Page 32 of Betrothal

He sucked in his breath and stared in admiration as the ruby clad figure continued up the Great Hall. Laughing, Thomas reached over and closed Geoffrey’s mouth with a click. “You looked like a waterspout, Geoffrey. The gargoyles will become jealous.”

“Did you see…?”

“Aye, I did. Will you retrieve the fair Alyse so I may pay my forfeit before the festivities begin? ’Twill be easier, I think, with fewer people about.”

Reality crashed back into Geoffrey. The man who had stolen the affections of the woman he loved was about to beg her pardon. Likely go down on his knees, as he had instructed Geoffrey to do several nights ago. Further win her regard with his flowery courtier’s speech. He had a mind to protest—in fact, readied himself to stop his friend—then halted. He would not give Thomas, or the others, more fodder for gossip. He had made enough of a fool of himself over Alyse already.

With a curt nod, he strode after his betrothed. He caught up with her as the procession neared the dais. “Your Highness?”

Princess Joanna whirled around, a smile playing along her lips when she saw him. “Congratulations on your well-deserved victories today, Sir Geoffrey.”

“You are too kind, Highness.” He bowed deeply. “But if my poor skills entertained you then I am a content man.” Geoffrey darted a glance at Alyse, hesitated then plunged ahead. “Your Highness, I would ask a few moments with Lady Alyse regarding the challenge match. Lord Braeton wishes to pay his forfeit. If you would be so kind as to release the lady?”

The princess smiled and nodded. “You may go, Alyse, but be aware of the time. You must return quickly for the opening dance.”

“Aye, Your Highness,” Alyse murmured, dipping her curtsy.

He took her hand and led her back toward the waiting Thomas.

“Sir Geoffrey,” she began as they moved away from the princess. “In light of his injuries, I believe Lord Braeton’s forfeit is well paid. I have no need of his apology.”

He stared at her in disbelief. Though he little desired for his friend to gain the opportunity to woo his betrothed further, that victory—and the apology—had been hard won. For her to so lightly fling his effort aside only indicated the depth of her disdain for him. “You mean because of those tiny wounds, you want to forgo an apology I risked my life to obtain?”

Alyse cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “You said you were going to joust with Lord Braeton anyway.”

“Aye, the match had been arranged, but—”

“And you jousted before that match for a prize, did you not? Risked your life for a prize?” She slowed her pace, brows furrowing.

“Aye, that is the way of a tournament, but I think—”

“And I had to sit through the whole day, terrified and completely helpless, and watch you risk your life for that prize again and again.” Her lips pressed into a thin, displeased line.

“Aye, lady, however—”

Alyse stopped, stared at him. “I think you should apologize to me, Sir Geoffrey.”

He gaped at her. “I should apologize to you?” Indignation at her outrageous claim made his voice boom for all to hear. “For what, my lady? For doing my duty to my liege as part of his retinue? For trying to defend your honor, and mine? Thomas not only besmirched your character with his insinuations but wounded mine as well.”

Alyse’s tone dripped ice. “How did he do that, my lord, when ’twas you yourself who believed his words? You were not forced at a knife’s point to change your mind about my ability to make a proper decision.” She coolly eyed him up and down. “You did that of your own volition.”

Stung, Geoffrey retaliated. “For which I have already apologized and had that apology accepted, if you care to remember, demoiselle.”

She blushed furiously, evidently remembering that encounter, as he had intended. As she struggled to speak, Thomas appeared and, grasping each of them by an arm, compelled them to walk out of the Great Hall and into the rose-filled courtyard.

“Sir Geoffrey, Lady Alyse. If you will quarrel, please have the good sense to do it away from the eyes and ears of the court. If you feel need of an audience, I believe I shall suffice.”

Geoffrey wheeled on his friend. “’Tis again your fault, Thomas. Because you were wounded, nay, scratched, at the joust this afternoon, Lady Alyse wishes to forgo your apology to her in favor of one from me for even attempting the joust!”

“’Tis not his fault, Geoffrey. You wounded him.” Anger underscored Alyse’s voice.

“Aye, but ’tis no reason to forgo his apology to you!”

“Lady Alyse,” Thomas broke in, his tone even but insistent. “Geoffrey is in the right here. I am ready and willing to pay my forfeit to you. That he wounded me during the match matters not. Had I been wounded but won the joust,” he paused to smile wickedly at Alyse, “I vow my wounds would not have impeded me from taking my forfeit.”

Geoffrey glowered, powerless, as Thomas took her arm and led her several feet away to the same rose bower where he had asked for forgiveness on Sunday. Thomas seated her on the bench then went down on one knee and bowed his head before her.

If looks could kill, my friend, you would even now be greeting Saint Peter at the gates.