It was wrong to take pleasure in such trifles, he knew. Allowing softer emotions like those in which he was indulging today oft led to dangerous mistakes on the field. Still, he could not help but wonder if the work of keeping Alissende out of his thoughts was proving a greater disruption, and therefore a greater danger to his success.
The truth was that she occupied his mind almost constantly, just as she had those years ago, when last he had fought with all his heart and soul to be champion of the tournament at which he was to claim her. Yet he wasn’t the same man now that he had been then, despite what Alissende seemed to think. He could not forget it. The harsh reality replayed itself over and over in his mind like a cursed chant: This was entirely different—a battle that needed winning not to claim Alissende but to help protect her for the future she would need to lead without him in a few more months. The future she must live as someone else’s wife.
Ignoring the sharp lance of agony that went through him at that thought, Damien gritted his teeth. He shifted to allow Thomas to fasten on the cuisse plates that would protect the top portion of his legs, reminding himself that the outcome with Alissende could be no otherwise. He was a former Templar Knight, an accused heretic who lived in freedom under naught but the flimsy protection of a false Writ of Absolution. That ruse would not hold forever, and when someone discovered the truth, disaster would follow. He would be hauled back into the foul keeping of the Inquisition, along with anyone intimately attached to him.
A wife would be as suspect as her husband in such an instance, for to be united in marriage was to be of one flesh, in the eyes of the Church. He could not imperil Alissende like that, even if she was willing to imperil herself.
In recent weeks he had allowed himself the fantasy of imagining something different. Of envisioning Alissende as his true wife, a woman who loved him enough that she would leave everything behind and go with him to the hills of Scotland, where those who had found themselves damned by the Church could find refuge. Scotland’s king, Robert Bruce, had himself suffered papal excommunication, and so he had opened the doors of his kingdom wide to others in that same predicament, including any Templar who managed to evade arrest and make his way across the border.
But he knew he could not ask Alissende to sacrifice so much for him. He wouldn’t. He did not think he could bear the pain of her refusing him again if he did.
So he had resolved to do what he could to keep her safe from Hugh. He would defeat her odious cousin on the lists today, stinging the man’s pride and hopefully, in the process, ensuring that he would lose the stomach for pursuing Alissende again. It was what Damien did best, after all—fight and win. It was all he could offer her in good conscience, no matter what the growing need inside him desired.
“It is almost time, my lord,” Thomas said quietly, stepping back, and Damien glanced up, jolted from his musings for a second time this morn by his squire’s low voice. In the minutes he had been lost in thought, Thomas had seen him completely padded and armored for combat, all but for his helm, which would be donned just before the first pass of jousting on horseback.
Damien shook his head, wondering at the number of distracting thoughts he was allowing himself this day. By heaven, he’d better pull himself together and find his focus soon, or all of his plans for giving Hugh the drubbing he deserved would prove for naught, andhewould be the one forced to withdraw in defeat.
“You have done well, Thomas,” Damien said, meeting his squire’s reverent gaze. “Your help, now, with my surcoat over all, and we shall be ready to go out and face the crowd that is gathered to witness a grand spectacle this day.”
“Aye, my lord,” Thomas answered, clearly struggling to contain his excitement.
The youth slipped the cloth garment over Damien’s head, tugging and lacing it over his chain mail and armor so that the Ashby emblem hung straight and true. For all his humble beginnings, Damien wore it with pride. It was the same design that was emblazoned on his shield: azure, an ermine chevron between three golden leopard faces.
“Are my lances readied, Thomas?” Damien asked, adjusting the mail portion of the gauntlet on his sword hand one last time.
“Aye, master. They await you with Reginald and Bertram at the end of the lists—three softwood lances, blunted as is required, along with a second tourney sword, your favored destrier, and your shield.”
“And the second mount I requested of you—the one not suited for combat but for riding. Is it readied near the field as well?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Nodding, Damien ruffled the boy’s hair, earning another grin, this one filled with all the exasperation that only youths who yearn more than all else to be full-grown men can show.
“All right then, Thomas,” Damien said, smiling back and giving him a wink for good measure. “Gather the sacks of water and our other supplies. It is time to go and ensure that none in attendance today will ever forget the battle that is to come…most especially his lordship, Hugh de Valles, the Earl of Harwick.”
Alissende sat in the first row of scaffolding facing the lists, granted that prime position by virtue of the fact that Damien had proven himself the most valiant and skillful venant of the entire tournament this week. She felt a combination of pride and dread in that fact. She should have known that even wounded as he was, Damien would defeat every opponent for the chance to battle with Hugh, but still she could not help worrying at the risk he was taking with himself.
Binding his ribs for him each morning had given her a small sense of comfort; at least she’d known it had been done properly. But it had not quelled her trepidation over what might come from a direct confrontation with her dangerous cousin.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself, knowing it would do no good to dwell on what she could not control. Instead, she tried to look around and distract herself from her worried thoughts. The scaffolding was nearly full in readiness for the start of this final match.
Yet there were three empty seats on every side around her.
She was becoming rather used to the feeling of being avoided, she decided, for though many of these noble ladies and lords felt no hesitation in cheering Damien’s prowess in the lists, their goodwill did not extend to social acceptance of them as a married pair. Hugh’s powerful influence at this court had rendered them undesirable in this sense, even with the king’s reluctant acknowledgment of their union; none wanted to be the first to appear too friendly to them as a couple.
It was just as well. She’d preferred her solitude to the gossip about the king, the queen, and Piers Gaveston. The upstart Gascony knight had been handed the title to the rich earldom of Cornwall but a year ago, and most of the high-ranking members of court despised him. Further, his constant presence and unnatural closeness with Edward seemed to be causing much discord between the king and his bride, leading to no end of rumor and speculation.
As if in echo to her thoughts, at that moment the trumpet sounded, signaling the approach of King Edward and Queen Isabel; predictably, trailing only a step behind them, was Piers Gaveston. The crowd stood, and though Alissende could not see the royals very clearly from her position, she caught a glimpse or two of the richly robed monarchs before they took their seats and the king waved his hand in signal that the jousting could begin.
A flurry of activity erupted at the end of the field, and with a collective hum of reaction, the spectators fell silent in expectation of the combatants’ appearance. The gate that blocked off the tilting lists from the groundlings was pulled open by three of the king’s servants. Another trumpet sounded, this one of higher tone, signaling the entrance of the tenant champion, though he was preceded by a herald who stepped into the end of the arena and called out, “His Lordship Hugh de Valles, third Earl of Harwick, riding under the banner of the Valles household in honor of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Isabel!”
At that Hugh came through the gate atop his charger, resplendent in colors borne on both surcoat and shield: gold slashed with three red bars. The crest on his helm—a tiny golden crown draped in crimson ribbon—picked up the same hues, with two plumes, one in each color, waving back from the center of it. From his lance fluttered a small banner, decorated with the fleur-de-lis of France, given him by the queen.
The crowd roared their approval as he rode by, and if Alissende had not known what a scoundrel he was, she, too, might have been swayed by the impressive sight of him. As it stood, she felt naught but dread and lingering disgust in looking upon him. Pray God that this battle would pass without harm to Damien and with enough shame to Hugh that he would leave off pursuit of her for good.
Then it was Damien’s turn. Alissende looked toward the entry gate once more and saw him approach, walking next to his steed. Her heart beat harder at the sight of him. He held his helm, with its blue and gold plumes, in the crook of his arm, and as the sun glinted off his hair, her breath caught. He was incredibly, achingly handsome. A warrior of stunning power and deadly skill.
As he put on his helm and swung up onto his mount, his herald stepped forward into the arena and called out, “Sir Damien de Ashby, riding under the Ashby banner, for the honor of the Lady Alissende of Surrey!”
