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Aimee swallowed and nodded. How strange it must feel for northern nobles to attend these events, she realized, which must mirror in many ways the court at Menith, where they had previously served as courtiers. She took a sip of her wine in an effort to dispel such sober thoughts.

The squires were now lining the edge of the field with their banners, standing well back. Trumpets were raised and blasted, and some twenty or so horses entered the arena from the left and the same number from the right.

“It’s Konrad! It seems this time there will be a mounted charge,” Freda announced excitedly.

“Yes,” Aimee agreed, striving to regulate her suddenly shallow breathing. How funny, she thought, to remember how differently she had viewed his emergence into the competitor’s field previously. Then, he had seemed like some sort of terrifying monster about to lay waste to all around him. Whereas now, she could point and say, ‘Who, that? Oh, that is my husband, you know.”

What a pity, she reflected ruefully, that there was no one to hand that she could brag to. It was pointless saying it to Freda or Magnatrude, who knew him far better than she did. Glancing up at that moment, she met the eye of a lady in the next box who was gazing at her with a lively interest.

Aimee flushed with the uncomfortable thought that her face must have betrayed what she had been thinking. The lady looked most definitely amused. She lifted a hand in greeting, and Aimee returned the gesture, a little hesitantly, but with a smile. She jabbed Freda in the ribs with her elbow. “Who, pray, is that lady over there?” she hissed.

Freda glanced across. “I do not know any of these southern nobles,” she answered apologetically. “We could enquire. Which do you mean?”

“The lady with the golden hair in the rose-colored gown.”

Freda looked again. “Do you mean the – the – er,” Freda faltered, and Aimee realized she did not wish to refer to the fact the lady was heavily pregnant.

“The one who is expecting,” Aimee supplied helpfully.

Magnatrude leaned forward and spoke in the discreet, low tone she clearly thought her kinswoman should display. “That is the Countess of Twyford,” she murmured. “An old and venerable northern title,” she added. “The current bearer only acceded to it in the past year. Dear Elizabeth was telling me of it only yesterday.”

“She is very lovely,” Aimee observed, surreptitiously stealing another look at the countess. While it was true, the skin on her face was far from unblemished, Aimee did not think this detracted in any way from a very charming profile. The countess was not wearing her spouse’s colors of black and white, Aimee noted with unease. She glanced down and suddenly wished fervently that she was wearing any other of her own gowns.

“The rumor is, she used to be the greatest beauty in all the south,” Magnatrude added, as though unable to stop herself from sharing a piece of salacious gossip. “Before she was struck down with the scarlet pox, that is.”

“Oh!” Freda lifted a hand to her mouth, and she and Aimee exchanged wide-eyed looks. “How tragic!”

“Well, she is still a fine-looking woman for all that,” Aimee said, feeling her color rise. “After all, what are a few scars?” She stared steadfastly ahead at the arena as an awkward silence greeted her words. She focused on the horned helmet and the looming figure on the huge destrier. He was magnificent, she thought, her bosom swelling. And he was hers!

Magnatrude coughed. “Prevailing opinion places her husband, the earl, as the favorite to win this afternoon’s joust,” she continued loftily.

“The Earl of Twyford jousts?” Freda asked, sounding startled.

“Before he was the Earl of Twyford, he was one Garman Orde,” Magnatrude imparted. “A very great northern champion.”

Aimee turned her head at that. “Oh, I had not realized they were one and the same. He won the joust at Kellingford last year and is a very fierce competitor.”

Of course! She remembered now, the heavily veiled lady who had accompanied him and so captured her own and Ursula’s imagination. There had been that terrible stand collapse, and Aimee had watched, her heart in her throat, as Sir Garman had dug his wife out of the rubble with his bare hands. She had been enthralled by his eventual win and the victory lap he had taken with his wife sat up on his charger before him.

Unable to resist the temptation, Aimee glanced over again at where the countess sat, serene and round with child. Love must have restored her looks to her, she thought, tears springing sentimentally to her eyes.

A cheer from the crowd had her quickly turning back. The king’s flag must have been waved as the two sides were now riding toward each other with their swords drawn. They wore colored armbands, one side green and the other yellow. Lord Kentigern’s arm displayed a green band.

“None of them are bearing spears,” Aimee realized suddenly, turning to Freda. “At Kellingford, they had spears.”

Freda looked bewildered. “Oh, do they not?”

Aimee wondered if there would be many more differences between the royal and the rural tournaments but did not have time for further speculation, for the two sides had met with a jarring clash of steel. Dry dust flew up from the ground and obscured everything as sword arms flailed and shields were raised to deflect the blows raining down on them.

“Oh dear!” Freda flinched. “I had forgotten the wanton savagery of it all!”

The trumpets blasted again, and the horses wheeled about, the two sides separating again and retreating to the opposite side. At least three men had been unhorsed in the hostilities. The squires ran forward to catch their horses by their reins and lead them out of the arena.

One knight sat upright, clutching his helmet, but the other two were lying insensible in the dust. Aimee noticed that instead of being claimed for ransom by the knights who had unseated them, the fallen were instead helped to their feet or dragged from the ring by attendants whose express purpose seemed to be retrieving these unfortunates. Two of those hobbling toward the exit wore green armbands. As they were helped out, the squires withdrew their flags from those displayed. Aimee leaned forward but did not recognize the crests of those being folded up and put aside.

“How do they determine the winning side?” Freda asked in faltering accents.

“Presumably,” her cousin pointed out witheringly, “by the side with most still seated after a certain number of charges.”