“It is an honor, Brent,” Ranulf said to the boy. “No knight may go into battle, even mock battle, without his lady’s favor. Now, come and help me prepare for the wrestling. You may help apply the oil over my body.”
Lyonene muttered something about pages having most delightful duties and turned away when Ranulf stared at her. She called out when she heard Berengaria’s voice, and her friend entered.
“I have ever wanted to see this tent.” She fingered the silk of the walls. “Lord Ranulf, I think you take the wrestling this day.”
“Aye. I have had Edward make eight gold cups, each set with emeralds for the prizes.”
Berengaria raised her eyebrows to Lyonene, who smiled in answer.
“My lord, is it an honor for two ladies to be present?” Brent’s voice was exasperated.
Berengaria laughed. “He is a de Lacy, ever impatient and rude. You have taken on a monster, Lyonene. Come and let us find a seat and watch your husband’s triumph.
“You may sit with my wife in the section for Malvoisin. I do not think you will find it difficult to see from there.”
The two women left the tent. “How do we women bear such arrogance?” They looked at each other and laughed.
Ranulf had been correct; green and black ropes sectioned off a good piece of the tiered benches. There was room for about a dozen people. Lyonene and Berengaria took their places on the front row. There would be a while before the wrestling began, so they purchased flawns, a kind of cheesecake, from a shouting merchant.
The trumpets sounded and split the air; the people hushed in anticipation. The men began to come from both ends of the lists, dressed only in small white loincloths. Lord Dacre with his five men caused no little commotion—his body a light gold color, his chest lightly covered in fair hair.
When Ranulf entered the field, followed by his seven dark men, Lyonene gripped Berengaria’s arm.
Berengaria exclaimed, “I can see why you love the man—he is magnificent!”
Lyonene smiled proudly.
Favors from the women in the stands rained upon the field—flowers, ribbons, sleeves. Around her, Lyonene heard shouts of the names of the men of the Black Guard, especially those of Corbet and Maularde. Corbet acknowledged all shouts with thrown kisses and tossed all favors to a waiting servant. Maularde took only one ribbon tossed to him and smiled to someone behind Lyonene. She turned to see a young girl dimpling prettily at the guardsman’s attentions.
Ranulf nodded to her, and she saw that her green ribbon was tied about his upper arm.
“Travers would never allow such men near me. It would not be easy to choose one of them.”
“But my Ranulf is by far the best, do you not agree?”
“It is said that love is blind, but it is not so in your case.”
Dacre did not wrestle against Ranulf as the Black Lion had hoped, for he had wished to best his friend, but the two earls and their men challenged all comers. First the men of the guard fought the comers. If any bested the king’s men, he went on to fight R
anulf or Lord Dacre.
The matches began with Ranulf and Dacre looking on as five groups of men circled one another. Their oiled bodies glistened in the early sun and the cheers of the many people urged them on. One of Dacre’s men was thrown and held until a king’s official declared him bested. Lyonene saw Ranulf punch his friend heartily.
The three men of the Black Guard easily won their matches, and Lyonene knew that the other men could not have been as trained in wrestling as her husband’s men were.
The trumpets sounded again and eleven men entered to challenge the knights. Lord Dacre and Ranulf looked on again and saw the comer who had bested Dacre’s man easily felled by Sainneville.
The second round was won also, and Lyonene could see the smugness on Ranulf and Dacre’s faces, their mock yawns.
The trumpets sounded again and the field cleared, but there were no new comers. Ranulf and his friend stood straighter as the trumpets blared again and again. The gates at the far end slowly opened, and two covered litters were carried into the midst of the lists.
A hush fell on the crowd as every eye went to those litters, their contents secret. Two men ran from behind and blew more horns, and the serge of the litters fell back, the dark interiors revealing nothing. The men shouldering the carriages lowered them and two men stepped from them—enormous men, powerful men, their heads and bodies completely shaved and oiled to a slick sheen. The litters were quickly taken away, and the two men stood with legs apart, hands on hips. “We are from Angilliam, the brothers Ross, and we challenge Lord Dacre and Lord Ranulf to a fight until one cries, ‘Peace.’”
The cry from the crowd was deafening, a roar that vibrated the benches. Berengaria laughed and clapped her hands, then looked toward Lyonene’s pleased smile.
“You seem confident of the outcome of this match.”
“Ranulf will win, but he will need to work hard to win. I am glad he does not receive his gold cups without effort.”