her toes, her smiling eyes fixed on Gunnar, adding to the shame that bubbled uncomfortably in his gut. She was so pleased to see him, and he’d forgotten all about her.
Aye, he was both fool and ass.
“We have our decision. Oddly, the man deemed le plus preux et gentil is not amongst the champions here before us. Rather, he fought with great courage and fortitude, only to sacrifice his right to claim a prize to the knight he serves, all in the name of love.” She held up the little golden apple. “By acclamation of the ladies, the prize goes to John Penson, squire to William, Lord Ethridge.”
Some of the other champions looked aggrieved, and a veritable cloud of black formed around Tunstall, but most cheered as the beaming squire took a knee to receive his prize.
“If young John doesn’t float up into the rafters, ’twill be a marvel,” said Lady Eleanor, reappearing at Gunnar’s side.
He watched the lad wince as he pushed to his feet, favoring the leg Tunstall had struck. “He’s too sore to fly. He earned every grain of that gold, twice over.”
“He had good aide, I think. My lady mother says you disarmed Tunstall, though I did not see it myself. She wishes me to present you before we sup.” She leaned close, brushing his arm as she whispered, “She does not yet know who you are. Come, we must stand aside.”
With the dais clear, a throng of servants rushed forward to produce the high table, drape it in yard upon yard of white linen, and set it with gleaming plate.
As the earl and his lady at last stepped forward to take their chairs, Eleanor turned to Gunnar. “Are you ready, monsire ? My lord father can be . . . formidable.”
“No more so than his daughter.” Gunnar offered his hand. “I believe I have courage enough for both of you.”
Smiling, she curled her fingers over his offered fist and firmly steered him toward the high table. As they approached, Westmorland turned. “Who is this champion who claimed such a chaste kiss, daughter?”
“Truly a champion, my lord, and a man I have long wanted you to meet. I give you Sir Gunnar of Lesbury. The knight who saved us from the fire.”
“At Richmond?” Lord Ralph came up out of his chair to grasp Gunnar by the hand. “Welcome, Sir Gunnar, welcome at last.”
“Eleanor! You should have told me,” scolded the countess.
“I only discovered him during the mêlée, my lady. And it would not have been seemly during the award.”
“Then you should have told us, monsire .” The countess beamed up from her chair. “Why did you not announce yourself? You have been in my prayers every day since York sent word of how a brave stranger saved my daughter.”
Gunnar shifted uneasily. “I did only what any man would do.”
“No other man rescued her.”
“Only because I reached the bower first, my lady. If I had not, another would have stepped forward.”
“No, they would not,” said Lady Eleanor. “I would have died in the flames if not for you, and Lucy with me. And you know it well. Now come, I can at last have you beside me at table.”
She turned toward the long second table where the champions and their ladies were taking their places, but Lord Ralph stopped her. “Here at the high table, Eleanor. Your Sir Gunnar is a most honored guest in this household.”
Servants scrambled to set a fresh place, and Gunnar soon found himself sharing a bench with Lady Eleanor. As she exchanged a few words of greeting with the lord and lady to her right, he took advantage of the moment to study her, comparing the maid beside him to the girl in his mind.
It wasn’t simply the height and the full teats that were different: her face had changed as well, losing the blandness of childhood to become both strikingly female and uncommonly bold. She clearly took after her father: his high cheekbones and noble nose gave her face enough strength to balance a full mouth that fell just shy of being too wide. Beneath brows that flew off aslant like a
Aye, he was both fool and ass.
“We have our decision. Oddly, the man deemed le plus preux et gentil is not amongst the champions here before us. Rather, he fought with great courage and fortitude, only to sacrifice his right to claim a prize to the knight he serves, all in the name of love.” She held up the little golden apple. “By acclamation of the ladies, the prize goes to John Penson, squire to William, Lord Ethridge.”
Some of the other champions looked aggrieved, and a veritable cloud of black formed around Tunstall, but most cheered as the beaming squire took a knee to receive his prize.
“If young John doesn’t float up into the rafters, ’twill be a marvel,” said Lady Eleanor, reappearing at Gunnar’s side.
He watched the lad wince as he pushed to his feet, favoring the leg Tunstall had struck. “He’s too sore to fly. He earned every grain of that gold, twice over.”
“He had good aide, I think. My lady mother says you disarmed Tunstall, though I did not see it myself. She wishes me to present you before we sup.” She leaned close, brushing his arm as she whispered, “She does not yet know who you are. Come, we must stand aside.”
With the dais clear, a throng of servants rushed forward to produce the high table, drape it in yard upon yard of white linen, and set it with gleaming plate.
As the earl and his lady at last stepped forward to take their chairs, Eleanor turned to Gunnar. “Are you ready, monsire ? My lord father can be . . . formidable.”
“No more so than his daughter.” Gunnar offered his hand. “I believe I have courage enough for both of you.”
Smiling, she curled her fingers over his offered fist and firmly steered him toward the high table. As they approached, Westmorland turned. “Who is this champion who claimed such a chaste kiss, daughter?”
“Truly a champion, my lord, and a man I have long wanted you to meet. I give you Sir Gunnar of Lesbury. The knight who saved us from the fire.”
“At Richmond?” Lord Ralph came up out of his chair to grasp Gunnar by the hand. “Welcome, Sir Gunnar, welcome at last.”
“Eleanor! You should have told me,” scolded the countess.
“I only discovered him during the mêlée, my lady. And it would not have been seemly during the award.”
“Then you should have told us, monsire .” The countess beamed up from her chair. “Why did you not announce yourself? You have been in my prayers every day since York sent word of how a brave stranger saved my daughter.”
Gunnar shifted uneasily. “I did only what any man would do.”
“No other man rescued her.”
“Only because I reached the bower first, my lady. If I had not, another would have stepped forward.”
“No, they would not,” said Lady Eleanor. “I would have died in the flames if not for you, and Lucy with me. And you know it well. Now come, I can at last have you beside me at table.”
She turned toward the long second table where the champions and their ladies were taking their places, but Lord Ralph stopped her. “Here at the high table, Eleanor. Your Sir Gunnar is a most honored guest in this household.”
Servants scrambled to set a fresh place, and Gunnar soon found himself sharing a bench with Lady Eleanor. As she exchanged a few words of greeting with the lord and lady to her right, he took advantage of the moment to study her, comparing the maid beside him to the girl in his mind.
It wasn’t simply the height and the full teats that were different: her face had changed as well, losing the blandness of childhood to become both strikingly female and uncommonly bold. She clearly took after her father: his high cheekbones and noble nose gave her face enough strength to balance a full mouth that fell just shy of being too wide. Beneath brows that flew off aslant like a
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