“Are you indeed a wanton,
Eleanor?” he demanded in
a rough voice.

“I did not mean—” she protested, but her words were cut short.

“I can see it in your eyes, as they follow me about the hall. Is this what you want?” Troye grasped her chin between his fingers and tipped her face up.

He lowered his head and his mouth came down on hers. His rough jaw scratched her tender skin, and she could smell and taste musky maleness laced with wine. Suddenly his hold loosened and his arms slid around her waist.

“I had forgotten,” he murmured, as he pressed his lips to her neck and for a moment breathed in the soft, sweet smell of her skin.

“What had you forgotten?”

“The feel of a woman.” His fingers smoothed down the curve of her back and she gave a little cry, her fingers clutching at his tunic. Troye realized her shock, that she had no experience of men, that this was no doubt her first real kiss, and cursed softly.

The King’s Champion

Harlequin® Historical

Praise for Catherine March

“A good study of medieval England during William’s invasion, this tale will appeal to both genre fans and those looking for a bard-like tale of knightly love.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lady English

Author Note

During the years 1296–1305, Edward I mounted his first campaign to subdue Scotland and force Scottish loyalty to the crown of England. It was just the first of several campaigns over several decades. The events of this story are, therefore, only loosely based upon the events of the first campaign. The King’s Champion features characters you will have already met in The Knight’s Vow.

CATHERINE MARCH
THE KING’S CHAMPION

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Available from Harlequin®Historical and CATHERINE MARCH

My Lady English #822

The Knight’s Vow #234

The King’s Champion #906

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For the Quartermaster

With love

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Arundel Castle—20 April 1289

To celebrate spring the King had called a royal tourney. The scent of grass and apple trees bursting into blossom sweetened the air, welcome after the harsh and long winter. Yet their pastel hues of pink and cream paled in comparison to the bright colours of the hundreds of pavilions mushrooming across the meadows surrounding the castle. Some were of plain canvas, belonging to knights of lesser standing who hoped to win rich prizes and prestige with their skill at the joust, but most were striped in a varied combination of expensive colours, and on the lusty breeze heraldic banners waved from the topmost point of each pavilion.

The grounds were bustling with knights and squires, horses and heralds, strolling ladies and their lords, the noise of blacksmiths hammering at dented armour and cast shoes adding to the hubbub floating on the air. The sky spanned a cloudless blue above them and children romped in the sunshine, bursting with energy after many days confined indoors during the winter months.

Two knights sauntered, one very fair and the other dark, looking about with interest. They conversed earnestly upon the merits of their opponents, and occasionally commented on the several attractive filles de joie today present; they smiled politely at the former, with a small bow, and grinned broadly at the latter, with a brazen wink.

Their progress was hampered as two children suddenly burst from between a row of pavilions, striped in red and yellow and flying the banner of Lord Henry Raven of Ashton. The fair knight exclaimed and jumped back, clutching at his friend’s elbow in a warning gesture as two wooden swords chopped through the air.

‘Allez!’ shouted the one child, attacking the other with fierce swipes from side to side that greatly impressed the knights as they watched.

The children were dressed identically in linen tunics and chausses, cross-gartered, and the fiercest of the child-combatants had a blue scarf tied about his head. Although smaller than his opponent, he charged down boldly with lithe, graceful strides, swinging his sword with an accurate and controlled measure that soon had his opponent stumbling and crying, ‘Pax!’ as he fell to the ground. His opponent gave a war-like whoop of triumph and promptly sat upon his fallen victim, waving his sword in a circle and announcing his victory in a gleeful tone.

The two knights clapped and called out their admiration for such a fine display of young swordsmanship, and then the child turned and pointed a delicate chin over one shoulder, staring at them, with solemn cornflower-blue eyes.

‘Why, ’tis a girl!’ exclaimed the flaxen-haired knight.

‘Saints!’ His companion was equally amazed, ‘Have you ever seen the like, Austin?’

Dropping to one knee, Austin Stratford cupped her chin with gentle fingers. ‘Does your mother know what you are about, little maid?’

Without a blink of her very blue eyes she smacked his hand away with a sharp blow of her wooden sword. Austin exclaimed and leapt to his feet. He sucked his smarting knuckles whilst his friend looked on and made little attempt to smother a chuckle.

‘I pity the man who weds that little vixen,’ Troye de Valois stated with a taut smile.

‘I shall not wed!’ declared the little girl, swift and stout in her retort. ‘I shall fight in the tourneys and be champion of England, like my uncle.’

‘Indeed?’ Austin smiled, his eyes skimming over the perfect oval face, certain that one day she would grow into a great beauty and her fate would be otherwise. ‘And who is your uncle, if I might beg my lady’s pardon to ask?’

‘Ellie!’ groaned her defeated playmate, ‘let me up!’

The girl rose lithely to her feet and offered her hand to the boy, who huffed and moaned and dusted the back of his tunic with a great show. She turned sideways and eyed the two knights, who seemed very tall to her as she craned her little neck. The one was fair and had a laughing mouth, the other was very dark, his eyes more black than brown and his silence intimidating. There was a controlled tension about him that held a hint of menace. Quickly she looked away from him and addressed herself to his more amiable friend.

With great pride she puffed out her narrow chest and announced, ‘He is Remy St Leger, champion of England, and there is none who can best him.’

‘And you say he is your uncle?’ The two knights exchanged a glance.

‘Aye.’ She stood, leaning on one hip, her sword pointed down between her feet, clutching the hilt with her small hands, her very pose that of a young knight.

‘How old are you, little maid?’ asked Austin.

‘I shall be ten on St George’s Day.’

He asked gravely, a wary eye on the small hands clutching her wooden sword, ‘And why would a lady want to fight, rather than wed? ’Tis no easy task being a knight.’

She snorted derisively, her slim nose pointing to the sky as she scoffed, ‘’Tis boring being a lady! All they do is sew and eat sweetmeats and waste time on idle chatter. Why should I not participate in the joust? The German Hildegaarde something-or-other does, and there is a Turkish lady, I can’t ’member her name, she does too. And sometimes they beat the men, puny creatures that they are! Look how easily I beat Rupert. He’s my brother, you know, and two years older than me. And bigger.’

‘Shut up!’ Rupert cuffed her on the shoulder, his face flaring red.

Austin hid his amusement, and turned to his friend with a smile in his eyes.

Troye de Valois envied him his easy charm that enabled him to converse with everyone, whether they be kings or knights or ladies, or even little children. Making an effort, he stated in the boy’s defence, in his low, solemn voice that by nature held more a thread of steel than laughter, ‘Your brother is still a boy, but one day he will grow into a man. Men have much greater strength in their arms and shoulders than ladies do.’ He eyed her delicate bone structure and guessed that she would never develop the brawn of the German and the Turk. ‘Your female frame would never stand up to a man’s.’

She misheard him and declared indignantly, ‘I am not feeble!’

Troye backed away with hands upraised, as though in surrender to this fierce verbal assault, and Austin would have ruffled her hair had it not been bound up within the confines of her blue scarf, auburn tendrils escaping here and there. Instead he smiled and bowed to her, ‘I wish you good luck, my lady—’

‘Eleanor!’ a strident voice called. ‘Eleanor, where are you?’

‘Nurse!’ Eleanor and Rupert exclaimed in unison with round-eyed guilt, and together they ran off, scarce giving the two knights a backward glance.

The knights watched them go and then fell into step again, the feisty little girl-warrior soon forgotten as other matters claimed their attention. Troye intended to make his mark in the tourney, and he had both talent and courage enough to do so.

On the final day of the tournament he was drawn to ride against the famed Remy St Leger. As he waited for the signal to charge, and his horse pranced and champed against the firm rein checking him, he remembered the little girl and looked down the long length of the list. After a week of jousting it was dusty and the ground rough from the trampling of many hooves. At the far end sat St Leger on a big black Hanoverian stallion. His visor was down and he gleamed in silver-plate armour, big and solid as he sat firmly in the saddle. St Leger was thirty-four years old and Troye scarce five and twenty. By Troye’s reckoning he had been champion too long and now it was time to make way.

‘Laissez-aller!’ cried the Marshal, waving his banner that signalled they should charge.

Troye touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks and gripped the lance beneath his right arm tightly. The ground trembled as the two horses galloped at each other full tilt, and the crowd on either side of the lists held their breath. The two knights were well matched, each rock-steady in the saddle, their glance unwavering through the narrow slit of their visors as they thundered towards each other. A crash of wood on steel, the rendering split of a lance, and then the dull thud as a rider was sent crashing to the ground.

For a moment there was a stunned hush, and then a gasp of horror, as all eyes turned from the fallen champion, and stared at Troye de Valois. His few supporters cheered, but most were shocked. For the two knights, however, there was no regret on either side, only male acceptance of youth and that some things must come to an end if others were to have a beginning.

Troye was triumphant and gave a yell, shaking his clenched fist in the air, the adrenalin pumping fast through his veins and bunching his muscles with heady excitement. Yet later, at the end of the day, when he went to the King’s dais to collect his prize, Troye saw a little girl with long auburn hair clutching at the rails as she stood in the gallery above watching the proceedings. He recognised her and smiled, but she only stared solemnly back at him. She turned and ran to a blonde woman who could only be her mother, judging by the similarities in fine features and blue eyes, despite the startling difference in hair colouring that gave him a moment’s pause for doubt. Yet the child flung herself down in the vacant seat beside the woman and folded her arms across her little chest. Troye collected his gold ingot, his handsome features giving cause for many an admiring glance from the ladies in the stand. His own true love was many miles from London, and his vows to her he did not take lightly. Yet there was one female he cast his glance to—the maiden who would a knight be, and he bowed to her, smiling at her grudging little nod in salute of his victory, a gesture remarkably mature for one so young.

Ellie was devastated to see her uncle fall in the lists. She had felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes, and yet they were staunched by her traitorous admiration for the knight who had this day proven himself the victor. He was very handsome indeed, very strong and bold and skilled at all forms of the art of combat. Ellie could not help but lose her heart to him. Soon they left Arundel and set off for home. Her uncle recovered quickly enough from his broken arm and bruised head, and her Aunt Beatrice announced her heartfelt relief that at long last her husband was ready to concede that his body was not as strong as his ego, and the time had come to retire.

Her father, Lord Henry Raven of Ashton, did not take them to tournaments again for a very long time, and when at the age of twelve Ellie experienced the changes that shaped her for womanhood, she put away her tunic and her wooden sword, at her mother’s insistence. She resigned herself to being a lady. She found other pursuits to enjoy, and as the years passed she found that it was not such a burden to be a lady. Indeed, she took great pleasure in dressing in becoming gowns of silk, of learning how to manage a household efficiently, and from her Aunt Beatrice she learned simple herbal remedies for everyday ills. Ellie greatly enjoyed listening to the tales told by travelling troubadours, tales of heroic deeds performed by handsome knights of exceptional courage and valour. None of them could compare to her Uncle Remy, of course. In her eyes he was the most handsome, and the most brave, of all knights in the kingdom, yet he was, after all, her uncle and he could not fill the space in her heart that yearned for love. A space that she had already assigned.

Her mother groomed her for her future life, which would be as wife to a knight of good standing and mother to his children, gently schooling her in the arts of being a lady and a woman. Ellie became aware that her face was considered to be beautiful and her slender form desirable. As she grew older she noticed that both had an effect upon the opposite sex, yet she felt that much was lacking in all the males of her domain. What Ellie wanted was a hero. A real man, a man of strength and honour and courage and valour, a man who had fought in battles and overcome all adversity, and who was not afraid to stand up and be counted, as in the troubadour’s tales. She knew of such a man, and over the years had heard his name mentioned many times. She was fourteen when she realised that all men must measure against the standard that was Troye de Valois.

Such a man did not exist in Ellie’s very small world, for most of the eligible knights had gone to Wales over the years to fight the King’s good fight, or now to Scotland as Edward sought to bring to heel the passionate and rebellious Scots. There remained at Castle Ashton, and in their neighbourhood, only young boys training as pages and priests; officials of the king’s new judicial system, sheriffs and reeves and judges; ancient men too worn and weary to climb into the saddle and resigned to a life as Lord Raven’s hearth knights. Perhaps if it had not been so, and she had met young knights in the usual way, she would not have clung to the image of Troye de Valois. She harboured him ardently within her heart, where neither logic nor absence could persuade her love to fail. She waited impatiently, anxious for Mother Nature to complete the nurturing process and for her body and her mind to emerge as a full-grown woman.

On his eighteenth birthday Rupert was selected to join the King’s Own Guard, serving as a cadet in the elite company of men guarding the king’s life with their own. Eleanor pointed out to her father that it was unfair that Rupert should have this advantage while she, a marriageable heiress, rusticated in the countryside. Her mother fully agreed that only at the court of King Edward would a suitable husband be found for their Eleanor and, at last, they made the journey to London that Ellie had dreamed of for many years. She was sixteen, and her greatest asset was not in the shine of her long auburn hair or the beauty of her face, nor the graceful shape of her figure, but the inner glow of love that shone from within. Her love for Troye de Valois had never ceased nor faltered over the years and, while her parents pondered on suitable bridegrooms, Ellie had no doubts about the man whom she wished to marry.

Chapter One

Cheapside, London—August 1295

Crowds of people had been waiting all morning for the procession that was now approaching, and a wave of cheering billowed on the warm morning air. The blast of trumpets vibrated on an elusive breeze, stirring dozens of colourful banners that adorned the stands on either side of the lists, and echoed in miniature by the pennons fastened on the end of the lances carried by the knights who would be competing in the tourney.

Resplendent in full armour, the knights gleamed silver-bright in the sunshine, helm-less that they might be seen by the adoring crowds, who had their well-loved favourites, and their loathlings. Above the noise of cheering, the jingle of harness and clop of many hooves upon the dusty road as they entered the stadium, there was also the sibilant hiss of jeering. It was well known that some knights won by ruthless methods other than skill, and whilst all knights must possess a brutal aggressiveness or lie slaughtered upon the field of battle, the manner in which it was applied was a matter hotly debated.

At the head of the procession rode the marshals and the constables, dressed in their frogged livery and full of smug satisfaction at their own importance, for it was they who would keep order, it was hoped, when male tempers raged hot and uncontrollable. Yet they were not held in adoration as the knights were, who each followed behind his own herald. At the forefront of the twenty knights invited to compete this week rode the champion of England, and the people’s darling—Troye de Valois.

His chestnut stallion danced, swinging his noble head as Troye held the reins with skilful yet casual ease. His dark hair had recently been cut short to the nape of his neck, so that in the hot summer sun he did not sweat unduly within his great helm. The crowd cheered even louder at his passing. Harlots hung from balconies and windows, eager to catch his attention. From their fingertips fluttered flower petals and ribbons cut from their chemises, for there was nothing more erotically alluring than a handsome man graced with a pair of broad shoulders and clothed in a masculine aura of strength, courage and danger.

Troye narrowed his eyes against the sun and the adulation, in equal measure. He had no doubts that once his rear end landed too often upon the dusty ground, he would be darling no more. At thirty-one he harboured no illusions about the younger men eager to bring about his downfall, and he smiled with rueful acknowledgement, waved his hand in salute, thanking the people of London for their praise, and yet prepared for their inevitable rejection.

Turning his horse into the stadium, he lined up with the other knights before the gallery of spectators, dominated by the King’s dais, bedecked and swagged with colourful bunting and garlands of ivy and ribbon rosettes. The sun slanted sideways, burnishing his deep tan and accentuating the hollow cheeks of his lean, handsome face.

In the stands, a fair-haired beautiful woman, Lady Joanna, called to her daughter, a smaller version of herself, with dark auburn hair tied back with silk ribbons.

‘Eleanor,’ her mother complained in a weary voice, ‘do stop jumping up and down and craning your neck like a swineherd. It is most unladylike.’

‘But I cannot see Rupert,’ Ellie responded, sitting down upon the bench and trying to peer through the dust and the glinting armour and the crowd of horses, with blushes and youthful awkwardness disguising her interest in one knight who was not her kin. And was he not the most handsome, the most strong, of all knights? Her heart glowed and fluttered as she gazed upon the face that been naught but a memory for so long.

‘He’ll be well to the back,’ said her father, reclining in his chair and leaning over to pick up her mother’s hand and kiss her knuckles.

Ellie rolled her eyes skywards, exasperated. Why couldn’t her parents be like normal people? They were for ever kissing and cosseting, much to her embarrassment.

‘What is that look for, demoiselle?’ demanded her father, with a small smile touching the corners of his mouth, ‘Your mother is worried. Might I not comfort her with a kiss?’

Ellie folded her arms over her waist and hunched her shoulders, looking away as she muttered, ‘In private, aye, but not here, where everyone can see.’

‘There is naught wrong with a little affection,’ rebuffed her father, and then added quickly, all too aware that his daughter was no longer a child, ‘between married couples, that is.’

Lady Joanna smiled at her husband, and murmured in her low, serene voice, ‘Leave her be, Hal. She chafes that it is her brother who rides in the joust and not herself.’

‘Hah!’ snorted Lord Henry, ‘that will be the day! ’Tis sport for men, not maidens, and you would do well to remember that, young Ellie.’

Ellie sighed. ‘Yes, Father.’ Her reply was dutiful and full of respect, for she had much love and admiration for her father, yet she burned and fretted against the restrictions of her sex, for more reasons than were apparently obvious. How she longed to run to Troye de Valois and throw her arms around his neck and tell him how much she loved him! Suddenly, unable to contain herself any longer, she leapt to her feet and pointed, with an excited shriek, ‘There he is!’ She ran to the rails and waved. ‘Rupert! Rupert!’

Her brother steadfastly ignored her, his eyes averted as the cavalcade rode by, exiting from the stadium, yet he felt a blush creep up his cheeks as the other knights made ribald comments about the pretty red-haired wench clamouring from the stands.

‘’Tis my sister,’ barked Rupert with a scowl, ‘so shut your mouths!’

This only brought forth more raucous crows and teasing quips, and some serious speculation that resulted in sudden overtures of friendship, in the hope of making an introduction to a wealthy young heiress who was not only of noble English blood, but beautiful too. Rupert, though only eighteen years old, had a sensible head on his young shoulders and was wise to their stratagems. What he knew of these knights, having fought and caroused alongside them all this summer past, in Scotland and Gascony, left him in no doubt that they fought hard, and played harder. The thought of such men making close acquaintance with his little sister somehow made him bristle and leap to protect her. Besides, it was not his say-so regarding Ellie—any honourable intentions must go through his father first.

While the knights retired to their arming tents in the field beyond, the crowd was entertained by the heralds, who gave eloquent, and often extravagant, introductions, relaying to all and sundry not only their master’s name and country of origin, but his ancestry, heraldic banner, victories and character. Only knighted nobles were allowed to participate in the joust and this was part of the glamour that attracted the commonfolk: for them the knights were men not of their ilk, but demigods—stronger, faster, braver than any mere mortal man—or so they wished to believe.

Ellie sat bored and fidgeting, fanning herself in the sultry afternoon heat while the speeches droned on, sucking on a lemon sherbet that too quickly melted and left her with sticky hands. She was desperately eager to see Rupert and speak with him, remind him to keep his guard steady and not to look away too soon, naïvely convinced that without her advice he would fail. Conveniently she forgot that so far he had survived quite well without her. This was his first summer on the tournament circuit, and it had taken some persuading to convince her mother to make the journey to London to watch him compete. Lady Joanna had not wanted Rupert to participate in the joust in the first place, and sought to avoid the spectacle of her son being attacked at all cost. Yet she had been worn down by the pleadings of her husband and her daughter and had seen the necessity and opportunity of making a suitable match for Eleanor amongst the great gathering of nobility.

On Ellie’s other side sat her Aunt Beatrice, her dark hair streaked with silver and yet her brown eyes and soft skin still beautiful despite her middling years. ‘Shall I go and find Uncle Remy for you?’ asked Eleanor artfully, seeing how her aunt darted frequent and worried looks to the entrance.

‘Nay…’ Lady Beatrice patted her hand ‘…he will be in the arming tent giving Rupert some last-minute advice, no doubt, and ’tis no fit place for a lady. He will be here anon.’

Ellie pursed her lips in frustration, and slumped inelegantly on the bench, disgruntled with her lot in life and earning a reprimand from her mother, who was ever mindful of the fact that beautiful, unmarried and privileged girls like Eleanor were constantly watched and appraised.

Ellie was roused from her maudlin mood when a blast of trumpets heralded the first joust of the day. At this stage of the tournament it was the young, inexperienced knights who rode first, and Rupert was amongst them. Eleanor looked up as a pair of boots pounded on the wooden steps and along the narrow gangway of the gallery. Her Uncle Remy ran lithely to where they sat, casting a smile on his wife as he sat down, and leaning forwards to reassure Lady Joanna that all would be well for Rupert.

‘Did you tell him to keep his guard up?’ asked Eleanor urgently. ‘He tends to look away too soon.’

‘Aye,’ laughed her uncle, his blue eyes bright with a teasing glint. ‘Don’t fret, little one, he is a man full grown and this is not his first joust.’

‘Though ’tis the first I have watched,’ complained Lady Joanna, her lips pinched white in a worried grimace.

When at last Rupert brought his caparisoned charger on to the field and faced his opponent, it was his sister who leapt to her feet, shouting encouragement along with the commonfolk who cheered from the far side of the lists. Until, that is, her mother gripped her wrist and jerked her down, with a swift admonishment to sit still and be quiet. Her father and her uncle laughed, and then they too were leaping to their feet and shouting as the ground thundered to the pounding of galloping hooves and the air vibrated with rowdy cheering.

Rupert was drawn three times in the list, and three times he vanquished. As the sun dipped in the afternoon sky and the joust came to an end at seven in the evening, there was much rejoicing in the Ashton camp. Ellie and her family retired to their pavilions, pitched in the meadows beyond Cheapside. It was inexpensive and convenient accommodation, compared to the taverns of London that were infested with disease and thieves, but still it lacked in homely comforts. Lady Joanna and Lady Beatrice supervised the boiling of hot water and the cooking of supper upon vast cast-iron cauldrons set on open fires. Rupert had his own tent amongst the competing knights, on the far side of the same crowded meadow. Ellie endeavoured to slip away and to rush to her brother, eager to hear from his own lips how it had felt to be victor three times today, and eager to have news of Troye de Valois.

It was no easy task and was full dark by the time she managed to make the feeble excuse of visiting the privy, and then change her course for the knights’ encampment. The cool evening air and the darkness threw a cloak over the field that in daylight she had few qualms about traversing. Now she trod warily, leaving behind her the comforting domestic noise of clattering spoons and gossiping serfs, to encounter the coarse laughter and strident music of the revelling knights. This was a foreign world, and Ellie feared her father’s wrath should he find out where she had been. She picked up her pace and jogged her way between the striped pavilions, but in the dark and the dancing shadows thrown by the flames of open fires she felt disorientated and struggled to locate Rupert’s tent.

A hot sense of panic began to prickle over Ellie, as leery glances from several groups were cast her way, and she pulled up the hood of her dark blue fustian cloak. It must be here! she thought, gazing about in bewilderment. As she paused to look around her, seeking the red-and-yellow stripes of Rupert’s tent and the banner of the house of Raven, three knights seated on tripod stools about their campfire called out to her.

‘How much?’ they shouted, waggling a purse of coins.

She stared at them, bemused, and then turned and hastened onwards, deciding to call out to locate her brother.

‘Rupert!’ Her voice sounded thin and reedy, and was swallowed up by the noise all around her. ‘Rupert!’

‘Ho, little lady!’

Two fellows lurched around the guy ropes and pegs of the nearest tent, bumping into her as they stumbled with drunken awkwardness. Her hood fell back and Ellie gave a small cry of alarm as an arm snaked around her waist.

‘Mind your step, my beauty!’

Rough fingers jerked her chin up and she cringed against such violation, for no man, except her relatives, had ever touched her. The stink of wine fumes wafted from their mouths and Ellie pushed at the arm holding her.

‘Well, now, you’re a pretty little wench if ever I did see one! How much? For both of us.’

There was that question again, and Ellie gasped, as now it dawned upon her their meaning—they thought she was a harlot! With an angry exclamation she shoved again at the man nearest, and was surprised to find that he did not yield. An entirely new experience, to have her command thwarted.

‘Let me go! My brother will kill you—’

This was met with uproarious laughter and suddenly the two men exchanged a glance, nodded in agreement and dragged her off into the dark shadows of an alley way behind a row of tents. Her scream was cut off by a sweaty hand clamped to her mouth and the wind was knocked from her ribs as she was flung down upon her back, hitting the hard ground with a thump. Quickly she recovered and fumbled at her waist for the dirk she had concealed there, whipping it out and pointing its gleaming silver tip at the man who had straddled her.

‘Let me go! Now!’

To her dismay her demand was met with only more laughter. Cruel fingers crushed her wrist, so that she yelped and was forced to drop the dirk.

‘Shut up!’ hissed the man, all merriness gone as he now panted with excitement and struggled to unlace his breeches, ‘This won’t take long and we will reward you well enough.’ He turned to his companion, ‘Hold her hands, Will, while I get this poxy knot—’

His friend seemed uneasy, ‘She don’t speak much like a whore, maybe she is a lady—’

‘A lady!’ snorted the other. ‘What would a lady be doing down here? Nay, it’s just a game, isn’t it, lovely?’ With a grunt of triumph he wrenched open his breeches and reached for the hem of Ellie’s gown.

She gave another scream and struggled wildly as she felt his knee jerk her legs apart and his fingers sought the linen loincloth that she wore. Her silky white hose dislodged in the process, sliding down in undignified folds about her ankles, and her heart hammered at the dreadful prospect of what was about to be done to her. She felt dizzy and with sick despair she turned her head away and closed her eyes, raging with impotent fury at her fate.

Then suddenly a black shape hurtled through the darkness and the man crouched on top of her went flying backwards. She glimpsed the blur of a fist as it smashed once, twice, three times into her abuser’s face, with swift and brutal efficiency. Blood spurted from his nose and he spat broken teeth upon a gurgle of shock and pain, before he was grabbed by the scruff of his tunic and thrown a goodly distance away from Ellie. Her rescuer then turned to deal with the other man, but he had already seen who it was meting out justice and fled with all speed into the darkness.

Panting slightly at his exertions, the knight knelt at her side. Ellie stared at him, too shocked to utter a word of thanks. She felt nauseous and the world spun in a whirling circle before her glazed eyes. She shuddered as again she felt male hands move beneath her skirts—but his were impersonal, quickly investigating hands that touched her loincloth briefly and then pulled up her hose and refastened her garters. He murmured soothingly, reassuring her in a deep male voice that he meant her no harm.

‘You are still intact.’ He breathed a sigh of relief. Then she felt his fingers cup her face and turn it to the distant glimmer of firelight, ‘What are you doing here, a little maid with no escort?’

She sat up and stared at him, niggled by a faint sense of recognition, but it was too dark and she could not see his face in the shifting firelight and the faint moonglow. She felt so alone and lost and very foolish. Suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears.

‘Shh,’ the male voice commanded, ‘you are safe. I will protect you from all harm.’

His arms went around her slender back and she leaned against him, sobbing upon his hard, warm chest. He let her cry for a few moments, and then wiped her tears with his thumb and persuaded her to rise.

‘Come, let me escort you to your family.’

With angry impatience at her own female weakness, she dashed away the tears from her eyes and muttered, ‘Thank you, sir, for your help, but I will find my own way.’

He gave a short laugh. ‘I doubt that! And you have not answered my question. Why are you here amongst these rough knights? ’Tis no place for a maiden.’

‘I am looking for my brother. Rupert Raven.’

‘Ah, I see. So you are indeed Ellie.’ He led her between the pavilions and the light from a nearby fire illuminated them. ‘You have grown since I last saw you, little knight.’

Troye de Valois! Ellie gasped. She felt the hot tide of a blush sear her neck and cheeks, at once both elated and mortified. How perfect, how fine indeed that Troye should be the one to rescue her, and yet how terrible to meet again in such shameful circumstances! Ellie could not think of a word to say to him and they walked in silence as he led her between the tents. She realised that she had been completely off course, until at last he lifted the striped yellow-and-red flap of Rupert’s tent and they entered the golden glow within.

The tent was not solely occupied by Rupert, who sat lounging on a cushion with a young woman sprawled upon his lap, her frothy petticoats hitched well above her ankles and her bodice immodestly low cut. Eleanor stared, taking in her brother’s two companions as they reclined in various postures of debilitated drunkenness, a stench of wine fumes emanating from the empty bottles cast upon the ground.

Rupert looked up from a ribald conversation with his friends, and then suddenly leapt to his feet as he spied his sister, spilling the doxy to the floor.

‘Ellie! In God’s name, what are you doing here?’ With a guilty start he tugged together the open neck of his tunic, where the harlot had been exploring his chest hairs with her accomplished fingers.

Her rescuer spoke for her, giving Rupert a stiff bow and a disapproving glance. ‘She was looking for you and—’

‘I became lost!’ interrupted Ellie swiftly, her eyes, as she lifted them to the tall man at her side, suddenly pleading. She quelled a sigh as in the glow of lamplight she looked upon Troye’s face that featured in so many of her dreams, both waking and asleep. Yet now, in the cold hard light of reality, his eyes looked at her in an impersonal way that she had not anticipated.

‘You should take better care of your sister, Raven, for she was wandering about the camp alone. ’Tis no surprise she was attacked.’

Ellie cast her eyes to the ground at this revelation, embarrassed beyond measure by his words.

‘I am sorry,’ he said to her, noticing her expression and pursed lips, ‘but such an incident as I have just witnessed cannot be hushed up. I must report it to the constable and the men who nearly raped you shall be caught and punished.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Rupert.

‘Aye,’ confirmed her rescuer, ‘two men attacked her. I have no doubt one shall be easily identified, by his broken nose and two missing teeth.’ Then he turned to Rupert and made a deeper bow. ‘I trust you will escort your sister safely homewards.’

Rupert replied with a bow of his own, ‘My thanks, sir.’

Troye paused as he turned on his heel to leave, and smiled gently down at her, ‘Did I not warn you once that your female strength would be no match for a man’s?’

Ellie was forced by good etiquette to reply, ‘Indeed. I thank you, sir, for your assistance.’ But the words did not come easily, forced in a barely audible whisper from the constriction of her throat.

Troye threw a stern glance to her brother. ‘I would suggest that you keep a closer eye on your sister. This is no place for maidens.’

A vivid blush stained Ellie’s cheeks and then he turned and silently left, a dark, lithe shape that moved with all the ease and swiftness of a shadow.

Rupert apologised to his friends and the doxy, for whose services he had paid for the next two hours. It irked him sorely to be deprived of them, but he latched on his sword. With gruff impatience he took his sister by the elbow and dragged her in his wake as he left the tent.

‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ he demanded harshly, striding fast and unerring through the rowdy campsite towards the quieter domain of the family pavilions.

Rupert was easily head and shoulders taller than herself, and she struggled to match his long stride. As they hurried a drunken reveller stumbled into their path, but with a growled oath of unusual viciousness Rupert easily threw him off with one sweep of his forearm.

Ellie stared at him from the corner of her eye. All their lives they had always been close, and had spent much of their childhood playing and getting up to mischief in each other’s company, yet she had the uneasy conviction that this Rupert, the man, she did not know.

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I wanted to hear from you how it was riding in the lists.’ Sudden tears crowded in her throat and pricked the back of her eyes, her heart confused and hurting by both her brother’s anger and her meeting with Troye. The tears threatened to fall at any moment.

With a sigh, glancing at her woebegone face, Rupert halted, his hands gently gripping her arms and turning her towards him. He bent his head and stooped to peer at her downcast eyes. ‘Listen, de Valois is right about one thing. We are no longer children. We are not free to run about as we did then. You are a young woman now, Ellie, a very pretty young woman, and there are men that, given half the chance, would eat you whole for breakfast.’

She sniffed, and wiped the heel of her hand over her damp cheeks. ‘I meant no harm. I just wanted to talk with you.’

‘I know.’ Relenting in his anger, he hugged her and patted her shoulder as he felt her slender frame shudder with racking sobs.

‘Oh, Rupert…’ she pressed her cheek to his tunic, her fists clenched to her bosom as she folded herself into his comforting embrace ‘…I was so frightened! I thought I could fight them off. I’ve never feared anyone in my life, but I was so helpless!’

‘Thank God for de Valois.’ She was silent and he looked down at her, adding, ‘You were less than gracious in your thanks to him.’

She shrugged, uncertain of the tumult of emotions that Troye de Valois had awoken in her, and for a moment wondered if she could confide her secret yearnings to her brother. But the moment passed, as Rupert gave her a little hug and then briskly walked on. She had no choice but to follow in his wake.

‘Come, let us hurry,’ declared Rupert. ‘No doubt Mother is beside herself with worry, and God knows what havoc Father is wreaking in his search for you.’

They exchanged a glance and in silence continued on. When they reached their cluster of pavilions, Lady Joanna spied them and with a heartfelt cry of relief picked up her skirts and ran to meet them. Ellie stumbled to her mother and gratefully surrendered herself to her fierce embrace.

‘Oh, wretched, wretched child!’ exclaimed Lady Joanna, holding Eleanor away from her and smoothing her auburn hair back from her brow. ‘Where have you been? Your father has gone to call out the guard in search of you.’

Rupert groaned and quickly despatched a serf with a message that Eleanor had been found, and then quailed as their uncle approached, striding towards them with a thunderous frown upon his brows.

‘Where in God’s name have you been, girl?’

Ellie faced her uncle, throwing a conspiratorial glance to her brother and hoping he would not betray her as de Valois had. ‘I only went to see Rupert, but then I got lost. But we found each other in the end.’

‘Stupid girl! Don’t you realise that a tourney campsite is no place for a lone female? Why, ’tis teeming with mercenaries and harlots and thieves and all manner of lowlife that you would have no wish to encounter!’

She hung her head in guilty silence, casting a surreptitious glance to Rupert from beneath her lashes.

‘Calm yourself, uncle,’ soothed Rupert, ‘she has come to no harm and I am sure…’ he glanced down at the bowed head of his sister ‘…very sure that she will not make the same mistake again.’

‘Is that so?’ said another voice, the deep, angry voice of her father as he strode into their midst. ‘What have you to say for yourself, Eleanor?’ Lord Henry grasped his daughter by the chin and jerked her head up. ‘And do not lie to me, girl, for I am in no mood for deceit!’

Ellie gasped, for she had never seen her father so angry, and she glanced with wide, frightened eyes to her mother, who intervened on her behalf, touching a soothing hand to her husband’s arm. ‘Easy, Hal, all is well. She was merely lost, but Rupert found her and brought her straight home.’

‘Indeed?’ Her father pierced her with his dark brown gaze, ‘That’s not what I hear.’ The others looked at him in questioning consternation. ‘I have heard an entirely different tale from Troye de Valois.’

Her uncle and father exchanged glances. ‘What has he to do with this?’

With reluctance Lord Henry admitted, ‘It seems we owe him a debt of gratitude, for he came to report an attempted rape and gave good evidence of the suspects, and the victim.’

‘Good God!’

‘Eleanor—’ her mother turned to her, with fluttering alarm ‘—is this true?’

Eleanor and Rupert exchanged a glance. Then her brother turned on his heel and called back over his shoulder that he would find Troye de Valois and bring him back to explain the truth.

‘Nay, Rupert!’ protested Eleanor as her father snatched at her upper arm. ‘Father, it’s not—’

‘Don’t try to deny it, girl,’ he snapped with great fury, turning to address her mother. ‘What did I tell you? Blood will out!’

‘Nay, Hal! Please, leave her be.’

But her father turned a deaf ear to her pleading mother, who stumbled in their wake as he grabbed hold of a wooden spoon from the cook’s table and dragged Eleanor to his pavilion. Once within he pushed Eleanor against the table and forced her face down with his hand between her shoulder blades. He flung up her skirts and began to strike her across the buttocks with the wooden spoon.

‘Hal, please,’ shrieked her mother, desperately trying to catch hold of her husband’s arm as it rose and fell in a fury. ‘Stop, for the love of God! She is my daughter, through and through, mine! All mine, never his!’

‘Blood will out, Joanna, but I will teach her a lesson and beat the wanton from her first.’

Chapter Two

Eleanor was beyond crying out after the first initial shocked cry, and leaned across the table in taut silence as her father smacked her. He did not apply much force; whilst each blow stung, it was her pride that suffered the most.

‘Remy, stop him, please, please stop him!’ sobbed Lady Joanna.

Her uncle stepped forwards then, the only man big enough to tackle her father, and grasped hold of Lord Henry’s arm, forcing it down and grinding out between clenched teeth, ‘Enough, Hal. There is no need for this.’

Her father snorted. ‘Is there not? Then what was my so-called daughter doing amongst a campful of tourney knights, unescorted? Lies and dissipation I will not tolerate!’

‘You have not even given Eleanor a chance to explain.’

‘Hah! What would we hear but lies, just like her—’

‘Don’t!’ screamed Lady Joanna, with such force that their ears rang, ‘You promised, Hal,’ she wept, ‘you promised me that you would love them. She’s a good girl, high spirited and strong-willed, but none the less a good girl.’

Seeing his wife with tears streaming down her cheeks and her beautiful, fair face twisted and reddened with fear and horror, he suddenly dropped the wooden spoon and released Eleanor, jerking down her skirts. ‘Go!’ he commanded her. ‘Get from my sight.’

Slowly, her back aching and her buttocks smarting, Ellie raised herself up from her punishing stance and turned slowly to face her father, and when she spoke her voice was a trembling whisper that wrenched at his heart. ‘Please forgive me, Father, if I have done wrong.’

And then she turned and staggered to her mother, who folded her tightly into her embrace and, together with her Aunt Beatrice, took her away.

Alone now, Remy turned to his brother-in-law and said quietly, ‘Your fears are unfounded, Hal. I have to agree with Joanna, there is naught of her father in Ellie.’

Lord Henry turned away, sickened with himself, enraged at the cruel twist of fate that was now rearing its ugly head to torment them. ‘What to do?’ he asked in bitter despair. ‘What to do? She will hate me now. Ellie has always been slow in her forgiveness of a wrong. But how greatly I fear the vice of the father shall be born in the children.’

Remy clasped his shoulder, offering his support. ‘By nature there is a measure of vice in all of us. But I believe you have nurtured her so well—indeed, both of them—that it is no more than the usual. I know you mean well, Hal, but let things be for a day or two. You will see, Ellie will love you still, as the good father you have always been to her.’

‘Good!’ Hal snorted in self-disgust. ‘I have never in her life, nor mine, beaten a wench before.’

‘Nay, but in a fit of hot temper we all do rash things we later regret. She will forgive you.’

In the adjoining pavilion Ellie lay face down upon her cot covered in soft furs, too numb with shock and misery to cry, to even speak, and lay staring at the canvas walls, while her mother and her aunt whispered conspiratorially behind her. Rupert returned and knelt beside her, stroking her hair and whispering that he had been unable to locate de Valois, but on the morrow he would find him and let him speak his truth. Eleanor roused herself, sniffing as she reached out and clutched at her brother’s sleeve, her voice muffled and strained as she begged him not to.

‘Please don’t, I have no wish for him to know of my disgrace.’

‘But you have done nothing wrong!’ protested Rupert, ‘Mayhap you have been foolish, but ’tis nothing like what Father thinks. Troye de Valois will set him straight.’

‘Nay!’ sobbed Eleanor. ‘Say nothing.’

Reluctantly Rupert departed, and after a word with his mother and restraining himself from tangling with his father, he returned to his own tent on the knights’ side of the field.

All night, and the following day, she would talk to no one, and lay still and silent upon her bed, refusing all food and even water. Worried, Lady Joanna sent for her son, and paced restlessly until at last he came, but as she rushed to him she contained her outburst as she saw that he was accompanied. Questioningly, she frowned at Troye de Valois as he bowed to her with quiet respect.

‘What is he doing here?’ she asked, somewhat ungraciously, too concerned for her children to bother with niceties.

‘I thought that he could speak to Father, and reassure him that what happened was not Ellie’s fault.’ He turned to de Valois, and with a lift of his eyebrows encouraged him to speak.

‘It is so, lady. Your daughter did nothing wanton and her only error was to be naïve enough to think she could wander through an encampment full of drunken men unmolested.’

Lady Joanna smiled at him then, and sent a serf to fetch her husband, before turning to Rupert with a worried frown, She has not spoken, nor eaten, nor even swallowed a drop of water since…since last night.’

‘’Tis shock,’ supplied Troye, thinking to be helpful and unaware of the full events, ‘but she’s young and strong and will soon recover.’

‘Nay…’ Lady Joanna shook her head ‘…my husband was very angry and—and he…beat her. I think that has upset her more than anything else.’

Troye politely stood aside while mother and son conversed in whispers; when Lord Henry entered the tent and cast upon him an enquiring, speculative eye, he bowed with respect, although as the King’s champion he had no need to bow to any man. Troye wasted no time, and carefully explained that he had no doubt that Eleanor had not behaved in any way to encourage an interest in her. ‘She tried to fight them off and save her honour, but if I had not chanced to hear her scream and come to her aid, she would not have had strength enough to succeed. Rest assured, my lord, your daughter is not a wanton and her honour is intact.’

This was a thought that had not occurred to Lord Henry as of yet, and he spoke sharply to his wife. ‘You have examined Eleanor? She is virgin still?’

‘Of course,’ murmured Lady Joanna through stiff lips, a guilty blush flaring upon her cheeks as she had not considered such an examination necessary and her blush deepened as her son and his companion stared uncomfortably at their boots.

‘And you,’ Lord Henry spoke with equal abruptness to Troye, ‘what state was my daughter in when you found her?’

‘Well, naturally, she was very distressed—’

‘That was not what I meant! In what state was her clothing?’ Lord Henry leaned very close, his eyes full of glittering danger. ‘Was she…undressed?’

‘Nay, my lord!’ Troye protested hotly. ‘It was as I have told you. Her clothing, and her honour, were all intact.’ He thought it best not to mention that he had, in fact, refastened her hose and garters, sensing that even this brief assistance to a distraught and dishevelled damsel would send her father into a paroxysm of rage.

Lord Henry released a pensive sigh, and then jerked a brief, grudging bow to Troye, ‘My thanks for your assistance. We are grateful. I trust,’ he said with grave warning, ‘that this will not be a topic for campfire conversation. My daughter’s reputation relies upon your discretion.’

‘You have my word.’ Troye bowed and then turned to leave with Rupert, who hurried to where his sister lay in her pavilion. Troye halted outside and laid a hand upon Rupert’s arm. ‘I would like a word with her first, in private. With your permission.’

Rupert eyed him for a long moment, taking his measure, and then nodded and scanned the neighbourhood. ‘Be quick. I will stand guard.’

Both acknowledged in silence the suspicion that Lord Henry would not take kindly to a knight such as Troye de Valois being alone with Ellie, even if it was just to speak to her.

It was dim within the pavilion, after the bright glare of the late afternoon without. Troye stood still for a moment and let his eyes accustom themselves, and then he looked about at the comfortable but far-from lavish furnishings that signified her family were well off, but certainly not extravagant. There were several brass-bound coffers spilling linens and furs, some small tables holding silver goblets and a tray of untouched food, two X-shaped chairs and numerous furs and carpets strewn about on the canvas ground sheet. Four cots were placed against the edges of the tent and in one of them he discerned a slim female shape, only recognisable to him by the long swathe of dark auburn hair that hung down and swept to the ground, obscuring her face.

Troye crept softly across the space and then squatted down upon his heels, whispering gently, ‘Ellie?’

She started, with a small gasp, and turned her head towards him, her eyes narrowed with fearful alarm. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Rupert told me that your father was upset, and I came to explain to him what occurred.’

Silent tears began to streak from her eyes and track down her cheeks. ‘My father thinks I am a wanton, so please go, lest his fears be true.’

Troye smiled, a slight, puzzled frown creasing his brows. ‘But you have done nothing, and I have told him so.’ He reached out then, and brushed aside her hair so that he might better see her face, and her expression. ‘Come, where is the brave little knight who would fight the world? A knight cannot collapse in defeat at the first obstacle, and life is full of obstacles.’

She smiled then, weakly, raising her eyes to his as she lay upon her stomach, twisting her neck a little the better to see him, ‘Do not mock me, or tease, for I have not the heart to laugh.’

‘’Tis better to laugh than to cry.’

‘Go away!’ She shifted then and rolled to her side, wincing as pain shot through the back of her thighs and buttocks.

Troye frowned. ‘I heard that your father beat you.’

‘Aye, and how I wish I was a man, like Rupert, for I would strike him back! But I am only a weak female and have no choice but to allow men to overwhelm me.’

‘’Tis not weakness,’ he admonished in a whisper, glancing quickly over his shoulder to the shadow of Rupert as he kept lookout, ‘but respect for your father. He was afraid, and that is why he lashed out.’

‘Afraid of what?’

Troye shrugged. ‘That I am not sure of, but I implore you, little maid, to get up and stand firm, as any knight would.’

Ellie sighed with heavy exasperation, goaded by a niggling dislike for the way he spoke to her, as though she were just a child. ‘Very well.’ She rolled awkwardly and rose with stiff and aching difficulty to her feet. She swayed a little, light-headed from weeping and lack of nourishment, and then gasped as his arm went about her waist and steadied her. She laid a hand on his chest, at first to hold him back and then out of curiosity as her fingers splayed and she felt beneath their tingling tips his warmth and hard muscles.

She tipped back her head and looked up at him, for though she was not as small as her Aunt Beatrice, who was tiny and dainty, neither was she as tall as her mother. The top of her head reached to his chin, and with her eyes wide and wary she noted that he was certainly the most handsome man she had ever seen. His dark hair was fine and cut close to the neck and his level brows neither too coarse nor too thin. Her eyes roved over his face, noting his nose that would have been elegant if it had not been broken at some stage in his life, mayhap more than once. The slightly flared nostrils, and his square forehead and lean, hollowed cheeks were all very masculine. Her gaze lingered for a moment on his mouth, with its curved lower lip and narrow, well-disciplined upper. His eyes were a very dark brown, and now they narrowed.

She felt his hands let go of her waist, yet they stared at each other for long moments, and then abruptly he took a step backwards, as though he had suddenly found himself teetering upon a cliff edge and sought to evade the danger.

For a moment Ellie could not resist lifting her glance to look at his mouth, and the faint shadow of stubble upon his firm jaw. She wondered how it would feel to be kissed by him, to feel his lips on her lips, to feel the rough scrape of his chin, so very male, against her tender skin.

Her emotions were obvious to him and he sighed, looking away from her lovely face and curious eyes. ‘I am of no use to you, child, so waste not your time looking at me in such a way.’

Ellie felt a blush burn along her cheeks and she dropped her gaze, yet her pride goaded her to ask, ‘Am I so ugly that you would turn away from me, sir?’

‘Nay, you are not ugly. The fault is mine, not yours.’ He was not one to divulge his private affairs, but he took pity upon the doubts that shadowed her eyes and her tender, innocent ego, ‘You are a very beautiful young girl. One day you will make someone a fine wife.’ Then he bowed in farewell and his footsteps were a soft sound upon the ground as he left her.

Ellie sighed, and watched as Troye de Valois departed, not at all sure what her reaction should be. Her confusion was mounting. She jumped with nervous guilt as another figure entered the tent, but it was only Rupert and she ran to him, glad for his company.

‘Oh, Rupert! Tell me, is Father still angry?’ She clutched at his arms in her anxiety.

‘Nay, he is full of remorse and is convinced that you must hate him.’

She shook her head in denial, and then looked up at him with a puzzled frown, ‘They…’ She hesitated and then ploughed onwards. ‘They said such strange things last night, Rupert. Did you hear?’

‘Nay—’ his frown matched hers ‘—what do you mean?’

Ellie shrugged. ‘Nothing. No doubt I misheard or misunderstood.’

Rupert did not press the point, accepting that last night she had indeed been confused and upset. ‘How are you this morn, Ellie? Still sore?’

She nodded. ‘It will pass. At least he did not strike me in the face.’

‘Father would never do that.’

‘Nay. I suppose not.’ But suddenly her childhood had evaporated and she was no longer certain of anything. ‘How was your day? Did you fare well in the joust?’

He smiled. ‘Aye. But tomorrow I must face de Valois.’

She shuddered, at once fearful and yet not wishing to break her brother’s confidence by admitting that she did not think he could best de Valois.

‘Don’t worry, little sis, even I do not expect to beat the King’s champion in my first season. ’Tis only a learning experience. Come now,’ he chivvied her in a cheerful tone, ‘the king has invited almost everyone that is anyone to the palace for a night of feasting and merrymaking. We will dance and I will find you some of your favourite marchpane sweetmeats and we will forget all about this unpleasantness. How about that?’

Ellie smiled, and nodded, yet sadly aware that she could not easily forget the burning flicker that had been ignited in her heart and threatened to burst into a sweet flame that would consume her.

Chapter Three

They went by barge to the Palace of Westminster, and Ellie welcomed the cooling breeze that whispered off the River Thames, the waters dark and smooth and lapping gently as the sun waned on this late summer’s evening. The sky was burnished a vibrant coral-pink, a colour that matched the silk of her close-fitting gown, the sleeves and bodice edged with gold embroidery and seed pearls. She had dressed carefully, hoping to see Troye and that he would notice her appearance. The clinging folds of the gown draped her slender yet feminine hips and full bosom, the colour a perfect background for her auburn hair that hung loose and rippling to her hips, her head covered with a filmy organza veil held in place with a gold circlet.

She sat a little apart from the others as the barge rowed down the river, gliding with little more than a splash of water as the oars dipped into the river and the prow pushed its gradual way towards their destination. Her father had come to her earlier and made his peace, and she had accepted, yet in her heart she knew that all matters between them would never be the same. She watched him now, sitting with his casual grace beside her mother, his arm loosely about her waist and laughing at some jest Uncle Remy made. Aunt Beatrice leaned back in the circle of his arms, and she looked radiant in a gown of dark green velvet. Ellie envied them, these four, these two couples, and she felt the bitter pang of loneliness for the first time in her life. She felt that she no longer belonged within the family circle, and that knowledge disturbed her.

The embankment at Westminster was lit with pitch torches, flaring small pools of golden light as the passengers from many river barges and gondolas drew up and alighted.

‘Stay close,’ whispered Lady Joanna urgently as they climbed the stairs and traversed the deeply shadowed lawns edging the palace.

The great hall was brightly lit and already noisy with music and laughter and the hum of cheerful chatter. Ellie looked about, seeking her brother, who had promised to meet up with them later when his duties were done. Jousting in tournaments was for his amusement and training, as it was for many other knights, but not his living. He had just recently been placed in the cadet corp of the King’s personal bodyguard and his duties were to serve the knights who guarded the King from all harm. The King’s Own were men harvested from the most loyal families in the kingdom, fighting men who had proven their valour and skill upon the battlefield, amongst them Austin Stratford, Sylvester de Lacy and the King’s champion, Troye de Valois. She kept a look out for her brother, for where he was Troye would be too, both of them in service to the King.

Ellie was fascinated by the colourful gathering of people, brightly clothed in rich fabrics of velvet and silk, and the snippets of conversations that she overheard, laced with rumour and gossip and bawdy jokes, before her mother or aunt hastily moved her away. The crowd laughed and drank, dancing and feasting, with all the merriment and intensity of those who knew the King was footing the bill for this jollity.

Rupert sent a message with a pageboy to say that he would be off-duty at the tenth hour. Ellie danced with her father and her uncle, and once with a group of girls similar in age, but mostly her family kept her within the close confines of their protection at all times. Ellie chafed at the restriction, for she knew that Troye must be here somewhere and she longed to see him, to speak with him.

She could scarce concentrate on anything at all, as her gaze winged its way about the hall, to the King’s dais, hoping to catch a glimpse of Troye de Valois, yet it was so crowded and such a distance away she could not see him.

Rupert appeared then, holding one hand over her eyes and with the other depositing an object in her hands.

‘Guess,’ he commanded with a laugh.

Long familiar with his teasing games, Ellie exclaimed, ‘A white kitten with a black tail!’

‘Nay, goose.’

‘Um…’ Ellie pretended to be flummoxed and agonised over her choices ‘…a dove? A silk scarf? A handful of London air?’

Rupert released her with a heavy sigh, and Ellie opened the wooden box, prettily decorated with mother of pearl, and murmured her thanks at the sight of plump marchpane sweetmeats nestling within a bed of satin. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed her brother’s cheek, ‘Thank you, but you should not have wasted your coin.’

‘I didn’t.’ He grinned. ‘I, er, charmed them off a lady-in-waiting.’

She punched his arm in mock-admonishment, and then quickly set aside the box as he whirled her off into a prancing set. The evening picked up its pace and seemed to fly by, as her parents could little object to her dancing in a group when her own brother was part of it and looked on with a careful and watchful eye.

During the dances they swept past the King’s dais and there, at last, she found Troye. He stood behind the King, to his right, alongside four other trusted and experienced knights who would guard the King from all harm and lay down their lives for him if necessary. Troye watched the gathering but, hard as she tried, she could not seem to catch his eye.

The music for a particularly lively rotundellus had just come to a halt, the drums ceasing in their banging and the reedy notes of several recorders and a twanging rebec had stilled when a sudden shout from the yeoman guards ranged about the hall went up.

‘’Ware! Arms!’

Into the hall whirled five black-cloaked and hooded figures. A collective gasp bounced to the rafters from the gathering of guests and they jostled themselves out of the way, tripping and bumping one another, skirts rustling and heels tapping in their haste. Then the black apparitions flung off their cloaks and five acrobats were revealed, dressed all in white, with black ruff collars and their faces painted to match the black-and-white theme. Laughter and a sigh of relief echoed from the crowd, and the rasp of steel as swords half-drawn from their scabbards were now slotted home, the King’s bodyguard retreating from its protective phalanx about their liege.

‘It’s only a disguising!’ cried Aunt Beatrice, peeping out from behind her husband’s broad back, where he had thrust her at the first hint of trouble.

It was a common enough form of entertainment, to run into a hall disguised in dark cloaks, and then throw them off, make their performance of either singing or dancing, charades or acrobatics, and then run off again. Ellie emerged from behind her brother and watched with interest the tumbling, white-faced acrobats, and clapped along with everyone else before the disguisers picked up their cloaks and ran out of the hall.

The moment of tension had not blighted anyone’s enjoyment of the revelry. Indeed, to face the uncertain prospect of violence, and possibly death, had only served to whet their appetites for more pleasure. The noise levels rose to a roar, strong Gascon wine flowed freely from casket to goblet, and sumptuous offerings of food crammed on side tables were soon consumed.

‘Oh, look, it is a line dance! Do let’s join in, Rupert.’

On either side of the hall the guests formed a line, each couple on opposites sides. When it was their turn they skipped the dancing steps into the middle and then down the length of the hall, until halfway, where they were met by a couple from the other end of the line. In the middle the two couples danced together, and then swapped partners. It was one of Ellie’s favourite dances, being very lively, and gave her a chance to dance with new partners. And to pass in front of the dais. And perhaps to make Troye a little jealous as she danced with other men?

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glowed brightly as her feet tapped out the intricate steps, with a smile on her berry-red lips. She danced with a very dark man, who had a hook nose and shaggy brows and whose name she did not know, but he held her hand lightly and smiled at her, a gold earring glinting in one ear. She thought he looked like a pirate, and then they separated and she skipped away to join the end of the line.

The dance required stamina, and it was some long moments before she reached the head of the line again, in front of the King’s dais, where he sat back, looking on with a bored expression upon his face. She tried to see if Troye de Valois watched her, but his face was just a distant blur. She smiled across at Rupert and it was just about to be their turn to go down the middle when again came that warning cry.

‘’Ware! Arms!’

There was a brief titter this time, and the dancers scarce halted in their bobbing as five cloaked intruders ran into their midst. Ellie stayed where she was, their entrance blocking her path, and she looked on with a faint hint of expectation on her face, which quickly evaporated as the disguisers threw off their cloaks and drew swords from their scabbards, the scraping sound echoing a warning about the hall.

The royal bodyguard reacted immediately, the hiss of steel as they drew their own swords and surrounded King Edward spurring the guests into a collective scream. The floorboards suddenly shook as heels drummed in their haste to run from the impending conflict. There was no doubt this time that the King was under attack, yet Ellie stood rooted to the spot, aghast and mesmerised by the skirmish that erupted before her very eyes.

She had lived her entire life sheltered behind castle walls, protected and cosseted. She had heard tales of battle and only envisaged it as a playground for the exploits of valour and chivalry. Now she was stunned as silver blades arced through the air and cut through flesh and bone, blood spurting in a crimson fountain and spraying across the floors, the walls, and her gown. The masked attackers were no match for the knights, who had honed their skills for years in battles and tournaments for just such a moment.

Steel clanged on steel. There were guttural shouts and coarse oaths shouted as the King’s bodyguards fought off the five masked assassins. The hall had erupted into pandemonium. Hundreds of people shoved and grappled to squeeze their way through the already crowded doorways to flee from the danger. Ellie was knocked to the floor. She looked up to see Troye de Valois standing over her as he parried the less-than-skilful swordplay of one attacker. As she cowered she watched him bludgeon his opponent with swift strokes, knocking him to the ground and then forcing him to relinquish his weapon. With one quick thrust Troye stabbed the man in the heart and he gurgled an instant death.

The dead man lay only a few feet away from her and now Ellie began to scream, as blood spattered her and she recoiled. Rough hands seized her arm and dragged her off the floor.

‘Get out!’ shouted Troye harshly.

She scrambled to her knees, and then to her feet, crashing against the solid rockface that was Troye’s chest as he jerked her backwards with one hand and fought off an assailant with the other. Her heart pounded as sword blades flashed so close to her head that her veil lifted and shivered in the breeze of their wake. Following the urgent insistence of Troye’s hand gripping her arm, she tried to flee, but her heel slipped in a greasy pool of blood and she fell to her knees, her screams of horror rising to piercing intensity. Troye tugged her up again and pulled her along, throwing her with some force towards the crowd of people scrabbling for the exit.

‘For God’s sake, get out!’ he shouted at her, and then he turned away, leaping once more into the fray as he and his men quickly dealt with the remaining intruders.

‘Eleanor!’

She started at the sound of that familiar voice, and with a sob flung herself into the open arms of her Uncle Remy, burrowing into the massive, protective width of his broad chest. Being head and shoulders taller than most people, he managed to force his way through the crush, and soon had her out into the cool dark of the evening air. He hurried to where the rest of the family waited, half-carrying Eleanor as her knees suddenly buckled and refused to hold her upright. Her mother gave a desperate cry at the sight of her.

‘It’s all right,’ Remy hastened to reassure them, ‘it’s not her blood. No harm has come to her.’

Ellie sank into the warm embrace of her mother’s bosom, while her Aunt Beatrice used her veil to wipe the blood from her face, both women making soothing sounds as Ellie stared blankly with shock.

‘Let us depart,’ suggested Lord Henry.

There were swift murmurs of agreement, yet Rupert hung back, knowing full well where his duty lay. ‘I must return to the hall.’

Lord Henry stretched out a hand and clapped his son on the shoulder, ‘Fare thee well, Rupert. We will see you on the morrow.’ With a rueful glance thrown at his womenfolk, he concluded drily, ‘Our duty lies elsewhere. The fight is yours.’

Rupert nodded, and melted away into the dark shadows of Westminster without a backward glance as his family hurried across the lawns to the stairs leading down to the embankment and their waiting barge.

It was a silent journey, punctuated only by the clunk and splash of the oars as they rose and plunged through the oily black waters of the river, and by Eleanor’s hiccups as she sniffed, a violent shivering now taking hold of her as shock set in. She could scarce believe what had happened, and through it all she could only see the crimson of blood and the face of Troye de Valois. Never in her life had she seen such an expression upon a man’s face. Such grim determination, such brutal ruthlessness. Again she shuddered, as goosebumps flared across her skin. And yet her heart had been thrilled, for he was her hero. Her heart had spoken, saying aye, this is the one, the other half that would make the emptiness within her complete, and no counsel from her head would alter her heart’s desire.

With relief she alighted at Cheapside and with her family made haste to seek the comfort and safety of their own camp. Ensconced within the shadowy tent bearing the banner of Raven, Lady Joanna prepared hot spiced wine to ease their shock.

Uncle Remy lifted his goblet and said, ‘Here’s to Troye de Valois. Once again he has saved our Eleanor.’

The others murmured in agreement, even Lord Henry reluctantly, and, with a small frown, added his own toast of gratitude. Ellie took a few sips and felt the warmth spread through her body, and then with a whisper she excused herself and hurried to her own tent. Quickly she stripped off her bloodstained gown and flung it away. She washed in water that was cold but ready to hand; it was not until she was clean and dressed in her nightshift that she sank down upon the furs of her cot and covered her face with both hands.

It thrilled her to think that Troye de Valois had indeed saved her life. She could so easily have been cut down in the fray, her slender body sliced like a ribbon by the threshing swords. And yet gratitude was not the emotion that came foremost to her mind. Aye, her heart might well be smitten by the heroics, but in her mind she could see only the horror. Valour and chivalry were clean and bright and beautiful attributes, but there could be no honour in bloodlust. She ached to know whether Troye was all right, if he had survived the attack unharmed. It irked her bitterly to think that she could not go to him, tend his wounds if he had any, hold him and comfort him. But soon, one day, she would be able to do all of that. For it was obvious to her that they were destined to be together. So thinking, she lay down, hugged her pillow and smiled as she fell asleep.

In the morning Lord Henry wasted no time in taking his family to Cheapside, impatiently chivvying his wife and daughter as they dressed and broke their fast on bread and cheese. As they took out combs and ribbons impatiently he muttered that they were lovely enough to have no need to waste their time, and his, upon needless ‘titivating’. Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, Lady Joanna making comment upon the use of such a word, and yet taking pity on her husband as she realised his anxiety to meet up with Rupert and hear all the details of last night’s fray.

Remy, still a warrior at heart despite the comforts of marriage, was also eager to hear more news of the night before. Remy and Lord Henry discussed the whys and wherefores and whatnots of the attack upon the King as they rode to the tourney field, and Ellie listened with curious ears, eager to hear the name Troye de Valois. She felt a glow of pride that he received nothing but praise this morn, for a man who failed to earn the admiration and respect of her kin was, in her eyes, no man at all.

At the tournament they seated themselves in the canopied stands, as the crowds came drifting in while the sun rose higher in the blue sky. Chatter ebbed and flowed on the breeze, the smell of dust and horses, roasted pork and smoke from the cooking fires, drifting and swirling around the arena. It would be another very bright and hot day, and already ladies were seeking the shade of awnings and fanning themselves with parchment and sipping lemonade kept cool in barrels of Thames water.

Seated in their stand, Ellie watched as a pageboy came tripping up the steps and handed her father a rolled letter, tied with a red ribbon. Lord Henry nodded his thanks and turned away, to one side, while he opened it.

Eleanor looked about, eager to catch a glimpse of the jousting knights, seeking out a particular profile, dark eyes and broad shoulders, but Troye de Valois was not yet out on the field. Her curiosity about him was too powerful to resist and she asked her father questions that were vaguely disguised, in the hope of finding out more about him.

‘Do you think life is very hard for Rupert?’ she asked, as they sat close together on the benches, her mother chatting to her Aunt Beatrice as they appraised the fashions of the other ladies.

Her father looked up from the parchment letter he was perusing, with a frown, and glanced at Eleanor, ‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I wondered what life must be like for Rupert, now that he is serving in the King’s Own.’

Lord Henry carefully rolled up the letter and retied the scarlet ribbon. ‘Aye, life will be harder than the easy comforts of living at home. But that is what a knight expects, little comfort and no thanks. A bedroll upon the floor, or a muddy field, food not fit for hounds, and the soldier’s curse of long separations from his loved ones.’

‘Then why do it?’ asked Eleanor.

Her father smiled, and looked away into the distance. ‘That is a question that could have many answers, my little dove. For some men, being a warrior is all they know, for others they are escaping pain of some kind, and for a few, a very few, they seek the glory of valour.’

‘Once I would have been a knight,’ said Eleanor, ‘but now I am heartily glad that I am a lady.’

‘So am I.’ He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, ‘Now, fear not for Rupert, he can well take care of himself.’

She had the grace to blush, aware that she could not confess her concerns were not all for her brother. Roundly she chided herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell upon Troye de Valois, and briskly reminded herself that thoughts of Rupert should come first. After all, who was Troye de Valois? They had scarce spoken more than a few words to each other and, though he lived in her heart and her dreams, the truth was that he had not yet become a reality, a part of her life that she so longed him to be. But these facts neither daunted nor diminished her feelings. She felt a happy glow and smiled as she envisioned a rosy future, for she was young and beautiful; surely, by now, Troye must know that her hand was on offer for marriage? It was only a matter of time before he approached her father with a proposal.

Eagerly she watched as the jousting began. How great was her impatience as the lesser knights took their turns, their horses thundering down the length of the list and the crowds cheering as one or the other was knocked from the saddle by a thrusting lance. Towards mid-day, at last, Troye de Valois rode out, much to the delight of his adoring onlookers, for Eleanor was not the only one smitten.

She watched avidly as Troye dispatched his opponents in quick and ruthless succession, yet she was relieved that Rupert was not riding. He had lost his footing carrying the body of a would-be assassin down a stairwell the night before, and was now sitting on the sidelines, nursing a twisted ankle and feeling like a chump as his comrades teased him. The day’s competition ended all too soon and the crowds began to drift away, discussing the merits and faults of their favourite combatants and eagerly anticipating the crowning glory.

The jousting knights had the following day off to rest and prepare, in readiness for the final contest on Saturday. In the afternoon the King again opened his court at Westminster and as Eleanor entered the hall she felt the sting of goosebumps prickle on her skin. But the floorboards had been scrubbed clean, the guard had been doubled and there was a defiantly festive air to the gathering as the court gathered to eat and drink and make merry. The King was overheard to say that no paltry assassination attempt would have him cowering away in his chamber.

‘’Tis not our way, my lords, for the English to cower in fear!’

‘Nay, indeed, your Majesty!’

‘A toast…’ the King raised his goblet ‘…to the fighting spirit of Englishmen!’

His salute was echoed, but one of his closest chancellors murmured that it would not be wise to make too much of the matter, for the Scots might yet try again and it would do the King no good to become lax.

‘Bollocks to them!’ cried Edward, rising from his elaborate chair upon its royal dais. He waved at the musicians to play, shouted for more wine, exhorted his subjects to partake of the mountains of delicious food laid out on tables in an adjoining chamber, and called for the five guardsmen who had fought like lions to defend his life the night before.

From out of the crowd they came, five young men standing together, looking sheepish at all the attention, amongst them Austin Stratford and Troye de Valois. They were tall, broad-shouldered young men, with that lean and confident look in their eyes that proclaimed their profession as fighting men.

‘See ye these fine lads, such knights as no kingdom on God’s earth has the good fortune as I to have their allegiance. Tonight I reward them, for with their own lives they did mine protect and save. I have not a scratch upon me. Anything they want, they shall have. Come, Sir Austin, tell me what it is you most desire and it is yours.’

Sir Austin looked about with a bemused glance, and he half-turned to Troye de Valois with a silent plea for assistance. Troye merely shrugged, as much at a loss as Austin, for what, indeed, would any Englishman dare ask of his King? Taking pity on the floundering and blushing Austin, he turned to the King with a small bow and murmured, ‘We seek no reward, your Majesty, for we have merely done our duty.’

Someone called out a cheer of approval for Troye’s reply, and others still clapped their hands, until the entire hall applauded and cheered. And then, as the King exhorted the ladies present to dance with these fine fellows, Troye stepped forward and begged permission for a private word. The King eyed him shrewdly, reluctant to single out one amongst the five for any favouritism, however true it might be that Troye de Valois was indeed his favourite knight. He valued the noble attributes of honour and courage and strength, all of these clearly abundant in Troye. So it was that he refused Troye permission for a word in private, and yet granted him leave to speak, here and now.

Troye looked about as the guests jostled closer, eager to fuel their lust for gossip, and a flush stained his face beneath its summer tan. To one side he saw the beautiful face of young Ellie, her eyes wide and just as curious as all the others. How he wished he could have prevented her from hearing in public his news, for it had not escaped his notice that she had feelings for him, a childish crush, no doubt, but he had no desire to hurt one so young and innocent. His jaw clenched as he bowed deeply to his King and murmured in a tense voice, ‘’Tis a matter I would prefer to discuss in private, your Majesty.’

‘Indeed?’ The King stroked his beard and looked about. ‘Come now, Sir Troye. We must have no secrets here amongst brothers at arms, for secrets are weapons that our enemies could, and would, use against us.’ He turned and climbed the dais steps, seating himself upon his ornate chair and eyed Troye with a frown. ‘Could this matter you wish to discuss have anything to do with your absence from court last autumn and winter?’

For a wild moment Troye wondered if the King already knew, and his heart hammered painfully in his chest. With downcast eyes he replied, ‘Your Majesty is indeed wise.’

‘I am only guessing, Sir Troye, for every rumour in the kingdom reaches my ears eventually. But rumours remain just that, until the truth is admitted.’ Edward’s eyes were very hard, any warmth rapidly fading as his worst fears seemed about to be realised. ‘Spit it out, lad, for I am not a patient man.’

‘Your Majesty—’ Troye took a deep breath and seized both his fate and his courage as valiantly as he could ‘—Sire…I have married.’

A gasp escaped from the guests crowding closer, eager to hear the goings-on. From the corner of his eye he saw Ellie press one hand to her mouth and one to her heart. Her face paled visibly.

The King fiddled with the great signet ring on his right hand, his eyes never leaving Troye for a moment. ‘And marriage is a crime you feel a need to confess? I had thought it was more of a blessing, to be celebrated.’

‘Your Majesty, I beg your indulgence and your great mercy, for I have married the one woman I truly love and will always love, as you have loved your Eleanor. But, sire, forgive me, I beg you, my wife is a Jewess.’

‘What!’ roared the King, his shout echoing the collective cries of astonishment about the hall. ‘So you have married a woman of the Jewish faith? When I have expelled from our kingdom these—these heathens, these leeches and troublemakers!’

‘It is not so, sire,’ Troye protested. ‘They are good people, my wife is a kind and gentle soul—’

But the King would not listen. In his anger he signalled for the yeoman guards to come forwards and ordered them to take Troye to the Tower, where he was to be imprisoned while he gave further thought to the matter. They hustled Troye away, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as he passed between them, his jaw set and his gaze defiant.

Ellie could only stare, as the blood seemed to drain from her face, from her very heart, and disappear. The hall seemed to whirl and tip in a crazy slant, as the dizzy impact of shock hit her.

Troye was married.

He loved another.

These two sudden facts were hard for her to understand, and there was only confusion and astonishment for the moment; the pain and the tears would come later. She watched, like everyone else, as the guards marched him away, wondering what would happen to him, how long would he spend imprisoned in the grim confines of the fortress known as the Tower. Who was the woman that had claimed her Troye?

Whatever the answers to these questions, one fact remained—her dreams were shattered.

Chapter Four

News of Troye de Valois’s disgrace swept through London like fire leaping across dry summer fields. It crossed all boundaries and both commonfolk and nobles of the Court knew of his downfall. The final contest of the tournament had to be cancelled. Tents were uprooted, the lists dismantled, and disgruntled traders relying on the rich pickings of the tournament day muttered darkly. Lord Henry Raven supervised the packing of his own pavilion and bid his son farewell.

‘Send word to us,’ he said to Rupert, ‘should you need anything.’

‘And let us know when there is any news on de Valois,’ added Remy St Leger, his fondness for the younger knight growing as his foolishness, all for the love of a woman, became apparent. ‘I would know how the idiot fares.’

Rupert nodded his agreement, and stooped to kiss his mother and hug his sister farewell. He noted the pale silence of the latter, and clasped Ellie’s shoulder with one hand as he asked her, ‘Is there aught amiss?’

Ellie shook her head, and reached for the reins of her horse as she prepared to mount. ‘Give me a boost up, please.’

Her brother ably lifted her into the side-saddle and watched as she fussed with her skirts, avoiding his eye. She gripped the reins firmly and then forced a smile as he patted her horse and wished her goodbye.

‘Fare thee well, Rupert.’

‘And you, little sister.’

She turned her horse about, ready to fall in beside her mother and aunt as they rode behind their menfolk, and then she paused and called out to Rupert, ‘He will be all right, won’t he? Troye de Valois.’

Rupert realised then where her sorrow lay, and he smiled gently. ‘Aye, he will be all right.’ He came up closer and beckoned for her to lean down, so that he might whisper close to her ear a private confidence. ‘The King’s anger was only for show, to save face. I hear from an aide close to him that he already knew of the marriage but he waited for Troye to confess. At worst he will spend thirty days in the Tower and be fined for his misdemeanour, but for his honesty and his courage the King holds him in high esteem and no doubt it will all soon blow over. Have no fear for him.’

Ellie nodded, relieved for Troye’s sake, but this news did nothing to ease the pain in her heart. Then she said goodbye and touched her heel to her horse’s flank, cantering off as her father called out for her to hurry along.

The journey home to Castle Ashton in Somerset took four days, and while they seemed the longest days of her life, as she struggled to come to terms with the empty space within her heart, she valued the time spent in the saddle that kept her busy. When they reached home there would be time enough to be alone with her thoughts. The prospect filled her with a dull gloom, for always she’d had hope for the future, a future that she would spend with Troye, but now all hope had been taken from her and she was left with…nothing.

Tired as she was by the long hours of riding on country roads, the summer heat and dust almost unbearable, she lay awake at night. She slept in a tent with her parents, and listened to her father snore, her mother occasionally moaning at him to turn over. She wondered where Troye was sleeping tonight, if he was still in the Tower, if he had a comfortable bed and had been given a meal…and then tears slipped silently from the corners of her eyes as she realised that she must banish all thoughts of Troye, for he belonged to another.

Yet as the days and the weeks passed, and still she continued to think of Troye, her heart would not easily accept the firm advice of her mind. The stubborn creature insisted that all its love was reserved for only one man—Troye. No matter what she was doing, whether it was working on a tapestry with her mother, distilling herbs with her Aunt Beatrice, hunting with hawks in the fields with her father, always thoughts of Troye came to her unbidden. At night he was still the last image on her mind, and the first when she awoke.

To make matters even harder to bear, she could tell no one of her feelings. How could she confess to even one as understanding as her own mother that she loved a man she barely knew? A man that had never so much as kissed her and one that was married to another. It hurt beyond measure, to think of him with this unknown woman, that all this time he had loved her and there had never been any hope that she, Ellie, would be the one he would love. She wondered what his wife was like, this Jewess, and concluded that she must be very beautiful and very clever indeed to have captured the heart of the King’s champion.

Summer faded into autumn and the leaves dried upon the trees to gold and bronze, fluttering down to the ground all around Castle Ashton. The wind rose and the dark grey clouds of winter came down from the north and brought with them flurries of early snow. Ellie retreated into silence and, though it was noted that she seemed to be pining, her appetite greatly diminished and her eyes having lost their bold sparkle, it was assumed by her family that she missed her brother and she merely passed through the moods and vagaries that afflicted youths as they evolved from child to adult, from girl to woman.

Ellie indeed wrestled with her emotions, swinging from one day to the next with a determination to forget all about Troye and then desperately longing for a miracle that would somehow bring them together. Quite how this would happen she had no idea. On days when she was determined to break the hold Troye had upon her heart, she flirted outrageously with any young man that came to Castle Ashton, arousing her mother’s alarm and her father’s ire. And yet when these young men departed, having gained not so much as a kiss from the saucy little Ashton girl, Ellie would retire to her chamber. There she would fling herself down upon her bed, racked with such great sobs of tears that she feared her ribs would crack. However hard she tried, her heart compared all men to Troye and found them sorely lacking. They did not look like Troye, or smile like him, or have the timbre of his voice, or his manly smell.

Her attempts to find new love failed and she lapsed into solitude, seeking balm for her soul, convinced that she would never love again. Convinced that for some unknown reason she must wait. She could not fathom why she felt this stubborn need to wait. Wait for what? For Troye? How could that be? she demanded of the stars in the sky, as she stood at the open window of her chamber and gazed up at the heavens, with an aching heart.

When spring came, her father insisted on a grand feast with music and dancing to celebrate her seventeenth birthday on St George’s Day. He invited all the local gentry, especially those with eligible sons. But by now Ellie had resigned herself to loneliness and unrequited love and would have nothing to do with any of them. Lord Henry was incensed at the waste of time and coin, as she refused to even hear of any offers made for her hand in the days following.

It was Lady Beatrice who noticed how eagerly her little niece ran to any messenger with a letter from Rupert in far-off London. It did not escape her attention that it was news of Troye de Valois that Ellie so eagerly sought. They had heard, of course, that Troye was released from prison, having spent a mere ten days within its confines. The King fined him five hundred marks for his insolence and then banished him from Court for a year. In effect, he sent him home to spend time with the wife he so dearly loved and for whom he had been prepared to risk all. When Ellie had heard this she was at once relieved that Troye was out of prison and safely home, and yet a twinge of jealousy warred with admiration for a man who could so dearly love a woman, even if that woman was not herself.

Lady Beatrice tried to talk to her niece and explain that time was a healer and that her feelings of pain and rejection would pass; that one day Ellie would meet another and all would be well. Ellie simply nodded, and smiled, and turned away. There came little news after that, except that Rupert, and therefore Troye, went away on campaign to Scotland. She shuddered to think of the experiences they would have fighting against the Scots, who, from all accounts, were barbaric savages. After some months Rupert sent a note to say that Troye had been grievously injured, had been relieved of his duties and sent home to his family in York to recover.

Eleanor was surprised at the pang she felt, after all this time, her concern for him, for his pain and suffering, and to think of him with the wife who nursed and cared for him. She could not endure any such thoughts. She tried to banish them by devoting herself to occupations of one kind or another: tending plants in the herb garden that she and her aunt had created at Castle Ashton, and on rainy days she stayed in her chamber writing out a transcript of the Bible, each page beautifully and painstakingly decorated with intricate illustrations. Under the guidance of their priest, Friar Thomas, she worked diligently and he announced how pleased he was with her devotion and even began to drop hints to Lord Henry that he had fine hopes of Ellie finding her vocation as a nun, much to his lord’s displeasure.

Yet another winter and another spring passed and then came a surprising change to her solitary existence. Remy St Leger rode over from Hepple Hill with glorious and most unexpected news—Beatrice was with child. There was great celebration, for they had kept the news quiet until they were certain that this time Beatrice would carry the child and already she was well into her second trimester. They were all overjoyed, for a child of their own had been the one perfect blessing to crown the love that Remy and Beatrice had shared these many years. Bearing a child so late in years for a woman of Beatrice’s age was a risky matter, but all was being done to safeguard the health of both mother and child and she would remain at Hepple Hill until after the birth.

Ellie decided that she would be of more use to her aunt if she went to stay with her at Hepple Hill, and with the blessings of both her parents she set off a few weeks before the baby was due to be born. While Beatrice was forced to lie abed, bored and frustrated and yet desperate to sustain the life of her unborn child, Ellie assumed the day-to-day tasks of running the keep. She made sure that her aunt received fresh, nutritious meals every day and supervised all the preparations and accoutrements needed for the birth, and for the baby. It kept her busy, and helped to pass the time, time being the essential element needed to help heal the heartache she suffered.

When the birthing day came, despite Beatrice’s fears and Ellie’s inexperience as midwife, the baby was born with little trouble, a beautiful lusty boy, healthy and fair like his father. The ecstatic parents named him Tristan.

Ellie could scarce bring herself to leave Hepple Hill and her soft, sweet-smelling, cuddly baby cousin until, on St George’s Day, Lord Henry realised with a shock that his daughter would be twenty and she was still unwed. He summoned her home at once.

Almost at the same time a messenger arrived from London, with a short and yet commanding missive from the King. It seemed he had the need to take another wife and all unwed, eligible maidens were ordered to pay their respects at Court. Herewith, and forthwith, Lord Henry was ordered to bring his daughter Eleanor.

Eleanor noticed that her father was plagued by the delivery of several more letters, and he seemed most thoughtful, a slight frown between his brows as he gazed in silence upon the letters before him. Something was afoot, she was sure, and her suspicions were only deepened when that afternoon her father rode off to Hepple Hill, clearly to consult with her uncle.

Lord Henry engaged in idle chit-chat with Beatrice, praised her honey cakes and sipped the mulled wine she offered, admired his new nephew, but eventually she sensed her brother’s distraction and withdrew, leaving the two men seated with their wine, in warm and trusting companionship.

Remy leaned one ankle on the other, legs outstretched, and gave Henry a shrewd look. ‘Come now,’ he said with a smile, nodding his head at the four scrolls of parchment that Henry clutched in one hand, ‘what is it that troubles you, my brother?’

Henry sighed, rose from his seat and paced about for several yards, tapping the letters against his thigh before turning and waving them aloft. ‘I have received no less than four marriage offers for Eleanor.’

Remy sat up. ‘Indeed? Well, that is good news for ’tis surely time for Eleanor to wed. And no surprise to me, considering that Eleanor is a pretty and wealthy young woman. Why, then, are you so troubled, friend? Whatever it is that grieves Ellie, surely this nonsense has gone on for long enough?’

‘Aye, I could not agree with you more. I know my duty to Eleanor, and that she needs to make a good marriage, before it is too late and she has past the age when offers will still be made.’ Henry sighed, ‘Today I have no less than four, five if you include the King, yet…I find none of them suitable.’

Eyebrows raised in question, Remy waited patiently for an explanation.

‘The first offer,’ continued Henry, raising the first letter, ‘came from Taddeo Visconti, the Italian count from Florence. A wealthy and titled man, a handsome fellow and neither too young nor too old.’

‘But?’

‘But…but there is something I greatly mislike about him…something brutal. And I would not have my…daughter live so far away from me.’

‘Then we strike him off. He is refused.’

Henry sighed, and then nodded. ‘Aye. He is refused. The second offer came from Austin Stratford, a very likeable and amiable chap, but without a title and no means other than what he earns upon the tournament field and the King’s pay. I fear he is looking for a rich heiress, and though that alone holds no blame, I doubt he would make my Eleanor happy. He has no means with which to protect her and his personality is such that no doubt she would lead him a merry dance.’

‘Then he too is refused. Who’s next?’

‘Casper von Eckhart, the Hun.’

Remy sat up and snorted. ‘The devil take him! He will break her within days and I have no liking for his sort in our family line.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Henry. He sat down then, a pensive frown upon his brow. ‘And then there is Neville Talbot, who to all intents and purposes would make an excellent match. He has a fine estate and his own fortune. He seems of fine character and yet…’

His finely sculptured nostrils flared and Remy murmured, ‘And yet I have heard that his liking is for boys.’

Henry met his brother-in-law’s eyes and looked away. It was a subject difficult to prove and to cast such aspersions upon a knight would be a grave offence if proven false. But still there were rumours, and Henry could not be deaf to them, for Eleanor’s sake.

‘You are between a rock and a hard place.’ Remy leaned forwards earnestly, elbows on his knees, ‘I would be most careful of Casper von Eckhart. He is a dangerous fellow and takes insult far too easily. Your refusal should be made in the sweetest of terms.’

Henry spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I heartily agree with you. Let us not forget the fate of his last bride.’

For long moments they sat in silence, staring at the crackling fire flames, pondering, both of them remembering the tale of a young woman from Kent that von Eckhart had taken a fancy to, yet he had been refused by her wealthy landowner father. Von Eckhart had then kidnapped his intended bride, had used her so badly that the maid had thrown herself from a cliff and into the sea before he could drag her to the altar. The Hun was reputed to have in his pay a formidable force of free lancers, soldiers no longer in the employ of the King and thus free to be engaged as paid soldiers by anyone who had enough gold coin to buy the use of their lances. Henry worried that his own garrison, depleted by recent wars in Wales and Scotland, was not sufficient to withstand an outright attack upon Ashton, or even an ambush. He needed Eleanor to be united in marriage with a knight powerful enough to hold both her and Ashton safely. Rupert would inherit the title and estates, but it would be to their advantage if his sister was married to someone others would brook no argument with, and who would come to Ashton’s aid if ever such a need arose.

Henry frowned over the four letters he held, offering marriage to Eleanor. None of them were what he hoped for, and Remy could offer little advice. All he could say to Henry was, ‘A husband must be found for Eleanor, soon, but be on your guard.’

‘Aye, I agree wholeheartedly with you there. And you are quite right in saying this nonsense has gone on for long enough. I cannot for the life of me fathom what ails the girl, but I will see her wed before the summer is out!’

They were each silent for a few moments, and then Remy stated the obvious, ‘Then it is to Court you go.’

Lord Henry groaned, little eager for the expense and inconvenience of removing his household to London. But Remy was right. Eleanor would attract no suitable offers tucked away in the country. By God, the girl was twenty years of age and still an unwed maiden! He would be failing in his duty of care if he did not with all haste see her settled into a suitable marriage. He rode home to Castle Ashton in deep thought, and on his arrival surprised his wife by announcing that she should prepare and pack the necessaries for a visit to the capital by the end of the week.

There was a great flurry of activity. Lady Joanna was as determined as her husband that this time a match would be found for Eleanor. She set all her seamstresses to work night and day sewing several new and very elegant velvet gowns for her daughter, in beguiling shades of sapphire and emerald that would, surely, attract some notice. From a locked chest under her bed Lady Joanna took out several pieces of jewellery, fine necklaces and delicate bracelets of gold that would proclaim Eleanor’s standing as a young woman of noble and wealthy family, as well as enhancing her natural beauty.

They arrived in London late on a damp, dismal afternoon early in May. As guests of the King they had been allocated a suite of rooms in the Palace of Westminster, and as the parents of one who served in the King’s Own Guard these rooms had been finely furnished and servants allocated to see to their every need. Eleanor’s maid unpacked for her in the bedchamber she would use, while her parents retired to their more sumptuous room on the far side of the antechamber where they would gather during the day, when not in the great hall. She stood by the mullion-paned window of her bedchamber and looked out beyond the sweep of green lawn of the embankment to the grey shimmer of the Thames. Beyond she could see the rooftops of the city of London, but it all seemed remote to her. She would much rather have been at home, working in her herb garden or on her calligraphy. But to please her father she had succumbed to his will, or, at least, allowed him to think that she had succumbed.

Eleanor was well aware that her father intended to find her a bridegroom; though she would put no obstacles in his way, and she would be obedient to his wishes and willingly marry the fellow chosen, she would find neither joy nor purpose in so doing. With a sigh, Eleanor turned away from the window, and washed her hands in the bowl of warm water the little maid held out to her. Then she sat down as her hair was brushed and tidied, a veil placed over the long, shining auburn tresses and fastened in place with a gold circlet.

A knock roused her from her reverie and she looked up as the door swung inwards.

‘Rupert!’

Eleanor leapt from her chair and hurried towards him. Brother and sister embraced and then she leaned back and looked up at him. It had been over a year since they had last seen each other. He seemed much older, to her eyes, than his mere two-and-twenty. She asked him how he fared and he nodded, murmured briefly that he was well, but she knew her brother and could sense the soul-sick weariness that plagued him. She gave him a final embrace and then stepped to one side as they walked arm-in-arm to the antechamber adjoining. Here her parents rose with cries of joy as their son approached, and a manservant set about pouring wine and offering cakes while the reunion ensued. They sat together, Eleanor perched on the arm of Rupert’s chair, her hand affectionate and reassuring on his shoulder, once again a family. They laughed and talked and then Lord Henry suddenly realised that the evening meal would soon be served in the hall. As their parents made ready and fussed over a loose ribbon here and a tardy lace there, Rupert stopped Eleanor with a hand on her arm, whispering urgently by her ear, ‘There is something I must tell you.’

But time was not on his side and Lord Henry chivvied them along, anxious not to offend the King by appearing late at his table. The moment was lost and they made their way along the wide, stone-flagged corridors that led to the main banqueting hall. They passed many other guests and residents of the court—not only privileged lords and ladies, courtiers and those in waiting, but members of the King’s Counsel and men of military bearing who served in the King’s army. There were many guards in their smart uniforms and gleaming swords, who thronged the hall in ever-ready watchfulness. Eleanor eyed them, but they were all young and unfamiliar, there were none that she knew or remembered. Rupert had advanced to the rank of lieutenant and his duties were many and varied. Eleanor resolved to ask him about these, to encourage him to confide in her whatever it was that so burdened him. She had some inkling of the stresses and strains of a soldier’s life from his letters, but still she sensed there was something more.

At the end of the meal Lord Henry and Lady Joanna enjoyed making re-acquaintance with friends they had not seen in some while, and Eleanor excused herself, feigning a headache and asking Rupert to escort her back to her chamber. He readily agreed and they left the hot, noisy clamour of the brightly lit hall and walked together down a long corridor, cool and dim, intermittently lit by flaring wall sconces that threw vast shadows upon the walls and whose flames danced at every passing movement of air.

‘Are you truly well?’ Eleanor asked her brother gently as their footsteps tapped in unison and they had a moment of quiet to themselves. ‘I sense that…’

She paused, as they approached three people, deep in conversation, their voices hushed, standing to one side of the corridor and just below the flickering light of a wall sconce. As they passed, Eleanor noted that one of the group was a knight in the uniform of the King’s Own, and she looked at his face. Their eyes met, a swift stab of recognition passing between them. He was familiar and yet much changed. The black eyes were still the same, and the handsome face, yet there were subtle differences. His dark hair was liberally peppered with silver. His face seemed worn, but she knew not if by time, the weather, or some other force, yet certainly he seemed much aged. Even though it felt as though her body moved with infinite slowness, she did not stop. In her mind’s eye she could see herself cry out, lift her skirts in both hands as they billowed about her ankles while she turned and ran to him, but in reality all she did was look back over her shoulder as she kept on walking. He too looked, turning his head slightly, his dark eyes following her as she passed, but Troye de Valois made no move, nor sign, towards her.

As though from afar she felt Rupert’s hand beneath her elbow, guiding her, supporting, and he must have heard her swift intake of breath, seen the expression on her face as she turned to him, her eyes wide as she lifted her gaze to his.

‘I—I did not know,’ she stammered, suddenly feeling her cheeks and neck flare with the rush of hot colour and emotion that poured in a torrent through her, ‘that he would be here…I thought—’ She did not know what thoughts she’d had about Troye, for while she had never forgotten him she had tried not to remember.

Rupert hurried her along now, moving swiftly towards the privacy of the Raven chambers. As soon as the door closed he turned to her and said, ‘I tried to tell you, earlier, to warn you, that Troye had returned to court.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘About a year.’

‘A year?’ Her head jerked up and she stared at him. ‘Why did you not write and tell me?’

‘Because…’ Rupert hesitated, anxious not to hurt his sister and yet mindful of the fact that she must face up to the truth ‘…because I feared that if I did you would not come to London.’

‘But why did you not write a year ago and tell me he was here? Tell me that he was well and healed from his injuries?’

‘Why?’ he asked, his gaze direct and his voice firm, yet soft. ‘Surely you harbour no feelings for him after all this time?’

Eleanor looked away, her fingers laced tightly together, suddenly feeling exhausted. She steeled herself and asked a question, the answer to which she dreaded, ‘And his wife? Is she here too?’

Abruptly Rupert took two steps towards her and gripped her arms with both hands, staring at her keenly. ‘Eleanor, do you not know?’

Alarmed at his reaction, she looked up at him with a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘His wife—she died. Two years ago. I wrote and told Mother. She wrote back and said that I was never to mention it to you. But I assumed that you had at least been informed.’

Suddenly it all became clear to Eleanor. The need deep within her, the patient and yet inexplicable insistence from her heart that she wait. And now, surely, at last the waiting was over. She struggled to free herself from Rupert’s grasp and ran to the door, her skirts indeed billowing in her haste. She wrenched the door open, uncertain of where to go or what she would say, but her only purpose now was to find Troye and speak with him.

‘Eleanor!’ Rupert called out to her, running hard on her heels.

She took no heed, her feet drumming, her heart pounding as she ran down the corridor. But Rupert, taller and faster than his slender sister, caught up with her in a few moments and stopped her headlong flight with one arm about her waist. She cried out and struggled and fought against him, but firmly he dragged her back to her chamber and shut the door. Incoherently she shouted at him and tried to reach for the door handle and pull it open, but he blocked her path, grabbed hold of her by both shoulders and shook her until she was forced to yield.

‘Stop! It will do you no good, Ellie. He is just as far beyond your reach now as he ever was years ago.’

Eleanor sagged, her chin dropping upon her chest as warm, wet tears glowed in her eyes. ‘I would only speak with him. Comfort him.’

‘It would make no difference what you say or do.’ He held her as she leaned against his chest, patting her back as he would a child, and felt how slender she had become, how frail, ‘His wife’s death destroyed him. I am certain he will never love anyone again. Forget about him, Ellie, it will do you no good to yearn for him.’

Eleanor wept then, not for herself, not for a love that could never be, but for the wife that had been lost, and for Troye. She felt his pain and the moment it entered her heart she knew that she had never stopped loving him and she could never abandon that love again.

Rupert held her while she sobbed, and then gently wiped her face with his thumbs and murmured words of comfort and encouragement. She tried to absorb them, but the truth was they did not touch nor sway her, and when Rupert, with regret, departed to return to his duties, she sat in a chair beside the glowing hearth fire and stared blankly. She was still sitting thus when her parents returned, but she merely hid behind the excuses of headache and exhaustion. Her mother looked at her for a long moment, always able to detect the slightest falsehood, but whether she was aware or guessed at what ailed Eleanor, she made no comment and kissed her goodnight, withdrawing as Lord Henry impatiently called his wife to their bedchamber.

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