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Konrad roused himself at this. “We all have bad days,” he rumbled. When three pairs of eyes swung toward him, he cleared his throat. “Renlow beat me at the joust last year at Kellingford.”

“Did he, by gods?” Symes demanded with a low whistle.

“I had heard that tale,” Lowell admitted cautiously. “But some days we walk perforce under an unlucky star.”

“He beat me that day fair and square,” Konrad said frankly. “He was the better man on the field.” When Farleigh opened his mouth as if to argue, he cut him off. “There is no dishonor in losing when that is the case, and I felt no shame in my loss.”

Funnily enough, as he spoke the words aloud, he realized he was speaking nothing but the truth. Of course, knowing as he did now that Aimee had been sat in the audience that day ensured he felt little sting in his defeat. For it had been that very moment … He felt his chest swell before the depressing memory she no longer loved him slammed into his thoughts, cutting off all pleasure in the recollection.

“Where is Renlow anyway?” Lowell broke in with a frown. “I don’t believe I saw him all day yesterday.”

“Not here,” Symes replied. “Broke his arm competing in the summer tournament.”

“Broke it, did he?” Farleigh asked with interest. “Poor devil. He will be sorry to miss a tournament.”

Konrad let their chatter wash over him as he tucked his helmet under his arm, and they made their way toward the field designated for the skirmishes. He had instructed Jakeman to escort Aimee to the Howard family to watch proceedings, and he looked for her now in the crowd. There was no mingling of blue and yellow in anyone’s garb that he could see, but in truth, he had scarcely expected her to wear his crest today.

He glanced down at his own shield and surcoat that blazed with its yellow portcullis on the azure field. He was starting to suspect Aimee would resist wearing her matching heraldic gown even to the jousting on the morrow. The prospect dragged down his sprits. Once, she had worn his colors with pride before he had ruined it. He cursed under his breath as he looked about for the Howard party.

He soon spotted Chaucey who was capering about in long scalloped sleeves and sending servants scurrying in all directions. Lady Howard was stood beside him looking harried with her hands clapped to her temples. She seemed agitated for some reason, Konrad thought, and supposed it must be the strain of hosting a tournament getting to her. Of Sir Darby Howard, there was no sign that he could see.

Konrad’s eye passed over the family to see Aimee sandwiched between two women. One was a short, fair woman, wholly unknown to him who seemed to be juggling two small children on her knees. The other was a tall, well-built female he barely recognized these days. The former northern princess was indeed changed.

He relaxed slightly on locating his wife, though it seemed to him the three women were too busy conversing among themselves instead of looking for their husbands as you might think duty would dictate. Even as he watched, one chubby infant was passed into Aimee’s welcoming arms, making his chest feel strangely tight. She bounced it in her lap and turned towards its mother. He did not think she had even noticed he stood in the arena below.

Farleigh interrupted his thoughts, clapping both him and Symes on the shoulder. “Good luck, Kentigern,” he said before turning to Symes and pointing a finger. “Watch your back, you bastard,” he warned direly, making them all laugh as he headed off to join the opposing team.

“I had better go and see if I can find a decent spot in the stands,” Lowell said, giving them a nod and wandering off in that general direction. He held up his hand. “Fight well and do me proud!”

Symes turned to him. “Isn’t that your man over there?” he asked pointing.

Konrad turned to see Jakeman waving from the sidelines, letting him know he was ready to count his hostages. “It is.” He gave him a nod, letting him know he had seen him.

“Well, best we take up our positions,” Sir Leo said cheerfully.

The first of the melee battles was something of a slog. Konrad believed for his part that he might as well have worn a target painted on his breast plate rather than his coat of arms. He had anticipated as much, but it did not make the constant deluge of opponents flinging themselves on him any easier to navigate.

These young, unseasoned knights were keen to prove themselves, but sadly not through strategy or playing the long game. They hoped for an opportunistic win, to catch him off guard or vastly outnumbered. A win against a knight of his renown would be a fine feather in their cap. They flung themselves at him with battle cries and fought with a desperation that showed they had given scant thought to pacing themselves for the end of the bout let alone the next round.

They thirsted for glory, even a brief taste of it would do. As he sent another one sprawling in the dirt with a well-aimed kick from his iron sabaton, he hoped that maybe a loss to the mighty Lord Kentigern would give them something to tell their wives and mothers at least, if nothing else. Grabbing his victim by the leg, he dragged him toward the edge of the field where Jakeman stood watch. He added him to the sizeable pile of ‘hostages’, some of whom were now coming around and rubbing their groggy heads. Jakeman strode over and gave Konrad a nod, letting him know he had made a note of the latest coat of arms.

Many of these knights would never end up venturing to any of the bigger tournaments, so this would likely be the only test of their mettle they would ever get. So long as peace held over Karadok, he added, muttering a supplication that would be so. Pausing to blink the sweat from his eyes before he rejoined the fray, Konrad noticed another knight who looked almost as beleaguered as himself.

Sir Jeffree de Crecy had no sooner dispatched three challengers, then another four surrounded him in their place. Konrad surprised himself by the pang of fellow feeling that struck him as Sir Jeffree disappeared momentarily under a tide of his united foes. Part of it was de Crecy’s own fault of course, Konrad reflected, for none of these upstarts would face repercussions for their temerity in challenging him. De Crecy thought taking hostages beneath his dignity.

Konrad was pleased to see his young friend Sir Leo Symes was not among those vying for fame by taking down Sir Jeffree. Instead, Symes had cut his own way through their opponents and was engaged now in fighting off two knights wearing matching scarlet surcoats over their chainmail. Konrad headed in that direction, scattering all who stood in his way.

He found himself strangely tempted to glance up at the stands and check to see if his wife was watching him now or still occupied with other people’s offspring. Mayhap it was about time he saw to giving her some of her own to worry her pretty head about.

For some reason, instead of picturing the required Bartree heir, a male vaguely in his image but without his scars, he imagined instead a little daughter, who might reach for him and call him Father. His step faltered a moment. Such a short time ago he had thought Roland Vawdrey mad for simpering over a female child. Now Konrad realized he envied him.

He got his sword up just in time to fend off an attack from his left flank. Konrad found himself vaguely insulted, for his opponent clearly did not even know which was his blind side and which his seeing. He was followed in quick succession by two more overeager types who Konrad dispatched with the flat of his sword, bowling them over with his driving strength. Their armor was so ill-fitting and dated, he thought it likely their father’s or even grandfather’s. For this reason, he did not bother dragging these to the sidelines but left them to stagger to their feet and slink away.

The battle waged on for another hour or so, and it was no surprise that de Crecy was the last man standing on the green side. Farleigh lasted pretty well but went down in the last quarter of an hour. Konrad did not join the others who piled on de Crecy, though Symes ran over to get a view of him being forced to yield.

Horns sounded and the Howard banner was carried into the center of the ring. A flushed Sir Chaucey proclaimed the orange team victorious. Konrad reached up to pull off his helmet and made his way over to Jakeman who was releasing Konrad’s captors now they had pledged their word to pay. A few of them gave Konrad cautious nods which he returned.

“Help me take this off,” he grunted, and his manservant sprang to unfasten his armor.