A crash echoes through the air. The crowd cheers so loud, it’s almost deafening.
I slowly peel my eyes open, looking for Simon and any signs of life. I find him steering his horse back around the pitch, still in one piece. His lance is gone, and his opponent is being helped to his feet by three attendants. I slump back in relief, my spine hitting the engraved back of the chair.
Henry is clapping merrily beside me as Simon urges his horse in our direction. He stops in front of us and pulls off his helmet. His hair is matted down with sweat, and a nasty cut is red and swollen just under his eye. He steals a glance in my direction before looking to the king.
“Well done, Gainsford. I had every faith in you.” Henry leans toward me now, speaking into my ear. “You may give him your favor, my love.”
Excusez-moi?
I look to Bessie for clarification. “The handkerchief you’re holding,” she whispers, nudging her head toward Simon. “Give it to him.”
Right. Obviously. Because all I would give him is my handkerchief.
I dutifully stand and make my way to the wooden divider surrounding the box. Simon is a few feet below, squinting his eyes into the sun as he gazes up at me. My dress suddenly feels a notch tighter than usual. Full armor is... not a bad look on him.
“You’re bleeding,” I blurt out, not sure of what else to say.
“It’s from an earlier match. It doesn’t hurt.” I doubt he would tell me if it did.
“You should still have it looked at. It could get infected.”
He nods his head before turning it back up to me. “I will, my lady.” This guy just molly wopped a dude off a horse with a wooden plank and now he’s calling me “my lady.” A quiet tremor winds through my belly, forcing me to partially recant what I thought about jousting not being my kind of foreplay.
Bessie clears her throat behind me, spurring me into action as I drop my handkerchief over the edge. Simon catches it as it falls, holding the dainty material in his hand before he safely stows it away in the armor at his wrist.
“Thank you, my lady,” he says. He turns his horse, and I can’t stop myself from calling his attention back.
“It was an impressive win,” I tell him, “even if it wasn’t bird-watching.”
Sunlight catches his faint smile as he meets my gaze. “I couldn’t let Bartholomew lose that two pence.” I suppress my smirk as I dutifully go back to my seat at Henry’s side, and he sits forward again to speak.
“Once you’ve cleaned yourself up, Gainsford, I have need of your assistance. It’s an urgent task on behalf of my beautiful bride.” The king takes my hand and kisses it. The ick it inspires is strong, but I don’t show it.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Simon bows his head and rides off towards a cluster of tents.
Henry turns to me, his expression stuck between amusement and regret. “I would that I could ride in your honor—that you could see me do so. But I’m afraid those times are over.”
I force my attention away from Simon’s retreating form and focus back on Henry. Maybe if the king had a physical outlet of his own, he wouldn’t be chasing the fountain of youth though “love.” He seems able enough to ride a horse. Why shouldn’t he get out there again?
“They don’t have to be over,” I tell him. “There must be other things you could do besides jousting to feel fulfilled.”
His features brighten with the hopefulness of a bridegroom. “You’re right, of course. My happiest days are still ahead.”
My stomach sinks.
He kisses my hand once more and stands to talk to someone in religious garb near the barrier. I’m considering just how I could have phrased my suggestion less suggestively when I feel Bessie leaning in over my shoulder.
“Brace yourself. Here comes your uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.”
Her warning barely registers before she disappears behind me, and the seat to my right is taken by a formidable man in his late sixties. He’s in an immaculately tailored outfit of all black with decorative silver embellishments. He could be attractive, but there’s a wiliness in his eyes and chin that stop him short of it.
“My dear Catherine.” His voice is light and carefully measured. He takes a pleasant breath in as he gazes around us. It smells like horse turds and spilled ale, but he sighs like he just caught a whiff of Christmas dinner.
“Our shining day is nearly upon us,” he says. “Another niece of mine will be queen. I pray that you won’t squander the opportunity as Anne did.”
Thanks to Cecily’s interactive puppet history lesson last night, I know exactly who he’s referring to. Anne Boleyn was Catherine’s cousin and Henry’s second queen. The king pursued her for seven years before he broke from the Catholic Church and divorced his first wife to marry her. They had a daughter. He fell out of “love.” And Anne was executed three years later.
Thomas Howard—the Duke of Norfolk—was a driving force in putting Anne on the throne, then a driving force in marching her to the chopping block. Cecily teased that he would marry the king himself if he could, but since he can’t, it seems to be my turn next.
