The Bride Tournament Page 19

  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?”

  “Y
es,” 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.

  Because never before in his life had his best not been good enough. He’d tried to convince Eleanor to care for him and failed. He’d thought the answer was to persist. So he had.

  But Eleanor would never be truly his. She’d made that clear by pursuing her tournament. When he’d held her close, when she’d returned his kisses, he’d thought he could win her. He hadn’t mistaken her interest, of that he was certain.

  Eleanor wouldn’t value him as a husband unless he loved her. Love. The one thing he didn’t know how to give. Without it, the pure gold he thought they could share transmuted to lead. Alchemy in reverse. Nor could she accept his quest. Given those significant differences, how could he force her to continue their marriage? He’d asked Edward for the annulment, had persuaded the king it was for the best. For Eleanor.

  Was this the purest form of love, willingness to do whatever it took to make the other person happy, even if the doing came at a high cost and made you miserable? Or was it mere self-preservation?

  He’d accept this “better” bride.

  “Household Management: Lady Mary Whyte,” the herald shouted. “Lastly, I shall cry Overall.” He paused dramatically, until he claimed the attention of every person in the stands. “Are the esteemed Judges ready to pronounce their decision?”

  Richard tensed as if a cannonball had been launched directly at him.

  He hadn’t called the tournament off because he’d been so certain Eleanor would, proving she wanted to stay with him without his love and with his alchemy pursuit as no other action could. If he’d asked Edward to cancel it, nothing would be different between them. Even his need to be with her didn’t outweigh his desire to see her happy.

  When the rowdy crowd finally quieted to await the judgment, the herald strutted to the center of the field. He turned in a slow circle, clearly savoring the expectant hush.

  “The Judges offer a unanimous decision. The winner Overall is Lady Isabel Buntyng.”

  Some spectators cheered, others booed. Isabel squealed, rather like a stuck pig.

  Richard squeezed the arms of his chair, carvings of lion’s heads digging into his palms.

  He’d failed, but she’d succeeded. She had her annulment, now he’d have a new bride. Her efforts to be rid of him had finally come to fruition.

  Should he admit defeat with Eleanor or wage one final attack?

  Eleanor forced herself to keep her face and body still as Richard rose. Without a glance in her direction, he made his way onto the field.

  She had to leave before she suffocated.

  Alyce clutched her arm. “Eleanor, stay,” her sister ordered. “You can’t depart so soon or everyone will think you’re upset with the outcome. This is supposed to be what you wanted. Act pleased.”

  Why did she care what people thought? Only Richard mattered. Eleanor managed a half smile. Alyce held her hand tightly, as if to ensure she remained until the bitter end.

  Richard joined Isabel, soon to be Countess of Glasmere, on the field. Eleanor swallowed as he took Isabel’s hand, kissed it, then held it high. They basked in the crowd’s cheers. His bride to be took a ribbon from her headdress and tied it to his sleeve, as a woman would bestow a favor upon her knight before a joust.

  That must have been one of Hastings’s ideas.

  As trumpets blared, the throng cheered as happily and loudly as if the king’s champion had won the day. Coincidentally, Isabel’s velvet gown matched Richard’s tunic. They made a perfect pair.

  Two horses draped in cloth of gold were led out. With knightly courtesy, Richard helped Isabel mount. His smile pierced Eleanor’s heart. As they rode off the field, eyes only for each other, golden cloth glinting in the setting sun, jealousy flooded her so forcefully she thought she might actually drown.

  She’d never have the chance to win Richard back now. He had his better bride.

  Chapter 17

  “Are you going to take the four remaining women to market?” a man shouted as Eleanor trudged toward her horse with Alyce hurrying by her side. His companions laughed.

  “Or are you going to hold a husband tournament next?” called another.

  She stopped listening. Each question, comment and snide smile scraped Eleanor’s insides. She couldn’t wait to leave Smithfield in the dust.

  “Are you satisfied?” Edmund caught up with her

  “Father, keep your voice down.” Alyce took her hand. “Eleanor is tired. Please leave her be.”

  “Now both daughters disappoint.” He shook his head. “Alyce, I take no orders from you. Court life has made you too bold. And Eleanor, you’re no longer a countess. Just my spinster daughter, practically penniless if not for my good will. After all you’ve wrought, how am I to find you another husband?”

  More knives to her gut. Because all he’d said was true.

  She raised her head. “The tournament went well. Perhaps I will hold more. Men will pay me to find them excellent brides. Rich widows, too.”

  “You gave away an earl. Now you think to ply a trade?” he demanded. “Why do you live to embarrass me and our lineage? You’re under my rule again. You’ll live at Middleworth until I decide what to do with you. But for certain I’ll keep hold of the keys. All of them.”

  Eleanor bit her tongue to prevent an argument. She’d go to Middleworth, but only until she could figure out how to get others to pay for her matchmaking services. She’d said it as a jest, but maybe, if she could surmount the challenges, her own business would be her path to freedom. To control.

  Keeping busy might be her path to forgetting Richard.

  “What would your mother think?” Edmund hammered the final nail into her coffin of catastrophe.

  The next day, Eleanor dropped another gown into her open trunk. Her narrow room was a jumble of clothing, veils and the like. With each item packed, she felt as if another part of her disappeared, never to see the light of day again.

  Alyce moved with unusual sluggishness as she gathered up several pairs of Eleanor’s shoes. “How can you leave?”

  “How can I stay? The king will no longer accommodate me. I’ve no coin to rent a room. You should be happy. You can go to your church now,” she said. “Mayhap I’ll join you.”

  No matter how miserable she felt, no matter how worried about her future, never could she cloister herself from the world and spend her days in prayer.

  Did every woman need a husband and children to make life complete? Surely some felt fulfilled by responsibilities, work, music and books. But she couldn’t be a true chatelaine, as she’d been before her marriage, without her keys. Going to Edmund every time Cook needed something from the storeroom would be too demeaning. And unless she could break the door down, she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of undoing her father’s work. Not that it would’ve been enough.

  “I don’t want to leave court,” Alyce whispered. She put a pair of leather boots in a trunk, then sank to her knees. “Or give myself to the Church. I�
�ve been right about you, and you were right about me. I like it here. There’s so much to do, so many interesting people to meet. I can no longer imagine a life devoted solely to good works, prayer and God.”

  Her little sister had grown up since leaving home.

  “That’s a significant decision. Are you sure?” Eleanor folded a veil. The shimmering fabric slipped and slithered out of its tidy packet.

  Alyce nodded. “Yes. Like you, I but followed the path I’d agreed to take long before I knew what I really wanted. I believed our parents. Now I know for myself. The life of a nun is not for me.”

  “Father will stay disappointed with us both, then,” she cautioned. “Perhaps there is a way for you to remain here. You could talk to Richard. I’m sure he’d help you to a place. At least one of us could be happy.”

  “Surely you weren’t serious about holding more tournaments. Maybe Richard could find you a place, too. Then we could both stay. Better here than stuck with Father.”

  Better to endure gossip about her choices or Edmund’s censure? Better to see Richard with Isabel? Eleanor dropped the pile of veils and burst into tears.

  “Oh, Eleanor.” Alyce rushed to her side and enfolded her in a hug. “How can I help?”

  “Tell me how I can convince Richard to wed me again instead of his better bride.” She’d come to hate the term she’d once thought so clever and apt. She clung to her sister, indulging in this rare opportunity to reveal her feelings and confess her misery.

  “I knew it!” Alyce crowed, releasing Eleanor. “You do love him. Have you told him how you feel?”

  “I do love him, I do.” Saying the words aloud felt strangely comforting. “I should’ve been brave enough to tell him. Mayhap he needed the words in addition to the— Well, we kissed.”

  Alyce’s face brightened. “You did? And you didn’t tell me? There’s naught wrong with that, you were wed.”

  “Not all the times. Our best kiss came after the annulment.” And so much more.

  “Oh.” Alyce frowned, as if not sure what to make of that. “Well, neither of you belonged to another.”