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“Of course, my dear,” Freda responded at once. “I have not watched Konrad compete in an age,” she confessed, wrinkling up her eyes. “Why, it must have been before the war that I last watched him,” she observed with faint surprise.

“Really? It has been that long?” Aimee murmured, as she watched the two separate sides forming into their mock battle lines. In truth, she was not so very surprised to hear this. She had started to form the impression that the Bartrees were not the closest of families.

“Sir Renlow’s side are wearing the red arm bands, are they not?” Freda observed as Magnatrude leaned across her to address Aimee.

“The Strethneals are approaching,” Magnatrude interrupted them. “They are an earl and countess, so you must be sure to observe the correct depth in your curtsey.” When Aimee’s expression did not show sufficient gratitude for this honor, she added stiffly. “Konrad particularly asked me to introduce you to them!”

Aimee sighed and came to her feet. The Strethneals were duly introduced, and Aimee was scrupulously polite. The earl was a man of middling height with a rather forgettable face. His countess stared at Aimee rather hard and addressed some remarks in an aside to Magnatrude in a manner which Aimee thought rather rude. It seemed ill breeding was not the only excuse for poor etiquette. “And now we must go in search of the Martindales,” the countess said, turning back to Aimee. “Perhaps we could introduce you to them at some point,” she added in a rather condescending manner.

“The Martindales have already introduced themselves to Aimee this morning,” Freda replied promptly. “And the marchioness invited Aimee to visit with her at Acton March.”

Lady Strethneal’s smile froze. “Oh,” she replied. “I see.” Some inner struggle seemed to wage for a moment before she managed to force out, “When you journey north, you must come and visit with us too, Lady Kentigern, at our residence, Jennings Park.”

Aimee performed her curtsey and turned back to the arena. To her disappointment, the participants of the melee seemed to have descended into a chaotic cloud of dust and flailing limbs. Around the edges lay various inert bodies. “Oh dear,” she muttered. “Did you happen to see what became of Sir Renlow at all?”

“I’m afraid not,” Freda replied apologetically.

Unable to make sense of the struggles below, Aimee let her attention wander to the royal balcony where the king sat next to his yawning queen. For some reason, Aimee had thought the king would be taller. In all the ballads, he was the golden Argent lion, famed for his warlike prowess.

Somehow, he did not look at all like she had imagined he would. His arm rested on the ledge, showing a slashed and puffed sleeve and a large gold ring on one finger. He had a square face, a pugnacious expression, and his hair was more tow colored than gold.

His queen by contrast was dark, with olive skin and a regal bearing. Her glossy hair was caught up in a caul studded with pearls, showing off a long and graceful neck. At her throat she wore a heavy necklace of gold and green stones which Aimee imagined must be emeralds.

“The queen is very beautiful, is she not?” she said aloud.

“Oh yes. That is, I suppose she is,” Freda replied doubtfully. “Though for my part, I think she is one of those women who appears attractive due to her bearing, rather possessing any true purity of feature.”

Aimee turned to Freda with surprise. “How so?” she asked curiously.

“Well,” Freda flushed. “I only mean that her supreme confidence so impresses her audience that they all agree she must be worth looking at!”

Aimee regarded Freda with interest. Once she got over her shy awkwardness, Freda had plenty to say for herself, she realized. She was a good deal less reserved than Ursula, for instance, who would never dream of saying something like that about so lofty a personage.

Then again, she reflected, perhaps Freda only felt that way because she saw Queen Armenal as a southern usurper. “Was the northern queen a great beauty?” she asked, deciding to test her.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Freda replied absently. “I never saw her at close quarters, but King Magnur was as ugly as a squat toad.” At Magnatrude’s shocked gasp, Freda gave a guilty start. Aimee giggled, and after a moment, Freda joined her with a nervous titter.

“You two are behaving abominably!” Magnatrude hissed. “Have you been drinking strong wine to let your tongues wag so?”

“No,” Aimee responded at once. “But that is a very good notion! I am feeling somewhat parched.” She turned back to where Matthews stood in attendance. “Matthews, would you be able to procure us some cups of wine?” Discreetly, she passed him a purse of money. “And please procure some refreshment for yourself. The sun is becoming very warm at this point.”

“Yes, milady.” He took himself off and returned within minutes with a jug of wine, three cups, and a foaming tankard for himself. When Magnatrude refused her share with a stony shake of her head, Aimee shrugged and set it instead at her feet. She was just straightening up when Freda gave an excited gasp.

“It looks as though the next event must be about to start!” A flurry of squires had entered the ring bearing an array of banners which they paraded about the arena, displaying the colors of the various knights. “There! Our colors!” Freda squeaked as a yellow and blue pennant came into sight. She reached out and clutched Aimee’s hand in her bony fingers in a gesture of solidarity that she found quite touching.

Aimee held her head up high, filled with pride to see the likeness of the portcullis she had stitched so lovingly being flourished now before this huge crowd of spectators. Hearing a murmuring in the stands around them, she realized that people must have noticed how closely Aimee’s own gown echoed the Kentigern banner in every way.

She felt her cheeks grow hot as she saw people pointing and talking behind their hands. It suddenly occurred to Aimee that she might have gone rather too far with flaunting her husband’s colors on her body. Had she committed some sort of chivalric faux pas?

Mercifully, the next banner, a red field bearing a panther of black in a walking stance, one claw raised, caught the crowd’s attention away from her, and a mighty roar of approval went up from the masses.

“Dear me!” said Freda. “This one must be quite a southern favorite.”

The wheels of Aimee’s recollection turned. She cast her mind back to the very first tournament she had ever attended. Who had won that one? A famous southern champion, she seemed to remember, with curling dark hair and a handsome face. Vawdrey, she recalled with effort. Sir Something Vawdrey.

“Vawdrey,” she said aloud. “That is his name, I believe. I have seen him compete before, and he is a great crowd pleaser.” She glanced up at the royal box. “I believe they call him the King’s Champion.” Both Magnatrude and Freda looked strangely disconcerted by this information. “What is it?” she asked. “What have I said?”

Magnatrude looked away, but Freda reached out to touch her sleeve. “’Tis naught, Aimee. Only that – well, Konrad used to bear the same title. For the – er –” For the northern king, Aimee realized. Oh. “I mean, in different times,” Freda finished with effort.