CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
He laughed loudly at that, forgetting for a moment the gulf in social standing between them.
It was as he was laughing that Rhiannon experienced another of the fleeting visions that had been becoming increasingly frequent in recent months.
They were always the same. It was as if she were glimpsing something at the very periphery of her vision.
A flicker of light. A blur of colours. Gold and red.
And at the centre a white shape, indistinct, moving and staying forever just beyond her ability to identify it.
At times she thought it a flower. At others a ship.
Still others had her convinced it was an animal of some sort.
The one constant factor, the thing that invariably accompanied this vision, was a feeling.
It was an intuition, a knowing without knowing, a whispered thought at the back of her mind that told her over and over the same thing: Tudor is close!
Two weeks after the installation of the doors, Rhiannon rode north east in the direction of the ancient town of Tewkesbury.
She and her entourage of two maids and four guards were to attend the tournament at the home of Lord Flenchcombe, half an hour’s journey beyond the parish boundary.
They had made two overnight stops and were now only a short distance from the venue itself.
There was good natured excitement amongst the party as they travelled, the girls in particular gleefully anticipating the opportunity to venture beyond their home.
To enjoy the entertainments and festivities.
To mix with strangers. To search for a husband.
Rhiannon was pleased they found these trips so diverting, and thankful they had not tired of them.
This was the fourth tourney they had attended in only three months.
As ever, it was her deepest hope and dearest wish that she would find Tudor among the contestants.
Having come so close to meeting him in previous lives, she knew with each incarnation her chances of success were increasing.
As her skills as a witch grew, so did her powers of summoning and foretelling.
She drew on all of these, casting spells, seeking guidance and help from her fellow witches, and trying to interpret her own visions.
She also employed more earthbound tactics, putting out the word that she required a knight to work for her.
Sending her own herald to attend tournaments in search of Tudor.
And, as now, attending tourneys herself in the hope of drawing him to her with her own presence.
‘Oh, my Lady, look!’ Eleri, the younger of the two maids, was the first to see the flags and banners in the distance as they approached Lord Flenchcombe’s estate.
She was not yet sixteen and her head was stuffed full of the romance of the contests.
She was a pretty girl, and lively with it.
Rhiannon was certain she would soon lose her to matrimony.
The ground chosen for the tournament was indeed the perfect setting.
The rich colours of the banners stood out against a backdrop of woodlands.
The lush green of the meadows prettily set off the bright finery of the guests.
The viewing stands had been constructed to take advantage of the slight slope, and already seats were filling with well dressed ladies, gentlemen and nobles.
Even the more lowly benches provided a display of colour and bustle, with local people eagerly taking advantage of having such sport and spectacle within reach.
As they drew closer they could hear musicians playing, and the happy sound of children cheering at a dancing dog, or exclaiming at the skills of a juggler, or clapping with delight at the daring of a fire-eater.
As they rode into the thick of the event, Rhiannon felt her spirits lifted by the joyfulness of the occasion, as well as her own raised hopes.
She watched her maids and guards as their faces, too, shone with the fun of the day.
A brightly painted giant strode past on stilts.
Two men in clothing made entirely of feathers acted out a comedy on an improvised stage.
In every available space, someone was doing something to entertain, or to advertise their wares.
The smell of freshly cooked pies made Rhiannon’s mouth water.
In a few yards she counted three pie sellers but they need not fear the competition, for there were plenty of hungry spectators with coin to spend.
An old man played a tune on a flute while his granddaughter encouraged a goose to hop through a hoop.
Armorers displayed gleaming swords or brightly flighted arrows.
There were stands where a herald could buy new fabric for his master’s tabard, or a maid could buy new braid for her hair.
There were men selling knives and women selling jars of ale.
All tastes and needs for a fine tournament were catered for.
Rhiannon signalled to her party to stop.
One of her men hurried forwards to help her down from her horse, though she was perfectly able to dismount unassisted.
It was important she observe the niceties and traditions of courtly behaviour when she was away from home.
She had a noble reputation to keep up, for the sake of all she protected.
Taran loped over to shadow her steps. She dropped a hand onto the hound’s head to reassure him.
He would have followed her into battle, had she asked it of him, as his ancestors had done, but still he disliked the noise and hubbub of a crowd.
She made her way to the seats reserved for those attending under his Lordship’s invitation.
She kept her maids and Taran with her. Two of her men would take turns in looking after the horses.
One would wait within sight of her in case she needed him.
The other was charged with searching for Tudor.
She gave specific instructions. First to look for his name among those listed as putting themselves forward for the jousting.
Second to listen out for news of a talented knight, most likely not particularly highborn, probably of Cymraeg heritage, for he might not be using a name she recognised.
Next she bid her man pay attention to the horses.
If there was one which appeared especially bad tempered and difficult for anyone but its master to handle, she would hear of it.
By the time she and her maids had taken their seats and nodded to their host and his wife, the competition was ready to begin.
A fanfare of trumpets heralded the arrival of the first pair of knights.
One rode a dapple grey, resplendent in purple rug and trimmings to match the plume in his elaborate helmet.
His armour was extravagant and his shield showed, not inappropriately, that his coat of arms included a peacock.
Some of the ladies watching sniggered behind their hands.
When he rode up to salute his host he raised his visor and revealed bushy brows and plump cheeks which somehow were at odds with the persona he was aiming to present.
His opponent sat on a solid brown horse and favoured plain blue garb.
Sadly for the women watching, he too was unappealing in the flesh.
Eleri whispered to her mistress. ‘Upon my word, my Lady, these men are greatly improved by their visors!’
Rhiannon smiled but gently chided the girl. ‘A knight with a handsome face does not always win the tournament,’ she pointed out.
‘No,’ Eleri sighed, ‘yet he might win my heart.’
They watched the men joust. The purple knight had the edge on style from the start, his horse doing most of the work for him.
He had only to stay in the saddle to win the day.
His opponent, while clumsier, however, was more determined.
As they galloped headlong down the list, lances couched, there was a gasp of surprise as the purple knight was unseated with the first blow.
A cheer went up. The red knight, evidently quite astonished at his success, raised a hand to salute the crowd.
And so the day went on. With each passing pair of contestants, Rhiannon was aware of her mood lowering.
Her guard returned with no news of anyone answering Tudor’s description.
No Welsh knights to speak of. No horses known to be biters.
Nothing to give her hope. And yet… and yet.
Something still stirred within her. Something she had not felt when attending other tournaments.
‘He must be here,’ she murmured to herself. ‘He must be.’
His Lordship’s herald was on his feet, making much of announcing the next contenders.