Zander did not look back at him, but his quiet voice carried well enough. “Twice now you have hurled that insult, Sir Hugo. Do not do it again.”
“I’ll call a dog a dog if I’ve breath left.”
“That is the question, isn’t it? Whether you will long have breath left if you insult me further.”
The guests near them at the table watched, fascinated. Even those at the nearest spots on a lower table waited while tight silence reigned a few moments. She heard a low whisper, coming from she knew not whom. “The Devil’s Blade.”
“And do not even think to use that knife,” Zander added. “Raise it one inch and I will break your arm.”
Her father puffed up his chest. “I’ve no need to cut you down here. I’ll be seeing you on the field, though, and exacting my due.”
“Father—”
“Silence, daughter.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, throwing her chair back much as he had his own. It crashed to the floor behind her. “I’ll not have you break bread with him.” He looked around at all the eyes watching. He gestured to Zander. “This knight and others left me to die on the field. We were sworn to each other, but when things turned bad, they ran, leaving me behind, wounded, to be taken or killed.” He sneered at Zander. “I’m glad you came, Sir Alexander. God has blessed me with your presence here, so I can make you pay for how you wronged me.”
With that, her father dragged her away, down the whole high table. They stopped half a moment to thank their host, then she tripped out the door, hanging off her father’s firm grip.
CHAPTER THREE
Elinor walked toward the castle the next morning. She ignored the attention she garnered from some of the camps that she passed. Her father’s outburst towards Sir Alexander had made her famous, and not in a good way. Now everyone waited to see what challenge would be issued, by which knight, and how it would all end.
Not well, she knew. A sick sensation had lodged at the pit of her stomach. It had been there all night, and still plagued her. She hid her dismay, however, and strode forth.
She trusted nothing would happen until she finished mending her father’s crimson surcoat. He would want to look his best when he fought for his honor. She needed red thread to do a proper job, and she had none, however. Hopefully, this mercer Zander had mentioned would.
Guards stood at the town gate. A sign announced a curfew beginning at dusk. All visitors not staying at the castle had to depart by then. Lord Yves did not want drunken men fighting in the lanes at night.
She made her way through the town, following the path Zander had given her. It was a town like many others, with narrow lanes and half-timbered buildings. Second levels jutted out over the street, where owners had stolen a few more feet for their homes. Gutters ran down the center of river stone pavements, and a stream of water carried away the waste in them.
The mercer’s shop stood near the center of the town, facing the church. It looked to be a fine establishment, with new whitewashing. She entered to find tables and boards covered in fine goods. The long table with fabrics drew her at once.
She touched wools and linens of all qualities and colors. She imagined gowns of her own and mantles.
At the very end of the table two bolts rested, of a material she had never seen in a shop. She fingered one of them, a red with a bit of gold thread weaving through. Her fingertips slid over the fabric easily, and it showed her hand through it. Silk.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
She startled and looked over to see Zander five paces away. “Very beautiful. How does this town afford such as this?”
“As I said, this mercer has special goods just for the tournament visitors. There are lords and ladies in the castle who can afford such as this. And of course, Lord Yves himself can.”
She set aside the silk. Too rich for her, even if she were going to make a new dress, which she was not. She walked around Zander and approached the mercer.
“I need red thread,” she explained. “Crimson.”
The man poked around some baskets on shelves along the wall. He set down a little skein of thread, tied with a thin rope. Zander warmed her side and picked it up with his fine fingers. He had a handsome hand, masculine and strong, and somewhat elegant in its proportions. A puckered scar ran along his last finger. She supposed he had other scars now as well. Most knights did.
“Are you here to buy thread too?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Then why are you here?”
“To see you. I watched from the castle until you left your camp and walked up here.”
“Shouldn’t you be practicing with your sword or some such thing, to prepare? At the least, my father will challenge you, and others probably will as well.”
“You must convince him not to. His tournament days are over. He is not fit for it.”
