Page 102 of An Ill-Made Match

The room erupted into chaos. And Roland kissed her. Again.

**

Epilogue

Two months later, The Royal Tournament, Caer-Lyoness

Eden reached up again to check the garland of flowers was sat straight upon her head. She still couldn’t quite believe that Roland had presented it to her in front of everyone as Tournament Queen. Or that she had taken it. The applause from the audience had been quite deafening. She knew there was a stupid smile on her face, but she couldn’t seem to banish it. She glanced over at her husband. He was stripped down to his braies and chauses now, and washing his hands in the basin Cuthbert had left out for him. She caught the direction of his gaze, flickering over her, before he plunged his hands back in, and started rigorously scrubbing his face and neck. For a moment, she had almost thought it was his lascivious look he was casting her way. The one he habitually wore before pouncing on her. But they were currently in a pavilion, in a field outside the palace and surrounded by courtiers. So, she must surely have misinterpreted his look, she thought. Maybe after all, she wasn’t the expert she was starting to feel on the various moods of Roland Vawdrey.

“Well,” she announced with a sigh of satisfaction, examining the fine gold bowl that Roland had been presented with, along with the return of his ‘King’s Champion’ accolade. “You did it. You’re the victor. Lord Kentigern was as dust beneath your feet. You are once more the King’s Champion.” Roland smirked as he reached for the soap leaves but gave no other discernable reaction. “You will be pleased to hear I’ve finally sorted my itinerary for the next week while we’re here at court,” Eden rattled on. “Tomorrow morn, I have a music recital in the Queen’s chamber. I shall take my harp. Then in the afternoon I have a meeting with my fellow ladies in waiting, followed by a poetry reading in the lower gallery.” She looked at him expectantly. “What say you to that?”

“Good,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Good.” He was running a drying cloth now over his shoulders and upper body.

“So, which do you think you’ll attend?” asked Eden politely. “The harp performance or the poetry reading?”

He seemed to consider this. “Harp. But I’ll be returning to the Quintain directly after you perform.”

She nodded at this, then seemed to absorb his words. “Really? The Quintain? Will you be back at practicing again so soon?”

“Yes,” he said. He had got through today’s proceedings remarkably unscathed. “But more importantly, will you be dancing again, any time before we leave?” he asked, casting his towel away.

Eden shook her head. It turned out that Roland genuinely liked to watch her dance, but not if there were any gentlemen involved in the performance. In that case, he was sure to watch very closely, and Eden’s partners tended to get rather flustered under his hostile regard. “No, I am merely teaching some steps to others on Thursday.”

“Well, you need to give some of the other maidens a chance,” he conceded. “When you dance, everyone else is thrown into the shadows.”

“Tis only you who thinks so,” said Eden, who still got a little flustered when he spoke thus. She set down the golden bowl carefully. “And then, we travel to Chilbury on the following Monday for the next tournament, where I will cheer you on from the crowd.” She turned to examine the rest of the things scattered on the table, lifting up one of his gauntlets. “How do you even lift your sword-?” she began, when suddenly she felt her hips seized from behind and Roland’s warm breath on her neck. He buried his face against the side of her throat and dragged her back against his front. Before she could stop herself, Eden let out a surprised squeak. “Roland! What do you think you’re doing?” But he didn’t want to talk. His fingers were in her hair, tugging her face to turn toward his. So, she had not misinterpreted that look after all! He kissed her until she was breathless, and then spun her around, and lifted her up to sit on the edge of the table. Eden’s eyes widened. “Roland-” she said, casting her eyes toward the entrance of the tent.

“The dogs are posted there,” he said, kissing her neck, his hands busy pushing her skirts aside. “All six of them. They won’t let anyone interrupt us.”

“We’re out of doors,” she reminded him in scandalized tones.

“We’re in a pavilion,” he pointed out, and he tipped his head back to look at her. “Will that fellow Childers be at the poetry reading?” He asked with a sudden frown. “When he dedicated that ballad to you, you blushed.”

“Well, it was a very great compliment he paid me,” Eden replied.

“Let’s get this straight, wife. I’m the one that makes you blush. Me. Your husband. No-one else.”

She looked at him gravely. “Mr Childers is fifty-five and balding,” she pointed out gently.

“I wanted to kill him.”

“I’m not in love with Mr Childers,” she said firmly. “So kindly do not murder him.” He said nothing. Eden tried again. “We simply have a shared interest and a similar taste and appreciation for the arts-”

“Eden,” he interrupted her. “You’re making me feel murderous toward him again.”

Eden broke off her words to look at him in exasperation. “The one I love is you. If you were to award the tourney crown to another, then I would understand that you were paying a great compliment to that lady, and I would not…”

“That won’t arise,” he said crisply. “As I’m never going to give the tourney crown to another.”

“What?”

“I’m only ever going to give it to you, from now on.”

Eden paused, scanning his face. “Are you in earnest?”

“Deadly.”

She took a couple of unsteady breaths. “Fine, I won’t accept any more poetry dedications.”