Heart of a Knight (40 page)

"Do you yet harbor love for Thomas, Isobel? I'd thought you over that crush."

"Not for me," the girl said earnestly. "For you, my lady."

"Shout for your own man, my sweet," Lyssa said with a smile. "We three will do the shouting for Thomas."

Isobel put her head against Lyssa's arm. "No, I will shout with you," she said. "For if my man does not triumph, he will yet live, while yours will not."

Just then a horn sounded, and with fanfare the king arrived. He spared no look at Lyssa as he took his place. She resolutely turned her attention to the fields as the lists began.

Thomas paced as the contests got underway. Paced to keep his body warm and his arms loose, paced to squelch the creeping panic that edged into his heart if he slowed. 'Twas a fierce group, and there were those who'd have his blood.

The king had made no announcement of Thomas himself, so only those who'd been in the hall last even knew the truth of him. He picked them out easily, those smirking or looking down—or as down as it was possible to look when a man stood a hand taller—at him. At first they bothered him, but in his first contest, he took the unfamiliar lance and found it weighed and swung much like a good scythe. He unseated his first opponent—and his second—on the first thrust.

The smirking stopped then.

Lyssa sat on the dais, clad in the green gown he thought made her eyes look like jewels, but he could not think of her now. 'Twas like the hunt; all of his being had to be on the work itself.

As the day wore on, plain winners emerged in the single lists. Thomas was triumphant four times, and only once did he even find himself in a sweat before unseating his opponent. Once he took a nick to his chin, but for the rest he was well protected.

Between bouts, he stood with Robert and John Tyler, all of them silent as they watched the knights who might be troublesome. There was one beast who was as tall as Thomas but fat, too. At first, he seemed he be no worry, since his girth would slow him down, but as they watched, he repeatedly won his bouts with a surprising grace and superior timing. He rode as if the horse were his own legs.

"They call him The Mountain," Robert said, the first words he'd spoke since appearing this morning to help Thomas don his gear. "Even you will not unseat him, my lord."

"Robert," Thomas said, eyeing the enormous knight, "you need not address me thus till I have won the title for my own. You were right to feel betrayed, and I'll not hold you to some false standard."

Robert raised his eyes. "I spoke in anger." His chin lifted, and Thomas saw in that tilt the man the boy would become. "You've proved yourself knight to me already, sir."

"Well, thank you for that, boy." He clapped him on the shoulder. "Hold that thought steady." He took a breath and pointed. "'Tis time for the melee for the winners here."

This was where his throat was in danger. The jousts were man to man, and blunted weapons the rule. In the melee, there would be none to point a finger if Thomas fell, for who would know what knight dealt the fatal cut?

The two forces aligned themselves, fifteen men to a side. With Thomas were men from the northern provinces, men less rich than the king's group, but hardier, and more scarred. He saw in their eyes respect for his size and skill, and felt kinship with them in their hunger for the goods they might win here today. "I'm after that bay gelding, myself," said one, lifting his chin to a fine horse ridden by one of the king's men. "You?"

Thomas grinned. "All of them."

His comrade laughed. "Why not?"

Thomas narrowed his eyes as he looked back to the opposing army. The enormous knight wore the king's standard, and Thomas thought his destrier the finest horse he'd seen, but the man would not be easily captured. There were others, too, and fine harnesses of silver and gold. These were the richest men in the realm, and any would be worth a fine ransom.

But there were two that would prove the largest test. Kivelsworthy, on a chestnut, and Margrave in his black armor, astride a huge black gelding. Both men gazed at Thomas with fixed promise, and anticipation. Donning his helm, Thomas met their gazes with a challenge of his own.

May the best man win.

Lyssa managed to stay calm through the jousts, but as the men assembled in the clearing for the second part of the tournament, sweat broke down her back, and her uneasy stomach lurched.

Alice, perhaps seeing that Lyssa had gone green, fetched a cup of cider. "Drink, my lady. You'll serve none by fainting dead away."

The knights gathered in two long lines at opposite ends of the field. The crowd roared, all hoping secretly—or not so secretly—for blood to be spilled, or a fierce contest. The blood lust was so fierce it could be smelled, and Lyssa covered her face with a corner of her veil.

On the field, Thomas sat near the middle of his group, and as they waited for the signal, he looked toward the dais, and put his hand over the weaving she had made. A woman in the peasant clusters cried out, "Toss me a kiss, too, young stud."

The group laughed at her bawdiness, and roared approvingly when Thomas playfully did as she asked, lifting his gloved hand to his lips and tossing her a kiss.

Even here, Lyssa thought with wonder, he was master. And why not? Women, rich or poor, did not miss the pleasure of his form, and in his mail, with that black hair tumbling over his broad shoulders, he was a fine specimen. He'd fought well, too, with a kind of sure grace she should have realized would be part of his skill. He might not have fought in lists before, but he was athletic and graceful, possessed of a powerful talent for anything physical. Why would he not triumph here, too?

She glanced at the king and saw a bemused expression on his face. For the first time since Thomas had been taken away last night, she took a full breath. Perhaps this would end right.

Perhaps.

The signal was given, and the knights charged toward one another. Lyssa wanted to throw her hands up over her ears at the tumult of sound—the thundering of horses and the cries of the crowd, and the clanking, sickening sound of clashing engagement. The crowd on the dais came to its feet, and Lyssa cried out in frustration when she lost sight of Thomas. She leapt to her feet and pushed at the man in front of her, trying to get a better view.

But it was impossible to see anything, to pick out any one man in the melee. Horses reared and whinnied and swords flashed and clanked and the people cried out, and behind it all, music as wild as the fight itself played at an hysterical pace. She saw Margrave in his black mail, and the fat knight who rode so surprisingly well, but could not pick out Thomas. She clutched Alice. "Where is he?"

"I cannot tell."

There was no thought, no voice but the cry of the hunt in his throat. There was the smell of blood and horse and sweat in his nose, and the clashing of metal and the whinny of horse and the guttural sound of blows and the higher noise of shouts and cries of triumph or defeat. There was heat in his arms and wild power in his chest, a blood lust not unlike the hunt, which was the fight for life, as this was. His own life.

In the midst of the battle, he fought with a mindless power, slashing and lunging and ducking. A slash across his cheek opened and stung and bled. He unseated a king's man with a violent lunge, and snatched the man's horse, capturing the standard attached to his neck before warding off the attack of another from behind.

It seemed they fought for an endless, breathless, mindless, bloody time, until his arms were so weary with lifting the great sword they shook, till the horses were blowing and foaming, till his voice was hoarse with crying out.

Capturing another horse, he bolted for the sidelines to give the reins to Robert, who rushed forward to take them. "My lord!" he cried, and pointed, and Thomas turned and sped to his left, away from the edges of the field where the trees and shrubs would make the fight more dangerous still. The knight they called The Mountain pursued him, and Thomas whirled to meet the challenge. He found himself crying out as he spurred his horse and raced headlong to meet the brute. The lance caught him sharply across the side, a blow of no mean weight, and Thomas gasped, circling and fighting to maintain his mount. The knight came again, lance upraised, his sword thrust out, as if he meant to swing at Thomas's head.

But Thomas had watched the man in the jousts, and he raced hard, then turned suddenly, swinging back with his sword to lay a brutal blow across the knight's shoulders. It would have sent another man to the ground, but the fat knight only roared, shaking it off before he whirled.

From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw the others come forward, and dread shot through him. Four riders, indistinguishable in their helmets but for Margrave in his black, converged upon Thomas and the big knight, and there were thrusts from all sides, and more shouts.

His horse leapt and shivered, then reared all at once—a disaster that made the crowd cry out in terror. Thomas fought for control of the beast, knowing he would be crushed if he were thrown. He clung to the reins and held on with his legs. In the fight, he lost his sword, but when the horse went down, Thomas still rode him—leaning down over its neck as the beast broke for an opening the gathered knights could not close quickly enough.

Sword lost, horse mad with fear, Thomas knew he faced death if he could not find some answer. In sudden inspiration, he spurred the horse to a run and bolted for the forest, ducking low branches as the horse raced into the woods.

They were not thick, but there was cover enough for his purpose. Thomas leapt free of the beast and ducked behind an ancient oak, holding there till the others burst into the forest behind him, following the riderless horse by its noise. As the last man came by, Thomas sprung, and by sheer virtue of his size, hauled the rider off, nabbing the reins. The man leapt for him, and managed a good blow with the flat of his sword across the vulnerable part of Thomas's shoulder before Thomas hit him, hard. He fell, senseless, and Thomas plucked the sword from his hand.

The others had spotted him and turned back, and Thomas leapt astride the new horse and raced back the way he had come, bursting onto the playing field to a roar of approval from the crowd. He raised the stolen sword in acknowledgment, and the roar grew louder still, but Thomas heard the riders behind him and spared no more thought for glory.

John Tyler had recovered Thomas's sword and held it, hilt up, as Thomas raced by, plucking it with his left hand as he raced to the middle ground. Here, he faced less chance of murder, even three on one, for all would witness the fight.

Only one of his own men was yet standing, the same who'd eyed the bay—and had captured it. He joined Thomas with a cry, and together they faced the other three. Kivelsworthy, his blond curls sticking out below the helm. Margrave in his black. The one they called The Mountain.

A swell of heat and power swelled in Thomas. His breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat prickled along his back and scalp and sides, and his arms were so weary he could not think how he'd manage even a blow with one sword, much less lift two. But it did not matter. Here was the heart of it, and his blood sung. All time slowed, and there came over his ears a deep silence, where no roaring or wild trumpet or shriek came, only the loud thudding of his heart and the raggedness of his breath and the eyes of his opponents. He did not even hear his own cries, only the roughness of them tearing his throat.

And here was the dance: the swing of swords in weary arms, the swirl of horse and man and shining armor, the blood roaring, the smell of battle. A beauty unmeasured, a power unknown, a perfection of movement that ached in him, burst like a wild sun in his chest.

And when it was over, he sat alone, only mildly wounded, blinking to see they had finished. Margrave lay on the ground, and Thomas could not quite see what looked so odd about him until he saw that the man's helm had twisted, and he could not see. Kivelsworthy, sprawled in the dust, motionless, and the fat knight wheezed to one side of the arena, bent over.

Thomas laughed, and ripped off his helmet and raised both arms with both swords over his head in triumph, to accept the roaring approval of the crowd.

But he sought the gaze of only one, and sought her on the dais, but she was not there.

She was in the field, racing in her green gown, her hair flying behind her, tears streaming down her face. He dismounted and his knees nearly buckled at the new trial of bearing his weight after so much. He dropped the swords and stood there, unable to take another step, unsure he could even lift his arms to embrace her.

But she flung herself with a glad cry into him, and Thomas found he did have a little strength left to put his arms around her. And there in the tournament field, with the cries of a happy crowd all around him, he bent and kissed his lady, as a knight.

And the crowd roared again, and tossed trinkets toward him. Thomas lifted his head in wonder, holding her close to him, as others swarmed up to him—Robert and John, Mary and Alice, both with tears on their faces.

"Four horses!" Robert cried in excitement.

"I thought you dead at the last!" Mary said, touching his arm.

"That was some fight," John said, near chortling. "One, two—"

Their voices swirled and washed over him, but Thomas looked only into the green eyes of his love, who had fought for him, as he'd fought for her. "I love you," he whispered.

Her eyes spoke for her, eyes filled and shining. "You were as noble as a king out there, Thomas. I near fainted away with rapture."

He laughed.

There was a sudden muting of the chatter, and Thomas looked up to see Edward himself parting the crowd. He halted before Thomas, his eyes unreadable as he stared.

At last he said simply, "Well done."

And smiled.

EPILOGUE