ENCOUNTER AT A TOURNAMENT
The blast of trumpets hit Marguerite like a wall as she glided out onto the platform. She followed Rubina to their place on the benches together. The noise of trumpets mingled with the smell of sawdust and fresh-cut pine logs. Marguerite would have known, even blindfolded, exactly where she was.
The first tourney of Spring.
Just after Michaelmas, the platforms were erected in the field beyond the castle. The heir to the dukedom – Rubina's husband Camden – was a keen jouster. The tourney had been his idea; a competition for local knights.
Rubina turned to Marguerite, the veil fluttering over her eyes from the steeple of her tall hat. “Hot, isn't it?” she asked.
“Mm. It is unseasonably warm,” Marguerite nodded. It was miraculous, she thought dryly – here in Bute, to have the weather this warm at this time of year was surprising.
“Indeed. I am glad for these new lace fans.” Rubina smiled over the top of one, her red hair glowing where it spilled down her shoulders below the veil.
“Yes! Me too.” Marguerite opened hers and waved it toward herself, feeling the cool air waft through her pale hair. Unlike her friend, she wore her hair loose, a scarf covering it. Rubina, as a married woman now, had taken to them as a form of headgear that was both modest and stylish.
“The shipping is still open, at least,” she commented, studying the lace that had come all the way from Flanders.
“Mm.”
Like the weather, that was surprising. Here on the northern border, the war with England had little effect, it seemed. Trade still blossomed and goods still floated up from Queensferry. Further south, toward the capital, the clashes with England were fierce.
The duke of Buccleigh, Rubina's father, was involved with defenses at the capital. It had been agreed, though, that the family would play a minimal role in the conflict. Which was why they were here in the north, in Aberleigh Castle, an ancestral holding for the duke.
“Mara?” Rubina called, seeking her daughter. The little girl, her hair burnished ebony in the sunshine, was only a month old, slumbering in the arms of Mara, her nurse.
Rubina smiled. “Dearest. You should sit with Granny.”
Granny – Lady Amabel, duchess of Buccleigh – grinned from where she sat in the topmost seats. She disliked the joust and had brought her sewing along. She could keep the child company while her parents watched the joust.
“Mama!” Rubina smiled at her, calling out. “Will you keep an eye on little Joanna?”
“Of course. Much more interesting than the joust, aren't you, my dear?” She smiled at the infant as Mara brought her to join them.
“Mother's such a dear,” Rubina commented to Marguerite. “It's so good to have her with us – she's such a blessing for helping with the babe.”
“She is,” Marguerite agreed. She had a hard time tearing her eyes away from the vivacious older woman. An intense beauty in her youth, she seemed only to become more so as she aged.
I wonder if I will look like that at almost fifty.
Like her beauty, Rubina's mother's longevity was also astounding. The duke was hale as well – like to live until he was ninety, Rubina always joked. He ate well, fought in the tournaments and slept soundly, twice a day. It was, as he always liked to say, the key to a long life. Sleeping more and worrying less.
If he's right, Marguerite thought ironically, I'm likely to be stone dead by thirty-five.
At twenty-two, Marguerite already had her fair share of worries. She reached for her embroidery, sighing. She narrowed her dark-brown eyes as she tried to focus on the tiny, intricate stitching. Tears clouded her vision and she blinked them back, feeling a twinge of anger at herself for not better keeping them at bay.
“What is it, my dear?” Rubina asked, leaning in toward her.
Marguerite realized she’d heard her sighing and shook her head, blushing. “Nothing, my dear. Just...” She shrugged.
Just Sean.
It was her love for Sean, Lord Camden's companion. She suspected Rubina knew, though they hadn't discussed it. Why should she tell her, when there was nothing either of them could do to make him less cold toward her? His aloof politeness would, she thought, just be the death of her.
“Well,” Rubina said, a soft hand on her friend's shoulder, gripping warmly, “I think maybe you could...”
Whatever she was about to say was drowned out by a sudden skirl of pipes and trumpets. They both grimaced as the sound washed over the crowd. Everyone fell silent.
The joust was beginning.
Marguerite felt her stomach tighten with tension as the two champions rode out onto the field. Dressed in shining armor, their vast war-horses brushed so that their short, fine hair reflected the sunlight, burnished and buffed, the knights were splendid.
Two champions. One purse to win.
The two current favorites – Sir Geoffrey and Sir Angus – were the first to challenge each other today. When one of them was unhorsed, the other knights would face the victor, and if anyone else unhorsed him, they would win the tourney. And the prize.
And we are all meant to sit here and act as if we don't know that the men could kill each other.
That was the worst part of a joust. The worry. Wounds in a joust could be terrible. Marguerite knew that. After all, Rubina and her husband Camden had met when Camden was wounded. He had been fortunate that his wound had not been worse. As it was, it had taken weeks to heal. Other wounds – broken ribs, broken bones, goring – could be fatal.
Marguerite felt her fingers tighten and forced herself to relax and breathe deeply, to let her fingers rest loosely in her lap.
Sean is down there.
She glanced sideways at her friend. Rubina’s husband would take part today. Rubina looked calm and tranquil, her soft face regal and serene as ever. However, Marguerite could see the tightness at the corners of her eyes; sense her worry in the way she sat and how rigid her shoulders had become.
Marguerite laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. She turned and gave Marguerite a brave smile. “They're just parading now. I forgot something – could I ask your help?”
“Of course,” Marguerite nodded at once.
“I made this for Camden. Could you take it down? I would, only I'm still a bit unsteady.”
Marguerite nodded. “Of course.”
Following the birth, Rubina still felt drained and tired easily. The advice of her grandmother – Lady Joanna – had been to eat blood pudding to make up the blood-loss. It had brought about a marked improvement, but the lassitude and paleness had not quite gone yet.
“Thank you,” Rubina murmured and smiled. She passed Marguerite a rolled-up kerchief. White silk, it was a favor: a piece of fabric worked with designs and patterns, lovingly sewn, to keep a knight safe.
“Right,” Marguerite swallowed through a tight throat and went downstairs.
She crossed the field below the framework of the benches, the scent of pine-wood overpowering here, and that of sawdust and wet earth. She reached the stables.
“Milady?” the guard on duty stopped her with a frown. “Can I help ye?”
“I need to deliver this to Lord Camden,” she explained. “It's from my lady, Rubina.”
“Ah.” The guard frowned, looking down the path to the stables. They were all empty now. The knights must be exercising their charges in the field. “Can I take it for ye?”
Marguerite imagined how the knight would feel being given something of such value by a guard. She shook her head. What if he cried? He'd hate anyone not part of the family, so to speak, to see that. “I'll take it.”
The guard raised a brow, shrugging. “Not a safe place for a lady,” he commented.
Marguerite felt a little impatient at that. “I'll be fine.”
“As you wish.”
The guard stood back and Marguerite walked briskly and determinedly across the bumpy, lumpy ground. She raised her skirt fractionally in her hand – she wore a long white linen dress – and stalked ahead.
A stable-boy whistled, which increased her annoyance. As if it wasn't bad enough to be delivering a favor when the only thing she wished was that she could have made one for someone else!
It would be so nice, she thought miserably, if Sean could ride protected by a favor I had sewn.
She chuckled mirthlessly to herself. No point in even thinking of that. It wasn't going to happen. No matter what she did or what she said, the man was coldly indifferent. She could have burst into flame in front of him and all he'd have done was ask someone to put out the fire. It was useless.
I'm stupid, she told herself harshly, blinking back tears. She stalked across the cobbled ground beyond the stables and headed out toward the field. Useless and stupid and I should just let go of my foolish notions and forget all about it. I...
“My lady!”
“Oh!”
She walked into someone and cried out. The impact hurt and she bit back a curse, blinking her eyes rapidly to avoid the flood of angry tears. The man she'd walked into stayed where he was, a horrified expression on his face.
“My lady?”
Marguerite looked up. She found herself looking into the darkest, loveliest eyes she knew. She felt her tummy melt in their warm depths. Her heart ached. “Sean,” she said sadly. “Sorry. I was...”
“My lady!” He shook his head, face serious as he interrupted. “I should be sorry! I walked into you. I...”
She started to cry and he stared, aghast. Despite the expression of horror on his face, Marguerite found she couldn't hold back her tears. She stood in the middle of the field and cried as silently as possible, tears rolling down her cheeks, off her chin, and pooling in the hollow of her throat.
“My lady,” Sean whispered.
To her utter astonishment, he reached into his belt and drew out a square of soft linen – a handkerchief. Then, slowly and carefully, he started to wipe away her tears. The contact was at once so thrilling and so shocking that she froze where she stood, looking up at him with complete amazement in her eyes.
“My lord, I...” she composed herself quickly, looking around in horror to check that no one had seen them. The stable hands were busy doing other things, the squire at a war-horse's head looking pointedly away at larks crossing the cool spring sky. No one could see them.
“My lady,” he whispered. “I know I shouldn't. I just...I hate to see you cry.”
She sniffed. “Truly?”
That was surprising, she wanted to say sarcastically. For someone who didn't like seeing her cry, he certainly made her sad enough to do so! How often had she woken in freshets of tears because of his utter indifference?
He smiled. She stared. With those dark brown eyes and his almost-blond red hair, he was stunning. His lopsided grin ate into her heart and made her want to melt against him with tenderness.
“Of course I do,” he murmured. “My lady, I...”
Whatever he had been about to say, he stopped. Marguerite blinked, wishing he would finish the words. Nevertheless, he simply looked down at the handkerchief he held, his face too complicated an expression to read.
“I'm meant to give something to Camden,” Marguerite explained.
“Oh?”
There it was again, when he looked at her. That wistful grin! Her heart ached and the pain in it was like a fist, squeezing it. How she wished she could touch that firm, lean face. Or kiss those hard, molded lips. However, that was not for her. “Yes,” she said tightly instead. “A favor. His wife stitched it.”
“Oh.” Sean nodded. Strangely, his face tensed too, eyes clouding up as if with sadness. “I'll pass it on to him.”
“Thank you,” Marguerite said. “My lady will be pleased to know her favor is with him.”
Sean chuckled. “Lucky Camden,” he said bitterly.
Marguerite frowned. “You must have a favor or two to go with you?” She was curious, even thought at once she wished not to know.
He smiled then, dazzlingly. “I have now,” he said.
“Oh?” Marguerite frowned. For one awful minute, she thought he meant he'd take the one she'd passed him. However, he slipped that into his belt.
“Yes,” he said. “This handkerchief.”
Marguerite's heart stopped. The one he'd used on her. The one that was now soaked wet with her tears.
He nodded. Then, almost as quickly as it had come, the smile vanished and he looked serious again. “I'll take this to Camden,” he said softly. “Tell my lady he'll be honored to have it.”
After bowing, he walked away from her.
Marguerite stayed where she was, looking after him with a mix of sorrow and wonder in her heart. She had never met anyone who both delighted and confused her more.