“They favor Prince John, that much I know. One, Sir Lionel, has his camp over by the river, with that group of knights who all are of a treasonous bent if you ask me. Sir Lionel is in the thick of it, looking for others of like mind. I saw him as they came in, approaching the poorest among them, starting conversations, pointing them to his camp, being all friendly and helpful.”
“Is he here with someone at the castle?”
“His lord, you mean? Not that I know, but I’ve not been overly friendly with the man.”
“Learn what you can about him.”
Harold arrived then, out of breath, and set about his duties. Zander stood while the sandy-haired lad clad him in his mail and buckled on the plate that protected his shoulders, neck, and shins. He held the surcoat with Jean Fitzwarryn’s colors, and draped Zander in the cloth.
Angus stood, and picked up his shield, helmet, and sword. Harold hoisted the lances and banner. Together, they all walked out to the lists.
Elinor worked her new steel needle, plying it through the red silk. What a joy it was to sew with a good tool, sharp and thin, instead of her old iron ones that she had to sharpen almost daily so they did not ruin fabric. This one pulled the red silk thread cleanly, making invisible holes in the weave of the fine, transparent fabric.
The luxury of the silk seduced her whenever she handled it. Even if she had not wanted to do a good job for the sake of her old friendship with Zander, she would never have given less than her best to such a wonderful material. As it was, her tiny, evenly spaced stitches would create a fitting gift to the woman he courted with it.
She worked to the west of the tent, where the sun shone brightly but the strong breeze did not cause the silk to float like a banner. She heard her father’s steps near the front. He was coming back from one of those conversations in another nearby tent. She worried about what was being said there, but when she’d asked he’d rebuffed her, telling her to concern herself with women’s things.
“Two of us will meet him on the field this afternoon,” a voice said. She recognized it as Sir Lionel. She did not care for the man. His face reminded her of a rat, with its long nose and sparse hair above his lip. Even his eyes, small and intense, contributed to the image.
Mostly, she did not like him because their camp was here, out of the way, due to him. When they arrived on that poor, mud-caked cart, Sir Lionel had extended a welcome before anyone else. He knew her father from years ago. Her father had been glad to see a familiar face, and accepted Sir Lionel’s offer for them to camp near him.
So now she lived in isolation, instead of among the central camps where other women could be found. And her father sat in a circle outside with the knights congregated here, complaining and getting up to no good.
“You best leave something of him for me to fight,” her father said. “I’ll not be denied my right to meet him.”
Sir Lionel laughed. “Come watch. We will not keep him from being able to fight another day. We will just make it harder for him to do so. Bring him down a bit.”
“I don’t need him brought down. I don’t want anything to cause people to say it wasn’t a clean win when I best him.”
“Of course, old friend. Don’t worry. Your victory will not be compromised. We wouldn’t want Prince John to think that.”
A long pause had Elinor stretching her ears.
“You think he will want to see me when he learns of it, for certain?”
“Lord Jean is a thorn in his side. Those marcher lords wield great power, and if they stand against him, he will have too much trouble on the border. He will be delighted that you defeated Fitzwarryn’s champion.” Sir Lionel’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “He will offer you service, and you will never again ride anywhere in a cart.”
The conversation became muffled then. They must have entered the tent. Elinor eyed the lower edge of the canvas next to her. If she lifted it with her toe—
“Elinor.”
She looked up to see her father standing right in front of her.
“I am going to watch the competitions. I will be home for supper well before dusk.”
She merely nodded, then returned to her needle. A few more minutes, and she would have to set it aside to cook. Lord Yves had not invited them to more meals. It went without saying that no one would be eating swan tonight.
She was finishing the end of her row of stitches when Sir Lionel passed by on the way to his camp, talking to a man she had not seen before. This friend had wealth and station, from the looks of his long tunic and noble bearing. He also had cunning eyes, the kind that always seemed to be seeking something in whatever they saw. She could not hear what they said, but she heard her father’s name mentioned.
They noticed her, and Sir Lionel stopped talking. Murmurs began again once they had passed. When she brought her sewing to the tent flap, she saw them entering Sir Lionel’s pavilion.
She set down her sewing and strolled toward the river to wash. On impulse, she turned her path so she passed behind Sir Lionel’s tent. She could hear voices as she approached and slowed her steps.
“He will never defeat him,” a voice she did not know said. The other man, she assumed.
“He only needs to make a good show. And John only needs to favor him for it. Once he is John’s man, he will be useful, I think,” Sir Lionel said.
She stopped walking on hearing that. It was much what Lionel had said to her father about competing against Zander. He now seemed to be discussing the same thing with this man.
