Page 66 of Heart of Snow
He seemed as shocked by the sudden closeness as I was, his cheeks flushing as he dropped my wrist and cleared his throat to whisper, “Your father sent me to communicate with Count Samuel. He’d heard the kaiser’s prisoners were in Brussels and dispatched me with a letter to give your brother. I receive letters in return, so I may report back on how the young count fares. I’m to report on how you fare too. It seems you’re playing your part well.” Even in a whisper, he couldn’t conceal his annoyance.
“Yes, thank you for your part in my training,” I retaliated, moving up the steps, but my cursed hennin was too tall. It rammed into the stable’s ceiling beam, knocking me backward down the mounting block. In a flash, Friedrich’s hands were around me, settling on my stomach and back to steady me.
“Are you all right?” The concern in his eyes held me captive, transfixing me with memories of the many times he’d shown me tenderness. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, that cold distance slipping over him again as he let me go.
“Mind your footing,” he muttered. Turning his back to me, he took hold of the reins and waited until I was secured atop my mount before leading us into the warm afternoon sun.
I told myself to be grateful for Friedrich’s anger. It kept me on course, reminding me of what I needed to do today.
Find Prince Felipe.
We approached the lists, joining the train of pages and ladies just as a trumpet sounded and a booming voice announced the name of Lady Jakelina Prues. Applause echoed before another trumpet burst, another name was announced, and the cycle repeated itself, the line before us steadily dwindling. It was nearly my turn, and Friedrich led my horse onto the field, waiting while Helena and her page took the wide arc around the lists to the applause of the spectators. I used the moment to seek out the prince, easily finding him in the center of the gallery beneath the shade of a broad canopy. Despite looking handsome in his red-and-black slashed doublet, he also looked incredibly bored, stifling back a yawn as Helena dismounted to take her seat. I’d do my best to change that.
The trumpet burst, drawing all eyes to me as my name was read, but I kept my steady gaze on the prince. He took notice, leaning forward in his seat and resting a hand across his knee. I smiled, biting my lip and dropping my gaze, making myself the very essence of the beautiful, modest woman of the courtly romances. Until the horse lurched forward as Friedrich gave the reins a sudden tug. By the tight set of his jaw, I sensed he’d witnessed my exchange with the prince, yet what should he care? He didn’t want me.
I shifted my attention back to Felipe, finding his bright eyes watching me as I made the wide arc around the lists. He rested his templed fingers over his lips, only half-concealing the mischievous smile that tilted the corners of his mouth, and I couldn’t resist smiling back all the way to the gallery.
Ignoring Friedrich’s arm as I dismounted, I took my seat. It was a disappointing spot, too far in front of the prince to catch his eye without directly turning my back on the joust.
Friedrich led the horse off to the sides of the gallery, joining the other pages. If he’d intended to shun me, I wouldn’t have known it for all my efforts to avoid watching him. I hada hazy impression that I might be acting childish, but the commencement of the joust saved me from exploring the idea further.
Horse hooves pounded down the tilt yard again and again, culminating with the inevitable crash of lances against armor and shields. With each match, the ladies court huddled to debate if either jouster showed exceptional chivalry or horsemanship. One man was becoming the clear favorite. Donning the alias of Knight of the Red Falcon, in nearly every one of his passes he’d narrowed his lance onto the small metal jousting shield bolted to his opponent’s left shoulder. Such skill was impossible to ignore.
The sun tipped deeper into the sky as the Knight of the Red Falcon lined up for his final pass in a match he was sure to win. The men began their charge. As they neared the center of the tilt, they let down their lances. The Red Falcon was all smooth movement, lowering his lance in such a graceful arc it startled me when it slammed into the other jouster’s shield, shattering the coronel crowning the tip. The nobility were on their feet, applauding his final victory, to which he tore off his helmet, proudly announcing his true name—Georges de Lynden. As he approached the knight marshal seeking his reward, the marshal stood, yelling over the din, “Hold your rejoicing! The tournament is not yet complete!”
Lynden pulled up short.
“We have another jouster. The virtuous knight-errant Beltenebros.”
The entire crowd turned to see the self-proclaimed Beltenebros ride onto the lists. His thick, powerful black armor was impacted with ribbons of gold and crafted to fit around him like a protective fortress. His helmet sported the longest train of feathers I’d ever seen, trailing white plumes down the length of his back. This man’s false name and covered face couldn’tdisguise his true identity as the prince of Spain. When had he crept off to dress and ready for this grand entrance?
I offered the prince a smile, not sure he saw me through his narrow visor until he trotted toward the gallery. I stood to greet him.
“Doth a poor knight merit a token from the goodly maid?” he asked.
I pulled out my kerchief, leaning over the gallery wall to tie the fluttering cloth around his upper arm. “May it bring you health and good fortune.”
He rested his gauntlet over the kerchief. “Earning your token is fortune enough.” Shaking the reins of his horse, he left to find his place on the tilt field.
As I took my seat, I unexpectedly met Friedrich’s eye, and my cheeks flushed with a sudden consciousness of being watched. And not by Friedrich alone. The ladies around me gave me cold stares, while behind me I heard the indecipherable whispers of courtiers.
Never mind. I’d secured the prince’s notice, as I’d hoped.
The jousters began their charge, stealing the attention of the gallery away from me. As the men approached the center of the tilt, there was a clear difference in the entire bearing of the Red Falcon. His precision was gone; his grace had vanished. The prince struck a decent blow against the Red Falcon, though nothing impressive, yet on the second pass, the Red Falcon made no answer. His lance barely grazed the prince’s arm. The Red Falcon was curbing his talent, reining in his skill. Not so much as to embarrass his future sovereign to eliminate the thrill of conquest when the prince’s inevitable victorious blow came on the third pass.
The crowd offered what applause was expected as the prince approached the knight marshal, bowing humbly to claim the jewel-hilted sword as his prize. All humility vanishing, he turnedto the gallery and threw his sword arm in the air, rallying the nobles to convincing excitement, as if they hadn’t known the conclusion of these games the moment the prince came onto the field.
With the tournament completed and the sun disappearing behind the horizon, the ladies left the gallery, following Dame Thieuloye up the circular turret steps toward our chambers. The evening and the palace carried cold winds, and I found myself missing the heat of the day as we passed the men lighting the hallway lanterns. Thieuloye opened our chamber door and was about to step inside when a clamoring din had us all stopping in our tracks, turning to see the prince in full armor making his way down the hall.
The ladies’ wide eyes spoke to their shock at the prince’s renegade behavior, coming to the very doors of our chambers and without his retinue. Thieuloye was more self-possessed, urging the ladies inside and leaning herself against the door to hold it open as she waited for me.
“Lady Margaretha,” the prince called, his voice muffled behind his helmet. “Wait a moment.”
I turned from Thieuloye and offered the prince a bow. “Your Grace.”
He lifted off his helmet with a smile that was not marred by his sweaty, matted hair, as he looked every bit the dashing knight of the courtly romances.
“Today I am not your prince, but Beltenebros, the knight-errant.” He crossed an arm over his waist and bowed low.
