The crowd began to grow restless, waiting for the field marshal to drop the signal flag. Alixandrea’s palms began to sweat, waiting for what was surely to come. Mark seemed to be having difficulty with a strap on the charger’s plate armor and she watched, the entire crowd watched, as Mark struggled with it. She thought she could stand the anticipation no more when suddenly Mark succeeded, raised his arm to the field marshal, and the man dropped the flag. In that split second, her husband spurred his charger to the joust guide and lowered his lance.
She almost forgot her promise not to cover her eyes. They were halfway to her face before she realized it and she abruptly threw them back in her lap. The horses thundered towards each other and she could hear Audrey cheering beside her.
The crowd roared, the women screamed, and somewhere in the middle of it was a huge crash and lances splintering in all directions. Alixandrea jumped at the sound of snapping wood, watching her husband reel slightly in his seat as his opponent shattered his lance against his shield. But Matthew remained mounted and the massive gray charger made a wide turn at the far end and thundered down the field in front of the frenzied fans.
He was all right. Alixandrea swallowed hard, saying a brief prayer of thanks. She smiled at him as he made a pass by the lists, knowing he was looking for her through his lowered visor. She even managed a wave. But he did not acknowledge her as he went back to his starting point where his brothers were gathered. Someone handed him a fresh lance and they started all over again.
The Viscount went down with the next pass. He went flying off of his horse to the shouts of approval from the crowd. As Matthew turned his steed around and made another run before the wildly cheering crowd, the young Viscount stood up and staggered off the field with the help of his men. Alixandreaclapped her approval long after her husband left the field. She was glad she hadn’t closed her eyes or she would have missed his magnificence.
De Russe came after him and literally obliterated the Earl of Leicester’s champion, John Stanhope. Though the man appeared seasoned and skilled, he was no match for The Dark Knight. One pass, one strike to the helm, and they carried Stanhope off in pieces.
The morning passed into afternoon as more matches were held. The glances themselves took little time; it was the preparation between each one that took most of the time. The field marshals had to remove and replace banners, count points, and other details. Matthew roared through his second match by unseating Artur de Soulis on the first glance. He truly was powerful, cunning, and skilled, and Alixandrea’s fear of tournaments began to turn into a love for them. As long as Matthew continued to win and continued to come through unscathed, she was delighted.
But she hadn’t been keeping track of those winning and those losing other than Matthew. The field marshals covered the shields of the men who were no longer competing until Matthew, Gaston, Dennis and Caernarfon’s shields were the only ones left. Only then did she realize that Matthew might have to go up against Gaston, and the fear that had been forgotten now roared back with a vengeance.
“He cannot go against Gaston,” she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
“Why not?” Caroline asked.
She looked startled that someone had answered her. She did not want to appear as if she lacked faith in her husband, but she had been watching Gaston all afternoon and the man was unbeatable.
“Because… because they are friends,” she tried to talk her way out of it. “They will not want to injure each other.”
“Such is the love of the sport, my lady,” Lady de Russe actually turned around and spoke to her. “They have competed against each other before.”
“Who has won?”
“Both of them, though Gaston has the upper hand. The last time, he broke Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew should be in fine form today to exact his revenge if indeed they do ride against one another.”
Lady de Russe sounded completely unemotional or unconcerned about it. It only served to infuriate Alixandrea. She stood up quickly and gathered her skirts.
“Where are you going?” Caroline asked, tugging on her sleeve.
Alixandrea did not want to tell her the truth. She did not want to look like a fool, nor did she want Matthew’s reputation damaged somehow by a concerned wife.
“I must find the privy,” she lied. “I shall return.”
They let her go and she left the lists, heading with determination for the north side of the field where her husband was. She was not exactly sure what she was going to say to him when she found him, but she would surely say something. People were crowding the area and she wove in and out of the mob, finally coming to the big gates that separated the rabble from the competitors. There were several royal guards at the gate. She announced herself and demanded entry.
They did not believe her at first. Only by sheer fortune did John happen to pass by the gates and confirmed her identity to the guards. John ran ahead to tell Matthew of her arrival, leaving Alixandrea alone to find her way through a field of tents, men and servants. She wasn’t particularly concerned for her safety until she heard a heavily-accented voice behind her.
“Lady Alixandrea, what a pleasure,” Dennis la Londe came upon her, his faded blue eyes narrowed and appraising. “I have not seen you in quite some time.”
She froze, gazing up into his handsome face and remembering everything she had been told about him. Looking into his sharp face, she could easily believe all of it. “Sir Phillip,” she greeted. “Or should I call you Sir Dennis?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Ah, so you have discovered the difference.”
“How could I not, sitting in the lists and hearing a man I knew as Sir Phillip announced as Dennis la Londe?”
He scratched his head. “In my defense, I will say that many men use assumed names. It is safer sometimes, especially in wars and politics. It means nothing, truly.”
She had little patience for him. “I see,” she gathered her skirts again. “If you will excuse me, I must go and find my husband.”
“Wait,” la Londe stopped her. “Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage to Wellesbourne. He is a fine knight.”
“Aye, he is,” she said crisply. “If you will excuse me, my lord.”
“Since when did your manners become so rude?” he asked, following her. “Your uncle would be very displeased.”
