Chapter 13
Odiham Castle, Hampshire
Two mornings later
When Alissende stepped out of the large silk pavilion she and Damien would call home for the next week, she looked up at the sky. Lead-gray clouds gathered angrily at the horizon, promising rain. Not the most auspicious of beginnings, to be sure.
They’d arrived here yesterday, as planned, and had spent the day gaining their bearings as their servants had set up their temporary dwelling.
The pageantry of the tournament would not get underway until this evening, with a grand gathering that would include food and dancing inside Odiham’s unusual, octagonal keep.
If the number of colorful silk tents and pavilions pitched across this field was any indication, the area within those stone walls would be crammed with revelers tonight.
The actual battle events would commence on the morrow, and she could not help but hope that the weather would have cleared enough by then to keep the tournament participants from being forced to slog through mud or engage their opponents under a blanket of uncomfortable drizzle or outright rain. Only time would tell.
Before that, however, they had to get through the opening ceremonies, complete with the call of introductions before the king, which promised to be as enjoyable for both her and Damien as having a physician lance a festering wound. But it had to be done.
“Are you ready to make our appearance, then?”
Damien spoke as he came out of the tent, looking up at the sky as she had done, before he directed his gaze to her. With that, the tension that had been apparent in him from the moment they’d ridden within view of Odiham’s jutting towers eased to something softer.
“You look beautiful, lady.”
“Thank you.”
His murmured compliment drew forth the heat that always seemed to be lingering just below the surface of her cheeks whenever she was with him.
It did not help that the memory of his most intimate touches upon her flashed to mind whenever she happened to look upon the mocking, sensual lines of his mouth, or his elegant hands with those strong, expert fingers.
“The hue you’re wearing becomes you,” he said, breaking into her heated thoughts with his teasing. “Perhaps because it serves to accent your blushes in a rather enticing way.”
“You have cleaned up rather nicely yourself, sir,” she somehow managed to quip in response.
“It is none of my doing, I confess, but rather courtesy once again of your mother’s foresight.”
He flashed a brilliant smile, meant to disarm.
It did.
Ah, she saw the way to handle Sir Damien de Ashby this day. “It is fortunate, then,” she retorted, arching one brow, “that Mère possesses such a keen eye—able to make the most out of whatever she is given to work with.”
For a moment she thought Damien’s mouth might actually drop open.
But he recovered swiftly enough to offer her an exaggerated, gallant nod.
“You may tender my undying appreciation to her, when next you meet, for without her skills, I would surely be fit for naught but stable or scullery.” He followed it with a sweeping bow and flourish of his hand, making her laugh, before he straightened up, tall and very fine indeed, to offer her his arm.
“Shall we proceed to the feast, then, milady, such as I am?”
“Aye, sir, I would be honored to appear beside you,” she said, laughing again and slipping her hand into the bend at his elbow.
And that, she feared, would likely be the last lighter moment they would share for several hours, or perhaps even the rest of the week.
As they approached the main gate to the castle, she saw that it was wide open with the portcullis raised, as expected, and that what seemed to be several royal guards were manning the entrance, backed by scribes on either side.
They were keeping a list of all who passed through the doors, for the purpose of notifying the tournament’s appointed king-of-arms about each noble or knightly combatant scheduled to compete.
That, as well as for providing King Edward’s herald with the names for presentation upon commencement of the festivities.
They came a bit closer, within twenty paces of the gate…and it was then that Alissende noticed it.
“And so it begins.”
She heard Damien murmur that cryptic-sounding assessment at the same time that she felt the weight of the stares begin to shift toward them.
Some of the lords and their ladies were better at masking their surprise or curiosity, only glancing and then lowering their gazes, while others seemed to feel no scruple in outright gawking at them as they neared the table to the right of the gate.
They came to a halt before the scribe, who, aside from appearing bedraggled in the damp weather, looked up expectantly, an affable expression on his face.
Alissende tried to smile in return, though she knew that the man’s pleasant demeanor was likely not sincere but rather a way for him to buffer himself until he learned the identity of the person whose name he would need add next to the list, be he a high-ranking noble or a simple knight.
In the event that it was someone important, he would be able to move smoothly from that genial look to the appropriate scrapings and fawning expected of him.
And if it was naught but a scrapper-knight, here seeking fame and a chance at one of the golden prizes, then he could cast off his obsequious demeanor, perhaps even becoming snappish, as more likely suited his true outlook on this busy, busy day.
This scribe’s expression shifted from affable to awed even before Damien uttered his name.
“Sir Damien de Ashby, with Lady Alissende of Surrey.” Though Damien spoke low, the sound seemed to reverberate from the castle walls, in the sudden silence that surrounded them.
“I—well, yes, of course,” the scribe sputtered, going a bit pale, Alissende thought, before he flushed red, shuffling his parchments as if he was searching for something.
“Is aught amiss?” Damien asked in a quiet, clipped voice, leaning into the scribe with a scowl.
“Nay, of course not. It is just that I—” The scribe’s voice broke off as he glanced to the other scribe positioned at the opposite side of the gate; the two exchanged a pointed look before the first scribe fumbled once more for his quill.
“All right, then,” he murmured, as if to himself, “let us notate this correctly…”
Alissende frowned at the man’s strange reaction, though Damien remained stony-faced.
“Sir Damien de Ashby, of the house of Ashby,” the scribe intoned, scratching away at the vellum as he did. He glanced up. “Do you still bear the same coat of arms as previously, sir, or have you taken on another in the time you were…away?” he finished lamely.
Realization struck Alissende with stunning force.
This strange reception did not stem simply from the scandal attached to Damien’s last attendance at court, or even to the ties he might be perceived to bear, still, to the beleaguered Brotherhood of Templar Knights.
She had expected that. But more so, it seemed that this man—this low-ranking servant in the king’s household—somehow knew about Damien’s brush with the Inquisition in France.
To most humble folk, speaking with a person like Damien was tantamount to standing face-to-face with a ghost. Or a soul damned to hell.
Either way, she knew they had Hugh to thank for this uncomfortable welcome.
“I carry the Ashby coat of arms, as always,” Damien affirmed tightly.
“Very good, sir. I will convey as much to the tourney’s king-of-arms and to King Edward’s herald.”
The scribe seemed to have regained much of his composure, and he added the remaining information to the parchment before looking up and motioning them through the gate.
“His Majesty’s official welcome will begin within the hour.
In the meantime, there are trestles set around the courtyard laden with refreshments for your pleasure. ”
Nodding, Damien escorted Alissende through the gates, though neither of them missed the second pointed look and nod that the scribe directed to his cohort across the way.
They had hardly taken ten paces into the courtyard before a young squire darted past them, disappearing after he crossed the yard, into one of the many ornate, arched doorways of the keep.
“Hugh demanded notice of our arrival,” Damien murmured, still leading her on with seeming nonchalance.
“So it would seem.”
Alissende felt the muscles of Damien’s arm tighten, and she glanced up at his face, seeing that the bitter, strained expression from earlier had returned.
“We do not need to continue with this, you know,” she said quietly, after looking to ensure that none were within earshot of her words. “It would be little trouble to withdraw your name from the lists. We could be back at Glenheim in less than two days.”
Damien glanced down at her in surprise, the tightness of his expression shifting to a smile that somehow seemed at odds with the sharp and feral light still glowing from his eyes.
“Nay, lady; that would be the very worst thing we could do. None must doubt the fullness of your protection. I am up to the task of facing Hugh de Valles or any other, never fear.”
She did not answer. Still, the knot in her stomach twisted more tightly, and she resisted the urge to wipe her suddenly clammy hands against her skirt. Hugh was a master of manipulation, and who knew what other plots he was brewing for them in his devious mind?
But Damien was aware of that now as well as she was, and so she kept silent, instead following him toward one of the refreshment tables laden with cups of wine.
As she did, she sent up a silent prayer, asking that she might find some way to help calm her anxieties enough to get through the rest of this day and the meeting with the king that lay ahead.