Tournament, Part 1

Summary: Arrival and day one of the Tournament.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Not mine and I do not own them.

Notes: This chapter was so long, I split it up. There are three POV in this chapter and three in the next. If it is confusing to anyone, please let me know.

~~~~~~~~~~

The first Tournament of the season has arrived. We find a spot to camp, the tents raised quickly as I watch. His men know the drill and are able to perform their duties without a thought as to what has to be done next. Germaine has gone to pre-register Etienne. He shall have to go back in the morning to affirm Etienne's participation. I am told that pre-registering will cut down on time. They are able to begin the games earlier in the day. Apparently, this is an improvement over the past years that has finally been implemented this year.

I am excited, unable to keep from smiling. This whole Tournament will be an entirely different experience for me from last year. Last year, Jocelyn and I were new to Tournament, sent in hopes that she might catch the eye of a man and finally land a husband satisfactory to her. I remember how excited we were to be there the first day, looking about with awe at everything. I imagine how bright our eyes must have been. By the second day, we were able to pull off a nonchalant attitude, and by the third, we were bored by the games. By then, it was the men themselves who interested us.

We would present cool faces to them in the galley, always polite responses to any enquiries. Then, in private, we would pick them apart and wonder various things about each. I cannot say we did not know of Etienne Adhemar before Germaine introduced him, for we did know of him. Like all the other men on the field, we had taken note of him and made giggling remarks in Jocelyn's chamber about him.

And now, I am here as his wife. There is a funny tremor in my belly as I recall some of the remarks we had made, those wonderings about the men as lovers. I have no need for speculation now. I have answers to those general wonderings we set forth from our lips.

An arm goes about my shoulders, my husband's voice in my ear. "Did you bring the dark blue?" Etienne asks, eyes narrowing as he spies two young pages struggling to carry his armor. He winces as they drop a piece, but Richard, his favorite squire, rushes over to take care of the matter, so he glances away, choosing to let the young man deal with the boys. This surprises me, but as his armor is his business, I do not give it another thought.

"Yours or mine?" We have not yet worn our matching attire and I had packed it, thinking that banquet would be an ideal place to show it off.

"Both." He turns us so that he does not have to watch the fiasco with his armor, confident in Richard's ability to handle it.

"Yes. They are in the trunks." I turn in his embrace and run my hand along his coat, smoothing it and picking off a loose thread I see. My other hand, I slip into the coat where it is parted, resting it lightly along his waist. The muscles are tense there, so I knead my fingers for a few seconds to relieve the tension.

A sigh escapes him, a fraction of stress easing from his face. "Good. There is a banquet tonight. It is the opening banquet, so any competitors here today have to attend. I had thought we could wear the blue."

I smile. "Blue is good. I like blue." His gaze strays about the camp site and it is obvious he wishes to be in the thick of the action of making camp. "I will be fine alone, Etienne. Go do what you must." Removing my hand from his waist, I place it behind his neck, applying a tiny bit of pressure. He takes the hint, bending to meet my kiss.

"Stay in the tent when it is ready." He says as he walks away.

I do not mind the order. I am ready for a rest after our journey.

~~~~~~~~~~

Christiana's work on my shirt and coat is truly beautiful. I have never indulged myself in embroidered clothes before. It always seemed such a shame for embroidery to be covered in the blood and muck one ends up in during war, so I had kept my clothes free of adornment. I study the stitches of the leaves on the coat hem, tiny detail worked in a silvery light green. The shades of the greens she used are only slight in their difference, but enough to give the design a shimmering effect. I find myself proud to be donning such decorated attire, and a little happy that she took the time to make them for me.

I slip my arms through the sleeves of the coat, drawing it up and fastening it. The collar of the shirt is high on my neck, the neckline of the coat low enough to show the shirt. I turn. My wife is sitting on our bed waiting for me to be ready.

She is beautiful this evening, her excitement peeking through the proper air she is attempting to cultivate, giving her eyes a delightful twinkle. Sarah has taken Christiana's long hair and managed to coax it up into some intricate style. I am almost hesitant to touch her, for I know I shall undoubtedly undo some of Sarah's work without much effort. I stride to her, holding out my hands. She lets me pull her to her feet.

"Is it time?"

My smile comes easily at her eagerness. "Soon." Bending down, I kiss her lightly. "A couple things," I say, dragging my fingers along the low neckline of her gown, caressing the pale, silken flesh. "You may dance tonight if you wish. It will actually be expected that one of us do so, Duke Henry is annoying in that regard, and since I do not dance, it shall have to be you." She closes her eyes, tilting her head back in invitation. I take that invitation, regretting we do not have time before the banquet to lie abed. My lips travel the path my fingers took and I tug her gown lower in order to nuzzle at the hollow between her breasts. Her hands slide into my hair, raking through it.

"And the next?" Her voice holds a breathless quality, the same sort of sound it has after I have kissed her for long moments.

I kiss my way up to her lips, taking a quick, delicious nibble before answering. "Do not approach Jocelyn to speak with her."

Christiana steps back, surprised, her gaze quizzical. "Why? What is so terrible about me speaking to Jocelyn? You do not seem to care if we write."

I do not think I could explain to her my reasoning. For her to speak to Jocelyn here, in person, is to give that woman a chance to coax my wife to cuckold me with that peasant. Not that I know he is here. I do not. But I would not have the chance presented. I gingerly touch the fancy hairstyle Sarah has created for her, the many little curls fastened high on Christiana's head. "Please, just do as I ask on this." I have found that a 'please' sprinkled here and there makes her less likely to question me further on a matter. This time is not different.

Disappointment flickers in her velvet brown gaze, but she nods. "Alright. I will not initiate a conversation with Jocelyn. What if we meet in a dance and she speaks with me?"

"Do not draw it out. I realize your meeting is unavoidable really, but do not encourage conversation." With a last kiss, I add, "Please. For me."

The opening banquet is what I remember from previous turns in the Tournament circuit. I used to enjoy the conversation, but this year I am anxious for the hours to draw to a close. Already, I wonder how soon until Christiana and I can decently make our escape. I would rather spend the hours with her in our tent than sit here all evening listening to Duke Henry tell me yet again about the wild boar he fought with his bare hands. Everyone knows the story is a fabrication, yet he tells it whenever the urge strikes him. After the first course, he begins retelling the story to Lady Elizabeth on his left and I turn my attention to Christiana.

She has been listening politely to Lady Cicely drone on about some boring matter and when I place my hand on her knee under the table cloth, she turns back to me with an expression of relief, her hand going to cover mine. She squeezes my fingers.

I am glad we wore the matching clothes. We caused quite a stir among those who know me, a ripple in their expectations of me that I find perverse glee in causing. I have been causing a stir anyway, or so I have been told by Germaine. He should know. He has close...ties to many young maids in different places.

He has found that my marriage to Christiana astonished many people, especially how quickly I did so after losing Jocelyn to Thatcher. My motives have been mulled over. Christiana's family has been discreetly, and sometimes not so discreetly, pumped for information. All want to know if Jocelyn was my true aim. Or had I really been interested in Christiana all along? What was the reason we wed so quickly and privately? It had been assumed that when I wed, it would be a grand, huge affair. Since Christiana's belly is not rounding out, they can find no reason. Why would I wed a poor Lord's daughter? The gossip-mongers have been having a wonderful time speculating.

I glance about the tables, my gaze touching on Jocelyn for a brief second, long enough to see that she is frowning across the room at us. Christiana rests her hand on my thigh and I become distracted by her.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is a relief to glimpse Christiana across the room from us. Wisely, Will and Adhemar have been parted by the long length of the tables. I had entertained horrible visions of the four of us sitting together and the two men ending up in a fist fight. Thank the Lord God it will not be so. She sits beside her husband and they almost seem apart from their neighbors, alone together as they eat. I am surprised to see that he is as gentle with her as Will is with me. He places food on her plate for her, lets her drink from their cup before him. He looks at her as though she is the only woman in the room.

The thought bothers me. I cannot imagine Adhemar being gentle with anyone. I do not think he can give Christiana poetry should she desire it. But, she does not look unhappy. She does look as though she cares for him. She smiles at him, touches his arm in a fond gesture and I am baffled. He is a beast of a man, a wretched creature. Or is he? Has he changed? I give a tiny shake of my head. No. That man could never change. It is inconceivable to even think such a thing.

I remember her letters and my attention shifts solely to Christiana. She has adjusted to her role it seems. Her bearing has turned regal and her long hair is piled in curls and ringlets on top of her head. It occurs to me that I have never seen Christiana with her hair up before. She had usually chosen to wear it long and loose. I find myself proud of her, as a family member would be. Indeed, I am the closest thing to a true sister she has since her family eschewed her.

They match in their clothes, cloth of midnight blue, with silvery accents. I cannot tell from this distance if the silver is her handiwork, but I assume it is. I wonder if she had to persuade Adhemar out of that black he favors, for I do not think he cared much for clothes really. I must admit, though it is a grudging admission, they do make a handsome pair. If only he could feel something for her!

~~~~~~~~~~

The meal has ended and the professional entertainment is over. The dancing is about to begin. Christiana turns in her chair, giving me an enquiring lift of her brows. At my nod, she leans close, pressing a quick kiss on the corner of my mouth. Her defiance of the unspoken rule that there shall be no public physical displays of affection at Duke Henry's banquets amuses me. Perhaps we shall start a new fashion. I brush my fingers over the slight ache on my brow as she joins those already on the floor.

Jocelyn is not among those who head for the dance floor. Strange, for I remember she, like Christiana, loved to dance. Curious, I look towards the table where she and her husband were placed. I see her and Thatcher getting up from their seats, the reason for her absence from the dance floor rather obvious as she stands. Jocelyn is pregnant, her belly sweeping out in front of her and proclaiming her state louder than a trumpets blast. She must be close to being due to be that large. Taking up my cup, I sit back in my seat. Seeing her so far gone with child, my mind counts back the months and I am suddenly glad I lost her to Thatcher. I would not have raised his child as my own.

They leave the hall.

The music begins, the dancers taking their places. I stand the discomfort as I always have, gritting my teeth and pretending I am not bothered by the discordant sounds. The ache grows with each sound I hear, a pounding in my temples. My eyes follow my wife as she dances, my vision tunneling until I only see her, watching for any improper placement of hands upon her. I shall not hesitate to go onto the dance floor and yank a man from her who is being too forward.

My vow to do that is unnecessary however. After several long dances, she returns to my side, slipping into her chair and drinking from our cup. "Enjoying the dance?" I ask. My voice sounds as though I have been the one dancing, a gasping to my ears. I touch my hand to my temple. I can feel the pulse tapping there beneath my fingers, a throbbing I can almost hear over the noise in the room. My fingers come away damp. There is sweat on my brow. The pain is progressing, my stomach turning. The light is too bright, growing brighter by the second.

"I was," she replies, surreptitiously sliding her hand under my coat to touch my back. I can feel the tension in my back, a coiling that is becoming tighter and tighter with each passing moment. Christiana presses her cheek on my shoulder, a loving touch for any watching. "Your head?"

I close my eyes a moment, nodding, "Yes." If only I could be away from the light of this room. Darkness will help to ease the pounding that is in my temples. Darkness will soothe, will force my aches away. The tension will be released if only I can be away from this place....

She turns in her chair, her hand going down my arm to grasp my hand. It shakes a tiny bit within hers. "Let us retire." We are among the first to leave. She tugs lightly as she stands and turns. My arm ends up around her and we leave the banquet.

We manage to reach our tent without mishap, Christiana dismissing Germaine as she blows out most of the candles he had lit for us. I pace the confines of the tent, only really hearing her through a haze of pain. I follow her into the partitioned area in the back. "It has not been this bad in a year." My voice has become a hoarse whisper. A year. Well, not quite. The last attack of this magnitude was after the first banquet Will Thatcher attended in his guise as Sir Ulrich. The headache had set upon me as I watched the dance, growing as I left the hall. It had been long, excruciating hours before it receded that night. I look at Christiana, my beautiful, caring wife.

She is at the head of our bed, pillows piled behind her. She has stripped to her shift and placed a little pillow on her lap, a haven for my ill if I need her to be. "Quite pacing and come here."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, but the throbbing in my head will not cease. I can taste oranges in the back of my throat, smell that citrus scent, though there are no oranges anywhere. "It will not stop." I now have to force myself to speak, the effort to continue doing so gargantuan. My stomach rolls with queasiness and the light of that single candle she has left burning sends arcs of fresh agony lancing across my brow.

"Etienne." Christiana says sharply. "Come here."

I go to the bed. This wretched pain has made me helpless as it sometimes does. I almost cry to relieve the building pressure, but from experience I know it would be a hindrance to do so. Crying does not relieve the pressure, I discovered that years ago. It only adds to it, burdening a head already feeling as though it is splintering with an added discomfort.

"Lie down and let me help you." Her arms are open to me, welcoming. She is a woodland nymph crept into my tent, inviting me to take ease in her embrace, and I do as she ordered, placing my head in her lap and looking up at her. I am helpless, naked as a babe from the agony in my head.

"Close your eyes." She whispers.

Her fingertips, wonderfully cool and soothing, stroke across my brow and temples. I let out a heavy breath, allowing my eyes to slip shut, placing me fully at her mercy. Slowly, the touches grow harder and I drift, not quite awake or asleep, in a twilight place while she liberates me from the hurt. My body relaxes, I can feel each muscle letting go of the tension coiled inside. I smell the scent of that perfume she favors, hear her steady, slow breath. Gradually, I become aware that the ache has disappeared. Her hands run through my hair in the same measured pace she used on my face. I open my eyes and reach up, capturing one hand in mine. I press a lingering kiss to her fingertips.

"Thank you." I release her hand and slowly sit, having a care for any possible lingering bits of hurt. "I have suffered these aches for as long as I can remember."

Christiana sits forward, capturing my shoulders in an embrace, her pale arms going about me, one hand slipping into my shirt to caress my chest in soft sweeps. "Does the music always cause them?" She keeps her voice pitched low.

"Usually, but not always. That is the puzzling thing about them. I am never certain what has brought one on. I will be fine and then I will have a peculiar feeling in my stomach, something akin to nausea, the scent and taste of oranges appearing."

"Well, if I am there when you have one, I will soothe the pain away for you."

I turn my head to glimpse her. Her fingers slow in their stroking along my chest and I turn fully, pressing her back onto the pillows. "You are so good to me."

Her lips curve in an enchanting smile. "Should I not be?"

I decline to answer, leaning over to blow out the candle and plunge us into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~

The galley is different this year, to accommodate more people I suppose. There are six rows on an angled platform to each side of the hosting Lord and Lady, outer stairs giving access to the top and bottom levels, with an inner stair leading between the levels. I am early enough that there are many seats to choose from. The front row has filled for this mornings parade of competitors and I choose a seat in the third row.

Beside me, Sarah is wrapped up in her cloak and shivering as she yawns, though her eyes twinkle with excitement. I find myself watching her after the opening parade of competitors has finished. The first match is set up. She leans forward and....goes ashen, flinching as the men collide, lances and splinters going everywhere. Her mouth opens.

"Is that really what happens in the joust?" She whispers to me.

I find it strange that she has never witnessed a joust before, knowing what I now know about her extensive family. Etienne told me that the D'Arcy's enjoy games, especially those that show off skills learned in battle. That was one reason he and Merrick got on so well. Both men enjoy the sports. "Yes. That was a mild one. They can get brutal."

"Oh my God. I had not thought it so barbaric. Mother never let me go to the games at home, although we did tend some of the men after them...." She trails off, comprehension building in her gaze. "The hurts we tended were from the games, weren't they?" I nod and she shudders. "I had not connected the wounds before."

As the morning goes on, Sarah gets paler and paler, until she will not look at the field. She cannot stand the sight of two grown men rushing headlong at each other with the intent to either unhorse or kill one another and finally asks to stay in her small tent sewing. Sensible girl. I would be elsewhere if I could, for I do not truly enjoy the joust either, save for watching my husband. As any wife, I find a pride in his abilities on the field.

I hear Etienne's name being called and sit up a little straighter, my hands in my lap. The token I gave him, a scarf I embroidered, is displayed for all to see on his arm, wound tight so it will not get caught on anything as he competes. It is no surprise to me when he wins his first match. His opponents horse is led away by Germaine as his opponent is carried away, unconscious and in doubt as to if he will wake up at all.

I scan the crowd. To my right, I see Will and Jocelyn arrive, Jocelyn tossing me a smile over her shoulder as they make their way to a now empty section of the front row. I am not allowed to speak to her. Etienne made his request and I will honor it. As she turns to go to her seat, I see she is rounding nicely, her belly quite large for a woman only about six months along. I am happy for her and Will. They sit almost directly in front of me and I feel better just knowing they are there.

How is it that a good day can go awry in moments, forcing a person into a horrible, desperate mood? After a break for food, the joust began again. Etienne was to compete a final time, then join me in the galley. We had arranged it that morning before I left for the galley. I watched and waited, the sensation of being stared at settling on the back of my neck. For awhile, I could ignore the whispers behind me, those conversations just loud enough to let me know I am being talked about. But then, the women began gathering their courage to approach me. The first two were almost pleasant, friendly in an awkward way, congratulating me on my marriage and asking if I was pregnant yet. I remembered them from last year and was fine with them and their chatter.

When they left, other women began to come forward, a steady stream of them. It was the other women that shoved my day into a bad place, for I have been beset by those jealous women whose claims to know the inside of my husband's tent are likely not all false. I am quite aware that Etienne did not live a monk's life before we married. Any man with his extensive knowledge of a woman's body was by no stretch of the imagination celibate.

These women slip into the galley beside me, all beauties of various hair color and say they wish to be friends. They 'know Count Adhemar well and wish to befriend his Lady'. Any pleasantness is fleeting, for they immediately set catty remarks forth as to my appropriateness as a wife and of his seeming faithfulness to me. I am forced to endure their presence now, as I wait for Etienne to join me. He is done for the day and we shall watch some of the matches this afternoon. I expect him any second.

"Really," one unnamed woman says, her lovely face set in a strange smile, "Is it true that your marriage to Etienne was almost called off, dear? There have been whispers that you were screwing a peasant, like a common maid would. And I heard he was most angry with you." Her companions all titter, as though she has made a grand joke.

My face burns with embarrassment. It is no one's business what went on between Etienne and myself in the time before we married. I cannot think of a reply and twist my hands in the fabric of my skirt, doing my best to ignore the woman and pretend I do not hear her. I do not understand the attitude of these women. Last year, Jocelyn and I met many pleasant girls, but most who have appeared this year are anything but pleasant. Is it possible that my attendance has caused them to surface?

"That is not what I heard." I look up. Jocelyn is stepping daintily down the stair, on her way to her seat, pausing abreast the line of us. Despite her very obviously pregnant state, she is the very portrait of confidence. Her belly size has not changed her carriage any at all. She is still graceful. I see many envious eyes directed at her belly. That she could marry for love has quite a few women resentful of her. "I have it on good authority that the vows were delayed because there were urgent estate matters requiring Count Adhemar's attention. His mother eased Christiana's transition into the household during that time."

"Patrice?" The woman scoffs, lips twisting. "Like mother like son."

I have witnessed Jocelyn doing battle with other woman before and I wish I had the ability myself, but, alas, I am not good at verbal warfare. A hardness grows in her eyes as she considers the woman.

"Whatever do you mean?" Jocelyn finally asks, brows raised, waiting with a patient air for a reply.

The blond beauty shakes her head. "Oh, just that I do not see that Lady welcoming any woman into that house. She has tight reign on it and would not allow her position to be usurped." She picks a piece of thread from her dress, glancing at the field. "Your little maid has not denied the charge, Lady Thatcher." She spits out Jocelyn's title and name as though it is sour.

"Count Adhemar displayed the sheets, Lady Mayes. I have been told that there was no doubt by any," she places a stress and a pause on the word, "that he was her first...Something about how a cry can echo in that house the way it is built...and by how gingerly she moved the next day."

I had not thought of that, of either of those. Some of the looks I was given that next day now have a new meaning.

"That means nothing. Either can be faked."

"Christiana bled for her husband. Did you for yours? Let me remember." Jocelyn parodies thought, a finger on her jaw. "Oh, I recall now. You did not. In fact, your father had to scrounge to find a man for you after all you did. Your antics and greed lost you a Count, Lady Mayes."

Anger grows in Lady Mayes' icy blue eyes. "You bitch."

"Your jealousy is showing."

"And the common blood I always suspected was in you is showing right out front in that belly!" Lady Mayes hisses.

Jocelyn gives a small smile and rubs her hand over the swell. "At least I can have children." There is a collective intake of breath at that. I wonder what happened with this woman, what Jocelyn knows that I do not, for I have never heard of her before today.

Her opponent stands, fury mottling her face. "She does not belong in that house."

"Obviously she does, for that is where she is. She is his wife."

The woman looks at me, the malice in her eyes causing me to flinch. What have I done to this woman? What ill does she perceive is between us? "No woman has him for long, dear. When you do not please him anymore, he will find another and sequester you away on one of his remote estates."

"Will he?" Jocelyn asks. "Are you certain of that?"

"I am as certain of that as the fact that the sun rises in the east."

"Why not ask the man to clarify his intentions for his wife?" A languid hand is motioned towards the top of the stairs.

Etienne is there. He has paused and is looking at the women with a somewhat hunted expression. What has caused him to have that look?

The group of women follow their leader, the Lady Mayes, up the stair. As Lady Mayes passes Etienne, they both practically snarl at each other. There is clearly no love lost between them. He waits for them to pass by and comes down to the row, glancing at me. "Lady Jocelyn?" I know he is wondering on our close proximity. Have I ignored his request, he is asking himself.

Jocelyn glares up at Etienne. "I had not connected Beatrice and her tricks with you until right now. Somehow that little tidbit was not commonly known." She draws in a deep breath. "A word of advice to you, take it or leave it as you wish. You should not leave Christiana alone in the galley for them again. She does not have the gift of deflecting their sneering words. Next time, I may not be around to help her defend herself against them."

He crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "Defend herself? She does quite well at home."

"They were questioning her virtue, and her place as your wife. You might make it known how you stand on her. Publicly. Soon." She gives me a smile and brushes by him, going back up the steps. In a moment she is gone and I am eternally grateful that she put aside her dislike for Etienne and defended our marriage against those women.

Etienne sits in the seat beside me, his hand touching my face. "You are crying."

"I am hurt."

"Do words pain you so much, Christiana?" His arm goes along the back of my seat, his hand on my shoulder pressing me to lay my head on his shoulder. I do so. It shall be easier to talk in relative privacy that way.

"Yes." I answer truthfully. "I do not like being spit upon as those harpies were doing. They all claimed to know you well, especially the blond Lady Mayes."

He snorts. "Ignore Beatrice. She is just stirring up trouble."

"I cannot ignore them. They will not leave me alone. As soon as one leaves, another shows up."

"Have Sarah join you here. The reputation of her family will keep many of them away." I feel his shoulder shift beneath my head.

"Sarah hates the joust."

He sighs heavily. "I will fix this, Christiana. Somehow."

We do not stay to watch the matches.