She wrung her hands like being in his tent was all terribly thrilling and a servant—a thin, quiet fellow who probably had his ear talked off every hour of the day—worked to smooth the stretched seams of her wool riding dress, until she batted him away.
Hal tried to keep his expression tame. She was his lady, his patron, and even if she was odd as hell and turning up to tournaments without her husband like it was nothing, what could he do about it? Until he found someone better willing to back him, he was stuck with her and the piece of his future she owned.
“Ser Halden,” she said, inclining her head in the barest acknowledgment. She gave an awkward grin and opened her hands. “Another victory.”
“My lady.” Hal didn’t rise. Let her see him like this—bare-chested and unashamed, the knight she’d chosen to sponsor proving his worth. For whatever reason, one not even Perrin had come to guess, she was stuck with them, too.
Only in very specific ways could Hal use that to his advantage. Not moving right now was one of them.
Her eyes flickered to Perrin, whose hands continued their steady work on Hal’s shoulders. A fraction of disapproval crossed her face, there and gone in a breath. Ha! He’dbet his life she wasn’t used to this sort of treatment, no matter how small her noble house.
As if noticing Hal’s semi-nakedness for the first time, Lady Isolde politely turned her gaze away. She addressed the tent flap, saying, “The crowd was particularly enthusiastic today.” She snapped her fingers, and the servant produced a pouch. “Which makes for a healthy purse!”
The servant tottered forward and lowered the sack for Hal to take. Hal thought about snubbing it, just to see the look on his face. But shit, gold was gold. He snatched it from the servant’s palm.
“House Pidon’s pride will demand a wager on the next match,” she continued. “I’ve encouraged their steward to consider it a matter of honour. So that’s one for the next tournament to look forward to.”
Of course, she had. Lady Isolde had a talent for making men feel they had something to prove. It had worked on Hal, once, and look where he’d ended up. Hal had been born indentured to House Fenholt and raised as one of many men-at-arms. For a long time, that made for an unremarkable life, until Lord Fenholt, whose holdings sat on the border between Valenne and Karsault, decided he wanted a little more land than he had. The Sevenfold Realm was a fucking big kingdom, but it still only took up a third of the supercontinent; Lord Fenholt was right in that there was plenty more land to be had, even if the way he went about it spelled inevitable war. Thus, Hal had been perfectly positioned to stop the lord’s stupid son dying a stupid death, yanking the youth back in his saddle just in time to keep an enemy halberd from punching through his pale throat.
The act had earned Hal his knighthood, and things had been good for a time. Until Lady Isolde saw him trying to make a name for himself in the lists and approached.
“I hear rumours you saved Lord Fenholt’s boy,” she’d said.
“They are no rumours,” Hal had replied.
Lady Isolde had only shrugged. “I hear rumours you made that story up. That you’re some upstart who won’t last the season.” Hal had bristled at her words, and she’d put her hand out, like she meant for him to touch it. “I think you and I can prove them wrong.”
So, sure, she’d manipulated his pride a bit. Still, she’d plucked him from obscurity with her patronage. But that debt had been paid in full with each victory and each coin he brought to her house’s coffers. Not to mention the money she earned from her unscrupulous wagers, which—if that fat purse was anything to go by—earned a deal more than Hal’s legitimate wins.
“Three more victories,” she said, her voice taking on the edge of someone discussing a business transaction rather than feats of arms, “and we break the record for consecutive victories in the western circuit.”
We. As if she’d lifted a lance even once in her life.
“There are three days left in this tournament before the season’s over. If you aren’t victorious, you’ll have to wait for the next season to prove your worth.” Next season was two months away, which wasn’t a lifetime, but wasn’t nothing when you lived off your winnings. Nor when the crowd’s loyalties were fickle. “We don’t want to wait that long, do we, hm?”
“I’m aware,” Hal said. Perrin, the naughty thing, pressed a little harder on a sore spot, so Hal flinched and remembered his manners. “Thank you for your visit, my lady.”
Lady Isolde smiled, hip popping to the side with glee. She clapped her hands together. “Oh, of course. Rest well,ser knight!”
She left without waiting for him to respond, simply turned and walked out with her servant. When the tent flap dropped closed, Hal took a deep breath. He wasn’t usually so dramatic, but something about her presence fogged him up. With her gone, he could finally fill his lungs properly again.
He grabbed the money pouch she’d left, bouncing it in his hand. Heavier than before. That was good. But it didn’t feel as good as it should’ve.
“She doesn’t even like watching the jousts,” he said to the empty air. “Just counts the coin they bring in.”
Perrin’s hands stilled on his shoulders. “She secured your knighthood.”
He rolled his eyes. “And reminds me of it at every turn.”
Perrin, apparently, didn’t know what to do with that. Anytime their conversations edged out of the familiar territory of his duties, the squire wavered. Now, his hands hovered awkwardly, and when he started up his movement again, an angry heat grew high in Hal’s chest. He reached up and grabbed Perrin’s wrist.
“Enough.” Perrin’s hands fell away. Hal waved the air next to him. “Sit down.”
When the squire didn’t move, Hal turned around. Perrin was hesitating, glancing at the equipment still in need of attention.
“I said sit.”
The squire lowered himself to the edge of the cot, keeping a careful distance between them. Hal closed that distance with a shift of his weight and aligned their shoulders. Neither spoke. The sounds of the tournament grounds filtered through the canvas—distant laughter, the crackleof fires, the occasional whinny of horses settling for the night.
