Page 32 of An Ill-Made Match

“Why on earth is he challenging the white shield? Did you not say de Crecy was the best?”

“Because he’s a bloody young fool,” seethed Roland. “He must have suffered a worse injury than a broken nose yesterday. He must have had his brains scrambled!”

**

Eden gazed around the carousers with disfavor. The afternoon had passed in something of a whirl. Roland had sat beside her explaining who the various knights were in the Challenge to Arms. Not that she could remember any of the finer detail, save that poor Sir Renlowe had been rendered quite insensible again by Sir Jeoffrey de Crecy this time. It was evening now, and they were sat in Sir Aubron’s banqueting hall. The hostage ransoms had all been paid off, and the trophies awarded. Roland had won the prize for the most valiant member of the yellow side in the melee. Sir Kentigern had won the same accolade from the blue. Without his helmet on, Sir Kentigern somehow looked even more savage than with it on. He had the most dreadful scar down the left side of his face and the eye on that side was white as a boiled egg. It had to be blind. Was that why Roland had not struck him when he was dizzy and disorientated? He seemed a sullen and moody figure and stumped off as soon as he had received his winnings and the ransom for the four knights he had knocked from their seats.

Eden snuck another look at the terrible bruised and battered face of Sir Renlowe. She had no idea how he could look so cheerful as he supped his ale through a split lip. Both eyes were purple, and his nose was doubtless broken. Yet there he sat. She glanced toward the high table where the Payne family were sat dining on a platform well away from the common herd. She heartily wished she was sat among them, rather than the competitors where it was so rowdy. She noticed wryly that Gunnilde and the Lady Elizabeth gazed back rather enviously at her. Really? They’d rather be sat where she was?

The men were mostly drunk, and she suspected that the few women present on their long trestle table were not respectable. They sat on laps. Eden tried not to look at them. She glanced sidelong at Roland, who had an arm draped along the top of her chair. She felt sure he was testing her in some way. Did he mean to outrage her? To shock her prim sensibilities? She could see his friends darting looks at her every so often in silent appraisal.

“A toast to you, Sir Jeoffrey,” announced Sir Aubron loudly from the dais. “The victor of the Challenge to Arms!”

Sir Jeoffrey was a rather arrogant-looking male with a short blonde beard and very blue eyes. He nodded at the acknowledgement; though it was clear he thought it nothing but his due.

“The victor of the Challenge to Arms!” repeated the table obligingly.

“Hear, hear,” cried another.

Eden raised her goblet for the toast, when to her surprise, Roland leant forward and sipped from her own cup, tipping the bottom, though she held it still in her hand.

“A loving cup!” yelled one reveler, nudging his companion in the ribs. They laughed uproariously and Eden felt herself flush. She looked up at Roland in reproach. “Why do you drink from mine?” she asked. He shook his head, and pointed to his ear as if he could not hear her above the clamor. When Eden leaned forward to repeat her question, he surprised her by kissing her soundly on the mouth. She squeaked, but it was drowned out by the loud cheer that went up from their table. Eden sucked in a deep breath, to let him know what she thought of his antics, but Roland’s lips were suddenly at her ear.

“We’re newlyweds,” he murmured. “Tis customary to share plate and a cup for at least a month.”

“What?” she stared up at him confusion. “That must be peculiarly customary in this part of the country, as I’ve never heard of it.” She looked to his elbow, and sure enough he had no cup of his own. Had he not been drinking all evening? And if not, why not?

“A toast to the bride!” yelled Sir Aubron, holding his cup aloft. There was a deafening noise as the revelers dragged back their heavy chairs and stood with their goblets aloft. “To the Lady Eden Vawdrey!”

“May she be always warm and willing!” roared one of the uncouth northern lords.

Eden felt herself tensing as the raucous laughter turned to bawdy jests. Roland’s arm slipped round her waist and rested there like a heavy, warm anchor. She felt herself relax slightly.

“Shall we to bed?” he muttered against her brow. Eden had been shown the bedchamber she was to use earlier, when she had freshened up before the feast. Roland had not joined her then, and she did not know if he meant to join her later.

“Not now,” Eden replied tightly. “They’ll all think –,” she broke off wretchedly.

He squeezed her hip. “Let me know when you’ve had enough.”

“I could retire, and you stay down here with your friends,” she pointed out, but he didn’t appear to hear. It was very loud at their table, Eden thought despairingly. She didn’t like to lean in close to him again, in case he took it as another invitation to kiss her. Feeling flustered and out of place, Eden clutched at her skirts and hoped her smile wasn’t turning too glassy. Roland nodded meaningfully at her cup and before she’d even thought about it, she was raising it obligingly to his lips.

One of the knights sat to her right chuckled. “Thought you said his wife was a sour-faced scold,” he said over-loudly to his neighbor. “The lass seems amenable enough to me!”

Eden stared hard at Roland to see if he’d heard it too, but he just wiped his lip on his sleeve and smacked his lips in satisfaction.

The next hour was a very trying one for Eden. The roast meats were brought out and sure enough, she and Roland were expected to share a plate and feed each other. Her cheeks burned, but luckily, everyone seemed to expect a rosy-cheeked bride, so it was not remarked upon.

“Tis very different from the feasting at court,” she answered, when Sir Ned Bevan sat at Roland’s left, tried to include her in their conversation.

“A lot more lively,” he agreed with an uncertain grin.

Eden could tell Roland’s friends were ill at ease in her company, but what could she do? Their society would hardly be her first choice either! She racked her brains for some common ground, but in truth they had none, save Roland. “Have you known one another for many years?” she asked with an air of desperation.

“We were squires together, as youths,” Sir Ned told her.

“I see.” She glanced at Roland, who seemed content to simply sit back and watch her, rather than facilitate the conversation. “You must have had many adventures together I think,” she hazarded.

She watched an uneasy look flit over Sir Ned’s good-natured face. “Just boyish scrapes,” he assured her with an air of anxiety.