Page 106 of An Inconvenient Vow

“Good.”

She fidgeted with the blanket edge. For a minute then, she had thought he was hinting at the expectation of conjugal relations between them. Ridiculous, when she thought about it, as Jeffree was not really much of a one for hinting. “You were surprisingly unruffled by my woman’s time,” she admitted, remembering the fuss Miles had made on a couple of occasions. He could be easily nauseated considering his keenness for hunting.

“Oftentimes I have cuts and wounds and will bleed on the sheets,” he said off-handedly. “It is the nature of combat.”

Sabina considered this. “Even in a tournament?” she asked with mild surprise.

“Of course.”

“Oh.” It occurred to her that she had no notion of what to expect on the morrow and suddenly this struck her as a little worrying. With a guilty start, she realized she had not even enquired if he had won at his last tournament at Areley Kings. Had he told her? She cast her mind back; she did not think he had. “Jeffree,” she said suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Did you win at Areley Kings?”

He breathed out noisily. “Nay. I reached the final, then lost to De Bussell.”

De Bussell? Again, Sabina drew a blank. Should she know who that was? There were so many of these knights. “And will you win on the morrow?” she asked instead.

“There is always a good chance I will win,” he answered, “but I am a strong competitor in a field of other strong competitors. There is never a sure winner.”

“Oh.”

*

The next morning dawned with a hazy blue sky that seemed to promise a hot July afternoon. Jeffree rose early and he and Osborn disappeared off to the tourney field before even breaking their fast. Sabina washed and dressed at a more leisurely pace, in no hurry to emerge from their bedchamber and renew her acquaintance with Hugo.

When she did venture out into the cramped palace apartments, she found the three rooms completely empty apart from Wilton. He informed her in hushed tones that his master would likely not rise until noon for he had not returned until the early hours from the festivities.

Wilton was not particularly friendly and seemed to expect her to wait for her husband’s return before she could break her fast. On Jeffree’s reappearance, they partook of roasted fish and finest pandemain, and Sabina was informed that a palace page would be sent to escort her to the arena in a half hour.

When the page duly arrived, a gangly boy of thirteen or thereabouts, he looked her over with frank surprise.

“Lady de Crecy?” he asked cautiously, and Sabina guessed he was checking lest he had her servant in her stead.

She nodded. “I am she. And what is your name?”

“’Tis Laurence, my lady. Laurence Everill.”

“Well met, Laurence.” Sabina joined him out in the corridor, closing the door resolutely behind her. “Do you usually attend the palace tournaments?” she asked as they made their way belowstairs.

“Yes, my lady,” he responded promptly, his eyes gleaming. “For ‘tis rare sport indeed.”

“That is good to hear Laurence, for this will be my first.”

His eyes widened and he came to a halt on the stair. “Are you truly Sir Jeffree’s wife?” he blurted.

“I am, but that is a recent development.” He nodded and Sabina could see he was a little disappointed by her dowdy appearance. She sought for something agreeable to say. “Do you suppose he stands much chance of winning today?”

“He is always a strong contender,” Laurence answered thoughtfully, “but for my part, I put my money on Lord Kentigern.”

“Your money?”

“I bet a ha’penny against Wilf Keenes,” he said promptly.

Sabina could not forbear smiling at this artless confidence. “And who does Wilf back to win?”

“Sir Roland Vawdrey.”