Page 49 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
Eloise’s brother-in-law approached her seat. She pushed the vision of the crushed flowers from her mind, and smiled up at him. The blast of a horn heralded the start of the procession and she motioned Edwin to sit beside her.
The competitors rode onto the field in single file, each holding a lance aloft. The sight never failed to impress her. Dear Henri had been a keen competitor in Normandy, wearing her favor as he sliced his way through his rivals during the melee, and demonstrated his skills with the bow.
She fingered the silk scarf she’d chosen as a favor to give Harald, hoping she’d be equally proud of him. Even with her limited understanding of combat, she recognized his skills with a blade. She’d often found herself absent-mindedly watching him as he sparred with his men during training. His body was larger and bulkier than Henri’s had been, yet the finely-toned muscles flexed with every movement, and she sensed the power within.
Two days before Ralph’s arrival at Wildstorm, Harald had caught her watching him. He’d sheathed his sword and approached her, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his damp hair curling at the ends. His eyes, darkened by the lust for the fight, had softened to a rich, warm brown. He’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her, amid the cheers of his men. In that treasured moment, his muscular body enveloped her own tiny form—loving and protecting.
Looking at him now, she pushed aside her fear of Ralph, and she clung to the hope that a victory would lift Harald’s spirits and return him to her.
The spectators sat in rows along one side of the field, with the main platform at the center. Eloise and Edwin sat at the central position on the platform flanked by Jeffrey, who had declined to compete, and Roswyn. The rest of the places were taken by the families of the principal competitors—the wives and children of the men who accompanied Harald in the procession.
There were thirty combatants in total. As host, Harald led the procession followed by Beauvisage and the remaining combatants in order of rank—Norman barons and knights who had settled nearby, followed by the Saxons and finally some of Harald’s own men. By the end of the day’s swordfighting, they would be reduced to eight. The following morning those eight would compete at archery until they were reduced to the final two, who would battle for victory in a joust.
The procession filed past the spectators amid applause, and Eloise felt a prick of pride on seeing her husband sitting proudly on his horse.
She rose to greet him. He slowed his horse to a walk and approached the platform. Smiling, she held up her favor, the delicate silk dancing in the breeze. Harald’s gaze met hers, and his lip twisted into a cold smile.
Then he rode past her.
An involuntary gasp left her lips and she dropped her hand. Perhaps he didn’t understand the custom of receiving a favor.
“My lord.” Roswyn’s voice cut through the morning air. Harald reined his horse to a stop. He held his lance out to Roswyn, and let her tie her own scarf to the tip. Edwin let out a hiss, and Eloise fought for breath, biting her lip to stem the tears. She closed her eyes and a tear spilled onto her cheek.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the tip of a lance pointed directly at her, and she looked up into handsome, smiling face. The smile was benign—gallant, even. But the eyes focused on her bore a hard expression—the pupils tiny in the sunlight, sharp pinpoints surrounded by irises the color of cold steel.
Through her tears she saw her husband watching her, anger in his eyes mouth downturned into a frown. He had no need to speak—his meaning was clear.
Do not disgrace me in front of our guests.
With trembling hands, she tied her scarf to the tip of Ralph’s lance. She swallowed the surge of bile in her throat, as he lifted the scarf to his lips, holding her breath until he rode past.
A gentle hand touched her elbow.
“Forgive him.” Edwin’s voice was almost inaudible. She nodded and took his hand, momentarily glad of a friend. Then she faced the remaining competitors, giving each one a stiff nod as they filed past to receive a favor from their wives or sweethearts.
After the procession finished, the competitors took their positions and the trumpets signaled the start of the tournament. Though she tried to concentrate on the events which she’d enjoyed watching as a child, her mind continually slipped into the darkness she’d battled against ten years ago.
What was Ralph’s purpose? Why had Harald humiliated her? Could she trust Edwin, who seemed to be her only friend?
No. She could trust no-one.
* * *
“My love,you were magnificent—both you and Baron Beauvisage.”
At the sound of Roswyn’s seductive voice, Harald waved Torfin away. The manservant, who had been unstrapping Harald’s armor bowed and left the tent. Harald lifted his helmet off and dropped it on the ground. A pair of hands latched onto his neck, fingers interlocking as Roswyn pulled him close, turning her face upward in anticipation.
He pushed her back. “I’ve no time for this. Go to your husband—or Beauvisage if you have a fancy for him.”
She pouted her lips, but the seductive pose, which had once enamored him, merely irritated him.
“Get thee gone,” he growled.
“But you took my favor,” she whined. “Wasn’t that a sign of your preference?”
Foolish woman! Hadn’t she understood he’d only done it to punish his wife? Hadn’t Roswyn seen the contempt in his eyes as he’d held out his lance to her?
She reached for his breeches.
