The King's Champion. Catherine March

      Ellie sank into the warm embrace of her mother’s bosom, while her Aunt Beatrice used her veil to wipe the blood from her face, both women making soothing sounds as Ellie stared blankly with shock.

      ‘Let us depart,’ suggested Lord Henry.

      There were swift murmurs of agreement, yet Rupert hung back, knowing full well where his duty lay. ‘I must return to the hall.’

      Lord Henry stretched out a hand and clapped his son on the shoulder, ‘Fare thee well, Rupert. We will see you on the morrow.’ With a rueful glance thrown at his womenfolk, he concluded drily, ‘Our duty lies elsewhere. The fight is yours.’

      Rupert nodded, and melted away into the dark shadows of Westminster without a backward glance as his family hurried across the lawns to the stairs leading down to the embankment and their waiting barge.

      It was a silent journey, punctuated only by the clunk and splash of the oars as they rose and plunged through the oily black waters of the river, and by Eleanor’s hiccups as she sniffed, a violent shivering now taking hold of her as shock set in. She could scarce believe what had happened, and through it all she could only see the crimson of blood and the face of Troye de Valois. Never in her life had she seen such an expression upon a man’s face. Such grim determination, such brutal ruthlessness. Again she shuddered, as goosebumps flared across her skin. And yet her heart had been thrilled, for he was her hero. Her heart had spoken, saying aye, this is the one, the other half that would make the emptiness within her complete, and no counsel from her head would alter her heart’s desire.

      With relief she alighted at Cheapside and with her family made haste to seek the comfort and safety of their own camp. Ensconced within the shadowy tent bearing the banner of Raven, Lady Joanna prepared hot spiced wine to ease their shock.

      Uncle Remy lifted his goblet and said, ‘Here’s to Troye de Valois. Once again he has saved our Eleanor.’

      The others murmured in agreement, even Lord Henry reluctantly, and, with a small frown, added his own toast of gratitude. Ellie took a few sips and felt the warmth spread through her body, and then with a whisper she excused herself and hurried to her own tent. Quickly she stripped off her bloodstained gown and flung it away. She washed in water that was cold but ready to hand; it was not until she was clean and dressed in her nightshift that she sank down upon the furs of her cot and covered her face with both hands.

      It thrilled her to think that Troye de Valois had indeed saved her life. She could so easily have been cut down in the fray, her slender body sliced like a ribbon by the threshing swords. And yet gratitude was not the emotion that came foremost to her mind. Aye, her heart might well be smitten by the heroics, but in her mind she could see only the horror. Valour and chivalry were clean and bright and beautiful attributes, but there could be no honour in bloodlust. She ached to know whether Troye was all right, if he had survived the attack unharmed. It irked her bitterly to think that she could not go to him, tend his wounds if he had any, hold him and comfort him. But soon, one day, she would be able to do all of that. For it was obvious to her that they were destined to be together. So thinking, she lay down, hugged her pillow and smiled as she fell asleep.

      In the morning Lord Henry wasted no time in taking his family to Cheapside, impatiently chivvying his wife and daughter as they dressed and broke their fast on bread and cheese. As they took out combs and ribbons impatiently he muttered that they were lovely enough to have no need to waste their time, and his, upon needless ‘titivating’. Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, Lady Joanna making comment upon the use of such a word, and yet taking pity on her husband as she realised his anxiety to meet up with Rupert and hear all the details of last night’s fray.

      Remy, still a warrior at heart despite the comforts of marriage, was also eager to hear more news of the night before. Remy and Lord Henry discussed the whys and wherefores and whatnots of the attack upon the King as they rode to the tourney field, and Ellie listened with curious ears, eager to hear the name Troye de Valois. She felt a glow of pride that he received nothing but praise this morn, for a man who failed to earn the admiration and respect of her kin was, in her eyes, no man at all.

      At the tournament they seated themselves in the canopied stands, as the crowds came drifting in while the sun rose higher in the blue sky. Chatter ebbed and flowed on the breeze, the smell of dust and horses, roasted pork and smoke from the cooking fires, drifting and swirling around the arena. It would be another very bright and hot day, and already ladies were seeking the shade of awnings and fanning themselves with parchment and sipping lemonade kept cool in barrels of Thames water.

      Seated in their stand, Ellie watched as a pageboy came tripping up the steps and handed her father a rolled letter, tied with a red ribbon. Lord Henry nodded his thanks and turned away, to one side, while he opened it.

      Eleanor looked about, eager to catch a glimpse of the jousting knights, seeking out a particular profile, dark eyes and broad shoulders, but Troye de Valois was not yet out on the field. Her curiosity about him was too powerful to resist and she asked her father questions that were vaguely disguised, in the hope of finding out more about him.

      ‘Do you think life is very hard for Rupert?’ she asked, as they sat close together on the benches, her mother chatting to her Aunt Beatrice as they appraised the fashions of the other ladies.

      Her father looked up from the parchment letter he was perusing, with a frown, and glanced at Eleanor, ‘What do you mean?’

      She shrugged. ‘Well, I wondered what life must be like for Rupert, now that he is serving in the King’s Own.’

      Lord Henry carefully rolled up the letter and retied the scarlet ribbon. ‘Aye, life will be harder than the easy comforts of living at home. But that is what a knight expects, little comfort and no thanks. A bedroll upon the floor, or a muddy field, food not fit for hounds, and the soldier’s curse of long separations from his loved ones.’

      ‘Then why do it?’ asked Eleanor.

      Her father smiled, and looked away into the distance. ‘That is a question that could have many answers, my little dove. For some men, being a warrior is all they know, for others they are escaping pain of some kind, and for a few, a very few, they seek the glory of valour.’

      ‘Once I would have been a knight,’ said Eleanor, ‘but now I am heartily glad that I am a lady.’

      ‘So am I.’ He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, ‘Now, fear not for Rupert, he can well take care of himself.’

      She had the grace to blush, aware that she could not confess her concerns were not all for her brother. Roundly she chided herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell upon Troye de Valois, and briskly reminded herself that thoughts of Rupert should come first. After all, who was Troye de Valois? They had scarce spoken more than a few words to each other and, though he lived in her heart and her dreams, the truth was that he had not yet become a reality, a part of her life that she so longed him to be. But these facts neither daunted nor diminished her feelings. She felt a happy glow and smiled as she envisioned a rosy future, for she was young and beautiful; surely, by now, Troye must know that her hand was on offer for marriage? It was only a matter of time before he approached her father with a proposal.

      Eagerly she watched as the jousting began. How great was her impatience as the lesser knights took their turns, their horses thundering down the length of the list and the crowds cheering as one or the other was knocked from the saddle by a thrusting lance. Towards mid-day, at last, Troye de Valois rode out, much to the delight of his adoring onlookers, for Eleanor was not the only one smitten.

      She watched avidly as Troye dispatched his opponents in quick and ruthless succession, yet she was relieved that Rupert was not riding. He had lost his footing carrying the body of a would-be assassin down a stairwell the night before, and was now sitting on the sidelines, nursing a twisted ankle and feeling like a chump as his comrades teased him. The day’s competition ended all too soon and the crowds began to drift away, discussing the merits and faults of their favourite combatants and eagerly anticipating the crowning glory.