He returned to his aimless drawing. “He will use the plate?”
“Yes, I convinced him of that, at least.”
“He does not want to be called a coward by standing down. You know how it is.”
Yes, she knew how it was. And if Zander stood down, he admitted to being a coward, as her father accused him. Neither one of them would do what she wanted. She had been a fool to come here in the hopes that maybe Zander might.
The image of Zander blurred as silent tears began flowing. She wiped them away and composed herself. “Let us speak of other things while we can. I have heard the talk. Many say you will be the champion, that you have defeated all you met in the lists.”
“There is one more competition with other knights that will decide it. I may as yet not win.”
“I’m sure you will. Every lord in England will want you in his service then. Even Richard might again.”
“I do not think I would want that. Not after Ayyadieh. His judgement—” He shook his head. “I do not want to fight with him again.”
Mention of Ayyadieh had her changing the topic. “Have you gifted your lady with the veil yet? Or will you wait for the great feast?”
He stood, stretching to his full height. “It might be best to do it today, before this challenge.”
He could not think he might lose, but she admired he did not assume he wouldn’t, at least in her presence.
He walked to the back of the tent and bent to a chest. He turned and came to her with a cloth bundle in his hand.
He opened it to reveal the veil. With one hand, he let it fall open, then draped it over her head.
Astonished, she looked down at the silken ends fluttering below her chin. She admired the transparent silk and how the little gold threads made it glisten even in this subdued light. While she sought the words to thank him, she felt a light pressure on her head.
“You look beautiful. See?” He placed a small looking glass in her hand.
She held it up to see dark eyes and dark hair and a very pale face. Framing it all was the red veil. A circlet of silver surrounded her head, holding the veil in place.
“It was unfair to have you sew your own gift, but I knew no one here who could do it as well.”
Confused, she touched the silver. “And this?”
“That is for you too. And the looking glass. Please accept them.”
She knew why he gave them to her now. By day’s end, she would not be able to accept them, even if she still wanted to. A woman should not accept gifts such as this from the man who killed her father, even if that man had once been her lover.
Her hand never left the silver circlet, but her other hand dropped, removing the looking glass from in front of her face. She gazed down on that little luxury.
“Thank you.” Her words came out on a rasping whisper. “I wish I had a gift to give you, so you might remember me.”
His fingertips stroked her cheek and his head angled so he could see her face. “You gave me a precious gift, Elinor. Nor would I ever forget you.”
She ventured a glance at his face. That was a mistake. Tears began flowing uncontrollably. Tears of sorrow and worry and anger.
He pulled her into his arms and soothed her with gentle kisses on her forehead and cheek. She cried into his tunic until she lacked the strength to weep any longer. She stayed within his arms, though, branding her memory with his scent and hold, letting the moments beat by slowly. Then, finding something of herself again, she looked up at him.
He kissed her before releasing her from his embrace. She walked out of the pavilion and back to her tent to help her father prepare.
Zander watched the joust unfold. Two knights charged each other on their destriers. It could be the last competition of the tournament.
Sir Walter remained undefeated. Sir Charles had lost once, to Zander, mere hours ago. If Sir Charles won, Zander would be the champion. If Sir Walter won, there would be one more joust between him and Zander, to determine the final winner.
At the moment, Zander actually hoped for that contest, if only to delay the other one he faced this afternoon. The personal challenge from Sir Hugo of York.
He had come close to forfeiting without engaging. When he watched Elinor weep, then walk away bravely, he had wanted to badly. What did it matter if men called him a coward? Those who mattered would know the truth, and the others could go to hell.
Now he waited to learn if there would be a brief reprieve. He wore his hauberk, and Angus and Harold waited just off the lists with his plate, weapons and destrier, prepared for either eventuality.
The lances clashed. Sir Walter’s balance on his horse looked precarious, but he righted himself. They turned and charged again.
When a lance connected with a breast plate, it made an unmistakable sound. The crowd gasped when they heard it. As if motion slowed, Sir Walter’s body tilted back, then sideways while he fought to regain his seat. Instead, he slid out of the saddle.
Standing quickly, he withdrew his sword, inviting Sir Charles to combat. Sir Charles could have refused, and taken the win then and there, but he dismounted.
They engaged a long time, but to Zander it seemed mere moments. Finally, Sir Walter signaled his forfeit.
The crowd grew raucous with cheering and shouting. Zander realized much of the noise was aimed at him. He had been noticed standing alongside the lists, and he was now the champion. He tried to accept the accolades courteously, but his mind was on other things
