Chapter Ten
Ten
By his sky I chart my path.
—ELEANOR GUILDFORD’S MOTTO
The horses pawed at the mud, eager to run. The cages, and the blood, all swept away from the tiltyard, as if the magicians’ tournament had never occurred days before. The only reminder was the charred wood of the stands.
Under an awning directly across from the queen’s ladies, I took the opportunity to study Kitty Seton. She was very expressive—a rarity at court. She rolled her eyes as soon as the other women turned their backs. Scrunched her nose watching the king being led to his seat beside Cecily.
He wore a full set of armor, as if he intended to joust. He must have hoped to conjure a king in his prime, with his crooked teeth straightened again, his bald patch growing a sparse copse of hair. Roland’s meticulous work.
Most of the magicians were here, too, seated in the stands with their families. Fulke and his Jupiters. Miranda, brooding in a clump of Guildfords, glared at me in open hostility. Oliver, I couldn’t find.
Edward hurried across the tiltyard, arms full of lances, hanging on to Roland’s every word.
Roland’s garniture was the same as it was days ago—rose gold to match his features.
Another boy carried his flag: a white unicorn on petal-pink cloth.
His jousting helmet was even outfitted with a spiraled horn.
And at the sight of it, my memory wavered again.
Roland, flicking his hair from his eyes as he smiled, clapping Hal on the back.
Together they rode along the tilt, back and forth, clashing together and drawing apart.
I could feel his horse’s happiness as it nuzzled against him, listening to his soothing voice, his soft stroke down its neck.
Sometimes birds and dogs trailed behind him.
Roland couldn’t help it, not back then; his control was still imperfect.
He’d accidentally shift the course of their desires simply by strolling by.
An animal’s mind was much more pliant than a human’s.
Once, two swans who lived in a pond in the king’s gardens followed him around the grounds for days.
I’d vowed then I wouldn’t be such a senseless beast when it came to him.
Now. It was now, not then. I must stop remembering. But how, when the scenery was all the same?
Roland splashed cold water onto his neck and dragged a rag down his face. When the trumpet sounded, he pulled his stallion close and murmured something soft to him before leaping onto his back.
Jester. That was the horse’s name. Hal had once said the horse’s whinnying reminded him of laughter.
Roland spun Jester in a tight circle and tossed the rag down to Edward, who failed to catch it. And across the lists, Tom was trotting over to his sister’s women, sliding the lance toward Joan Rockford.
Joan neatly tied a white ribbon—her favor—around Tom’s lance, then curtseyed and returned to her seat.
Roland nudged Jester forward, his helmet in one gauntlet and his lance in the other.
Every courtier held their breath as he surveyed the crowd, sweeping from one side of stands to the other.
Cecily balanced on the edge of her seat, ready to spring forward with her favor.
Kitty’s mouth hung open as she peered over Cecily’s shoulder.
Who would he choose? I thought he was indeed veering over to Cecily, but then he tugged Jester’s reins, bypassing the queen and her ladies.
He was riding this way—riding right for me.
I gaped as he came to a halt. Every courtier studied my reaction, watching to see what I might do.
Roland’s gaze was steady. Assured. There was a collective gasp, then rapt silence as the lance extended. Someone pressed against my back. “Go,” they said. I thought it might be Bess.
“I can’t,” I whispered back. I was outside of my body, as if this moment was in the past, and I was lingering in a memory once again.
But my rapid pulse was proof time was moving forward, and someone—yes, it was Bess—had gripped my arm and, with a harsh tug, lifted me from my seat. “You must,” she insisted.
I felt as though I floated over to him. Roland smirked, pleased with himself for the dramatics of the scene, no doubt, for unsettling me entirely. For unsettling the queen and the entire court.
“Bianca,” he said sweetly.
“Your Grace.”
“May I have your favor for the joust today?”
“You may.” I had no ribbon, so I unclasped the golden chain around my neck and looped it twice around his lance. “Ride safely, Lord Chancellor.”
He nodded to me once he saw my favor was secure, then swung Jester around.
I want Roland to know I despise him. I want Roland to know I despise him. I want Roland to know I despise him. From his laugh as he trotted away, I knew he’d heard my wish.
My heart was still pounding, my face warm.
It was all the eyes trained on me—wondering, assuming, imagining something between us.
The sun beat down, so I couldn’t tug on individual emotions as well as usual, but I sensed collective bewilderment.
I smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in my gown and sat.
I want Roland to fall off his horse.
The laughter again. I felt the amusement in him as plainly as if my head were lying against his chest. He was enjoying this far too much.
He slapped his helmet over his face and spun Jester around again with expert hands, gripping his lance tight.
The hum of gossip in the stands faded as Tom and Roland rounded on each other for the first pass, hooves thundering down the length of the tilt.
Roland’s lance clipped Tom’s left shoulder as they collided.
The crowd applauded politely.
Tom lifted his visor, muttering something to his squire between clenched teeth. Edward handed Roland a second lance—the other’s tip was smashed in. Again, they cantered, and the ground beneath us trembled.
On the second pass both lances skimmed armor, but neither did any damage.
Roland called out some taunt to Tom and removed his helmet, accepting a cloth so he could splash cool water into his face, remove the sweat and grime.
He held the pitcher above himself and poured the water into his mouth, then into his hand so he could sweep his hair back.
“Roland, your face is too pretty!” Tom called from the other end. “Must do something about it!”
“Only my face? What of the rest of me?” Roland slid his helmet back on and assumed position.
The third pass. The horses charged again. I was struck by the churn of their muscles, the frantic pace of their breaths. Roland’s strong thighs, clenched tight around his stallion’s body.
From somewhere behind me, a gasp. My gaze swung to the tip of Tom’s lance, to where it was aimed.
It appeared as if Roland’s focus slipped, or he hesitated for only a moment, and Tom struck him in the crevice between his helmet and gorget.
He flew back off his horse, landing in the dirt with a terrible thud.
The entire court stood on their feet and cried out.
Queen Cecily and King Richard both looked as if they might faint.
I searched Roland’s mind for pain and found only the gentle flicker of his humor. The desperate cries of the crowd, delighting him.
“Is he all right?” Bess asked.
“I don’t know,” I lied, standing to peer at the dirt where Roland was sprawled.
Tom handed his horse to his squire and raced over, his expression shifting between forced concern and total confusion.
He knelt beside Roland and wrenched off his helmet, revealing Roland’s face, the sweat-soaked strands framing his cheekbones.
I pushed down into the tiltyard, ignoring the disapproving glances of the courtiers, the protestations of Tom Guildford and the other privy councilors who didn’t want me near.
“Let me through.” I fell over Roland’s body. “We need to take off his breastplate.”
Wyatt Francis stepped forward to help, and together we unstrapped the heavy armor, maneuvering Roland through the interlocking metal plates. I tugged his chest toward me and pressed my cheek against his heart. It beat wildly, as if he were running. He made a point to moan tragically.
I sat back on my heels. As his friends lifted him into their arms, Roland’s head drooped. Only when everyone else was turned away did he toss me a wink.
Stretched out as a cat on a low wall in the gardens, our meeting spot, I waited for him. I could still hear the clash of steel from the tiltyard. The sun moved westward, and I’d chased its warmth twice by the time he arrived.
His white silk shirt was untucked from his breeches, his hair mussed.
I weaved around his ankles, and as I felt myself being lifted off the ground, I dug my claws into his hands until he set me down, yowling loud enough for servants in the nearby scullery to hear.
“Perhaps an uglier cat, one with fleas, would be more apt.”
I hissed, swatting him with my tail.
I transformed behind the hedge where I’d left my garments, pulling on each layer—shift, kirtle, gown, pinning the sleeves, then finally setting the coif and jeweled crescent hood over my hair.
Several times, Roland offered to help, and whenever he did, I hissed again.
He muttered that I was feral as he lay along the wall, tossing an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the sun.
“It’s a fascinating detail of your transformations,” he called out.
“What is?”
“The lack of clothing.”
My face burned at the implication. When I emerged from behind the hedge, he spun his finger, asking me to turn.
His shadow fell over me. Softly, he brushed aside my veil, the loose hairs at my nape, his knuckles trailing over my spine. “This is difficult,” he said between his teeth.
The light touches skipped to the small of my back. “What is?”
“The clasp.” After several sighs of effort, my golden chain hung from my neck again.
A glance over my shoulder. “You’re tired.”