion before he got some vague notion what it might be. Contentment, was that it?

Aimee was curled into his side, one arm wrapped around his waist, one curvy leg slung over his as though she were staking her claim on his territory. He had no idea why the notion should make him grin, but it did, damn it. Twice more he had taken her enthusiastically in the night, and he still felt relaxed and mellowed from it.

Shifting onto his side, he turned toward her and brushed the dark hair out of her face. This made her frown and bump her head against his chest. “Mmm. Keep still,” she complained. Then she blinked and attempted to sit up with a confused look on her face. He braced a hand against her stomach, preventing her.

“Shhh, it is still early,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

Obligingly, she settled back against him, but he could tell she had not relaxed into sleep. “Is it raining?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” he murmured discouragingly. Then repeated: “Go back to sleep.”

There was a moment’s silence, then another question. “Will it come through the roof?”

Konrad sighed. “You are not going to go back to sleep, are you?”

“Most likely not,” she said wriggling to get comfortable. “I don’t tend to once I have awakened.”

He felt her fingers brush caressingly against his side and huffed out a breath. He really should sleep another hour or two. The joust was a demanding event, and he consumed a goodly quantity of wine the day before. Then, too, his sleep had not been undisturbed what with one thing and another. It had been late when they had returned from the hall and then there had been their enthusiastic coupling. It was a good thing their pavilion was a decent distance from anyone else’s.

All good reasons to close his eyes again and sleep, he told himself sternly, but then he felt her hand settle against his chest. “Aimee,” he warned without opening his eyes. “If you do not go back to sleep, then I will find something else for you to do.”

“Such as what?”

“You should have a damned good notion what, after last night.”

She was quiet a moment. “I would voice no objection,” she admitted, and Konrad gave up on sleep altogether. This time their coupling was lazy and unhurried, and he gazed into her eyes the whole time.

He took care to build up her pleasure slowly, slowly as his own climbed up his spine inch by inch, making his gaze flicker as he bit his lip to keep his strokes unhurried and leisurely, however much the temptation rode him to go faster and deeper and make his possession known.

The steady thrum of rain on the roof, Aimee’s hitched breathing, the beat of his own heart, all helped him keep the relaxed pace he wanted, helped him keep in check, until finally Aimee’s hands slid from his hips around to his arse. She gripped him there hard. “Please, Konrad!” she begged, and just like that, his body surged as though it were hers to command all along. He only had to drive into her hard three times, and they were both there, gasping and groaning and clinging to one another.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him so she lay half on top of him. He did not want to pull out of her, so he stayed where he was for as long as possible, passing a hand down the length of her dark, tousled hair and wrapping his hand in its length.

“Your mother must have been very beautiful,” he heard himself say.

“Yes, apparently so.”

“Her people were from the east?”

“Yes. From Samare.”

“You have lovely coloring.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.” He reached for her hand, enfolding it in his. “We tend to be darker in the north than those from southern Karadok, but you are darker still.” He ran a hand up and down her lower back caressingly. “I hope our children look like you.”

Aimee turned her face to lay her cheek against his shoulder. “And I hope they look like both of us.”

He smiled. “That is usually the way of things, I believe.” They lay silent for a few moments, and then he sighed. He did not really want to go to the blasted joust. He wanted to loll here all day, he thought with faint astonishment. Until this moment, he would have said jousting was his favorite pastime in all the world.

Aimee’s hand moved over his chest in swirls like figures of eight. He liked it. Too much. He stared down at her, a vague unease spreading through his limbs. What was he doing here lying on his back and letting her pet him like this when he had a hard slog ahead of him today? A hard slog he was ill-prepared for after a night’s carousing. He girded his loins, sat up, and cleared his throat. “I need to fetch you some water to clean up.”

“What time do you suppose it is?” Aimee asked when he rolled out of bed a moment later. He did not think she sounded as sorry about it as she ought.

“Half five?” he hazarded. “Something like that.”

He had a hurried wash in the cold basin and pulled on his clothes. His body protested to this rude treatment after reveling in pleasure. His head might tell him he needed to get ready for the joust, but the rest of him was protesting he should climb back in the bed with his wife.

He forced himself out of the tent. Outside, the rain had stopped, and he saw it had been naught but a quick shower. By the time he returned from the hall with two pails of hot water, the day was bidding to be a fair one. He thought Aimee might have fallen back to sleep as he ducked inside, however, he was wrong. His wife was bright-eyed, sat up, and hugging her knees. She was also chirpy. Extremely chirpy.

Konrad fetched her clothes from the pack and poured the first of the pails of water into the basin for her.

“Were many people up and about at the hall?” she asked cheerfully as she bent over the basin. He grunted and she half-turned, lowering her cloth. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Just kitchen staff,” he said, forcing himself to drag his eyes from her pleasing form.

She turned back, apparently satisfied by his clipped reply, only to ask moments later, “What time will Jakeman attend us?”

Konrad rubbed his eyes. “About seven.”

“So late?”

“Proceedings don’t start until nine. What would be the point in his coming any earlier?”

“I suppose that is true,” she acknowledged, flinging her hair over one shoulder, and placing the basin on the floor to stand in it now, she had done her upper body.

Konrad cleared his throat and looked away as Aimee completed her wash. To give himself something to do, he fetched his broadsword and the oil rag to give it a quick polish.

“I hope Freda is doing well in Caer Lyoness without us,” Aimee said chattily as she tied a drying cloth about her body.

Freda? She wanted to talk about Freda? He had to think a moment before he could make a reply. “She’s a fully grown woman, Aimee,” he pointed out direly. “I am sure she will be fine.”

“Yes, but in a strange part of the country to her,” she said with a frown in her voice. “Did you know her only real friends up until now were household cats? She’s so sweet. How old is she, by the way?”

He had to think a moment, lowering his oil rag. “She must number between forty and fifty,” he answered with a frown.

“I have grown so fond of her,” Aimee sighed. “Freda loved how the brooch turned out, you know. She could not have been happier even if it had still belonged to her. She said she thought it had sapphires originally, but they were lost.”

He snorted. “My uncle likely sold them,” he said setting down his sword as Aimee walked toward the bed. “Freda has always shrunk from hard truths.”

Picking up the basin of water, he walked out of the pavilion and emptied it before returning to fill it with the second pail of hot water.

“She’s unfailingly kind,” Aimee pointed out. She had fetched a comb now and was drawing it through her hair.

He grunted dismissively. He did not want to talk about Freda. He needed to get ready for the day ahead.

“Did she suffer ill health in her youth?” Aimee persisted.

“What?” He looked up from unfastening his tunic.

“It occurred to me that might be why Freda never married,” she explained patiently.

“Not that I remember.”

“Hmmm,” she sounded thoughtful, and it crossed his mind as he stripped down to his braies that here was an opening for him to mention his suspicions that Ankatel had an interest in his cousin as a matrimonial prospect. Then he reminded himself he did not wish to dwell on such subjects. He had better things to be concentrating on right now, such as readying himself for the joust. Resolutely, he set about his ablutions.

“Do you think that Magnatrude will be happy as one of the queen’s ladies?” Aimee asked lowering her comb.

“So she says,” he answered in clipped tones, rubbing soap flakes between his fingers.

“But do you think she will?” she asked insistently.

“If she is,” he snorted, “it will be for the first time in her life.”

“She has always been dissatisfied with her lot?” she asked curiously. “Never happy? Not even,” she hesitated as though unsure whether it was her place to ask, “when she was betrothed?”

“Not even then,” he confirmed. “My sister was contrary and difficult prior to the war. What has happened since was not likely to sweeten her. She even admitted the other day that the marriage would have been an unhappy one.”

“Then mayhap this appointment to the queen’s retinue will truly be her vocation,” Aimee mused, shaking out a gown of amber satin.

That caught his eye. “What is that?” he asked pointedly.

Aimee looked startled. “My gown, you mean?”

“That is not the gown you are wearing this day,” he reminded her.

Aimee’s face reddened. “Konrad …”

“You are wearing my colors for the joust, remember?”

She looked instantly guilt-ridden. “I no longer own a gown in your colors,” she admitted.

“I told you to get another one made up,” he reminded her tersely.

“There was insufficient time for that, husband –” she said, dropping her gaze from his, and he felt a sudden stab of suspicion.

“You did not commission one to be made, did you?” he asked flatly.

Her face flamed. “No,” she admitted, staring down at the hands which clutched her gown. “In truth, I cannot imagine myself wearing a heraldic gown like that again by choice. Not since …” her words trailed off.

“Since what?” he demanded harshly, narrowing his eyes at her. “Since the royal festival? Since I let you down?”

Aimee gasped, then drew in a steadying breath. “Someone tried to warn me that I would look too conspicuous in that gown,” she started in a conciliatory tone. “And that I would appear vulgar in it,” she said, two spots of color appearing in her cheeks. “But I did not listen.”

“Magnatrude, you mean?” he asked angrily. “I will have words with her on our return.”

Aimee’s face fell. “No, no,” she said urgently. “It was not your sister. It was mine.”

“Yours?” He thought of gentle-eyed Ursula Ankatel and snorted derisively. “Do not lie to me, Aimee.”

“I’m not lying!” she flared up. “Except she didn’t flat out say it like that,” she amended consciously. “But rather softened the blow.” At his open skepticism, she lifted her chin. “She explained that a noblewoman may wear something with impunity, where a merchant’s daughter may not.”

“What the hells do you mean by that?”

“I would have thought it was obvious. I was not born to this role, Konrad. I will no doubt make many missteps along the way and parading around in your colors like that, so ostentatiously, was a pretty hefty one.”

“What was ostentatious about it?” he bit out crossly.

“I went completely overboard with flaunting your crest in the early days of our marriage,” she answered with a gulp. “I – you must have seen how I embroidered it on every bare patch of cloth in my trousseau, Konrad! You were kind enough not to mention it, but you must have thought me quite ridiculous!”

He remembered the portcullises all over his bedclothes. “I did not think it ridiculous.” He might as well have held his tongue for all the attention she paid him.

“Since then,” she continued steadily, “I have observed that ladies of rank rather bear themselves with a quiet assurance than plastering their credentials all over themselves –”

“What ladies of rank? What are you talking about?” he interrupted irritably.

“Princess Una, for one,” she answered before correcting herself. “I mean, the Lady de Bussell. She certainly wasn’t swathed in pearls and sapphires like me, and she doesn’t need them. Her natural dignity is such that no one could mistake her for anything but highly born.”

“Bullshit,” Konrad interrupted her rudely. “When she was a princess, she was so decked in ceremonial garb she was barely recognizable. She avoids it now because she’s likely sick of pomp.”

Aimee’s expression wavered. “Well, but –”

“How do you think my ancestors seized power?” he demanded. “I’ll give you a hint, Aimee, it wasn’t through good manners. They simply took it because they were in a position of strength, and none could stand against them. I am damned sure the first Kentigern covered his wife in jewels and vastly enjoyed the spectacle.”

“I am sure you speak true, Konrad,” she replied after a moment’s stunned silence. “But I simply meant that ladies who have been born and raised to the role will not be judged harshly when they –”

“If anyone thinks you vulgar, it is out of jealousy or spite, nothing more.”

Aimee stiffened. “My sister has only ever sought to advise me for my own good, never to wound me.”

He lowered his washing cloth. “Are you saying Ursula called you vulgar?”

“Of course not!” she replied looking incensed. “She only meant to caution me against appearing foolish and gauche in public!”

He paused a moment, selecting his words with more care. “Your sister lacks your spirit, Aimee, but given time and Renlow’s encouragement, she will hopefully grow more spine. It seemed to me the other day that she was already well on her way.”

Aimee gasped. “What do you mean? The other day?”

Damn it. He gazed back at her stony-faced, realizing his error at once.

“Have you seen my sister? Since our marriage, I mean?” she persisted hotly. It seemed Aimee could read his expression, for she immediately burst out accusingly, “You have! And you did not tell me!”

He huffed out a breath and looked away. “I know you are used to getting your own way, Aimee, but you don’t always get to dictate how things are going to be anymore. Not as my wife. Your sister needed some time to find her feet and that is all there is to it. You are no longer her first concern, and you don’t get to tell her how to live her life anymore.”

Aimee sucked in a shocked breath. “What? When have I ever … ?” Words seemed to fail her.

“Picked out your sister’s husband, did you not? As well as your own. Decided she was going to get married the same day as you as well as everything else.”

Aimee’s eyes widened so far it was lucky her eyeballs didn’t fall out. “Ursula admired Sir Renlow excessively – !” she spluttered, but he cut her off again.

“Maybe so, but we both know that’s all it would have remained as, if not for your intercession. Admiration. From afar. Nothing more.”

Aimee’s chest heaved. “Ursula does not have the forthright temperament necessary –”

“Small wonder,” he interrupted, folding his arms across his chest. “With you in the same house, running rings around her. It wasn’t from Hilda’s shadow she needed to escape from, it was yours.”

Aimee reeled back almost as if he had struck her. The backs of her knees hit a wooden chair, and she fell onto the seat almost sprawling before she corrected herself, sitting up straight. “So!” she said hollowly. “This is what you think of me, then!”

He eyed her a moment measuringly. “Aye. You’re a damned managing woman. It’s small wonder your father never remarried. I doubt you ever let him.”

Aimee shot out of the seat. “How dare you! I would never try to impede my father’s happiness –”

“That’s good, as I think he’s steeling himself to take the plunge again.”

A struggle waged across Aimee’s face. “Say what you will, I cannot believe that the Widow Hemmings will make him happy!” she burst out hotly.

“Good gods, no,” he agreed. “I shouldn’t think she would make any man happy.”

Aimee deflated. “Oh. Then … Then who did you mean?”

He waved this aside. “It is not your concern anymore, wife. You have other things to occupy you.”

“He is still my father!”

“If I did not know any better, I would almost think you had conspired with the queen to get Magnatrude out from under my roof,” he mused.

Aimee glared at him speechlessly a moment. “You must think me bossy indeed if you think that I can bend a queen to my bidding!” she said bitterly. “But as a matter of fact, that had nothing whatsoever to do with me!”

“No,” he agreed fairly. “You just knew you did not want it to be you or Freda that had to do it.”

Aimee stewed on this a moment. “Trude is much better suited to the role than either of us would have been,” she pointed out with wounded dignity.

“Agreed. Just as you are much better suited to your new role. Even more so when I give you a few children, I daresay, to keep you occupied. And now, if you don’t mind, I have a day’s competition ahead of me. We cannot have this discussion now. I need quiet to focus. If that is too much to ask from you, then I will go and ready myself in the attendant’s tent.”

Several emotions warred on Aimee’s face before she swallowed, nodded, and swung around presenting her back to him. Well, he supposed he had asked for that. She certainly would not be ogling his naked body this morn.

Konrad finished his ablutions and dressed in silence. By the time Jakeman arrived, the atmosphere in their pavilion had grown sadly oppressive. Konrad flung off to the competitor’s area, skulking around the less populated areas while he tried to get in the right frame of mind to compete.

If he had felt a good deal too mellow and benign when he had first awoken, he now felt twitchy and annoyed. In truth, his current mood was closer to his habitual one but for the niggling guilt gnawing at him for being ungracious with his wife. Had he gone too far in defending himself? He had not meant to wound her, just give her something to think about.

He did not usually have to deal with guilt, as he lacked the compunction. He was a tactless bastard at the best of times, and he knew he had not handled things well that morning. Well, all had been fine until the moment he had climbed out of bed. Maybe he should just have stayed in it, he thought irritably. All had been well until that point.

He should have told his wife previously about that visit he had paid to Renlow in town, he acknowledged, picking up a lance and testing its weight, but he had not done so. Mostly because he knew he would have to go into minute detail to please Aimee, and he had not wanted her to dwell so much on her sister and brother-in-law on this trip. He frowned. He had wanted her to dwell on more important things. Namely him. If that was selfish, so be it.

Jakeman arrived some while later to help him into his armor, and it was as much as he could do not to demand his wife’s whereabouts. He knew full well Aimee was being collected by Lowell who was escorting her to the stands. It had been arranged the previous evening within his hearing. He scowled and Jakeman, glancing up, asked if he had fastened the straps of his greaves too tightly.

He waved away the question irritably. Maybe he should stash his wife at Bartree, away from all the unwelcome distractions she surrounded herself with. He considered the matter as the rest of his armor was assembled. It was hard to imagine Aimee at his family home, for he had not seen her in such a setting.

He conjured from memory a few of the old familiar faces. Ernald, his father’s aged steward, old Clothilde, the alewife. Before he even knew it, the certainty crept into his thoughts that Aimee would soon hold them all in the palm of her hand. It would not even be a sennight before she had learned all the names of their children and grandchildren, knew all about their hopes for the future, and supported them in their endeavors.

Wherever he took her, the blessed woman would be worming her way into the affection of others. He snorted, and it was only after Jakeman announced that his horse had been brought around that he realized he had not even troubled to enquire whose name he had drawn for the first tilt, let alone marshalled his thoughts around his strategy for the day.

What in the name of the gods had he even spent the past hour dwelling on?

*

He might have known from the outset that the day would be an unmitigated disaster. The morning passed uneventfully enough. He won all three of his jousts and avoided the majority his fellow competitors in between. This was not difficult as Symes lost his second tilt and went to join Lowell and Aimee in the crowd. As for Farleigh, he was in a different grouping to Konrad, so their paths did not cross, and he did not catch so much as a glimpse of him all morning.

Still, he could not shake the ill mood that had descended on him. He had spotted Aimee in the crowd from the first and told himself it did not matter that she looked wholly unaffected by their spat that morning. If his eye strayed to that same spot several times throughout the day, he maintained it was mere chance. The last time he looked at her, she seemed to be pointing someone out to her companions. Someone that was not him.

Not that it bothered him.

By the afternoon, the competition had been whittled down to the final forty. By three o’clock, there were only twenty knights remaining. Unsurprisingly, de Bussell and de Crecy were among their number, as was Farleigh. In quick succession, Konrad beat his opponent, de Bussell knocked out Farleigh, and de Crecy advanced with seemingly little effort to the final six.

Jakeman offered him the choice of two lances, and as Konrad deliberated, he said in a low voice, “Your next opponent will be de Bussell, my lord.”

Konrad looked up with a flicker of interest. “Indeed?”

“Aye, my lord.”

He glanced across to where he had last seen de Bussell lolling against a tree and met his gaze squarely. Sir Armand grinned and raised a hand in salutation. He was having another of his good days. Konrad regarded him thoughtfully a moment before returning the gesture. It was funny to think how vastly your opinion could change of someone in a mere few days.

If de Bussell had performed at Areley Kings the same way as he had here, word would surely soon spread that the curse of his inconsistent performance had been broken. He had only to crown this winning streak with a win at a royal tournament for his fame to spread far and wide.

Konrad set his chin grimly. If he were not to win, he would have vastly favored de Bussell over Jeffree de Crecy. That bastard had said he would crown Aimee tourney queen if he won, just for spite. He scowled and ignored the uncomfortable sting of his conscience which reminded him he had been the one to initiate that particular insult. It had been different back then. At least … no, he scowled, it had been wrong back then too.

He recalled Aimee’s reaction with a grimace. Although that had not been his first transgression as a husband, for he had surely fallen from grace on their very wedding day when he had abandoned her to dispense wedding favors all by herself. It had, though, been the final insult that prompted her to actually withdraw her avowal of love for him.

What if he were to crown her here this afternoon, he wondered. Would that earn her love back? He rubbed his breast plate distractedly with an armored gauntlet, causing a clash of metal. Could such a wrong be so easily righted? Besides, she was barely speaking to him by this point, he thought wretchedly. It would probably serve him right if she dashed the garland to the ground and trampled all over it. Just like she had his heart.

The spear slipped from his nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.

“My lord?” said Jakeman hurrying forward to help him retrieve it.

“Hmmm?” Konrad turned to look at the concerned face of his manservant.

“Is all well, my lord?”

“No,” replied Konrad heavily. “No, it is not. Are you married, Jakeman?”

“Widower, my lord.”

“You are?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You never mentioned it before.”

“No, my lord.” His discreet servant hesitated. “You see, you never asked.”

“No, I suppose I did not.” Konrad sighed heavily. He supposed he should try and get his head focused back on the tournament. “Anything else I should know?”

Jakeman’s expression flickered. “Er … I’m a father of three, my lord, if that’s any interest to you.”

“Three?” Konrad was startled. “Good gods, are you really?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Sons?” he asked, curious in spite of himself. “Or daughters?”

“Three sons, my lord.”

“Three! Where do you stash them all?”

A smile flickered across Jakeman’s face. He coughed. “Your lordship pays me well enough I am able to pay a woman to care for them.”

Konrad was just thinking his manservant must find the townhouse a handy location for visiting his offspring when an attendant came panting toward them.

“My lord Kentigern!” he cried. “You are up next!”

*

Konrad was perhaps the only one not surprised when he went crashing out of his saddle and ended up in a heap on the ground mere moments later in the third pass. He lay winded for a moment before raising a hand to flip up his visor and gaze up at the blue sky above. That was that, then. He was out of the running. All he could hope for now was that he had lost to the eventual victor.

He heard Jakeman’s low voice in his ear a moment before he registered the mixed reaction of the crowd. “They’re sorry to see you lose, my lord,” his manservant said, helping him to roll onto his side and then a sitting position. “For all de Bussell’s so popular.”

Konrad groaned and tore ineffectually at his dented chest plate. Jakeman took the hint and unbuckled the twisted plate. De Bussell had struck him a mighty blow, dead center. “He will be more popular still before the year is out,” Konrad predicted in a growl. “Damn him.” His words lacked heat however, and when moments later de Bussell appeared in front of him with his lazy smile, he congratulated him without rancor.

“That’s twice you’ve defeated me in as many days, de Bussell,” he growled. “Next time I see you, I will knock you flat on your arse.”

Sir Armand laughed his easy laugh. “I don’t doubt it, Kentigern,” he answered good-naturedly. “It won’t be the first time you have done so.”

“Aye, well … just make sure you send de Crecy home with a broken head,” he growled by way of reply, and they clasped wrists.

It seemed, however, that nothing was to go Konrad’s way that day. He retreated to the sidelines to watch the final joust, only allowing himself the barest glance in Aimee’s direction. So far from being devastated by his loss, she appeared to be absorbed in eating a pastry. He smarted, discarding the last vestiges of his armor into a pile at his feet.

Jakeman would return for it presently when he had seen to rubbing down Actaeon. For now, Konrad focused his attention on the field. De Bussell had been given a scant quarter of an hour to recover before the final joust. By rights, it ought to have been longer, but these rural tournaments were not so well regulated as the larger ones. Timings could be, and frequently were, arbitrary.

So it proved this time for Sir Armand. Perhaps the two glancing blows Konrad had managed to deal him contributed to his subsequent defeat at Sir Jeffree’s hands, but none could say for sure. All that could be said with certainty was that Sir Jeffree emerged the winner of the joust that year at Beres Caple.

Konrad watched grimly as Lady Howard held up the flowered crown for de Crecy’s lance. He hooked it on the end and then directed his white horse toward the lady he intended to honor. Konrad steeled himself for the indignity, but to his astonishment de Crecy did not make for Aimee at all. Instead, he halted before his own wife, Sabina de Crecy, and held the lance steady before her.

She froze a moment in seeming indecision before accepting the tribute and placing it on her own head. For the second tournament in a row, Lady de Crecy was crowned Queen of the Tournament. It seemed to Konrad that she and de Crecy could barely look each other full in the face. Interesting.

His own gaze traveled to his wife who was clapping politely along with the rest of the crowd. Of course, Aimee had never been aware that de Crecy had vowed to award her the crown in retaliation. She angled her head to say something to Lowell who nodded in agreement, and Konrad felt his shoulders slowly relax. He winced at the concurrent sensation of pain that shot through his chest. He was going to be badly bruised on the morrow.

He glanced up at the sky. In fact, he thought maybe it would be as well to set off now. It was three o’clock or thereabouts. A five-hour ride back to Caer Lyoness meant they could be back in their own beds by a little after nine o’clock that evening. Their bed, he amended conscientiously, for he meant to put an end to this separate bedchamber foolishness once and for all.

The notion was a tempting one. He glanced about for Jakeman and saw his trusty manservant weaving his way through the crowd toward him. He raised a hand and hailed him. “Pack up our things, Jakeman. We’re heading home.”