Page 79

F ive Months Later

Tranton Vale Tournament, Payne Manor

Carefully, Gunnilde adjusted the draping of her veil over her new double-horned headdress. Lately, she had been experimenting more with headdresses than hairstyles. Her new friend Lady Schaeffer had introduced her to some wonderful artisans. Horns were still very much her signature style though.

Settling back into her seat, she glanced down in satisfaction at the new jeweled girdle encircling her waist. It was James’s latest gift to her and flashed with an array of beautifully colored stones.

Since he took up his position as royal musician, the Wycliffes’ monetary woes were a thing of the past.

His handsome allowance alone would have been enough to sustain them in comfort, but on top of that he had been inundated with requests and new commissions from his fellow courtiers. Even the Bishop of Badsbury had communicated his desire for a new piece of music. James had added him to a long list.

She squeezed James’s hand as the combatants entered the field, and he turned to look and smile at her.

“Here they come.” The crowd cheered as the two knights saluted the so-called “royal box.” The Paynes had never had a “royal box” before.

Until the previous year they had not even had a stand designated for the family to watch proceedings. Everyone had just sat on benches.

This year, however, was different. This year, thanks to the connections of Gunnilde, James, and Hal, they had a royal prince in attendance.

It had meant a good deal of scrambling and last-minute preparations to accommodate such an honor.

It had also meant Payne Manor was overflowing with Prince Raedan’s personal guard, and they had had to designate three more fields for pavilions to fit all the attendants in.

More knights had shown up to compete this year than in the last five years combined.

Her father, Sir Aubron, was half proud and half panicked by the swell in numbers.

He kept consulting with her or James to check if he had the protocol right when it came to seating or if some matter of etiquette was lacking.

Her stepmother was not much better. Poor Bess felt quite overwhelmed by so many courtiers milling about the place and had taken to deferring completely to Gunnilde in almost every household matter.

“Let me just consult with the daughter of the house” had become her favorite refrain in moments of doubt, which were frequent.

Gazing out now at the sea of tents and banners fluttering in the breeze, Gunnilde felt her heart swell with pride at all they had achieved. Never had she dreamed that her father’s rural tournament could become such a grand affair.

James’s hand landed on her knee, and she shuffled closer to him, peering at the long list of shields he held in his hand.

James had entered into the spirit of the tournament beautifully and had even written a piece of music to commemorate the event called “The Pride of Tranton Vale.” It had been debuted at court and the King had pronounced it “Not bad, not bad at all. Better than anything old Palmore ever wrote at any rate.”

Only she knew that the piece was really about her.

Oh, and perhaps Cuthbert, who always seemed to know these things.

James and four of his musician friends from Aphrany were performing the music at tonight’s feast, much to the excitement of her father’s guests.

They were highly honored that the King’s own “Music Master,” as they insisted on referring to him, was playing for their entertainment.

Sir Aubron was still somewhat awed by his new son-in-law, even more than his royal guest truth be told, for the prince was still a boy.

A strange sort of boy, he felt privately, but a boy nonetheless.

Around James, Sir Aubron watched his manners and refrained from his usual ribald jokes.

He boasted a good deal to his friends and neighbors of James’s position at court, and of his daughter, who was now “one of the Queen’s ladies. ”

“Sir Maurice de Courcey and Sir Phillip Linley,” James read aloud after checking their coats of arms. “What do we know of these two? Can we expect a good showing?”

Hal looked up from where he sat next to the prince. “Linley is a solid prospect, steady and seasoned but de Courcey is a vicious little brute. You cannot trust him an inch. He paid out more in fines than he gained in winnings last year. Set a new record in fact.”

“Some might call that an unprofitable strategy.” Prince Raedan yawned, reclining back in his seat.

He seemed more relaxed when away from court, especially when he was permitted to travel with his menagerie, which today consisted of his huge hound, Balto, and his sparrowhawk, Igraine, who rested on her perch by his side.

Balto sat at his feet, his tongue lolling out of his massive mouth and drool dripping down liberally from his jaws.

The prince affected not to notice when the beast splattered his spit liberally over the nearby benches and cushions, and indeed why should he when everyone made haste to mop it up for him?

Behind his chair stood the hulking Sir Col, who was almost as muscular and ugly as Balto and who had been the prince’s guard since he was a babe in arms, and who no one could get more than three words out of altogether.

“Why is Sir Maurice so vicious, I wonder?” mused the prince, his eyes half-closed against the bright summer sun. “Does anyone know?”

Cuthbert stirred where he stood, leaning against one of the pillars, decked out in the Vawdrey colors of red and black. He held Dustin in his arms, for the little dog was always nervous in the vicinity of Balto.

“Sir Maurice is the only legitimate son of a dissolute house, Your Highness,” he volunteered. Growing up the youngest and weakest of his father’s vast progeny, he had much to prove.”

Prince Raedan’s eyebrows rose. “And so, he chooses to prove he is the least honorable of any man present?” he asked.

Cuthbert shrugged. “None of his half brothers care to tangle with him anymore, Highness, put it that way.”

“I see,” the prince murmured, and they all turned back to watch Sir Maurice taunt the older man as they circled one another, swords drawn.

“Gunnilde,” her father muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Your stepmother is worried the canopy is not the correct shade of blue for the House of Argent. What say you?”

In truth, it did not match the blue of the royal standard, but there was precious little they could do about it now. “’Tis somewhat late in the day for that, Father,” Gunnilde answered. “The prince is seated beneath it and did not raise any issue, so tell Bess not to worry.”

Sir Aubron nodded and turned to relay the message to his wife. Kit entered the box puffing and panting, decked out in the Twyford colors of black and white, for later he would be acting as squire to his master, Lord Twyford.

Behind him scrambled in Neville, dressed in his court finery and limping slightly.

“Sorry,” Kit said, looking straight at Gunnilde, for he clearly counted her their hostess.

“Promised Wycliffe here I’d give him a tour of the stables and introduce him to Bria’ag,” he said, referring to Garman’s horse.

“Magnificent beast!” Neville said eagerly. “Trod on my foot though.” He winced. “These court shoes might have been a mistake!”

They walked over to take their seats next to Cuthbert, and Neville accepted Dustin onto his lap.

“Can we expect any of the more famous knights to compete today?” the prince asked. “Or are they saved for later in the competition?” His own knowledge of knights was limited and only ran to the more famous of their number.

“You need only wait till this afternoon, Highness, to see two of the most famous knights in the realm compete in the melee,” Gunnilde’s father put in eagerly.

“Vawdrey and Orde,” he pronounced with satisfaction, quite disregarding their newer titles.

“And we expect de Bussell and de Crecy to arrive before the end of the day, gods willing, for they mean to compete in the jousting tomorrow.”

“I do hope you have left a good spot in the field for the de Bussells, my dear,” his wife fretted. “For Sir Armand is sure to bring his wife who you know is really—”

Hal coughed loudly, preventing his stepmother from saying anything treasonous within the young prince’s hearing. “We all look forward to receiving the Lady Una ,” he said, stressing her lack of royal status, “and a prime spot has been marked out for their pavilion.”

“Eden and Lenora promised to join us here in the box this afternoon,” Gunnilde said cheerfully, for she was already looking forward to their presence very much. Both were currently waking up in their husbands’ pavilions but had promised to break their fasts in Payne Manor at midday.

“Oh dear, I felt so very sorry that we could not offer them rooms inside,” Bess said in a plaintive voice. “But there are so many guards—”

“I see a good prospect this morning for Your Highness,” James said loudly, covering her tactlessness. “Sir Renlow d’Avenant is scheduled to compete shortly. He is certainly worth watching and has no small fame attached to his name. You have heard perhaps of his reputation?”

Prince Raedan considered this. “Ah, Sir Renlow, my father says he leads a charmed life,” he answered at last. “Is there not some tale of his walking away unscathed from a night spent in the company of murderers and thieves?”

“Sir Renlow is plucky as a gamecock, but he’ll surely struggle against this company,” said Neville, frowning. “Why, he’s only half the size of Twyford or Kentigern!”

“Only physically,” James responded. He had recently become much interested in his old acquaintance Renlow’s progress through the lists, and Gunnilde had been happy to tell him all she knew.

“What other way, pray tell, is there in which to measure a man?” the prince asked, looking intrigued.