Page 27 of Betrothal

The herald of arms cried the joust for the final day of the tournament, just as he had for the past three days. Today, however, Alyse had cause for dismay. Unlike the previous days, Geoffrey and Lord Braeton would compete, and a cold cramp of fear sat in her belly.

Two knights immediately took their places at opposite ends of the tiltyard and, without a signal, began their run. Alyse barely had time to see that neither horse bore the colors of either of her champions, before both knights’ lances shattered in a spray of splinters as they passed. The impact sent a shiver through the pavilion in which she sat and she gasped at the violence of it. Even after three days, she could scarcely bear to watch.

Neither combatant being unhorsed, they rode to the ends of the field, took up fresh lances and commenced a second run. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of something else. Something pleasant. The happiest thought she could muster was her part in the procession on Tuesday, resplendent in blue, Geoffrey riding proudly by her side. She smiled even as the clash of the jousters made her wince. Eyes squeezed shut, she recalled their glorious ride through the banner-lined streets of London. A moment that would stay with her all her life.

The first three days had been spent watching the splendor of the tournament, Geoffrey at her right side, Lord Braeton on her left. Sweet days during which both had vied for her attention, though the latter gentleman had given equal consideration to Lady Carlyle, seated on his left. That lady’s smug look had annoyed Alyse exceedingly. The woman was already married and could have no hopes of the earl. But they had been partnered in the procession, so perchance Lord Braeton felt responsible for her.

Alyse had laughed a great deal with the two gallants as they teased various knights about their performance on the field. With both of them beside her, the terrors of the joust had receded. She had enjoyed herself, which she had not expected to do.

As they watched the different events, Alyse had managed to draw Lord Braeton’s attention to her. They had not quite dallied, but they had passed a private jest or two between them. If only he had made his intentions clear to her. Several times, he had looked sharply from her to Geoffrey and his wicked grin had appeared. But nothing more. Mayhap he waited until he had won the joust and secured her as his partner. Then he would declare himself.

Geoffrey had spent much of the time glowering, until she had repented her neglect of him and redoubled her efforts to engage him in conversation. He had warmed to her then, summoning all his courtly charm to explain the action on the field. Then, surreptitiously, he had kissed each of her fingers, sending a shower of tingles through her that chased thoughts of all else from her mind.

Today, however, with Geoffrey and Lord Braeton’s first joust perhaps only moments away, Alyse found she could think of nothing save their safety. She took no comfort in the pageantry and pomp of this spectacle, as an icy dread gathered near her heart.

She opened her eyes in time to see one knight manage to land his lance on the other’s chest, toppling him from the horse. Alyse, nerves stretched taut, rose out of her seat, stifling a cry. Recalling herself, she dropped back down quickly, and glanced from side to side. Thankfully, her movements had gone unnoticed as the crowd in the gallery gasped and a hum of conversation circled the enclosure. She needed to mask her fears. Such displays were deemed unbecoming one of her station.

Squires raced out to attend the fallen combatant, unlacing his helm and assisting him to rise. When the helm came off, Patrick Sullivan lay there, appearing somewhat dazed and winded. He was helped off the field while his opponent rode to the far end of the lists and the next seeded pair began their run. From the corner of her eye, she saw Maurya hurry from the gallery to tend to her brother.

A quick glance at the combatants assured her Geoffrey was not competing in this match either. She breathed a sigh of relief, though the reprieve would be short. Leaning over to her neighbor on the right, Lady Catherine Mandeville in Princess Isabella’s service, she asked, “Do you know the victor in this match, Lady Catherine?”

The stately blonde, attired in green as Lady Orgeluse, turned to her and whispered, “’Tis a challenger from France, I have been told. Sir Guy de Valere.”

Alyse jerked upright at the name. “Guy de Valere?” Her voice cracked. “Are you sure, Lady Catherine?”

“Aye, Lady Alyse. Know you of this lord?” Lady Catherine turned cool gray eyes toward her, interest evidently piqued.

“Aye. He is well known to me, for he is from a neighboring estate north of my father’s. I did not know he competed here.” She refused to meet the courtier’s frank stare. “Thank you, my lady.”

Alyse signaled a servant who brought her a goblet of wine.

Guy de Valere. Her heart thudded at the name. Why do you show up now, my lord?

She shook her head to clear it, took the cup with a trembling hand and drained it. Comfort came in many forms.

I may well be drunk before Geoffrey even takes the field.

She gathered her scattered thoughts into a memory of Guy from her childhood. Him towering over her, cupping her chin and raising her face so he could stare at it. Such an odd, almost paternal, action. Mayhap the reason he had always seemed so much older, though the difference in their ages could not be more than ten years. During her infrequent visits home, he had pressed his suit vigorously. And each time she had been glad to hear of his rejection. ’Twould have seemed like marrying her father.

Now her father’s decision had been made in favor of another. Would Guy challenge Geoffrey to a pas d’armes? Yet another way for her betrothed to be killed.

Alyse noted the return of Lady Maurya and hurriedly rose to meet her, glad of the distraction from her disturbing thoughts.

“How is Patrick, Maurya?”

“Ah, he is well, Alyse. Well indeed.” Maurya’s voice was steady, but her drawn face told its own tale about Patrick’s injury. “’Tis a fine hard head the lad has, and it serves him well when he insists on such pursuits.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“He leads a charmed life, I vow.” Maurya chuckled. “Though I think he may be standing throughout the banquet this evening.”

Alyse gave her a quizzical look. “Did you not say he hurt his head?”

Maurya shot back a mischievous glance. “Nay, Alyse, I said he had a hard head and ’tis true. But this time he landed hard on his softest parts, if you take my meaning.”

“Aye, I do.” Alyse laughed for the first time that day. “I suppose I shall not be having that dance with him this evening then?”

“Nay! ’Twould take more than a little hurt to keep Patrick from dancing with the ladies. You mark my words, you will get your dance, Alyse. Though I doubt ’twill be a boisterous one.” She smiled again then made for her seat.