For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale Page A

bay mount hit its stride, rolling the sound of
    hoof-beats over the stands and the crowd.
    An instant before impact, the Green Knight threw his shield away. The
    crowd roared, obscuring the sound as the lances hit. Lancaster’s bounced
    upward, flying free and solid into the air along with the shattered
    splinters of his opponent’s weapon. The Green Sire pulled up at the far end
    of the list, carrying half of a demolished tournament spear in one hand.
    Tossing away his shield was the entire extent of his consideration for
    his prince. In five more courses he broke five lances on the duke, and took
    off Lancaster’s helm on the sixth—whereupon the marshal threw down his white
    arrow to end the match. To Melanthe’s displeasure, Lancaster accepted this
    without demur, not even demanding to go on to the foot combat.
    Amid a murmur that spoke faintly of disfavor from the crowd, the duke
    saluted Melanthe and his brother and left the lists with his retinue.
    She had not counted upon such a paltry showing. Not even the partisan
    onlookers could accuse her of withholding her favor from him without reason.
    But when he joined her upon the
escafaut,
he seemed
    unembarrassed—gay, rather, speaking favorably of his opponent’s skill to his
    brother Edward for a moment before he sat down beside Melanthe. The
    musicians behind them struck up warbling tunes.
    “A fair fight, my lady,” he said, “though your champion makes no fine
    distinction between battlefield and tourney. I only hope that he slays none
    of our guests.”
    She felt an irritated urge to rise to this bait. “He faced you without
    shield,” she said shortly.
    “Yea—so they told me, but indeed I did not know it until he took off my
    helm, or I should have done the same.” He raised his hand for refreshment
    and took the cup his squire offered, drinking deeply. “Or mayhap not. Mary,
    I have no desire to be run through in a joust and buried in unconsecrated
    ground.”
    He laughed, but there was a glitter of deeper emotion in him. Melanthe
    watched him as he drained the wine, tossed the cup down, and turned back to
    the lists with relish. This was some artificial show—she felt it, studying
    his unabashed countenance. It was not over yet, not at all. Lancaster had no
    intention of concluding with such a poor display.
    She turned a look of better humor upon him. “I will not believe you stand
    in such peril, sir. Come, you will fight again, will you not?”
    The flicker of hesitation told her all that she need know. “Why—nay,
    madam. I will take my ease at your side, if you will be kind. Here, now
    comes your champion into the lists again.”
    A challenger, emblazoned in gold and black and crested by the gilt head
    of a leopard, was being led into position by two squires, while Melanthe’s
    knight circled his courser and backed it into place. He had resumed his
    fighting shield. The lances dipped; a gold-and-black squire shouted and
    stabbed a stick into the rump of the other horse. The animal jumped forward
    under the goad, galloping wildly, half shying as her champion’s stallion
    bore down upon it.
    The green lance caught its target full in the chest. With a jerk he
    sailed from the saddle as the horse went down. They somersaulted in opposite
    directions, the destrier hauling itself upright in a flail of hooves and
    caparisons to trot intemperately about the list, evading attempts to capture
    it.
    “Poorly mounted,” Lancaster murmured dryly.
    The gold challenger struggled to his feet, pulling off his helmet and
    demanding his ax. The Green Sire dismounted, changing to a bascinet helm and
    sending the visor down with a clamp as the hunchback led his mount away. The
    challenger came at him, swinging a long-handled ax. It whirred past his
    shoulder as he stepped aside; he lifted his weapon and took a single cut
    behind his opponent’s knees. The other man fell— and one more murderous
    strike, blade-on to his helmet, slicing an