“We were just having a bit of ale, daughter.” He looked at Zander and grinned. “She can be a bit of a scold. Not shrewish as such. Not too much, at least.”
“She isn’t scoldingme,” Zander said. “You are the one who is late.”
“You are as well,” she said. “Let us make haste. It would be a fine thing if the champion were not there when the prize is given.”
She set off with long strides. They followed, side by side. Her father muttered something. Both he and Zandergiggled.
She turned on them, hands on hips. “You are drunk already.”
“Not hardly,” Zander said.
Her father nodded. “Not even half so.”
Zander stepped around her and continued walking. “Come along, or we will be late.”
She all but grabbed her father’s tunic and set off again.
“We were remembering old times,” her father said. “He had some clumsy moments as a squire.”
“And you were reminding him of those?”
“They were funny,” he said defensively.
They had to dodge through bodies to reach the castle entrance, then squeeze through more to get to the Great Hall. Already some guests sat there. The two long aisles of tables, covered with white linens, stretched up to the dais on which the lord’s high table waited. Servants pointed out benches to guests, seating the more notable closest to the dais.
Elinor assumed Zander would be sent to the front, but he had disappeared as soon as they entered, lost in the sea of bodies around them. She and her father were given places in the middle of one of the long tables, which she thought generous of Lord Yves.
Ale already waited in pitchers. Her father poured some into his tumbler. He gazed around. “Very festive. The lord has spent well on this.”
Festive it was indeed. Elinor took in the flaming torches on the walls, and the low fire burning in the trench that ran between the aisles. Servants still hung more pennants from the rafters, so that fluttering colors draped the space overhead. A group blocked Lord Yves’s place at the high table, and she soon saw why. Someone lifted a magnificent sword with a red jewel in the hilt. That would be sword given to the champion, she assumed.
She looked again for Zander but could not find him. Then the doorway cleared for a moment and she spotted him right outside, talking to someone. A smile, a handclasp, and Zander entered. Lord Marcus walked with him.
It was done then. The choice had been made. A good choice. The right one. She would have advised he take it, even if it meant he would live far to the south, and she would certainly never see him again. Her heart knew happiness for his sake, but sorrow for her own.
She did not grieve. She had long accepted this would happen. She guessed the betrothal would be announced here tonight, and she would have to witness it.
He smiled at her when he walked past on his way to the dais. Or maybe he smiled at her father. It was hard to tell. She poured herself some of that ale. This promised to be a very long feast.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zander followed the page to the high table, curious to see where he would be seated. As the tourney champion it should be near Lord Yves. There was the chance that Lord Yves would decide that the challenge with Sir Hugo had in some way disqualified him. That was not part of the competition rules, but as host and lord of the manor Yves could do whatever he wanted.
When the servant pointed to a spot two places away from Lord Yves, it was clear that no such surprise would be coming. Since he had made plans that depended on the prize, the evidence lightened his spirit.
Lord Yves took his place, with Lord Marcus to his left. Beside Marcus, little Matilda set herself down. She saw Zander and smiled.
As soon as Zander sat, a silken fabric brushed his cheek. Lady Judith was taking the place between him and Yves. He wondered what she had said to their host in order to be given this spot. From the smoldering smile she turned on Zander, he could only imagine. Then again, this could be Yves’s way of punishing him for that forfeit with Sir Hugo.
Lord Yves stood. The hall slowly quieted. Lord Yves lifted the sword laid across the table in front of the elaborate, tall salt cellar that decorated his spot. “It is time to announce the champion. I am sure we were all impressed by his prowess in the lists, and his victory comes as no surprise. It is also fitting that a crusader is so—”
“Not fitting at all,” a man’s voice growled from the back of the chamber. “Forfeited to an old, lame knight.”
Zander chose not to look to that voice or see who had so spoken. From the corner of his eye, however, he saw some heads nod.
Lord Yves did look to the voice. “You disagree with my decision? There is time for one more competition. Perhaps you would like to challengeme, to see whose judgement should prevail.”
Total silence greeted that. Then low laughter eddied through the crowd.
