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“De Crecy’s of course,” Lowell answered with exasperation. He rolled his eyes at Konrad who found himself giving a reluctant snort of laughter. “Or the story hardly makes sense, does it, you dolt?”

Farleigh grinned good naturedly and punched his friend in the shoulder. “How should I know! De Crecy’s a damned odd fellow. He’s been an icicle the entire two years I’ve known him, till this season.”

“He didn’t look much like an icicle when he was punching Stanyon in the face yesterday,” Symes added. “Looked like the vein in his neck was about to explode.”

They all lapsed into silent contemplation of de Crecy’s unfathomable transformation of late.

“You don’t suppose it’s got anything to do with that his wife of his, do you?” Lowell speculated hesitantly.

“Shouldn’t think so,” Symes frowned. “I feel sorry for the poor wench.”

“She’s not much to look at,” Farleigh agreed. “And that’s stating a fact.”

“Probably seething he was forced to wed such a plain specimen of womanhood,” Lowell murmured. “She does not look as though she would have brought much money to the table neither.”

The other two clicked their tongues and nodded dolefully at de Crecy’s misfortune. Privately, Konrad agreed, but felt he ought to put in a word for the maligned damsel. “Well,” he started, clearing his throat. “She obviously inspires some feeling in him, or he wouldn’t keep getting into brawls over her. That’s the reason he wants to crush my neck too,” he added. When the others looked at him in surprise, he reminded them. “I gave her the tourney crown at the summer tournament.”

“Oh, aye,” Farleigh said, as though only just remembering. “So you did.”

“That might have been a mistake,” Symes said with an annoying air of wisdom.

“Think so, do you?” Konrad responded testily. “Well at least she’s not my sister!”

A stunned silence met his words before Farleigh and Lowell burst into loud guffaws of laughter. Poor Symes turned a dull shade of red, and Konrad felt a twinge of something he wasn’t sure was not his conscience. Gods, what was going on with him lately? He was nearly as bad as de Crecy! He cleared his throat. “What events are the three of you signed up for?”

Farleigh immediately launched into a recital of everything he had signed up for.

“Speaking of which,” Lowell said turning about. “We had better go and see if they’ve determined the teams for the melee. See what side we’re all on.” He pointed to a large white tent nearby. “That’s the one where they’re drawing the names.”

The four of them proceeded in that direction, and Kentigern took his place in the tent beside them. Once inside, they seemed to assume he would remain in their company, so it seemed the easiest thing to go along with them. In truth, he felt less conspicuous surrounded by their boisterous company than he did standing solitary and apart from the crowd. Lowell snagged a passing servant’s tray and pressed an ale cup into his hand as Symes leaned across, lowering his voice. “Don’t look now, Kentigern, but de Crecy’s glaring daggers at you!”

Disregarding his warning, Konrad turned his head to scan the company, but when he scanned the knights assembled, all he saw was a sea of faces turned in his direction, expressions of mingled apprehension and curiosity.

“Do not pay them any heed,” Farleigh recommended. “You are the biggest draw here, my lord. That’s the only reason they stare.”

“I know,” he responded. “I am not offended.” He lifted a hand to absently touch the scarring to the side of his face. With surprise, he realized he had not actually thought of it once all morning.

Beres Caple was old-fashioned in that the melee was fought entirely on foot with no mounted charges. The entire company of knights had been divided into four, and over the day, three mock battles would be waged before one team emerged the overall victor.

Sir Chaucey Howard stood at the front and picked names, allotting them by turn to either the blue, orange, red, or green team. Konrad and Symes were assigned to the same orange team, Lowell to the blue, and Farleigh to the green.

Symes was jubilant about the fact he and Konrad were on the same team, crowing over it and rubbing it in his friend’s faces. Konrad guessed he must have forgiven him that remark he made earlier about his sister. He found he was strangely relieved about that, though he was not sure why.

Jakeman found him shortly after and helped him don his armor. The others soon returned with their own gear, and preparations for battle took up the next half hour.

Farleigh scowled as he helped tie Konrad’s orange armband to his upper arm. “Trust you to fall on your feet, Leo,” he sniped at his friend. “By rights, Kentigern should be on my team, he was my friend before he was yours.”

Symes chortled, not troubling to dispute this. Konrad was a little startled, for he had not precisely realized his standing among them. Apparently, they were friends of his. Friends.

“I don’t know what you’re carping about, Douglas,” Lowell complained. “You have Sir Jeffree on your team. All I have on team blue are a lot of bumpkins who have scarce held a sword above twice in their lives!”

“Oh, I don’t know, is not de Bussell on your team?” Farleigh asked. “On a good day, he’s pretty formidable.”

Lowell snorted. “Didn’t he lose to you last month, one-on-one?” he pointed out scathingly.

“That was in May,” Farleigh corrected him. “And since then, he’s lifted the victor’s cup at Areley Kings.”

“Aye, well, I believe I’ll hold off on praising Sir Armand till I see what kind of day he’s having,” his friend retorted with a curl of his lip. “On a bad day, any fool can beat him.”