So now she lived in isolation, instead of among the central camps where other women could be found. And her father sat in a circle outside with the knights congregated here, complaining and getting up to no good.
“You best leave something of him for me to fight,” her father said. “I’ll not be denied my right to meet him.”
Sir Lionel laughed. “Come watch. We will not keep him from being able to fight another day. We will just make it harder for him to do so. Bring him down a bit.”
“I don’t need him brought down. I don’t want anything to cause people to say it wasn’t a clean win when I best him.”
“Of course, old friend. Don’t worry. Your victory will not be compromised. We wouldn’t want Prince John to think that.”
A long pause had Elinor stretching her ears.
“You think he will want to see me when he learns of it, for certain?”
“Lord Jean is a thorn in his side. Those marcher lords wield great power, and if they stand against him, he will have too much trouble on the border. He will be delighted that you defeated Fitzwarryn’s champion.” Sir Lionel’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “He will offer you service, and you will never again ride anywhere in a cart.”
The conversation became muffled then. They must have entered the tent. Elinor eyed the lower edge of the canvas next to her. If she lifted it with her toe—
“Elinor.”
She looked up to see her father standing right in front of her.
“I am going to watch the competitions. I will be home for supper well before dusk.”
She merely nodded, then returned to her needle. A few more minutes, and she would have to set it aside to cook. Lord Yves had not invited them to more meals. It went without saying that no one would be eating swan tonight.
She was finishing the end of her row of stitches when Sir Lionel passed by on the way to his camp, talking to a man she had not seen before. This friend had wealth and station, from the looks of his long tunic and noble bearing. He also had cunning eyes, the kind that always seemed to be seeking something in whatever they saw. She could not hear what they said, but she heard her father’s name mentioned.
They noticed her, and Sir Lionel stopped talking. Murmurs began again once they had passed. When she brought her sewing to the tent flap, she saw them entering Sir Lionel’s pavilion.
She set down her sewing and strolled toward the river to wash. On impulse, she turned her path so she passed behind Sir Lionel’s tent. She could hear voices as she approached and slowed her steps.
“He will never defeat him,” a voice she did not know said. The other man, she assumed.
“He only needs to make a good show. And John only needs to favor him for it. Once he is John’s man, he will be useful, I think,” Sir Lionel said.
She stopped walking on hearing that. It was much what Lionel had said to her father about competing against Zander. He now seemed to be discussing the same thing with this man.
“Not very useful in a war.”
“I am not thinking about a war.” Sir Lionel’s voice continued, lower, as if in confidence. “He was with Richard on Crusade. He is known to the king. He can get close to him when the king returns to the realm. If he returns, that is.”
A long pause. So long that she worried they had become aware of her presence on the other side of the tent wall.
“Would he do it?”
“He is angry and bitter. He is impoverished, and an offer of lands and a title will convince him, like many others. Only Richard thinks he is a friend, unlike the others.”
The implications of what she heard chilled her so much that she couldn’t move. Only when two women walked toward her, on their own way to the river, did she force herself to leave the back of that tent.
She hoped she misunderstood. If not, Sir Lionel was using her father badly, and had plans that could send Hugo of York to hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Sir Alexander de Mandeville and Sir Lionel of Wiltshire.” The marshal announced the combatants and Zander moved to the plot of field on which the competition would take place. A private combat. No horses and lances would be used per Sir Lionel’s requested terms.
He had never met Sir Lionel, but he could tell from the way the man wielded his sword that he was not young. Perhaps he had thirty-five years or so. His sword arm might have been strong ten years ago, but time had taken its toll. He set aside the temptation to finish this fast. There was no profit in humiliating the man. He parried and thrust and swung, and put on a good show. He even allowed his opponent a few sword blows to his shield.
Soon, however, the farce could not continue. Watching for treachery after what Angus had said, he swung the blows that brought Sir Lionel to his knees. In battle, the knight would soon be dead or captured. In a tournament, it ended here. Zander stepped back, and the marshal declared him the winner.
Sir Lionel stood and removed his helmet. He glared at Zander while he began unbuckling the bit of plate he wore.
“Keep them,” Zander said.
“They are forfeit.”
“Keep them.” He began walking away.
“Will you insult me by saying my arms are not good enough for you?” Lionel shouted.
Zander turned. “Will you insist I take them, leaving you nothing for the rest of the week?”
Lionel’s long nose twitched and his small eyes squinted. “I’ve more.”
“Fine. Your arms and horse are forfeit.” On his words, Angus walked to Lionel and helped him strip off the plate. He relieved him of
