Almost Innocent by Jane Feather Page B

opportunity to watch a joust. Maybe it was simply that the years that now separated her from her childhood had invested her with a certain cynicism, but she could not, however hard she tried, see why these men would wish to enclose themselves in pounds of plate armor on a steaming August afternoon in order to ride at each other, their war cries rending the air, and belabor each other with lance or the flat of a sword until one of them fell off his horse to lie helpless like some monstrous chrysalis in an iron cocoon.
    She kept such heresy to herself, however. In the crowded tiers surrounding the lists, excitement and pleasurable fear were nearly palpable. In the midsummer heat, such emotions brought damp foreheads and clammy hands, not helped by the richness of dress, the fur-trimming of surcotes. But neither man nor woman would let comfort dictate when wealth and status were adjudged by dress. Magdalen herself was sweltering, feeling sweat trickle beneath her arms and collect between her breasts, and she surreptitiously eased the heavy damask of her gown away from her skin so that it should not become stained.
    The lady on her right had been whispering prayers to the saints for the safety of her lord throughout themorning’s combats, whether the knight in question was engaged in a joust or no, and at every clash of steel, little moans of mingled excitement and terror broke from her lips, interrupting the incantations. The dust was so thick it was impossible to see exactly what was going on during the jousts and melees, for all that Magdalen was seated on the front bench of the Lancastrian loge. The king was absent this afternoon, so the adjoining loge was empty, the tournament falling under the command and patronage of Lancaster. The banner of the Plantagenets, displaying the lily of France and the leopard of England, flew over the scarlet canopied booth. The duke was seated in the center of the velvet-covered platform at the front of the loge, his carved chair all hung about with scarlet draperies embossed with the red rose. He was in morose mood, misliking the role of spectator on such occasions, and his wife, the Duchess Constanza, sat beside him in nervous silence, knowing better than to intrude upon his grimness.
    The marshals entered the stockade, followed by the heralds and their pursuivants. Magdalen sat forward expectantly. The event which required her presence was about to be announced. The dust from the preceding melee had settled somewhat, aided by the buckets of water sprinkled over the surface of the arena. Trumpets blared as the heralds announced a private joust between the Sieur Edmund de Bresse and the Sieur Gilles de Lambert.
    The two knights on massive destriers entered from opposite ends of the lists, but instead of waiting for the marshals’ ritual call to arms, they both rode forward to the Lancastrian loge. There they raised their visors and spoke as one.
    “My lord duke, we request to do battle
a l’outrance.”
    From the gallery tiers people craned forward, demanding to know what was being said. The peasants and servitors who had scrambled up to the barriers thebetter to view the sport began a low-voiced grumble at this delay.
    Magdalen, well aware of the unorthodox nature of such a request, felt her husband’s eyes upon her. He wore her favor, a scarf of silver gauze twisted around his helmet, and he held her gaze for a long, burning moment. Puzzled, she glanced sideways at John of Gaunt. His displeasure was apparent.
    “The rules of this tourney state that all combat will be
a plaisance.
Is this some private quarrel you bring to a trial of skill undertaken beneath the banner of friendship?”
    “We make request, my lord duke,” Edmund said simply.
    “Young hothead!” The voice was that of Guy de Gervais. He appeared suddenly at John of Gaunt’s elbow, his jupon of blue and silver over his armor, but he was unhelmeted and wore only the two-pronged dagger at his belt. He had taken part in