"Can you not hear me?"
Startled, Zared looked down at her brother as he grinned up at her.
"I have called you, but yet you sit there." He turned away to lean against the tree as Zared climbed down. "Did you see her? She is beautiful. She is as beautiful as a rose."
Zared dropped to the ground. "Roses have thorns."
"What does that mean?"
"I was but stating a fact. You said she's like a rose, and I said roses have thorns. Maybe beauty isn't all there is to a woman."
"And you know so much of women and life?" He was smirking at her.
"More about women than you seem to."
He looked as though he would get angry, but then he ruffled her hair and grinned. "I forget how young you are. Come, help us make camp."
"Camp? But tonight we go to the tourney grounds, and tomorrow we ride in the procession."
"We will ride in the procession as planned, but I do not want the Lady Anne to see me before we enter. She will be most surprised when she sees that it is I who saved her."
"Hope she has her reins washed by then," Zared muttered. "Are you sure?" she asked, louder. "Maybe she won't be so glad to see you. Not as glad as you think."
Severn put his hands on her shoulders and wore the expression of an older, much wiser man talking to a simple but well-meaning child. "You could not see her face. The way she looked at me…" He chucked her under the chin. "There are things men and women share—a look, a gesture—things you do not know, but which I as a man of some experience do know. The woman—ah, well, how can I put it? The woman wants me."
"For what? Scrubbing her horse? Look you at yourself. She could not see your face for the mud. She will not recognize you in the procession if you are clean."
Severn dropped his hands and his patronizing expression. "Do not talk to me of things you do not know. I know what I saw in the woman, and I saw lust. Now get to the camp as I said."
Zared obeyed her brother. Maybe he was right. Maybe Lady Anne had looked at Severn with lust, and she only said those things to her people to make them believe she didn't like a man who was covered with mud. She shrugged. She was sure Severn knew much more about ladies and tournaments and lust than she did.
Chapter Four
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Zared sat on her horse with her back utterly rigid. She was sure that if she didn't remain absolutely stiff, she would fall into a heap of tears.
Before her, on his war horse, sat Severn, wearing sixty pounds of armor, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling. Around them, huddled close, were the men who had come with them, but outside their group was a laughing, jeering crowd of peasants.
That morning Zared had ridden proudly behind her brother, proud to carry the eight-foot-long Peregrine banner, but as they neared the Marshall estate and the field for the tournament they had halted.
Before them rode long lines of gorgeously attired knights. Their armor, partially covered with fur-trimmed, richly embroidered garments, was painted with beautiful designs, or else had been dipped in silver and flashed in the sunlight. Plumes or models of beasts and fowl decorated the knights' helmets.
Zared gaped at the men and boys before her, then looked at the Peregrine group. Severn's armor was dented and rusted, and his horse wore only a saddle, no sparkling cloths. The armor his men carried was in even worse condition, and as for Zared, her old tunic was threadbare in places and dirty most everywhere else.
"We cannot enter the procession," she whispered to Severn.
He threw up his face guard and glared at her. "Fine clothes do not make a good fighter. You are a Peregrine—remember that." He slammed down his guard and turned away.
Yes, I am a Peregrine, she thought, and she straightened her spine. Severn would beat them all in battle, so what did clothes matter?
Severn raised his hand, and the Peregrine knights fell in behind him as they started riding toward the tournament grounds. Along the road the peasants, who had come from many miles away to see the spectacle, had stopped to gape in awe at the sumptuously clad men.
When they saw the Peregrine knights they pointed and laughed. Zared kept her eyes straight ahead, not daring to look at them. What did they matter? she thought. Only the coming games mattered.
At the entrance to the grounds all the participants halted, and a Marshall herald called off the name of the first challenger to go before the Marshall family and the king.
Zared had assumed that the procession was just that, a parade of men riding before the Marshalls. But what she saw made her mouth fall open. She was as awed as the peasants.