Catherine March - The King's Champion

‘Then why do it?’ asked Eleanor.

Her father smiled, and looked away into the distance. ‘That is a question that could have many answers, my little dove. For some men, being a warrior is all they know, for others they are escaping pain of some kind, and for a few, a very few, they seek the glory of valour.’

‘Once I would have been a knight,’ said Eleanor, ‘but now I am heartily glad that I am a lady.’

‘So am I.’ He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, ‘Now, fear not for Rupert, he can well take care of himself.’

She had the grace to blush, aware that she could not confess her concerns were not all for her brother. Roundly she chided herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell upon Troye de Valois, and briskly reminded herself that thoughts of Rupert should come first. After all, who was Troye de Valois? They had scarce spoken more than a few words to each other and, though he lived in her heart and her dreams, the truth was that he had not yet become a reality, a part of her life that she so longed him to be. But these facts neither daunted nor diminished her feelings. She felt a happy glow and smiled as she envisioned a rosy future, for she was young and beautiful; surely, by now, Troye must know that her hand was on offer for marriage? It was only a matter of time before he approached her father with a proposal.

Eagerly she watched as the jousting began. How great was her impatience as the lesser knights took their turns, their horses thundering down the length of the list and the crowds cheering as one or the other was knocked from the saddle by a thrusting lance. Towards mid-day, at last, Troye de Valois rode out, much to the delight of his adoring onlookers, for Eleanor was not the only one smitten.

She watched avidly as Troye dispatched his opponents in quick and ruthless succession, yet she was relieved that Rupert was not riding. He had lost his footing carrying the body of a would-be assassin down a stairwell the night before, and was now sitting on the sidelines, nursing a twisted ankle and feeling like a chump as his comrades teased him. The day’s competition ended all too soon and the crowds began to drift away, discussing the merits and faults of their favourite combatants and eagerly anticipating the crowning glory.

The jousting knights had the following day off to rest and prepare, in readiness for the final contest on Saturday. In the afternoon the King again opened his court at Westminster and as Eleanor entered the hall she felt the sting of goosebumps prickle on her skin. But the floorboards had been scrubbed clean, the guard had been doubled and there was a defiantly festive air to the gathering as the court gathered to eat and drink and make merry. The King was overheard to say that no paltry assassination attempt would have him cowering away in his chamber.

‘’Tis not our way, my lords, for the English to cower in fear!’

‘Nay, indeed, your Majesty!’

‘A toast…’ the King raised his goblet ‘…to the fighting spirit of Englishmen!’

His salute was echoed, but one of his closest chancellors murmured that it would not be wise to make too much of the matter, for the Scots might yet try again and it would do the King no good to become lax.

‘Bollocks to them!’ cried Edward, rising from his elaborate chair upon its royal dais. He waved at the musicians to play, shouted for more wine, exhorted his subjects to partake of the mountains of delicious food laid out on tables in an adjoining chamber, and called for the five guardsmen who had fought like lions to defend his life the night before.

From out of the crowd they came, five young men standing together, looking sheepish at all the attention, amongst them Austin Stratford and Troye de Valois. They were tall, broad-shouldered young men, with that lean and confident look in their eyes that proclaimed their profession as fighting men.

‘See ye these fine lads, such knights as no kingdom on God’s earth has the good fortune as I to have their allegiance. Tonight I reward them, for with their own lives they did mine protect and save. I have not a scratch upon me. Anything they want, they shall have. Come, Sir Austin, tell me what it is you most desire and it is yours.’

Sir Austin looked about with a bemused glance, and he half-turned to Troye de Valois with a silent plea for assistance. Troye merely shrugged, as much at a loss as Austin, for what, indeed, would any Englishman dare ask of his King? Taking pity on the floundering and blushing Austin, he turned to the King with a small bow and murmured, ‘We seek no reward, your Majesty, for we have merely done our duty.’

Someone called out a cheer of approval for Troye’s reply, and others still clapped their hands, until the entire hall applauded and cheered. And then, as the King exhorted the ladies present to dance with these fine fellows, Troye stepped forward and begged permission for a private word. The King eyed him shrewdly, reluctant to single out one amongst the five for any favouritism, however true it might be that Troye de Valois was indeed his favourite knight. He valued the noble attributes of honour and courage and strength, all of these clearly abundant in Troye. So it was that he refused Troye permission for a word in private, and yet granted him leave to speak, here and now.

Troye looked about as the guests jostled closer, eager to fuel their lust for gossip, and a flush stained his face beneath its summer tan. To one side he saw the beautiful face of young Ellie, her eyes wide and just as curious as all the others. How he wished he could have prevented her from hearing in public his news, for it had not escaped his notice that she had feelings for him, a childish crush, no doubt, but he had no desire to hurt one so young and innocent. His jaw clenched as he bowed deeply to his King and murmured in a tense voice, ‘’Tis a matter I would prefer to discuss in private, your Majesty.’

‘Indeed?’ The King stroked his beard and looked about. ‘Come now, Sir Troye. We must have no secrets here amongst brothers at arms, for secrets are weapons that our enemies could, and would, use against us.’ He turned and climbed the dais steps, seating himself upon his ornate chair and eyed Troye with a frown. ‘Could this matter you wish to discuss have anything to do with your absence from court last autumn and winter?’

For a wild moment Troye wondered if the King already knew, and his heart hammered painfully in his chest. With downcast eyes he replied, ‘Your Majesty is indeed wise.’

‘I am only guessing, Sir Troye, for every rumour in the kingdom reaches my ears eventually. But rumours remain just that, until the truth is admitted.’ Edward’s eyes were very hard, any warmth rapidly fading as his worst fears seemed about to be realised. ‘Spit it out, lad, for I am not a patient man.’

‘Your Majesty—’ Troye took a deep breath and seized both his fate and his courage as valiantly as he could ‘—Sire…I have married.’

A gasp escaped from the guests crowding closer, eager to hear the goings-on. From the corner of his eye he saw Ellie press one hand to her mouth and one to her heart. Her face paled visibly.

The King fiddled with the great signet ring on his right hand, his eyes never leaving Troye for a moment. ‘And marriage is a crime you feel a need to confess? I had thought it was more of a blessing, to be celebrated.’

‘Your Majesty, I beg your indulgence and your great mercy, for I have married the one woman I truly love and will always love, as you have loved your Eleanor. But, sire, forgive me, I beg you, my wife is a Jewess.’

‘What!’ roared the King, his shout echoing the collective cries of astonishment about the hall. ‘So you have married a woman of the Jewish faith? When I have expelled from our kingdom these—these heathens, these leeches and troublemakers!’