Standing before the platforms were the highest noble ladies in attendance, including Princess Noemie. She held a wreath of silver laurel leaves. The victor’s crown. She betrayed no emotion as she watched him approach, but Devon grinned at him from Noemie’s side. The victory of Ceredigion was an accomplishment worthy of boasting.
The shouts grew louder until Ransom reached the steps and started up them. When Ransom reached the middle of the platform, about a dozen trumpeters raised their long horns and let out simultaneous blasts, which quieted the crowd.
A giddy feeling swelled in his stomach. The champion prize was usually significant, around five thousand livres, depending on the event. This might double what he already had from the ransoms he’d received during the short-lived rebellion. Lord Kinghorn had paid his ransom as promised, even though Ransom had been on the losing side of that conflict. A knight was no knight if he did not honor his pledges. Which meant he could expect something from the Black Prince as well.
Simon now borrowed funds from him instead of asking for money from the Elder King.
The blast of the trumpets ended. The herald of Occitania then stepped forward. “Presenting the victors of this tournament of Chessy! In third place, and winner of two thousand livres, is Sir Rasten D’Orchard!”
Cheers swelled from the audience as the noblewoman standing next to Noemie placed her silver crown on the victor’s head. She kissed him on the mouth before withdrawing. Ransom had forgotten about the Occitanian tradition of kissing the victors. It had totally slipped his mind.
Sir Rasten wiped tears from his eyes. He gazed at the noblewoman with adoration and gave her the knightly salute, which won a throbbing cheer from the crowd.
What do I do? Ransom wondered, feeling a growing sense of dread. Devon’s wife had spent the last two years trying to make him fall in love with her. Sometimes she treated him like dirt. Other times, she flirted with him and hinted that she admired him. Still others, she spoke to him with undisguised coldness. He didn’t trust her, or trust being alone with her, but in his duties for the mesnie, he was often assigned as her protector. It bothered him that she manipulated everyone around her so much, especially her husband.
“The second-place victor, winner of five thousand livres, is Sir Combren of Brugia, third count of Erfrut!”
Another cheer came as a second lady stepped forward to place a crown on Sir Combren’s head. Ransom had beaten the man in the contest of swords. The other knight favored overhanging guard attacks, holding his sword above his head, blade pointed down. It took a lot of arm strength to pull off such a move once, let alone repeatedly, but it gave him a stylistic flair that had won him a lot of praise during the tournament. Until Ransom had disarmed him effortlessly.
When the noblewoman leaned down to kiss Sir Combren, he met her lips with relish, gripping her cheeks as he did so. He held the kiss for too long, earning a boo from the crowd. Sir Combren didn’t seem to care and rocked back on his heels with a gloating smile. The lady flashed Ransom a wicked grin and winked at him. His insides roiled.
He looked at Devon pleadingly. Don’t make me do this, he wanted to say.
Because he knew who would be delivering his crown.
Devon’s grin only broadened, and he gave him a look that said, Enjoy it while you can.
The trumpets rose again and sent out another blast of notes, which calmed the restless crowd.
“And now,” declared the herald when silence reigned once more. “The champion of the tournament of Chessy, blessed by our Lady of the Fountain, winner of ten thousand livres and the castle of Gison!”
A surprised gasp came from the audience. Ransom blinked in wonderment. A castle was part of the prize? He’d never seen that happen before.
“Sir Marshall Barton of the court of Kingfountain, also known as Sir Ransom!”
Cheers exploded in the air, sending waves of feeling through Ransom’s body. He was conflicted, yet he couldn’t deny this was probably the greatest moment in his life. The faces around him looked joyous, not contemptuous.
Then Princess Noemie came forward, holding the silver laurel crown in her hands. She tried to look proud and disinterested, but the noise and exuberance had an undeniable effect. A small smile cracked through. She stood before him, dressed in an expensive Occitanian gown, her hair in braids and coils beneath her silk veil.
She set the crown gently on his head, and its pressure was lighter than a breeze compared to the helmets he was used to wearing.
“Well done, Ransom,” she said, her voice barely heard over the ruckus. She seemed to be enjoying herself, her face relaxed and eager, as if this moment meant something to her. “Thank you for not killing my brother.”