A Lord for Haughmond (19 page)

     Along the perimeter of the field stood other galleries filled with eager lords and ladies. Bright banners of red, gold, and silver draped the pavilions and fluttered on the cool breeze, while sharp smoke from the pie man’s stall at the one end drifted across the field. The common folk stood three deep along the outside railing, jostling each other for best advantage and placing bets on the outcome.

     In a sonorous voice, a herald announced the knights about to engage the tournament. With another fanfare of trumpets, the two combatants came into view with their banners capturing the wind above their heads. Katherine’s favor blew in the breeze on Rhys’s upper arm. With pride flowing through her veins, she sat straighter on the bench and smiled. ’Twas a symbol of her devotion for all to see and to know her preference. By accepting her favor, Rhys had declared himself her champion.

     Then in sudden dismay, she gulped, and her chest tightened in mortification. Rhys’s charger sported no caparison. His funds must, indeed, be limited. It did not ease her annoyance that Sir Dafydd’s steed, by contrast, was garbed in expensive gleaming mail, newly fitted by all appearances. While she struggled not to show her disappointment, an appreciative sigh swept over those spectators who knew the cost of such luxury.

     As befitted a royal festival, the knights’ great helms were decorated. With two gnarled black antlers affixed atop Sir Dafydd’s helm and festooned with silk mantling streaming out behind him, he cantered toward the middle of the field, manifesting a foreboding image. The devil’s own! Katherine shivered and looked to Rhys for comfort. His great helm was far less elaborate, boasting but a single crest of azure and argent feathers, St. Quintin’s colors.

     But ’twas Sir Dafydd’s thick wooden shield and long streaming banner snapping in the breeze that drew everyone’s attention. 

     “’Tis Myton’s coat of arms, is it not, argent rapiers on sable?” A lady of the court, wearing a wimple decorated with a jeweled circlet, pointed in surprise.    

     “A combatant steals Sir Geoffrey’s arms!” A knight seated in the second row leaned halfway out of his seat to gape over the bishop’s generous girth.

     “Why would a knight steal another’s arms, unless— ” The lady broke off in a twitter of embarrassment.

     Katherine knew the reason. Verily, everyone in the pavilion knew the reason, but decorum prevented any from giving voice to the crude accusation. For the very first time, she focused on Sir Dafydd’s banner, the one the nuns had so diligently sewn, the one she had so carefully ignored. A cold dread washed over her. Indeed, it displayed Myton’s colors and bold rapiers emblazoned for all to see.

     Sir Geoffrey stared intently at the field of honor.      

     “Look you, the knight differences his arms with a label of azure. ’Tis a bar with points hanging from it,” complained another knight, as though it should be forbidden.

     “God’s thigh, he’s related to Sir Geoffrey,” another royal guest chimed in with equal disbelief.

     “But ’tis impaled with a different coat of arms,” added the lady in a speculative tone.          

     “His dam’s, most likely,” her companion replied in a bemused tone, nodding knowingly.

     The whispered comments flew about the pavilion until one knight, bolder than the rest, dared speak directly to Sir Geoffrey.      

     “Sir, who is this kinsman of yours?”

     Katherine froze, unable to restrain her rising terror.

     His scowl deepening, Sir Geoffrey’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “I—I know not.”

     Seated beside her, Sister Mary Margaret murmured, “Mayhap he is entitled to it. Mayhap he is an unknown bastard of Myton’s lord.”

     Her future husband was Sir Geoffrey’s kinsman?  The words were like a sword plunged into her breast. Drawing a ragged breath, Katherine turned to the nun, to gainsay such a claim, to decry it false, to force her to retract such a claim. But Sister Mary Margaret was assisting a lady with an irascible mantle billowed by the wind.

     Her eyes wide in dismay, Katherine stared into the back of the nun’s black headrail. Her heart pounded and thrummed in her ears like a feverish drum. Such a horror was not possible! She darted her attention back to the field, to stare at the terrible object beneath the black antlers. He was not human. He was a de Borne—a monster.

     A loud clatter of encouragement rose from the spectators. The two combatants, having ridden to the center of the tourney field from either end, turned, and side by side approached the pavilion. Along the railing the peasants leaned forward, shoving and pulling at each other excitedly and shouting to each other and to the oncoming warriors.    

     “Do you not think Sir Dafydd’s banner most worthy, Sir Geoffrey?” Sister Mary Margaret’s voice was exaggerated above the loud din.  

     His face a study of restrained violence, Sir Geoffrey focused on the knight with the black banner and ignored the query.

     The nun didn’t appear daunted. She bent closer. “I see from his banner he is a kinsman of yours. How are you related?”

     With her heart in her throat, Katherine licked at her parched lips.

     Though Sir Geoffrey’s attention remained fixed on the two knights, who advanced on the pavilion and presented themselves to the king, Edward turned with an irritated scowl.

     Sister Mary Margaret sat back on the bench and folded her hands within the long black sleeves of her habit. In silence, she looked toward the mounted knights awaiting the king’s attention.

     Rising, King Edward addressed the audience. “Two knights of the realm will today join in combat to decide the fate of Lady Katherine de la Motte of Haughmond Castle. The victor must needs unseat his opponent to win her hand in marriage.”

     The spectators burst into wild applause.

     Edward held up his hand and the crowd quieted. “Let it be known this is no
jouste a l'outrance
, but a
fight a plaisance
. There shall be no bloodletting. I have need of all mine knights in the coming weeks. The contest is concluded when one knight is unseated. And let it be known, thereto, that Sir Robert’s name shall not die out. The winner must accept the name of de la Motte, as though born to it.”

     A surprised murmur raced through the crowd at this unusual command. Edward’s voice boomed over them. “The winner shall henceforth be known as the lord of Haughmond Castle and all the lands that surround that domicile.” 

     Edward looked down at the two knights. “Do you accept the terms of the joust?”

     “Yea, sire!” came their answers in unison.

     “Do you accept my judgment of the tourney?”

     Again came both voices. “Yea, sire!”

     “Then let the tournament begin!”  

     The spectators roared their approval.

     A desperate prayer surged across Katherine’s lips.

     Sweeping aside his golden cape Edward settled onto his cushioned chair beside Eleanor and watched the field with keen interest.

     Both knights bowed, then whirled away toward opposite ends of the field. Exchanging their banners for long wooden lances, they settled themselves securely within their high-backed saddles.      

     The spectators fell silent.

     Katherine clutched her hanky so tightly her nails tore through the delicate fabric.

     Down went the flag. Spurs set the war-horses into motion. Both animals leapt forward, charging across the field toward the other. The tall lances, pointing skyward, began to lower into position.

     Closer they came. The legs of both horses flashed as the destriers gained momentum. Behind the knights, the silken mantling on their helms flowed in their wake. With heavy lances couched in position, each knight made ready to strike his opponent’s shield.

     ’Twas magnificent.

     ’Twas horrifying!

     She could not bear it, yet could not tear her eyes from the awful sight. She had marveled how a knight could view the world through so narrow a slit in a great helm. ’Twas no longer awe, but anguish holding her captive, forcing her to watch with bated breath, her gaze riveted on Rhys. How could he possibly defend himself? How could he
see
to defend himself?

     Onward the knights charged at full speed, with blunted lances, aiming for the other’s shield. A lance could break or catch an opponent in the throat. ’Twas not a fight to the death, but—

     Sir Geoffrey’s caveat surged through her, swamped her composure. Accidents occurred. A space could be found betwixt shield and armor. An unintended injury could be as deadly as a deliberate blow.

     Frantic—helpless—she twisted in her seat, not able to sit still. Her hanky shredded beneath her fingers. 

     The two knights met with a horrific blast. Amid wild cheering, the lances with their splayed metal tips, crashed into the wooden shields. Rhys’s lance struck Sir Dafydd’s shield at an angle and did no damage. But he took a hard hit from Sir Dafydd’s lance. While it shattered into pieces against his shield, Rhys lurched sideways in his saddle, all but losing his seat.

     Watching Rhys grapple for control as his horse cantered down the field, Katherine fought down the cry rising in her throat. By the time he reached the far end, she could sigh in relief, for he had maneuvered himself into a more secure position within his saddle.

     The spectators responded with a rousting cheer.  

     Sister Mary Margaret leaned toward Katherine. “Do you fall faint, my lady?” she inquired in a gentle voice.

     Unwilling to answer, Katherine swallowed down the bile threatening to choke her and stared fiercely at Rhys, willing him to prevail.

     Sir Dafydd galloped steadily toward the far end of the field and whirled his charger. Given a new lance from his squire, he hefted it into place and waited, sitting like a threatening god beneath his horns of evil. His black consort stomped the ground with its ominous hooves, impatient at the delay, its muscles bunched in readiness beneath the heavy mail caparison. 

     Her fears rushed through her. Affrighted by the outcome of this unjust contest, dreading that Rhys might be disgraced, Katherine trembled. Having shown her preference, she thereto, would be disgraced. But her loyal nature demanded fidelity. Holding her head high, she forced herself to stare, unblinking, at the field. With all her being, she poured out one last silent and desperate prayer for Rhys’s success, and for her own salvation.

     Down went the flag. Rhys spurred his mount into action, lowering his heavy lance. It dipped dangerously close to the ground before he drew it level. With bated breath, Katherine went rigid, panicked by his display of weakness.

     From the other end of the tourney field Sir Dafydd came at full speed. His lance slid smoothly into position as his destrier surged forward.

     A hush fell over the crowd as serf and gentry alike craned their necks, watching the two horses close the distance in a fury of galloping hooves.

     Sir Dafydd leaned forward in the saddle. At the last moment he rose in his stirrups and aimed with deadly accuracy. ’Twas a dangerous placement, for it left him vulnerable. But the horse’s weight became part of his momentum, making his attack all the more potent.

     Katherine shuddered. 

     The blow slammed into the middle of Rhys’s shield, hurling it back into his chest. While his weapon glanced harmlessly off Sir Dafydd’s shield, Rhys’s head snapped back from the fierce blow. The impact knocked him up and out of the high-backed saddle. He clawed at his horse’s mane, forcing the destrier onto its hind legs, while the long lance slid from his grip. The destrier found its footing, came down with a hard thud. Rhys lost his hold and went crashing to the ground.

     With a cry, Katherine leaped to her feet.

     Sister Mary Margaret pulled her back down onto the bench, holding her firmly in place. “Nay, Lady Katherine,” she murmured in a soothing tone. “The king remains seated.” She turned to Sir Geoffrey. “Congratulations, sir knight, your kinsman has vanquished his opponent and garnered prestige for your family.”

     On the field the unseated knight lay motionless, though his horse’s reins remained clutched within his fist. The destrier whinnied but stood fast. ’Twas a long moment before he rolled to his knees.

     Sir Dafydd spurred his horse toward his fallen opponent. He swept up his visor and scowled down at the knight who braced himself with one foot upon the muddy turf. Leveling the metal tip of his lance against his opponent’s neck, pressing into the flesh next to where a vein pulsed, he muttered, “Fool! Your word is worthless. You were to fall with the first pass.”

Chapter Fourteen

     A cheer went up from the multitude. Serf and castle folk alike lauded the victor, who sat tall and proud in his saddle in the midst of the tourney field. Some spectators rejoiced more than the rest, those who had placed winning bets. Others good-naturedly paid up. But all quickly grew restless at the delay. Their impatient voices swelled as they beckoned to the victorious knight.

     The king stood, obliging all to follow his lead. Sister Mary Margaret tugged Katherine out of her seat.

     Dumbfounded, Katherine watched the defeated knight struggle to his feet. Her instincts urged her to rush to Rhys’s side, to pour out her love, to share her strength. Her heart was breaking—for the man she loved and for her bleak future. 

     “Congratulations, Sir Geoffrey.” Sister Mary Margaret beamed a bright countenance upon the knight. “Your kinsman is victorious.”

     Sir Geoffrey did not acknowledge the comment. Like Katherine, he stood stunned and silent.

     The good sister’s smile continued undaunted. She went on in a cheerful tone. “Do you feign indifference for my sake, or mayhap for your own?”

     The knight’s lowering scowl was the only indication he heard her remark.

     “In truth, do you not know the victor?” Though her tone was sharp, the nun’s words were more than beguiling. Speculative glances turned in their direction. “Faith, Sir Geoffrey,” she continued, “you needs make the victor’s acquaintance with all due speed.”