Eliza Knight - The Rules of Chivalry (8 page)

Arthur rubbed his hands on his legs, partially in an effort to gain some warmth in the chill night air, and partly with glee. His luck hadn’t been this up in, well, ever! He stuffed a fist into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

See, Mother! I am not so worthless!
He wanted to shout aloud, but instead settled for the spirit of his mother being able to hear his thoughts.

Wouldn’t Black Knight pay to keep him quiet? Of course he would. No one wanted to incur the wrath of Lord Kent. And the man would certainly want to continue his sinful ways.

This time, he couldn’t keep a shrill laugh from escaping
his lips. He’d gone from a simpering whelp of a serf, to thief, and extortion all in one day. Mama would be proud indeed. He was going places.

By this time tomorrow he’d be snug under a thick fur pelt and lying beside a blazing fire. His stomach would be full of warm seasoned venison. His mouth salivated and his hungry belly growled in answer, the sound accompanied by a painful jab, reminding him it had been hours since his last meal.

Silently, Arthur slipped back between the tents. Aye, Black Knight and the lady had just paved his path to freedom.

Chapter S
ix

M
ichael jumped from foot to foot, shaking out his limbs inside his tent. The sun had risen, and outside people were already milling about, shouting greetings to one another and merchants hawk
ed
their wares.  Did no one ever sleep? Seemed to him they stayed up all night drinking, whoring, eating and betting, sleeping perhaps an hour or two before rising to do it again. He’d hardly slept himself, but not from a night of debauchery. No, his sleepless night was from thoughts of Elena, and the memory of her kiss burning his lips.

Despite little sleep, he was fired up. Blood and excitement pumped through his veins. Today was
the
day. He thrust his hands into the frigid water his squires provided for him and splashed it onto his face.
Crisp, fresh.
He was alert and ready.
Perhaps, even more so after last night.

His feelings for Elena had not waned, if anything they’d grown stronger. He could still sense her lips on his, smell her,
hear
her. He splashed more water on his face. It did nothing—he still burned from the memory of her kiss. His cock hardened with yearning—a deep seated
need
to be with her. He gl
anced down at the bulge in his breeches
.
Traitor!
With a flick of his wrists he sent his men from the tent. The last thing he needed was for his men to raise eyebrows and toss jeers at him for his erection.

“Prepare my armor,” he called after them.

Used to his swift moods, they cleared out quickly.

With his men gone he disrobed and dumped the rest of the cool water all over his body. What he really needed to do was go for a ride on Black to the nearest body of water and submerge himself until he could scourge Elena from his thoughts.

He was putting them both in danger. He’d savored every moment with her the night before, but saint’s above, what had he been thinking? Anyone could have walked into the tent while he kissed her, someone could have found her to be missing, or seen them hiding in the shadows as he walked her back. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to rush beneath the safety of her tent, for he was beyond the point of control when she’d leaned in to kiss him again. Potent desire had taken over. Such could never happen again. He’d only be risking her life, and hadn’t he come here to do precisely the opposite?

No, that kiss was the last. From now on he’d start acting like the knight he’d been trained to be. He’d be a gentleman to her, chivalrous in every respect. She was married for God’s sake! He’d be party to adultery, hanged, drawn, quartered and she could be burned at the stake for it! Knowing her husband, the man would make sure they both suffered unnecessarily
,
should they be caught.

A shiver passed through him, his body no longer overheated. He pulled his clothes back on and walked out into the morning. Dew from the grass soaked into his boots turning the light brown leather darker.

Fletch placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Everything all right, sir?”

“Perfectly.”
He gave him a wry smile and then turned to his other squires. “Well then?”

Michael didn’t miss out on the hidden glances his men gave each other. Fletch raised a brow and then quickly went about his work. He was grateful none asked him any questions. He didn’t want to explain himself to them—shouldn’t have to, but he felt guilty. These men had bled with him. If they knew why his mood was so foul, they might run into the nearby woods without a backward glance. By his actions, he was also putting their lives at stake. He shook his head. What a fool he was. But could one help what the heart
yearned for? Problem was
,
he needed to remember now that she belonged to someone else.
Even if that man was a bastard.

Lips thinned into a frown, he instead focused on the battle ahead. While there had been fourteen knights he’d bested the day before, today he’d battle nine. Ten of the men total would be thrown together onto the field, last man standing wins. Swords were to be used, hands if necessary. Unlike on the fields of battle and in earlier years, they weren’t fighting to the death. Even still, injuries happened and some men did die. He needed all of his wits about him. One split-sec
ond thought of Elena, could result in someone severing
one of his limbs. Then all would be lost.

Fletch, Colin and Jon began their dance around him until he was completely dressed in his armor. He flexed his hands inside his metal gauntlets feeling restricted, stiff. He grasped his sword and tossed it from hand to hand, then up in the air. He turned to the right and stepped back, reached into the air and caught the hilt of his sword as it descended. His men clapped, and a smile tugged at his lips.

He did a few more practice parries, tosses and thrusts. For the moment, lost in his skill, lost in the sheer joy and power his sword brought him. His men shouted their confidence in him and a few passersby cheered him on. Michael bowed.

But then he was pulled from his elation, black clouds surrounding him, when he remembered why he was here, and how important today was.

With a brisk tilt of his head, he motioned his men to walk with him. “Jon, grab an extra sword and shield.”

If he were to lose either in the battle from another opponent, if the lord so deigned it, his squires could toss him a replacement.
He smirked sardonically. Kent was probably the type of lord who would say no to such a request, preferring to watch the poor knight fight unprotected, using his hands and arms against another who wielded sharp,
deadly metal.

Michael stopped short. They
passed
by Kent’s tents. He watched with suppressed fury as the man berated Elena in front of a crowd. He could barely make out the words.

“…meant to be neither seen nor heard…”

Head down, blonde waves draped delicately over her shoulder, the regal countess nodded her head. She looked positively beaten down. His heart shattered at seeing her so trampled by her husband’s brutishness.

“…useful to no one, especially me…cow…”

When Kent raised his hand as if to strike her, Michael could no longer stand by. Without warning he knocked Jon to the ground, his extra sword and shield went flying, the latter bouncing off someone’s hip. His actions caused just the stir he wanted. Kent’s hand came to rest at his side as he turned to see what the commotion was. Michael wasted no time in continuing with the farce.

Under his breath he muttered to Jon, “My apologies I’ll explain later.” Hands on hips he constructed a fierce glare on his man. “What the devil is the matter with you, boy? Have you no legs? Spend too much time drinking and whoring last eve? Get up!”

Jon’s face turned blotchy red and he looked confused, but when Fletch made a ruse of kicking him in the ribs, the boy clambered to his feet and began gathering the things he’d dropped.

“My apologies, my lord,” Michael said to Kent. “The boy is a new squire of mine and hasn’t yet learned the rules. He’ll be punished for his disobedience later, I assure you.”

Kent nodded his approval and suddenly Michael realized that even if he didn’t win today, this little ruse of his might give him a place in Kent’s personal guard anyway. The man was a bully and he certainly approved of Michael’s poor treatment of Jon. His hopes soared. Although his plans to win the tournament had not changed in the slightest, it felt good
to know if things didn’t come to fruition, he might still stand a chance to save Elena, or at least as much as he could.

Michael chanced a glance in his love’s direction. What he saw gave him a punch to the gut so intense, he felt it clear from his middle to his toes and back. She seethed beneath the surface of her demure façade, and all of her anger was pointed at him.

*****

Anger surged through Elena’s veins. How dare he mistreat the young squire?
And in front of so many people.
Beneath her lashes she glared daggers at the man she thought she’d known. After all these years she’d sworn she knew him well, but obviously she’d been wrong. His cruel taunting words echoed in the air. Her husband’s approval of his abuse on the squire only exacerbated the situation. Here she’d pleaded for a savior only to call in a man with a tendency for violence.

She raised her eyes only for the briefest of moments to meet Michael’s. From the distance between them it looked almost like he beseeched her.
Begged her for something.
For what?
Forgiveness?
Hadn’t he begged her forgiveness the night before as well? Perhaps now she knew why—he was cruel.

She wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

Kent swiveled on his heel and with a motion of his hand, he and his men headed for their seats by the list field. His tirade on her over, his hand had not connected with her. She’d been waiting for such a beating from him. Never before had he been angry enough to do so in front of a crowd. Mayhap he’d needed to show his power. She wasn’t about to try and understand the man. He’d beaten her for less. She rubbed her bruised hip. Just a sennight ago he’d tossed her to the cold stone floor of the castle.

Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Her mother never told her of the ruthlessness of men. Bedtime stories had been
all about the brave lord or knight she might marry. A man who would protect her, a man she would be loyal to, the children she’d bear and raise. Never once had her mother warned of being the brunt of her husband’s anger. Never once had her mother told her all of her dreams would be crushed like a blade of grass beneath her husband’s heavy boots. Had her father been so cruel to her mother?
He’d certainly had
harsh
words with her on occasion—but she never saw him raise a hand, nor did she see any bruises on her mother
. Was it only Elena’s bad luck to be tied to such a man? Were there any chivalrous knights left in the world?

Looks could be deceiving, as Michael had just proven to her when he’d mistreated the poor knight.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath.
Shattered dreams and false hopes.
Weren’t they served to her on a silver platter morning, noon and night? Perhaps
she was being too judgmental, jaded in her thoughts…

*****

The battle was on.

Covered head to toe in sweat, the knights warring on the field had long since removed their tunics and chainmail, protected now only by the thickness of their quilted doublets. Even that was too much—the heat was intense, and sweat soaked the fabric. If it weren’t a tournament, Michael would fight in just his chausses.

Only four men remained on the field. But the battle was really between Michael and Thomas Devlin of Warwick. They’d paired up to defeat the other six men, and now each of them would easily take down the two they parried with.

Then it would be Devlin versus Devereux.

Michael wasn’t as confident as he’d been in the joust. Thomas proved to be a formidable opponent. Even still, he’d not let the man win, not when he was this close.

Dispatching o
f the other two, they
face
d
one another.
There feet shuffled, arms held steady with their swords.

“I’m going to let you win,” Thomas said quietly, his face steady. He wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm.

The man teased him, no doubt. “The hell you are. I’ll win because I’m better.” Michael laughed.

Thomas’ lip curled at the corner and he winked. “I could cut you down with one thrust, my friend. Swordsmanship is my great talent.” He bowed mockingly.

“Ah, but it is also mine.”

Thomas lowered his voice. “I’ll leave you with your pride intact. But know
this,
I only came to the tournament to see that you win. So let us see that you do.”

Michael frowned, puzzled, but before he could think more on it, Thomas thrust forward. He raised his arm to block the shot, remembering too late that he no longer wore armor. Had the man purposefully goaded him to get him off his guard? Pain seared up his arm as the metal connected with his flesh. A ribbon of red ran down his arm.

He’d been cut.

The field, spectators and fallen knights faded away. Fury took over and he attacked with a vengeance.

“That’s the spirit,” Thomas shouted as he dodged, blocked and parried.

What was wrong with the man? Didn’t he realize how serious this sword fight was? He seemed to make a game of it, teasing and taunting him. His puzzling words still rang out in Michael’s mind.
I only came to the tournament to see that you win.

What in Hades did that mean?

Michael was tired of whatever ruse Devlin was playing
.
Time to take the man down.
He thrust with more vigor, and then hooked his leg around Thomas’ ankle, sending him crashing to the ground.

The point of his sword touched the hollow of Thomas’ neck. The man had the audacity to smile like a milk-drunk
calf.