Marco: The Joust

Title: Marco V: The Joust
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Sequel to Marco, Mentally Challenged, Contessa, Interlude and Australian Twist
Written: April 2019
Fandom: A Knight’s Tale (with references to Pride&Prejudice and A Place to Call Home)
Pairings: Marco/Count Adhemar, William(Ulrich)/Jocelyn, (past) Marco/Darcy, (past) Marco/George Blight, (references to past) Marco/James Bligh
Warnings: time travel, jousting, infant death

The Joust

The air smelled distinctly of manure.  Marco let her dark Italian eyes scan the wooden structure before her and realized that—wherever she was—she didn’t think it was Australia.  It took everything within her not to sag in relief, but it had been difficult caught between two husbands, father and son, her name and title shifting depending on her reality. 

Her child, though, it seemed was lost.

She placed her hand over her stomach, feeling the brocade that kept her warm in the cool summer air, and felt the loss of it.  A small portion wondered if she would ever be a mother, if she would ever truly be loved—or, rather, if it would last.

Shouting and people calling out filled the air along with the sounds of horses and she glanced around one more time, wishing for a mirror so she could see how she was dressed, how she looked.  Was she a young girl of nineteen, a woman of thirty, some other age entirely?

The wooden structure in front of her seemed to be some form of stands with a dais at the top.  Perhaps she was at some sort of sporting event … some sort of historical sporting event given the smells.

Marco was so lost in thought that she almost startled when a thin man wearing what seemed to be a tunic of gold and red, his hair lank and cut to just above his shoulders, appeared in the corner of her eye.  “My Lord Adhemar, Count of Le Puy, Champion of the Joust at—”  Her mind wandered.  Joust.  These men were jousting.  She must have gone back even further than the 1800s when she had first met Darcy. 

Noticing that the man was waiting, she opened her lips, closed them, and then admitted: “Forgive me.  I was quite taken aback by your master’s feats of bravery.  Could you repeat the question?”  She waited for him patiently.

The thin man preened and bowed, one hand on his chest, the other lifted out to the side.  “Count Adhemar asks the honor of seeing you to your seat before the joust and, if you are unfamiliar with the sport, of explaining the finer points.”

She took in the man and then the stands and realized that the spectators whose feet she could see below the benches must be watching the joust—and she did, in fact, know nothing about the game.  Smiling graciously, she nodded her head.  In an attempt to sound as if she should be the object of interest of a Count, she told him, “Thank you.  I find I would like that very much.”

The man bowed again before turning his head and nodding.  A moment later, a handsome man with curling black hair and blue eyes appeared.  He was wearing black leather, weatherworn but well cut, and boots on his feet.

For a moment Marco was completely arrested when their eyes met.  This man was simply breathtaking in his power and his sheer magnetism, and she felt immediately drawn to him in a way that was foreign to her.  All of a sudden she didn’t know what to do with her hands, Marco wanted to fidget, and she whispered so that not even she could hear, “You can’t do this again.”

“My lady,” the thin man began, not noticing her agitation, “may I present Count Adhemar of Le Puy?”

Remembering her years spent in Regency England, she picked up her skirt and offered Count Adhemar a low courtesy, hoping she hadn’t overdone it.  When she lifted up her eyes to meet his, he took her hand and kissed it.  “Such a beautiful lady should not be unattended.”

Unable to help herself, Marco laughed and felt strangely emboldened.  She wanted this man to like her, to desire her, even though part of her hated herself for it.  “I’m afraid there are many beautiful ladies in this world who are unattended.  It seems all of our men ares jousting and neglecting us.”

Smirking, her hand held high in his, he led her to the stands.  “And you are so neglected.”

Feeling a little playful in the headiness of her attraction, Marco suggested, “I would never presume to comment on myself, Count Adhemar.  I understand that you joust in this tournament.”

“Later this afternoon,” Adhemar told her as he looked at her quite openly, all the while guiding her up further into the stands until she was near the dais where there were somehow two free seats in the packed benches right at the front.  “Is this your first event, my lady?”  He set her down, but their hands were still connected.  Adhemar’s blue eyes looked into hers and she realized that none of her husbands had eyes as blue as his.

After taking stock of herself and reclaiming her hand, she admitted, “It is.  I have never seen the joust before.”  Her eyes scanned the lines that were two lengths separated by a primitive fence of a kind.  It seemed that people of a poorer distinction than the ones she was sitting with were on the other side.  “It must be terribly dangerous.”

“There are precautions,” he assured her kindly, his eyes clearly taking her in.  “All of our lances’ tips are blunted.  Of course, accidents do happen.”

“Then why compete?” she asked with a small smile, thinking of the sedative life of George Bligh on his station in Australia.  “Or is it for glory and honor, Count Adhemar?”

“Glory and honor, of course, play a part,” he admitted.  “However, I find that you only know truth when you look at a man across a lance while charging toward him.”

Wondering at this truth, she glanced down at her skirt which was a dark blue brocade embroidered with flowers in a dull gold thread.  From what she could tell from the women around her, given the fact that her gown was slightly off her shoulders and she had long sleeves for the weather, Marco was extremely well dressed.  She could feel her long hair was constrained in some way, a partial braid perhaps, before falling down to the small of her back. 

Marco took a breath and looked at Count Adhemar again, her dark eyes telling him what her lips would not, wondering if fate had presented the man who was meant to protect her in this new life.  The self-sufficient woman on the twenty-first century balked at the idea, but such had been the way since she had first walked through a door.  “You can’t see truth when you look in my eyes, Count Adhemar?” she asked seriously.  “I wasn’t particularly aware that I was hiding,” and how untrue that was.

“If you forgive me, my lady,” he answered, picking up her hand that showed several rings, “I find a woman who might have a husband but does not… often has hidden truths.”

Hesitating a moment, she told him, “I’m a widow, Count Adhemar.  I’m afraid I outlived my husband.”

“The war,” he stated carefully and she just inclined her head so she wouldn’t have to answer.  Then, he realized, “your late husband never jousted.”

“He preferred to farm his land,” she told him, “and stay at home.”

“Well,” Count Adhemar agreed, “I can understand if I had such an inducement as a lovely lady for my wife.”  His eyes swept over her face, landing at her Italian eyes, and she knew from experience that men often found them mesmerizing.

A rider nearly lost control of his horse at the end of the list and Adhemar pointed him out.  “Jousting, my lady, is a series of points.  One point if you break your lance against the breast plate,” (she winced and looked at him but he gave her a kind smile.)  “We wear armor not only to look gallant to you ladies.”

“I would never presume to think you men do anything just to look gallant to us ladies,” she quipped with a laugh, remembering the dandies of the eighteen hundreds.  “Sometimes I think you don’t quite think of us at all.”

He smiled at her slyly and redirected her attention to the horse.  “Two to the helmet.  Three points if you unhorse your opponent.—Three points win the round.”

“Then it is as I thought,” she told him as the criers came up to introduce their knight.  “Don’t get hit and don’t fall off your horse.”

Adhemar cast his attention to the man in the red and gold tunic for only a moment before he looked at her again, his eyes searching hers for the briefest of moments.  “I would bet my armor, my lady, that you are an accomplished horsewoman.”

Laughing happily, and wondering again at the fact that she was not only betraying Darcy but George Bligh, Marco agreed.  “I do love to ride.  I like to hunt, though perhaps, Count Adhemar, you wouldn’t approve.”

His eyes flicked over at her, obvious interest held in them, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her even though they were sitting in public.  Adhemar seemed to recollect himself after the briefest of moments and admitted: “No, my lady, I find a lady on the hunt to be quite magnificent.”

“I suppose, then, we must both regret that there will not be a hunt here at the jousts and just men trying to unhorse each other.”

Adhemar gave her a small smile, which grew the longer they took each other in.  His bright blue eyes shone in the sunlight, a contrast to his dark curling hair.  “I must beg from you a name, fair lady.”

She let her eyes take him in, his young face, younger than George, much older than James.  Darcy had been about the age, she thought briefly to herself.  Her first husband had not seen as much of the world as Count Adhemar perhaps.  Hearing people clap around her, she put her hands together, but her eyes never left the Count.  “Marco,” she murmured.  Closing her eyes for a moment, she then took a gambit from her second life.  “Contessa Marco.”

He picked up her hand which stilled and he kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers.  “I see you have traveled far to attend our joust.”

Shaking her head with a smile, Marco admitted.  “Hardly.”  However, then she realized she had absolutely no idea where she was, which was a bit problematic.  Everyone seemed to speak English, but weren’t parts of France controlled by England at some points?

Before Adhemar could question her, however, there was the sound of a knight riding up and she looked out to see a young knight in armor that had seen better days, who opened his visor.  “My lady!” he begged, and Marco wondered if he were talking to her.

However, someone moved from behind her and came up wearing a strange hat, a smile on her dark face.  Strangely, she looked more Italian than Marco.  “Sir Hawk,” the lady greeted, and then proceeded to not give her name.

“Sir Hawk,” Marco murmured, looking at Adhemar.  “Whatever did the poor knight do to deserve such a name?”

“You have never had a moniker?” Adhemar asked, turning more fully toward her, a smile on his face.

She nodded.  “I have, Count Adhemar.  That was another lifetime ago, however, and I would not give away the name of my favorite flower as it’s so uninteresting when one only gets the same bloom again and again.”

“Your husband was uninventive,” Adhemar teased, a slight taint to his voice.

Smiling sadly to herself, Marco admitted, “He gave me poetry—or, rather, he tried to keep it away from me and I managed to find it for myself.”

“Poetry is a woman’s delicacy,” Adhemar countered. 

“You may hold such an opinion, Count, but my husband did not.”  She paused and looked at the two lovers.  “Who are they?”  Not that she would know.  Their names would mean nothing to her.

“Enamored,” Adhemar responded casually.  “He shouldn’t be in the lists.  He’s a knight from nowhere.  They’ll let any country knight in if he can prove his lineage to other country knights.”  There was a cruel but careless twist to his words.  Adhemar was clearly a man who knew who he was and knew his worth.  And he believed that Marco was of worth given his attention to her, unless he found a new pretty face every joust.

“Where you’re a man of distinction,” she guessed, willing to puff him up a bit if it meant he would give her more information.  And those eyes, those eyes.  If only they would never stop looking at her as if he wanted nothing more than for her to look back at him…

His eyes brightened.  “I would hope I am fit company for any Countess,” he told her with false humility, which she nonetheless appreciated.

“Most people want to use my title for their own end,” she admitted, thinking how George wanted to use it for his political aspirations.  “My uncle, Amerigo Napolitani, is the ruler of our corner of Italy.  I only hold the title at his pleasure.”

“He has no children of his own.”  Well, the real count had been her grandfather and his title had become defunct in the Second World War, but she was so used to saying it was her uncle, that she found herself slipping into the familiar lie.

“No,” she agreed.  “I doubt he thinks on me.  I’ve never been to Italy.”  Giving Adhemar a small smile, she then turned to the lists, where “Sir Hawk” was begging for a favor.

Huh.  They actually did that.  Marco guessed she shouldn’t necessarily discount everything she saw in Heath Ledger movies.

Deciding to use the age old test and wondering if fate had given Adhemar to her, Marco asked, “And the Countess?  Is she here today, Count Adhemar?”

“My mother remains on our lands in Kent.”  He looked at her slyly as if he knew exactly what she was asking and perhaps why she was asking it.

Nodding to herself and trying not to smile, Marco wondered at herself.  “Kent is a beautiful country.  I spent some time there several years ago for Eastertide.  I remember all the trees were in bloom.”  They were one of the few things she could see from her window at Rosings Park, round with child.

“I sense you love the country,” he suggested as they continued to watch the lovers.  “You read poetry, you enjoy the hunt, what you remember of Kent is our flowering trees.  You, Countess, are a creature of the forest perhaps.”

“While you are a man of war,” she countered.  “You make war and when you do not, you joust.  Tell me, Count, are you ever at home in Kent?”

He looked at her with purpose shining out of his blue eyes.  “I haven’t found a reason to stay.”  That was a clear invitation if she had ever heard one.  Adhemar’s eyes were turned to her, brilliantly blue, and it was then that they both resolutely heard the young maiden declare: “Lady Jocelyn.”

Leaning in, Marco remarked to Adhemar, “The lady has been conquered.”

“She was conquered,” he told her, likewise leaning in, “as soon as she stood to speak to our knight from the country.”

Her lip quirked up and she leaned back, turning back to the lady who was holding out a sash of some kind.  When she turned, she took in Marco for a moment, studied her, and then smiled.  “Princess Marco Napolitani, I presume,” she greeted.  “I am to lodge with you.”

“Oh, no,” she demurred as she noticed that Adhemar was regarding her.  “I don’t use that particular title.  It causes far too many complications, Lady Jocelyn,” she greeted with a false smile.  “It is wonderful to put a name to the face.  I see you have your champion.  Tell me,” (she leaned forward) “We are all quite curious as to the identity of ‘Sir Hawk.’”

Jocelyn made to open her lips and then blinked.  “I know not, Princess.”

“I suppose he will be announced momentarily,” she murmured, looking at Adhemar.  “Count?”

“His man is coming up now,” he told them as a man in a ragged coat that fell to his ankles took to the addressing the lord and lady of the tournament before turning his back on the nobility and shouting his greetings to the peasants.  As everyone shifted beside her, Marco realized that this was not the custom. 

Count Adhemar leaned forward and pointed the far knight, Sir Thomas Coleville.  “He’s injured and trying to hide it.  You can see the indent on his left breast and he’s holding himself too rigidly, Princess.”

She turned to him and whispered, “Please don’t call me that.  An Italian Princepessa is quite different from the children of your English King.”  She thought of the prince regent in the time of her life with Darcy, of Queen Elizabeth when she was thought to be a mental patient.  How different it had been then.  Who was king now?  Were there princes?  Princesses?  Marco was too confused, but she just looked into Count Adhemar’s eyes and saw that she was wanted here even if she didn’t know where here was.

“Nonetheless,” Adhemar disagreed, looking at her intensely.  “It is your title.”

“An empty title,” she told him quite plainly, “with no castle and no lands and nowhere to lay my head once this tournament is done.”  She pierced him with her dark gaze.  Then something caught her attention.

Turning to the crier, she realized he was declaring that his liege was the protector of Italian virginity.  For some reason, the idea of her mother, an Italian nun, came to mind, and she began giggling behind her hand.  She turned to Adhemar who was smiling at her.  “I take it you don’t have a Turkish uncle.”

“No,” she agreed with a gasp.  “I’ve never heard anything quite so—farfetched.”

“Well,” Adhemar agreed carefully.  “Perhaps the man needs to be taught a lesson—or Sir Hawk should be told to respect the royal personages attending the joust.”

Frankly, Marco imagined that Adhemar would have something done about it by the end of the joust—either by his own hand, words, or the hands or words of one of his men.—for surely he had men other than the steward who was attending him.

Turning her attention back to the lists, Marco watched as Sir Hawk hit Sir Thomas Coleville and he almost fell off his horse.  Something twinged within her breast and without even thinking about it, her hand wrapped around Adhemar’s wrist and squeezed in her anxiety.  He looked down and then nodded to his herald who had been waiting.

By the time the two knights were facing off again, he murmured, “Princess.”

At first she didn’t respond, but at the second calling of the word ‘princess’, her eyes caught the steward who was holding out a goblet of wine to her.

“Oh,” she murmured, releasing Adhemar self-consciously.  “Thank you.”

Adhemar took the goblet and offered it to her and she wrapped her fingers around it gratefully.  Taking a sip, she noticed that it was bitter and unlike anything she had ever tasted, but she smiled at him gratefully.  Looking for something to say, she looked out at the two knights.  “Do you think Sir Hawk will unhorse him?”

“If he hits him correctly,” Adhemar agreed.  “It seems you might have an eye for jousting, Princess.”

She shot him a look at the title, but ignored it.  “Perhaps I’ve merely seen people fall off their horse during the hunt.  I know the signs.”  Marco took another sip of her wine and did everything not to grimace. 

The knights lined up and saluted each other and then they were charging.  She watched in anticipation and closed her eyes only to hear Adhemar whisper in her ear, “Watch, Princess.  See if your prediction comes true.”

Opening up her eye slightly, she saw them each hit each other on the breast plate and Sir Thomas nearly lose his seating.  He did, however, regain it in the last moment.

She breathed out a sigh of relief and looked at Count Adhemar who was regarding her carefully with a pleased expression.  “One more,” she checked.

“One more,” he agreed—“and then I ride out in the lists.”

Marco must have paled because he placed a hand discreetly on her arm.

“I am a champion of the last two tourneys, Princess.”

“Countess,” she corrected, but he merely smiled to himself and continued:

“No harm will come to me.”

“And your horse,” she checked.  “And the other horse.  We must not forget our horses, Count Adhemar.”  She remembered the one she had at Pemberley quite fondly. 

“A knight is only as good as his steed,” he responded as they waited for the third run between the two knights—which turned out surprisingly.  They passed each other by, saluted each other, and both Marco and Adhemar stared in shock.

“Does that often happen?”

“No,” he replied, completely bewildered.  “Sir Ulrich’s a fool.”

Somehow, though, Marco couldn’t see it.  The knight was young and impetuous, but he was not a fool from what she could tell. 

At that, Adhemar stood and took her hand and kissed it.  “A favor, Princess,” he asked formally.

“The Countess won’t mind?” she laughed.  “I would hate to displease any mother.”  Her mind turned to Elizabeth Bligh and their easy friendship. 

“I assure you,” Count Adhemar stated, “that my mother would be more than pleased that I bear the royal standard of one of the kingdoms of Italy.”

Looking at him for a moment and finding that this was all like one strange dream, Marco then turned to herself and saw the ends of a pale blue ribbon coming out of her hair.  It seemed she had her favor.  Handing him the wine, she let her fingers trace over an elaborate braid in her hair and she made quick work of it with the practice of a woman who preferred to undress herself instead of a ladies’ maid, she extracted several long swaths of black curling hair and three ribbons which must have been entwined in them.

“I offer you your choice of colors,” she told him as she held out the ribbons.  “I will reclaim the other two.”

He smiled at her indulgently and stated, “My lady must choose as it is her favor I seek.”

Quickly deciding on the palest blue, she separated it out and handed it to him.  “I wish you the best of luck in the lists—though I suppose a knight as renowned as you does not need a lady’s luck.”

Kissing the ribbon, he gave her back the wine.  “You forget, Princess.  A knight might not need it, but it is desirable.”

A moment later, a look over his shoulder, and he was gone.  Not two seconds later, his vacated seat was claimed by Lady Jocelyn.  “Let me do your hair,” she suggested.  “It was so lovely before.”

Marco turned away and surrendered the ribbons, feeling Lady Jocelyn’s fingers in her hair as she braided it.  Her hands were nimble and it was the work of but a minute and then they were turning to watch the joust.  It was an easy match with Adhemar unhorsing his opponent in the first pass.  Biting her lip, she nonetheless watched and smiled to herself when Adhemar won the day and the stands broke up for everyone to go their own way.

Jocelyn threaded her arm in Marco’s and asked, “What do you have planned, Princess?”

“I thought,” she began carefully, “that I would pray for my husband’s soul.”  Certainly there must be a church here in the town.

“Rouen has a fine cathedral,” Jocelyn agreed as she began leading her in one direction.  “Sir Ulrich,” she confessed, “followed me into a church earlier today—while riding his horse.”

“Hence his name of ‘Sir Hawk’,” Marco gathered.  “Do you favor him, Lady Jocelyn?”

Thinking, Jocelyn turned to her even though they were walking.  Her eyes caught the goblet and she took it in her hand and held it out.  A moment later a girl took it.  It appeared she had a lady-in-waiting. 

“Don’t look now,” Jocelyn whispered as the church became evident.  “Sir Ulrich is following us.”

“Is it usual for knights to follow ladies at jousts?” she asked with a laugh.  “I was here but five minutes when Count Adhemar asked to introduce himself to me.”

Jocelyn laughed and shook her head.  “I was sitting behind you.  I would say that Count Adhemar is very much enamored of this one particular princess.  Indeed, I would say it would be the work of a moment” (she snapped her fingers) “for the princess to win his heart.”

“I am not accustomed to winning men’s hearts,” Marco confessed as she approached the church doors.  “Usually the—lord—” (that was close) “—in question feels a desire to protect me and offers me his hand in marriage.  I would not, however, recommend that as a tried and true form of romance as I’m certain it can go wrong.”

Jocelyn paused.  “You are married.”

“I am a widow,” she corrected, stepping ahead into the church and crossing herself with Holy Water.  She stepped into the large church, the sun filtering through the shards of colored glass.  Soon Marco had outstripped Jocelyn and found herself at a Mother’s Chapel, where a knight she only marginally recognized was kneeling and praying.  Kneeling at the entrance, Marco once again crossed herself and was thankful that—at least here—she could practice her religion.  Everyone was Catholic after all in the Middle Ages.  The Protestant Churches didn’t exist.

She stepped into the chapel and lit a candle, one for Darcy and one for George Bligh as she was still uncertain if the idea of being married to James had been one bizarre hallucination, and then knelt down on her knees.  There was a knight a few rows forward, off the left, but Marco paid him no mind.

Losing herself in prayer, her memory took her to how Darcy passionately made love to her and yet George Bligh had been so careful and tender in his devotion.  They had both given her children—and they were each lost to her now. 

Seeking control of herself, she looked up at the statue of the Madonna and wondered if she would ever have that.  If she would ever be a mother for more than a moment. 

At first she didn’t even hear the footsteps until someone came up behind her and knelt down at her side.  Glancing to the left, she saw that it was Jocelyn and that she was attempting to look—and utterly failing to look—pious.

After a few moments, Jocelyn leaned over and whispered, “He’s here.”

Marco paused and then decided, “Sir Ulrich’s devotion to you is unparalleled, Lady Jocelyn.  I suggest you leave the chapel and go and speak to him, unless you wish for him to admire your bent head.”

Jocelyn bit her lower lip and gave a short laugh that was barely contained.  “Princess, you’re horrible.”

At her words, the knight to the side turned his head slightly to look at them but Marco specifically did not pay attention.  “I’m praying for the soul of—Sir Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she stated firmly.  Then, as she didn’t like to lie or even omit the truth in the House of God, she admitted, “and Lord George Bligh.”  She had no idea if she had figured out their correct importance, but George had been a close associate of Sir Henry Swanson and running for office—then again, Darcy was the nephew of an Earl. 

For several long moments Jocelyn was silent.  Then she leaned forward and thought, “I thought you were only widowed once.”

Furrowing her brow, she scrunched her eyes for a long moment.  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” she quoted, not knowing what else to say. 

Jocelyn nodded her head and then seemed to realize: “Neither of your husbands were Italian.”

“Neither was my father,” she admitted, thinking of his American roots.  Then she laughed a little to herself, and Jocelyn touched her arm and looked at her with wide eyes.  “Darcy,” she confessed, “wanted me to hide the fact that I was Italian.  George—well—he enjoyed being married into a royal house, which really was his only fault.  I could say nothing else against him, nor would I.”  She licked her lips and attempted to return to prayer. 

“All men want to marry into a royal household,” Jocelyn noted, her voice wry.  “I’m sure Count Adhemar is among them.”

“I have some very happy memories of Kent—some unhappy ones.”  She shrugged.  The memories of almost losing Aurelia, of all the blood, of being placed in a carriage, half-delusion, half-delirious.  It seemed like Jocelyn was about to ask something, but Marco interrupted.  “Is Sir Ulrich still there?  I can prostrate myself in prayer at the memory of my two lost children.  I was going to anyway.”

“Oh my poor dear,” Jocelyn sighed, reaching up and tucking her hair behind her ear.  “To lose two children.  I cannot imagine.  Was it the plague?”

Searching her mind quickly, Marco lied.  “Yes.  First Aurelia and then one so small I had yet to choose a name.”

Jocelyn was silent so Marco took that as permission to proceed.  She stood, crossed herself and then lay down on her stomach, reaching her hands out perpendicular to her body.  A strange hush came over them and Marco wandered in and out of her mind, in and out of time.  Only the sound of shuffling feet caught her attention and then it was only when she felt others move around her that she propped herself up.  The knight who had been praying on the other end of the aisle was standing near her and offered his hand, which she gladly accepted.

“Your friend has left,” he informed her carefully.

Marco looked around and saw that Jocelyn was indeed gone but Count Adhemar’s steward was waiting at the entrance to a chapel.  “A shame,” she responded.  “We are sharing lodgings and I’m not certain where they are.  I suppose I shall have to rely on one’s own ingenuity to find them.”

“I understand the ladies,” Sir Thomas Coleville responded, “are on the other side of Rouen, in the castle main.”

“Indeed,” she responded with a small curtsey.  “You rode well today, sir knight.”

“I do not believe my wife would agree with you,” he responded as he lifted her hand and kissed it.  “I believe that man is waiting for you.”

She turned to look at the steward again and responded, “I believe you are correct, Sir Thomas.—Do you know if Lady Jocelyn left alone?”

“She left with her lady-in-waiting,” he responded, “and was followed by Sir Ulrich.”

“Your friend in the joust,” she realized.  Glancing at the steward, she admitted, “If only I were the simple daughter of a religious man.”  Then she whisked away, approaching the steward with a smile.  “You find me at my prayers, I’m afraid.”

He bowed to her, both arms outstretched, and invited, “Count Adhemar of Le Puy would like to invite you to dinner at his tent when you have finished with your prayer.”

“Is that—” she asked cautiously “usual?”

“There will be servants in attendance,” the herald offered deferentially.  “The tent will be open so anyone might see inside.  Your reputation is not at risk.”

“I am a widow, sir,” she told him, “with no husband to guard me.  I’m afraid that I must take care.”  The words were spoken as if from a book, from a movie, a period drama, but still Marco didn’t know when she was, although it appeared she was at least in the French city of Rouen.

Clearly afraid of coming back empty handed, the herald stuttered, “Th-th-then a glass of wine under the trees outside of the city walls.”  When she hesitated, he amended, “within them, then, your grace.”

She nodded.  “Within them.  I’m going to find my lodgings.  I trust Count Adhemar can do the same and escort me to wherever we will be having wine together.”  Without looking at him again, Marco swept out of the church and toward the castle.

Jocelyn wasn’t in their room but her lady-in-waiting had left the chalice.  Looking around for a mirror, Marco found a distorted glass and held it up in front of her.  Her face was nothing more than planes of color and she could not discover her age, which was rather frustrating.  After looking around for a few moments, she saw a pitcher of water and a bowl.  Pouring out the water, she stared down at her reflection and realized that she was barely older than she was when she was married to George Bligh.  If she had to guess, she would say twenty-three, certainly old in Medieval times to be unmarried, but quite young to have buried two husbands. 

She only really had a few other moments to discover which bed was hers, that she had three other dresses, which made her wealthy, Marco supposed, before there was a knock on her door.  Grabbing a half cloak she had found in deep red, she went to open the door and found someone other than Count Adhemar or his steward.  Instead, she stared at Sir Ulrich’s herald, in his long coat and with knowing smile.

“An invitation,” he told her as he held out a rolled piece of parchment. 

Hesitantly, Marco took it and unrolled it, looking at the unfamiliar script for a moment before her mind grasped the letters.  Looking up in shock, she stated in shock, “His Grace Prince Edward invites me to his father’s court as his personal guest.”  Her eyes were wide and she looked up at the man.  “How does Prince Edward know I am even here?”  How did he know she existed?

The man opened his hands in supplication but did not offer any explanation. 

“I don’t think I’ve even met Prince Edward,” she murmured to herself, wondering which Prince Edward this actually was.  Furling up the invitation, she looked at the man.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Geoffrey Chaucer,” he offered, “humble writer—”

Smiling to herself, she answered, “I am well aware of your accomplishments, Master Chaucer.  You should be giving recitations while you’re here, for the more cultured among us, and not confusing your audience with words of Italian virgins and Turkish uncles.”

He paused for a second and then made a sound at the back of his throat.  “Princess Marco.  Of course.  You’re Italian, your grace.”

“I am,” she answered.  “Do I give you an answer now to be furrowed back to court, or do I have time to decide?”

“I believe the prince would appreciate knowing by the end of the tournament,” Chaucer answered carefully. 

Nodding, she nonetheless leaned forward and asked, “Master Chaucer, as you are a wordsmith, perhaps you can tell time.  Would you be so good as to tell me the exact date?  My journey was long and I find myself slightly confused.”

He bowed to her.  “The twenty-ninth of April, in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and seventy.”

She had really traveled this time.  Marco also had very little reference.  Nonetheless, she smiled.  “I don’t suppose you know where Lady Jocelyn is.  She quite abandoned me for Sir Ulrich, though I intend to likewise abandon her.”

“If I knew,” he answered carefully, “I would be sworn to secrecy.”

Marco laughed to herself, at this wooing that was unlike anything in the Regency period or the 1950s.  “I suppose her lady-in-waiting is with her, so all is well,” she decided.  Seeing Count Adhemar appear down the hall, she quickly added, “You’ll find me for my answer.”

He nodded to her and, at the approaching steps, withdrew from the door.

“I have your chalice, Count Adhemar,” she greeted the knight who came up to her and kissed her hand.  “I was assuming either you or your steward would want it back.”

He waited until Chaucer walked off and then smiled at her.  “It is yours, Princess.—What was that man doing here?”

“Issuing an invitation,” she told him as she walked out of the door and closed it behind her.  “Prince Edward invites me to court.”  Looking down at the parchment in her hand, she tapped it against her other fingers.  “I don’t know the English princes that well.  Which one is Edward?”

“He is the Prince of Wales,” Count Adhemar told her.  “He’s a well beloved knight, a gracious yet fearsome commander.  He will make a good king when the time comes.”

She looked up at him slyly.  “There are only two people who know that I am here—Lady Jocelyn who is more concerned with Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein—and you.  What have you been doing, Count Adhemar?”

He took her hand between his and studied the rings on the fingers for several long moments.  “I have done nothing, your grace.  I would not wish you away from here.”

“But how many more days for our tournament?” she asked wistfully.  “It’s almost as if we’re in a stolen summer.”

“Two,” he told her carefully, “and then we break up for the next tournament.”

“And you men go from tournament to tournament,” she murmured.  “It’s a charmed life, Count Adhemar.  I would much rather eat apples by a river while reading poetry than have another knight try to dislodge me from my horse.”

“And yet,” he quipped, light shining in his eyes as he led her out into the town proper, “it is with ladies such as yourself, that we knights are blessed and try to prove our worthiness.”

“A mere smile could do that,” she reminisced of her first life in Derbyshire and how a single look from her could transform Darcy’s darker moods into something if not light hearted then at least reasonable.  “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Count?  I find family histories intriguing.  I know you have a mother in Kent.”

“An older sister,” he confessed, “who died nearly twenty years ago.  She was—kind.  It was just two weeks before her wedding.”

“A time of joy turned to sadness,” she realized aloud.  “I am sorry, Count Adhemar, for your loss.  The memory, I am certain, must be painful to you.”

“You have no sisters of your own?” he asked, turning the conversation as they came up to a house with an open courtyard, where he led her.  Two goblets were waiting on a table along with some form of meat, cheese, and bread.

“No,” she agreed as she let him seat her.  “I’m afraid it was only me and my mother once my father died.”  She looked down at her hands and then saw he was watching her carefully.

“How young were you, Princess?”

“Twelve,” she answered quickly.  “There is some—supposition—that he did not die but left us to join the church.  Of course, it can’t exactly be proved as I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

“Nearly a woman,” he remarked to himself before picking up his goblet and saluting her.  “To the most enchanting princess who has ever graced Europe.”

Laughing, she nonetheless saluted him and took a sip to taste the same cloying wine.  It must be from some local monastery she realized. 

Count Adhemar regarded the contents of his goblet before he looked up with his bright blue eyes.  “It’s only been hours, Princess, but I find I would rather you not go to court.”  He looked away, grinding his teeth.  “I had always supposed, when I chose to take a wife, that I would wish her to be subservient and meek, a woman to grace my halls and then forget about again when I went to war.  However,” his blue eyes caught hers, “I find that now my desires are quite different.”

She set her goblet aside and remarked, “You cannot mean to marry me after one joust, when we do not even know if my favor will grant you God’s grace on the morrow.”

“That’s the thing, most women would press me into a proposal.  I know you are a widow.  I know you have no prospects and have no claim to your husband’s lands, and I respect that.  Still, you are entirely independent in a way that would be offensive in most women.”

However, Marco felt it might be prudent to cut in now.  “I am twice widowed, Count Adhemar.  I have lost two husbands.—And I know your cure for no father, no husband, no son.”  Her voice lilted sadly and his ears pricked up.

“You were a mother.  Of course, you were.”

“I lost Darcy and my daughter Aurelia within a matter of moments of one another,” she stated, twisting the truth.  “George—he had a son older than I and a daughter just about the same age.  We never expected to have children, but the child never took a breath.  We were devastated.  His son was devastated, strangely, as he had so many hopes wrapped in my child.  Sometimes I think on my husband’s children, how their lives must be progressing, but I find I can hold little more than a common affection for them.”

“They were not your children,” he responded.  “They were too old to be your children—still, they should have made you feel welcome after their father’s death.”

She shrugged, knowing there was no way she could go to Aboriginal Australia.  “It is what it is.—I am here, and I have to think that that’s what God meant for me.”  Really, if she didn’t think that God had some great design with her travel through doors, she would probably go absolutely mad.

“Don’t go to court.”

“And watch you and the others try to kill each other?” she questioned, picking up her goblet.  “You know, for a woman, it’s terrifying to watch.”

“Stay,” he practically begged.  “With me.”

Marco looked at him, trying to figure out what exactly he was trying to say.  “And when the jousting is done?  It can’t go on indefinitely.”

He shrugged.  “You’ve said Kent is lovely.”

She was just about to take a small bite of cheese, but she paused, looking at him.  “I find,” she stated, standing, “that my faith will not allow me to be a man’s mistress.”  Turning to leave, she was stopped when a hand rested on her arm.  Not wanting to look at Adhemar, she nonetheless waited.

“I have understood from the short hours I have known you,” Adhemar murmured, “that you were a pious woman.  I would take you to Kent as my wife and not have you ever turned from its doors as is your due.”

Could this really be happening so quickly? Marco wondered to herself.  After a moment, she turned to looked at Adhemar questioningly.  Licking her lips, she asked, “If I had been quiet, barely speaking, but still a princess, would you want to marry me still?”

He considered a moment and then, to her astonishment, answered, “Yes.”  When she made to move away again, his larger hand grasped hers, his fingers entwining with her and utterly baffling her.  “I would always want to marry a princess, and I never thought that was remotely a possibility until you showed me some encouragement.—But I would have married you, as you are, without a title.  I care not that your uncle’s estate is in Italy and you have little to no claim to it or any other castle in Christendom.”

She looked back into his wonderfully blue eyes and saw only resolve in them. 

“Marco,” he stated, calm, assured, but it was the first time he had said her name.

Somehow, she found that she didn’t have an answer for him.  Yes, it was too soon, but that didn’t matter to her.  He hadn’t said that he loved her, perhaps he was the type of man who never would, but he clearly admired her and respected her.

“I’ll send for my cousin,” he stated carefully.  “She has few prospects and she can wait on you here at the tournaments.  She can be a companion to you—a friend hopefully—and then after the World Championship in London—we can be married.”  He looked at her hopefully, his hand still holding hers.  “I am not a man of poetry—”

“No,” she agreed, “you are a man of war.  I—I respect that, Count Adhemar.”  Marco turned and looked at him.  “And I support you in that, of course.”  This she added hurriedly.

“I will win this tournament for you,” he swore, kissing her hand.  “I will win the next all the way to London.”

“I cannot travel with you to London,” she realized, although Marco did not reclaim her hand.  “Surely you must see.”

“My cousin,” he told her plainly as if he he’d already thought of the solution, “Heloise.  She’s an old maid and much more of a mother than a companion, but she can come and be your lady-in-waiting.  You will be safe, you will be protected.”  He took a moment and regarded her.  “You are right, I am a military man, and I would never let anyone in my protection be harmed, not if it could be helped.—Let me win this tournament for you and agree to be my wife with all the protections I can immediately afford you.”

Memories of Darcy floated into her mind, of their vows of love and her solemn protests of ever marrying him.  She saw George Bligh’s face looking at her in adoration as he knelt before her as she finished playing the piano, already knowing her answer, and yet so hopeful that she would just give him one true smile.  Adhemar was neither of these emotions.  He was hard, resolute, and yet he was offering her honor and protection in a militarized world she did not completely understand.

“The end of the tournament,” she whispered, and he looked up at her in question.  Clearing her throat, she stated, “The herald who brought the invitation to court will allow me until the end of the tournament.  I ask for the same.  A work of a day seems so different in the evening.”

“Then you will have it,” he promised, kissing her hand before letting it go.  “May I continue to wear your favor?”

“Of course,” she agreed carefully and then stepped up to him, their eyes catching.  […]

End Fragment