The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(167)

“I do not know, Your Lordship. Maybe His Imperial Majesty wishes her company in the Royal Box tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” A frown joined the narrowed eyes. D’Altavilla gestured at the feast. “Judging from all this, I assumed the Tournament was already over.”

“Oh no, Milord. Just the joust.”

“Oh. I see.”

“And, if Your Lordship will forgive me for mentioning it, Your Lordship has not answered my question yet. Is the Lady Salvatrice—“

“Yes! Yes, she is with me.”

“Thank you, Milord.”

For a moment, d’Altavilla wanted to grab the scrawny little herald by the neck and shake him until he choked. Until moments ago, he had been confident—no, certain even—that there was no possible rival for the affections of the Lady Salvatrice that could compete with him. But an Emperor? The thought made him want to smash something. Or someone.

“Does His Imperial Majesty intend to spend more private time with the Lady Salvatrice?” he demanded, making a mental note to provide lodgings for his lady in his town house and not in the palace.

“I do not believe so, Milord.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course. What had he been thinking? The Emperor was simply being polite. The man had a harem of hundreds of Saracen beauties at his back and call, for Heaven’s sake! What did such a man want with a single woman? He had overreacted. But men tended to overreact when a woman like Lady Salvatrice was involved—even men such as he.

But there’s no course for worry. Even if he were interested—who does a woman admire more? The man sitting safely in the box beside her or the man fighting down on the field in her name, with her token around his arm?

Lord d’Altavilla smiled. “You said the tournament is not yet over?”

“Quite correct, Milord. The melee will be fought tomorrow.”

Slowly, Lord d’Altavilla cracked his knuckles. Ah. Good. He knew his competition would be challenging, but there were always ways…

“I am glad to hear that. Speaking of tournaments, herald, where is Sir Tomasso? I would like to congratulate the winner of the joust.” And see if the old longshanks is still in good form.

“Oh, Sir Tomasso didn’t win the joust, Milord.”

“What?” Lord d’Altavilla’s head whipped around, and he stared at the herald. “What happened? Did he catch the black plague? I can’t imagine anything less keeping Tomasso di Zaragoza from competing in the joust.”

The herald cleared his throat delicately. “He did compete, Milord. He lost.”

“He what?”

“Lost, Milord. He was unhorsed.”

A fat countess from Capua chose that moment to take an interest in Lord d’Altavilla from which he had, up to that point, been blessedly free. “Oh, Lord d’Altavilla!” she giggled, sidling up to him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of our new champion yet? Where have you been?”

“Outside the city, on the road,” he shot back, trying to evade the choking cloud of perfume that engulfed her without being too obvious. “We don’t get many town criers announcing tournament results there.”

She giggled again, as if he had said something terribly funny. Lord d’Altavilla felt the urge to get a drink just so he could empty it over her empty head, but there were more important things on his agenda right now.

“New Champion, you said?” he demanded. “So it is true? Someone really did unhorse Sir Tomasso?”

A shiver went down his neck. He had thought he would only have to contend with the old longshanks. But this…

“Of course he did! From what they say, Sir Reuben can unhorse anybody!”

“Reuben?” That wasn’t a Sicilian name, and most certainly not a familiar one. “Who is this Reuben fellow?”

Again that giggle. “Look over there. No, not there. There. Do you see the man with the two dozen ladies around him?”

Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes moved, searching—then widened when they found the man. Or should he call that lad a man at all?

“Are you serious? That stripling is supposed to have beaten Sir Tomasso?”

“That ‘stripling’ made every single knight within Palermo taste the dust.”

“He’s hardly old enough to have his own sword!”

The woman smirked. “That’s not what the ladies say.”

Lord d’Altavilla took another good look at the boy—or was he a man?—sitting beside the emperor. God’s teeth! He was hardly old enough to be a knight! But the circle of wide-eyed, smiling ladies hanging on his every word seemed to have no such qualms. They were all staring at his face.

Abruptly, Lord d’Altavilla turned to the herald.

“Give the emperor my regrets, and inform him that Lady Salvatrice will not be watching the melee tomorrow.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. We’re both exhausted from the journey and will be staying in my townhouse.”

The devil take this tournament! He had more important business to take care of. And he was not about to sully himself by crossing blades with a mere boy who didn’t deserve a moment of his attention.

“As you say, Milord.”

Lord d’Altavilla was just about to make a quiet exit when the Emperor lifted his eyes and—damn it all!—caught sight of him. Smiling, Friedrich lifted a hand and waved him over.