Page 37 of An Ill-Made Match

“Let us.” They proceeded at a leisurely pace down to the far field where the spectators were filing into the benches.

“Hie!” shouted a familiar voice. It was Hal Payne. He waved his arm vigorously. “I’ve saved you seats!” And good seats they were too, roughly in the same spot as the previous day. They joined him and Eden sat between the two Payne siblings as before. Hal twisted in his seat and looked at her curiously. “You look different today,” he said finally, blushed and scratched his ear.

“It is naught but my borrowed finery,” Eden replied firmly.

“And your hair,” said Hal glancing up again, but not quite meeting her eye.

Eden self-consciously patted her hair. Despite the fact she’d told Martha she did not want to wear it loose, the maid had taken up only the front and sides of her hair and plaited this into a braided coronet. The rest of her hair, hung down almost to her waist and instead of being covered by a serviceable veil, she wore instead a short, frippery piece of gauze pinned below her braided crown. It fluttered ineffectually, concealing nothing but rather, Eden thought, drawing attention to her locks. “Yes, I suppose,” she conceded. How funny, she thought. She had never dressed as a marriageable maiden, until she was neither a maiden, or marriageable.

“Have they announced the order of the jousting?” asked Gunnilde, leaning forward.

Hal nodded. “The first pair is Kentigern and de Bussell, followed by Vawdrey and Linley, followed by Bevan and Renlowe.”

“Sir Renlowe?” said Eden startled. “Surely not! How much more damage can that young man sustain?”

Hal grinned. “We’ll soon find out.”

Eden pressed her lips together with disapproval. “It ought not to be permitted.”

“Oh, but…” Gunnilde broke off, looking embarrassed. “Your pardon, but I thought he was quite your husband’s protégé?”

“Roland’s?” asked Eden in surprise. “What gave you that impression?”

“Oh! Tis only…” Gunnilde fidgeted in her seat.

“She’s been listening to gossip,” said Hal. “Depend upon it. She always gets that look on her face, when she has.”

“Hal!” his sister exclaimed reproachfully.

“What gossip?” asked Eden, curious despite herself.

“Well, my father’s steward told me-”

“Henderson?” interrupted Hal.

“We only have one steward!” his sister pointed out in exasperation. Hal shrugged.

“Yes?” prompted Eden, placing a restraining hand on Hal’s forearm. He seemed to be deriving great pleasure from tormenting his sister. He fell still at once.

“Well, Henderson told me that Sir Roland paid Sir Renlowe’s ransom, after the melee, so that he was free to join the banquet from the outset and did not have to sit with all the other captive knights.”

“Oh.” Eden recalled Roland’s frustration when Sir Renlowe had ridden up to the Challenge at Arms the next morning. That must have been why. He had perhaps wanted Renlowe to rest up and not fling himself straight back into combat, she reasoned, sitting back in her seat.

“Why Hal!” said Gunnilde suddenly. “Your face is as red as a beet! You must have had too much sun yesterday.”

**

Roland knocked down his visor and Bavol danced beneath him. “Easy boy,” he cautioned. Was his horse picking up on his own distraction, he wondered? His mind had been otherwise preoccupied since he’d left his wife in her bath that morning. Of course, he knew he owed her some consideration after taking her maidenhead the night before, but still, it had gone against the grain, leaving her like that. He scowled behind his helmet. He had thus far resisted looking for Eden in the crowd. Only now, he allowed himself a quick scan of the sea of faces. She would be sat near the front, with the Paynes, he thought, his eyes seeking her out. And then he spotted her. Or was it her? He did a double-take. It looked… rather like her, but then again it also did not. Bavol whinnied, but he ignored him, staring at this female in pale blue dress, with her eyes of sapphire and her black hair loose. She turned her head, listening intently to that yellow-haired son of his host’s. A bolt of pure jealousy shot through Roland, winding him. Why the fuck was her hand resting on his arm with such familiarity? Bavol jolted and struck a hoof against the ground. Roland leaned down to pat his neck. “Easy now.” Soothing his horse was the last thing he felt like doing and in all honesty he knew he was not doing a good job of it. Not when he was feeling so disordered. With a start, he realized what it was that was bothering him. This Eden he could see now in the crowd was not wearing her customary drab disguise. This Eden looked like the same Eden he had woken up in bed with five days ago. And now everyone could see her. He swore, and Bavol skittered sideways in the enclosure, throwing back his head.

“What ails him today?” yelled Cuthbert jumping back a few paces to a safe distance.

“It’s not his fault,” said Roland grimly. It was his. The horse was picking up on his own inner turmoil. He needed to rein them both in, if this morning’s jousting was not to be a complete disaster.

**

Five minutes later, it was all over. Roland was rolling in the dust and Bavol had bolted to the far side of the field. He groaned. Everything, but everything, had felt off this morning. From the balance of the lance in his hand, to the direction of the sun in his eyes. Kentigern was not the opponent to face when you were not on your best form. He tentatively flexed his limbs, as he rolled to a seated position. Nothing felt broken in any event. The thud of footfalls heralded Cuthbert’s approach. “Go after Bavol,” he directed him. His squire showed him a clean pair of heels, disappearing after the steed. Roland lifted off his helmet, shaking his head to clear it. Two servants appeared to help him to his feet. He let them haul him to his feet and staggered a little before shrugging them off, to walk unaided from the area. He was stiff and his ribs hurt, but that would hopefully wear off as he kept moving. The impact had dented his armor but did not look to have pierced it. Breathing hurt, but with a bit of luck, the ribs were bruised rather than broken. He grimaced as other knights slapped him on the shoulder, commiserating him.

“I’d beat that horse if I were you, Vawdrey,” boomed de Crecy.