Eva approached and fingered the rich satin of her new kirtle. It was green like spring leaves, trimmed with white ribbon shot through with golden thread. The chemise to be worn beneath it was pure white, made of the finest silk. Eva glanced over to see that Alys’ new gown was much like her own, except it was sky blue.
Alys’ eyes were blue, and Eva’s green. Isabella had thought out their May Day trappings carefully, Eva thought. In wonder, she lifted the matching slippers.
Again, as before, her new slippers were specially made, bearing a wedge of firm padding on the outside edge of the right foot. In addition, on this pair, a sturdy sole of leather lined the bottom. They looked much sturdier than the first ones she’d received.
I may be able to dance in these slippers, Eva thought, her heart leaping in her chest. Even walking would be easier and safer in this new design.
She owed so much to the duchess. Clutching the slippers to her chest, Eva raised her eyes toward the heavens and whispered a prayer of thanks. Like embers revived by fresh kindling, her hopes and dreams for the future once again burst into flames, hot and exciting.
An hour or so after the noon meal, trumpets resounded across the bailey and echoed from outside the gatehouse toward the village. This was Mathieu’s cue to ready the horses. The course, or lists, had already been set up, with colorful flags and banners dotting the field beyond the outer walls. Two tall poles defined the starting positions. Already, a crowd had gathered to watch the jousting and cheer on their favorite knights.
The contestants awaited their armored and decorated mounts. Mathieu had spent the last hours dressing their six destriers in full regalia, complete with protective chest plates and head gear. The joust would be a mock fight—no true lances or spears, but only wooden weapons. Still, there was always the danger of injury, if inadvertent. A wooden spear, if it hit the knight or horse anywhere his armor or mail did not cover, risked causing trauma.
Mathieu, followed by his oldest and most experienced page, Rogier, led the first two destriers out. Frenzied with excitement, they chomped at their bits and flicked nervous foam everywhere. These horses were bred for this, whether it be a mock joust or heading into true battle. They were all stallions, and Mathieu had himself been responsible for the training of three of the six mounts.
He personally knew not most of the knights fighting, only Gaspard, who had attended the hunt that morn. Being the youngest, the Frenchman would be up first against an opponent of equal experience. The games proceeded thus: riders clashed in high-speed gallops down the lists and were allowed only three lances each. Once all of their lances had broken, or they had been knocked off their horses or injured, the winner would progress to the next round.
The crowd was roaring at a fever pitch when the first two knights emerged onto the field. Mathieu handed off the first knight’s destrier, then turned to catch Gaspard’s horse, a tall yet massively built stud with a coat of dappled silver. The steed was so agitated he was swinging the page around like a ball on a tether. As soon as Mathieu took hold of the reins, the beast quieted, snorting and prancing in place as Gaspard approached.
“Thank you, my lord,” the French knight said, bowing toward the man who, he knew, had trained his charger last year at Coudenburg and later at Germolles.
Ladies lined the perimeter of the lists, waving and calling to their favorite knights. Many waved fragments of cloth in the air, scraps of embroidery or veil. These tokens were offered by the maidens as gifts for luck, as well as symbolizing promise of a possible future liaison—a kiss for the winner, and a dance after the feast.
For some, mayhap more.
When Mathieu turned and saw Eva on the edge of the crowd, his heart sank. She stood among a group of young maidens, their hair flowing free save for the flowered circlets ringing their crowns—marking them as single and available. They were all, as well, waving scraps of silk or veil in the air.
Including Eva.
Gaspard mounted his horse and then, ignoring all the other maidens, approached her. His face shield was raised, and Mathieu saw the gleam of his smile as he snatched the cloth from Eva’s hand and tied it around his lance.
She had offered the favor, and the French knight had accepted it.
A sudden wave of nausea washed over Mathieu, and he swiped a hand down his sweat-soaked face. This action should mean nothing to him—’twas all part of the game, he knew—and Eva probably just wanted to join in the tradition. Yet suddenly he wished it were he, and not Gaspard, aboard the fine destrier he’d spent countless hours gentling, training, and fitting.
Before, it had always been enough to know that it was he who played a large part in the winning or losing of these matches. A well-trained, brave and steady mount could carry even an inferior marksman to victory—if the rider was sufficiently skilled with the lance. Today, his stakes in the game had suddenly become much more personal.
The raised platform for the nobility was erected under a tent at the midpoint of the lists. Here sat Duke Philip, the lady duchess, Simon La Laing, and Captain Knape. Mathieu could not help the flame of anger erupting inside him when he heard shouting coming from the dais. As Gaspard plucked the favor from Eva’s hand, Captain Knape stood, shaking his fist in the air and bellowing his support.
What the captain had to gain from encouraging the French knight’s attention to Eva, Mathieu had no idea. He knew little about Gaspard except that he was young and ambitious, warrior-wise. As far as Mathieu knew, from the little he’d spoken with the knight, he wasn’t in the market for a wife.
Then again, a permanent relationship was the furthest thing from Captain Knape’s mind. Even at his advanced age of thirty-eight winters, he had never settled down. Knape lived for the moment and the glory—the savagery of battle, and the many pleasures life offered.
Mathieu was convinced the captain had, in fact, no soul.
The trumpets blared again precisely at two o’clock, announcing the commencement of the jousts. Gaspard positioned his horse at one end of the lists, having difficulty containing the stallion’s excitement. The other knight, whose name Mathieu did not know, took his position at the opposite end. This warrior was from a neighboring castle, a guest to the games.
With both contestants in position, one of the stewards stood mid-list and held a flag bearing the Burgundian shield up high. When the flag dropped with a mighty whoosh, the horses bolted.
Even aboard the highly charged destrier, Gaspard did an admirable job on his first pass with the lance. He struck the opponent’s breastplate straight on, nearly dislodging the man from his horse. His lance, however, split from the impact. When he reached the far end, his squire quickly provided him a fresh weapon.
A mighty cheer went up from the crowd for the French knight, obviously their favorite. Mathieu glanced over at Eva, who was clapping and waving at the warrior. Her warrior. The very notion made the ostler sick to his stomach.
The next pass did not fare well for the opposing knight either. Gaspard’s lance struck him on the side of his helmet, knocking it askew. The knight wavered, obviously disoriented for the moment, and a hush fell over the crowd. A blow to the head, although not intended to cause real injury, could well cause serious injury.
Head wounds, whether in play fighting or true battle were, of course, the most difficult to treat. They often proved fatal.
The knight recovered, however and, righting his helmet, retrieved a fresh lance from his own steward. He made a brave attempt to skewer Gaspard in the shoulder during the third round. His weapon merely glanced off the French knight’s armor, while Gaspard’s lance hit its mark dead on. Striking the breastplate full force in the very center, the man was literally catapulted off his horse backwards, landing flat on his back in the dirt.
Round one of the tournament was over, with the French knight as victor.
The noise from the crowd was deafening, as was the stomping on the boards of the raised dais under the nobles. The Burgundian knights were winning. Although Mat
hieu would normally have been basking in the glory of his own success—the bravery and skill of the steeds played a huge role in this event—he could feel no joy.
A deep, burning grief, fueled by jealousy, filled Mathieu’s chest as he made his way back to the stables to retrieve the mount for the next round. He cursed his own weakness at allowing his emotions to overtake his common sense. What he felt for Eva had been, of late, quickly transforming from simple lustful desire to something more. For a short while, he’d thought mayhap the unthinkable had happened—he’d found a maid he could settle down with and raise a family. But reality had risen up and belted him across the face with a gauntlet—a knight’s gauntlet.
Up against the likes of a handsome, titled warrior, an ostler didn’t stand a chance.
*
Eva had gotten caught up in the revelry, and now had no idea how to extricate herself. It was Alys who’d convinced her to bring along a strip of silk to the joust, slipping it into the sleeve of her kirtle as she’d helped her sister get dressed.
“You must, Eva. I cannot. My betrothed—or soon to be, with the duke’s permission—is not a knight. He cannot participate in the games. None of the other girls are old enough to offer a knight their token. You must represent us! Gaspard is handsome and kind—you said so yourself. ’Twill mean naught in reality. ’Tis all just a game.”
Eva did, truly, feel like a princess, waving her token in the air and calling to Gaspard. These were the tales the bards told, complete with all the excitement and romanticism she’d dreamed of. When Gaspard took her favor and tied it onto his lance, her sisters all huddled around her, cheering. For the moment, she was their champion.
Yet as the jousting came to an end, with Gaspard as the victor after going up against three formidable opponents, Eva feared what be coming next. Alys nudged her as the French knight approached on his sweaty and steaming destrier, whose snorting and stamping scared Eva half to death. She staggered backward, managing to recover only with the help of Alys’ proffered arm.
Removing his helmet, Gaspard smiled down at her with a wicked gleam in his eye. He handed his helmet off to his squire, then dismounted. He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his gleaming armor. The Frenchman slid off his gauntlet and dropped it to the ground, riveting her with a predatory gaze. Without hesitation—or permission—he cupped the back of her head, pulling her to him roughly.
The lady’s knight was due his victory kiss.
His mouth was hard, and he smelled of sweat and sour wine. The hair of his scant mustache scalded her skin as he worked his mouth over hers, plunging his tongue insistently against her lips. She resisted, but Eva soon realized there would be no denying him. Revved by his success and high on his achievement, Gaspard was not the gentle, friendly knight she’d chatted and laughed with on the hunt. He was a powerful, male warrior rightfully claiming his prize.
When he finally forced her lips to part, Eva fought the urge to gag into his mouth. He was holding her too tightly against the unforgiving surface of his armor. His kiss was too rough, too invasive. His scent and the taste of him disgusted her. Instinct took hold as she tried with all of her might to push him away, palms flat against his hot metal breastplate. Just when she thought she might faint, she heard a shrill whistle coming from the nobles’ tent.
Breaking the kiss, Gaspard grinned, a low chuckle erupting in his throat. He turned toward the dais and held up one thumb of his other, still-gauntleted hand toward his wildly cheering fan. Captain Knape. As he did, his other hand slid out from under Eva’s hair and down her back. Reaching her bottom, Gaspard squeezed her buttock so hard, pain shot through her. Pain … and revulsion.
Eva promptly vomited her noon meal all over the knight’s booted feet.
Chapter Fifteen
Mathieu emerged from his quarters, rubbing sleep from his face. Kleine Uil perched on his shoulder, wide awake and anxiously searching the stable with huge, round eyes. Daylight was fading fast, and the ostler had awoken with as ravenous an appetite as his tiny, feathered friend.
The afternoon’s events flashed back into his mind with sickening intensity. After delivering the destrier to the competing knight of the last round, Mathieu had quit the games. He’d instructed Rogier to retrieve the mounts once the joust was done. He already knew how this would play out, and he wanted no part in it. Gaspard, he knew, would likely be the victor.
In more ways than one.
The aroma of roasted meats filled his senses as he made his way toward the keep, but Mathieu’s appetite had vanished. Although he’d skipped the noonday meal and taken a nap instead, his stomach felt sour. He hoped the nausea passed quickly, as he knew tonight’s feast would be a spread fit for any king.
Philip the Good hadn’t earned his name by chance. The duke was famous for his generosity when it came to his people, those who swore fealty to him and his court. This would mark the third May Day Festival Mathieu had spent at Coudenburg, ever since Admiral La Laing had taken up residence at the castle. Before that, he’d attended many feasts at both Coudenburg and Germolles—Yule, Candlemas, Mabon, Samhain—the list was endless once one included celebrations of handfastings and higher nobles’ name days.
Truly, Duke Philip was always up for a feast. And what a feast he hosted.
La Laing met Mathieu just inside the doors to the Great Hall, which were flung wide.
“Are you hungry, my boy?” La Laing asked, clapping Mathieu on the shoulder. “After your most successful hunt this morn, we shall all feast heartily. I hear the falcons performed flawlessly. And your horses! Gaspard is but a fledgling, but his mount carried him to an impressive win. I do believe you played a big part in his victory today.”
So, it had turned out the way he’d predicted. No surprise, Mathieu thought. He wondered if the knight gave as much credit to his mount’s training as La Laing did.
Before Mathieu’s ire could rise he caught sight of Eva, seated between Alys and Beverielle just below Isabella. His heart clutched. The girl was a sight to behold.
Like a beacon, she stood out in the crowded room. She was telling an animated tale to the younger girl on her right—probably of the joust. With the face of an angel, she caused Mathieu’s heart to thud heavily in his chest. The voluminous sleeves of her sumptuous green gown fluttered when she gestured with her hands. With full, pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, her flowered circlet ringed her golden hair like a halo.
Her halo, he knew, would tip askew more often than not. The girl had the pride of a peacock, and had not yet learned how to tame her tongue. Mathieu smiled sadly. She had spirit, much like a young, unbroken filly.
Yet ’twas one of the traits he loved about Eva of Utrecht. Too bad she’d already set her sights upon another. He wondered if the Frenchman would, as he did, appreciate her spunk—or if the knight would extinguish it, as abruptly as the flame from a tallow candle. ’Twas usually the way with a warrior’s woman. Their maids were quickly taught to temper their behavior and hold their tongues.
Like a horse whose spirit had been broken.
Many tables ran the entire length of the long room, and the hanging wooden chandeliers above them burned with so many candles, the effect was nearly blinding. At the far end, the dais rose above all else. Philip and Isabella were already seated, with an empty seat waiting for La Laing to the left of the duke, and one for Captain Knape beside Isabella.
An extra seat had been added this night, right beside the captain. The victor of the jousting sat at the high table. Mathieu bristled to see the beaming face of Gaspard of Lille. He noticed with curiosity that Eva, his lady, had not been placed up on the dais alongside him. “Twas the usual custom.
Had it been his choice, or hers?
Minstrels played a melodic tune from a far corner, setting the mood to light and joyous. At each table, a stuffed swan served as centerpiece, the smaller grouse they’d downed this morn lining the remainder of their length. There were so many platters of dried fruits and small me
at pies, there was barely enough room for trenchers at each seating. Servants scurried in and out of the kitchen with yet more bowls and platters. The stronger male servants carried pitchers of mead or ale and went from table to table, filling cups.
Mathieu followed La Laing though the hall, breaking away only when they neared the dais. La Laing stopped and turned, pointing to an empty seat just below where he would be sitting.
“I’d like you here, Mathieu. There are some horses I’m looking to buy. I would value your opinion.”
Mathieu nodded and took the seat La Laing had chosen for him. Glancing up, he realized he was directly across the hall from Eva. She sat on Isabella’s side of the room, just below the seat of Captain Knape.
The ostler bristled as he watched the way the Captain’s eyes raked over the young woman. She was oblivious, chatting and laughing with her sisters as she popped dried apricots into her mouth.
Her lush, full mouth. Mathieu licked his lips, remembering how the girl tasted. It wasn’t just honey from the mead. It was the flavor of the young woman herself, her scent, and her warmth that sprang forth in his memory. Whenever he touched her, ’twas like a lightning bolt up his arm. And her kiss, the sweet sighs she made as he’d held her this morn, the way she peered into his eyes as though she meant to speak to his very soul . . .
He must stop this perilous line of thinking. Better not to dwell upon his growing feelings for a lady he could not have, especially after seeing how Knape appeared to be playing matchmaker with his new, young knight. At the joust, Eva made her choice obvious.
Not that Mathieu should have been surprised. She’d made it painfully clear what standards she’d set for her future husband. Gaspard fit the bill perfectly.
If the young knight favored her. Mathieu sighed as he took his seat and lifted a mug of ale to his lips. Even if Gaspard shunned the lady, there would surely be others—of equal status—who would not.
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 13
