The Bride Tournament (25 page)

“A man who is already married. How do they plan to get around that? And an earl!” This from a third man.

“Tsk, tsk. You obviously haven’t heard the latest. The marriage between the earl and his countess has been annulled.”

“Good timing.” Another chuckle.

“We’re going to watch women engage in a public test of skills. Scandalous.”

“More people are looking forward to this than King Edward’s coronation a year ago.”

The others heartily agreed.

Alyce’s face was full of sympathy. Eleanor’s fists clenched. Pity from her sister, betrayal from Richard, mockery from her peers. How could she have made such a muddle when all she’d wanted to do was provide herself and Richard with the best spouses?

“I heard the king plans to attend because he may hold a similar event to find himself a bride. After all, he is the most eligible bachelor in all of Europe. Can you imagine, princesses competing….”

Eleanor couldn’t take it anymore. She stepped from her hiding place. “Good morning, all.”

The horrified expressions on the speakers’ faces at being caught almost made the suffering worth it. She whispered a prayer for peace, for guidance, but felt no relief.

No one could help her now. She had failed.

At Smithfield, long viewing stands draped in rich cloth and filling with excited, talkative spectators lined the field as if this were a tournament described in the book she’d consulted. Nobles and commoners alike had donned their finest garb. Colorful pennons and banners flapped in the strong breeze.

Eleanor could barely sit still as she awaited the proceedings from her prime location in the king’s pavilion near his throne, which was covered in cloth of gold. She recognized several members of the council. Close by was Hastings, consulting with various minions and sending them off to obey a multitude of commands.

She couldn’t stop her feet from tapping, the only outward display of her roiling emotions. Her heart actually hurt from thudding so hard. She stared straight ahead, forcing herself not to look at Richard, already seated next to the throne. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left her room. She’d spent the time in a swirl of wanting to go to him and wishing he’d come to her. But what more was there to say?

Tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t help it.

“Eleanor, stop. You’re staring at Richard.” Alyce said.

“This may be my last chance to see him. Who knows when we’ll be in the same castle again? You and I must return home to Middleworth. We’ll have no reason to remain at court, and nowhere else to go.”

How would she face her father, survive the mortification of being back under his roof? Her only consolation was that she’d be able to return to his alchemy workshop and investigate his hiding place. For now, she had to get through this day.

All Richard needed to make him look like a king was a crown. He was so handsome in a tunic she’d never seen, fur-trimmed with hanging sleeves. Her heart sank to see that his enthusiasm for his new bride was so great he’d purchased elegant new garments. And in her favorite color: purple. The tunic was in the newer style favored by the king, so short it barely covered his bottom.

She couldn’t read his expression. His square jaw was set and he clenched his chair’s carved arms. His gaze didn’t stray from the as yet empty field. Was he happy about the tournament? Who did he want to win?

Eleanor wanted nothing more than to throw herself upon his mercy and implore him to make her his wife again. Like a defeated knight in a joust
à outrance
might beg the victor to spare his life. She looked at her hands, the only safe view.

More unpredicted than the elaborate display was the anguish entrenched in her chest. When she’d conceived this tournament, her only thought was to escape Richard so she could wed Arthur. How could she have foreseen the changes in her feelings?

Building a true marriage with Richard had become her heart’s desire, even though he’d never love her. All he had to do was admit that he wanted her as his wife. Finally she realized that would be more than enough.

Witnessing Richard wed another would surely be the most painful moment in her life. But she’d brought this on herself and had to see it through. When this day was over, she’d endure constant torture of imagining him laughing and smiling with the victor. Of touching his new bride as he had her. Every time she closed her eyes.

At last she sensed his gaze on her. He stared, unmoving. Her besotted mind thought she could hear him plead, “Eleanor, put a stop to this. Only you can. Do it now.”

The imagined words rang in her head. What if she were to ask Richard to cry a halt? Most already thought her the fool for wanting to find her husband another bride and arranging a tournament. She’d look even more foolish if she tried to stop the competition now. And Hastings had declined her request mere hours ago. It’d reflect poorly on him if the event was cancelled just before it started.

Despite their unpleasant parting, Richard might take up her challenge. The tournament couldn’t go forth if he refused to take part. It was worth a try. Who cared what others thought of her if spending the rest of her life with Richard was the result? She jumped to her feet.

Before she could even draw a breath, the crowd burst into boisterous cheers. The king, resplendent in a short tunic of vibrant orange, strode into the stands. He waved at the spectators, then with a laugh, clasped Richard’s shoulder. He settled into his chair and accepted a goblet of wine from an attendant.

Eleanor’s heart plummeted as she collapsed into her chair. She’d hesitated too long. As awkward as it would have been to publicly ask Richard to call the event off, neither he nor Hastings would stop now that the king had arrived.

Richard would soon be lost to her forever.

Her life had become the snowball she and Alyce once made. The small, round clump they’d fashioned enlarged apace as they moved down the hill until it grew so unwieldy they could barely handle it. The huge snowball rolled over Alyce, pinning her beneath. She’d managed to wriggle free without injury beyond a couple of scrapes.

Eleanor could see no way to escape the weight pressing on her. The day was fine, but she could barely breathe.

Onto the field strode five trumpeters. One for each potential bride? As the trumpets sounded an elaborate fanfare, Eleanor squelched the urge to shut her eyes. No lives would be lost today as they occasionally were in men’s tournaments, yet she felt as if hers was at stake. The joy of knowing love mingled with sorrow and the despair of loss. Her eyes filled again. She could never have Richard now.

The herald cried, “My honored and redoubted lords and ladies, the very high and very powerful, henceforth arrive the brides-to-be, very eager and ready to begin the tourney assigned today!”

The judges’ herald replied, “Very high and very powerful king and my very redoubted lords, my lords the judges here present have heard and understood what your herald has said. The brides may enter in God’s name when you like.”

The quotes from René d’Anjou’s treatise were almost as familiar to Eleanor as her daily prayers. Which, unfortunately, had yielded no fruit, either in results or in her heart.

Accompanied by trumpets, the procession began. Despite the king’s limited purse, Hastings had spared no expense. Each potential bride entered the field on a horse caparisoned with fabrics fit for royalty, from white cloth of gold to crimson velvet.

What was Blanche doing among them? Why hadn’t Hastings eliminated her from the competition?

Each bride was arrayed in new finery. Mary looked like a seraph, her perfect skin and delicate features enhanced a simple light green gown and the tallest, widest veiled headdress Eleanor had ever seen. Blanche’s gown of shimmering brocade revealed the most flesh. Eleanor envied her confident ease. Isabel displayed her assets with pride in russet velvet.

Rose must have decided that the woman wearing the most jewels would win the day. Each finger boasted a sparkling ring, and a thick, gem-studded chain circled her neck. The tall Anne dazzled with ermine trimming her wide cuffs, neckline and train.

Their splendor pricked Eleanor’s vanity. Though she too had dressed for the occasion, her V-necked velvet gown didn’t rival theirs. She’d thought her headdress, cone-shaped with silver tissue, quite elegant until seeing those worn by the brides.

She hoped her brilliant but false smile concealed the agony brought on by the monsters, Jealousy and Envy, who cavorted inside her. The brides were the center of attention, not she. One of them would leave the field with Richard.

She felt just as worthless as the night when she’d been the only woman not asked to join in the dancing. As alone. Even in a crowd. The cheering made her head throb.

Alyce clasped her hand, as though she could read her thoughts. Eleanor’s other hand instinctively fingered the cabochon ruby brooch Richard had given her. The brooch she’d worn every day since, but would have to return.

She’d be left with nothing.

The herald cried, “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. You who are committed to this do your best. My lords the judges pray and require that none of you tourneyers disabuse the rules of honesty, as you have promised.”

She wished the long-awaited bride test would pass in a blur, that she could retreat into a dark crevasse where numbness and feigned calm prevailed. ’Twas not to be. Each moment passed with bitter clarity.

First came the calling of Financial Wealth. The herald handed each woman’s list of gold, lands, rents, other assets to the judges, who studied them with great solemnity. They talked amongst themselves, then Owen wrote on a piece of parchment. He glanced at Richard before handing it to the herald.

“The judges have received proof that one of the women lied about her financial resources. Lady Blanche Latimer has been barred from this portion of the competition,” the herald cried.

Murmurs buzzed through the throng. Blanche raised her chin. Hastings had found a way to make her pay for her deceit. She’d have to score exceedingly high in the other areas to have a chance of winning.

“Winner of Financial Wealth: Lady Isabel Buntyng.”

Eleanor closed her eyes to avoid Isabel’s enjoyment of the crowd’s hearty response.

Beauty followed. Each woman paraded before the judges and curtseyed low. To prove who had the best cleavage?

“Winner of Beauty: Lady Mary Whyte.”

Graciously she acknowledged the cheers while Blanche glared at the judges.

Dare Eleanor steal a glance at Richard? Yes. She knew him well enough to know the cheerful expression on his face masked his true feelings. But she couldn’t read the thoughts he hid.

The next task was Embroidery. According to her rules, the spectators would have to watch for a full hour while the women busily embroidered designs of their choice on a square of blue satin. Fabric, stools, thread and needles were carried out on large pillows.

“Begin on my command,” said the herald. “Now!”

The ladies began to sew. As time passed, the crowd grew unruly. Her head pounded in rhythm with the spectators’ stomping feet.

Mary paused several times to clasp her hands in prayer. Rose ripped out her design and started over, clearly a victim of the pressure. She pricked her finger, staining her cloth vibrant red. The crowd gasped, and she burst into tears.

After viewing the six squares, the judges made their selection. “Embroidery: Lady Isabel Buntyng.”

The crowd gasped again and whispers flew. Isabel had won two rounds.

Richard’s face revealed nothing.

Time for Music, where each would play and/or sing two songs. Not a note Mary sang matched the tunes she played. To Eleanor’s ears, Blanche’s mellow alto was by far the best, and her skill on the lute surpassed the others.

“Music: Lady Blanche Latimer.”

With waves and a proud smile, she accepted the crowd’s mix of cheers and hisses.

Household Management, requiring testimony from three witnesses, was the final event.

“I’m a dried apple,” Eleanor whispered.

“What?” Alyce hissed.

“I started the day rosy and ready, fresh as a ripe apple off the tree,” Eleanor explained. “But this tournament has sucked the spirit from me as the sun depletes the apple’s moisture.”

Alyce’s sympathetic look plucked at her heartstrings. “Do you regret your choices?”

“Yes,” Eleanor whispered, so softly she could barely hear herself over the drone of the crowd. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears.

Who’d want her to wife now? Not that it mattered. She’d lost the only man for her.

“Oh, Eleanor,” Alyce moaned. “What have you done?”

On the field, witnesses continued their fulsome praise.

“Lady Mary keeps meticulous household accounts and writes them herself,” a man vowed. “You won’t find a loaf of bread gone astray.”

“My lady cares for the poor. Her alms—”

“Mine oversees her servants with—”

“Enough,” the herald cried. “Each to his own turn.”

“Maybe it’s not too late…no winner has been cried,” Alyce said. “What are you waiting for?”

Richard had never felt so numb. Even in the midst of battle, when blood splattered the ground and Death clutched his fellow knights, he’d felt something. Determination, anguish, courage. Today, with his future playing out on the field before him, there was nothing.