A great horn sounded, and the horses slowed, halting and turning toward the ends of the arena.

The first round were done.

Nobles stood from their chairs quick, drawing close to the huge braziers as servants hurried to fill wine glasses and offer food, like a moving banquet set in the snow.

Eleanor waved her fingers and her ladies drifted in front of us, blocking out everyone else with carefully turned backs and angled bodies. She handed me a cup of wine and I drank it fast, eager to put off the shivers and pain both.

“Your husband did this, or my son?” she asked.

There were dregs of something in the wine and I spat it out, not caring a whit if I looked like an ill-mannered heathen. “You really thought he’d let me go?” I asked her. I looked to her, to her face like white stone and her eyes of cold water, and I stared down the great Eleanor of Aquitaine. “You left him full of fury and me lashed to a chair. If you didn’t know how that would end, you didn’t want to know.”

She looked away from me, and the white cliff of her throat worked. “This was not what I wanted,” she whispered. “Not for you.”

“You let him do it.”

Her eyes shut and her fist opened, like she were letting a secret out into the air. “No. He must grow; he must be a stronger leader and he cannot do that if I do not give him the trust to make the best decisions for his people. I must not be his puppeteer.”

“He deserves no trust.”

Her eyes opened and looked to the back of his chair, ahead of us on the dais. “He will. He must.”

I were tempted to lift my hand, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t feel much of anything of it now, and I weren’t ready for the pain to start again. “Why bother for me?” I asked her. “Why bother about any of this for me?” Isabel’s words drifted back to me—what interest did Eleanor have in me that I didn’t know?

She looked to me, warm and sad now. “You’ve had a difficult journey, Marian. I feel for you, very keenly. And I don’t like to see any woman harmed.”

My gaze ran back to the empty mock battlefield. She may care for my harm, but few others did. And they cared for Rob’s life even less. How many noble sons had been sent to war? And for each of those, how many tens of common sons? Live or die, their lives were nothing more than this battle: a game.

“Can I see him?” I asked her. My voice bare croaked out; it were a strange thing. For all the times I spoke when I shouldn’t, when it came to speaking words that my whole heart were bound up in, it were a difficult thing.

“Not yet. Perhaps after the second round; there should be a longer break then.”

She clicked her fingers and one of the ladies turned. Eleanor ordered for more snow to fill the cloth on my hand, and I shut my eyes and waited for the tournament to continue.

It weren’t long before the next round; this time all the remaining competitors—roughly ten in all—were on foot, and for the close combat, the weapons had been replaced with blunted versions, scattered around the outside of the arena. They were all clustered in the center, shoulder to shoulder, their backs to one another, shields touching like a chain to keep them in.

The horn sounded, and everyone ran for the weapons—except Rob, who immediately swiped his leg down to take out the competitor on his right. Not near expecting it, the man launched into the air like a hound trying for a scrap and Rob stood straight, the sole person still while all others raced for the weapons.

He retreated back to the center, and my heart beat fast as he watched them all. They chose weapons and turned to him, and the grounds held a breath.

Gisbourne turned and swung his heavy, blunted broadsword at the competitor nearest him, and the man howled as the rest of the fighters leapt into action.

It were a large field, and ten men across it left space by spades. The men started to form clusters of activity, mostly fighting round the edge as they started to challenge each other. Only one man went straight for Rob, and it were Wendeval, the big hulking fighter that trounced Thoresby. As he ran across the open field in full armor, I knew the brilliance of Rob’s plan—Rob were as fresh as he could be and Wendeval were half to exhausted already.

He swung at Rob with his blunted sword, and Rob ducked easily and cut up with the shield so that Wendeval dropped his sword and fell backward. I expected him to go for the sword straight, but Rob waited as Wendeval staggered up, and slammed him again with his shield so Wendeval fell back, out cold and disqualified.

Rob took up the sword and waited.

A cluster of men were to the far left of the field, and Gisbourne finished dispatching two men before turning to Rob with a wicked smile. He stalked out to him slow, and without a helmet on his head, I could see him turn to me, staring at me as he went to fight Rob. Even across the field, his cruel laugh made me shiver.

Rob saw him coming and stood ready. If he were tired, it didn’t show a lick. He were fierce and still and calm, waiting for his opponent. His opponent in the truest sense.

Gisbourne closed the gap and Rob made the first move, a hard strike with his sword that Gisbourne parried, with a smooth follow by Rob’s shield that cuffed Gisbourne hard. Rob snapped back to the ready.

I had never seen him fight with a shield. It had to be something he learned at war; he used the defense as another weapon like he’d been doing it all his life.

Gisbourne charged him with flashing swordplay, their heavy swords clashing and spitting light in the winter sun.

“He’s impressive,” Eleanor murmured to me.