"What good would that do?" Gawin asked, perplexed.
"Then," Aunt Elinor explained, "you would challenge any knight in the castle who disagreed to come out and meet you. Naturally, several of them would have to meet your challenge—in order to save face with their ladies. And," she finished delightedly, "those knights whom you vanquished would then have to go to Lady Anne and kneel and say, 'I submit to your grace and beauty!"
"Oh, Aunt Elinor," Jenny chuckled, "did they really do that in your day?"
"Most assuredly! Why, 'twas the custom until very recently."
"And I've no doubt," Stefan Westmoreland said gallantly, "that a great many knights were vanquished by your stalwart suitors, my lady, and sent to kneel before you."
"What a pretty speech!" said Lady Elinor approvingly, "I thank you. And it proves," she added to Gawin, "that chivalry isn't falling by the wayside one bit!"
"It won't help me, however," Gawin sighed. "Until I myself am knighted, I cannot challenge any knight. Roderick would laugh in my face if I dared, and who could blame him?"
"Perhaps something gentler than fighting would win your lady's heart," Jenny put in sympathetically.
Royce listened more attentively, hoping for some clue as to how to soften her heart.
"Like what, my lady?" asked Gawin.
"Well, there's music and songs…"
Royce's eyes narrowed in discouragement at the thought of having to sing to Jenny. His deep baritone voice would surely bring every hound for miles to yap and nip at his heels.
"You did learn to play a lute, or some instrument, when you were a page, did you not?" Jenny was asking Gawin.
"No, my lady," Gawin confessed.
"Really?" said Jenny, surprised. "I thought 'twas part of a page's training to learn to play an instrument."
"I was sent to Royce as a page," Gawin advised her proudly, "not the castle of a married lord and lady. And Royce says that a lute is as useless in battle as a hilt with no sword—unless I mean to swing it around over my head and launch it at my opponent."
Eustace sent him an ominous look for further damning Royce in Jennifer's eyes, but Gawin was too intent on the problem of Lady Anne to notice. "What else might I do to win her?" Gawin asked.
"I have it," Jennifer said. "Poetry! You could call upon her and—and recite a poem to her—one you particularly like."
Royce frowned, trying to remember poems, but the only one he could recall went:
There was a young lass named May
Ever good for a toss in the hay…
Gawin's face fell and he shook his head. "I don't believe I know any poems—Yes! Royce told me one once. It went, "There was a young lass named—"
"Gawin!" Royce snapped before he could catch himself, and Jennifer's face froze at the sound of his voice. More quietly, Royce said, "That's not the—er—sort of rhyme Lady Jennifer had in mind."
"Well then, what should I do?" Gawin said. With hope that his idol would think of some more manly way of impressing the lady, he asked Royce, "What did you do the first time you wished to impress a lady—or were you already a knight and could show her your mettle on the field of honor?"
With no hope of being able to further observe Jennifer in secret, Royce walked over to the group and propped his shoulder against the chimney piece, standing beside her. "I was not yet a knight," he replied ironically, accepting the tankard of ale the serf handed him.
Jennifer caught the look of amusement that passed from Stefan to Royce and was spared having to wonder about the details by Gawin who insisted, "How old were you?"
"Eight, as I recall."
"What did you do to impress her?"
"I… er… staged a contest with Stefan and Godfrey so that I could dazzle the maiden with a skill of which I was particularly proud at the time."
"What sort of contest?" Lady Elinor asked, thoroughly engrossed.
"A spitting contest," Royce replied succinctly, watching Jenny's profile, wondering if she were smiling at his youthful foibles.
"Did you win?" Eustace laughed.
"Certainly," Royce declared dryly. "I could spit further than any lad in England at the time. Besides," he added, "I had already taken the precaution of bribing Stefan and Godfrey."
"I think I'll retire now," Jenny said politely as she stood.
Royce abruptly decided to tell all of them the news, rather than keep it from Jennifer now that the subject had already arisen. "Jennifer," he said, matching her reserved courtesy, "the annual jousting matches that take place here have been turned into a full-fledged tournament this year. In the spirit of the new truce between our two countries, Henry and James have decided the Scots will be invited to participate." Unlike a joust, which was a contest of skill between two knights, a tournament was a mock battle, with both sides charging each other from opposite ends of the field, wielding weapons—although of limited types and sizes. Even without virulent hatred between the combatants, tournaments were so dangerous that four hundred years before, the popes had managed to have them banned for nearly two centuries.
"A messenger came today from Henry confirming the changes," Royce added. When she continued to regard him with polite lack of interest, Royce added pointedly, "The decision was made by our kings at the same time the truce was signed." Not until he added, "And I will be riding in them," did she seem to comprehend the import of what he was saying. When she did, she looked at him with contempt, then she turned her back on him and left the hall. Royce watched her walk away and, in sheer frustration, he got up and went after her, catching her just as she opened the door to her bedchamber.
He held the door open for her and followed her inside, closing it behind him. In front of his knights, she'd kept her silence, but now, in private, she turned on him with a bitterness that nearly surpassed the night of William's death: "I gather the knights from the south of Scotland will be attending this little soiree?"
"Yes," he said tightly.
"And it's no longer to be a joust? It's a tournament now?" she added. "And of course, that's why you're going to ride in it?"
"I'm going to do it because I've been commanded to do it!"
The anger drained from her face, leaving it as white as parchment and just as hopeless. She shrugged. "I have another brother—I don't love him as well as I loved William, but he should at least give you a little more sport before you kill him. He's closer to your size." Her chin was trembling and her eyes were shining with tears. "And then there's my father—he's older than you, but quite skilled as a knight. His death will amuse you. I hope," she said brokenly, "you'll find it in your heart—find it possible," she amended, making it clear she didn't think he had a heart, "not to murder my sister. "She's all I have left."
Knowing she didn't want him to touch her, Royce still could not stop himself from pulling her into his arms. When she stiffened but didn't struggle, he cupped her head, holding it pressed to his chest, her hair like crushed satin in his hand. Hoarsely, he said, "Jenny, please, please don't do this! Don't suffer so. Cry, for God's sake. Scream at me again, but don't look at me like a murderer."
And then he knew.
He knew exactly why he loved her, and when it had happened: his mind snapped back to the glade, when an angel dressed like a page had looked up at him with shining blue eyes and softly told him, The things they say about you, the things they say you've done—they aren't true. I don't believe it.
Now she believed everything about him, and with good reason. And knowing it hurt a thousand times more than any wound Royce had ever received.
"If you cry," he whispered, stroking her shining hair, "you'll feel better." But he knew instinctively what he suggested was impossible. She'd been through so much, and held her tears back for so long, that Royce doubted that anything could force her to shed them. She had not cried when she spoke of her dead friend, Becky, nor had she wept over William's death. A fourteen-year-old girl with enough courage and spirit to confront her armed brother on the field of honor would
not cry for her husband whom she hated. Not when she didn't cry for her friend or even her brother. "I know you won't believe this," he whispered achingly, "but I will keep my word. I will not hurt your family, nor any member of your clan at the tournament. I swear it."
"Please let go of me," she said in a suffocated voice.
He couldn't help it, his arms tightened. "Jenny," he whispered, and Jenny wanted to die because, even now, she loved the sound of her name on his lips.
"Don't call me that again," she said, hoarsely.
Royce drew a long, painful breath. "Would it help if I said I love you?"
She jerked free, but there was no anger on her face. "Whom are you trying to help?"
Royce's arms fell to his sides. "You're right," he agreed.
Jenny left the chapel two days later after speaking to Friar Gregory, who'd agreed to remain at Claymore until a permanent priest could be located. Royce's knights were practicing, as they did early each morning, at the skills that kept them fit for battle. Hour after hour, they worked their horses, leaping them over ditches and piles of sandbags, springing into the saddle without touching the stirrups. The rest of the time outdoors they spent practicing at the quintain—a post set into the ground with a crossbar so well-balanced that it could be set whirling with a light touch of the hand. On one end of the crossbar hung a suit of armor with a shield. On the other a long, very heavy sandbag. One after the other, over and over again, each knight would back his horse to the far end of the bailey and charge full-tilt, from different angles each time, at the "knight" on the cross bar. Unless their lance struck the "knight" precisely on the breast, the crossbar whirled and the rider was dealt a mighty blow from the sandbag—which never missed its target.
Occasionally, all the knights missed, depending upon the angle and the obstacles erected in front of the quintain. All the knights, except her husband, Jenny had noticed. Unlike the other knights, Royce spent less time at the quintain and more time working with Zeus, as he was now. From the corner of her eye, she watched Royce at the far end of the bailey, his bare, heavily muscled shoulders glinting in the sun as he took the destrier over increasingly higher jumps, then galloped him flat-out while twisting the horse into the tight figure of an eight.
In the past, she'd been able to ignore this daily practice, but with the tournament looming ahead, what had seemed like mere exercise before, now became a deadly skill which Royce's men were perfecting to use against their opponents. So absorbed was she in surreptitiously watching her husband that she never heard Godfrey come up beside her. "Zeus," he commented, following the direction of her sidewise gaze, "is not yet the horse his sire was. He lacks a full year of training."
Jenny had jumped at his first words, and now she said, "He—he looks magnificent to me."
"Aye, he does," Godfrey agreed. "But watch Royce's knee—there, did you see how he had to move it forward before Zeus knew to turn? Thor would have made that turn with a pressure no greater than this…" Reaching out, Godfrey very lightly pressed Jenny's arm with his thumb. Guilt shot through Jenny at the thought of the splendid horse whose death she'd caused; Godfrey's next words didn't ease it: "In battle, having to guide your horse as firmly as Royce will have to do in the tournament, could cost your life."
Eustace and Gawin, who'd just dismounted, came over to join them, and Gawin—having heard Godfrey's remark, was quick to take umbrage on Royce's behalf. "There's naught to worry about, my lady," he boasted. "Royce is the finest warrior alive—you'll see it in the tournament."
Seeing his men watching him from the sidelines, Royce pulled Zeus out of another turn and then trotted over to them. With Jenny concealed by Godfrey and Gawin, he didn't notice her until he stopped in front of the group and Gawin burst out, "Let Lady Jennifer see you ride at the quintain!"
"I'm certain," Royce declined after a questioning glance at his wife's politely uninvolved expression, "Lady Jennifer has already seen more than enough of that from all of us."
"But," said Godfrey with a meaningful grin as he seconded Gawin's request, "I'll wager she's never seen you miss it. Go ahead—show us how 'tis done."
With a reluctant nod, Royce turned Zeus into a tight circle and then sent him leaping forward from a dead stop.
"He's going to miss on purpose?" Jenny asked, cringing in spite of herself at the sickening thud made by the sandbag whenever it struck a knight who missed.
"Watch," said Gawin proudly, "there's no other knight who can do this—"
At that instant, Royce's spear struck a mighty blow on the "knight's" shoulder, not the shield, the sandbag whirled like lightning—and missed as Royce ducked low and to the side of his horse's flying mane. Jennifer barely checked the impulse to clap in amazed surprise.
Baffled, she looked first to Eustace, then to Godfrey for an explanation; " 'Tis his reflexes," Gawin provided proudly. "For all his muscle, Royce can move at the blink of an eye."
Royce's smiling voice came back to her, reminding her of what had been one of the happiest nights of her life: Watch any warrior dodging lances and you'll see dance steps and footwork that will dazzle you.
"He's just that fast—" Gawin snapped his fingers for emphasis "—with a dagger or sword or mace."
This time, Jenny's memory was of the dagger protruding from William's chest, and it banished the other bittersweet memory. "That was a nice trick at the quintain," she said without any emotion, "however, 'twould serve him naught in battle, for he could never lean to the side of his horse like that in armor."
"Oh, but he can!" Gawin crowed, delightedly. Then his face fell as Lady Jennifer politely walked away.
"Gawin," Godfrey said furiously, "your lack of perception frightens me. Go polish Royce's armor and keep your mouth closed!" In disgust he turned to Eustace and added, "How can Gawin be so clearheaded in battle and an utter dolt when it comes to anything else?"
Chapter Twenty-Four
How many more do ye think are out there, my lady?" Agnes asked, standing beside Jenny on the wall-walk. Agnes had been working so hard for the last week that Jenny had insisted she come outdoors for some air.
Jenny looked out at the incredible spectacle that had resulted from King Henry's order that the Wolf participate in what had once been a "local joust."
Nobles, knights, and spectators from England, Scotland, France, and Wales had arrived by the thousands, and the valley and surrounding hills were now completely carpeted with the brightly colored tents and pavilions that each new arrival had erected for his comfort. It looked, Jenny thought, like a sea of colors splotched with patterns and dotted with banners.
In answer to Agnes's question, Jenny smiled wearily. "I'd guess six or seven thousand. More perhaps." And Jenny knew why they were here: they were here in hopes of pitting thek skills against Henry's legendary Wolf.
"Look, there's another group," Jenny said, nodding to the east, where mounted riders and footmen were swarming over the rise. They'd been arriving in groups of one hundred and more for nearly a week, and now Jenny was familiar with the routine of England's riding households. First came a small group, including a trumpeter blasting upon his horn to announce the arrival of his illustrious lord to the vicinity. The job of this first group was to ride to Claymore and announce the imminent arrival of their lord—which now made no difference because every chamber at Claymore, from the sixty in the gatehouses, to the tiniest loft above the hall, were already filled with noble guests. So crowded was the castle that all attendants and servants to the nobles had been obliged to be left outside the gates, where they fended nicely for themselves in the family pavilions.
After the trumpeters and scouts arrived, then came a larger group, including the lord and his lady, mounted on lavishly draped horses. Then came troops of servants and wagons bearing the tents, and everything the noble household would require: tablecloths, plates, jewels, pots, pans, beds, and even tapestries.
It had all become a common sight to Jenny in the last four days. Noble families, accustomed t
o traveling as far as a hundred miles between their castles, thought nothing of coming at least that far to see what promised to be the largest tournament in their lifetimes.
"We ain't never seen the likes o' this—none of us," Agnes said.
"Are the villagers doing as I bade them?"
"Aye, milady, and grateful forever we'll always be to you for it. Why in one sennight we've all made more coin than we've made in a lifetime, and no one's dared to try 'n' cheat us like they've done every other year when they come for the tournament."
Jenny smiled and lifted the hair off the back of her neck, letting the late October breeze cool her nape. When the first dozen families had arrived in the valley and the tents had begun to go up, livestock had been demanded from the villeins for private use, and a few paltry coins tossed at the heartbroken families who'd raised the animals.
Jenny had discovered what was happening, and now every cottage in the valley, and all the livestock, displayed badges which bore the head of a wolf—badges which Jenny had appropriated from guards, knights, armor, and anywhere else she could find them. The presence of the badge indicated that any object bearing the badge was either the Wolf's or under his protection. "My husband," she had explained as she handed out the badges to the hundreds of serfs and villeins assembled in the bailey, "will not permit his people to be treated in such a vile way by anyone. You may sell anything you wish, but," she advised them, smiling, "were I in your place, with something everyone wishes to buy, I'd be careful to sell to those who will offer you the most—not the first person to offer you anything at all."
"When this is all over," Jenny replied, "I'll discover where we can get the new looms I told the women in the village about. If the coin they've made this sennight is put toward things like those looms, then the profits from your looms will make you more profits and more. Come to think on it," Jenny added, "since this tournament is an annual affair, all of you ought to plan to have added livestock and all manner of other things, too, to sell next year. There's great profit in it for you. I'll discuss the matter with the duke and our bailiffs, then I'll help all of you to make plans if you'd like."