Connie Mason (7 page)

As soon as the flagon was empty, Drake awakened Evan, calling him out of the tent he shared with the other squires. The lad stumbled out of the tent, sleepy-eyed and yawning.

“How may I help you, my lord?”

He handed the empty flagon to the squire. “I have an errand for you, lad. Take this flagon to the keep and give it to Lord Waldo. Tell him it was delicious and extend my gratitude for his thoughtful gesture.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Mind you, give it to no one but Lord Waldo,” Drake said as the lad scampered off.

“You can count on me,” Evan called over his shoulder.

John laughed softly. “Methinks brother Waldo will be surprised to see you looking hale and hearty in the lists tomorrow,” John opined.

“So he will, John, so he will.”

John took his leave. Drake returned to his tent, his mind
whirling with all that had happened this night. Try as he might, he could not put Raven out of his mind. Her plea for help had been so desperate it had caught him off guard. So had her sweet kisses and startling burst of passion. She had stunned him with her heated response to what had begun as a mockery. Instead of showing his contempt for her he had found himself fighting his own body’s incomprehensible need to throw her down in the hay, toss up her skirts, and fill her with himself.

God’s blood!
What was wrong with him? Raven of Chirk had become the kind of woman Drake had learned to avoid: treacherous and sexually stimulating at the same time. Women like Raven deserved men like Waldo. He could not forget that but for Raven, Daria would have married him. Though he would never know for sure what the future would have held if Daria not been torn from his arms, he did feel certain that she would still be alive today. But Raven had snitched to her father, and his future had taken a different course.

Sleep was hard won that night, and it came at a price. Drake’s dreams were filled with a green-eyed, chestnut-haired beauty.

Raven sat in the window embrasure, fully dressed and not yet ready to succumb to sleep. From her tower room window she could see beyond the turrets to where a large collection of tents were pitched in the fields outside the castle gates. She knew exactly where Drake and his followers were camped, for she had climbed to the parapets earlier and asked one of the guards to point out the Black Knight’s encampment. She had identified Drake’s tent immediately by the pennant flying from the tent pole: a red dragon emblazoned upon a field of black.

Raven sighed and turned away from the window. Being rebuffed by Drake had been the most humiliating experience
of her life. She touched her lips, surprised by how swollen they still felt from his kisses. And her body. Sweet Virgin, never had her body felt so alive and vital. In all her twenty-four years she had never imagined how hard a man’s body could be. Lord save her, but she could have gone on kissing Drake forever.

Lost in wicked musings, Raven was startled when Thelma burst into her chamber, followed closely by Waldo. “I told him you were sleeping, mistress, that it was not proper for him to enter your chamber without first asking your permission, but he would not listen.”

“Get out!” Waldo bellowed.

Thelma sent Raven an apologetic look and scurried away.

“Close the door behind you,” Waldo ordered curtly.

Raven girded herself for Waldo’s anger. She had not long to wait.

“Your conduct is inappropriate, Raven,” he berated. “I cannot condone wanton behavior in my wife.”

“I am not yet your wife,” Raven contended. “Besides, Drake and I were merely discussing old times.”

“I am no fool, Raven. I know Drake kissed you. Look at you. Your lips are still swollen and your face flushed.” He stalked her. Raven retreated until her back came in contact with the window embrasure. “I will not have it,” he bit out, emphasizing each word.

“You accuse me falsely!” Raven retorted. “Think you I do not know you bedded one of the maids last night?”

“ ’Tis a man’s right to appease his lust. Mark me well, Raven of Chirk. Though I have waited years for you, should you become tiresome, I will satisfy my needs when and with whom I please. You will bear my heirs and run my home. I have been obsessed with you since you were naught but a bratty child with tangled red hair. But if and when I tire of you, I will seek other diversion.”

“You make me ill, Waldo,” Raven charged. “I do not wish to marry you, nor do I want to bear your children.”

Waldo grasped the neck of her gown and dragged her against him. “Do not ever let me hear you say that again,” he warned. “Once we are married I will teach you to obey. You were allowed too much freedom as a child. Most women your age have been married for years and have produced several children for their lords.” He leered at her. “We will make up for lost time.”

“Let go of me,” Raven hissed as she tried to pry his hands from her.

“Nay, never. You are mine, Raven. God works in mysterious ways. Had God not wanted me to have you He would not have taken Daria and Aric of Flint. Your maidenhead belongs to me. I look forward with pleasure to bedding you on our wedding night.”

As if to prove his words, he pumped his loins against her in an obscene imitation of sex and ground his lips against hers in a parody of a kiss. All he succeeded in doing was hurting her, reinforcing her desire to escape this marriage. She must convince Drake to help her despite his earlier refusal.

Gathering her strength, Raven raised her knee to push Waldo away and hit a vulnerable spot. He howled in pain and lashed out with his fist. He struck her on the cheek, sending her spinning to the floor. She watched in surprise as he doubled over and clutched himself. Her small act of defiance had taught her something valuable tonight, a lesson she would not forget. If there was one place a man was vulnerable, it was that place he thought with instead of his brains.

The village priest said Mass for the jousters the following morning. The services were held in the open field, since neither the village church nor the castle chapel was large enough
to hold so many. After the final blessing Drake returned to his tent to prepare for the first day of the tournament, which was slated to begin at terce.

In his tent, Drake armed himself with the aid of his squire. His weapons consisted of a blunt lance and sword, since only blunt weapons were to be used by order of the king. He would carry a thick shield constructed to withstand the blows of such weapons, and special armor designed to reduce injury. His armor was black, as was his helm and pennant. Over his armor he wore a black tunic emblazoned with a dragon on the front. When the herald called for the jousters to make ready, Drake mounted his destrier, which was arrayed in black trappings trimmed in red, and rode to the lists to await his turn.

Drake glanced at the pavilion erected for spectators and saw Raven sitting in the front row amid her maids and visiting ladies. She wore a deep purple gown fitted at the waist and trimmed in ermine. The color should have clashed with her flame-shot hair, but instead made it appear more vibrant. She did not wear a hennin, a conical headdress with a trailing veil, choosing instead to cover her glorious hair with a filet cap of gold and a veil that covered most of her face.

Drake scowled as Waldo rode to the pavilion and lowered his lance toward Raven, expecting to be awarded his lady’s favor. His scowl deepened when Raven pulled a tiny ribbon from her sleeve and tied it onto the end of the lance. Waldo gave her a mocking salute, wheeled his mount, and returned to the lists. Drake smiled grimly as he thought of the veil Raven had lost the night before in the stables. He touched the place where he had stuffed it inside his padded gambeson.

As Waldo wheeled his horse around, his gaze settled on Drake. Drake knew his brother had not expected to see him looking so well this morning. Waldo’s face appeared
bloodless, his expresssion one of disbelief. Drake gave him a mocking salute.

A moment later two mounted and armored knights entered the lists and took their places at opposite ends of the tilt, the wooden barrier erected in the lists to keep the horses from colliding. Drake watched with interest as the herald gave the signal to charge and each knight rode in a headlong gallop toward his opponent, lances aimed across their horses’ necks. Passing left side to left side, they met in the middle.

The knight Drake favored, Sir William of Dorset, took a crushing blow, which broke his opponent’s lance. Sir William’s lance succeeded in unseating his opponent and he dismounted. Immediately a cry rose up from the spectators: “Fairly broken.” Then both knights drew their blunted swords and continued the fight on foot. Sir William won handily, defeating his opponent with a skillful move that sent his opponent’s sword flying. A loud chorus of approval rose up from the spectators.

And so it continued. Sir John was next, and Drake was pleased when his friend handily vanquished his opponent. Sir Richard, another of his knights, jousted next and won. Then it was Drake’s turn.

Drake pulled down his faceplate and took his position at the tilt. When the herald gave the signal, both knights raced at full tilt toward one another. A sickening thud brought a gasp from the spectators as Drake’s opponent was unhorsed and lay unmoving on the ground. When it appeared that he was in no condition to continue, his squires ran out and carried him off the field on his shield. The spectators were on their feet cheering.

Drake jousted three more times before a halt was called to the day’s entertainment. Points were given for unhorsing an opponent, for striking his helmet, and for breaking a lance. At the end of the day the Black Knight and Waldo of Eyre had more points than any of the other jousters. Clearly they
were the contenders to defeat for the purse. And since only one winner could take the prize, it became abundantly clear that on the last day of the tournament the Black Knight and Waldo would be pitted against one another.

A knight should not kill simply for the pleasure of it
.

The banquet that night was a boisterous affair. Those knights who had been unhorsed complained about the high ransom demanded by their opponents to regain their horses and arms, and the winners celebrated their victories. The rules specified that to the victor went horses, armor, weapons, property, and fines. Traveling from tourney to tourney, those knights-errant, who were gifted with the skill of battle became wealthy from the spoils, while losers returned home penniless.

Drake had earned more than glory participating in tourneys across the width and breadth of England. After the tournament he would have earned sufficient wealth to restore Windhurst, his ancient castle in the wilds of Wessex. The purse that went to the champion at the end of this tournament, which he fully intended to win, would enable him to hire mercenaries to defend his fortress once it had been restored.

A hush fell over the hall when Drake entered. An imposing figure clad in unrelieved black, he resembled a dark bird of prey amid a bevy of bright-colored peacocks. And no one was more vibrantly clad than Waldo. His rich green brocade doublet and yellow hose did nothing to enhance his stocky build and ruddy complexion.

Drake did not immediately seat himself, but instead strode to the high table, stopping along the way to receive congratulations from his fellow jousters. When he reached the dais, he gave his half-brother a mocking smile and a negligent bow.

“You were quite impressive today, Drake,” Duff said by
way of greeting. “You are naught like the boy Waldo and I . . .” His words fell off and he looked away, embarrassed.

“Referred to as Sir Bastard?” Drake challenged. “Hardly.”

“You
were
incredible, Drake,” Raven complimented softly.

“You are too kind, my lady,” Drake said coolly. He dared not focus too much attention on Raven, though she looked disturbingly lovely tonight in scarlet velvet. He wanted no distractions to veer him from his purpose. He had thought too often about Raven these last two days for his peace of mind.

“You look hale and hearty after the grueling games today,” Waldo said casually. Drake knew exactly what he was referring to.

“Aye, I was most fortunate. No opponent unhorsed me, nor did I receive a scratch or bruise. Save your compliments for someone who will appreciate them,
brother
. The wine you sent last night was delicious. Sir John and I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

To his credit Waldo did not flinch, though it was obvious he had not expected Drake to mention the poisoned wine. “Since you found it so agreeable, mayhap I will send more tonight.”

“Nay, do not bother,” Drake said. His words carried a subtle warning, and apparently Waldo caught his drift, for his eyes did not quite meet Drake’s. “I must remain clear-headed for the tourney,” Drake added.

“I did not know you sent Drake wine, Waldo,” Duff chided. “I hope you chose a robust French.”

“The wine was a trifle bitter for my tastes,” Drake said with sly innuendo. Then he turned toward Raven, gave her a mocking bow, and sought a seat among his men.

“Bastard!” Waldo exclaimed the moment Drake turned his back.

“I find it difficult to believe you sent Drake wine, knowing how you feel about him,” Raven remarked.