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Aimee wondered if this was true. If so, it vastly differed to Kellingford, where there had been no prescribed number of charges. There, they had simply continued to scuffle until the final man stood. She supposed it made sense that things would be more organized at a royal tournament.

“Don’t forget your wine,” she prompted Freda who was stood looking dazed as the royal standard of the golden lion was raised ready for the next charge.

“Oh yes,” Freda murmured, sinking down onto the bench and raising her cup to her lips. “I think I’ll just sit a while if you don’t mind, dear.”

“Of course not,” Aimee assured her over the thunder of hooves from the second charge.

The heat was growing almost oppressive in the stands by the time the number of knights had been whittled down to less than ten. The last two knights had fetched each other off and tumbled to the ground, still struggling with one another. When they attempted to continue sparring on foot, officials had interceded, and they were forced to break apart.

Aimee watched as they took the news with very bad grace. One flung out of the arena while the other dragged off his helm to argue the decision. “How strange,” Aimee murmured, for she had certainly seen knights sparring toe-to-toe at Kellingford. It must not be allowed here, though. Aimee recognized the short blond beard and handsome features of the infuriated competitor, even though they were streaked now with dirt and sweat and contorted with anger.

“Who is that?” Freda wondered aloud. “He is exceedingly good-looking, is he not?”

“’Tis Sir Jeffree de Crecy,” Aimee responded disapprovingly. “And in my opinion, handsome is as handsome does.” To her eye, Sir Jeffree looked every inch as proud and disagreeable as he had when she had seen him compete before. She almost fancied she could see the arrogant curl of his lip as he shoved the unfortunate attendant backward, sending him sprawling to the ground.

At their exchange, a lady sat on the bench in front of their own turned around to glance at them. Aimee did not recognize the lady, though in truth, she looked rather out of place among all the silks and satins, for her gown was extremely plain and somewhat homespun in appearance. Aimee wondered how she had managed to secure a seat in such a prominent position unless she was a servant to some grand lady.

The crowd started to boo, though whether it was because of the argumentative knight’s behavior or the fact he was not being permitted to fight on, Aimee was not certain. Sir Jeffree showed no sign of caring either way. He flung his helmet on the ground so hard it bounced and then turned on his heel and stormed out of the ring.

“Such conduct,” Freda tutted, looking shocked.

“Most unbecoming in a knight,” Aimee agreed, as the remaining knights reformed their lines. She was distracted again by the lady in the homespun gown, who was summoning a page from the sidelines. Aimee watched as she gave him a coin and partook of a cup of wine with every sign of enjoyment.

Decidedly, she was not a servant of anyone here present, Aimee thought. For some reason, Sir Jeffree’s ignoble exit seemed to have cheered the woman considerably. She looked quite invigorated as she sat up in her seat and looked around with renewed interest in proceedings.

Aimee was so absorbed in her observations that she quite missed the last charge. Only the blast of several horns recaptured her attention.

“Oh, is it over?” Freda exclaimed, sounding confused.

Aimee glanced down at the arena. “There is only one yellow band remaining on his horse,” she observed. “So, then the green side must be the victors.” Her eyes sought out her husband, but to her disappointment, he had not removed his helmet as the others were doing. She would like to have seen how his expression looked when celebrating a win.

After some bustling by the squires and the attendants, the remaining yellow knights left the ring and the greens lined up to salute the royal box. The king rose and lifted his hands to signify the watching crowds should cheer the victors.

“It is quite deafening, is it not?” Freda quavered. “I declare my ears will be ringing tonight.”

Aimee nodded, but she was watching the victorious knights clapping each other on the back. A couple of them went so far as to grasp Lord Kentigern’s shoulder, but she noticed he did not return the gesture. It seemed he was not at all physically demonstrative when it came to his emotions. Was he smiling behind his visor? Aimee doubted it. Somehow, he seemed isolated and quite alone down there, for all he was flanked by a knight on either side.

Did nothing bring a smile to his face, she wondered sadly. She wanted to ask Freda what he had been like as a boy but sat among this noisy crowd was not the time for such questions. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Lord Kentigern would triumph this afternoon and would find winning the joust more an occasion for celebration?

It grew steadily hotter as the afternoon progressed, and soon, all three women in their party were feeling the effects. Halfway through the jousting, a red-faced Freda was forced to remove her surcoat, though she did it with much lamenting and embarrassment.

“The red satin gown is entirely suitable to wear without it,” Aimee assured her as she folded the garment and set it on the bench beside them. “And you will feel a good deal cooler now.”

The jousters had been steadily whittled down from the starting fifty to now only four men remaining. They comprised of Lord Kentigern, Sir Roland Vawdrey (or Viscount Vawdrey as he now seemed to be addressed by the announcers), the Duke of Twyford, and a popular knight called Sir Edward Bevan of Knollesley. From the buzz of speculation in the crowd, it could be any one of them’s win, though Sir Edward was clearly the underdog.

“This southern heat is so oppressive,” Magnatrude huffed tetchily, flapping her veil. “I wonder that everyone can stand it!”

Neither Freda nor Aimee made reply to so obvious a statement, and so she turned instead to Matthews, requesting he bring her a cup of ale. To her visible annoyance, he turned at once to Aimee for confirmation of the order.

“Yes, Matthews,” Aimee agreed smoothly. “That sounds a very good notion. Do fetch us a pitcher so we may all quench our thirst.” She passed him her purse again, and he bowed and disappeared into the crowd.

Magnatrude’s color rose. “How closely you guard your purse, sister,” she said pointedly. “I suppose you must have learned that at your father, the merchant’s, knee.”

Freda drew in a sharp breath, but before she could check her cousin, Aimee responded.

“Not as closely as you, sister,” she replied at once. “Did you expect Matthews to pay for your refreshment with his own coin?”

“Of course not!” Magnatrude snapped contemptuously. “My brother would have reimbursed him in due course.”