Count Joao's Pavilion
"Milord, you are unfit to compete! Joao's squire shouted at him, trying to prevent him from rising. That got Joao's attention.
His eyes flashed and looked from the hands on his chest to the squire, an expression of furious distaste. The squire recoiled automatically and bowed apologetically. Servants did not touch Joao's person without his leave.
He gathered his strength, trying to rise on to his feet. Feet and legs protested, but Joao managed to stand, a vast improvement on the night before, he mused. What had happened last night? Surely the Pskovian weather could not affect that quickly? Well, he had learned a good lesson about the necessity for an extra layer of clothing at nighttime, not that he would admit that to anyone.
Looking around, he noticed the servants were not moving automatically to dress him, a situation he moved to correct. Clearing his throat, he broke them from their reverie and they sprung to assist, helping to put on his bracers and lower armor after his regular clothes were taken care of. At least he was starting to look presentable, but he felt horrible.
There was no way he was going to be able to hide his condition. His eyes were pale and drawn, and his cheeks looked as if they had been drained. He moved stiffly, with a haggard gait, nothing like the calm demeanor he typically gave off. Yet his eyes remained proud and he would not give in to the inclement weather.
His throat seized and suddenly he coughed some more. His squire looked as if he would start protesting again, so Joao turned and silenced him with a look. No, he had bungled himself badly enough the previous evening and he would not suffer further loss of face today. He recalled his foolish words to the Grand Princess before and shook his head. He knew now that illness had undermined his guard, causing him to say something so pathetic.
Awkwardly, his left arm crept into his tunic pocket and he pulled out the silk scarf she had given him. For some inexplicable reason, he stared at it, his thumb caressing it, trying to recapture some of the enjoyable magic he and the Grand Princess had previously shared. Then, realizing what he was doing, he shook his head and ceased, though he did allow the squire to tie the scarf. What would milady think if she saw me like this? A far cry from the courtier? Well, if Sir Dmitru can persevere, far beyond his poor powers, then he would do no less.
Nodding to his squires, he put his sword in his scabbard, wincing at the sore arm, and began slowly walking out of the Pavilion. All was quiet this morning, no doubt in anticipation of Sir Magnus' funeral - the pompous fool. His squire was close behind, surreptitiously prepared to keep him standing if need be, yet far enough back to fool any bystander.
Together, the haggard lord and his worried servants slowly crept their way towards the Social Tent, where he hoped to learn more about the funeral arrangements. They arrived to find a few knights already present, including, much to his embarassment, Sir Vladimir. Another who had witnessed his bungling verbal play. Sighing, he continued walking into the room, shaking off the proferred arm of his squire.
