by Tamara Leigh
Anger at Lucien’s callousness brought Alessandra to her feet. “A shared sentiment,” she called.
Lucien shifted his cool gaze to her. “Is it? Then what of you, Lady Alessandra? Would you also find such a match objectionable?”
“Indeed.” Though the word did not reflect what was in her heart, she threw it at the arrogant man who had forgotten her in the weeks gone by.
His jaw shifted, eyes narrowed.
Had the speculation about their relationship been spoken aloud, it could not have been more tangible.
“We shall settle this in the lists tomorrow,” James said.
Lucien looked to his host. “Do you think you are up to it, old man?”
James’s mouth pinched white. “I will be there. Will you?”
Lucien inclined his head. “’Tis my only reason for attending the tourney.”
After a long moment, James raised his glass-bottomed tankard, quaffed his drink, and sat.
The others followed suit.
It took quantities more wine and ale before the life of the banquet returned. Regardless, throughout the festivities that followed—the music of jongleurs, songs of minstrels, and dancing—a pall hung over Alessandra.
From the shadows of an alcove, she watched an actor perform a mime and wondered if the morrow would bring bloodshed.
She searched out Lucien who was flanked by his brothers on the far end of the hall. Though he lounged against a wall, gaze fixed on the mime, Alessandra knew he was less interested in the performance than she.
Then, as if aware of her regard, he looked her way.
She stepped deeper into the shadows and hugged her arms about her. Who would be the victor on the morrow? A father she was growing to love, or the man who possessed her heart?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“I do not see Lucien’s,” Alessandra whispered.
Melissant peered over the ladies crowded before the canopied table that displayed the contenders’ banners and crested helms. “There.” She pointed to the far end of the table where the De Gautier red and gold fluttered in the morning breeze.
Alessandra nodded. “I see it, but why is his last?”
“You would ask that after what happened yestereve?”
Then this was the penalty James levied against Lucien.
“Oh, look!” Melissant pointed again. “Sir Simeon’s helm is being removed.”
Excitement rippled through the women as they attempted to guess what had warranted the removal of the intricately embossed helm.
“I do not understand,” Alessandra said.
“It means a lady has accused him of wrongdoing. Thus, he is banished from the lists.”
“He will not be allowed to compete?”
“Only to watch, though such disgrace will likely keep him from the tournament altogether.”
Alessandra briefly considered this as a means to prevent Lucien and James from publicly carrying out their private battle, then sighed. That would only fuel Lucien’s anger. If he did not battle with the blunt-tipped, dull-edged weapons of tournament, he would likely battle with those that let blood.
Pushing her way between two older ladies, Melissant gained for herself and Alessandra a place before the helms. “Are they not marvelous?” she exclaimed.
While she chattered over the decorated helms, Alessandra craned her neck to better see the one Lucien would don. Directly beneath his banner, several helms rested on the table, red and gold plumes projected over their crowns.
As the ladies began to drift toward the pavilions to watch the opening ceremony, Alessandra took the opportunity to draw nearer. Hitching up skirts that skimmed the ground—after her reception last eve, she had left their hems be and her cosmetics in their pots—she advanced on the De Gautier panoply.
She reached to the helm that was surely Lucien’s and discovered the metal was warm. Sun, she realized, amazed she had not noticed it had come out. Peering over her shoulder, she saw the clouds had begun to disperse.
She smiled. At last, evidence of England’s earthliness.
“He will defeat your father, you know.”
Alessandra looked around, and her gaze clashed with heavily lashed blue eyes. Vincent de Gautier.
“You speak to me?” she asked, thankful he stood on the opposite side of the table.
“I do.”
“Why?”
Vincent’s lower lip dropped, enlarging his white smile. “Curiosity. My brother is much changed from the man who left for France. Now I am beginning to understand why.”
Did he imply she was responsible? Farfetched. If she had touched Lucien’s life in any way, it was only briefly, as proven these past weeks by his silence and last night his contempt.
“Methinks you ought to look elsewhere for answers,” she said. “Namely, the war he fought on French soil and the slavery he was pressed into. Therein lies your answer, Sir Vincent.”
His smile slipped. “’Twas not what I referred to. That side of him I understand.”
“I do not believe you do. Indeed, I doubt there are many who understand that side of him.”
Melissant edged near Alessandra. “Ah, ’tis you, Sir Vincent,” she drawled.
“My lady.” He inclined his head.
Her mouth compressed into a lipless line.
Vincent must have found something amusing about her behavior, for his smile returned. “I take your leave,” he said and pivoted away.
“Knave,” Melissant muttered. “That I do not have to wed that whoremonger is evidence enough of God.”
“Now who speaks heresy?” Alessandra teased.
Melissant crinkled her nose. “’Tis true. He would have made an unsatisfactory husband.”
Though she had never expounded on the matter, it had remained an item of interest for Alessandra. “Surely you find him attractive?”
Melissant pulled the golden plume atop Lucien’s helm through her fingers. “Who would not? Unfortunately, Vincent is neither responsible, nor faithful, his only gift a face over which women make themselves fools. God willing, I shall wed a man who wisely guards his coin and shares only my bed.”
Though the Christian law of one man to one woman seemed a wonderful institution, Alessandra had learned it was not uncommon for married Englishmen to bed other women. And yet they condemned the practice of polygamy. Hypocrites.
“You would do poorly in a harem,” she said, despite Melissant’s enthusiasm for tales of that exotic place.
Melissant grinned. “Then in England I must remain.”
“Jousters make ready!” called a herald as he wound his way through the avenues of tents, rousing the knights within.
Linking an arm through Alessandra’s, Melissant turned them toward the pavilions.
“A moment,” Alessandra said. She turned back to Lucien’s helm and quickly traced the sign of the cross above his visor’s eye slit. “The Lord protect you,” she whispered and swung back to Melissant.
“What did you do?” her sister asked.
Alessandra shook her head and started toward the pavilions.
“You are an odd one,” Melissant said, drawing alongside her.
“Verily.”
Shortly, Melissant groaned. “We are late.” She jutted her chin toward the pavilions that were nearly filled to capacity. “Mother will be displeased.”
Though Alessandra did not say it, she was disappointed when they did not join the other ladies. Instead, they were seated in the center pavilion reserved for the Breville family and visiting dignitaries. And that included Bishop Armis whose seat provided him a full view of Alessandra. Beside him sat Agnes, smile false, eyes hawking Alessandra’s every move.
Once the mass was sung, the parade commenced.
The display was like nothing Alessandra had seen. As host of the tournament, her father came first. Resplendent in Breville blue, he led four camp marshals into the lists, all senior knights chosen to oversee the contest. They were followed by heralds who cried encouragement to
the combatants.
The participating knights, riding two by two, outfitted in burnished armor and long spurs, each preceded by a banner bearer, sat atop warhorses. Though the destriers of the lesser knights were modestly arrayed, several wore complete head-and-neck armor, elaborately worked muzzles and stirrups, double reins, and richly decorated coverings that Melissant called trappers.
As the first of the knights completed the circuit of the tilt—a wooden barrier erected to separate jousters and prevent their horses from colliding—and passed by the pavilions, he began to sing. The melody was taken up by the other knights and ladies in the pavilions, causing the lists to quake.
Then something more peculiar happened. Married and unmarried ladies began removing items of clothing—stockings, hair ribbons, gloves, girdles, even sleeves torn from their gowns.
Hoping for an explanation, Alessandra turned to Melissant, but her sister was bent over and in the process of removing her stockings.
Alessandra looked back at the knights. As they pranced their horses before the pavilions, ladies leaned forward and tied their castoffs to the tips of proffered lances. Even dignified Agnes joined in.
What is the meaning of this? Alessandra wondered. And where is Lucien?
She stretched her neck to see past the contestants who waited to enter the lists, but could not pick him from among the armored knights.
“Be mindful where you place your favor,” Melissant said, “else you may find yourself pursued by one you would rather not.”
“Is that what the ladies are doing?” Alessandra asked as she watched Melissant’s Uncle Gavin accept an array of items. “Showing favor?”
“Aye, and so shall I.” Melissant held up her stockings.
“To whom will you give them?”
Melissant fluttered her lashes. “Methinks the youngest De Gautier quite fair.”
“Jervais? He also competes?”
“Of course.”
“And Vincent?”
Melissant shrugged. “He is likely too busy consorting with joy women to prove himself a man.”
“Joy women?”
“See yon woman with her skirts hiked high?” She pointed toward the tents of competing knights, then put her mouth near Alessandra’s ear. “For but a coin, she will give him what a lady would never allow.”
“Truly?”
“Would I play you false?” Melissant sat back in her chair. “Now tell me which knight you intend to favor. Perhaps Lucien de Gautier?”
“Never,” Alessandra blurted.
“Father says that is a word one should never use.”
Alessandra folded her hands in her lap. “Methinks Lucien would rather dangle the stocking of a joy woman from his lance than that of a Breville.”
“Well, you must choose someone.” Melissant cogitated, then said, “Sir Rexalt.”
Alessandra recalled the good-natured knight who had dined beside her during the banquet yestereve. Though she was not attracted to him, he had been amiable and pleasing to the eye. “Aye,” she said, “Sir Rexalt it shall be.”
“The ribbon in your hair will do nicely.”
Alessandra fingered it. “Not my sleeve?”
“Only if you wish to ruin your gown. And then the poor knight will think you are most besotted.”
As Alessandra began to unbraid her hair through which she had woven the red ribbon, Melissant jumped to her feet and waved her stockings. “Come hither, Sir John!”
Smiling broadly, the knight led his horse in a caper as he neared the pavilion.
“What of Sir Jervais?” Alessandra asked.
Melissant looked over her shoulder. “I have two stockings, have I not?” Then she tied one of her favors to the lance Sir John leveled at her.
“Much honored, Lady,” he said and urged his horse onward.
Blushing prettily, Melissant sank into her chair.
When next Alessandra looked up, she glimpsed the end of the procession, which surely numbered in excess of sixty knights. Waiting to enter the lists, Lucien sat atop an enormous destrier draped with an emblazoned trapper. Unlike its rider, the animal wore no armor.
Visor raised, Lucien peered across the lists, though never did his eyes rest upon the center pavilion where Alessandra sat.
Her indignation flared that he did not so much as acknowledge her, that he forgot all they had shared in favor of his godforsaken revenge.
“I do not believe it,” Melissant said.
“What?” Alessandra asked.
She pointed toward Lucien. “Sir Vincent also competes.”
Alessandra had been too intent on Lucien to notice his brothers bringing up the rear of the procession. Side by side, Vincent and Jervais waited for their turn to enter the lists. “Perhaps you have judged Vincent too harshly,” she suggested.
Melissant harrumphed. “I do not think so.”
Not for the first time, Alessandra wondered if she also judged wrongly. Lucien was entitled to his anger. After all, when he had left England, he had been heir to prosperous lands, only to return to an estate far diminished by the actions of his brother and James Breville. She only wished he would not direct his anger at her.
His banner bearer going before him, Lucien angled his lance upright and spurred his horse forward. Vincent and Jervais followed.
Though it was by no means an esteemed position to be the last to parade the lists, many of the ladies grew more enthusiastic with the De Gautiers’ arrival.
“I am told they are fierce fighters,” Melissant said. “Lucien and Jervais, that is. Ere he left for France, Lucien was a favorite among the ladies.”
Jealousy warmed Alessandra. “You have never witnessed their skill yourself?”
“Nay, ’tis rare the Brevilles and De Gautiers come together anywhere other than on a battlefield.”
Until now. Of course, Lucien might well turn the lists into his own private battlefield.
So caught up was Alessandra in watching Lucien that Sir Rexalt would have passed by unnoticed had Melissant not elbowed her.
Gripping the ribbon, she stood and beckoned to him.
His seemingly perpetual smile widened. “Lady Alessandra.” He lowered his lance. “I am grateful for your kind regard.”
Head bent to the task of securing the ribbon between the sleeve and girdle of two other ladies, Alessandra sensed Lucien’s gaze. Guilt crept over her, but she reminded herself that as he did not want her favor, he had no right to care whom she bestowed it upon.
Sir Rexalt hoisted his lance, waved it jubilantly, and urged his destrier forward.
Alessandra looked to Lucien who had just completed his parade at the tilt, and their eyes met. Was the anger in his simply that, or jealousy, too?
As she sank into her seat, Lucien rode to the far pavilion and lowered his lance for the favors women clamored to bestow. Like brightly colored streamers, more than a half-dozen articles adorned it when he advanced to the center pavilion and halted before Alessandra. However, he did not lower his lance, even when the lady beside Agnes waved him to her.
The din of the pavilions lapsed into murmurs, and Alessandra realized she was onstage as she stared at Lucien. In spite of the scar tracing his cheekbone, the hard planes of his face, and a mouth that offered no hint of a smile, he appeared a most attractive man.
Thinking that if he would only give her some encouragement she would gladly tear both sleeves from her gown, she offered a tentative smile.
He urged his destrier past and gained several more favors before exiting the lists.
Jervais and Vincent also paused before the center pavilion.
Ignoring the latter, Melissant tied her second stocking to the youngest De Gautier’s lance.
Though Vincent certainly had no need of more favors, he ill disguised his disappointment at being snubbed.
“Did you see Mother?” Melissant whispered as the lists cleared. “I thought she might snatch my stocking off Jervais’s lance.”
Alessandra frowned. “She
does not like him?”
“She does not know him.”
“Then?”
“He is not the heir, and only an heir will satisfy her.”
And Lucien was the De Gautier heir. Yet he had made it clear that not even for the return of his lands would he wed a Breville.
A herald crying the commencement of the contests started the clamor anew. “Come hither he who wishes to do battle!”
Trumpets blared, and favors that had escaped being bestowed upon knights were scattered to the sanded ground.
With the appearance of the two champions chosen to joust first, there was a collective gasp.
As Alessandra watched Lucien and James being led upon their destriers by their squires to opposite ends of the lists, it seemed her heart stopped beating. Doubtless, it was a fitting opening to the tournament for these two adversaries to face off after the events of yestereve, but it boded ill.
Facing each other, Lucien and James lowered their visors and made ready for the confrontation.
When the squires moved away, the chief marshal called, “In the name of God and King Henry, do battle!”
All in the pavilions surged to their feet and shouted when the knights and their destriers came to life. As they raced down the lists toward each other, the ground trembled, sand sprayed, and all Alessandra could do was join her hands in prayer.
Bent low over their saddles, Lucien and James raised their shields and leveled their lances at one another. A moment later, the splintering of wood sounded like the crack of thunder.
Alessandra clapped her hands over her ears and watched wide-eyed as the destriers struggled to regain their balance, both riders brandished broken lances and scraped shields, and the spectators shouted with excitement.
Though Melissant had described the contest of the joust, Alessandra had not expected such a horrific, primitive display.
Lucien and James turned their destriers and cantered back to position where they were met by their squires who handed them new lances. Once again, they rushed at each other and met the same fate, both sustaining broken lances and battered shields. And again—with the same result. Finally, each having broken three lances, it should have been called a draw, but the contestants called for fresh lances and rode a fourth time.
