She knew the reason for this change. He had lied. He had watched her in the river after all.
“I will carry it,” she said, annoyed that he had lied and uncomfortable because that trembling power wanted to move into her.
“No.”
“Someone will—”
“Will see a knight helping a woman with a burden too big for her.” He lifted the basket, then leaned down and kissed her lips. Fresh joy breezed through her again. “I will only take it as far as the forge. You can return alone if you want, with the basket on your hip.”
It was heavy, so she agreed and prayed no one who knew her father would notice them.
On the way here she had walked right through the little encampment where the whores plied their trade. Zander led his horse around it, which she thought very thoughtful of him. Those little tents made her think about herself, though, and him, and what had occurred. The beauty and magic, even the pleasure of that kiss, seemed far away already.
She looked at him. He smiled back. As they made their way along the river, she wondered if Zander had decided she had become a woman who could be bedded because she was available, while he courted the woman he really wanted.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Only the Scot might be trouble.” Angus offered the opinion while he sat near the tent’s entrance polishing Zander’s shield. “He’s quick and has a little trick where he feints to one side then quickly swings his sword up in an arc to come down the other side.”
Zander rested on his pallet, preparing his spirit for the competitions to come this afternoon. A strong body was not enough. One’s thoughts must be strong too.
He watched Angus handle the shield. Angus had ten years on Zander, but remained a squire. Had his skills been better, he would have earned his spurs. Most squires became knights, but not all did. Some like Angus spent their lives as squires.
As his name implied, Angus was of Scot blood. Lord Jean Fitzwarryn had fostered him after his mother was found, sick and hungry, outside a farmer’s barn one winter with a babe wrapped in her rough shawl. The mother perished, but the babe survived, and Fitzwarryn gave him the name Angus. “He should know who his people are,”Fitzwarryn had said.
Lord Jean never forgot who his own people were. The descendent of Warryn of Brittany, who had come to England with the Conqueror, Fitzwarryn’s ancestor had been given lands on the northern marches by King William, since Bretons had long experience with guarding their borders. The family’s Breton interests remained alive and well.
“Just watch that Scot,” Angus said.
“I heard you.” Zander got to his feet and sat on a trunk. He began putting on his mail hauberk.
Angus set aside the shield. “I’ll do that.”
“You continue with the arms. Send for Harold. He is useless these days, what with chasing girls and learning to drink too much with the other squires.”
“Well, that is what tournaments are for, no?” Angus chuckled, then went to the tent opening and called for Harold.
“Hopefully, they are for gaining other knights’ forfeits and taking home good coin. What do you know about the other two?”
“They favor Prince John, that much I know. One, Sir Lionel, has his camp over by the river, with that group of knights who all are of a treasonous bent if you ask me. Sir Lionel is in the thick of it, looking for others of like mind. I saw him as they came in, approaching the poorest among them, starting conversations, pointing them to his camp, being all friendly and helpful.”
“Is he here with someone at the castle?”
“His lord, you mean? Not that I know, but I’ve not been overly friendly with the man.”
“Learn what you can about him.”
Harold arrived then, out of breath, and set about his duties. Zander stood while the sandy-haired lad clad him in his mail and buckled on the plate that protected his shoulders, neck, and shins. He held the surcoat with Jean Fitzwarryn’s colors, and draped Zander in the cloth.
Angus stood, and picked up his shield, helmet, and sword. Harold hoisted the lances and banner. Together, they all walked out to the lists.
Elinor worked her new steel needle, plying it through the red silk. What a joy it was to sew with a good tool, sharp and thin, instead of her old iron ones that she had to sharpen almost daily so they did not ruin fabric. This one pulled the red silk thread cleanly, making invisible holes in the weave of the fine, transparent fabric.
The luxury of the silk seduced her whenever she handled it. Even if she had not wanted to do a good job for the sake of her old friendship with Zander, she would never have given less than her best to such a wonderful material. As it was, her tiny, evenly spaced stitches would create a fitting gift to the woman he courted with it.
She worked to the west of the tent, where the sun shone brightly but the strong breeze did not cause the silk to float like a banner. She heard her father’s steps near the front. He was coming back from one of those conversations in another nearby tent. She worried about what was being said there, but when she’d asked he’d rebuffed her, telling her to concern herself with women’s things.
“Two of us will meet him on the field this afternoon,” a voice said. She recognized it as Sir Lionel. She did not care for the man. His face reminded her of a rat, with its long nose and sparse hair above his lip. Even his eyes, small and intense, contributed to the image.
Mostly, she did not like him because their camp was here, out of the way, due to him. When they arrived on that poor, mud-caked cart, Sir Lionel had extended a welcome before anyone else.
