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Lady Arabelle does not seem to agree. “I know nothing of Pedair Cainc y Hempswood, but my father says the teachings of the Garra are dangerous. Even my mother forbids mention of them.”
Dangerous indeed. Though not for women, surely.
“If given the choice, I do believe I would have married my husband,” she continues. “He is not wealthy but treats me kindly. Is your knight not kind?”
I look for Erik.
“He is very much so.”
“Old, then?”
I scan the field but can make out nothing beyond a tangle of men and bodies and swords.
“Nay. He is young, and quite comely.”
“Ah, so he is poor?”
Sighing, I spot him. Safe, for now.
“Nay. He is the queen’s second commander,” I tell her, watching her expression.
Lady Arabelle’s jaw drops. “You are to marry Lord Stokerton?”
I wait for her to understand.
“But he is,” her voice trails off.
“Precisely.”
“Oh.”
Is there anyone who has not heard of Cettina and Erik? None know he was betrothed to one of her ladies. Or of his role in the Hilla affair. But all seem to be aware of the rumors about him and the queen.
“I do not wish to marry a man who loves another.”
Lady Arabelle spins toward me suddenly, taking me by surprise.
“I know you not at all, so please, I beg you to forgive my forwardness. I am unable to read or write, and have traveled little, save from my old home to the new one. But I fancied myself in love with a young man once. The son of the village butcher. But now I do very much love my husband.”
She blinks rapidly, as if awaiting my response. It strikes me that I miss this—having another woman to confide in. I lost that when Fara died. She was my sister, aye, but also my best friend.
“Even if he loves her,” she whispers, “that does not mean he cannot love you more. She may be the Queen of Edingham”—Lady Arabelle smiles—“but you would be his wife.”
Another cheer pulls our attention to the field. Many men were eliminated during our talk, it seems.
“Is that not him?” she asks, pointing to Erik as he stands over an opponent, his sword tip to the man’s chest.
“Aye,” I say, watching, holding my breath until he pulls back the sword. The man gets up and runs off toward our line. Lady Arabelle and I say nothing more as the few remaining combatants fight on foot. I cannot say part of me isn’t relieved when Warin is “taken,” for at least I know he is safe. And it is clear Azure has won, with at least twice as many men remaining as the other side. But there is an individual champion as well, the last man remaining on the field. The champion of the tourney, an honor Erik has claimed before.
And it is clear he intends to do so again this day. Only two men remain on the field, Erik being one of them.
“They say King Malcom himself brought Lord Stokerton to the capital after seeing him fight,” Lady Arabelle says. “I don’t recall seeing him here these past few years, but I suppose ’tis well enough he’s let others be crowned champion. I do believe he would have won each year.”
As he does now, Erik’s opponent’s sword flying from his hands as he deals the final blow. With shouts and cheers from both the stands and those watching from the sides of the field, the melee is declared at an end. My father, acting as marshal, takes off Erik’s helmet and raises his hand into the air.
“He’s looking this way!” Lady Arabelle exclaims.
Indeed, even from this distance, I can see his head swivel toward us. Does he know I am in these stands. Is he looking for me?
