Melanthe prepared to ensure that the duke misjudged his moment.

She toyed with the jeweled jesses, turning a disinterested look on the new jousters. "Tell me of my champion," she said. "He is nameless in truth?"

"Nameless, yea, my lady. A nobody. He gives homage and claims our service, but brings no men of his own beyond that malformed squire."

"No lands, then? But such rich gear, and a great war-horse. He has won many prizes in tournament, I expect?"

The duke laughed. "Few enough, for I've better use for him in real fighting, but it is true that when he enters the lists, he prevails. I have sometimes sent him on a dragon hunt, for sport, but he brings me no prize yet."

"And still he has not proved himself worthy of his name?"

Lancaster turned his palm up casually. "The fortunes of war and dragons, my lady. All must await their great chance at honor, if it ever comes." He shrugged. "Haps he has no name. God only must know where he thieved his gear. It's my thought that he's naught but a freeman."

"A freeman!" Melanthe turned in amazement.

"Else why hide his lineage? That falcon device is recorded on no roll of rightful arms, so say the heralds. But the Green Sire has a talent to lead common soldiers. What men he commands, they come to love him, and the French dread his name. No great chivalry in that, but it is a useful art." He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "So we tolerate his odds and his unlawful device and green horse, Princess—and if he likes to call you his liege lady for a fantasy, then we will enjoy the game."

Melanthe swung the jesses lightly between her fingers, drawing them over the back of his hand. "A poor game to the present, my lord! Know you of no man strong enough to win my favor from this odd knight?"

Lancaster caught up the jesses and kissed them. The bells rang brightly. "I shall find one, Princess," he murmured. "Fear not for that."

Furious shouts drowned the music as a fistfight broke out between a foot soldier and a youth from the retinue of a defeated challenger. Lancaster watched until some of the guards had separated them, and then turned again to Melanthe. "Will you take wine, my lady? The dust rises."

At his words, Cara stood up from her stool behind, placing a tray between their chairs to offer the ewer and goblets. As the duke reached to pour, Melanthe sat back in her seat with a pert moue of impatience.

"Nay, sir, I shall not." She waved Cara away. "This sport is too tame. I vow by Saint John, my lord—nothing, food nor drink, shall pass my lips until a new champion wins my admiration."

He lifted his brows, his hand poised with the ewer. "So eager, my lady? The day is long, and the earth dry."

"So it is," she agreed. She trifled with the jesses, allowing the bells to tinkle. "But I am dauntless. Indeed, I challenge you to join me, and dedicate your comfort to this quest. Surely it is little enough to venture"—she glanced at him beneath her lashes—"as you do not bestir yourself to fight for my prize again."

Lancaster's mouth showed a very faint tautening. She saw the struggle in him, pride against guile, but he smiled at last and nodded toward her. "As you will, my lady." He set down the ewer. "By Saint John, I vow it. No food or drink shall I take until you are satisfied with a new champion."

As the noon passed, Melanthe sat upon the escafaut, fanning herself conspicuously with a green plume. The day was clement enough that winter clothing weighed heavily; the duke in his blue-and-crimson houppelande was a little flushed at the neck, his crown resting on hair that curled damply, darkened against his temple. The Black Prince, fretful and complaining of his swollen joints, had retired with his wife, carried in his litter from the stands to the shade of a magnificent tent set a little back from the noise and dirt.

As each new course of jousting sent dust into the air, Melanthe covered her mouth with a scarf and coughed lightly to convey her discomfort. She looked with a great show of longing at a tray of lozenges and cream tarts that passed en route to some other guests. The duke made no such indication of interest, but she was pleased to note that he swallowed once after the wine had traversed their view.

The Green Sire was handily trouncing all comers. Melanthe sighed, watching a knight outfitted in a boar's head helm pick himself up from a fall, the boar's tusks smashed and drooping askew. "I weary of these trials," she said. "Has he some magic, or be your men all weak as willow wands?"

"No magic, my lady, but goodly strength and skill," Lancaster said. "He, too, is mine," he added in a cool reminder.

Melanthe returned a taunting smile to that and casually jingled her bells. The noise of the onlookers grew, a confusion of cheers and scorn, passions flourishing as support for the Green Sire seemed to increase, scattered widely now among the mixed crowd below. Around the stout fence that enclosed the lists, youths and attendants thronged beside men-at-arms, all pressing as close as they could while the next combatant and his retinue surged through the gate.

The Green Sire pulled off his great helm, bending awkwardly to wipe his eyes and forehead with the tail of his tunic. A man-at-arms shouted, ducking through the fence to hand him a clean cloth. His intrusion past the lawful barrier sparked a great roar.

In the stands noble ladies shrilled their disapproval, answered by impudent shouts from some of the common soldiers below. Another scuffle broke out and spread. Melanthe felt the duke tense beside her, but his guards moved quickly, laying about with clubs and staves and hauling the brawlers away.

Lancaster made another subtle signal to the marshal, and the next challenge heralded was without the Green Sire. Melanthe watched as her champion left the gate. He and his squire were surrounded instantly by soldiers and commoners, who made a phalanx about his horse and escorted him through the mob toward the tents.

"But if you allow him yet more rest, my lord," she complained petulantly, "what chance have these beardless children to defeat him?"

Lancaster swung a goaded look upon her. She swished the plume lightly.

"There are other matches to be fought, Princess," he said. "We have a hundred knights who desire to joust."

"I suppose my champion has not time to fight them all," she murmured. "Though I vow, I had not truly supposed him the greatest of the lot. I believe my father or brother could have knocked him down several times over."

He managed a creditable smile. "Perhaps so, my lady. But the day is not yet gone."

"I despair of surprises at this late hour." She shook her head. "The great days of the tournaments are past. We have only boys' games now. The king your father, God's blessing upon him, would find this a pale image of the splendid spectacles he has hosted."

Lancaster had become quite red now about the neck, but still he only nodded, stiffly polite. "There is naught to surpass the tournaments of our beloved lord the king."

Melanthe gazed upon the pair now thundering toward each other. To her pleasure, and the crowd's sneers, they missed each another entirely—a commonplace in any ordinary pas de arms, but the first time it had occurred today. She clucked ruefully. "I suppose the Italians care more for their honor in these matters," she commented. "They take their ease upon the hearth rug instead of in the lists, and joust like gallant men before the ladies."

Lancaster made a sudden move, sitting straighter in his chair. A page moved quickly to him—they bent their heads together for an instant, and then the duke rose. "You will forgive my discourtesy, Your Highness." He bowed deeply. "A summons from my brother the prince—I regret I must leave your companionship awhile."

Melanthe acknowledged him with good grace. "Be pleased to go at once," she said, "with my health and dear friendship, may God keep our esteemed Lord Edward the prince."

He turned, with a degree less than his usual elegance, and strode down the steps behind his page. The musicians continued to play their merry melody. Melanthe looked after him, fanning herself slowly and smiling.

* * *

The crowd had grown dangerously restless with the lesser jousts, and Lancaster was still missing from the escafaut by the time the heralds' trumpets blew a great fanfare, silencing the musicians and the noise. The marshal of the lists held up his arms and strode to the center of the ground, his slashed sleeves showing blue under scarlet and his cape flying out behind him.

"Now comes the one who will take their measure!" he shouted. "The one who will take their measure has arrived!"

As he declared the ritual words, old as the legends of King Arthur and Lancelot, the throng burst into frenzy. The discharge of sound beat against Melanthe's ears like the blare of the trumpets themselves.

From between the tents came a knight the color of blood-sunset, galloping with his black lance balanced on one hand above his head, his armor shining reddish gold. He rode a massive black destrier encased in the same shimmering metal. His shield was sable, as dark as his lance and horse, without device or color.

He dragged his mount to a halt at the stone monument. A hush fell over the onlookers, delicious expectation; a carnal pleasure in this drama. The black lance poised—and came down on the silver falcon, rocking it with force of the blow. The shield he had chosen rang with a wooden resonance as the cheers hit a new plane of passion.