“True, but . . . even with the mix, a person is either essentially good or not, don’t you think?”
The priest, whose conversation with the woman on his other side had waned, interrupted to agree with her. Elinor and the priest then shared their views on the matter at length. Zander did not mind. Courtesy required they not ignore their tablemates. He turned his own attention to the woman on his right, Lady Judith Tremain. She worked her wiles on him, but half his mind remained on Elinor, and the bits of her conversation that reached his ears.
By the time the meal was ending, Lady Judith had let him know where she slept in the castle and suggested he visit her so they could continue their conversation.
“That was bold.” Elinor’s voice murmured beside him.
He turned and saw her mouth pursed in disapproval.
“Nor did you decline,” she observed.
“A knight is always courteous.”
“Was that courtesy? It sounded like a man leaving a door ajar.”
He laughed lightly. “You are no longer a girl. By now, you know how these things go.”
“How is that?”
He looked into her eyes, amused by her scold. “Sometimes, a man beds the woman he wants, and sometimes, he beds the one who is available.”
Elinor wanted to sniff and turn away at Zander’s bawdy lesson. Instead she could not take her gaze off him. His own had locked hers in place as if he controlled her will. She discovered a rare exhilaration in being captured.
They remained like that, the connection deepening. She could smell the spring flowers in a garden, and feel lips pressing hers softly at first, then with a startling passion.
“Daughter!” The voice boomed as if from a distance. She vaguely recognized it as her father’s. “Alexander! Churl! Coward!”
That jolted her out of her reverie.
Zander looked down the table. Her father stood at his place, glaring in their direction.
“Here we go,” Zander muttered.
Her father threw back his chair. He came toward them, eyes blazing and eating knife in hand. Zander merely turned away and drank some ale.
“Daughter, you should have told me you were seated next to this man. I’ll not have him turning your head with pretty words when he should not even be alive.”
“Father, our host sat me here. I would never insult him by refusing his preferences.”
He now towered behind her, his hot gaze boring into the back of Zander’s head. “What are you doing here, coward?”
Zander did not look back at him, but his quiet voice carried well enough. “Twice now you have hurled that insult, Sir Hugo. Do not do it again.”
“I’ll call a dog a dog if I’ve breath left.”
“That is the question, isn’t it? Whether you will long have breath left if you insult me further.”
The guests near them at the table watched, fascinated. Even those at the nearest spots on a lower table waited while tight silence reigned a few moments. She heard a low whisper, coming from she knew not whom. “The Devil’s Blade.”
“And do not even think to use that knife,” Zander added. “Raise it one inch and I will break your arm.”
Her father puffed up his chest. “I’ve no need to cut you down here. I’ll be seeing you on the field, though, and exacting my due.”
“Father—”
“Silence, daughter.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, throwing her chair back much as he had his own. It crashed to the floor behind her. “I’ll not have you break bread with him.” He looked around at all the eyes watching. He gestured to Zander. “This knight and others left me to die on the field. We were sworn to each other, but when things turned bad, they ran, leaving me behind, wounded, to be taken or killed.” He sneered at Zander. “I’m glad you came, Sir Alexander. God has blessed me with your presence here, so I can make you pay for how you wronged me.”
With that, her father dragged her away, down the whole high table. They stopped half a moment to thank their host, then she tripped out the door, hanging off her father’s firm grip.
CHAPTER THREE
Elinor walked toward the castle the next morning. She ignored the attention she garnered from some of the camps that she passed. Her father’s outburst towards Sir Alexander had made her famous, and not in a good way. Now everyone waited to see what challenge would be issued, by which knight, and how it would all end.
Not well, she knew. A sick sensation had lodged at the pit of her stomach. It had been there all night, and still plagued her. She hid her dismay, however, and strode forth.
She trusted nothing would happen until she finished mending her father’s crimson surcoat. He would want to look his best when he fought for his honor. She needed red thread to do a proper job, and she had none, however. Hopefully, this mercer Zander had mentioned would.
Guards stood at the town gate. A sign announced a curfew beginning at dusk. All visitors not staying at the castle had to depart by then. Lord Yves did not want drunken men fighting in the lanes at night.
She made her way through the town, following the path Zander had given her. It was a town like many others, with narrow lanes and half-timbered buildings. Second levels jutted out over the street, where owners had stolen a few more feet for their homes. Gutters ran down the center of river stone pavements, and a stream of water carried away the waste in them.
The mercer’s shop stood near the center of the town, facing the church. It looked to be a fine establishment, with new whitewashing. She entered to find tables and boards covered in fine goods. The long table with fabrics drew her at once.
She touched wools and linens of all qualities and colors. She imagined gowns of her own and mantles.
At the very end of the table two bolts rested, of a material she had never
