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“Will you take some refreshment now, cousin?” Freda asked quickly with a gesture toward the table. “Stirling has baked fresh loaves this morning.”

“No,” he answered curtly. “I need to get back to the practice field.” He hesitated. “Freda, while we are at Beres Caple, you should invite Ankatel to take supper with you here of an evening.”

Freda blinked. “I should?”

He nodded. “He – er – sits to an empty table these days.”

“Oh, the poor dear man!” Freda exclaimed. “Of course, if you think I should, Konrad.”

“I do. You could send word when Aimee arranges for her horse to be sent around.” He shot a glance at Aimee, whose eyes were very round. He wondered if it had never occurred to her that she could end up with the ghastly widow for a stepmother. “Do not forget the tailor,” he warned his wife direly and was heading for the door when he paused and turned back again.

“While he is here, he could fashion Freda another gown. Magnatrude also, if she intends swanning off to the palace on a daily basis.” Seeing they were both lost for words, he nodded again and made his exit.

Konrad was feeling pleased with himself as he set back off for the practice ground, and it was only when he had reached it that it occurred to him to wonder what preparations Aimee had needed to make for Beres Caple. The only thing he could think of was requesting her horse be brought around, which he had sorted, and the ordering of a new gown in his colors, which she plainly had not yet done. He frowned as he dismounted and was so distracted as he fastened Actaeon to a tethering post that he scarcely noticed the irate figure advancing on him.

“So, you’re here, are you?” Sir Jeffree de Crecy said with deep loathing, coming to a halt before him.

Konrad glanced about the mostly empty field. A few knights were drifting toward them, but for the most part, the more serious contenders had departed directly after the royal tournament.

“As you see,” Konrad grunted. “What do you want, de Crecy?” He turned to face the other man.

De Crecy’s blue eyes narrowed. “You intend on competing at Beres Caple?” he asked tersely.

Konrad nodded warily. “You?” He was pleasantly surprised to hear there would be some decent competition at least. You were unlikely to find a Roland Vawdrey or a Garman Orde present, especially not since those bastards had married. De Crecy was a stiff-necked, pompous ass, but there was no doubting his caliber as a competitor.

“I will,” de Crecy said stiffly. “And I trust you are taking your good lady wife with you,” he practically spat the words.

Konrad glared at him. “What’s it to you?” he demanded.

“Oh, naught,” de Crecy replied through gritted teeth. “Except I look forward to presenting her with the tourney crown, that’s all.”

Konrad opened his mouth on a sharp retort but felt a hand clapped to his shoulder.

“Kentigern, well met,” Douglas Farleigh hailed him heartily. “You are headed for Beres Caple – us too!” He gestured to another couple of knights close by. Konrad had seen them around but did not remember their names. They were southerners like Farleigh but returned his nod in a cautiously friendly manner. “Have you been introduced to Sir Leonard Symes and Sir Fulke Lowell?”

“Excuse me, Farleigh!” de Crecy seethed. “Kentigern and I were in the midst of some conversation before you charged in with your cronies!”

Farleigh glanced back blankly at the irate knight. “Oh, I did not realize. I thought you had finished your conversation,” he shrugged. “I can wait until your business is concluded.” He placed his hands on his hips and looked enquiringly from one to the other.

De Crecy ground his teeth. “I have said everything I intended,” he said stiffly and swung around to stalk away, still muttering under his breath.

“He’s been spoiling for a fight all morning,” Farleigh muttered under his breath. “Do not let him incite you.”

Konrad glanced at him in surprise. Had Farleigh been attempting to prevent an altercation? He was grimly amused. “Whatever else he may be, de Crecy is a professional,” he muttered. “He leaves all disputes for the field.”

Farleigh snorted. “’Tis plain you have not heard how he conducted himself at the celebration feast the other night.”

Konrad blinked. “He got in a fight?”

“A fight, you ask?” Farleigh answered, his lips twitching. He turned to his friends. “Fulke, Leo, Kentigern here asks if de Crecy got into a fight at the feast.”

They laughed. “It was a full-scale brawl,” the shorter of the two replied. “The king had to send in his guard to pull them apart at the point of a sword.”

When Konrad looked incredulous, Farleigh took over the tale. “De Crecy was trying to wring Throckmorten’s neck with his bare hands. Astleigh and Faversham were trying their damnedest to prevent him, but they couldn’t tear the bastard away.”

“De Crecy?” Konrad repeated in dazed accents. De Crecy who was always so stiff-rumped about his own consequence? De Crecy had disgraced himself in the king’s hall? “Why in the name of the gods?” he persisted.

“Throckmorten asked de Crecy’s wife how she enjoyed being tourney queen,” the third lanky knight replied, scratching the back of his neck.