When I had gathered myself together again, I strolled down to Garter King of Arm’s office to get hold of the list of knights taking part in the tournament, and see what odds I could get on Richard of Gloucester.
Garter himself was out, doing whatever it is that Kings of Arms do on their day off, but his assistant, Bluemantle Pursuivant, was minding the shop.
‘Your first big tournament, is it?’ he asked, handing me a copy of the official Programme.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘although I’ve been to a few county events, jousts at weddings, stuff like that.’
He laughed at my ignorance. ‘Oh, those little affairs out in the sticks aren’t worth talking about. A royal tournament is different class. You’ll find it a very special experience. Do you want to be allocated a knight for the day?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘It costs, but it’s good publicity. You get to lead him into the lists at the end of a gold chain, and then he carries your favour on his lance. We can even arrange for a private room for you and the knight of your choice, with a bath and full supper, if you want to go the whole hog. The package comes complete with ointments, bandages and splints to bind up any little wounds he may have picked up. Very romantic.’
It was at that moment that Roger Beauchamp put his head around the door. He was clutching a copy of the Programme.
‘Good morrow, Bluemantle,’ he said, cheerily. ‘What’s all this about putting me on the Woodville team for the melee? I’m not a Woodville, and I’m not connected with the Woodvilles in any way, so it doesn’t make a right lot of sense, does it?’
‘Sorry, Sir Roger,’ the Pursuivant sighed. ‘They’re pretty short of first-class knights, and we had to do something to shore them up, if you’ll pardon the expression. If it’s too one-sided we’ll be buried in complaints from the sponsors, and the Queen’ll be round here, banging on the counter like she was last time. It’s more than my job’s worth to let that happen again.’
Roger’s mouth opened to continue the argument, but then he caught sight of me and bowed his acknowledgement of my presence.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise that there was a queue.’
‘I didn’t even realise that you were at Court,’ I answered.
He did not take up my implied invitation to explain where he had been. He just mumbled something about being occupied by the King’s business and left it at that. His evasiveness irritated me beyond all reason.
‘The Damosel was about to pick her knight for the tournament,’ announced Bluemantle, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of income.
I stabbed my finger onto the Programme more or less at random.
‘Is he still available?’ I asked, without looking down.
Bluemantle lifted my finger from the paper. ‘Sir Edward Woodville? Oh, yes. I can give you a discount on him.’
Sir Edward Woodville was the Queen’s horrid little brother, a vapid youth who spent most of his time slumped in corners, pulling the legs off flies. That’s what random selection does for you. Before I could change my mind, Roger spoke up.
‘I can’t hang around all day, Bluemantle. Just get me off the Woodville team, that’s all.’
‘The King won’t like it, Sir Roger.’
‘Just do it, or I’ll withdraw altogether.’
He was as abrupt as that, and went stalking out of the room. It was as if I’d done something to offend him.
It was enormous fun sitting in the stands watching as my knight had the proverbial seven kinds knocked out of him. For some reason both Richard of Gloucester and Roger Beauchamp seemed determined to single him out, and Edward Woodville spent the rest of the week counting his compound fractures. He had to mend them himself, as I had only gone in for the basic sponsorship package.
That evening we had a great feast, and I sat and roared with laughter as a very amusing jester chap walked around the tables breaking wind and hitting us all on our heads with a pig’s bladder. If there’s one thing I really appreciate it’s subtle, sophisticated humour.
Roger broke into the conversation I was holding with my sister Margaret, Lady Powys. (This Margaret was my full sister, and those of you who are fussed about such things should not confuse her with our half-sister, Dame Margaret Dutton, who was mentioned in my description of Blore Heath. Don’t ask me why my father was so unimaginative as to give two of his daughters the same name. Or why he had another pair both called Anne. I haven’t the foggiest idea.)
Roger informed me that I was a very poor judge of a knight, and that my favours should be bestowed with more care.
I told him that I would jolly well tie my sleeve to whatever lance I pleased, and that it was none of his bloody business.
He smiled, which was not at all the response I’d expected. This worried me.
He made a long and elaborate apology to Margaret for the interruption, using all the flowery language he’d learned at knight school. Then, without warning, his hand clamped on my wrist.
‘Time for a little walk,’ he explained. ‘I need to have a quiet word with your brother. You are in need of guidance, Damosel. Perhaps we can arrange matters so that your behaviour will be my business.’
John was sitting in a remote window embrasure, working on an account-book he’d smuggled into the banquet.
‘Audley,’ said Roger, without preamble, ‘this is your advertisement in the Court Circular, isn’t it?’
He pulled the Circular from somewhere, and held it about two inches from my brother’s nose. John squinted at it.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, after turning the page over a couple of times.
‘And this is the damosel in question?’
‘Only one I’ve still got on my hands.’
‘Then let’s see if we can’t cut a deal. Sit down, Alianore.’
‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but I’m getting a bit cheesed off with you telling me what to do.’
‘Stand up then. See if I care. Audley, what are you offering in the way of dowry?’
I sat down, somewhat shaken by the turn that events had taken. John had dropped the Circular on the bench next to him, and I found the relevant entry in the Alliances Sought section. It said: Damosel, XXI years. Warranted chaste and obedient. No visible blemishes. Offers to John Audley, at Eltham. Woodvilles, Hautes, etc., need not apply.
‘Four hundred marks!’ Roger roared, in response to John’s first proposal. ‘You must be joking, pal. Obedient? She won’t even sit down without an argument! And she’s given her favour to a Woodville at a public tournament. I need compensating for the damage to her reputation. I want seven fifty, and not a groat less.’
They hammered away at each other like two hucksters swapping stolen goods in back room of an alehouse, while I posed and pretended indifference. I was delighted that Roger had decided to put in a bid, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him know that. I was going to have to be won round, and I was determined that it was going to take at least a week.
Roger was too astute to put all his cards on the table at once, but he threw them down one by one. He had an income of more than three hundred pounds a year from his lands alone, besides his retaining fees from the King, his salaries as a councillor to assorted lords and ladies, and the drops he received in return for bending things at Court for various people. He was in good physical nick, with a decent seeding in the jousts, and a childless widower, in need of an heir.