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The countess has opened the contest to all gentlemen present, jousting or not. Even the squires and pages, provided they’re noble-born. She wants a merry mêlée, she says, since she must miss the rest of the sport.”
    “But the fee . . .”
    “Only a penny, and that to go to the poor. Our lady has left you no excuses, sir. You may as well have a try.”
    “I don’t know,” muttered Gunnar, but he was sorely tempted. He and Jafri could always use the silver, and a kiss from a noblewoman, even an ugly one, was surely worth a penny on its own. It wasn’t often that a man like him had the chance to kiss a highborn lady.
    And then there was the tower itself, soon to be swarming with men, every one of them vying to knock the others down. He hadn’t fought in years . . .
    “It might be good sport,” he allowed.
    “They’re already up there, you know,” mused the other man. “Likely watching us as we speak.” He waved toward the unseen women in the tower, and a few giggles drifted down.
    Gunnar’s body tightened at the purely female sound. Young. They sounded so young and sweet . He squinted up, imagining he could see shadowed curves moving behind the draperies. “Where do I enter?”
    Moments later, his name recorded by the herald and a penny laid in the priest’s palm, he handed over his sword and knife to the marshal of the tourney and in exchange received a leather truncheon, the only weapon permitted. Gunnar tested it a few times against his palm. It would hurt, for certs, but would do little lasting damage. Sliding the truncheon into his belt, he ambled over to the spot beneath the countess’s window where a knot of men had begun to collect. He hung back a moment, watching the others until he saw one man lean over to whisper to another, then sidled in behind them.
    “The blue sleeve, you say,” one was saying. “How do you know ’tis hers?” asked one.
    “I’ve seen her in them. I think.”
    “Hmm.” The first tapped his cheek with a fingertip as he considered. “Well, the red one belongs to Lady Margaret. And of that, I am certain.”
    “Scrope will be after it, then, just as Tunstall will fight for the silver and black riband.”
    “Is that Lady Celeste’s favor?”
    “I think so. But more to the point, he thinks so. That’s what matters.”
    “Your lord will be trying for it, too, then.”
    “Aye, and so will I. If I can best Tunstall, or help Lord William do so, I’ll be knighted before the month is out.”
    Their talk shifted to boasting about what they’d not yet done, so Gunnar moved on, eavesdropping here and there, assessing his competition, eliminating some favors from consideration and moving others higher on his list.
    By the time the shutter overhead was pushed open, night was fully fallen and torches by the score flickered around the walls and yard—and Gunnar had settled on a plain, dove gray glove that seemed to have escaped the interest of most of his competition. The knot of men was by now a small army, at least ten men for every favor on the wall. A roar rose from the watching crowd as a lady of massive girth appeared at the window.
    “God’s wounds, if she sneezes, the babe will land on our heads,” muttered Gunnar. Around him, men choked back laughter as the lady lifted her hand for silence.
    “Welcome, all, to my Castle of Love.” The countess’s voice, thick with a French accent, pealed over the yard. “My thanks to my dear and dread lord husband for granting me the boon of this most especial entertainment. I have one further boon to ask, this one of you, our warriors: that you be as honorable as you are courageous in vying for both favors and kisses, for I wish to see all of you undamaged at the merry supper that awaits us afterward. To that end, I have a prize withal for the man who shows himself to be the most worthy, le plus preux et gentil of our victors: this golden apple to add to his silver bough.” The little orb she held up, the size of a large