And so the day went on. With each passing pair of contestants, Rhiannon was aware of her mood lowering. Her guard returned with no news of anyone answering Tudor’s description. No Welsh knights to speak of. No horses known to be biters. Nothing togive her hope. And yet… and yet. Something still stirred within her. Something she had not felt when attending other tournaments.
‘He must be here,’ she murmured to herself. ‘He must be.’
His Lordship’s herald was on his feet, making much of announcing the next contenders.
‘My Lords! We come to what was to be the most breathlessly anticipated match of this tourney! On my right, as announced earlier, Baron Hubert de Courcey of Normandy, fresh from unbroken success in his native France! A man with a shining record of triumphs! A man who has laid claim to the title of Champion more than any single knight! He travelled from France to be here this day, ready to fight his most famous adversary, Sir Robert Philips!’ At this there was a cheer from the crowd. There were many who had come expressly to see their home grown favourite compete, and this match was to be the highlight of the day. ‘Alas, my Lords, my Ladies, I have to tell you, Sir Robert will not compete.’ Now there was a heartfelt groan from the crowd, followed by boos and shouts of dissatisfaction and disappointment. ‘Fear not!’ The herald had to raise his voice several notches to be heard. ‘Fear not, for we have, in Sir Robert’s stead, a knight of the finest order and skills.’ The crowd were still restless, doubting thispromise, convinced the day would dwindle to a poor show. ‘His name may not yet be familiar to you, but that is only because he too has recently returned to England. His triumphs have been in France and Germany, and I promise you they are many and glorious. On my left, I present to you, Sir John Meredith!’
At the mention of the familiar Welsh name, Rhiannon felt her breath catch in her throat. She silently told herself to temper her excitement. It was a common enough name. And this knight had lived mostly abroad. Even so, when he manoeuvred his horse to stand before LordFlenchcomb she found herself watching him closely, her pulse racing. He was broad shouldered. His armour was of good quality but understated in design and decoration. His chestnut destrier wore a rug of pale blue, which was not the colour she had seen in her vision. Something else caught her eye. Though the horse’s colours were pale and cool, his shield was not. Upon it was painted a white leaping horse on a background of dark red, with a gold trim to the edge. She heard herself gasp. It was possible this knight, as a late substitution to the tournament, was riding in his friend’s place, without time to change to his own colours. But the coat of arms on his shield would surely be his. Indeed, his armour, now that she looked at it more closely, did not fit him well, suggesting that too was borrowed. He hadcome to the tourney not as a contestant, initially, but had stepped in to fill the gap in the programme when Sir Robert became unwell. This serendipity struck her as meaningful, for had the original knight been fit to compete, she might never have knownthisman was in attendance. Might never have seen his face as he lifted his visor.
‘My Lady? Are you quite well?’ Eleri asked, alarmed at the small cry her mistress had given.
Rhiannon’s hands had flown to her mouth. The shock of seeing him, after so many, many years, took her breath away. He was the same. Exactly the same. Even though she could see so little of him, she could see enough to know that the witches of the White Shadow had been true to their promise. This was Tudor. Not a descendent. Not some conjured simulacrum. Not a ghost. He was there, in front of her, warm and real and living.
‘My Lady?’ Eleri gently touched her mistress’s arm. Rhiannon jumped and recovered herself as best she could, patting her maid’s hand.
Tudor’s opponent, the French Baron, on his fine black stallion, bowed low before Lady Flenchcombe and then accepted her token, taking her ribbon from a herald and tying it to the plume of his helmet. At once, several ladies removed tokens - scarves, ribbons and detachablesleeves - and held them as coquettishly as they knew how, hoping to catch Tudor’s eye. But he did not see them. Rhiannon saw that his head was turning in her direction, even though she sat a little way from the most illustrious guests. He was searching the crowd. Was it her he sought? Did he feel her presence? Did he know she was there? Just as it seemed he must find her, one of the ladies-in-waiting to Lady Flenchcombe stood up, shamelessly offering her lemon yellow scarf.
‘Sir John,’ Lord Flenchcombe sought to smooth over her vulgar gesture so the knights could get on with the serious business of jousting. ‘Will you champion Lord Netherborne’s niece?’
Tudor turned towards his host then, away from Rhiannon. Just as it seemed he would do what was asked of him, the girl gave a shout as a large, grey, hairy hound bounded up to her, snatched the scarf, and ran away into the crowd. There was loud laughter from the spectators. The nobleman’s niece sat down, her face scarlet, her friends attempting to comfort her.
Now Tudor turned to his left once more and in an instant, his gaze fell upon Rhiannon.
‘My Lady,’ he said calmly in his soft, deep voice, the voice she had loved and longed to hear for so many years, ‘do you have a token for me?’
In a moment of panic, she realised she had nothing to give him. The sleeves of her own gown were woven in and could not be detached. She was wearing no scarf nor any ribbons. She sensed Eleri and her fellow maid, casting about for something they might lend her. And then it came to her what she must do. Without it being seen, she plucked a thread from her gown and held it tight in her hand. She stood up then, reciting beneath her breath the ancient words that Mamgi had taught her and that now came to her as instinct. She made her way down the tiers of seating until she came to the balustrade. Tudor, seeing what she was doing, steered his horse over to where she was. The lowest level of the viewing stand at this point was a little higher than the horse’s shoulder. Tudor reined in the destrier and waited. Rhiannon could now hardly conceal her joy at seeing him. She closed her eyes for a second and then opened them, uncurling her fist as she did so, to reveal the bright, fragrant sprig of honeysuckle she now held. She reached forwards. There was a buckle on his shoulder that secured his breastplate. With trembling hand, she tucked the stem of the flower into it, hiding it as she did so in order that no-one else could see the way it suddenly grew and entwined its tendrils along the leather strap, holding it secure.
She looked into his eyes then, the fragrance of the honeysuckle between them, and an exchange of glances that held within it centuries of longing.
‘Stay safe, brave knight,’ she told him.
He nodded and lowered his visor, the trumpets blaring once more as the contestants took their positions at either end of the field.
Rhiannon returned to her seat to find Taran waiting there, a somewhat soggy yellow scarf in his mouth. She took it from him, hastily handing it to Eleri to hide, and turned her attention to the contest.
‘Oh, my Lady,’ Eleri said breathlessly. ‘You have the most handsome champion!’
‘Hush, Eleri,’ she said, more sharply than she intended, the thought that after all this time she might now have to witness Tudor getting wounded again unsettling her.
There was a roar from the crowd as the two men set their horses to galloping. Both mounts were well trained and knew their job, keeping straight and fast as they tore towards their opponent. Tudor couched his lance, as did the Baron. The two met at the halfway point, both striking each other’s shields, the force of the impact making them reel and turn in their saddles, but neither was unseated. Rhiannon found she had beenholding her breath. Eleri sought her hand and she held it tight.
Tudor wheeled his horse about. His man gave him a fresh lance. He waited, skilfully controlling his agitated horse and holding his shield with his left hand and arm, using his right to balance and aim the heavy lance. He gave his horse its head and it sprang forwards.
Again the two men met almost at the halfway point, but this time the Baron missed his mark. He presented himself at a vulnerable angle, so that Tudor’s lance struck his breastplate, unseating him. The crowed gasped as the Frenchman hit the ground heavily. As the rules dictated, Tudor bid his horse stop, having it skid to a halt, hocks beneath it, head high, mouth foaming. He dropped his lance, jumped down from the saddle and drew his sword. Baron de Courcey took a moment to get to his feet, the weight of his armour necessitating an inelegant scramble to do so. Tudor reached him before he was properly balanced, so that it took only a light blow with the flat of his sword to topple the nobleman again. Tudor stepped forwards and held the point of his blade to the man’s throat. The crowd fell silent.
Lord Flenchcombe got to his feet, acknowledging the win, but Tudor’s gaze was elsewhere. Again he sought out Rhiannon.
‘My Lady!’ he called. ‘My victory is yours. What would you have of me?’
All eyes turned to the young Welsh noblewoman. She replied with more composure than she felt.
‘It would be a shame not to have the Baron entertain people further. Let him live, so that others may applaud his skills.’ She smiled then, removing from her teasing words any sting they might carry.
The crowd laughed and then cheered. Tudor nodded to his opponent and stepped back, lowering his sword and bowing in the direction of the woman who had so swiftly and completely captivated him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
London, 2019
