Topic: Hot Words and High Tempers

Alys Beauforte

Date: 2013-06-13 14:11 EST
August 8th, 1613

The day of the joust dawned bright and warm, a perfect day so close to the rising of summer for the lords of the court to tilt against one another for the honor of the youngest prince. Despite the previous day's excitement and joy, Alys rose with the dawn, restless and eager to be in the company of her betrothed once again. My betrothed.We're promised to marry! Yet she knew that it was unfeasible to seek him out so early, when the business of his lands and duties must fill the first part of the morning before he could prepare to take his place as the prince's Champion in the lists for the lion's share of the day. She chose, then, to try and fill her time as best she could without disturbing him, knowing a little of the worries that were heaped upon the heads of all the men of the court as the threat from Coimbra grew more menacing.

She sought out her mother to breakfast with her, weathering the gloom of Cecile's disapproval of her love match with a light heart, knowing that while her mother might not be happy to give her daughter to a man who had been born of a common woman, she could not stand in the way of a pairing that had the approval of both the king, and her own husband. Released from the obligation of amusing her mother by the arrival of a young lord who could not be much older than herself, Alys then slipped away to join with her nephews' lessons, engaging with the boys with more enthusiasm than their mother often showed them. Christopher barely recalled her from his early years, Edmund had not met her before this past week, but she was so much like their father, it was impossible not to laugh with their merry aunt, each expressing their own happy surprise at the news that the Duke of Lonnare really was to be their uncle before too much time had passed. Such was their fondness for their father's friend that even had Alys been plain and dull, they would have warmed to her for bringing Charles closer to them.

When the tutor finally tired of the laughter and declared his intention to get something done before the joust began, Alys left them, returning to her own rooms with the intention of reading away the rest of the morning. But her restlessness would not abate, setting her to pacing back and forth to the distraction of her ladies. It was only when Bess, her most trusted maid, pointed out that she could well be wearing a track into the rug laid beneath her feet that the lady noticed her own distraction, laughingly confessing her desire to be with her lord above all else. Bess had a remedy, knowing her mistress only too well. A message was dispatched to Charles' chambers, informing the duke that his betrothed intended to go for a ride and would be returning in an hour, by which time she would very much like to be in his presence for a short while before he must prepare his armor and steed for the joust ahead. And Alys was dispatched herself to the stables, to take up her place in the saddle and let a little fresh air sweep the restlessness from her with speed and freedom, accompanied by a single guard of the King's household.

Much to her amused chagrin, she learned quickly that Bess knew her entirely too well, for the rush of speed, the breath of sea-salted wind, the rhythmic thud of hooves against grass all came together to soothe her agitated body, while her mind found calmer pursuits in admiring the city from the cliffs above it. It will not be long, she promised herself over and over again. A war, even an invasion, cannot take more than a few months, and then we can be married. Then she would no longer be simply Alys Marillier, the king's niece, but Alys Beauforte, Duchess of Lonnare. Yet the title mattered very little to her, her heart yearning to be the wife of the man she loved and had loved almost all the days of her life. Excited once more by the prospect of seeing him so very soon, she turned her horse back to the city and the castle, arriving earlier than she had expected in the great stables.

The guard was dismissed with the expectance of her not remaining for long in such a servants' place, and the moment he was gone, Alys slipped back into the stable itself to seek out her mare, sending the boy away once he had removed saddle and bridle from the creature. She wanted the calming influence of some repetitive task, and rubbing her palfrey down offered the perfect such activity. The grooms had removed the destriers from their stalls in preparation for the joust, leaving the stable complex itself unusually quiet for such a time of day. The bustle of the palace was audible, as always, yet it seemed to come from a great distance away, allowing her to make believe that she was not in the great castle of Bannoc Rise, but in Arindale, the ducal seat of Lonnare and soon to be her home. She let herself enjoy the fantasy, her whole attention upon the sweep of the brush in her hand over the warm hide of her palfrey, unaware that she was being watched.

Count Francis Denhelm stood in the door to the stable, covetous eyes raking over the slender beauty who had been denied to him. He was not a man who took rejection well; nor was he a man who respected the boundaries of promise or marriage. He wanted the Lady Alys, and he fully intended to have her, willing or unwilling. Yet now that wanting was mingled with the satisfaction that despoiling her would sour the hopes of the new Duke of Lonnare, a base-born son of a whore who had risen to greatness beyond his deserving. With a smirk on his handsome features, the count pushed from his lean and stepped into the stable, advancing with the stalk of a predator toward his prey.

Like Alys, Charles had risen early that morning, not because he had a lot to do before the time came for the tournament, but because he was feeling anxious, restless, and excited, partly due to the tournament, but mostly due to his betrothal, at long last, to his lady love. How could he sleep when he was so happy he could hardly contain himself? Parting had been difficult, and it had taken both Will and Christian to finally convince the young lovers to turn in, each going to separate beds in separate rooms to spend the night dreaming of each other. Will had reminded Charles that he was going to need his rest if he wanted to do well in the tournament, but he had risen just before dawn, unable to lie still and quiet much longer.

The early part of the day had been spent going over a mountain of paperwork that had been let go since his journey to fetch Lady Alys - letters, requests, records, and accounts - boring stuff that made him wish he'd stayed in bed. Most of it had already been adequately handled by his steward, but as Duke of Lonnare, he wanted to be kept abreast of all the goings on within his borders, and he especially wanted to remain informed regarding the lands neighboring them to the east - that of their enemy Coimbra. He went over most of that while he breakfasted and well into the morning, conferring with his advisors, taking the matter of a dukedom and an impending war seriously. It was late in the morning when word arrived from his betrothed requesting his presence for a short while before the games were to begin and as much as he was hoping for a quick nap, he could not deny her.

Instead of sending word back asking her to meet him in a neutral place, he decided to surprise her by meeting her before the hour was up at the stables where she would have to return her horse before preparing for the tournament.

He had missed her return by just a few minutes, but he was in time to see Denhelm, the unwelcome count, making his way into the stables themselves, his walk alone declaring that there was some woman who had taken his fancy within. It could have been anyone - a servant, a lady - but for the cadence of voices within that followed soon after. Alys' voice, so familiar and recognizable to Charles' ears, rose in anger at having been surprised, overwhelmed by the insistent tone of the man who had intruded where he was not wanted. And she was abruptly cut off by the sickening crack of flesh on flesh. Unwillingly alone with a predator who would not take no for an answer, it seemed that the count had raised his hand to the duke's betrothed, and was likely to go further if he were not prevented.

Charles arrived just in time to see Denhelm enter the stables, unseen by the man as he was some paces behind him. He thought little of it at first, thinking perhaps the man also wanted to go for a ride, but when he heard the sound of voices rising in anger and recognized one of those voices as belonging to Lady Alys, he quickened his step, arriving just in time to see Denhelm raising a hand to Alys, but not in time to prevent it. He was upon the man in an instant, wasting no time and without hesitation, catching the man's hand before he could strike her again and yanking him around to face him, before throwing his fist against the man's jaw, blue eyes blazing with rage.

Alys Beauforte

Date: 2013-06-13 14:11 EST
The scene he had walked in on would have fired any man to fury. Denhelm stood over Alys where she leant heavily against a tall bale of hay, her pale cheek starkly reddened with the mark of his hand against her skin, fright and anger combined in her expression. Indeed, the man was reaching for her skirts when the Duke of Lonnare snatched at him, spun about and away from the woman he had not had the sense to forget. Taken off-guard, he did not have the wits to duck the heavy fist that slammed hard into his face, crying out like the coward he was as the bone of his nose snapped, gushing blood over his mouth. Staggering back, the count slammed against the wall of the stable, fumbling to stem the tide of blood from his nose. "You struck me!"

Blue eyes flashed with fury as Charles placed himself between Alys and Denhelm, effectively shielding her with his body. From the looks of things, he'd only arrived just in time before the man did far greater harm than he already had, and Charles' heart was filled with such rage and hatred for the man that he was close to killing him with his own bare hands. "I will do more than that if you come anywhere near her again!" Charles shouted a warning, curling his hands into formidable fists in preparation for beating the man within an inch of his life.

His fury was reflected back to him from the streaming eyes of Francis Denhelm as he pushed himself to stand upright, daring to look the man who had just marred his handsome face directly in the eye. "Your king will hear of this," he declared, more than a little stupidly. He had, after all, been a witness to the promise of marriage ratified only a day before by the king himself, but he could still make trouble. "Who is to say that the lady did not ask me to touch her?"

Behind Charles, Alys let out a distinctly unladylike curse, her own anger risen to the quick as she pushed to glare at her attacker around the sturdy bulk of her betrothed. "My uncle will never believe that I ever asked you to strike me," she hissed, venom dripping from her tone even as she curled her hand to Charles' elbow. The point had been made - there was no need to break his hand on the man's face just hours before a joust.

Oh, but there was. The man dared add insult to injury by daring to claim that Alys would actually incite such an attack on her person by a man she found undesirable on the day after her betrothal to her beloved. It was preposterous and everyone would know it, but it inflamed Charles' anger to hear the man dare to try and wiggle his way out of it when he'd been caught red-handed. Charles pulled away from Alys, his face flushed with anger as he shoved Denhelm up against the stall, bunching the man's shirt in his fist. "You will apologize to the lady immediately, and then you will leave Martel, or I will make it known what kind of man you are, not only to the king but to the entire court. You have not only assaulted my betrothed but the king's beloved niece. You will be fortunate if all you suffer for such an offense is a broken nose. I should challenge you to a duel for the lady's honor, but I will be satisfied to see you leave court disgraced and dishonored, never to return!"

Despite his pain and natural cowardice, Denhelm was angry enough to make a very big mistake. Slammed against the wall at his back, deprived of the breath in his lungs, he still found a way to put voice to an opinion that should have been left unexpressed. "I will not apologize to the daughter of a whore who spread her legs for less than a smile," he snarled into Charles' face, shoving against the bigger, stronger man in an attempt to be freed. "Your lady has no honor if she will take you, base-born and ignoble, against the wishes of the cardinal who rules this land!"

All Denhelm accomplished with his insults was to further incite the duke's anger. It wasn't so much the insult to himself that angered him, but the insult to Alys, as well as the implied assumption that it was the cardinal that ruled Francia and not the king. Charles clenched his teeth, leaning close, practically nose to nose with the other man, just barely holding his anger in check. "You will take retract your insults and apologize to the lady or I will break more than your nose," he hissed a warning in the man's face.

The man's streaming eyes widened as he finally took note of the incandescent rage that was holding him so firmly in place, realizing with belated fear that the man he had so insulted, the man whose betrothed he had insulted, was more than capable of ending him then and there. "I ..." Denhelm hesitated, glancing toward the Lady Alys as though pleading with her to protect him from the King's Man who threatened him. All he found in her gaze was disgust and anger, the mark of his hand still red on her porcelain pale skin. Drawing his eyes back to Charles, the count's cowardice won out. "I apologize, my lady," he offered in a voice tight with pain and humiliation. "My words were given in anger and bear no meaning. And to you, Your Grace, I apologize also."

Alys let out a derisive sound; not only was the man a coward, but he still sought to regain favor with an apology that had not been asked for. But she would remember his words about the cardinal, wondering in the back of her mind just how much Bereth had been paying Denhelm to discredit the women of the royal blood.

Charles was hoping the man refused or give him even the slightest provocation to strike him again, but instead, Charles saw Denhelm for what he was, for what he had always suspected him to be - a coward and a snake. He knew that no matter what the man said to his face to save himself from further humiliation, he would just as soon shove a dagger in Charles' back the first chance he got. He was dangerous, and the possibility that he was connected to Bereth in any way made him all the more dangerous. He needed to be gotten rid of now, before the men rode for Trannoc. "If you ever so much as touch her again, I will kill you. That is a promise, not a threat. I strongly suggest you take your leave today, as I will be informing the king of your actions and you can be sure he will not take this thing lightly," Charles warned between clenched teeth, eyes blazing, before finally letting go of the man's shirt and shoving him roughly aside.

Denhelm was not so stupid as to push his luck with further words. Pushed aside with a grunt of pain, he staggered from the stable, pausing only to attempt to ingratiate himself once again with a florid bow to the duke before hurrying from sight, calling for a servant to help him reset his nose. As the man left, Alys let her anger go, leaning back against the hay bale with a shuddering sigh of relief. "Thank the Goddess," she breathed, a hand pressed tight to her stomach as she trembled in the release of tension. "He-he was going to ....If you hadn't come, he might have ..."

It was taking all of Charles' self-control not to shout in anger or put a fist through a wall, but he did not want to frighten Alys more than she had already been frightened. Instead, he turned to his beloved and pulled her gently to him, lifting her chin with a visibly shaking hand so that he could take a better look at her face and the imprint Denhelm had left there."I should kill him for hurting you," he said, his voice still heavy with rage. Woe to his opponents on the field later that day as he was likely to hold nothing back from his attacks. He did not bother to ask her if he hurt her, as he could already see as much as evidenced by the redness on her cheek.

She leaned trustingly into his arms, unafraid of the violence his rage had thrown him into against a man who had struck her and tried to do worse. Her head tilted under the guidance of his shaking hand, showing off the mark that might well bruise over the coming day. "You can't," she reminded him softly, her hands curling into his sides as her gaze sought his. "It is for the king to decide his punishment, but he is an envoy of a foreign power. The worst is that he will be banished and sent home in disgrace." She lifted her own hand to touch Charles' lips gently. "Don't say anything about Bereth's implication unless you are absolutely certain my uncle is alone. We can set an investigation of our own to find out if what Denhelm said is true."

"I must do something," Charles said, indicating the mark on her face that was likely to bruise. "He should be punished for what he's done to you, what he tried to do to you." Charles felt the heat of rage course through his veins again and recognized it as hate. He wanted to kill the man for what he'd done, and Alys' gentle touch only made him hate him all the more for hurting her, for what he might have done to her had he not interceded. "We must tell him now, today. If we delay, there is no telling what he might do, and everyone at the tournament will think it was I who struck you." His gaze softened as he looked into her face, daring not to touch the mark that was threatening to color her cheek before long. "We should get back so you can have that tended to, and I can inform the king." But instead of tugging her along, he folded her in his embrace to hold her close, not only for her own comfort but for his. "I do not wish to let you out of my sight."

Alys Beauforte

Date: 2013-06-13 14:12 EST
Enfolded into his embrace, Alys let out another shuddering breath, holding tightly to him for a long moment as he comforted her. The thought of what might have happened had Charles not come to meet her after her ride was a terrifying one, made worse by the understanding that she truly was not able to defend herself at all. She needed protection, and though it galled her to have to admit that weakness, she was sensible enough to accept it. "I do not wish you to, either," she confessed in a trembling voice. "But you must. I cannot come with you to address the king while he is in session with his counselors, and ..." She swallowed, reaching up finally to touch the tender mark on her cheek. "I should let my maid tend to this. Perhaps we can keep it from showing too much."

"I will never let him hurt you again, my dearest," he promised solemnly, bowing his head to press his lips to her forehead. He frowned as she reached for her cheek and he grasped her fingers between his own, meeting her gaze seriously again as he spoke. "I will appoint a guard to escort you when you are not in my company." He left no room for argument, quickly becoming accustomed to taking charge, as was expected of him in his new role as a duke. He was not taking her safety lightly, not even here at the King's Court where she should be safe.

Her gaze hardened, despite his loving promise, as he gave out another order. "You will ask me before you lay out the ways and means of my life and habits, Charles, or it will go very hard with you," she warned him pointedly, but did not remain on the subject any further. "Come, you should seek out the king, and I will return to my rooms." Rising onto her toes, she kissed the corner of his mouth. "Come find me there, when you are done?"

He did not understand how assigning a guard to escort her for her own safety could enflame her anger, but he did not wish to get into an argument with her about it now. He would assign a guard to her, whether she liked it or not, and he would instruct the man to keep an eye on her, at least until they were sure Denhelm was no longer a threat, even if she tried to dismiss him, but he said nothing further of his intentions, allowing her to change the subject. She had been through enough already for one day, and he only wished to keep her safe and see her happy. He smoothed a hand against her hair, careful not to touch her cheek. "Very well," he agreed, since she seemed in agreement with his plan thus far. "But I will not be able to stay long. I must get ready for the tournament."

"I know," she assured him softly. "So must I, in my own way." Her hands curled into the chains of nobility he wore, pulling him down until her lips brushed his ear, teasing a low whisper there as she smirked with quiet mischief. "But I would tangle with you a while before we must behave ourselves once more. I have been restless without you, sweetheart."

The tension in him relaxed a little as she pulled him down and whispered in his ear. He pulled away a little, arching a brow, a worried frown where a smile should be. "Do you wish to make me forget all my anger before the tournament?" he asked, looking forward to smashing his lance against several shields that day, even more so now that he needed an outlet for the rage he felt toward Denhelm.

She stilled, unused to so little a reaction from her smile, much less the open confession that she wanted him close for a short while. Her own smile fled, replaced with an expression that was almost frightening in how blank it seemed, no readable expression to be found except in the eyes she kept averted from his. Her hands opened, releasing him from her grasp as she stepped back, unaccountably hurt by a rejection he had no doubt not meant at all. "My apologies, Your Grace," and even her voice was carefully neutral, hiding away the natural distress that came with his frowning refusal of her so soon after she had been in danger of a different kind. "I will not trespass further on your time, nor your temper." With a brush of her gloved hands to her skirt, she made to step around him, her eyes downcast, refusing to show him what was hidden behind that blank mask.

He sighed, reaching for her hand to keep her there a moment longer, not wanting her angry at him, deciding she needed him more than he needed to stay angry. "Alys, please....Don't do this. I want you, too. I laid awake all last night thinking of you. I can't eat, I can't sleep. All I can think of is you, wanting you, needing you....I will do anything you ask of me. I love you, you know this."

She paused, caught by the hand and kept from walking away, too shaken to be fiery with him. It was a curious quirk of her nature that, if pushed to an extreme, the flames in her temperament bequeathed by her mother's blood turned to the icy cool of her father's temper, and in this situation, frightened, hurt, and rejected, it was the Marillier coldness that ruled and refused to be placated. "Yes, I do know," she assured him, easing her hand out of his grasp as her eyes rose to show him the turmoil of emotion she had tried to hide. "And now I also know that your anger holds precedence over my fear, and a joust is more important than a kiss. I will not make the mistake of asking again, Your Grace."

"My anger does not hold precedence over your fear. I had only thought that..." He sighed again, letting her slip away from his grasp, wondering if there was any way to make her understand, or perhaps he was simply wrong, and in that case, he wasn't sure how to make it up to her. "Nothing is more important than you. Nothing. If you do not believe me, I will withdraw from the joust and we will spend the day together." It was, after all, just a game, albeit a dangerous one, and though the king's son would be disappointed and the king would be angry, Alys' happiness was more important to him than anything else. He knew even that was dangerous for a man in his position. If the king suspected he cared more for Alys than his duty, he might well be stripped of that honor.

"You cannot disappoint the prince," she told him as firmly as she dared. "You are his chosen Champion; to withdraw would be to dishonor him, and I will not allow you to do such a thing to my cousin." She had not asked for the day, nor for him to let go of his anger; she could not see how spending an hour in her company was considered so detrimental to his temperament. "You should go to the king before Denhelm is recovered enough to report his own version of events. I will be fine."

"No, I will not go to the king until we are of one mind. We have been betrothed a day and already we argue. What will Denhelm..." He broke off to correct his statement. "What will the king say' What will Bereth say if he knows this?" He reached for her hand again, whether she would allow it or not. "Alys, I only thought that since he had...he had tried to force himself on you that you would not wish for me to touch you in that way. I am sorry for presuming. I am an idiot. I was only thinking of my anger for what he did to you. I only want to help you, but I don't know how. Please, don't think so badly of me when I do not intend you any offense."

"I do not care what Denhelm thinks!" But there was the fire once again, burning through the coldness as her hand came easily into his grasp once more. "He spoke to me, he struck me. He had no chance to lay another hand on me, despite his intent, because you were here to prevent it! And yet I ask you for an hour of your time, and your first thought is to preserve your anger, your outrage, for the sake of a joust! Yes, you are a bloody idiot, Beau, if you thought even for a moment that I would invite you back to me with the stink of another man's hands on my skin!"

And now his own passion rose to the surface, his own anger that had been seething in his veins since the moment he'd walked in on her and Denhelm, but his anger was not directed at her, but rather at her attacker. "Not for the sake of a joust!" he contradicted. "It's not about the bloody joust! I wanted to kill him, Alys. I wanted to run him through, but I could not, and I still feel that outrage running through my veins. I do not trust myself with you right now or with anyone. I want to kill him for what he tried to do to you, and I need to get rid of it somehow, or I feel like I will combust!"

Alys Beauforte

Date: 2013-06-13 14:13 EST
"And you think that anger can only be set aside through violence," she countered, the spark of her anger setting off his own, which in turn brought hers closer to the surface. "I don't know what you are more angry about, Charles - that I was hurt, or that he touched something that belongs to you! I was not angry, to begin with, but I am angry now - to be attacked by one man, and rejected by another; these are not common things in my experience. If even the thought of another man touching me against my will makes the mere thought of my touch so disgusting to you, then perhaps we should think twice before continuing on!" She glared up at him, passionate anger and distress dominant in her eyes, yet she could only be comfortable speaking her mind like this to a man she loved. "And you are risking punishment for a wrong you did not do by delaying here to argue with me when you should be with the king!"

"Is that what you think" That I think of you as one of my belongings, like....like my horse or my sword" I was angry - am angry - because I love you. Because he dared touch you, dared hurt the one person in all the world that I cherish more than life itself. I would die for you, Alys. I would die a thousand deaths for you, though I know you do not wish me to. How you think I could reject you I do not know. I did not reject you. I am only thinking of you!" He blew out a breath and shoved a hand through his hair, feeling exasperated and unsure how to resolve this disagreement. "I should go before Denhelm argues his case to the Cardinal," he told her dejectedly.

"You did not reject me?" she shot back at him. "I invited you to come to me, and your answer was to frown and state an accusation that somehow doing that would make you lose your anger. How is that not a rejection' I love you, you absolute blithering idiot. Why can't you get it through your head that I don't want you to risk anything for me, certainly not your life" I am grateful, more grateful than I can say, that you were here to prevent what might have happened." She blew out a sharp breath through her nose, shaking her head roughly, her next words calmer. "I don't want to fight with you. I don't want to be away from you, especially not now. But I am shaken and in pain, and you know I do not react well to such things. Go to the king before Bereth tries to have you imprisoned. I will be in my chambers, if you think you can bear to lose any of your anger to calm my fear."

He held his tongue against the flood of words he wanted to say. He did not understand how she could possibly think he would ever reject her, but he was starting to understand why she thought so. He was frowning again, the anger mellowing, replaced by a sense of guilt at having upset her further when she had already suffered enough. He did not want her to be grateful, nor did he want her to think she owed him anything for rescuing her. He only wanted her to love him, despite his faults, and nothing more. He felt ashamed that he had upset her, let her down, not given her what she needed from him, but there was still time to make it up to her. "You are not going to..." He broke off, realizing he was about to tell her what he wanted her to do, rather than ask her, and now it was his turn to turn cordial, as if he was courting her and trying to find her favor all over again. He offered a small polite bow before continuing, "If you do not mind, I would see you safely to your rooms."

Alys stared at him, a little out of breath from her outburst, mildly astonished that he had not shouted back at her. And then to find him bowing to her, visibly suppressing his own temper to mollify hers ....it was ridiculous. "Charles Beauforte, you are an idiot," she informed him, very matter of factly. "An argument is not going to stop me from loving you." Her hand curled into his doublet, pulling him down into a hard kiss, pouring her shock and fear and need for his comfort into the demanding gesture of unmistakably passionate affection.

A small smile touched his lips as she agreed with his own assessment of himself. He knew he could be an *ss, at times, but there was no denying that she loved him, in spite of it, or perhaps because of it. As hotly passionate as they might be, there was little chance of them growing bored with each other. "I do not deny that I am an idiot. I have always been a fool where you are concerned," he replied, just before she pulled him into that kiss. He had been trying to be gentle with her, but there was nothing gentle in that kiss. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, echoing the passion in her kiss, erasing any thought of Denhelm from her mind in favor of his own affection.

Their raised voices had brought curious interest from the grooms who were returning to the stables, prying eyes catching a glimpse of the passionate kiss that was shared and ready lips happy to pass on the gossip that His Grace and his lady were most certainly as in love as any couple could wish to be. As much as she would have liked to have given into that passion, to let familiarity burn away the residual fear and upset, Alys knew there was no time, drawing back with a breathless gasp, lingering close enough to feel his breath on her face as her fingers flexed in and out of his doublet. "You really should go," she murmured, reluctant but aware of the danger in delaying any further.

He drew a deep breath as their lips parted, the anger mellowing a little beneath her kiss and turning to desire. There was more than one way, he was learning, to dispense with the anger, though he knew as soon as he relayed Denhelm's misconduct to the king, the rage would re-ignite. He leaned his forehead against hers, reluctant to leave her, though he knew he must. "Walk with me then, at least to the castle," he urged, unwilling to leave her unescorted.

She couldn't help a soft huff of laughter at his urging, wondering briefly just what he had expected her to do. "Do you really believe that I wish to remain here alone?" she asked him through that gently wry smile, disentangling herself from him with deep reluctance only to wrap her arm through his. "Yours to lead, Beau, no matter how angry I am with you. Always."

"I wonder how long it will take before you want to beat me bloody," he replied with a smile as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and started with her toward the castle. "May I ask for your favor on the field today?" He didn't want to presume at the answer, though he was mostly certain of it.

"I will be very offended if you don't," Alys told him quite firmly, careful to keep her reddened cheek close to his shoulder as they walked. She did not want anyone assuming he had struck her before he had been able to speak with the king and let the truth filter through the court. "And as I believe I have already said, I will mar any pretty face that tries to have you wear hers instead of mine."

"There are no prettier faces at court than yours, My Lady," he replied with a smile. The last woman he'd slept with had meant nothing more to him than another conquest, a brief distraction, a few pleasurable hours in bed. He had not spoken of love, and she had not demanded it of him. In his view, he had made it quite clear that he was only sharing her bed for one night, and she had seemed agreeable to it, not knowing the coupling had been based entirely on a bet between himself and William, but all that was mostly forgotten now, at least by Charles. He offered a few nods of his head as they passed, their demeanor so quiet no one could possibly guess what had just transpired in the stables, nor did they ask.

The walk to her room was at once too short and too long for Alys' liking, wanting to linger in Charles' presence but not wishing to delay him from speaking with the king any longer. She paused by the door to her chambers, set as they were between those of her parents and brother, turning to look up at her duke with a gentle smile off-set by the fire that still resided in her eyes. "Be safe in your dealings, Charles," she murmured to him, her slender fingers stroking against his cheek tenderly.

"You realize when Will finds out, he will be as angered as I am," Charles said, keeping his voice low so as not to draw any attention to the situation before he had a chance to speak with the king. He reached for the hand that touched his cheek and drew it to his lips for a kiss. "I shall, for your sake," he told her, as he had something of a reputation for being somewhat reckless, even in the joust.

"Will has our father's temper," she reminded him gently. "He will not act rashly unless Denhelm gives him cause." She drew his hand to her lips to echo the kiss he had laid against her own fingers with a fond touch to her smile. "Go to the king, my darling. I am safe now, and we must both show no sign of difference when the joust begins. I will not let Bereth believe he has won anything but a dangerous enemy in this."

He frowned at the mention of Bereth, but said nothing about it. Though she was capable of equal anger to him, her head seemed cooler in this, more calculated. Fortunately, he had not let his passions rule his actions or he might have killed the man outright. Still, he felt reluctant to leave her, though he knew he must. "I shall see you soon, my dearest," he said, offering a final brush of lips to her hand before pulling away. He had tarried long enough. She was safe, and he would make certain the king knew what had happened.

And the king soon did know what had happened. Infuriated that any man would behave in such a way toward a lady, much less his own niece and promised at that, Christian wasted no time in ordering that Count Francis Denhelm was to be expelled from his country, adding also a message to be sent to the king of Alanic, another Charles, speaking of his countryman's distasteful behavior and demanding that a suitable punishment be exacted upon the count's return. As the news filtered through the court, it came to the ears of Duke Edward and his son, William, and the fury was taken up on all sides. With tempers running high, the joust to celebrate the birthday of young Prince Arthur promised to be one that would remained in the annuls of legend for years to come.

((What a start to the day, hmm' They're never going to get bored of each other, that's for sure! Many thanks to the awesomeness that is Charles' player!))