His skin was as pale as a bucket of cream. It was the finest face William had ever seen-long, narrow, and delicate, with full, quirked lips, a straight nose, dimpled chin, and broad, arched brows over large dark eyes. It was a harsh warrior’s cut, but on him it only made a more open frame for his face. His hair was nearly black, chopped shorter than was fashionable, and it was bristled on top in a barbaric style. On his head he wore neither helmet, beads, nor braids. The round was archery, and the young knight was dressed for decoration rather than protection. But William knew well enough that such a thing was expected for a son of the nobility and not always hard earned. William’s eyes dropped to his spurs-gilded. His shoulders were broad for his frame, but his chest was slender and his waist slim. A black velvet girdle hung low on his narrow hips. It was well used, not that of a mere peacock. What armor he wore was polished but functional. So William felt no shame in staring as he took the youth’s measure. It was a warrior’s habit to size up an enemy-or a rival. Glinting plate armor covered his shoulders, his arms, and the tops of his legs. His tunic was brilliant blue with a white eagle spreading its wings on the front, identifying him as one of Lord Brandon’s sons. The first time William saw him, he was riding onto the tournament field on a red horse.
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