Page 121 of An Inconvenient Vow

He glanced at Sabina but she seemed calm enough in the flood of courtiers for tonight’s feast was open to all, not just the competitors and their families. The King had spent lavishly and minstrels wandered up and down the staircase strumming lutes and singing to keep everyone entertained as they waited for the large-studded doors to open.

Jeffree was distracted momentarily as he looked about to see if that bastard Kentigern had turned up for this closing feast. As winner of the joust, by far the most popular event, he ought to be in attendance as a guest of honor. However, Kentigern was notoriously taciturn and frequently skipped such celebratory events. Jeffree had just come to the conclusion that he was not present when he became aware that Sabina was exchanging words with someone. He whipped about his head at once.

“Sir, as I say, if you could just remove your foot, for you have torn my hem,” she was explaining when Jeffree reached over and shoved the oaf’s shoulder hard enough to send him reeling into one of his friends.

He wheeled around at once and Jeffree saw his eyes widen when he saw who it was addressed him. “Sir!” he bleated, and if Jeffree was not mistaken, he quickly changed his mind about what he had been about to say.

“She asked you to remove your foot, you mannerless churl!” Jeffree snarled. “Now apologize!”

The fellow’s eyes darted to his companions who were all agog, his color rising hectically. “As to that, sir, this area is reserved for courtiers, not their servants. You would have done well to tell this woman to use the other stair—” He got no further for Jeffree had a firm grip of his throat.

“You tell me you expect my wife to use the servant stairs?” he asked in a low, menacing voice, squeezing hard enough to make the fool choke.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Y-your wife, sir?”

“You are addressing Lady de Crecy,” Jeffree growled. “Now apologize to her.”

“My apologies, Lady de Crecy,” he wheezed. Jeffree released him and he slammed into the bannister, clawing at his throat.

“Fie sir!” one of his friends started before seeing the nasty gleam in Jeffree’s eye. He gulped and lowered his gaze as Jeffree extended his arm to Sabina. She placed her hand on his sleeve and he felt his blood start to cool at once. It was strange but it put him in mind of how she rested her hand on his chest at night. Now he found himself lying awake, waiting for it and unable to sleep until she did so.

A sidelong glance assured him she was not disturbed by the encounter, though her color was rather high. In their immediate vicinity, they had created something of a buzz and he heard his name whispered along with “lately married” and several turned heads. By the time they had entered the hall, Jeffree thought himself to have simmered down enough to take his seat, though Sabina had to hold her skirts awkwardly to accommodate the ripped hem.

The first three courses were the usual rich, finicking dishes he so disliked, swimming in wine and sticky fruit glazes. Jeffree pushed his food about his plate and resigned himself to a dissatisfactory meal. By the sixth course, he realized that the attention they were garnering was not dying down. If anything, it was growing. Sabina, however, appeared to be weathering the storm of speculation well and making a good supper.

By the time the eighth and final course had been served, Jeffree was impatient to give his bow to the royal dais and retire for the night. “We’ve an early start on the morrow,” he said leaning in so Sabina could hear him for it was rowdy company tonight and very loud. “What say you to returning to our rooms?”

“Right willingly,” she replied at once, as though she had only been waiting for him to say the word. They both stood up from the bench and Jeffree could feel all eyes at their banqueting table swivel toward them.

“You do not retire so soon, De Crecy?” one young knight called out. Jeffree did not know his name. He glanced at him tight-lipped but gave a nod.

“Oh to be newlyweds,” someone else tittered. Jeffree ignored this for ‘twas plainly a woman’s voice.

“Nay, do not leave yet!” boomed another knight De Crecy vaguely recognized. “For I have not yet had the chance to ask your lady wife how she enjoyed being made tourney queen!”

A frozen silence met these bold words for an instant as Jeffree slowly turned to see who had the temerity to utter such words in his presence, let alone to his wife’s. He was pleased to see that unlike the wretch on the stairs, this knave was of solid build, and he vaguely recognized him from the tournament circuit. As he walked toward him there was a strange buzzing in his ears.

“What is your name?” he asked almost softly, for he felt a strange sort of calm suddenly descend on him. It was only right that he should know the name of the man he was about to kill with his bare hands.

The other puffed out his chest. “Throckmorton is my name, Sir Alain Throck—” He did not get any further for Jeffree had planted his fist in the other man’s slab-like face. Throckmorton, for all his solid build, went flying through the air and collided with the surface of the table behind them with a terrific crash, sending plates and goblets flying, landing unceremoniously in a dish of roasted swan.

There was the sound of several ladies screaming, but Jeffree barely heard them. None of them were Sabina, and in any case, his quarry was before him, flailing around, his face ruddy with anger and clearly up for a fight. Jeffree welcomed the fact and launched himself at him.

It took three fellow knights to wrench him off Throckmorton and a few more besides. Some of the royal guards had pulled their swords and were waving them about, though Jeffree heard one of Roland Vawdrey’s cronies tell them irritably to put them away. “For gods’ sake, no weapons have been drawn, save your own. Throckmorton was asking for a good hiding, in any case, the bloody fool.”

“Make way! Make way for the King!” came the calls from behind the wall of spectators.

“Get out of my damned way!” came Wymer’s belligerent voice. “Can hardly see what’s afoot with everyone crowding in and obscuring my view!” As if by magic, the crowd parted and the King of all Karadok strode into proceedings.

“Ah, De Crecy,” he said almost fondly, slapping him on the back. “This is not like you, De Crecy, not like you at all.” He sounded so cheerful about the fact that one might have wondered if he much preferred this newer version. The King surveyed Sir Alain’s stretched-out bulk with interest. “Out cold, is he?” He turned around to look at one of the royal guards who was still clutching a spear. “Do something useful, can’t you, and throw some water in his face.” The guard scurried off and Wymer turned back to Jeffree. “He’s split your lip,” he commented. “Not a bad brawl from what I could see.”

“Lucky blow.” Jeffree scowled, touching his mouth.

“Maybe so, but he’s a capable fellow, is Sir Alain,” King Wymer mused.

“He’s a bloody fool!” Jeffree snarled, earning a few gasps from the crowd.

“His blood is still up, Sire,” said an apologetic voice, and Jeffree realized it was Sir Ned Bevan who seemed to have adopted the role of spokesman on his behalf. Jeffree glared at him, but Bevan did not seem remotely discomposed.