My Lady's Favour

Chapter Ten

Elena

I sit in the bustling Great Hall, a hale and healthy Gilbert beside me. Richard, on the other hand, looks not at all robust—the candles and rush-lights illuminate the pallor of his cheeks and throw dark shadows beneath his eyes. He drinks neither ale nor wine, but seems in good spirits. That could change in an instant on the morrow—how can Gilbert be so heartless as to impose a fight on his cousin when he's just been injured?

My mind buzzes like a bee skep. If I plead with Gilbert to abandon or postpone the contest, will he suspect some understanding betwixt myself and Richard? I would struggle to deny it, for Richard draws my gaze like a lodestone.

I am too proud to beg a boon from Gilbert, in any case. Too proud, indeed! I had thought that wicked sin of mine now crushed, but it seems no amount of being belittled by the de Walthams can completely destroy my pride.

I toy with my egardouce of mutton as ideas offer themselves. What if Gilbert were to become rolling drunk? He'd be too sick to fight tomorrow. Pulsing with mischief, I pour salt on the side of my trencher, and refill Gilbert's empty wine-cup. When he takes a draught, I scoop salt onto his food. It'll take time for that great frame of his to be overwhelmed by drink, so I must school myself to patience while I covertly ensure that he works up a thirst.

While I wait, praying for the success of my plan, I listen to the knight, Simon of Sarisbury. He is proving himself an able troubadour, entertaining the company with lays of lost love, opportunities missed, and the fickle hand of Fate. I've never given the notion of love between a man and a woman much thought. It only exists in ballads, doesn't it, and they are all invented, are they not? Yet Simon sings with such emotion, as if he has been a slave to love himself.

I note he looks oft at Dorigen. Surely, he cannot care for her? He's known her but a few days—it must take longer for so powerful a feeling to capture the heart. Love cannot be born from a glance or a stolen touch. Can it?

I glance at Richard, and struggle not to laugh. He's helping himself to water, holding the Saintonge jug by its rim and tapping its base and handle for weak points. Having poured his drink without mishap, he looks up and straight at me. His gaze strikes me like a physical thing, killing my amusement. Something deep, dark, and hard to define assails me, like some enchantment. Then he releases me with a wink, sharing the jest, and I nod and look away.

Gilbert belches and stirs at my side. "I have a great thirst on me tonight. Lady, pass the wine pot."

I do so, then excuse myself. My ploy, it appears, is working. I'll leave him to empty that wine jug on his own, then return and try sneaking more salt into his meal.

Sliding into a space beside Dorigen, I decide to ask her opinion of Simon. If he truly is taken with her, how delightful it would be if she were to feel the same way.

"He's handsome to look upon," I prompt. "What do you think?"

"How can you call him so when the most handsome man in England has shared your trencher all evening?"

Gilbert's rugged features are ruddy with the wine, his blue eyes glittering in the candle-light. "I cannot deny it. But cannot a dark eye be stirring too, or hair of deeper hue?"

"You mean Richard of St Aubyn?" She narrows her eyes at me.

"And Sir Simon. Do you think St Aubyn quite recovered?" I'm hoping she'll say no, that he should return to his bed.

"He seems well enough."

I need to be more obvious. "Gilbert has challenged him to a combat tomorrow. Think you that he's fit enough to fight?'

"Who, Richard or Gilbert?' She chuckles. "Gilbert looks well on the way to a severe headache in the morning."

"I meant Richard." She's teasing me, but I have no patience for it tonight.

"Is he fit enough to fight the great warrior Gilbert de Waltham? Few men are. But from what I've seen, Richard may hold his own—if his luck lasts. Besides, if he's accepted the challenge, he can't go back on his word."

I frown at this. Men can be very foolish about their codes of chivalry.

"Don't fret. Of course, Gilbert won't harm his cousin—the honour of the house of de Waltham is at stake, remember, and that great name would be shamed were Gilbert to wound a kinsman in a friendly bout. What reason has he to hurt Richard?"

Dare I confide in Dorigen? Will she understand? Richard matters to me, yet I barely know him.

"It's just that when Richard and I were alone, I was leaning over him, looking at an injury. Gilbert blundered in, and may have mistaken what he saw, for he looked murderous."

"Gilbert knows you to be the epitome of innocence—you suffer without cause, Elena. If he bore Richard any real enmity, he would not have invited him to use his chamber tonight."

"He did that?" Unusually generous of Gilbert. "What was wrong with the room Richard was in already?"

'Nought that I know of, save that it is less comfortable, more sparse. Mayhap Gilbert regrets having challenged an injured man. Or he wants to make sure Richard has a good night's rest."

Gilbert? Regretful? I don't believe that. I must rely on my drunkenness plan. Leaving Dorigen, I hurry back to my seat.

Alas! My plot has been foiled by that stupid skivvy, Morwenna. She's noticed his thirst and plied him with water. I shall have to think of something else to stop this fight.

A man's life may depend upon it.

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