Chivalrous (8 page)

He had never even seen a tournament until he was twelve and his father had taken him to the nearby town of Farthingale. Pain sliced through Allen at the memory. How he missed his father and his brother, who had been so cruelly butchered by King John, and his mother, who had died years earlier of a fever. How he wished they could see him now. But he must do this thing without them.

His pulse pounded in his ears. As his eyes scanned the frenzied crowd, his head grew light and swishy. For a moment he thought he might waver upon his horse, but he managed to gather himself together. He had trained long and hard for this moment.

After passing three-quarters of the way around the field, he fell into line alongside the horse that had been in front of him and faced the grandstand. Its more formal galleries, like open-air rooms, featured gatherings of noble men and women dressed in bright silks and furs.

Exquisite young ladies draped themselves over the ledges to wave and throw kisses to their favorites. One tossed a kerchief to the ground, which a fine-looking knight lifted with his lance. He flicked it into the air and caught it as the crowd went wild once again.

Over the din came the cry of the herald. “Hear ye! Hear ye!”

The noise settled to a quiet roar.

The herald continued. “I give you our beloved duke, His Grace, Justus DeMontfort of North Britannia.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

Then a man in understated clothing stepped forward. He wore his golden brown hair and beard trimmed short. The duke lifted his chin and surveyed the arena. Allen liked the look of
him. Old enough to exude wisdom and experience, yet young enough to offer an air of vitality. Kind, yet in perfect command.

“My dear and faithful servants of North Britannia.” The duke swept a hand from his right side to his left. “My esteemed guests.” He nodded to the noblemen on either side of him. “And most importantly, our valiant knights who shall fight today.” He actually bowed to the knights before him, lowborn Allen of Ellsworth included.

Pride and humility, confidence and insecurity waged an epic battle inside Allen's chest. He could hardly fathom he was here. Before the duke. A handsome knight on a fine steed.

The duke reached back to squeeze the hand of a striking woman with dark hair wearing a burgundy gown. “My fair duchess and I welcome you all to this celebration of a new and—with all hope—lasting peace in the realm of England. Long live King Henry.”

The crowd echoed the words, and Allen spoke them with gusto. “Long live King Henry.”

While hiding away in the forests, running for his life along with the many children of their group, he had feared this day when England was ruled by a just king might never come.

The duke directed his attention to the knights once again. “Brave warriors, as we commence the games today, be honorable, be courageous, be chivalrous, and be strong. But most of all, go hand in hand with the God of all creation.”

Tears sprang to Allen's eyes. So it was true. This was a righteous, God-honoring region. He had feared it might not be possible after living under the ruthless and evil King John for so long. How Duke Justus had maintained this bastion of goodness and truth, he desired to discover.

“Let the games begin!” the duke said.

The herald raised his hand and called over the crowd, which
again had commenced its cheering. “The rules of today's tournament shall be as such. Each set of competitors shall begin with a joust. If both competitors keep their seat, they shall continue jousting until at least one falls. If only one falls to the ground, his opponent shall be declared the victor.”

A year ago, although he was a well-trained warrior with a sword, Allen would have never dared to engage in a joust, but so much had changed in that short time. Confidence won the battle in his chest, for he could unseat any man in Lord Linden's service.

“If both should fall to the ground and only one rises to his feet, that man shall win. If both stand to their feet within the allotted time, a sword fight will commence.”

He glanced to the nervous-looking knight at his left in green and gold and to the one in blue and white at his right, with a youngish face peeking through his open visor. No problem there, but tomorrow, as Allen rose through the ranks, matters might prove more challenging, for he had noticed some fearsome competitors among the group.

“If one man should be pinned, lose his sword, or surrender, the other shall be victorious. If the battle reaches a stalemate, Duke Justus shall decide the winner.”

All sounded fair to Allen. This tournament would proceed much as his training rounds in Lindy.

“After all competitors have battled, the winners shall move to the next round until a single champion is declared and a prize of gold coins awarded.” The herald raised a fist overhead. “Prepare to fight.”

Allen sighed as he turned his horse back toward the gate. Having registered his entry late in the day, he would have a long wait before him. But he simply must win that prize, both because he needed to curry the duke's favor and because his small savings would not last long in this wealthy city.

For a moment he wished he had a squire—or better yet, an entire retinue—with which to while away the time. He was naught but a stranger in a strange land. But he had his faithful steed, Thunder, and God, his constant companion.

They would see him through this day.

If Warner DeMontfort had to endure one more minute of this chaotic caterwauling, he might just lose his morning meal on the hood of the man who stood—or more accurately bounced—in front of him. He pushed his way through the crowd and out of the arena for a brief respite. His reconnaissance mission had proven quite successful already. The duke had little enough security around him. That pompous fool clearly expected to be loved and doted upon by his people, but not everyone wished him well. If only he knew his banished cousin freely roamed the arena, scheming his demise.

Over the past year, the resistance had grown to a sizeable force. Many in North Britannia longed to return to the old ways, to the classic feudal system in which the nobility ruled with an iron fist as God intended. Under Duke Justus, their peasants had become too cocksure, too entitled, and far too educated for anyone's good. This ridiculous council and rule of law was simply not to be tolerated any further.

As Warner had watched Justus presiding over his adoring fans, he had thought his head might explode from sheer hatred. Of course they loved him. He treated them like equals, leaving this region weak and ripe for invasion. Already Warner had won a few council members to his side. If only he could recruit the newly returned military leader, Reimund Barnes, his plan would be complete. From all he had heard, the man had grown weary of the duke's progressive ways as well.

Now that matters in England had stabilized, North Britannia needed to join forces with the rest of the nation. To do so, someone must put this ludicrous Arthurian rot to rest once and for all. And he was just the man to do it. Was not his grandfather once the duke of a strong and traditional North Britannia? Did not DeMontfort blood run just as rich through his veins as through Justus's?

Another round of cheering welled from the spoiled commoners in the stands. But they would not be cheering for long. Not if he had his way.

Gwen took deep whiffs of Andromache's warm and welcoming scent to soothe herself as the crowd cheered in the background. Much like Gwen, the mare was large for a female, and disguised in blue-and-white finery it would have to pass for a destrier this day. She had schemed to great lengths to get the horse to town, but was thankful to have this familiar piece of home with her for the momentous occasion.

Not long now. Gwen scuffed her boot impatiently into the dirt. She had suffered through hours of waiting, a tedious midday break, and yet more waiting. This entire day and the evening before had been naught but torture upon torture, what with her father showing her off like a broodmare during the reception at Duke Justus's court.

She glanced about for Sir Allen, whom she had been matched against this day, but did not find him. Of course she had seen him this morning at the opening ceremony. A smile tickled her lips at the memory. She had at long last felt included in the grand
tradition of tournament and knight. The duke had welcomed and honored her right along with all the others.

But she knew not if she truly deserved her place in these ranks. Her chances of winning were slim, especially paired against Sir Allen, but if she could survive a round or two, all would be worthwhile. She continued to take deep breaths to calm herself, wringing her hands together and stomping off her nervous energy.

Rosalind, dressed as a squire in a similar hooded blue-and-white costume, ran through the crowd toward her. “Only this round and one more. We should prepare.”

Gwen stretched her neck against the strain. “I thought this moment might never come. I thought I would be found out for certain.”

“You put on quite a convincing performance this morning with your fake vomiting. When you dashed from the morning meal with a finger pressed to your lips and cheeks swelling, I would have sworn you turned green as well. However did you manage that?”

Gwen chuckled. “Sheer power of the will. I should have tried it last night. Perhaps I will this evening.”

“Your parents would take their chances and drag you along nonetheless. They might not have relented today, except that tomorrow is the main event and many skip the early rounds.” Rosalind handed Gwen her helmet.

As she donned it, her maid—rather, squire—did a last check of her saddle. The tournament officials had already tested her lances and sword to make sure that they were all sound and dulled to the proper degree for safety. Gwen put her shaking foot into the stirrup and mounted Andromache. She must pull herself together. She would not ruin this one rare chance over nerves.

Rosalind offered her the blue-and-white shield, then gathered
the lances and walked alongside Gwen and Andromache. “'Tis too bad they did not match you against that scrawny fellow. You could have taken him easily.”

“It is as it is. Besides, what sort of victory would that have been?”

“A sure one,” Rosalind said. “But if you wish to put your skill to the test, then you shall have your chance with that Sir Allen. It seems a fair match. He's much larger, but you are quick and have faced fierce competition in your brothers.”

“I can best him.”

“'Tis possible. Not that I would want to face Sir Allen across the field. . . . Although I might not mind meeting him in one—say, late at night under the full moon.” Rosalind feigned a swoon. “Perhaps you should wait for that opportunity instead. All the competitors shall be at the feast this evening. You never know what might happen.”

“Do not be ridiculous. Have I not made it abundantly clear that I have no interest in romance?”

“On the contrary, your demeanor yesterday made it clear that you
are
interested in romance with one specific man.” Rosalind adjusted the heavy lances and continued walking.

Gwen chose not to acknowledge that comment with a response, yet she could not deny the heat that filled her cheeks. At least her embarrassment served as a welcome respite from the nerves of the day. She would send this Allen sprawling to the ground just to prove he held no power over her.

The crowds erupted again.

“Only one more round,” Rosalind said as they stopped to the right of the gate.

Sir Allen of Ellsworth stood to the left side, alone, his lances propped against the rail. Gwen watched with undue fascination as he worked his gloves of metal and thick leather over his
hands. She could not remove her gaze as he covered his handsome features and waving hair with his helmet.

She simply must unseat him, for she feared she could not beat him with a sword. He looked quite fit and agile despite his size. She wished she had seen him fight before. Watching him now, she detected no obvious weaknesses. He appeared bright and focused, courageous and calm. She must face him head on from the start and pray they not be unseated at the same time.

Her gaze remained locked upon her foe until cheering burst forth once again.

“Well, that was quick.” Rosalind checked Gwen's harness one last time. “Are you ready?”

Gwen swallowed down a lump of fear, yet excitement tingled through her at the same time. She had dreamed of this opportunity her entire life, and she must relish every moment. “As ready as I shall ever be.”

“Godspeed, good sir.” Rosalind winked and handed her a lance.

An official-looking man crossed to her. “Sir Geoffrey Lachapelle?”

“Yes. At the ready.”

“Good. And this is your squire?”

“Indeed,” Rosalind said.

“You shall joust from the far side of the field.” He turned to Rosalind. “Run ahead and prepare your weapons.”

Rosalind did as bid. Gwen continued to drag soothing breaths into her lungs. She gripped tightly to the reins and pressed deeper into her saddle, sensing Andromache's strength against her thighs. Yes, she was ready.

She and Sir Allen lined up side by side once again. He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture.

“Best wishes,” he said.

It seemed in addition to the virtues she had already noted, he was kind and generous too—for not many would bid an opponent well. But she feared her voice might quaver if she answered, so she did not return the felicitations, only nodded again and shot a stern look in his direction, which she hoped might convey that she was a foe to be feared.

“Sir Allen of Ellsworth to face Sir Geoffrey Lachapelle,” the herald announced.

They rode out in tandem, bearing their lances before them. In the center, they faced the duke and bowed before turning to the crowd on either side to present themselves. Finally, they parted and headed to their assigned starting points.

Along the way, Gwen caught a glimpse of her parents in the grandstand. Her helmet would keep her hidden, but what if it fell off in battle and they recognized her? The smallest part of her almost wished they would, and that they would be forced to face the truth about their daughter. But a much larger portion was grateful for her anonymity, especially as she had little chance of winning.

Rosalind waited for her with a cheerful grin. “You can do this, Sir Geoffrey,” she said. “I believe in you.”

Did Gwen believe in herself? Not quite, but she would try with all her might. As she turned to face her opponent and lowered her visor, like she had a hundred times before, that familiar energy surged through her, striving to burst from her skin. She forgot her nervousness as instinct and training took over.

Leveling her lance, she stared into the slit of the helmet across the field. She recalled the bright and focused gleam in her opponent's eye, and determined to equal his intensity.

As always, time slowed as she thrust her horse into action.

Hoofbeat after hoofbeat to match the thumping beats of her heart. She squinted and honed in on Sir Allen's broad chest
covered in a red surcoat, like a giant target. She aimed for the spot just beyond his shield. A strike there would be sure to knock him down. From the edges of her vision, she watched his horse and his lance, searching for any weakness, any flaw, any stutter—but nothing.

The crowd seemed to cheer in an odd sort of slow motion. The horses drew closer and closer. She must keep her seat. She must do something to protect herself from the threatening lance headed straight for her with unerring accuracy. She would never have the strength to hold her shield steady against such a thunderous blow.

In that last heartbeat before they clashed, she shifted her own aim to deflect his strike.

The long poles tangled, and his alone went sailing through the sky, only to crash down a breath later. By that time Gwen was far past him, but unless he was the worst knight in the realm, he must have kept his seat, for she never touched him at all.

She slowed Andromache and turned the mighty steed. Indeed her opponent was still astride his horse. An attendant returned Allen's weapon to him. As neither lance had broken, they faced off from opposite sides of the list as the herald declared, “Pass number two for Sir Allen and Sir Geoffrey.”

Once again they squared off. But time did not slow this round. Instead, Allen rushed toward her before she felt quite prepared. She must unseat him, and quickly. His lance appeared just to the right of where it should be. She aimed dead center for his chest, but at the last he adjusted his aim and both lances splintered, as the force of a battering ram slammed into her shield. Gwen fought for control, clinging to her reins with all her might, but to no avail.

The next thing she knew, she found herself slipping, and then landing facedown in the dirt. A part of her wished to stay
there, but she felt certain he had fallen as well. She wheezed in an attempt to find her breath. Her chest burned with searing pain, and the world spun around her. But she would not be defeated so easily.

“Eight, nine, ten, eleven,” the herald cried.

She had only until the count of twenty. Calling upon every ounce of strength and stubbornness she possessed, she struggled to her feet and drew her sword.

As she scanned the field, her last hopes scattered into the breeze, for Sir Allen of Ellsworth already stood tall and proud, his weapon prepared for battle.

“Let the swordplay commence,” the herald practically shrieked in his excitement.

“Do you need a moment?” Sir Allen whispered beneath the roar of the crowd. “I wish this to be a fair contest.”

Gathering her fighting spirit, Gwen said, “I need nothing from you.” Not his handsome face, nor least of all his pity.

“In that case . . .” Allen circled around her, looking for his opportunity to strike.

But Gwen lunged first, catching the big man off guard, and delivering a hard blow to his ribs.

It seemed Allen would not make such a mistake again. He swung at her, and she dodged his strike.

And so it began. For the next minute, they dodged and parried, struck and spun. Gwen managed to meet him at every blow. Just when he stumbled to the ground and she thought she had him beat, he performed a surprising tumbling maneuver, flinging his feet back over his head and springing out of her reach. As she still reeled in surprise, he slashed a blow to her back. Pain exploded once again, now radiating from her back to her chest in pounding waves.

She pulled away a few steps, struggling to find her breath
and to gather her wits. This man possessed considerable skill. Not just strength, but as she had suspected, cunning and agility.

The battle raged on.

Gwen grew tired and fiery hot. Sweat dripped down her face and into her eyes, but she had no way of wiping it through the helmet. The crowd went hazy and sharpened back into focus again, seeming to grow closer and then retreat farther away. She could not keep up this pace much longer. But at the moment they each had one good blow upon the other. She must not give up.

Strike after strike they continued. Just when she thought she might collapse, Allen pulled back. He whipped his helmet from his head and wiped his brow with the leather part of his glove. Oh, how Gwen wished she could do the same. In a show of bravado, Allen tossed his helmet aside and poised his sword in front of him with two hands.

With a fearsome bellow, he surged toward Gwen. She tried to fend off his blows, but they came one after another with staggering speed and force. Just when she thought she might survive the onslaught, he dove low and swept her feet from beneath her with the swing of his leg. As she crashed to the ground, he flipped to standing and pressed his sword to her neck.

She had lost her own weapon at some point during her tumble to the dirt. No chance remained. She held up her hands in surrender as the crowd roared.

Sir Allen withdrew his sword several inches, but continued staring at her. Only then did she realize that her visor had flipped open from the impact of her fall. As she gazed into his deep hazel eyes, the world grew swishy and hazy to even a greater degree than it had during the battle. Odd tingles ran through her, seeming to coalesce in the vicinity of her lips.

She must be injured. Perhaps she'd hit her head without realizing. Surely this was no normal sort of reaction. Shaking off
the strange sensations, she snapped her visor shut and pushed to standing. No, other than the throbbing in her chest and back, she felt well enough.

Might he have noticed she was a female? Not likely, for her hair and form both remained well hidden. And if by some chance he suspected, surely he would never confess to nearly being bested by a girl.

Allen reached out to shake her hand. Through the double layer of gloves, she could feel nothing but a slight pressure, although her heart warmed at the gesture.

“Good effort,” he said. “You surprised me.”

She had surprised herself as well. She had managed her nerves, found her spirit, fought her hardest, and performed her very best. Yet she had been found lacking. Her illustrious career as a tournament knight, over so soon. Over before it ever really began.

“The victor is,” the herald called, “Sir Allen of Ellsworth.”