They came to a halt before the scribe, who, aside from appearing bedraggled in the damp weather, looked up expectantly, an affable expression on his face. Alissende tried to smile in return, though she knew that the man’s pleasant demeanor was likely not sincere but rather a way for him to buffer himself until he learned the identity of the person whose name he would need add next to the list, be he a high-ranking noble or a simple knight.
In the event that it was someone important, he would be able to move smoothly from that genial look to the appropriate scrapings and fawning expected of him. And if it was naught but a scrapper-knight, here seeking fame and a chance at one of the golden prizes, then he could cast off his obsequious demeanor, perhaps even becoming snappish, as more likely suited his true outlook on this busy, busy day.
This scribe’s expression shifted from affable to awed even before Damien uttered his name.
“Sir Damien de Ashby, with Lady Alissende of Surrey.” Though Damien spoke low, the sound seemed to reverberate from the castle walls, in the sudden silence that surrounded them.
“I—well, yes, of course,” the scribe sputtered, going a bit pale, Alissende thought, before he flushed red, shuffling his parchments as if he was searching for something.
“Is aught amiss?” Damien asked in a quiet, clipped voice, leaning into the scribe with a scowl.
“Nay, of course not. It is just that I—” The scribe’s voice broke off as he glanced to the other scribe positioned at the opposite side of the gate; the two exchanged a pointed look before the first scribe fumbled once more for his quill.
“All right, then,” he murmured, as if to himself, “let us notate this correctly…”
Alissende frowned at the man’s strange reaction, though Damien remained stony-faced.
“Sir Damien de Ashby, of the house of Ashby,” the scribe intoned, scratching away at the vellum as he did. He glanced up. “Do you still bear the same coat of arms as previously, sir, or have you taken on another in the time you were…away?” he finished lamely.
Realization struck Alissende with stunning force. This strange reception did not stem simply from the scandal attached to Damien’s last attendance at court, or even to the ties he might be perceived to bear, still, to the beleaguered Brotherhood of Templar Knights. She had expected that. But more so, it seemed that this man—this low-ranking servant in the king’s household—somehow knew about Damien’s brush with the Inquisition in France. To most humble folk, speaking with a person like Damien was tantamount to standing face-to-face with a ghost. Or a soul damned to hell.
Either way, she knew they had Hugh to thank for this uncomfortable welcome.
“I carry the Ashby coat of arms, as always,” Damien affirmed tightly.
“Very good, sir. I will convey as much to the tourney’s king-of-arms and to King Edward’s herald.”
The scribe seemed to have regained much of his composure, and he added the remaining information to the parchment before looking up and motioning them through the gate. “His Majesty’s official welcome will begin within the hour. In the meantime, there are trestles set around the courtyard laden with refreshments for your pleasure.”
Nodding, Damien escorted Alissende through the gates, though neither of them missed the second pointed look and nod that the scribe directed to his cohort across the way. They had hardly taken ten paces into the courtyard before a young squire darted past them, disappearing after he crossed the yard, into one of the many ornate, arched doorways of the keep.
“Hugh demanded notice of our arrival,” Damien murmured, still leading her on with seeming nonchalance.
“So it would seem.”
Alissende felt the muscles of Damien’s arm tighten, and she glanced up at his face, seeing that the bitter, strained expression from earlier had returned.
“We do not need to continue with this, you know,” she said quietly, after looking to ensure that none were within earshot of her words. “It would be little trouble to withdraw your name from the lists. We could be back at Glenheim in less than two days.”
Damien glanced down at her in surprise, the tightness of his expression shifting to a smile that somehow seemed at odds with the sharp and feral light still glowing from his eyes. “Nay, lady; that would be the very worst thing we could do. None must doubt the fullness of your protection. I am up to the task of facing Hugh de Valles or any other, never fear.”
She did not answer. Still, the knot in her stomach twisted more tightly, and she resisted the urge to wipe her suddenly clammy hands against her skirt. Hugh was a master of manipulation, and who knew what other plots he was brewing for them in his devious mind?
But Damien was aware of that now as well as she was, and so she kept silent, instead following him toward one of the refreshment tables laden with cups of wine. As she did, she sent up a silent prayer, asking that she might find some way to help calm her anxieties enough to get through the rest of this day and the meeting with the king that lay ahead.
Damien watched Alissende sipping—nay, gulping—her third cup of spiced wine in the quarter hour they had been within the sturdy confines of Odiham’s curtain wall. Her gaze darted nervously around the groups of people who stood at a respectful distance from them, while still managing to surreptitiously stare to their hearts’ content.
Many of these nobles looked familiar to Damien from his time at court those years ago, but none apparently wished to be the first to make an approach. Nay, it was too risky, from a social standpoint. He was a pariah of sorts, not only a publicly disgraced former champion but also a recent member of the suspect Brotherhood of Templars, fresh from interrogation by the Inquisition. Add to that the perception that Alissende had seemingly thumbed her nose at the king himself by taking a lowborn husband without royal permission, and it was little surprise that many of these lords and ladies wished to avoid them.
However, as little as that circumstance bothered Damien, he could not deny that it was affecting Alissende adversely. Her nerves were on edge, by all appearances, winding tighter and tighter, regardless of the wine she consumed. It was up to him to do something to try to ease her tension.
“Come with me, lady.”
He took her hand gently but firmly, and she was forced to set down her cup as he tugged her away from the table. Locking her hand and wrist in the crook of his arm, he began to walk toward the castle keep, giving her no choice but to follow him.
“Where are we going?” she whispered, still casting nervous looks about her as they strode on.
“Inside.”
