by Jill Hughey
He frowned. “Not now. I am focused on the tournament. I do not need any distractions.”
She worked her fingers together nervously. “It means a great deal to me to talk to you before the tournament.”
“Why?” he asked sharply.
“I want you to know that what I say is not motivated by whether you control Alda or not.”
He considered her reply for a moment. “I suppose there is some value to that. Let us go outside.”
Lightheaded with relief, she turned to stride across the hall. David opened the door for her. She took a deep, bolstering breath of brisk air. He sat on the top step of the portico, elbows propped on his knees, without inviting her to join him. She decided she would settle next to him, letting only a handspan between them. His warmth tugged at her, but she knew she could not touch him. It felt as if he’d erected an invisible wall between them.
They sat silently for a few moments before Rochelle broached the topic at hand. “I would like to say what I have to say, even though I know I will be telling you things you already know. Are you willing to listen to me without interruption?”
He turned his palms skyward, the gesture eloquent in its indifference. He didn’t even want to be here. Why would she think he would actually participate in the conversation?
A physical pain settled in her chest, as though she’d been stabbed by his cruelty. She took a shallow breath, using every fiber of her determination to speak. “I directed Gilbert to find a competitor for the tournament after overhearing your conversation with Theo. I regretted it the very next day but had given him such vague instructions I did not even know where to send someone to stop him. I kept telling myself it would all be put right somehow. It has only gotten worse. I impetuously betrayed you, a person who has shown nothing but patience and strength and kindness to me.” Her voice began to break. “Worst of all, when I began to realize what a horrible mistake I had made, who did I want to ask for help and advice? You. But I did not have the courage to do it, because I knew it would turn you away from me forever. I foolishly hoped you would just win…just win the tournament and never know what I had done. Now you know of it and my betrayal has been talked about in town. I know that must be humiliating to you.”
David listened carefully, not certain she realized tears were trickling down her face. She spoke methodically between gasping inhalations. She’d obviously put a great deal of careful thought into what she said and now concentrated mightily on getting all the words out in the right order.
She grabbed his hand, kissed the back of it then gripped it tightly between both her own hands. “I want to say that I am sorry for all of that. It is an immense number and magnitude of things to be sorry about, but I am. And the most important thing I want you to know is that I love you. I realized it too late, but I do. I love you and I want to be with you, no matter what happens.”
David stared at his hand held in a deathgrip. He cleared his throat. “I must confess, the combination of hearing your words and seeing you weep leaves me speechless.”
She released him, her hands wiping at her cheeks in distress. “ Oh, I did not want to cry! You will think it is some female trick!” She began to sob in earnest, dropping her head to her knees.
“Rochelle,” he murmured, putting an arm around her waist to straighten her. She curled toward him so easily, so naturally, to press her wet face to his neck, spasms of remorse wracking her frame. “Go easy now. Calm yourself.” He rubbed her back and spoke soft nonsense until she was able to recover.
She held on around his waist, drinking in his warmth and solidity and familiar scent, in full knowledge that this could be the last time she was this close to him.
“By this time tomorrow, all will be decided,” he said firmly.
She nodded, afraid to ask exactly what his decision would be.
“We will talk again, after the tournament.”
“Oh, David, please,” she cried, “please do not ask me to wait another day!”
“After the tournament,” he said firmly.
“You do mean tomorrow after the tournament, not five days after it?” she asked with a sniffle.
He chuckled. “Yes, tomorrow, as soon as I am able.”
She pulled back from him enough to look at his face, her inhalations jerky and irregular after her storm of tears. “What do you mean, as soon as you are able? Are you expecting to be injured?”
“No. I expect the day to be…hectic.”
“I am afraid for you,” she said, ducking her head back under his chin.
“Do you think I will lose?”
“I do not know what to think. I have no idea what a tournament even is.”
“I am going to win, Rochelle,” he said calmly as he set her away from him. “Now, let me get my rest.”
She stood quickly, smoothing her tunic down. “Can I see you in the morning?”
“I would rather not.”
She took a small, hiccupping breath. “As you wish. I hope you sleep well. I hope you win, for what it is worth now.” She thought she saw his eyes warm slightly at her words. She waited, reluctant to move, until he walked to the door. They entered the house together. She had reached the bottom of the steps when he called out to her.
“How is Marta’s son? I wanted to ask you when you arrived. Your first night here did not allow for much conversation.”
The question checked her, thoughts of Marta’s grief bringing a pain so real and poignant compared to the dramas of Ribeauville that she felt almost ashamed of her own suffering. “The baby died,” she replied softly.
He made a slight acknowledging moan in his throat. “When?”
“The day you left.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for Marta and Terence.”
“They would like to know that. Perhaps you can tell them when we go home.” His expression reverted to the careful blank one he wore to mask his thoughts. Apparently the conversation was over. She wiped a fresh batch of tears off her cheeks as she climbed the steps.
Marian waited for her in the darkness. She patted the mattress, inviting Rochelle to sit down.
“I do not hold out much hope,” Rochelle whispered. “He listened. He was distant, though kind.”
“He faces a difficult challenge tomorrow.”
“Yes, that is what he said. He is focused on the tournament. I have no idea what to expect tomorrow. Do you?”
“I have never seen pretend combat. The real kind is brutal,” Marian said with a shudder.
“I will take my healing kit.”
Marian searched her face. “How did ye leave things with him?”
“He said all will be decided by tomorrow at this time. He did not give me any assurances at all.”
Marian squeezed her fingers sharply. “His mind is where it need be tonight. Ye must keep your thoughts right, too. He is not lost to ye yet. Do not give up.”
Rochelle straightened her spine. “You are right,” she answered. “Until he says otherwise, I am still his betrothed. Tomorrow, I will act like it.” She went to bed, and though she was unable to sleep, at least the burden of secrecy had been lifted. Her future rested entirely in David’s hands. He had asked her many times to trust him, so now she must do just that.
At least she’d gotten the chance to speak with him. She had revealed all the emotions in her heart. Perhaps his side of the conversation had not matched her imaginings of forgiveness and renewed pledges of undying love, but his compassionate response proved he was worth losing everything for.
Marian and Rochelle rode toward the tournament field at midday, escorted by Theo and followed by a few of his men. It was slow going as the streets of Ribeauville and the road leading out of town were full of pedestrians. The clear chilly air fairly crackled with anticipation that reached a fever pitch when Rochelle rode past. Despite her reclusiveness, every man, woman and child knew her by sight. They pointed at her like royalty.
She did
not disappoint. She held herself stick straight, her head up with pride. At least her days of cowering in Theo’s hall were done. The day of reckoning was come. Having done all she could do to right her wrongs, and having failed, she could only hope for the best.
She had dressed for David, trying to make her appearance something of which he might be proud, even if on the inside she still felt worthless. She wore her finest wool tunic of deep green, dagged in small Vs across her chest and embroidered in gold and green. A heavy matching cloak was thrown back over her shoulders, clasped with a thick gold brooch ornamented with one polished emerald and many small garnets. The cloak sported a deep hood that she pulled up over her head, giving her a mysterious air. Her eyes flashed as she absorbed the hectic activity around them. Across her hips the glint of her heaviest gold girdle shone in the brilliant sun. The fact that she rode an impressive black gelding and had a large dog trotting beside her, with both animals rumored to be connected to the betrothed who had ignored her all week, only added to her mystique.
“Can you explain what will happen today?” Rochelle asked Theo, trying to ignore all the stares.
“Certainly,” Theo nodded. Marian listened attentively from his other side. “The tournament field is a fenced area. Spectators remain behind the fence. We have built a special platform for the emperor and a few others with a particular interest in the outcome, including the three of us. There will be a brief ceremony, an explanation of the rules, then it will begin.”
“Who judges the fight?”
“A battlemaster will start each fight and make sure there is no undue brutality. Louis himself will determine when each challenge is over.”
“Undue brutality,” Rochelle repeated, a chill running down her spine. “Will someone die today, Theo?”
He shrugged. “Probably not.”
If he expected his reply to be reassuring, it was not. Rochelle placed her hand on the bag of remedies tied to her saddle. It bulged with bandages, a small skin of her headache cure, soothing ointments, everything she could think to bring. If David was hurt today, then as God was her witness, she would heal him.
They passed the emperor’s encampment where all manner of gentry and servants hustled amid the hundred or so tents. A short distance beyond, Rochelle saw the tournament field. The emperor’s banners flew above the platform built at the height of the fence. A railing ran the length of it, and several rows of chairs sat on it. As they came closer, she could see Louis already enthroned there with men she did not know flanking him. He clearly enjoyed the public display, nodding regally at his subjects, who cheered and waved back at him.
“Where is David?” Rochelle asked.
Theo gestured to four tents at the opposite end of the field. “They each have a tent.”
“Will he rest there between challengers?”
“No, no rest.”
Her brows sailed upwards.
“Take heart, Rochelle. Fight of his life, but he is ready. He is determined to win.”
Theo’s men took the horses a safe distance away. Marian walked onto the platform first, followed by Rochelle and Theo into the row directly behind the emperor. Louis greeted them warmly, even complimenting Marian on the beauty and intelligence of her daughter. If he found the presence of a dog on his royal platform unusual, he made no mention of it. Rochelle carefully placed her healing supplies between her chair and Marian’s.
From here, she could see Woden tied near one of the tents, and, with some surprise, she noted Samuel’s thin form at his bridle. Crowds jostled around the fence of the field, pressing for the best view. A short man carrying a stubby club entered the field. He walked the perimeter, giving some kind of instruction to the spectators. Rochelle pushed her hood off her head so she could easily see the entire field.
“That is the battlemaster,” Theo explained. “Warning the people to stay behind the fence.”
“Why are you not with David?” she asked abruptly.
“He wanted me to stay with you,” Theo answered kindly, his eyes sympathetic.
The conflicting messages of David’s actions finally overwhelmed her. “I want this to be over, Theo. I cannot do this much longer.”
“Soon. You see, here they come now.”
The four combatants rode toward a narrow gate opposite the platform, three of them on war horses, and Sewell on the same terrified farm pony he’d ridden to Alda. The crowd began to shout wildly.
“The horses are just for show. They will fight on the ground, or at least David will.”
David came in first. She recognized Woden of course, and she knew the build of David’s body, but she’d never seen him in full armor before. It was a frightening sight. His head and nose were covered with a leather helm studded with metal plates. His shoulders and torso were shrouded in a leather brunia plated with spotless metal, and his arms and legs were sheathed with metal and leather, as well. A long lance was strapped to his back, a round shield with a metal boss rested on his left arm, and his spata and semi-spata hung from sheaths on his belt. The portion of his face she could see was devoid of expression. He rode as effortlessly as if he were on the fields of Alda.
Following David came Riculf, gap-toothed mouth smiling widely. He waved to the crowd, obviously enjoying his notoriety. He was armored similarly to David, though his leather was stained and his metal did not flash in the sunlight.
After Riculf came the one she could only assume was The Black, built like a wine cask wrapped in black leather. Tufts of thick black hair poked out of every gap in his armor. Even his face bore a dirty black beard above which dark, unintelligent eyes peered. He seemed disoriented by the noise and attention, but looked as if he could wrestle an ox and win on both strength and smell. Rochelle shuddered.
The crowd began to laugh as Sewell bounced onto the field. He clattered and clanged like cookpots in a kitchen. The poor boy had no idea what to do with the heavy shield hanging from his arm. A sheathed spata stuck out from his belt at an odd angle. His helm slipped down over his eyes and as he pushed it back the weight of his shield nearly dragged him off the horse’s back.
Riculf and The Black openly jeered at Sewell. David merely waited for the three of them to line up with him before they rode forward as a group to the emperor. The spectators began shushing one another when they sensed the beginning of the real spectacle.
Louis rose and Theo indicated that Rochelle and Marian should stand as well. Louis began a brief speech:
“Today we will all witness a great tournament between individual men to determine who will assume ownership of Alda, a prosperous Frank estate. This spectacle is merely a representation on a smaller scale of what is happening in our empire. There are those who would usurp the rights of your emperor and question my very rule. I am here to show you that my judgments are right, that those loyal to me will stand behind me and that they are the best and strongest in the land. I chose David, a Bavarian, to have Rochelle of Alda’s hand, along with the estate.” He indicated her behind him, prompting jeers from the crowd. “Some believe I was in error. Being a just and benevolent ruler, I will let them prove themselves wrong.”
He continued to speak, but, as in the aula palatina, Rochelle found it difficult to attend his words. She stared at David, unable to tear her eyes away. He glanced sharply at her when the crowd booed her, then focused on Louis’s feet, his lips pursed in a thin line. Her mind wandered. What would they be doing today if she had said “yes” one of the many times she could have? Having a picnic lunch at the river? Or perhaps talking at the table in Alda’s hall? When had she fallen in love with him? When had her distaste for marriage been overwhelmed by her regard for this man among men before her?
He had been in her grasp. She had shoved him away. His love, his companionship, his children, had all been there for her to claim. She had pushed him away with all the force she could muster.
“Is this acceptable to all of you?” Louis called to the four men.
David nodded curtly. The Black bl
urted, “She’s pretty.”
David’s eyes slid over to him and Rochelle saw the hardness, the resolve. He was determined to win, Theo had said. David had told her last night he would. She prayed it was so, and that he would consider her part of his winnings.
“Then it ends here,” Louis continued. “When I announce the victor of each challenge, my word is law. The battlemaster will begin each match and make sure each man is treated fairly. I will end it.” After a long pause, he shouted. “Let us begin!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The four men left the field, a wave of sound from the excited onlookers following them. David was the first to return, this time on foot. He walked straight to the center to wait, his posture relaxed. Riculf entered, his lance balanced in his right hand.
“The lance is David’s least favorite weapon, and Riculf knows it,” Theo commented.
Rochelle inanely stored that bit of information away: lance is David’s least favorite weapon. It seemed important to learn everything she could, to save little tidbits that might carry her through the long winter her life would become without access to more.
Despite his size, Riculf was light on his feet. He began dancing about. David pulled his own lance off his back and hunched slightly, swaying from side to side as he waited for Riculf to move within range. He allowed Riculf to float around him, answering every darting attack, but not expending the energy to chase him about the field.
Riculf’s thrusts were swift and precise, like the stings of a swarm of pesky flies. David would counter, then Riculf would dash away, only to return. This went on for ten minutes, until David finally caught the lugs of his own lance on Riculf’s and wrenched the weapon from his grasp, flinging it far out of reach. Riculf bounced backward as he quickly drew his spata.
“Stand still and fight like a man,” Theo muttered.
“I agree,” Marian chimed. “David would break him in half if he would but stop flitting for a bit.”
David cast his own lance aside, unsheathing his spata in time to counter Riculf’s first strike. The singing of metal scraping on metal sung through the enthralled crowd. It was punctuated by the percussive chime of a blade colliding with a shield and the grunts of the two men. To Rochelle the sounds of the blades sliding together said “You-ou-ou did it! You-ou-ou did it!”
