The Blacksmith's Wife. Elisabeth Hobbes

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      ‘I doubt your lady would care about my sword. I think her interest lies entirely in the jousting,’ Hal said.

      Now Roger had introduced the subject Hal felt entitled to continue. Joanna was not the first woman Roger had caused to become infatuated and certainly would not be the last. If she was foolish enough to believe the sweet words that spun from Roger’s lips it was no concern of Hal’s, but her eyes brimming with sadness as Roger repeatedly ignored her presence had pricked Hal’s heart. Moreover she intrigued him. He’d seen energy in her when she bickered with him that she hid from Roger, to whom she had submitted meekly.

      Which was the real woman? He’d like to find out. A worm of guilt wriggled in his belly as he remembered trying to persuade his brother’s woman to dance.

      ‘Did you speak to her last night as I told you to?’ he asked.

      ‘No, she left early and I was caught up with other matters. I’ll speak to her today,’ Roger said with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Now, for the final time, will you come help me this morning? If you’re seen with me it will increase your standing in the eyes of the Guild members.’

      Hal doubted how much influence a young knight of middling wealth from the North York Moors might have, but to say so would be churlish. Roger would not stop until he had the answer he wanted and it was better to be busy than wait here until he had to present his work. ‘Very well. I’ll spare an hour, no more. I cannot be late to the Guild Hall.’

      ‘Good.’ Roger swung his legs to the floor. ‘I’m not entering the mêlée, but I could use a bout of swordplay to wake my senses. How about you pit your weapon against mine?’

      Hal ran his fingers reverentially over the pommel and cross guard of the falchion. However much he craved it, Roger would not get this weapon.

      ‘I’ll spar with you, but not with this.’ He slid it back into its sheath and folded the cloth around it. ‘I’m not doing anything that might risk my chances of admittance to the Guild.’

      * * *

      Joanna could scarcely draw breath; her chest was tight with excitement. Last night Simon had secured admission from Sir Bartholomew’s steward to one of the most prominent stands at the tournament ground. This morning a messenger had called him away, leaving Joanna seated alone amid guests of the castle.

      She did not care that her dress was of linen, not silk, and the band drawing back her hair was embroidered with flax, not spun gold. She was closer than she had ever been to the knights and Sir Roger would not fail to notice her today.

      Trumpets sounded and the knights processed in. They paraded around the field, each with his entourage of pages and squires. Joanna craned her neck to find Sir Roger and spotted two heads of black curls walking side by side. She gave a small cry of surprise, causing the woman next to her to glance round.

      The procession reached Joanna’s stand. She leaned forward once more, smiling and cheering along with the crowd. She waved at Sir Roger, but he did not see her. Beside him Hal turned and his eyes met Joanna’s, lingering on her in a manner that sent an unexpected shudder rippling through her. Unsettled, she raised an eyebrow haughtily. He stared at her unsmiling, a small frown knotting his brow, then carried on walking. Dressed in a dark wool tunic, Hal was out of place among the procession of squires who wore their masters’ colours proudly. From his bearing he could easily be a knight himself.

      The knights took their places. Hal muttered something to his brother and both men stared in Joanna’s direction. She raised a hand and Sir Roger inclined his head ever so slightly towards her. He turned away to talk to the knight who stood beside him. Joanna lowered her hand slowly, her smile feeling suddenly tighter and forced. Hal patted the horse, his gaze still on Joanna. She dropped her eyes, unnerved by his gaze.

      * * *

      The first three bouts passed in a blur, Joanna barely watching until it was Sir Roger’s turn. He mounted his horse and trotted to where Sir Bartholomew sat. This was the moment Joanna had been waiting for, when each knight would choose a lady to present him with a favour to wear as he rode. Sir Roger turned his horse in Joanna’s direction and paused in front of her stand. She slipped the silk scarf from around her neck, her heart beating rapidly.

      ‘Will you give me a favour to wear, my lady?’

      Sir Roger’s voice sounded loud across the tiltyard. Joanna’s heart stopped. He was not speaking to her. Slowly she felt the blood drain from her face.

      Further along the stand a woman slipped a scarf of vibrant green over the tip of Sir Roger’s lance. Through swimming eyes Joanna recognised the dark curls of the woman Sir Roger had danced with the previous night. The crowd cheered. Oblivious to what followed, Joanna slumped back on to the bench. She gazed at the wisp of pale-yellow silk that lay across her lap.

      What had gone wrong? She had not been able to speak to Sir Roger since she had submitted to his touch in such an indiscreet manner the night before. He had seemed pleased with her then, so why now was he so cold?

      She raised her eyes. Across the field Hal was watching her still, his frown deepening. Joanna narrowed her eyes as she stared back. In response Hal’s lips twisted into a sneer. Unable to bear the knowledge that he was watching her humiliation, Joanna dropped her gaze. She bundled the scarf tightly in her hand, digging her fingernails in her palms until a series of red half-moons marred the pale flesh. When she glanced up again Hal had gone.

      The bout began. Joanna barely noticed as his opponent’s lance splintered against Sir Roger’s chest. As the crowd surged to its feet she slipped out of the stand and made her way to the gate at the end of the field that led to the arena where the knights waited. Head down she collided with someone. Opening her mouth to apologise, she discovered Hal blocking her path. He planted his feet firmly apart, the large knapsack over his shoulder swinging around.

      ‘Let me past,’ Joanna said, trying to dodge around him.

      Hal put his hands on Joanna’s arms. His grip was firm but not painful.

      ‘Don’t go in there,’ he said gently.

      ‘I need to speak to Sir Roger,’ Joanna answered. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked furiously.

      ‘It isn’t a good idea,’ Hal insisted. There was a loud roar from the lists. Joanna turned in the direction of the tilt but could see nothing past Hal’s broad frame.

      ‘You can’t stop me!’ Joanna struggled against Hal and he loosened his grip. He stood back and raked his fingers through his hair.

      ‘No, I can’t.’ He sighed, his tone heavy with exasperation. ‘I have an appointment I must keep, but I advise you not to confront Roger today.’

      He hitched his burden higher over his shoulder and stepped to one side. Joanna stood motionless, uncertain what to do. She nodded in defeat. Hal smiled in apparent satisfaction and walked away.

      Another roar, this time accompanied by cries of astonishment, thundered in Joanna’s ears. In an instant she changed her mind and rushed through the gateway into the field. Sir Roger was on foot and leading his horse away from the tilt. Joanna stared in disbelief. He had been unseated. Her anger forgotten, she rushed towards him.

      ‘Are you hurt?’ she gasped.

      Sir Roger glared at her and she stepped back in alarm.

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