Wat POV ***

It was Wat who had to deliver the letter to Jocelyn at Makinburg. He had had trouble with the guards at the gate, and it was not until Christiana, returning with a bucket of milk, told the guards he was the lady’s guest that he was let in.

 

He stood at the balcony, and wondered what Jocelyn’s reaction to the note would be. However, he didn’t have to wait for too long to get his answer. Jocelyn appeared a short while later with a frown on her face.

 

“What has he to say?” she said, coldly.

 

Wat gulped. “Nothing. But he has asked me to give you this,” he held out the neatly folded letter.

 

Jocelyn glared hard at Wat till he wished the earth could simply part open and swallow him up. But she did take the letter eventually, and as she began to read it in the dying embers of that fading day, Wat saw that the blanket woven by the stitching of their lives had warmed her cold heart to life.

 

““With all the love that I possess, I remain yours, the knight of your heart,”” she said at last, raising her head from the note. “He writes as though I was dying.”

 

“His heart dies as well for you my lady,” said Wat.

 

Jocelyn put the note to her heart and embraced it like a child.

 

“My master hoped that you'd send something in return,” said Wat, “a token of your forgiveness.”

 

Jocelyn smiled. “A token he shall get.”

 

It was magic that the horse Wat rode did not die on the road. Not one time did he slow down or stop as he made his way back to camp, but despite all his speed, it still took him five days to make it to Noem.

 

It was daytime when he arrived at the city. William and the rest were standing before a wall of shields, shields from the competitors at various tournaments.

 

“No count Adhemar,” he heard William say, “No count Adhemar. If he is not competing in his own country, then he’s quit competing all together.”

 

“I have arrived,” Wat announced.

 

They all spurn around at once. “Wat,” William said, excitedly; wonder and curiosity replaced the frustration count Adhemar’s absence always blessed him with. “Did you see her? Did she read the letter?”

 

Wat jumped off the horse, grinning. “Yes, and yes.”

 

“And?” asked William, impatiently.

 

“She’s coming to Noem,” Wat declared.

 

“Sir Ulrich, please don’t scream,” said Geoffrey, holding William just above the elbow.

 

William did nearly scream, he however managed to reduce the din to a joyous squeal. When the excitement was held in, he returned to Wat. “And did she give you anything in return? A letter? A token?”

 

“Ah, yes,” said Wat, digging his hands into the depths of his pocket. His eyes widened and he pulled out a silver brooch with stones that glittered when turned in the sunlight.

 

William took this and held it to his heart. “She still loves me, Wat, she does.”

 

“Ahem,” Roland cleared his throat. “My lord, would you mind if we return to camp?”

 

“We better do so,” said Geoffrey, scowling. “With the way he keeps jumping, people might be tempted to go through our patents again, see if he is truly nobility or we’ve smuggled in a mad man.”

 

William was in such joyous mood that evening, and his excitement spread to the rest like a virulent infection. Then he would not be disturbed and asked that the rest give him space so his thoughts could dwell on the queen of his heart. Apparently, everyone was happy with the arrangement; turned out they were unequivocally tired of hearing him whine about Jocelyn the whole time.

 

Geoffrey POV ***

 

“We should go to the tavern,” said Geoffrey, leading the way.

 

“I think we’d all agree hearing a drunk squabble about nonsense is far better than hearing William talk,” said Wat.

 

“For the first time ever, I agree with you master Fowlehurst,” said Geoffrey.

 

“Don’t mind him at all, Wat,” said Roland, patting him on the shoulder. “He just wishes he has hair as red as yours.”

 

The tavern at Noem was dimly lit. And though the sun outside was strong enough to blind the blind, it took candles in corners and along the walls to light the place up considerably.

 

There was the smell of meat boiled in spice, beer from barrels, mead and malt. There was the clinking of coins pouring from the hands on buyers to the tavern master, and from losers at the gambling tables to the winners of casted lots.

 

Wat and Roland went over to the counter, while Ralph and Kate got them a table and ensured the chairs were exactly five, with a sixth in sight should William want to drink his obsession away.

 

“Here we go!” Wat declared as he landed a tray with four bowls of steaming chicken boiled in spice. Roland came behind with three mugs of beer in one hand and two in another.

 

Geoffrey gazed around the tavern till his eyes rested on a corner with men huddled together.

 

“I should look around,” he said, casually.

 

“You will be tempted,” Roland began. “And you will fail because it was you who sought out temptation, and William will hear that you have broken your word to him.”

 

Geoffrey scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I’ve lived the life a bit too, Geoffrey,” said Roland, “A tavern with low light is den for gamblers. You promised not to bet again, ever. Did you not?”

 

“Fine,” said Geoffrey, settling back. “Where’s my meat?”

 

Wat cleared his throat. “I left it behind on the countertop, you should hurry before the devil spits in it.”

 

Geoffrey scoffed and went for the meat. He was returning with his bowl when three men in a table nearby burst into laughter, pointing at him.

 

“What is funny,” said Geoffrey. “You’ve never seen a man get his own bowl of meat before?”

 

“Not meat,” said one of them between laughs. “Not meat. You people from Borish waste your time competing in Messers. A Messer will win the Noem tournament.”

 

The angry glint in Geoffrey’s eyes was immediately replaced with a mischievous smile. The men, three of them with long hair done the Messers fashion, exchanged wary stares with each other.

 

“So,” said Geoffrey, approaching them. “You sincerely think a Messer will win the Noem tournament?”

 

“Borish never win on Messers soil,” said One of them, sneering. “That’s the law of nature.”

 

“If you are so sure of what you’re saying, how about you prove it now?” said Geoffrey, taunting.

 

“He he,” said the second man. “You’ll lose for sure.”

 

“Fifty gold seems like a real nice figure,” said Geoffrey.

 

The men stopped laughing a bit. “Deal.”

 

“I’ll be back,” Geoffrey said, leaving with his bowl of meat in hand. “You will not believe what those men just said,” he said hotly, dropping his bowl on the table.

 

Roland was tearing meat from bones when Geoffrey spoke. He looked up, eyes narrowed to keep the spice from making its way into his eyes.

 

“What are they laughing at?” he said to Geoffrey, pointing at the three men with the chicken drumstick he held.

 

“They want to wager that a Messer, and not Sir Ulrich, will win the Noem tournament,” said Geoffrey, leaning forward. “I told them we do not gamble, but they called it withdrawal. They also said, and I quote “men of Borish are cowards through and through.”

 

Roland scoffed and glanced the men’s way. The trio raised a glass to him and burst into another fit of laughter.

 

Seeing that Roland might be interested, Geoffrey continued. “But the wager is fifty gold florins.”

 

Wat choked on his meat at this.

 

“Fifty gold florins?” said Ralph, shaking his head. “That’s all we’ve got!”

 

“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “and if we had sixty then that's what it would be.”

 

“Sir Ulrich against every Messers knight here?” said Roland.

 

“He’s won four tournaments in a row, and Count Adhemar is not even here,” said Geoffrey, with the calm of a lawyer trying to win the favor of a panel.

 

“I checked the shields too,” said Roland, “Count Melamy of Meribad, Sir Thomas of Stonekill, Sir John Beaumont, all the Messers champions are present.”

 

“Borish men will not win this Messers tournament,” said a voice from across the room.

 

Roland and those at his table looked in direction of the three men.

 

“Borish legs are unsteady on Messers soil!” one with wavy, long, blond hair said. And at this, his companions burst into a raucous fit of laughter. One of them stood from his seat, clasped his arms to his side and made the same restless cluck of a hen looking for where to lay her eggs.

 

“Shut up all of you!” Wat yelled at them.

 

“Borish knights are no good on Messers land,” they yelled again. “They have never come second place in the tournament or third for that matter.”

 

“What does it matter?” said Roland, drinking from his mug. “We’re not Borish anyways, we’re from Gelderland.”

 

“But we’re Borish at heart. Roland, I say it is a good bet,” said Wat, breathlessly. “Win and I could buy my own tavern.”

 

“I could afford to write full time,” said Geoffrey.

 

“And a forge for me and my wife,” said Ralph, putting his hands on the small of Kate’s back.

 

“Life will be as hot as the forge for us if we lose that money,” said Roland, “well, I only wish to go home and I already have enough to make the trip a hundred times!”

 

“Even the Borish squires don’t trust their masters to win on Messers soil,” said another of the squires. “Borish knights are no good.”

 

“Yes,” squealed another, holding a bottle of wine by the neck. “And because Messers wine is too much for Borish stomach.” He took a swig of the wine and burst into a drunken cackle with the rest of his mates.

 

Roland gritted teeth together. “Fine,” he said to Geoffrey. “Tell them we accept their wager.”

 

“What if he loses?” Wat asked in a low voice.

 

“He won’t lose,” said Roland, shaking his head. “Not with his princess here watching him.”