“I don’t believe you. Why would he turn back?”
He just looked down at her. Finally, he said “Perhaps, he wanted to die in God’s cause.”
Would her father do that? Think martyrdom was preferable to life, if it meant certain salvation? Some men might, but she did not believe her father would. She did not think he went on Crusade to die.
Zander’s firm statements, his anger and his manner, led her to doubt what she had learned about that day. Yet her father had been just as firm last night. Furious, in a state worse than she had ever seen before. She had to beg him not to return to the castle and throw down a gauntlet.
Zander stood before her, with that face sculpted by angels, watching her with those astonishing eyes. Either he was lying, or her father was. There was only one side for a daughter to choose in such a circumstance.
She stood. “I will make the veil for your lady, but we will not talk again. My loyalty is to Hugo of York. I am his daughter, and it is he I must believe.”
She walked away, head high.
Zander watched the competitions from the castle battlements. He had already jousted twice today, after seeing Elinor in the town. He had dispatched both knights with ease. Others would come tomorrow, both in the main competition and in personal combats.
He had said he would take all private challengers. Three already had declared themselves. They were men who wanted the fame of defeating the crusader known as The Devil’s Blade.
One of his competitors this morning had been newly dubbed. He did not keep the young knight’s arms and horse, or demand ransom for them. He looked to be a knight with much still to learn, but he had an intensity and strength that would serve him well. It was not that Zander was opposed to the spoils of tournaments, or wars. It was why he was here. He merely preferred not gaining riches from those who could ill afford the cost.
Tomorrow two of the knights he would meet would not find him so generous. They were known supporters of Prince John, and would seek to prove the skill of those on their side. His lord, Jean Fitzwarryn, would expect him to show them the opposite.
His gaze found the tents near the river. He could barely see the knights there, sitting in a circle. Did they share stories of prowess on the field, or encourage boldness in John’s name?
Hugo of York would be among them. It was a hell of a way to express displeasure with his king over that battle, and the lies he now believed regarding what had occurred. That Hugo had found a way to change his own memories did not concern Zander. That he had thrown accusations in front of hundreds of people did.
That Hugo now taught those lies to Elinor made his blood run hot.
He should have issued his own challenge then and there, the way he was taught. No knight called another coward without meeting in mortal combat soon after. Yet when he had seen Hugo walking down the high table behind the page, he had seen a man with a limp and graying hair. A man growing old. A knight still, but no longer capable of waging war. A knight who had trained him, when he was a squire and Hugo a knight in Lord Morris’s household.
He smiled to himself. No, pity and nostalgia were not the reason why he had only warned the man off. The truth of it was he desired Elinor, and if he killed her father having her would be impossible.
In the far distance, beyond that circle of tents and the forge, a figure moved. It was a woman, carrying a large basket. He could barely see her, but a long dark line hung down her back. It swayed the way a braid of hair might. She aimed for a spot on the riverbank shielded by reeds.
Then another movement caught his attention. Two men followed her. Step for step, they trod the exact same path as she, until she disappeared into the reeds.
Elinor set her basket down with a groan. She should have found a cart to carry this washing. The townsmen who had them for hire had raised the fee today, however. She could ill afford to pay for a cart when she could carry the basket herself.
She pushed the basket through the reeds down to the river. She tied up her skirt to keep it dry. Kneeling, she began to wash. The water sloshed over her bare legs, but she did not mind. The day was hot, and the water cooled her skin.
Pride interfered with doing this closer to their camp. She did not want people to see her, and the reeds afforded privacy. Like everything else, washing could be bought for little money. A penny here, a penny there, however, and soon there would be no coin at all.
Her father insisted their fortunes would change with this tournament. She had assumed he thought to meet in combat, and claim the forfeited arms of those he defeated. Yet no challenges had been issued by him, and none received.
Eventually, she knew, he would challenge Zander, though.
Last evening, while sitting behind their tent in the cool night air, she had overheard her father talking to another of the knights he met with so often. It seemed Zander’s lord, this Jean Fitzwarryn, was very much the king’s man, and as a marcher lord, powerful in his own right. Zander was here as his representative, so to defeat Zander was to defeat the lord himself. The other knight said Prince John would be pleased when he learned of it.
She puzzled over her father’s plans while she washed. It seemed his anger at Zander was not the only reason he wanted to fight him. Gaining Prince
