The King's Champion

‘Nay, goose.’

‘Um…’ Ellie pretended to be flummoxed and agonised over her choices ‘…a dove? A silk scarf? A handful of London air?’

Rupert released her with a heavy sigh, and Ellie opened the wooden box, prettily decorated with mother of pearl, and murmured her thanks at the sight of plump marchpane sweetmeats nestling within a bed of satin. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed her brother’s cheek, ‘Thank you, but you should not have wasted your coin.’

‘I didn’t.’ He grinned. ‘I, er, charmed them off a lady-in-waiting.’

She punched his arm in mock-admonishment, and then quickly set aside the box as he whirled her off into a prancing set. The evening picked up its pace and seemed to fly by, as her parents could little object to her dancing in a group when her own brother was part of it and looked on with a careful and watchful eye.

During the dances they swept past the King’s dais and there, at last, she found Troye. He stood behind the King, to his right, alongside four other trusted and experienced knights who would guard the King from all harm and lay down their lives for him if necessary. Troye watched the gathering but, hard as she tried, she could not seem to catch his eye.

The music for a particularly lively rotundellus had just come to a halt, the drums ceasing in their banging and the reedy notes of several recorders and a twanging rebec had stilled when a sudden shout from the yeoman guards ranged about the hall went up.

‘’Ware! Arms!’

Into the hall whirled five black-cloaked and hooded figures. A collective gasp bounced to the rafters from the gathering of guests and they jostled themselves out of the way, tripping and bumping one another, skirts rustling and heels tapping in their haste. Then the black apparitions flung off their cloaks and five acrobats were revealed, dressed all in white, with black ruff collars and their faces painted to match the black-and-white theme. Laughter and a sigh of relief echoed from the crowd, and the rasp of steel as swords half-drawn from their scabbards were now slotted home, the King’s bodyguard retreating from its protective phalanx about their liege.

‘It’s only a disguising!’ cried Aunt Beatrice, peeping out from behind her husband’s broad back, where he had thrust her at the first hint of trouble.

It was a common enough form of entertainment, to run into a hall disguised in dark cloaks, and then throw them off, make their performance of either singing or dancing, charades or acrobatics, and then run off again. Ellie emerged from behind her brother and watched with interest the tumbling, white-faced acrobats, and clapped along with everyone else before the disguisers picked up their cloaks and ran out of the hall.

The moment of tension had not blighted anyone’s enjoyment of the revelry. Indeed, to face the uncertain prospect of violence, and possibly death, had only served to whet their appetites for more pleasure. The noise levels rose to a roar, strong Gascon wine flowed freely from casket to goblet, and sumptuous offerings of food crammed on side tables were soon consumed.

‘Oh, look, it is a line dance! Do let’s join in, Rupert.’

On either side of the hall the guests formed a line, each couple on opposites sides. When it was their turn they skipped the dancing steps into the middle and then down the length of the hall, until halfway, where they were met by a couple from the other end of the line. In the middle the two couples danced together, and then swapped partners. It was one of Ellie’s favourite dances, being very lively, and gave her a chance to dance with new partners. And to pass in front of the dais. And perhaps to make Troye a little jealous as she danced with other men?

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glowed brightly as her feet tapped out the intricate steps, with a smile on her berry-red lips. She danced with a very dark man, who had a hook nose and shaggy brows and whose name she did not know, but he held her hand lightly and smiled at her, a gold earring glinting in one ear. She thought he looked like a pirate, and then they separated and she skipped away to join the end of the line.

The dance required stamina, and it was some long moments before she reached the head of the line again, in front of the King’s dais, where he sat back, looking on with a bored expression upon his face. She tried to see if Troye de Valois watched her, but his face was just a distant blur. She smiled across at Rupert and it was just about to be their turn to go down the middle when again came that warning cry.

‘’Ware! Arms!’

There was a brief titter this time, and the dancers scarce halted in their bobbing as five cloaked intruders ran into their midst. Ellie stayed where she was, their entrance blocking her path, and she looked on with a faint hint of expectation on her face, which quickly evaporated as the disguisers threw off their cloaks and drew swords from their scabbards, the scraping sound echoing a warning about the hall.

The royal bodyguard reacted immediately, the hiss of steel as they drew their own swords and surrounded King Edward spurring the guests into a collective scream. The floorboards suddenly shook as heels drummed in their haste to run from the impending conflict. There was no doubt this time that the King was under attack, yet Ellie stood rooted to the spot, aghast and mesmerised by the skirmish that erupted before her very eyes.

She had lived her entire life sheltered behind castle walls, protected and cosseted. She had heard tales of battle and only envisaged it as a playground for the exploits of valour and chivalry. Now she was stunned as silver blades arced through the air and cut through flesh and bone, blood spurting in a crimson fountain and spraying across the floors, the walls, and her gown. The masked attackers were no match for the knights, who had honed their skills for years in battles and tournaments for just such a moment.

Steel clanged on steel. There were guttural shouts and coarse oaths shouted as the King’s bodyguards fought off the five masked assassins. The hall had erupted into pandemonium. Hundreds of people shoved and grappled to squeeze their way through the already crowded doorways to flee from the danger. Ellie was knocked to the floor. She looked up to see Troye de Valois standing over her as he parried the less-than-skilful swordplay of one attacker. As she cowered she watched him bludgeon his opponent with swift strokes, knocking him to the ground and then forcing him to relinquish his weapon. With one quick thrust Troye stabbed the man in the heart and he gurgled an instant death.

The dead man lay only a few feet away from her and now Ellie began to scream, as blood spattered her and she recoiled. Rough hands seized her arm and dragged her off the floor.

‘Get out!’ shouted Troye harshly.

She scrambled to her knees, and then to her feet, crashing against the solid rockface that was Troye’s chest as he jerked her backwards with one hand and fought off an assailant with the other. Her heart pounded as sword blades flashed so close to her head that her veil lifted and shivered in the breeze of their wake. Following the urgent insistence of Troye’s hand gripping her arm, she tried to flee, but her heel slipped in a greasy pool of blood and she fell to her knees, her screams of horror rising to piercing intensity. Troye tugged her up again and pulled her along, throwing her with some force towards the crowd of people scrabbling for the exit.

‘For God’s sake, get out!’ he shouted at her, and then he turned away, leaping once more into the fray as he and his men quickly dealt with the remaining intruders.

‘Eleanor!’

She started at the sound of that familiar voice, and with a sob flung herself into the open arms of her Uncle Remy, burrowing into the massive, protective width of his broad chest. Being head and shoulders taller than most people, he managed to force his way through the crush, and soon had her out into the cool dark of the evening air. He hurried to where the rest of the family waited, half-carrying Eleanor as her knees suddenly buckled and refused to hold her upright. Her mother gave a desperate cry at the sight of her.

‘It’s all right,’ Remy hastened to reassure them, ‘it’s not her blood. No harm has come to her.’

Ellie sank into the warm embrace of her mother’s bosom, while her Aunt Beatrice used her veil to wipe the blood from her face, both women making soothing sounds as Ellie stared blankly with shock.

‘Let us depart,’ suggested Lord Henry.

There were swift murmurs of agreement, yet Rupert hung back, knowing full well where his duty lay. ‘I must return to the hall.’

Lord Henry stretched out a hand and clapped his son on the shoulder, ‘Fare thee well, Rupert. We will see you on the morrow.’ With a rueful glance thrown at his womenfolk, he concluded drily, ‘Our duty lies elsewhere. The fight is yours.’

Rupert nodded, and melted away into the dark shadows of Westminster without a backward glance as his family hurried across the lawns to the stairs leading down to the embankment and their waiting barge.

It was a silent journey, punctuated only by the clunk and splash of the oars as they rose and plunged through the oily black waters of the river, and by Eleanor’s hiccups as she sniffed, a violent shivering now taking hold of her as shock set in. She could scarce believe what had happened, and through it all she could only see the crimson of blood and the face of Troye de Valois. Never in her life had she seen such an expression upon a man’s face. Such grim determination, such brutal ruthlessness. Again she shuddered, as goosebumps flared across her skin. And yet her heart had been thrilled, for he was her hero. Her heart had spoken, saying aye, this is the one, the other half that would make the emptiness within her complete, and no counsel from her head would alter her heart’s desire.

With relief she alighted at Cheapside and with her family made haste to seek the comfort and safety of their own camp. Ensconced within the shadowy tent bearing the banner of Raven, Lady Joanna prepared hot spiced wine to ease their shock.

Uncle Remy lifted his goblet and said, ‘Here’s to Troye de Valois. Once again he has saved our Eleanor.’

The others murmured in agreement, even Lord Henry reluctantly, and, with a small frown, added his own toast of gratitude. Ellie took a few sips and felt the warmth spread through her body, and then with a whisper she excused herself and hurried to her own tent. Quickly she stripped off her bloodstained gown and flung it away. She washed in water that was cold but ready to hand; it was not until she was clean and dressed in her nightshift that she sank down upon the furs of her cot and covered her face with both hands.

It thrilled her to think that Troye de Valois had indeed saved her life. She could so easily have been cut down in the fray, her slender body sliced like a ribbon by the threshing swords. And yet gratitude was not the emotion that came foremost to her mind. Aye, her heart might well be smitten by the heroics, but in her mind she could see only the horror. Valour and chivalry were clean and bright and beautiful attributes, but there could be no honour in bloodlust. She ached to know whether Troye was all right, if he had survived the attack unharmed. It irked her bitterly to think that she could not go to him, tend his wounds if he had any, hold him and comfort him. But soon, one day, she would be able to do all of that. For it was obvious to her that they were destined to be together. So thinking, she lay down, hugged her pillow and smiled as she fell asleep.

In the morning Lord Henry wasted no time in taking his family to Cheapside, impatiently chivvying his wife and daughter as they dressed and broke their fast on bread and cheese. As they took out combs and ribbons impatiently he muttered that they were lovely enough to have no need to waste their time, and his, upon needless ‘titivating’. Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, Lady Joanna making comment upon the use of such a word, and yet taking pity on her husband as she realised his anxiety to meet up with Rupert and hear all the details of last night’s fray.

Remy, still a warrior at heart despite the comforts of marriage, was also eager to hear more news of the night before. Remy and Lord Henry discussed the whys and wherefores and whatnots of the attack upon the King as they rode to the tourney field, and Ellie listened with curious ears, eager to hear the name Troye de Valois. She felt a glow of pride that he received nothing but praise this morn, for a man who failed to earn the admiration and respect of her kin was, in her eyes, no man at all.

At the tournament they seated themselves in the canopied stands, as the crowds came drifting in while the sun rose higher in the blue sky. Chatter ebbed and flowed on the breeze, the smell of dust and horses, roasted pork and smoke from the cooking fires, drifting and swirling around the arena. It would be another very bright and hot day, and already ladies were seeking the shade of awnings and fanning themselves with parchment and sipping lemonade kept cool in barrels of Thames water.

Seated in their stand, Ellie watched as a pageboy came tripping up the steps and handed her father a rolled letter, tied with a red ribbon. Lord Henry nodded his thanks and turned away, to one side, while he opened it.

Eleanor looked about, eager to catch a glimpse of the jousting knights, seeking out a particular profile, dark eyes and broad shoulders, but Troye de Valois was not yet out on the field. Her curiosity about him was too powerful to resist and she asked her father questions that were vaguely disguised, in the hope of finding out more about him.

‘Do you think life is very hard for Rupert?’ she asked, as they sat close together on the benches, her mother chatting to her Aunt Beatrice as they appraised the fashions of the other ladies.

Her father looked up from the parchment letter he was perusing, with a frown, and glanced at Eleanor, ‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I wondered what life must be like for Rupert, now that he is serving in the King’s Own.’

Lord Henry carefully rolled up the letter and retied the scarlet ribbon. ‘Aye, life will be harder than the easy comforts of living at home. But that is what a knight expects, little comfort and no thanks. A bedroll upon the floor, or a muddy field, food not fit for hounds, and the soldier’s curse of long separations from his loved ones.’

‘Then why do it?’ asked Eleanor.

Her father smiled, and looked away into the distance. ‘That is a question that could have many answers, my little dove. For some men, being a warrior is all they know, for others they are escaping pain of some kind, and for a few, a very few, they seek the glory of valour.’

‘Once I would have been a knight,’ said Eleanor, ‘but now I am heartily glad that I am a lady.’