Free The Champion by Elizabeth Chadwick

of water weed. Alexander dismounted, tethered Samson loosely to a low-growing red hawthorn and leaving him to graze, sat down on the river bank with his lectern.
    He had made it out of a rescued piece of firewood, had patiently carved and polished it into shape at evening camp fires. Now it was a smooth wedge that rested comfortably in his lap, but could as easily be used at a trestle. The vellum was secured in place by two adjustable brass straps at the edges of the lectern. Hervi, so sure of himself on the tourney field, had watched with eyes full of awe as Alexander assembled the lectern, ground up the ingredients to make ink and commenced writing the first of the many letters with which he was to make his contribution to their daily bread.
    The tourney folk quickly learned that Alexander wrote as neat a scribe’s hand as was to be found in any castle or town, and that the finished missives, whether they be to impress a prospective lover or a future patron, were professionally executed. He charged a fair price, was willing to negotiate fees and most important of all, he kept his mouth shut. Not a word of his clients’ business ever passed from his lips to another’s, not even Hervi’s. Alexander’s reputation grew, and with it the amount of his custom.
    Today’s undertaking was a will, requested by a prudent but pessimistic mercenary who wanted to divide his belongings fairly between his offspring and yet leave his widow sufficiently provided for. Alexander selected a quill from the soft pouch at his waist, trimmed it with a small sharp knife and unstoppered his ink horn.
    In the heat of the day, Monday felt as if she was frying. Her head itched to distraction beneath the hated wimple. It was worse than having lice. The tent was stifling, the lack of air filling the enclosed space with a musty, earthy smell that made it difficult to breathe. How she envied the men who could walk around bare-chested in the heat, clad in nought but their braies, or the children who splashed and played in the river shallows, naked as God created them.
    Monday folded the garment that she and her mother had been stitching that morning – a winter cloak of double-lined grey wool for Alexander de Montroi, to replace the threadbare blue one that he still wore about the camp. Strange to think of winter on a day like this. She envisaged the chill in an attempt to cool herself, but although a shiver ran up her spine, the heat remained as relentless as ever.
    Her mother was resting on her pallet, her hands folded protectively over the visible swell of her pregnancy. Monday had still not decided whether to be pleased or resentful about the coming baby. More work and responsibility had devolved upon her shoulders; her childhood had been curtailed, but she was looking forward to helping care for an infant brother or sister. She found herself constantly peering at babies and small infants, a maternal pang stirring in the pit of her belly.
    Clemence had enjoyed good health thus far, her complexion radiant and her hair as lustrous as golden silk. She was in her sixth month now, not yet so large that she was unwieldy, but enough to show the world that she was round with child.
    Monday had sensed her parents’ conflict of embarrassment and pride; and beneath it the worry. The tourney route was a difficult place for a pregnant woman – difficult for any woman come to that, Monday thought with a grimace, and scratched her head through the thick fabric of the wimple.
    Her father stooped into the tent, his brown hair curling in wet tendrils on his brow and neck. There was a gleam in his grey eyes and a smile on his lips
    ‘Is your mother awake, lass?’ he demanded, and not waiting for a reply, pushed past her and drew aside the curtain that screened off the sleeping quarters.
    Clemence sat up on her pallet, her face flushed, her fair hair a tousled thick braid. ‘Arnaud?’ She spoke his name, the muzziness of sleep still in her voice.
    ‘Love,