My Noble Knight (15 page)

Layne walked back to Griffin’s tent with her brothers. It was a somber mood. And she knew she should feel the same. But inside, she was overjoyed at the competent, strong way Griffin had unhorsed Osmont. She felt a personal victory. In one pass, her mind continued to repeat.

Carlton sat near the front of the tent, polishing Griffin’s armor. He looked up. Layne stopped before him as her brothers moved to their own tent. Colin was jousting later and they had to prepare.

Layne stared Carlton in the eye. Slowly, Carlton’s lips turned up in a grin and his eyes danced with exhilaration.

Layne knelt before him, grabbing his arms in elation, unable to keep the unabashed joy from her smile. “One pass!” she whispered in excitement.

Carlton nodded. He shrugged, trying to suppress the excitement in his voice. “He thought Osmont deserved no less for what he did to you.”

Pride and warmth blossomed in her heart. Layne leaned forward. “It wasn’t anything less.” She smiled. “Is he inside?”

Carlton nodded and looked back down at his work. She patted his shoulder and rose, entering the tent.

Griffin whirled. He wore no shirt, only breeches that hugged his legs and hips.

For a moment, Layne could not move. Her mouth went dry and she could only stare. His torso was chiseled perfection. Gleaming with a light sheen of perspiration, his muscles shone in the sun shining in from the open flap. He put his hands on his hips. “You should have been resting.”

She tried to form the words, but nothing came to mind. She nodded. Lord, how she wanted to touch him, to run her hands over the smooth expanse of his chest.

“You have nothing to say?”

She swallowed hard. Magnificent. Spectacular. Wonderful. All of these words came to her mind, but they had nothing to do with the joust.

“Speechless?” he asked, dropping his hands. “Yes, I suppose I would be, too.” He shook his head. “I made squire errors.”

Her mouth dropped in shock and she stepped forward, shaking her head. “No!” she protested.

He looked up, meeting her eyes.

The blue of his orbs left her reeling. “No,” she whispered. “You were wonderful. There were no mistakes. You were perfect.”

His brows lowered in disagreement. His gaze swept her face. “There is no such thing as perfect.”

“You gave Osmont a thorough thrashing, but I suspect you know that.” She stepped into the tent and the flap swooshed closed behind her.

“It wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “It took all of my training to keep my anger at bay. Osmont wasn’t so fortunate. He doesn’t have the will I do.”

She stepped closer. “Or the strength.” Her gaze moved over his torso and then back up to his eyes. “You are perfect.” A heated blush flushed through her body and she looked down. “You did wonderfully in the joust. I couldn’t be more proud.”

“You couldn’t?”

It was the way he said it that intrigued her. With shocked innocence. She glanced up at him. “Well…” She smiled in embarrassment. It wasn't her place to be proud of him. “What I meant to say… Is that I don’t think you made any mistakes.”

“Then you are not as observant as you say you are.” He crossed his arms. “What did your brothers think?”

Seriousness returned, erasing the joy. Layne glanced back over her shoulder at the tent flap. “I don’t think they felt the same way.”

“I should hope not. There’s a good chance I will joust against one of them on the morrow. That is, if they win their jousts today.”

How could they hope to beat him? And who would she root for?

L
ayne sat beside Michael as
he lay on his mat. His morning meal of apples and bread lay untouched on the floor where she placed it. “You should eat, Michael. To get your strength up.”

“For what?”

“For what? Frances and Colin still need their squire. The weapons need to be sharpened and cleaned –”

“How am I to do that?” He waved his bandaged hand in the air.

Layne sat back. “It will heal.”

“Am I to re-grow my fingers? Is that what will happen?” He turned away from her, facing the side of the tent.

A wave of sympathy crested over her. This was her fault. He had been defending her. She touched the side of her head where a welt had formed around the gash. She hated the bandage and removed it, letting the air heal it. She looked at Michael’s slumped back. She could have easily fallen into the same sorrow as Michael. He had lost his fingers. But she needed to be strong, to set an example, for Michael. She couldn’t let him feel sorry for himself. That was a dangerous path. She needed him to have purpose, to be strong. “You still have three fingers.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You're looking at this all wrong. Who else could boast of such an injury and lived? Not even Frances and Colin. You fought off a knight’s sword with naught but a dagger.”

Michael crossed his arms and refused to turn to her.

“Think of the stories you could tell. How you came to my rescue. How you faced a knight on horseback with only a dagger.” She tickled him, but he jerked away. Layne sat back with a sigh. “So that’s it? You’re going to give up? I suppose I can't blame you. Losing two fingers is almost like losing an arm. Losing two fingers is almost like losing a leg. I suppose those people who lose those are as good as dead.”

Michael whirled on her, his eyes brimming with tears, anger in his voice. “You don’t know what it’s like!”

“No, I don’t. But I tell you I wouldn't let that foul Osmont get away with this. I'd be up practicing until I could thrash him. I wouldn’t be laying around and letting others feel sorry for me.”

He clenched his teeth and glared at her. “I wish I had never saved you!”

His words stung, but she ignored them to curl her fingers into a tight fist. “You're a Fletcher. You’re a fighter, damn it. Fight!”

“I’m going to tell Colin you said an unlady-like word.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “You’ll have to get out of bed to do that.”

“I hate you, Layne!”

“Here, now,” Griffin said, ducking beneath the tent flap. “Knights of the realm do not speak thus to any lady.”

“She’s no lady,” Michael snapped. “She’s a pain in my arse.”

Layne knew he was angry and she was glad. Better for him to be angry than sad and pitiable.

“Michael!” Griffin reprimanded. “How do you expect her to treat you as a knight if you don’t act like one?”

Michael glowered at her.

At least he is sitting up, Layne thought, answering his fierce stare with one of her own.

Griffin picked up a dagger at the side of the bed. He inspected it, running a finger over the blade. “When I was a lad, my father insisted I treat even the servant women with decorum and respect. He always said that if I didn’t act like a knight, I could never truly become one.”

“Obviously, you ain’t got a sister like her!”

“Oh, on the contrary. I do,” Griffin said. He held the dagger to his eye, looking down the blade. “Although, she is not as adept with a weapon as Layne, she uses many of the same tactics to achieve her goals.” Griffin glanced at Layne.

“Tactics?” Michael echoed in confusion.

“Gwen is proficient at fake tears and pouty expressions.”

“Hey!” Layne objected. “I can’t fake cry.”

Griffin chuckled and picked up a whetstone. He shrugged casually. “Perhaps not, but there are other tactics you use. Innocent looks. Arguing.”

“You argue, too!” Layne protested.

Griffin ran the stone across the side of the blade. “How many times do you think Layne will have to ask you to eat?”

Michael glanced at the food. He pushed it away with his booted foot. “Many,” he said stubbornly and defiantly.

“Ah, good lad,” Griffin said. “Resist until the end.” He ran the stone along the other side of the blade. “But now, man to man, how many times would I have to ask?”

Michael looked at him. “Only once. But you are a knight. She is a –”

“Lady,” Griffin corrected.

Layne narrowed her eyes.

Michael grudgingly growled, “Lady.”

Griffin drew the trencher closer to the mat. “Eat,” he commanded Michael. “To be strong.”

Michael glared at the food for a long moment and then finally reached out to rip a piece from the bread and gingerly took a bite of it.

Griffin met Layne’s stare and shared a conspirator’s grin with her.

Warmth flooded through Layne. He had achieved what she could not. With her own brother. She should be insulted. But she wasn't. Not at all. She was grateful.

Carlton stuck his head into the tent. “Frances lost.”

Layne slowly turned the roasting stick over the fire outside of Griffin’s tent, cooking the duck that was skewered on it. She glanced at the Fletcher tent. It was strangely quiet, although she knew Frances and Michael were inside. Frances was furious he had lost. He was always hard on himself when he lost a competition, but even more so now when so much depended on him. Colin sat outside of the tent, sharpening his sword.

Even more depended on Colin now. They needed to win one more tournament to have enough coin for the farm. A home of their own. It’s what they all wanted. She knew that Colin would be torn whether to buy the farm or keep the money to pay to Griffin for her freedom. She was determined to make that an easy choice for her brother. She could survive much more time with Griffin, much more time than her ill father had left in the world.

Colin ran the whetstone across his blade. He was always so calm, so even tempered. She wondered how he did it. He knew the risks. He knew what they had to do. She admired Colin. She wished she could be more like him. If she was, she would never be in this situation. She would not have taken Frances’s place and jousted. She slowly turned the stick.

Griffin had let her stay with her brothers while he and Carlton went to practice.

“Ahh,” a voice called, and she turned to find a tall man approaching her.

She slowly rose, glancing at Colin who had paused in his work to watch her.

The man stopped, his hands raised. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.” He bowed slightly. “Ethan Farindale.”

“Griffin is not here.”

Ethan nodded. His sharp eyes took in everything, his surroundings, the duck she was roasting and her brother who watched him. He lifted a hand to Colin in greeting before looking back at Layne. “Where is my friend?”

“Practicing.”

“With the jousting he did today, I'm not sure he needs to practice.”

She had to agree with Ethan on that. “Should I tell him you stopped by?”

Ethan’s gaze swept her. He glanced at her brother. “Perhaps I can wait for him.”

Layne shrugged and knelt down to turn the stick the roasting duck was cooking on, easing it over so it cooked evenly.

“I didn't get your name,” Ethan said to her.

“I suspect you know my name.”

His lips curved up into a sideways grin. “I do, indeed. Fletcher. Layne Fletcher. The only one to ever have unhorsed Griffin. Well, until de la Noue, that is. But you will always be the first.”

Layne watched the duck, trying to remain impassive at his statement. Yes. She would always be the first, but she knew what had happened. She knew why Griffin fell. A tingle shot up her spine and she shifted her gaze to Ethan. She wondered if he did.