‘Let me past,’ Joanna said, trying to dodge around him.
Hal put his hands on Joanna’s arms. His grip was firm but not painful.
‘Don’t go in there,’ he said gently.
‘I need to speak to Sir Roger,’ Joanna answered. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked furiously.
‘It isn’t a good idea,’ Hal insisted. There was a loud roar from the lists. Joanna turned in the direction of the tilt but could see nothing past Hal’s broad frame.
‘You can’t stop me!’ Joanna struggled against Hal and he loosened his grip. He stood back and raked his fingers through his hair.
‘No, I can’t.’ He sighed, his tone heavy with exasperation. ‘I have an appointment I must keep, but I advise you not to confront Roger today.’
He hitched his burden higher over his shoulder and stepped to one side. Joanna stood motionless, uncertain what to do. She nodded in defeat. Hal smiled in apparent satisfaction and walked away.
Another roar, this time accompanied by cries of astonishment, thundered in Joanna’s ears. In an instant she changed her mind and rushed through the gateway into the field. Sir Roger was on foot and leading his horse away from the tilt. Joanna stared in disbelief. He had been unseated. Her anger forgotten, she rushed towards him.
‘Are you hurt?’ she gasped.
Sir Roger glared at her and she stepped back in alarm.
‘Why are you here?’ he snapped.
He sounded so cold he might have been a stranger in the street. Joanna swallowed nervously, wishing she had followed Hal’s advice and not come. She raised her chin and spoke with as much dignity as she could, but her voice was no more than a whisper.
‘You did not choose my favour.’
Sir Roger’s cheeks turned crimson. He threw his arms out wide. ‘Is that all you can think of at a time like this?’
‘It would have been a sign of our intent to wed...’
Her voice tailed off as Sir Roger’s face reddened further. ‘Marriage? How can you talk of marriage at a time like this?’
A low buzzing filled Joanna’s ears. ‘But what we did last night? The way you touched me!’
Sir Roger gripped her shoulders tightly. Her throat constricted as if he was squeezing it. She tried not to picture him dancing with the dark-haired woman, nor Hal’s observation that she was not the only woman trying to catch a knight.
‘What does last night matter? I lost the bout and the winner’s purse. I have no money to wed! Any money I have must fund my campaigns.’
‘I’m sure you will win future contests,’ Joanna said with a confidence she suddenly did not feel.
Sir Roger’s lip curled and she lapsed into silence. He turned his back on her and took hold of his horse’s reins. ‘The king has planned a tournament for St George’s Day in Windsor. I intend to be there. I shall be leaving York tomorrow.’
‘But you will return to York for the Lammas Day Tournament as always? That’s six months away. Perhaps then...’
‘I have no means to marry now. Nor the intention to do so at this time.’
Sir Roger ran his hands through his hair in a gesture similar to Hal’s.
‘Farewell, Joanna,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. He led his horse out of the courtyard, leaving Joanna standing alone. She covered her face with her hands, her fingers slick with tears. The crowd moved around her and she wiped her hand across her face. She could not stay here at the scene of her humiliation.
She pushed her way out, stumbling towards the city. Her feet led her on a path towards home but she could not go inside. Not yet. Not to admit to her uncle what had happened. She turned and walked through crooked streets of the city until her feet began to ache and her stomach cramped, reminding her she had not eaten all day.
For the first time she took notice of her surroundings. Unconsciously her feet had brought her back to Aldwark, opposite the Smiths’ Guild Hall. She gave a wry smile. She could wait for Simon in the gardens and inform him of her failure when he came out. Better he vent his disappointment there than in front of her aunt and cousins.
A fountain stood in the centre of the gardens. Wearily Joanna trailed her hand in the cool water, scooping up the heavy copper cup and drank. She sat on the step behind the basin and leaned back against the carved stone edge. She drew her knees up and, unwatched by anyone, started to weep in earnest.
* * *
Five guild officials sat at a long, oak table, chains around their necks and well-fed bellies bulging under tunics of fur and velvet, the visible signs of their prosperity. The calluses and scars on hands that now bore ornate gold rings were the only indications that they had once been in Hal’s position: young and untrained, used to the heat of the furnace and the weight of a hammer. Admittance to the guild would set him on the path they had walked.
On the table before them lay Hal’s sword. The Guild Master stood and placed his hands on the table either side of Hal’s work. He affixed Hal with a steely gaze.
‘An interesting choice of subject for your masterwork. You have pretentions to be an armourer? How many knights do you meet in your moorland village?’
A ripple of laughter ran around the room. Hal did his best to smile at the feeble jest. The Guild Master picked the weapon up, scrutinised it, then passed it on. Hal held his breath as each man examined it before it was returned to the centre of the table.
‘Wait outside,’ the Master commanded.
Hal walked to the outer chamber as the men turned to each other, muttering in low voices. He struggled to discern anything from their tone or expressions. Lulled by the heat of the fire on what had developed into another mild day his mind began to wander.
What had the roars from the tiltyard meant? Had Roger won or lost? He hoped Joanna had had the sense to heed his warning and save her confrontation. The shock on her face when Roger had chosen another woman’s favour had caused Hal’s heart to throb unexpectedly. Perhaps now she would understand how fickle Roger’s affection was.
He realised his name was being called and snapped his attention back to the present. He re-entered the chamber and the Guild Master beckoned him forward, gazing down his crooked nose.
‘You are young,’ the Guild Master stated. ‘Eight months out of being a journeyman, you said?’
Hal nodded slowly, locking eyes with the Guild Master.
‘Your work lacks finesse,’ the Guild Master announced stiffly. ‘The blade is good, but the work on the quillon lacks technique.’ There were murmurs of agreement from around the room.
‘No subtlety in the ornamentation,’ another man interjected. There was a familiarity about the man. Hal couldn’t place the resemblance but something in the straw-coloured hair and pale eyes clawed at his memory.
‘Your ambitions outstrip your skill at this time,’ a third added.
A burning ache began to grow in the pit of Hal’s stomach as he took in the meaning of their words. He had failed.
‘Go back to your village, young man,’ the second man said with a stiff smile. Once more the turn of the man’s lips reminded Hal of someone, though now he did not care about remembering who it was.
The Guild Master stood.