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Aimee narrowed her eyes. Her sister-in-law was sweating profusely and looked to be in extreme discomfort. Even so, she could not bring herself to let such a comment pass. “I wonder if you would even have remembered so paltry a sum,” she said aloud. “Paltry to a baron’s daughter, that is, though not to a servant.” Her words were quietly spoken but held a sting. She doubted very much Magnatrude would have remembered to pay Matthews back. “My father, the merchant, taught me many things,” she said gravely, rising from the seat. “Including the prompt payment of debts. If my manners offend you, doubtless it is the disparity in our upbringings which is at fault.”

Magnatrude’s face was scarlet by this point, though whether it was from the hot summer sun or Aimee’s response, she neither knew nor cared by this point.

“Where are you going, Aimee?” she heard Freda cry as she walked to the end of the bench. “I think Konrad competes next.”

“I am going to stretch my legs and find some shade,” Aimee flung back over her shoulder and was glad to hear her voice sounded steady. She could feel the angry tremble in her fingers as she clenched and unclenched them. She had, had quite enough of Mistress Magnatrude, she seethed as she stalked down the steps with a rigid back. It was one thing to slight her, but she would not tolerate snide remarks about her father spoken to her face! Who did Magnatrude imagine she was anyway, to look down upon Gerold Ankatel, the wealthiest merchant in all Karadok?

Choking back angry words that made her throat burn, Aimee turned and paced the narrow walkway that separated their stand from the next. When she reached the next flight of stairs, she wheeled about and retraced her steps. She was fuming and still shaking with anger.

If there was some form she was supposed to follow, such as giving Matthews her monies to caretake, no one had troubled to inform her of it! She came to a halt and bit her lip. Was that what one was supposed to do? Ursula had taught her to keep a firm hold of her purse and to know where it was at all times.

She supposed it probably was different for nobles. She tapped her foot angrily as she contemplated the fact. Now she came to think of it, she had never seen Lady Wycliffe handling a coin in the entire month they had stayed with her. Plunking her hands on her hips, it occurred to her perhaps they considered the handling of vulgar coin as beneath them somehow?

“Milady,” the gruff voice made her turn in alarm, but it was only Matthews. “You can’t be down here by yourself,” he said apologetically. “It ain’t safe. Not for a fine lady like you to be unattended.”

Aimee nodded, though for a moment the words ‘I am not a fine lady’ had hovered perilously close to the tip of her tongue. It was no good taking out her anger on Matthews who was simply being conscientious. “I will just tarry a moment longer, Matthews, if you would not mind waiting,” she forced herself to say on an outward breath. “It is a good deal cooler down here, out of the sun.”

He nodded and reclined against one of the low separating walls, as she re-trod the same path for one final time in a vain attempt to soothe her ruffled feathers. She did not like her sister-in-law, she finally admitted to herself. And Magnatrude did not like her. It was not the end of the world and certainly not the first instance of such discord among in-laws. Even those who were all on equal footing. She shut her eyes and lowered her shoulders, breathing deliberately in and then out again. Another clamor went up from the crowd, and Aimee reflected that she had probably missed the final two bouts. She turned back to Matthews and forced a smile. “Let us return to the box.”

Hot tears pricked at the back of her eyes as Aimee climbed back up the steps to their stand. She did not want to return to her seat, she realized dully. Which was ridiculous. To act as though this spat with Magnatrude had spoiled everything was indescribably foolish. This moment was what she had been daydreaming about since Kellingford. Why, then, was she letting it be spoiled by the opinions of someone she did not even respect?

She was not the sensitive one, she reminded herself. That was Ursula. It wasn’t like her to take someone’s criticisms to heart. Then something flashed into her mind with unpleasant clarity. They were her sister’s words from before her marriage.

“Anyone whomarries outside the rank they were born into would need to be hardy of nature indeed.”

Ursula, she thought, had been right all along. She had been naïve where Ursula had been shrewd, she thought swallowing down a sudden lump in her throat. She had thought herself resilient enough, but Magnatrude’s refusal to accept her kinship had been steadily chipping away at her confidence since her wedding day.

Perhaps if Lord Kentigern had proved himself an attentive bridegroom, she could have withstood it, but he had been far from that. She remembered how she had stood alone at the bottom of the stairs to hand out the wedding favors to their attendants. Far, far from that. When she emerged blindly into the sunlight at the top of the steps, the arena fell into a deathly hush.

As her dazzled eyes adjusted, Aimee realized that all eyes in the arena were fixed on their box. She cast about in bewilderment. What had happened? Why was everyone staring at them? Then she saw it. The extended lance and the flower garland crown which a lady was taking from the proffered tip. That was what everyone was looking at, Aimee realized with a rush of relief, and not at her after all.

Her eyes sought out Freda for reassurance, but when she picked her out from the crowd, she knew something was very wrong. Freda had a hand over her mouth, and her eyes were stricken. Aimee felt a pang of dread. What was wrong? Her heart lurched. Had Lord Kentigern been injured? Then the murmuring started, growing louder and louder until it seemed almost deafening.

Aimee’s head span. She looked back at the lady with the flower garland and found she, too, was staring at Aimee with a frozen look on her face. She had not placed the crown on her head, just held it in her hands as though she was uncertain what to do with it. To her surprise, Aimee realized the tourney queen was the humbly dressed woman in the drab gown who was sat on the bench in front of theirs.

A sudden presentiment of dread crept along her spine and up to her neck where the fine hairs stood on end, and Aimee shivered in spite of the heat. Slowly, her eyes traveled along the length of the lance, tracking it back to its master, the knight that held it, sat so proudly on his horse at the foot of their stand. Even if she had not known him by sight, the colors on his shield matched so precisely her heraldic gown that every man, woman, and child in the audience must know they were a matched pair.

A sudden burning sensation in her chest jerked her out of her stunned stupefaction. She glanced down stupidly at her chest as though expecting to see at least a dagger, if not a spear had pierced her to the quick. There was nothing there, save the emblazoned crest of the Kentigerns to mock her. As she turned dizzy, it dawned on Aimee that she had not drawn breath in the last few moments and that was what was causing her pain. She dragged in a gasp of fortifying air and teetered a moment where she stood.

Every impulse in her screamed at her to turn and flee back down the steps from whence she had come, away from the prying eyes and the scalding humiliation of the scene playing out in front of her. She was poised perfectly for flight, her rioting thoughts screamed at her. Flee, flee from everyone, back to what she knew. Back home to her father and sister that loved her.

But no, she could not do that, another voice counseled. That was what all these fine folks no doubt expected from the upstart, low-born bride Lord Kentigern had been saddled with. Aimee’s spine stiffened. Instead of pelting back down the steps, she curled her fingers into her palms and plastered a smile to her face. No doubt it looked more like a grimace, but it was the best she could manage, when inside her heart was shattering into a hundred tiny pieces.

She slid one foot forward and then the other as she made her way toward the central aisle of the stand. At least she hoped she was, for she had the strangest feeling that her head was floating off her shoulders, while her body was falling, falling into the depths of hell. Only the grainy wooden floorboards beneath the soles of her feet reassured her that she was still grounded and moving forward. Fortunately, the soles of her best slippers were so thin, she fancied she could feel every bump and knot in the wood.

The speculation of the crowd felt deafening by this point. She barely knew what she was doing when a hand grasped her arm in a tight grasp.

“I have you,” came a harsh voice. “It’s this way.” She did not recognize the voice at first. It was Magnatrude, she realized dully, who had pulled her arm through hers and held it in so firm a grip now as she led Aimee toward their bench. How strange. Her sister-in-law was speaking, she realized. Aimee looked at her lips and saw them moving, but she could make no sense of the steady stream of words. It didn’t matter, she realized. The words didn’t matter, only the actions.

One phrase muttered through gritted teeth suddenly did make sense to her stunned brain. “You’re doing well. Don’t stop now.”

Aimee nodded and smiled, smiled and nodded, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. “Where is Matthews?” she managed to ask between numb lips.

“Behind us. Do not worry, just keep moving forward.”

Between the two of them, they managed to reach the end of their bench. Aimee felt fit to drop, and if it were not for Freda’s welcoming arms, helping her down onto the seat, she might well have sunk to the floor.

“Oh, my dear!” Freda said in a choked voice and was immediately blasted by Magnatrude’s icy gaze.