Page 38 of An Ill-Made Match

Roland ignored him, heading for the physician’s tent.

James Attley fell in beside him. “What the hells happened?” he demanded.

“Wasn’t my day,” answered Roland shortly.

“I’ll say! Never seen you go out in the first round before!”

Roland bit his tongue, rather than point out his draw had been against the mighty Kentigern. Attempting to justifying his poor performance was beneath him. At least he hadn’t lost to some nonentity. He’d have been capable of even that today!

“You’re going to have a devil of a job getting that armor off,” predicted Attley.

Roland glanced down at the battered suit. “Very likely,” he growled. Sensing he did not feel much like conversing, Attley took off when they reached the tent promising to go and check on Bavol. “Send Cuthbert to attend me here, if you see him,” Roland shouted after him.

The physician tsked and tutted and had to call in two fellows to help remove the armor, a painful proceeding which had Roland gritting his teeth.

**

The business with his armor and the physician took a lot longer than Roland had anticipated. He limped back to the tent he shared with Attley and Bevan to wash and change. Cuthbert caught up with him there and assured him all was well with Bavol. Roland went along to check for himself anyway, and spent some time reassuring his spooked horse. It was while he was there that one of the squires ran in excitedly. “It’s all over!” he shouted. “They’ve been tumbling off this morn like I’ve never seen before! It won’t even go to a third round!”

Roland looked up in surprise. “Who won?” he called.

“Lord Kentigern, that’s who!”

Roland grimaced. It ought to be a consolation that he had lost to the eventual winner, but somehow it was not. Damn his eyes. He emerged from Bavol’s stall box and decided on impulse that he may as well start packing up. He’d be damned if he’d sit through another night’s feasting, toasting to that bastard Kentigern’s victory!

He was rolling up clothing when Bevan and Attley strolled into the tent some half an hour later. He’d already secured his armor into a pack, although the breastplate did not look salvageable. Both his friends broke off abruptly from their conversation when they spotted Roland, and looked extremely awkward.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up at them and narrowing his gaze. Attley coughed and scratched his neck.

“Naught’s amiss,” said Bev hastily. “We were just discussing Kentigern’s choice of tournament queen, that’s all.” Bev reddened, and Roland felt himself turn cold.

“He didn’t,” he said in an ominously quiet voice. “Tell me he didn’t.”

“Now, now, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” protested Attley, throwing up his hands.

“Did he give the crown to my wife?” barked out Roland.

“Well… yes,” admitted Attley, “but-”

“Now Roly, don’t for the lord’s sake go flinging off in a temper!” appealed Bev, but it was too late. Roland had already bolted from the tent, muttering foul oaths and dire punishments. The pain from his ribs shot through him short knife blades being plunged into his sides, as he hurried across the field. He locked the pain into another place, small and dark, as his temper overrode all, pushing him forward. By the time he’d reached the tournament arena, the spectators were out of their seats and milling around, taking refreshment. Roland scanned the crowd for the ice-blue, slender figure of his wife, and located her stood next to the dumpy little Payne girl at the far end of the crowd, with her back to him. He strode toward her, people hastily falling away as they caught sight of his thunderous expression. Her friend saw him before Eden. She turned a little pale, her animated conversation breaking off. Eden only appeared to notice her riveted gaze directed over her shoulder, at the same time as he grabbed her elbow and swung her round.

“Ah, there you are,” said Eden. “I was starting to worry you might have been injured.”

Roland gave a mirthless short laugh. He was just about to launch into a blistering tirade at her behavior, when he caught sight of the flower garland sat squarely upon the Payne girl, and not Eden’s head. He opened and closed his mouth, and shot a suspicious glance at Eden’s composed face. Had he misunderstood? But no, his friends had definitely said that Eden had received the honor. As he looked from one to the other, Gunnilde reached up to touch the garland perched atop her hair.

“I can scarce believe you awarded it to me,” she said dreamily, and Eden smiled back at her.

“You were by far the most deserving,” she said, and shot a challenging look Roland’s way.

“And how is it, wife,” he asked rallying. “That you were in a position to bestow such a favor on Miss Payne?”

Eden fixed a cool look on him with her deep blue eyes. “Lord Kentigern’s choice fell inappropriately,” she said with a shrug. “So, I simply reassigned it.”

Her effrontery almost took his breath away! “It is no mere maid’s place to award such a prize,” he retorted.

Eden’s eyebrows rose. “As you well know,” she responded, “I am no maid. Not anymore.”

Roland felt the tops of his ears turn scarlet. Though why her words should put him to the blush he had no bloody notion! “It’s a knight’s honor to bestow,” he bit out doggedly.