MEETING AT A JOUST
“Marguerite, I do hate this,” Rubina said sadly.
Her companion, a half-French girl of her own age, looked up with big heavy-lidded eyes.
“I know, dear. But it is expected we attend.”
Rubina suppressed a shudder. Coming to court was a joy alloyed with one particularly disagreeable thing: attending the jousts.
She let all the arguments and persuading phrases bother her again. It's expected. It's important for the young ladies to attend. It's the place to see and be seen. It's just fun, not really meant to harm anyone.
That last made Rubina huff with cold amusement. Not meant to hurt anyone? She had attended a healing with her grandma where a youth had been gored with a lance. It had turned her stomach and the sight had haunted her for weeks. Even now, when she closed her eyes, she could see the smashed, bruised wounding in the tissue and muscle of his side.
“I suppose so.”
Marguerite nodded. “And, my lady, don't forget. All the gallants will see us and we shall see them.”
Rubina chuckled softly. Marguerite looked decidedly interested. She herself found the whole matter tedious.
Why come here, all dressed in finery, to survey the court gallants, and be seen in turn?
They could as easily meet, she thought reasonably, over dinner or a roundelay in the great hall. Why should they have to watch such violence?
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the court official was announcing from the center of the tournament ground. “We are about to begin the tournament.”
Rubina sighed and let Marguerite take her hand and lead her to the front, where her parents had managed to obtain seats near the royal enclosure. She sighed. The only worse thing about attending the jousts would be to see them close up. She wanted to be ill just thinking about the clash of swords, the grimace of the men, even the poor horses!
I hate this.
“Oh, Ruby! Look!” Marguerite whispered. “He's handsome, no?”
Rubina raised an inquiring eyebrow. The man in question – she could follow the general focus of her friend's eye by now, and the casual gesture of a long pale hand – was Marc Thoreau. A French noble, he was indeed extremely personable. As the ladies all seemed to notice.
Rubina felt her lips move into a moue of half-amusement as she watched ladies reach up for ribands or kerchiefs to pass down. Known as favors, the knight would tie them round his lance or wear them on his arm or wrist. They were meant to bring good luck.
“Well, if they work, those favors, Marc will be the safest man in the tourney.”
Her companion met her gaze and they had to chuckle.
“Indeed, milady. Will you not bestow him a favor yourself? You are one of the most beautiful ladies, and I'm sure that would...”
Rubina giggled. “Oh, Marge! You silly thing. I'm not.”
Her friend just blinked her big dark eyes and said nothing.
Rubina sighed. She did wish that, if she had to suffer this, they'd just start. The French gallant was the most popular man in the tourney today. She was fairly sure he'd go first, be challenged, unhorse challenger after challenger and then ride off happy.
That was how it usually happened.
She watched the men exercise their horses, consult their squires, raise their lances with a hand to test their balance.
If we get started, then we can finish and all go and have a nice dinner. Oh...
She stared. Her belly tightened. She felt her hands clasp. There, in the group of men and horses, was a face she knew. It couldn't be! Surely it wasn't! However, with that high brow and those lean cheeks and those pale eyes, it was,
He is a knight? Truly?
That explained a great deal. His state of being not quite a nobleman, but by no means a commoner either. His awkwardness in social situations, as if he was entirely at ease there and yet thought he didn't belong. His use of a personal sigil, though his family may not have had one for that many years.
“What?” Marguerite whispered, startling her out of her reverie.
“I...oh!” Rubina's eyes widened in surprise. She was gripping Marguerite's pale hand between her own and hadn't realized she was doing it. “Sorry. I just...got distracted. Forgive me, friend?”
“Of course.”
Rubina patted her hand gently and then let her go, turning to where she could see him. Leaning on the rail, she watched him. There! It was him. The man from the woodlands. The man from the ball.
He rode with a fluid, lean grace, his back straight, shoulders back, and legs gripping his mount. He had not yet put down his visor and that straight, stunning profile made her breath catch in her throat. She stared after him as he made a canter down the length of the track, exercising his horse and getting used to the feel if the hard-packed ground beneath his horse's hoofs.
She stared. Her whole body seemed to respond to his presence, her heart thudding, her hands tight around each other, gripping and damp despite the chill. Her feet and toes tingled as he executed a neat turn and came thundering back.
Oh...
Her body was tingling and her pulse leaped as she drank in the sheer beauty of the man. He was stunning.
She suddenly wished she hadn't seen him. He had been so aloof, so cold. He wouldn't notice her. He'd never notice her. Why would he? He hadn't noticed her then, or barely. Despite what Marguerite said, she knew she was plain. Pretty, but plain. Not a striking beauty like Lady Henriette or a gentle presence like the beautiful Lady Hester. She willed him to pass the railing where she sat, not to look over.
He looked up.
Her eyes caught his, and his gaze held. He looked astonished, and then she saw another feeling cross those mist-marbled eyes. She had no idea what to call it, save that it echoed what she felt.
Her stomach throbbed with that strange feeling. She leaned back, hands clasped.
She heard her mother move, shifting in her seat beside her. She cleared her throat.
“What is it, Rubina? You feel well, yes?”
Rubina nodded, wordlessly. Why couldn't she speak? It felt like her throat was constricted.
“I'm fine,” she said, a strangled murmur.
Her mother looked across at her, concerned. Her eyes met those of Marguerite and they both looked at Rubina, worriedly.
“I'm fine,” Rubina whispered. “Just...nervous.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “It'll be quick,” she said. “Marc's a fast fighter, and a good one. And Cornell's challenged him.”
Rubina nodded. Fraser Cornell, a local knight, was the other favorite. At least the two men were well-matched. It meant the bout would likely not end in someone getting injured.
“Good,” she whispered.
She leaned forward in her seat as the two men rode to opposite ends of the field, their destriers snorting, ready for the run. The horses, at least, seemed to take some pleasure in the sport – it was good to see how excited they got before they were released into the race.
Rubina found that, even though she usually sat at the edge of her seat, watching and willing the two men not to harm one another, this time her eye was off the track-way. It was across where the rest of them waited. On one knight in particular.
Sir Gray.
She had to give him a name in her mind, and “the prince from the miller song” didn't really do it. She could think of no better name than Sir Gray. Those gray eyes seemed to reach right inside her. She would never forget them.
The fight was short and to the point, as her mother said. The Frenchman came up victorious.
The new challenges were made, and Rubina found herself holding her breath. Be safe. Be safe.
Her fingers moved on her lap, coming to rest against the white silk kerchief she'd brought with her. She never gave favors, though her mama always insisted she brought something with her, just in case. Now, she wished she'd given one out.
Stay safe. You saved me.
She felt her fingers move and she realized with some surprise that she was crumpling the fine silk. She couldn't let it go. She wanted to kiss it, to imbue it with care and thanks, and then give it to him. It was the strangest feeling. However, she couldn't have stopped feeling it if she'd been ordered.
“Oh!”
A roar of dismay went up from the stands. Sir Marc had been unhorsed!
Rubina watched, eyes wide with alarm as the man stood nimbly, balance perfect, swept off his helm and made a gesture with it. He bowed low and the crowd applauded. Ladies threw flowers. He reached down and lifted a rose thrown by Lady Hester, lifting it to his nose. Rubina heard the alternating sighs of admiration or hisses of disapproval. Lady Hester looked rapturously down.
Rubina didn't envy her, as other ladies evidently did, but she did feel a strange curiosity.
What would it be like to be that lovely? To have a man – him, to be frank – do that?
She felt her fingers wring each other and leaned back, drawing a breath.
The next challenge was made. The knight who'd unhorsed the French gallant – a newcomer from the Continent, no one knew exactly where or who he was – was challenged by Fraser.
Rubina watched with some apprehension. An older man, with a hard face and firm, strong jaw, Fraser had the slit mouth and cold eyes of a longtime soldier. A killer, if she was honest. His whole air was impassive and wintry. She felt her stomach tie itself up.
Whatever you do, don't challenge him.
She wished she could pass on that piece of advice to the man who sat his horse, watching quite calmly, as the two lined up.
Crash!
The splinter of lance on shield was a sickening thud.
Rubina felt horror fill her as the challenged – the contented victor from the last bout – was thrown back.
The man in command ran in, gesturing. Two squires came forward and lifted the fellow from the tight saddle-horns that held him trapped there on his horse.
The tournament ground was filled with activity – men raking the ground flat, the two squires joined by two monks as they supported the injured man off the field. Rubina gripped the arm of her chair in horror.
“He's not badly stricken,” her mother whispered gravely. “It's just the shock. And I think a broken rib. He'll recover.”
Rubina leaned back, feeling a little reassured. That wasn't too bad! He would recover.
“Good.”
She watched as Fraser dipped his lance and cantered down the track, cold triumph like a dark wind around him.
She heard the crowd exclaim as the horses on the far side parted to admit a challenger to pass through their ranks. Her heart stopped.
“No,” she said.
Marguerite beside her gave her a worried stare. Rubina shut her eyes, trying to pretend she hadn't seen it. She knew she had.
She knew the challenger. It was him: Sir Grey.
“Please,” she whispered inaudibly. “Be safe.”
She leaned forward, watching intently. Suddenly it felt as if she was no longer here, in the wooden seat in the box at the front of the tourney. She was there, on the horse, watching with cold detachment as the surface was raked flat, the fence that separated the two rows down which the men rode set up.
She blinked. That must be how he was feeling, that cold detachment. She clasped her hands and, her heart in her mouth, watched him turn beautifully, with that fluid grace, and ride to the other end of the grounds.
She blinked. He had stopped. He was looking up at her.
She saw him say something, a whisper. She couldn't possibly guess what it was. Praying, perhaps. However, she realized, heart standing still, that he hadn't closed his eyes and was staring at her.
She leaned back, feeling suddenly dazed. Had he really done that?
She shook her head. It was the aftermath of the fever, she was sure – turning her mind. Why would he notice her?
Please. Just be safe.
She didn't care if he remembered her, if he’d really noticed her, or if she saw him. She just needed him to be safe. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard and her hands unclasped from her opposite sleeves, willed to relaxing.
Let him be safe.
She watched with an awful clarity as the man in charge stepped forward to give directives, a white kerchief in his hand as the signal to begin.
“Take your marks. Ready...Ride!”
The white flag caught a current of air, lifted and fluttered to the ground. Rolling hoof-beats shattered the former quiet.
Rubina felt her hands clasp each other, fiercely.
Be safe. Be safe. Be safe.
A roar went up from the crowd. Sir Fraser looked up as Rubina's world collapsed.
Sir Gray was leaning back, trapped in the saddle, armor dented where the lance had crashed, wickedly, into his side, whole body jerked back violently by the impact. She felt herself sway.
He is wounded.
The world went dark around her. Her last thought as the blackness crept through her mind was that she had to do something.
She had to help him.