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Nodding to the stable master, who handed him the reins of a black destrier, Neill grabbed his helm from Aylmer. Donning it, he then took the practice lance from an eager young squire.

Moving into position, he focused on the very spot that would remove the armor with one blow. The hit needed to be strong and sure, and if he wished to progress to the next of the practice areas, he had just one chance. Patting his mount with his free hand, Neill then wrapped the reins around his wrist and readied his lance. He saw nothing but the armor at the end of the field. He heard nothing but the breathing of his horse, save his own breath, which he steadied in preparation for their lunge.

With a word, and a kick, he charged toward his opponent. Not a suit of armor, in his mind, but a man intent on dismounting him. Which Neill would never allow.

When he hit his mark, Neill knew before turning back he’d accomplished his task. He’d done the same hundreds of times. Thousands. In training and in tournaments. And he could always tell if his mark was true.

He heard the shouts as he rode back, but he ignored them.

“Another run?”

The captain was present now, along with another man Neill remembered as the master-at-arms. A growing crowd encircled them. Murmurs of “Waryn” and “champion” reached his ears, but Neill blocked them out as surely as he did his troubles.

This time, the shield. His goal, to break the lance into pieces, attesting to the speed with which he could hit his mark.

“Remember Anjou,” he heard Aylmer cry out in the crowd, a reminder of the time he’d nearly lost to a much younger, quite agile French knight. He’d angled the lance just slightly too high from top to bottom, but Neill had no intention of making that mistake again.

Still, this maneuver could be tricky—even more so on a borrowed mount. Neill would have to rely on subtle movements to bring the charger to full speed. But judging from his first run, the horse was capable if he could steady him and strike at just the right time.

When he struck the shield and shattered his lance, Neill was unsurprised at the outcome. He’d trained long and hard, and he was rightly confident in his skills.

By now, none were left to their own training. The crowd had swelled around him. To progress was a feat few mastered, and Neill knew it well. But he ignored the cheers as he prepared for his final run.

The most difficult of them all.

The sack was small, and a squire would swing it from side to side just as Neill brought his horse to a gallop. Hitting the tiny moving target would require him to reposition the heavy training lace he’d just been handed.

He heard Aylmer’s shouts above the others and smiled. None cheered louder than his friend. Aylmer still hadn’t told him if he intended to stay in the north with him, at Kenshire, but he hoped so.

Would Kathryn be there too?

He’d been able to block her from his thoughts until now. But as he prepared for his final run, her sleeping face, so peaceful and lovely, appeared before him.

If I can be victorious here, I can do the same with Kathryn. I will win. And I will not denounce the woman I love.

It was no way to make a decision, especially such an important one. But the thought came unbidden, and so Neill embraced it. He would not lose. Had not failed a quintain progress in years. And when he succeeded here, he would tell the king of his intent.

Kathryn was his.

For a final time, Neill spurred his mount toward the target. He never took his eyes from it, watching as it swung from side to side, learning its precise path to time his strike perfectly. Moving his lance into position, he determined just where it would be when he approached. Horse steady, arm steady, he aimed.

And missed.

Chapter 29

Kathryn had not told Neill.

And she could not tell his men.

So as much as she despised traveling even the short distance from the inn to court alone, she saw no help for it. It had been easy enough to convince the men to escort her back to the tailor earlier that morn, but now, she was on her own.

The tailor’s work had cost her much of the gold she had remaining on her person from her father, but he had nevertheless adjusted her gown as she’d requested. Kathryn looked as if she belonged back at court.

Though she wore no gems, a fact that would be immediately evident to a courtier, her gown, at least, looked appropriate. Trimmed in fur, it also boasted a gold-trimmed cotehardie top layer, which the tailor had fitted perfectly to her height.

Most inns had less-used entrances, and this one was no exception. Kathryn made her way to the stables without being noticed. She was not a prisoner here, but she knew Neill would disapprove mightily of what she was about to do. Secrecy was vital.

“Good day,” she said to the stable boy, also the innkeeper’s son. “Will you ready my horse, and quickly?” Kathryn handed him a coin, hoping it would stop him from asking the question in his eyes.