The King's Champion. Catherine March

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      At the tournament they seated themselves in the canopied stands, as the crowds came drifting in while the sun rose higher in the blue sky. Chatter ebbed and flowed on the breeze, the smell of dust and horses, roasted pork and smoke from the cooking fires, drifting and swirling around the arena. It would be another very bright and hot day, and already ladies were seeking the shade of awnings and fanning themselves with parchment and sipping lemonade kept cool in barrels of Thames water.

      Seated in their stand, Ellie watched as a pageboy came tripping up the steps and handed her father a rolled letter, tied with a red ribbon. Lord Henry nodded his thanks and turned away, to one side, while he opened it.

      Eleanor looked about, eager to catch a glimpse of the jousting knights, seeking out a particular profile, dark eyes and broad shoulders, but Troye de Valois was not yet out on the field. Her curiosity about him was too powerful to resist and she asked her father questions that were vaguely disguised, in the hope of finding out more about him.

      ‘Do you think life is very hard for Rupert?’ she asked, as they sat close together on the benches, her mother chatting to her Aunt Beatrice as they appraised the fashions of the other ladies.

      Her father looked up from the parchment letter he was perusing, with a frown, and glanced at Eleanor, ‘What do you mean?’

      She shrugged. ‘Well, I wondered what life must be like for Rupert, now that he is serving in the King’s Own.’

      Lord Henry carefully rolled up the letter and retied the scarlet ribbon. ‘Aye, life will be harder than the easy comforts of living at home. But that is what a knight expects, little comfort and no thanks. A bedroll upon the floor, or a muddy field, food not fit for hounds, and the soldier’s curse of long separations from his loved ones.’

      ‘Then why do it?’ asked Eleanor.

      Her father smiled, and looked away into the distance. ‘That is a question that could have many answers, my little dove. For some men, being a warrior is all they know, for others they are escaping pain of some kind, and for a few, a very few, they seek the glory of valour.’

      ‘Once I would have been a knight,’ said Eleanor, ‘but now I am heartily glad that I am a lady.’

      ‘So am I.’ He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, ‘Now, fear not for Rupert, he can well take care of himself.’

      She had the grace to blush, aware that she could not confess her concerns were not all for her brother. Roundly she chided herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell upon Troye de Valois, and briskly reminded herself that thoughts of Rupert should come first. After all, who was Troye de Valois? They had scarce spoken more than a few words to each other and, though he lived in her heart and her dreams, the truth was that he had not yet become a reality, a part of her life that she so longed him to be. But these facts neither daunted nor diminished her feelings. She felt a happy glow and smiled as she envisioned a rosy future, for she was young and beautiful; surely, by now, Troye must know that her hand was on offer for marriage? It was only a matter of time before he approached her father with a proposal.

      Eagerly she watched as the jousting began. How great was her impatience as the lesser knights took their turns, their horses thundering down the length of the list and the crowds cheering as one or the other was knocked from the saddle by a thrusting lance. Towards mid-day, at last, Troye de Valois rode out, much to the delight of his adoring onlookers, for Eleanor was not the only one smitten.

      She watched avidly as Troye dispatched his opponents in quick and ruthless succession, yet she was relieved that Rupert was not riding. He had lost his footing carrying the body of a would-be assassin down a stairwell the night before, and was now sitting on the sidelines, nursing a twisted ankle and feeling like a chump as his comrades teased him. The day’s competition ended all too soon and the crowds began to drift away, discussing the merits and faults of their favourite combatants and eagerly anticipating the crowning glory.