The King's Champion. Catherine March

raised his goblet ‘…to the fighting spirit of Englishmen!’

      His salute was echoed, but one of his closest chancellors murmured that it would not be wise to make too much of the matter, for the Scots might yet try again and it would do the King no good to become lax.

      ‘Bollocks to them!’ cried Edward, rising from his elaborate chair upon its royal dais. He waved at the musicians to play, shouted for more wine, exhorted his subjects to partake of the mountains of delicious food laid out on tables in an adjoining chamber, and called for the five guardsmen who had fought like lions to defend his life the night before.

      From out of the crowd they came, five young men standing together, looking sheepish at all the attention, amongst them Austin Stratford and Troye de Valois. They were tall, broad-shouldered young men, with that lean and confident look in their eyes that proclaimed their profession as fighting men.

      ‘See ye these fine lads, such knights as no kingdom on God’s earth has the good fortune as I to have their allegiance. Tonight I reward them, for with their own lives they did mine protect and save. I have not a scratch upon me. Anything they want, they shall have. Come, Sir Austin, tell me what it is you most desire and it is yours.’

      Sir Austin looked about with a bemused glance, and he half-turned to Troye de Valois with a silent plea for assistance. Troye merely shrugged, as much at a loss as Austin, for what, indeed, would any Englishman dare ask of his King? Taking pity on the floundering and blushing Austin, he turned to the King with a small bow and murmured, ‘We seek no reward, your Majesty, for we have merely done our duty.’

      Someone called out a cheer of approval for Troye’s reply, and others still clapped their hands, until the entire hall applauded and cheered. And then, as the King exhorted the ladies present to dance with these fine fellows, Troye stepped forward and begged permission for a private word. The King eyed him shrewdly, reluctant to single out one amongst the five for any favouritism, however true it might be that Troye de Valois was indeed his favourite knight. He valued the noble attributes of honour and courage and strength, all of these clearly abundant in Troye. So it was that he refused Troye permission for a word in private, and yet granted him leave to speak, here and now.

      Troye looked about as the guests jostled closer, eager to fuel their lust for gossip, and a flush stained his face beneath its summer tan. To one side he saw the beautiful face of young Ellie, her eyes wide and just as curious as all the others. How he wished he could have prevented her from hearing in public his news, for it had not escaped his notice that she had feelings for him, a childish crush, no doubt, but he had no desire to hurt one so young and innocent. His jaw clenched as he bowed deeply to his King and murmured in a tense voice, ‘’Tis a matter I would prefer to discuss in private, your Majesty.’

      ‘Indeed?’ The King stroked his beard and looked about. ‘Come now, Sir Troye. We must have no secrets here amongst brothers at arms, for secrets are weapons that our enemies could, and would, use against us.’ He turned and climbed the dais steps, seating himself upon his ornate chair and eyed Troye with a frown. ‘Could this matter you wish to discuss have anything to do with your absence from court last autumn and winter?’

      For a wild moment Troye wondered if the King already knew, and his heart hammered painfully in his chest. With downcast eyes he replied, ‘Your Majesty is indeed wise.’

      ‘I am only guessing, Sir Troye, for every rumour in the kingdom reaches my ears eventually. But rumours remain just that, until the truth is admitted.’ Edward’s eyes were very hard, any warmth rapidly fading as his worst fears seemed about to be realised. ‘Spit it out, lad, for I am not a patient man.’

      ‘Your Majesty—’ Troye took a deep breath and seized both his fate and his courage as valiantly as he could ‘—Sire…I have married.’

      A gasp escaped from the guests crowding closer, eager to hear the goings-on. From the corner of his eye he saw Ellie press one hand to her mouth and one to her heart. Her face paled visibly.

      The King fiddled with the great signet ring on his right hand, his eyes never leaving Troye for a moment. ‘And marriage is a crime you feel a need to confess? I had thought it was more of a blessing, to be celebrated.’

      ‘Your Majesty, I beg your indulgence and your great mercy, for I have married the one woman I truly love and will always love, as you have loved your Eleanor. But, sire, forgive me, I beg you, my wife is a Jewess.’

      ‘What!’ roared the King, his shout echoing the collective cries of astonishment about the hall. ‘So you have married a woman of the Jewish faith? When I have expelled from our kingdom these—these heathens, these leeches and troublemakers!’

      ‘It is not so, sire,’ Troye protested. ‘They are good people, my wife is a kind and gentle soul—’

      But the King would not listen. In his anger he signalled for the yeoman guards to come forwards and ordered them to take Troye to the Tower, where he was to be imprisoned while he gave further thought to the matter. They hustled Troye away, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as he passed between them, his jaw set and his gaze defiant.

      Ellie could only stare, as the blood seemed to drain from her face, from her very heart, and disappear. The hall seemed to whirl and tip in a crazy slant, as the dizzy impact of shock hit her.

      Troye was married.

      He loved another.

      These two sudden facts were hard for her to understand, and there was only confusion and astonishment for the moment; the pain and the tears would come later. She watched, like everyone else, as the guards marched him away, wondering what would happen to him, how long would he spend imprisoned in the grim confines of the fortress known as the Tower. Who was the woman that had claimed her Troye?

      Whatever the answers to these questions, one fact remained—her dreams were shattered.

      Chapter Four

      News of Troye de Valois’s disgrace swept through London like fire leaping across dry summer fields. It crossed all boundaries and both commonfolk and nobles of the Court knew of his downfall. The final contest of the tournament had to be cancelled. Tents were uprooted, the lists dismantled, and disgruntled traders relying on the rich pickings of the tournament day muttered darkly. Lord Henry Raven supervised the packing of his own pavilion and bid his son farewell.

      ‘Send word to us,’ he said to Rupert, ‘should you need anything.’

      ‘And let us know when there is any news on de Valois,’ added Remy St Leger, his fondness for the younger knight growing as his foolishness, all for the love of a woman, became apparent. ‘I would know how the idiot fares.’

      Rupert nodded his agreement, and stooped to kiss his mother and hug his sister farewell. He noted the pale silence of the latter, and clasped Ellie’s shoulder with one hand as he asked her, ‘Is there aught amiss?’

      Ellie shook her head, and reached for the reins of her horse as she prepared to mount. ‘Give me a boost up, please.’

      Her brother ably lifted her into the side-saddle and watched as she fussed with her skirts, avoiding his eye. She gripped the reins firmly and then forced a smile as he patted her horse and wished her goodbye.

      ‘Fare thee well, Rupert.’

      ‘And you, little sister.’

      She turned her horse about, ready to fall in beside her mother and aunt as they rode behind their menfolk, and then she paused and called out to Rupert, ‘He will be all right, won’t he? Troye de Valois.’

      Rupert realised then where her sorrow lay, and he smiled gently. ‘Aye, he will be all right.’ He came up closer and beckoned for her to lean down, so that he might whisper close to her ear a private confidence. ‘The King’s anger was only for show, to save face. I hear from an aide close to him that he already knew of the marriage but he waited for Troye to confess. At worst he will spend thirty days in the Tower and be fined for his misdemeanour, but for his honesty and his courage the King holds him in high esteem