Lady Juliana fixed Gwenn with a disdainful look. ‘Pointless? It’s vital practice they are getting, Mistress Fletcher. If you are feeling faint-hearted, I think you should leave.’
Hastily Gwenn shook her head. ‘No, I’ll stay.’ Ned was proud to be involved in a tourney, and if he wanted her to watch, then watch she would. For a moment, she was tempted to reveal to Lady Juliana that she was niece to Sir Waldin St Clair, Champion of Champions. But she hastily dismissed the thought. She had not seen Count François de Roncier at this tourney, but in this large crowd that meant nothing. He or one of his spies might well be here, and it was best the St Clair name was never mentioned. ‘It... I merely felt queasy for a moment. It has passed.’
Lady Juliana cast a knowledgeable eye over Gwenn’s slim figure. ‘You’re breeding aren’t you, my dear?’ Gwenn’s jolt of surprise gave Lady Juliana her answer, and she lowered her voice, honouring Gwenn with a confidence. ‘You and the Duchess alike, we pray. As that is the case, there is no shame if you have to leave the platform for a moment. The Duchess will understand. It is different when we women are carrying.’
Gwenn sat on her stool, knowing in her heart that the babe made no difference. She would feel distanced from all this, even if she were not carrying Ned’s child. The women filling up the Duchess’s stand were dressed in their brightest raiment and chattering like starlings. Sir Raoul, fully armoured and with his visor up, walked over to make his bow. As though someone had waved a fairy wand, the gossiping stopped. The knight drew all eyes. Gracefully acknowledging the Duchess, Sir Raoul bowed over Lady Juliana’s fingertips.
‘Bon chance, Sir Raoul,’ his fiancée said formally, without a trace of emotion.
Sir Raoul inclined his head a fraction. He looked at the tongue-tied women, white teeth flashed, and he loped towards his charger. The twittering began again.
And so it was whenever one of the combatants approached the stand. The chattering would cease, and the women would hold their breath while greetings were exchanged. Was the silence brought about because the women were wondering whether it was the last time they would see that particular combatant alive? How could they stand it? How many times had Lady Juliana had sat through similar proceedings? Either the woman had nerves of steel, or no nerves at all. Perhaps it came to the same thing. It’s all a show, Gwenn thought, but it’s a deadly show. God guard them from hurt.
A brace of swallows were diving gracefully over the field as Sir Raoul rode out. He was the first to take to the field. Ned was standing by the barrier, and if it hadn’t been for him catching her eye and gesticulating wildly, Gwenn would not have known it was Sir Raoul, for she had not marked his colours, and when he was sealed in his armour, with his pot pulled down over his face there was no recognising him. Aware of Lady Juliana rigid at her elbow – so the woman did care – Gwenn was careful to maintain an expression of neutral interest. Sir Raoul’s huge, brown warhorse thundered the length of the course, sending great clods of earth and clouds of sand flying in its wake. As soon as the knights clashed mid-field, the swallows vanished.
On his second charge, Sir Raoul’s ash lance – Ned had told Gwenn it was ash – hit his challenger’s shoulder with such force that the shaft gave way with a crack. Vicious fragments shot abroad. Gwenn held her breath while Sir Raoul’s hapless opponent rocked sideways, desperately scrabbling to maintain his seat, but the blow had been too much, and slowly, almost gracefully, Sir Raoul’s rival sank into the churned-up sand. It had been decreed that there was to be no hand-to-hand fighting until later in the day, at the mêlée. Then fortunes would change hands. At the moment the knights were merely flexing their muscles and sizing up the opposition. Sir Raoul’s current foe was out of the competition, until later.
Gwenn watched the vanquished knight’s squire catch the fleeing warhorse. The knight was hauled to his feet and surrounded by commiserating friends. He limped off to the tents, where refreshments awaited him.
The trumpets sounded.
The sand was raked.
A different squire ran onto the field, dragging another rack of bright-tipped lances up to the fence. Sir Raoul wheeled his charger about, lance in rest. A second challenger lined up, gonfanon aflutter. His mount was champing at the bit. This knight had Sir Raoul unhorsed on the third charge. He was bruised, but not badly hurt, and he followed the path of the other downed knight, towards the consolations offered in the King’s refreshment pavilion.
And so it went on. Charge, miss. Charge, hit. Charge, crash, fall. Rake sand. Trumpets. Charge, crash. Charge...
Stifling a yawn, Gwenn longed for the evening to come and to bring with it a cooling wind. The bold August sun smote them all through the light white silk which shaded the Duchess of Brittany’s stand. Gwenn glanced up at the fringe of the canopy. The ermine dots on the pennons undulated in a frustrating dream of a breeze, which was enough to make the flags sway, but not enough to cool her. Gwenn was sticky. She was uncomfortable. The dais smelt unpleasantly of sweat. She wanted to go and lie down in the quiet of Alan’s tent.
A glance at the Duchess showed her a lady enthroned in a high-backed cushioned chair which had sides like an abbot’s stall. Duchess Constance’s face showed polite interest, and it never wavered.
How did she do it? Gwenn had a cramp in her thigh. She longed to get up and stretch her legs. At least Duchess Constance can rest her back, Gwenn thought, with a rush of frustration. And the Duchess no doubt knows everyone here. It was difficult to feel involved when she did not know any of the combatants. Not that Gwenn wanted to feel involved, but it might have driven away the feeling that she wanted to get up and run and run till she had put as much distance between her and this stupid tournament as she possibly could. If her feelings had been engaged, she would no longer have been so horribly aware that, of all the crowd, she was an oddity, for she wanted it to be over and done with as quickly as possible.
A murmur of excitement ran through the ladies on the Duchess’s dais, dragging Gwenn from her abstractions. Wearily, she looked at the field.
At the far end of the lists, the King had climbed onto a grey charger that was richly caparisoned in azure and gold. A wooden replica of his shield had been set up on the central dividing barrier. After a token pass at his friend, Duke Geoffrey of Brittany, King Philip was to give the signal for the single combat to finish, and the day’s mêlée would begin. Penned in like cattle behind the gates, the chivalry of Christendom waited for this charge to be done. When the King’s baton fell, their turn would come. Dreaming of glittering prizes, and held back by a flimsy wooden bar, the knights were a mass of shifting helms.
Casually, smiling, King Philip of France tossed a jewel-encrusted gauntlet into the sand. The princes were to use spears. Confronting the King, at the near end of the field, was Duke Geoffrey. The Duke was astride a fearsome charger, black as sin. Decked in the Duke’s fluttering white and black colours, the Duke’s warhorse looked brash and bold enough to terrify his Royal opponent into submission. He twitched his flowing tail and tossed his plaited mane. The beast’s nostrils were flared and he was foaming at the bit. The sight unlocked a recollection of Waldin swearing to Ned that horses loved tournies as much as men. The black charger was as eager as the knights held in check behind the fence. Gwenn’s heart sat heavy in her breast.
Alan was at his Duke’s side. She saw him lift the Duke’s helm from his squire and hand it to him. She saw the Duke smile, address Alan, and then Alan stood aside while the Duke prepared to gallop at the King of France. A shield bearing the arms of Brittany was set up at his end of the lists. Everyone fell quiet, waiting for the trumpets to blare.
A huge white bird chose that moment to pass overhead and the flapping of the snowy wings came loudly through the expectant hush. The bird’s bill was wicked as a knife, its tail a pointed diamond. Oblivious of its audience, the bird beat upwards through a cloudless sky and circled in the heights. As the crowd turned their attention back to the princes in the arena, the bird began to lose height.