Catherine March - The King's Champion

Ellie was fascinated by the colourful gathering of people, brightly clothed in rich fabrics of velvet and silk, and the snippets of conversations that she overheard, laced with rumour and gossip and bawdy jokes, before her mother or aunt hastily moved her away. The crowd laughed and drank, dancing and feasting, with all the merriment and intensity of those who knew the King was footing the bill for this jollity.

Rupert sent a message with a pageboy to say that he would be off-duty at the tenth hour. Ellie danced with her father and her uncle, and once with a group of girls similar in age, but mostly her family kept her within the close confines of their protection at all times. Ellie chafed at the restriction, for she knew that Troye must be here somewhere and she longed to see him, to speak with him.

She could scarce concentrate on anything at all, as her gaze winged its way about the hall, to the King’s dais, hoping to catch a glimpse of Troye de Valois, yet it was so crowded and such a distance away she could not see him.

Rupert appeared then, holding one hand over her eyes and with the other depositing an object in her hands.

‘Guess,’ he commanded with a laugh.

Long familiar with his teasing games, Ellie exclaimed, ‘A white kitten with a black tail!’

‘Nay, goose.’

‘Um…’ Ellie pretended to be flummoxed and agonised over her choices ‘…a dove? A silk scarf? A handful of London air?’

Rupert released her with a heavy sigh, and Ellie opened the wooden box, prettily decorated with mother of pearl, and murmured her thanks at the sight of plump marchpane sweetmeats nestling within a bed of satin. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed her brother’s cheek, ‘Thank you, but you should not have wasted your coin.’

‘I didn’t.’ He grinned. ‘I, er, charmed them off a lady-in-waiting.’

She punched his arm in mock-admonishment, and then quickly set aside the box as he whirled her off into a prancing set. The evening picked up its pace and seemed to fly by, as her parents could little object to her dancing in a group when her own brother was part of it and looked on with a careful and watchful eye.

During the dances they swept past the King’s dais and there, at last, she found Troye. He stood behind the King, to his right, alongside four other trusted and experienced knights who would guard the King from all harm and lay down their lives for him if necessary. Troye watched the gathering but, hard as she tried, she could not seem to catch his eye.

The music for a particularly lively rotundellus had just come to a halt, the drums ceasing in their banging and the reedy notes of several recorders and a twanging rebec had stilled when a sudden shout from the yeoman guards ranged about the hall went up.

‘’Ware! Arms!’

Into the hall whirled five black-cloaked and hooded figures. A collective gasp bounced to the rafters from the gathering of guests and they jostled themselves out of the way, tripping and bumping one another, skirts rustling and heels tapping in their haste. Then the black apparitions flung off their cloaks and five acrobats were revealed, dressed all in white, with black ruff collars and their faces painted to match the black-and-white theme. Laughter and a sigh of relief echoed from the crowd, and the rasp of steel as swords half-drawn from their scabbards were now slotted home, the King’s bodyguard retreating from its protective phalanx about their liege.

‘It’s only a disguising!’ cried Aunt Beatrice, peeping out from behind her husband’s broad back, where he had thrust her at the first hint of trouble.

It was a common enough form of entertainment, to run into a hall disguised in dark cloaks, and then throw them off, make their performance of either singing or dancing, charades or acrobatics, and then run off again. Ellie emerged from behind her brother and watched with interest the tumbling, white-faced acrobats, and clapped along with everyone else before the disguisers picked up their cloaks and ran out of the hall.

The moment of tension had not blighted anyone’s enjoyment of the revelry. Indeed, to face the uncertain prospect of violence, and possibly death, had only served to whet their appetites for more pleasure. The noise levels rose to a roar, strong Gascon wine flowed freely from casket to goblet, and sumptuous offerings of food crammed on side tables were soon consumed.

‘Oh, look, it is a line dance! Do let’s join in, Rupert.’

On either side of the hall the guests formed a line, each couple on opposites sides. When it was their turn they skipped the dancing steps into the middle and then down the length of the hall, until halfway, where they were met by a couple from the other end of the line. In the middle the two couples danced together, and then swapped partners. It was one of Ellie’s favourite dances, being very lively, and gave her a chance to dance with new partners. And to pass in front of the dais. And perhaps to make Troye a little jealous as she danced with other men?

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glowed brightly as her feet tapped out the intricate steps, with a smile on her berry-red lips. She danced with a very dark man, who had a hook nose and shaggy brows and whose name she did not know, but he held her hand lightly and smiled at her, a gold earring glinting in one ear. She thought he looked like a pirate, and then they separated and she skipped away to join the end of the line.

The dance required stamina, and it was some long moments before she reached the head of the line again, in front of the King’s dais, where he sat back, looking on with a bored expression upon his face. She tried to see if Troye de Valois watched her, but his face was just a distant blur. She smiled across at Rupert and it was just about to be their turn to go down the middle when again came that warning cry.

‘’Ware! Arms!’

There was a brief titter this time, and the dancers scarce halted in their bobbing as five cloaked intruders ran into their midst. Ellie stayed where she was, their entrance blocking her path, and she looked on with a faint hint of expectation on her face, which quickly evaporated as the disguisers threw off their cloaks and drew swords from their scabbards, the scraping sound echoing a warning about the hall.

The royal bodyguard reacted immediately, the hiss of steel as they drew their own swords and surrounded King Edward spurring the guests into a collective scream. The floorboards suddenly shook as heels drummed in their haste to run from the impending conflict. There was no doubt this time that the King was under attack, yet Ellie stood rooted to the spot, aghast and mesmerised by the skirmish that erupted before her very eyes.

She had lived her entire life sheltered behind castle walls, protected and cosseted. She had heard tales of battle and only envisaged it as a playground for the exploits of valour and chivalry. Now she was stunned as silver blades arced through the air and cut through flesh and bone, blood spurting in a crimson fountain and spraying across the floors, the walls, and her gown. The masked attackers were no match for the knights, who had honed their skills for years in battles and tournaments for just such a moment.

Steel clanged on steel. There were guttural shouts and coarse oaths shouted as the King’s bodyguards fought off the five masked assassins. The hall had erupted into pandemonium. Hundreds of people shoved and grappled to squeeze their way through the already crowded doorways to flee from the danger. Ellie was knocked to the floor. She looked up to see Troye de Valois standing over her as he parried the less-than-skilful swordplay of one attacker. As she cowered she watched him bludgeon his opponent with swift strokes, knocking him to the ground and then forcing him to relinquish his weapon. With one quick thrust Troye stabbed the man in the heart and he gurgled an instant death.