Page 1

1

Kellingford Tournament, October

If anyone had asked her, Aimee could have told them the precise moment she had fallen in love with Lord Kentigern. She and her sister had been sat in the stands at Kellingford, enjoying the rare treat their father had secured for them. Since his star was ascending, Gerold Ankatel had vowed his daughters, too, must become accustomed to the finer things in life. They would dress like ladies in gowns of silk and satin, wear dainty slippers upon their feet, and chains of gold about their throats.

The sisters had sat, arm in arm, awaiting the joust with mounting excitement. Aimee had been wholly unaware at the time that she had been about to lose her heart to another. Up until that point, she and her sister had been in perfect accord in their tastes. This was only the second tournament they had ever attended, and at the first, they had spotted the young and boyishly handsome Sir Renlow d’Avenant. He had quickly captured their admiration. His humble manners and his headful of curls would have been enough, but when they spied his tattered standard, dented armor, and faded shield, their sympathies had been firmly secured to his cause. Seeing him once again at Kellingford, they were quick to name him their favorite.

“What a truly estimable young man he seems,” Ursula had whispered shyly. “I do so hope he performs well here.”

“Not puffed up with his own consequence like that odious Sir Jeffree!” Aimee had agreed, thinking of the arrogant Sir Jeffree de Crecy, who they had watched triumph in the melee that morning.

Ursula’s eyes widened. “Aimee! Sister, you must not talk so!” Her sister had looked around nervously, lest any of the mixed company had overheard her.

Aimee sighed. “None heard me but you!” She greatly esteemed her older sister, but she did wish Ursula was not quite so proper and correct at all times.

“Oh no!” Ursula gasped in dismay, raising her fine cambric scarf to her mouth and covering it. The crowd groaned along with her in collective sympathy.

“What is it?” asked Aimee, looking up from where she had been trying to retrieve a sticky date from her own kerchief.

“You won’t believe who poor Sir Renlow has drawn for the joust,” Ursula said, tears starting to form in her eyes.

“Who?” Aimee asked, twisting in her seat to see who was entering the stadium. Her own mouth fell open at the sight that confronted her as the huge charger lumbered in, bearing its dread master. He looked like a demon from some terrifying text, promising dire punishment in the afterlife.

Had anyone had asked Aimee to imagine what a knight of hell would look like, without a doubt she would have thought of Lord Kentigern. With his horned helmet and black armor, he looked like some powerful creature of the underworld, come to drag his opponent to hell. Watching him in action only cemented this impression.

At their previous tournament, she and Ursula had sat in terrified silence, watching him reduce some unfortunate knight to a helpless victim in what seemed like mere minutes. He had wielded his freakish strength with brutal and destructive intent. At his win, the crowd had sat in complete silence, staring as he had drawn off his helmet to salute the royal box. For removing his helmet had revealed an even more terrifying sight – his disfigured features. He could not have failed to hear the audience’s reaction.

Ursula had hidden her face in her scarf, but Aimee had been unable to look away from the cruel and heavy scarring which covered the left side of his face. The eye on that side had to be blind, for it was completely white. At the king’s acknowledgement of his win, the crowd had broken out in a hasty smattering of polite applause. Kentigern had barely seemed to notice, exiting the arena as imposing and intractable as when he had stalked into it.

Watching him enter the field now, Aimee was filled with misgiving. “’Tis Lord Kentigern!” she breathed with dismay. “He’ll destroy him!” She glanced back at Sir Renlow, who was manfully squaring his shoulders and leading his horse to the starting position.

Ursula twisted her scarf. “That poor young man!” she moaned. “To be cut down in the prime of his life!”

“I don’t think they are actually permitted to kill one another,” Aimee said uncertainly, glancing about. All around her she could see the audience tutting and shaking their heads. They, too, felt bad for the handsome young knight who was seemingly doomed in the first round of the joust. It really was too bad!

“I don’t think I can watch,” Ursula said, lifting her scarf to shield her eyes. “Tell me when it’s over.”

Aimee nodded, only too familiar with her sister’s squeamishness. She straightened her own spine. Sir Renlow was facing his cruel fate so manfully that the least she could do was bear witness to his valor. She kept her eyes on his upright figure as he lowered his visor, poised ready for the off. She did not see the signal given but watched as his white destrier lurched forward. The thunderous barrage of the horse’s hooves seemed almost deafening as they pelted down the length of the field.

Despite her resolve, Aimee found her eyes squeezing shut of their own accord as the inevitable collision occurred. She heard the crash and splinter of lances, the heavy thud of a fallen body as it hit the ground.

“Is it over?” Ursula mumbled.

Aimee started to nod before she realized that it was the black horse that was riderless and not the white. She gave a squeak. “No!” she breathed. “I can scarce believe it!” All around, hushed sounds of wonderment were breaking forth from other spectators as they beheld the fallen figure of Lord Kentigern lying prone in the dust.

“What has happened?” Ursula asked urgently. “Is he dead?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Aimee said, though to her eye, it seemed Lord Kentigern was entirely insensible, he lay so still. She nudged her sister. “It’s not what you think! Sir Renlow has triumphed, sister!”

Ursula lowered her scarf and gaped at Sir Renlow, who remained in his saddle as though he, too, were frozen in disbelief. Ursula drew in a shocked and ragged breath as Sir Renlow dismounted and a page darted forward to throw a bucket of water over the stricken Kentigern. “No! Do not revive him!” Ursula burst out anxiously. “He will surely be furious!”

Sure enough, Lord Kentigern stirred and suddenly sat up, causing a buzz of consternation from the crowd. “’E’ll kill him!” someone opined from Aimee’s right. “Rip out his guts wiv his bare ’ands, you see if ’e don’t!”

To everyone’s horror, Sir Renlow started toward his fallen foe, a smile of singular sweetness spreading over his face. The arena fell into horrified silence at such foolhardiness. Lord Kentigern wrenched off his helmet, exposing his ferocious features, and clambered to his feet. “Boy!” he roared, and the crowd flinched.

Suddenly, the two opponents were embracing, or a rough approximation of an embrace that involved jarring blows to each other’s backs and a sort of grasping of each other’s shoulders. Sir Renlow had so wide a grin across his face that it looked like it would almost split in two. He was laughing, and Aimee could see Lord Kentigern’s beard moving as he spoke in what she could only surmise was a congratulatory speech, for she could not hear the actual words.

“I don’t believe it,” Ursula uttered in stunned accents, fluttering her scarf against Aimee’s shoulder. “Do you see that, Aimee? Lord Kentigern is happy for him! Actually happy!”