Free The Tournament of Blood by Michael Jecks Page A

age. ‘That’s it. It’s finished for now,’ she sighed.
    Baldwin was relieved to see Petronilla return and watched the maid mix wine with warmed water, holding the cup to Jeanne’s mouth. She sipped and swallowed, then leaned back. For once
Baldwin poured himself a cup of wine and drank it neat. He glanced at the water, but then tipped more wine into his bowl, drinking deeply. Turning, he was in time to see his wife moan and reach for
the bucket at her side. Before he could speak, she was sick, vomiting and spitting. Shivering, she sat back.
    ‘More wine?’ Petronilla asked.
    ‘No.’ Jeanne shook her head, eyes closed. ‘It’ll only make me sick again.’
    Petronilla nodded and wiped her brow.
    ‘It’s very cold in here,’ Jeanne said accusingly. ‘Baldwin, can’t you make the fire hotter?’
    ‘Of course,’ he said enthusiastically, glad to be able to help in even so minor a way. He threw logs onto the hearth and turned to find that Petronilla had left the room to fetch
more rose-water. ‘Are you well?’ he asked with the return of his nervousness.
    ‘It’s . . . coming again.
Come here!
’
    He hurried to her and she grabbed at his arm, her fingers digging in while he stared down at her. It was an appalling sensation this, knowing that there was nothing he could do to ease her
anguish, but he was reassured by her apparent resilience and fortitude.
    ‘It just keeps on, again and again,’ she whispered.
    ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon be over,’ he said heartily.
    Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Don’t you bloody
dare
say that again! And why’s it so fucking hot in here?’
    The next morning, in his castle at Penhallam, Sir Walter Basset slapped his thigh when the message was delivered and read out to him. ‘A tournament? With all Lord de
Courtenay’s knights? Wonderful! I can feel a treasury of money coming my way! Darling? My Lady?’
    His wife Helen left their steward to decide on his own which barrels should be taken up to the castle’s buttery, and walked to her man’s side. ‘What is it?’
    Sir Walter told her of the summons. ‘It’s excellent! Just think of the men who’ll be there – old fools, many of them. There’re bound to be loads of easy targets.
Think of it! Ransoms, horses, armour – and even a handout of cash as a reward for my prowess from Lord Hugh!’
    Helen listened, and in truth she could smile with him. His joy was ever-infectious. He was large, strong, and entirely masculine, his whole body covered with a light curling down of black hair.
His odour was to her the finest perfume; his leathery skin was rough against her own, which she found intensely erotic. His scars were proof of his chivalry; his hands large and powerful. He was
not tall, but huge. Barrel-chested, his frame rested on short but solid legs. His constant practice with sword and lance had given him the massive shoulders of a wrestler, while his neck was almost
non-existent.
    But he wasn’t ugly. He moved heavily, as befitted someone with so substantial a frame, but above it all, he had calm eyes of a deep blue, which were commonly crinkled at the edges with
pleasure. His mouth was a little too wide, above the pointed chin, but his features were regular and pleasing, especially when he smiled. When he grinned, Helen would swear that he could tempt an
angel. Now his sheer delight and conviction meant that the news of the tournament was in every way as pleasing to her.
    ‘So long as you don’t fall and damage your new armour,’ she teased.
    ‘For you I would tilt without armour,’ he said gruffly. ‘For my Lady’s honour, my hide would be enough.’
    ‘I prefer jousting with you when you’re naked,’ she giggled.
    ‘Come to the chamber now. Prove it.’
    ‘I don’t have time,’ she protested.
    ‘I order it,’ he said simply.
    ‘My Lord,’ she said, surrendering happily.
    Their solar was at the other side of the hall, and they walked through it to their private chambers. There a