The Gilded Crown by Catherine A. Wilson Page B

I have my father’s trade to sustain me. I am now a humble illuminator in his goldsmith shop.’
    â€˜An admirable profession, monsieur.’
    They looked to where Armand had been strapped back into his breastplate. He waved to Gillet.
    â€˜You see?’ Cécile’s neighbour nodded in Gillet’s direction. ‘The dispute at the Marshall’s table seems to be miraculously resolved.’
    A trumpet blast called the riders to their markers and the crowd bellowed. With the score one apiece, they were eager to see who would prevail. The flag lowered and both men charged. Hooves kicked up clods of earth as they raced towards the middle, but Armand was struggling. His aim was wide and his lance high and as he brought it down, it fell too low, the pain in his side crippling him. Gillet’s lance was in perfect position and he looked set to unhorse his younger cousin but, realising that Armand was unable to complete the joust, Gillet pointed his lance skyward and passed him by without a strike. This chivalry earned him the crowd’s respect and was greeted just as enthusiastically as an outright win.
    Armand retired from the list and was dispatched to the surgeon’s tent. Gillet advanced to the next round.
    The last two competitors came forward – Armentiéres and Rouen – both mountains clad in shining steel.
    â€˜And which one would you have victorious, hmm?’ The goldsmith tickled Jean Petit’s tummy and the baby cooed with delight. His tiny fist wavered in the air as a bowstring of salvia snapped. ‘Just remember, whomsoever wins will be riding against your papa in the final round.’ Three passes later, they had their answer. ‘Aah, Madame, your husband will face the “Ram de Rouen”.’

    When the heralds called for the final two jousters, Cécile’s stomach rolled. Philippe de l’Aire, her goldsmith neighbour, had spent the last five minutes extolling the prowess of Gillet’s competitor. ‘Bellegarde will not be able to use the same tactics as yesterday,’ he remarked. ‘The Comte de Rouen is no fool. He saw the event and will be watching your husband closely.’
    The mob was rowdy, the sun blazed viciously from a bright blue sky, but Gillet looked calm as Griffith handed up the first lance. At the opposite end, Robiérre d’Arques completed the same task. Rouen’s squire turned to Gillet and his closed fist shot into the air as he thumped his hand down upon his forearm.
    â€˜What a rude, despicable creature!’ exclaimed Cécile.
    â€˜A feeble attempt to put your husband off guard, Madame, nothing more.’
    The first strike saw both men wrenched in their saddles, but they firmly held their seats. The point was awarded to Comte de Rouen. The herald’s arm plummeted and the steeds thundered down for the second pass. Lances were locked into position and the crowd shrieked with glee when the riders rode so close to each other they all but collided. Both knights flung their weapons after passing to avoid losing their seat. A flag was raised to a burly cheer.
    â€˜Victory to Bellegarde!’
    From somewhere behind Cécile someone took up a chant and it spread through the stands faster than a plague.
    â€˜Bellegarde! Bellegarde! Bellegarde! Bellegarde!’
    It was down to the last pass and the crowd was hungry for action. Cécile glanced at Philippe de l’Aire’s leg and her blood turned to ice. She silently beseeched every saint she knew to keep her husband sound. Grievous injury and even death were commonplace at tourneys.
    A murmur grew amongst the crowd and Cécile watched in horror as Gillet threw down his shield. Griffith was scrambling to unbuckle his cuisses. Greaves and poleyns followed.
    â€˜What is he doing?’ yelled a voice from behind Cécile.
    â€˜He’s shedding excess weight but for what reason I do not know.’
    â€˜How can you call a shield and