Chapter 6

                                    

                                          
Elena
This morning I've taken my stitching to the solar window, where the spring sunshine on my face cheers me. The ladies are much distracted by the activities of our noble visitors, buzzing like bees in a thunderstorm. Isabella de Tybenham, the baron's heavily pregnant daughter, has taken command of another window and shares everything she sees. 
"The butts are being set up below the South tower. They'll be shooting from just beneath us." 
I adore a good archery contest. I wonder if I'll be permitted to watch?
"I like it so much better when the men aren't hidden away inside their armour. You can't admire men's figures when they're clanking about in steel."
I chuckle at Adela's remark. The other ladies gasp.
"The fact that I'm an old widow woman doesn't mean I'm ready to step into my grave." There's a defensive look on her face. "While there is life left in me, I still intend to admire a well-muscled calf, a broad chest, or a pair of powerful shoulders." She draws her head back a little to look at me. "What's this I see? A smile upon Lady Elena's face? Remove it at once, lady—you are setting a bad example to Isabella and the younger women here!'
I hunt about for a witty rebuke, but am distracted by a loud whistling noise, followed by the sound of an arrow whacking into straw. I leap up to look out the window.
'What's happening now? My old eyes fail me.' Adela is mocking herself. She truly does amuse me. Thank heaven I have some friends here in the castle—life would be hard to bear otherwise. 
"Still young enough to enjoy the charms of a man, but too old to see him properly. I pray that when I reach thirty summers, I shall still be able to do both." I hope she knows I'm teasing her back.
Isabella takes Adela at her word and starts describing the scene below.
"There are three butts set up and three knights practising at each. Their squires are up by the targets to see where the arrows fall. My father's fosterlings are keeping the men supplied with shafts, and fetching them out when all have been shot."
Adela peers down, narrowing her eyes against the brightness. "The knight with the head of thick black hair—is that the so-called unlucky fellow?"
"Yes." I answer too readily, as if I've been watching Richard of St Aubyn all this time. Which I have, but I don't want anyone to know it. "I mean, I think that is he."
"He doesn't seem to be faring so badly at the moment,' Dorigen says. "Why, he has two golds to Gilbert's one!"
We give up on our sewing and compete to peer out the narrow windows. 
"Gilbert will soon have a second gold," Adela predicts. 'There's none can beat him in a test of skill.'
"There's his gold now. How may St Aubyn beat that?" I hold my breath as Richard flexes his broad shoulders and pulls back the string for his final shot. The arrow hisses through the air, but there's a sharp report as it hits the braided straw of the butts.
"What's happened?" Adela asks, in response to my gasp.
 "I think his arrow must have hit an old broken point in the target, for it has bounced out again, splintered. Had it stayed in, it would have been a third gold for Sir Richard."
There's another hiss as Gilbert's bow spits out his final arrow. It shaves through the air to land squarely in the middle of the yellow circle on the cloth. The other ladies let out a collective sigh.
My chin goes up. "St Aubyn could have done it—he's clearly just as skilled as Gilbert. 'Twas only through misfortune that he failed."  
Dorigen rests a hand on my arm. "They'll be at the quintain later. Perhaps St Aubyn will have better fortune with that."