CHAPTER 4
“YOUR PARDON, MY
lady. Do I know you?”
Do I know you?
Eleanor stared at the man she had watched for, waited for during all those long months of quashed hope. After four years,
this
is what he had to offer:
Do I know you?
Did he think she would be amused?
Her fingers tightened around the glove in her hand. She’d hurl it at him if there weren’t so many people watching. Why, oh why, hadn’t she kept her tongue when she’d spotted him amongst the combatants? Fool that she was, she’d crowed it out, certain that he’d come for her, thinking he would drop to his knee and beg her forgiveness for not returning sooner. Instead, this . . . tripe.
She broadened her smile, unwilling to let the others see her humiliation. “Ah,
monsire
, you do like your jests.”
His eyes widened a bit and his forehead pinched with concern, as though he thought she might be mad. “Um, yes. I do, but . . .”
“ ‘Tis mine, knave!” Two knights tumbled over the sill, pummeling each other as they fell. Women and pages scattered, but Eleanor, her attention fixed on willing Sir Gunnar to be silent, reacted too slowly. They rolled into her, and as she tried to jump back, her foot tangled in her hem. She teetered.
Strong arms swept her up before she fell; a broad body sheltered her from the tussle.
His
arms.
His
body. She caught a whiff of sweat and straw that set her heart racing.
He set her firmly on her feet and stepped back. “Are you hurt, my lady?”
“Hurt?” Eleanor blinked at him. “No. No. I am fine. That makes twice now you have saved me, though of course, this time my plight was not nearly so dire.”
The furrow reappeared. “Twice? I’m sorry, my lady, but . . .”
God’s knees, could it be that he truly did not know her at all? Stung, Eleanor glanced past his shoulder, to where the others were, thankfully, occupied with separating the offending knights and welcoming two others, newly victorious. That wouldn’t last, though. He
had
to remember. She had to
make
him remember.
“A clue, then. Bend close.” She crooked an impatient finger, summoning him down, and as he neared, leaned forward to press a kiss to his right cheek. “We both smelled of smoke when last I did that.”
The crease between his brows deepened as he straightened, and then he touched his cheek and his eyes met hers, recognition dawning at last. “The maid from the fire. Lady, um, Eleanor, is it?”
Her budding delight faded at his uncertainty. “Aye.”
He looked down at the glove in his hand. “Yours. This is yours?” He sounded surprised.
She held up its mate. “It is.”
“But it . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t even know—”
Eleanor saw her half sister, Anne, turn to watch. She put a hand on his arm as though teasing. “Silence, sir. You will turn my head with such flattery.”
But it was too late. Anne had heard, and she swooped over like a hawk on a wounded quail, her champion and betrothed, Gilbert d’Umfraville, pulled along in her wake.
“Is it true, then? He didn’t come for you after all? Oh, Eleanor.” Anne’s chuckle fairly dripped with venom, and Eleanor felt her cheeks blaze.
Sir Gunnar glanced to Anne then back to Eleanor. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned just enough to acknowledge Anne with a slight dip of the head.
“But of course I came for her, my lady.” He turned his shoulder to Anne, directing his full attention on Eleanor. “It is only that I didn’t realize I had found her. You see, the Lady Eleanor I carried in my mind was a child. This fair creature . . . is not.”
Eleanor knew she wasn’t meant to note that slight hesitation, nor the way his gaze flickered down to her bosom between words. But note it she did, and the warmth in his eyes and voice drew an answering warmth in her that melted away her irritation like summer snow.
“Some debate whether she has entirely left childhood behind.” Anne sniffed dismissively and sailed away. Gilbert bowed, muttered, “Your pardon,” and went after her.
Eleanor smiled up at Sir Gunnar, an honest smile now, as she murmured, “My thanks,
monsire
. I don’t even mind that you lied to her.”
His neck reddened up to his ears. “It should not have been a lie, my lady. I should have known you as surely as you knew me.”
“Ah, but I have the advantage. You have changed not a wight, but for being unsinged.” It was true. He looked exactly the same, other than his clothing. Even his face remained unlined by the intervening years, and his hair—still in need of a proper cutting, she noted—still gleamed of gold and copper, without the least glint of silver, even at the temples.
One last young man heaved himself over the sill and fell to the floor, limply waving a black and silver riband as he gasped, “I claim the lady whose favor this is in the name of William, Lord Ethridge, who lies injured below.”
As the inmates of the Castle of Love clapped and urged the lady forward, the page assigned to keep count blew a horn.
Outside, the herald cried out, “All the ladies have now been won. The champions will retire to the great hall to claim their prizes.”
The crowd flowed toward the gate in the rear wall, where a sturdy stair was being set into place with much clatter. Eleanor and Gunnar fell in with the others, and as they waited their turn to climb down, she stole another look at her champion, marveling at how unchanged he was. Truly, he looked no different at all. Why had she once thought him so very old?
“What is that smile?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I merely find it difficult to believe that you are here, at a tournament and as my champion at long last. A part of me thinks you must be some phantom of my imaginings.”
His expression grew grave. “I am many things, my lady, but I am no phantom.”
“Phantom or not, I bless whatever Providence put my glove in your hand.”
“Providence,” he repeated softly, in a way that lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. The last of the others disappeared down the stairway, leaving only them, alone but for a single page. Eyes glittering like emeralds in the torchlight, Sir Gunnar put out his hand to help her down.
Eleanor hesitated, suddenly and inexplicably wary of touching him. No, that wasn’t true. There was an explanation. Its name was Richard. She had resigned herself to marrying Richard.
Sir Gunnar waited, one corner of his mouth lifted in that odd half smile she’d held in one corner of her heart for all those years. “Shall we go down, my lady?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She laid her hand in his, resignation forgotten and four long years forgiven in a single touch.
AH, BALLOCKS. RIGHT
up there in front of everyone.
Gunnar watched the line of champions and their ladies snake toward the dais at the front of the great hall. He hadn’t thought about that part of it, that if he succeeded, he’d have to step forward to claim his due. Why couldn’t the prizes be given in the Castle of Love, instead of here, before everyone?
It truly was everyone. Raby had the grandest hall he’d ever seen, a huge chamber large enough to hold the army of men who’d been on the wall as well as all those who’d been watching.
And now they’d be watching him.
His shoulders tightened at the idea of putting himself forward before so many. They would remember him for years, every man of them. He’d have to avoid them all until memories blurred.
Unless . . .
No, he couldn’t think of that now. He must keep his mind on what was before him lest he put both himself and Jafri at risk.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, he led Lady Eleanor past the frowning Tunstall, and onto the dais with the other couples. A page passed down the line, handing each lady an identical silver branch.
“Well done to all our champions.” The countess pushed to her feet, more graceful than Gunnar would have thought possible with that belly on her. “You entertained me greatly, and now it is time to claim your kisses. I remind you to perform as admirably here as you did on the tower, so that you impress your lady and earn your silver branch.” She made her way to the far end of the line, where she faced the first couple. “It appears we begin with you, Sir Gilbert. Be ware you don’t perform
too
well. My lord husband watches.”
As the crowd chuckled, the knight who’d claimed the jealous Lady Anne glanced toward the earl, hesitated, then overcame whatever misgivings the countess’s odd warning had apparently raised, slipped an arm around the maid’s waist, and claimed her with a deep kiss. The lady stiffened and her hands came up as though to push him away, but after a heartbeat, she softened in his arms, her fingers curling into his shirt, and Gunnar could hear her sigh even from where he stood at the far end of the dais. The delighted laughter of the crowd pulled the pair apart with a jerk, the lady blushing red as a beetroot.
But she gave Sir Gilbert her branch.
The next man took a different tack, offering the sort of kiss a man might give his sister. But for all its lack of fervor, it seemed to be the proper kiss for that lady. She turned as rosy as the first, and that man, too, won his bit of silver.
So it went down the line, some kisses as full of passion as any two lovers might share, others tender, a few clumsy but earnest. The young squire’s Lord Etheridge managed to kiss his lady to a near swoon, balanced on one foot though he was.
The closer it came to Gunnar’s turn, the more his stomach churned. This kiss he’d sought so blithely now seemed to bear some import beyond the moment’s pleasure. He gnawed on his lip, trying to think how best to approach it. Beside him, Eleanor fidgeted, clearly as nervous as he.
And then, too soon, it was his turn. He turned to face Lady Eleanor, every eye on him, hers most of all. She stilled, waiting. Her lips parted slightly, moist, as though she expected a true kiss, a lover’s kiss, and a part of him screamed to scoop her into his arms and oblige.
But no. Not until he was certain. For now, he needed both caution and something . . . special. Something just for her.
“My lady.” He bowed slightly and dropped to one knee. Taking her hand, he turned it over and drew it slowly toward his mouth. He hesitated, letting the musk and spice perfume she wore at her wrist fill his senses, then bent and, as gently as he could, brushed a kiss into her palm.
A kiss like a butterfly. A snowflake.
Eleanor’s fingers curled shut around the kiss, trapping it, and above him, her tiny, breathless
“ah”
told him more clearly than words that he’d chosen rightly.
“
Très gentil
,
monsire
.” The countess nodded her approval as Gunnar pushed to his feet and collected his silver branch. “Even my lord husband can find no fault with a such a kiss. And now we will decide the champion of champions, at least in the ways of love. Ladies, come.”
She led the maids off to one side, where they formed a tight knot and much whispering ensued.
Gunnar leaned over to the man next to him, the one who’d stolen the veil from him, and lowered his voice. “Why does the countess worry how her husband will react to the kissing?”
“You don’t know? I thought you and Lady Eleanor . . .”
“I met her long ago, and only briefly. At Richmond. I know nothing about her.”
“Ah.” The fellow tipped his head toward the earl. “She’s Westmorland’s daughter. As are Lady Anne and Lady Margaret, though from his first wife, God rest her.”
“Daughter?” A hazy memory floated up: the duchess’s mention of the name
Neville
, and himself, thickheaded from smoke and exhaustion, unable to recall who that might be. Of course: the Earl of Westmorland was Ralph de Neville. By the gods, he had walked right into her father’s hall without even knowing it.
Balls. He truly
had
forgotten her. He shouldn’t have, but he had, letting his recollection of her slip into the morass of six centuries of memories.
As he stood there kicking himself for his foolishness, the countess made her way back to the front with the ladies. At her side, Eleanor slowly rocked up and down on her toes, her smiling eyes fixed on Gunnar, adding to the shame that bubbled uncomfortably in his gut. She was so pleased to see him, and he’d forgotten all about her.
Aye, he was both fool and ass.
“We have our decision. Oddly, the man deemed
le plus preux et gentil
is not amongst the champions here before us. Rather, he fought with great courage and fortitude, only to sacrifice his right to claim a prize to the knight he serves, all in the name of love.” She held up the little golden apple. “By acclamation of the ladies, the prize goes to John Penson, squire to William, Lord Ethridge.”
Some of the other champions looked aggrieved, and a veritable cloud of black formed around Tunstall, but most cheered as the beaming squire took a knee to receive his prize.