Free For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale

emblazoned by
    the lions of England quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France. At his side
    a Moorish soldier with a white turban wrapped about his head walked a real
    lion on a leash of silk. “The day promises fine for our entertainments. A
    place of comfort is prepared for you upon the
escafaut,
if you will
    honor us.”
    “God grant you mercy for your kindness,” she said. “I shall come there
    when I will.”
    “I pray it be soon, for my pleasure in your company.”
    “When I will,” she repeated mildly.
    He bared his teeth in a grin. “I look forward with delight to that
    moment, madam. And to these contests.”
    Melanthe contained her palfrey’s restless attempt to touch noses to his
    bay war-horse. “You’re armed to take a part in the combat, my lord.” She
    nodded in approval. “Never yet have I seen a prince of the blood enter the
    lists. I commend your valor.”
    “I shall break a lance or two, God willing. My lady’s grace will recall
    that there is a challenge in her honor.”
    Melanthe smiled serenely. “I recall it.”
    “Your champion is well-renowned for his skill.” He shook his head,
    careless. “I shall attempt him, but I hold small hope of winning any prize
    in a joust with the celebrated Green Sire.”
    His casual tone was meant to give her surprise, she saw, for he looked at
    her with a glance that did not quite match his jocular indifference.
    “But my lord is his liege, are you not?” she said. “I am amazed that you
    undertake to meet him at all.”
    “A short match only.
A plaisance,
for your amusement. With
    blunted weapons, he need not fear to fight his master.” He turned his horse,
    saluting her. “I shall open the jousts and return to your side as soon as I
    may, my dear Princess!” With a swirl of bright color, he circled and rode
    rapidly forward, his men and squires and even the lion running behind him to
    keep up.
    At the proper sedate pace, led by a young page, Melanthe’s horse moved
    out at the head of the ladies, passing through the shadow of the gatehouse
    and the city streets. Townsfolk and spectators lined all the distance,
    shouting and running along beside the procession. Melanthe eyed them, wary
    of the high windows with their waving banners, the milling crowds— wary most
    of all of Cara and her other gentlewomen just behind her.
    She could not trust Allegreto’s malicious counsel, but neither could she
    wholly trust Cara, as comely and credulous as her gentlewoman’s dark eyes
    and soft, simple features might be. Any member of her retinue could succumb
    at any time to treachery or cajolery—the Riata were masters of both.
    The assassin’s body had been pulled from the river this morning and
    hauled away to be buried nameless in a paupers’ graveyard. Allegreto spent
    the day in the public stocks for his trouble, dragged bodily out of her
    bedchamber by Lancaster’s men, a small instructive exercise that Melanthe
    had arranged for him.
    The murder had brought no more than a brief respite anyway—a moment’s
    reprieve and then the poisoned wine, to remind her. She was still watched by
    some creature of the Riata, and with a sharper threat, for now she did not
    know who it was.
    All she knew certainly was that they would see her dead before they saw
    her married again, carrying her rights with her to a man who would assert
    her claim to Monteverde. Such a one as Lancaster, ambitious and powerful—or,
    worse for the Riata by a thousand times—Gian Navona.
    It was the imminent threat of Gian that Melanthe had used to bargain with
    them. She would not marry him, she swore; she would go home to England and
    enter a nunnery if they would allow her to leave unmolested. Once there, she
    would resign all right in Monteverde to the Riata—giving over her widow’s
    perilous claim and a further birthright descended four generations through
    her Monteverde mother—too strong to defeat in a man’s hand, too weak to
    prevail in a woman’s.
    Beyond Allegreto’s