“You can always fight for what you want,” I told her, overfierce, sitting forward. “Always. People try to take that from you no matter your station, but you can always fight.”
She gave a snort. “If I were some peasant heathen I’m sure I could,” she said.
“I ain’t no peasant,” I said hot.
“Just a heathen, then,” she said, peering past the queen to smile tight at me. “How does Guy put up with you?”
It took me a moment to remember Guy were Gisbourne’s given name.
“I’m not a heathen,” I ground out, careful to say the words right. Christ, I were out of practice with this. “And you bare seem to know what the word means. I make no apologies for the way I talk—I only started doing it because nobles and men with power and heavy fists don’t bother with a lowborn churl, and I chose safety over fancy words when it came to the streets of London. And I don’t look the part of some noble truss, but I spend my life trying to help people that can’t help themselves. People hurt by the cruelties of their lords. Say that I’m a heathen like I don’t serve God, but all you’re doing is making yourself look the fool.”
Her face went fair sour. “Oh, this is how you help people? From up here on your high chair in your expensive furs, watching your husband tilt?”
“Perhaps I ought to be lower,” I told her, standing. I dipped to Eleanor. “My lady queen.”
I heard Isabel make some tittery noise behind me, but I turned my cheek from her and walked down from the dais.
Stepping from the stage for nobles felt good, but there weren’t nothing normal about walking through people in skirts, in fine clothes, watching them step away from me to let me pass. I couldn’t fade to shadows; I couldn’t not be noticed. I hated it.
“You look a little lost.”
I turned to see Much steps from me. He smiled under a big farmer’s hat in his crooked, half-sure way, and I hugged him.
He hugged me tight with a laugh. “John and Rob are awfully boring without you around.”
I mussed his hair with a laugh. “I’m certain they are. So what do you reckon, will someone make me a widow today?”
We went and leaned on the fencing that were meant to keep the common folk from the grounds. We were low, back, and to the side, and from there the whole thing looked vicious and fierce, less like a game and more like gods stomping about for notice.
“I doubt it,” he said, honest as ever. “Gisbourne is a very good fighter.”
I rubbed my still swollen lip. “I know.”
“He slept, you know,” Much told me. “Last night, whole way through.”
This thrilled my heart like a holy fire. “It’s fair strange, talking about Rob like he were an infant or such.”
“It’s good news.”
I shivered. “It’s perfect news.”
“I’m scared for you, Scarlet,” he told me, nudging closer. “Those bruises aren’t all from Rob that night, are they?”
“No.” I slung a grin his way. “When were I ever afraid of a little bit of purple?”
“I’ll find a way to help,” he promised. “I’ll find a way to make sure you’re not alone.”
“I’m well enough, Much. Needn’t fret,” I told him. “Are the menfolk well?”
He nodded. “Yes. Hugh Morgan’s trying to make one of the knights wed Aggie after some improprieties, which is entertaining, but the food is almost gone. We won’t last till Christmas, much less the rest of the winter.”
“You should see the feasts they have here. It’s enough to make you sick.”
He smiled at me. “It doesn’t take much to make you sick, Scar.”
It were meant to be funny, so I laughed.
“What’s it like, being one of them?”
“A noble?” I asked. He nodded. “I’m not, I don’t think. I don’t talk right. I for certain don’t look right. They all think I’m off and mad and contrary.”
His grin sloped sideways in a silly way. “You are all of that.”
“Are we talking about me?” John asked, coming up my other side and wrapping his arm round my back. “Look at the little lady we have here,” he laughed, looking at my clothes. “Where’s your knife?” he asked.
I frowned, shrugging him off, but I showed him the one I hid along my back.
Much laughed. “But where’s your second knife?” he asked.
Leaning on the rail again, I said, “My boot. But ladies ain’t supposed to show their ankles.”
John guffawed at this, leaning beside me and tucking his hat down low, and Much did to match. I wouldn’t never tell them as much, but with them on either side were the closest I felt to right in the past days.
Thoresby were next up, and getting himself onto the horse he looked frail and old. He weren’t—he were bare older than my father, and I remembered my father strong and young. But his armor were too big and his face were too grave, and my chest were strapped tight with fear for him.
The herald blew his horn and called out Thoresby’s name, and Wendeval’s came up behind it. I sucked in a breath.
“Not good?” John asked, raising his brow to me.
“If you knew how to joust, he would be a fair likeness to you,” I told him. “I saw Wendeval last night. He’s a big bruiser.”
John scowled. “I’m not just a bruiser,” he muttered.
The horn blew again and the horses launched forward. Thoresby didn’t sit well, didn’t hold the lance well, didn’t move well. “Christ,” I hissed. “It’s a damn wonder he’s riding in a straight line.”
“And this is our champion,” John said.
I hit him.
They crossed lances, and Thoresby’s lance glanced off Wendeval’s shoulder, shooting up and launching from his hand.
Wendeval’s lance struck Thoresby’s ribs, ringing with the impact but glancing rather than holding. His lance dropped, and pages ran out to get the fallen weapons.
The riders trotted back to their places and were handed up another lance.
“He’s going to lose,” John said.
“Shut it,” Much snapped at him as the horn blew.
John shrugged, and my fingers curled into the wooden fence as the horses’ strides shook the ground. Wendeval’s form were stronger, better, his arm high and lined to his shoulder, his body balanced over the horse.