Queen Of Knights (22 page)

"Hold your worry until the proper time.  I will avoid Morgan for as long as possible, I promise you that."

"You must be quick.  You must not let anyone's blow land on you."

Gwendolyn stared at Miles for a moment while James cinched her gambeson.  Then, with a half smile, she lifted her mask and put it on, effectively ending any further conversation.

Miles shook his head, but knew there could be no more talk.  "I will cheer for you," he told her as he left the tent.

"He worries greatly for you," James said while anchoring her coif-de-maille into place.

Putting her hand on his shoulder, Gwendolyn squeezed it gently.  She saw within his young, intelligent eyes the understanding of what she tried to convey.

With James walking behind her, she left the tent.  Outside, people lined the pathway, cheering for their mysterious champion.

Then she was on the field.  Together with all the contestants, she walked in rank before the king's stand.  The sun was strong today, and Gwendolyn sweated beneath the maille.  But she ignored the unpleasantness while she surveyed her competition.  All the knights who remained uninjured from yesterday's joust were on the field and, in addition, there were perhaps thirty peasants.

Again, as he had yesterday, the Archbishop of Canterbury stood next to the king and offered the day's benediction.  When he finished, Richard spoke.

"The archers of England have always been the finest in the world.  Their aim has always been true, and because of them, we have been victorious time and again.  Today we shall learn who the best long bowman in our country is."

The spectators were silent as they watched the most colorful king England had known for generations.  But, when his hands rose, and the fur-collared mantle fen back from his arms, a low roar grew from their combined throats.

"Let the tournament begin," he proclaimed.

Bedlam broke loose when the contestants returned to their squires and the first of the archers lined up on the mark.  Even while Gwendolyn walked toward James, she became aware of a sound breaking above the noise of the crowd.  She stopped when she realized what it was.  From hundreds of throats, the name of Sir Eldwin was being called.  Turning, Sir Eldwin looked toward the spectators and raised a mailled hand in salute.  The shouts grew louder, following Gwendolyn as she walked towards James.

There, she watched the first fifty archers notch their shafts.  Her eyes were drawn to a tall, thin man who stood half a head higher than the rest.  No matter how hard Gwendolyn tried to draw her eyes from the tall man, she could not.  His face was gaunt, its lines severe, but she saw that among them all, he was the most relaxed.

Then the king's chamberlain lifted his staff and banged its tip three times.  The archers, who were made up of the thirty peasants, as well as twenty squires who wanted to test their aim, drew their longbows and let fly the shafts.

Two minutes later, the three judges, William Marshall among them, returned from the targets.  They went to the chamberlain and gave the results.

"Ten archers have hit the center mark," declared the chamberlain.  He called out the names, and the crowd responded with applause.  But Gwendolyn still watched the tall archer who she knew had hit dead center.  "Robin Locksley," called the chamberlain at last.  The tall man bowed once and walked from the field.

The next group of fifty went to the mark, and when their arrows were scored, only two had reached center.  The third wave of archers stepped forward, and Gwendolyn's eyes locked with Morgan's.  He stood at the mark, but he looked at Sir Eldwin, and all could see the challenge written across his features.

The arrows were notched, yet Morgan still stared at Gwendolyn.  Only when the signal to shoot came did Morgan take his eyes away.  He seemed careless to those who watched.  Drawing back his bow, he fired almost without taking aim.  As soon as his shaft was loosened, his eyes went back to Gwendolyn, seemingly uninterested in the results.

When the winners' names were called, only one rang out.

"Morgan of Guildswood, dead center." Even with his name ringing in the air, Morgan acknowledged nothing.  His eyes remained fixed on Gwendolyn's in challenge.

Then Gwendolyn was walking toward the line, and the air was filled with the name of Sir Eldwin.  Forcing herself to concentrate on her task, Gwendolyn shut all else out.  She stared at the target two hundred feet away and made herself breathe easily.  She strung the longbow and lifted three shafts.  Gazing at each carefully, she chose the one that looked the most perfect.

When the call to mark came, she once again heard Miles's patient voice within her mind.  "Do not rush.  Breathe deeply and hold.  When you are ready, exhale while you release the shaft.  Concentrate on your target, concentrate…."

Gwendolyn drew her breath in slowly while she pulled back the gut.  Concentrating on the target, she let herself become one with the powerful hardwood bow.  Suddenly she felt the bow vibrate and forced her muscles to steady it.  When the tip of the shaft pointed properly, she let loose the string.

The shaft arced smoothly, and as the rest of her breath left her, she watched it fly true to its mark.  Lowering the bow, she waited until the judges withdrew the shafts.

Three names were called this round, Sir Eldwin's the first.

When her name was announced, Gwendolyn turned to face Morgan.  The sneer on his mouth sent a lance of rage shooting through her, and it took all her will power not to challenge him directly.  Instead, still staring at him, she bowed her head, and was rewarded by Morgan turning his back to her.

Gwendolyn stayed where she was, and the rest of the survivors of the first round came to their marks.  There were twenty-two of them.  Morgan stood three men away from Gwendolyn, but to her surprise, the tall peasant came to the spot next to her.

"My compliments, Sir Eldwin.  That was a fine shot."

Sir Eldwin nodded to him, in reply.

"I have heard of your vows, and respect them.  I am Robin Locksley, of Nottingham," he said in introduction.

When the call to mark came, Gwendolyn chose a new shaft.  She glanced at Morgan, who was again glaring at her.

"Concentrate," whispered Locksley, "do not let his anger reach you."

With that, Gwendolyn drew back the longbow and willed herself to think only of the target.  She let fly her shaft and heard the echoes of the other bows.  Again, when she looked at her target, she saw her aim had been true.

"Well done," Locksley said.  Gwendolyn nodded to the man, wondering just who he was.  He wore the poorly dyed clothing of a peasant, but spoke with the accent of a noble-man.

Of the twenty-two, only ten survived—Sir Eldwin, Morgan, and Locksley among them.  The remaining archers toed their mark, and once more Gwendolyn drew back the powerful bow.  Letting loose another shaft, she saw her arrow strike dead on center.

This time Morgan did not look at her.  His arrow, too, had reached the proper mark, but just barely.  Now there were six.  The crowd was on its feet, every voice exhorting its chosen champion.  Yet, as Gwendolyn listened to the names called out by the populace, she heard not the name of Locksley.

But Gwendolyn had recognized in the way the man stood, and the way he held his bow, that there was not a better bowman in the tournament.  She could not cheer him, so instead, as the archers chose their next shafts.  Sir Eldwin's mailled hand fell across Locksley's.  In it was one of her arrows.

Locksley gazed at the knight's masked face for a moment.

"My thanks, my lord," Locksley said in a low voice.  Gwendolyn watched him notch the arrow and face the targets.  Behind him she saw Morgan, his face dark with silent rage at this new affront.

Gwendolyn drew back her bow, and at the call, loosened the shaft.  But even as it flew, she knew she had lost her concentration.  When her shaft sank into the target, she saw it had barely missed the center mark.  Quickly, she glanced at the other targets.  Morgan's shaft was again dead center, as was Locksley's.  She and the other three knights had lost.  Only Locksley and Morgan were left.

Gwendolyn turned and looked toward the king's stand.

She saw Richard, and behind him, Miles.  Miles nodded, no disappointment showing on his face.  But, by the time Gwendolyn reached James.  Miles had appeared.

"You let Morgan break your concentration." he whispered.

Gwendolyn stared at him for a long moment, forcing herself to think back to the final shot.  Then she remembered when she had drawn the shaft back, letting her eyes flicker toward Morgan.

"He will not win in any event." Miles remarked.  Gwendolyn studied Miles's features for a moment, before looking back at the two remaining archers.  The chamberlain stood behind them, waiting until their arrows were notched.  Then he called them to their marks.

She watched as Morgan drew back his bow, and Locksley did the same.  They released the arrows at the same time, and the sound of gut reverberated in the air.  The arrows flew true, and both landed dead center.

Then Richard stood, and in a loud voice called for the final shoot.  "One target.  One shot," he decreed.

Both Morgan and Locksley bowed to signify their acceptance.  This time, with the crowd shouting only Morgan's name, the two archers stood side by side and drew their bows.  Gwendolyn's breath caught when she saw it was her arrow Locksley had notched once again.

Morgan let loose first, and even as his arrow was sailing toward the target, Locksley's bow twanged and his shaft followed.

A great cry wafted from the crowd when first one arrow struck the target and then the second.  This time no one could see the results as Marshall and the two other judges stepped directly in front of the target.  They lifted the leather-covered board and carried it to Richard.

The crowd gasped as one when they saw the two shafts almost touching.  Carefully, Marshall pointed to the one closest the center.

"Robin Locksley of Nottingham!" he yelled for all to hear.

Both Gwendolyn and Miles stared at Morgan, whose face grew darker with Richard's words.  He turned and walked to his men, and Gwendolyn felt a twinge of fear as she suddenly remembered the dark aura she had seen surround him yesterday.  She knew that this afternoon Morgan would be more dangerous than ever.

But not even her worry of Morgan interfered when she listened to Richard commending Locksley.

"You have stood well today, Robin Locksley, and all the men of England are proud of you.  Your victory has earned you a purse of gold," Richard declared, holding up a heavy leather purse.  "To the victor goes the spoils," he added, throwing the purse to Locksley.

But when the tall peasant rose from his knees, the purse clutched tightly in his hand, he did not turn to leave; rather, he faced Richard bravely and spoke.  "Sire, may I request a boon?" he asked.

The crowd hushed at his words, some plainly frightened, and others aghast at his audaciousness.  Yet, Gwendolyn sensed there was more to this peasant than met the eye, and silently cheered him on.

Richard, for his part, always the champion of the brave and foolhardy, merely nodded.  "I seem to be plagued with requests and boons for this tournament," he stated acerbically.  "Speak your mind."

"Sire, I wish you to know that the men of the North Country are behind you and look forward to many years of a good reign.  Because of this, and in the name of the common people of England, I wish to donate this purse to aid you in your fight against the Saracen."

Richard seemed taken aback by the peasant's words, but his majestic bearing overcame the surprise and he nodded slowly.  "With my thanks, and England's, I accept your offer," Richard replied.

Locksley smiled and insolently tossed the heavy purse back to Richard.  Then, instead of leaving, he spoke once again.  "Sire, do not leave your country unattended for too long; there are those who would take it from you."

"And you?" Richard asked quickly, staring intensely at the peasant dressed in green.

"I will but try to hold it for you, your Majesty," he said in a tight voice.

The tension was thick in the air, and the grumblings of the nobility sounded dangerous.  Richard merely laughed, then became serious.  "I shall count on you."

"Thank you, Sire," Locksley said, bowing once again.

The cheers of the common people grew louder, for before them was a champion who had stolen the day from their lords and masters, and for one very rare moment, they felt themselves transformed from their poor existence.

"There is something about him that is strong," Miles commented, studying the man who walked toward them.  Locksley stopped three feet away, bowed his head, and then extended Gwendolyn's shaft to her.

"I thank you for not looking down upon me, and am in your debt," he said formally.  "Guard yourselves well this day, for word is that Morgan means to destroy you both." With that, the tall archer left.

"We must discuss this, this afternoon," Miles said suddenly, but he was not looking at Gwendolyn; rather, his eyes stayed on Locksley's back until he was swallowed by the crowd of celebrants.

Chapter Thirteen

"
Damn
it, woman, listen to me!" Miles yelled through clenched teeth, his tall, muscular body blocking Gwendolyn's.

"Don't yell at me, my lord.  My mind is made up."

"I forbid it!"

Gwendolyn stared at Miles for a moment and then reached for her leather mask.  His fingers grasped her wrist and held it steady.

"Don't hide behind the mask.  Face me.  You cannot do what you are planning," he told her in a quieter voice.

Gwendolyn tried to raise her arm, but Miles's strength was too much for her.  Yet she refused to yield, and he refused to relinquish his hold.  A moment later she nodded, and Miles released her wrist.

"I am not fighting you, Husband; I am doing what I must."

"You are going to be hurt."

"Do you think your training bad? Or do you have so little faith in my ability?"

"You cannot face Morgan with a mace," he said.

"I have no intention of doing so."

"He will come after you," Miles warned.

"Miles, please, I know what I'm doing.  Morgan is a good strategist.  He has baited us, and he has made you afraid for our confrontation—no," Gwendolyn said, cutting off Miles's protest.  "I do not mean you fear him, but he has made you afraid for me.  I must face him eventually, because we both know that by the end of this tournament only Morgan or I shall be victorious."

"He has a bloodlust for anything of Radstock."

"And that will be his defeat.  Trust me, Husband; I know what I must do.  I know as surely as I know Morgan."

"Then do it," Miles said, relenting against what he knew would be an argument without end.

"My lord," Gwendolyn whispered.  "Your blessings?"

"They are always with you.  James! Arthur! Attend to Sir Eldwin," he shouted.

The squires returned to finish the job Miles had interrupted, and soon Gwendolyn was ready.  Hanging on a double-hooked sash was the battle-axe Miles had had fashioned for her, but in her hand she held the heavy wooden handle of a tournament mace, with its leaded morningstar hanging menacingly.  That was what she and Miles had argued about.  He wanted her to fight only with the axe, but Gwendolyn wanted to begin with the mace.

What she had in mind was a risky plan, but if it succeeded, it would enable her to face Morgan late in the fighting and be better prepared.

Although she held the same fears that Miles did, she knew Morgan would not go after her in the beginning.  He wanted the crowd to see them battle, and see him defeat her.  His two biggest flaws were his anger and his ego.  She was confident she could use them against him.

Finally, within the heavy protection of her chain maille armor, she heard the trumpets call the combatants to the field.  With Arthur and James behind her, carrying extra maces and shields, Sir Eldwin walked to the field and joined ranks with the other knights to face King Richard and begin the third phase of the tourney.

Of the three hundred knights who had begun the tournament, hoping to be named an earl at its conclusion, barely a hundred stood on the field.  There was no naming of opponents, just a challenge from one to another.  Like the jousting, the mace wielding would involve all knights.  After the first combat, those who were victorious would face another, and the battle would continue until there were but two knights fighting in the final confrontation.

Gwendolyn was troubled by Miles's outburst and his anger at her desire to fight with the mace.  She knew she could handle it well, as Miles himself had often told her, But she recognized, too, the need within herself to prove she could battle as a knight, with any type of weapon.

Gwendolyn also knew that her speed and mobility, even with the extra weight of her armor, would be an asset in this fight.  Miles had spent many long hours teaching her how to move; how to fall and roll and regain her feet without conscious effort.

The sun was burning brilliantly in the sky when the call to arms came.  From the moment she stepped upon the grassy sward, she fixed her eyes on Morgan's bulky figure, watching him maneuver himself until he had chosen his spot.  When he was set, Gwendolyn moved across the grass to stand on the same side as he.

Glancing at Miles, she saw his approving smile.  Sir Eldwin would not face Morgan in the first round.

Standing beneath the blistering sun and ignoring the heat, Gwendolyn gazed through the eye-slits of her mask and chose her opponent.  With a nod, and a flick of the mace's ball, she challenged the knight.  The man accepted and bowed his head to her.  That very gesture was being repeated along the two lines of knights, as they followed the code of chivalry that governed this tournament.

When the trumpets sounded again, the knights came forward.  Gwendolyn lifted her shield and let her opponent's ball ricochet harmlessly from it.  It was a testing shot, and she felt barely a twinge on her arm; yet, she held her mace back, still waiting.  She knew not to waste her strength or energy in testing an opponent with this weapon.  When she was ready to strike, it would be swift and sure.

Suddenly the knight lifted his mace and whirled it over his head.  Gwendolyn did not let the movement distract her, and held her eyes on his dark brown ones.  With his mace spinning in a blur, Gwendolyn dropped low, raised her shield, and flung the head of the mace in a sideways arc.  The rounded ball hit the knight in his side, and, once again, Gwendolyn avoided her opponent's deadly sphere with her shield.  But this time the ball landed solidly, and the shock of the contact raced along her arm.

Ignoring it, Gwendolyn recovered.  She whirled the mace's ball and charged the knight.  His shield came up, but too late, as the heavy ball hit his shoulder squarely.

She saw pain flash across the man's face, even as she back stepped and began to whirl the mace anew.  But she did not attack.  She waited until the knight had regained his balance, and only then did she come ahead.  Respect shone in her opponent's eyes as he met her new charge.

Time flew quickly while they traded blows.  Her shoulder was becoming numb from the repeated assault on her shield, and she realized she must not let this go on much longer.  Ducking a swift blow, Gwendolyn turned, holding the wooden handle behind her back.  Lunging suddenly, she cast her arm forward, and the ball whistled in the air.  The knight misjudged Gwendolyn's reach, and the ball skimmed over the top of his shield, crashing into his helmet.

Gwendolyn held herself ready while she stared at the man.  Then, slowly, his eyes closed, and he fell to the ground unconscious.

Her breath came in harsh gasps as she fought to control the surging of her blood.  She had won, and won with the mace.  Glancing around, she saw many knights still fighting, and knew she would have a few minutes to recover.

James ran out to her, taking her shield and mace as her opponent's squire raced to his master's prostrate form.  Gwendolyn stood there waiting, watching the thin streak of blood seeping from beneath the other knight's helmet.  But, by the time the squire had helped the knight to his feet, he had regained his senses.

"Well done, Sir Eldwin," the knight called as he leaned on his squire.

Gwendolyn bowed low to her opponent in reply.  Turning, she walked back to James.  "You fought well, my lord," James said.

"But you were slow on the second assault," came Miles's voice from behind her.

Gwendolyn spun to face him.  He smiled warmly, and the tension eased from her muscles.

"Don't be so gallant.  You were lucky.  Sir Jason believes in fighting honorably.  Very few do.  Damn it! Realize that you're facing mercenaries.  They are fighting out there to win more than praise.  They want an earldom, and they'll do anything they can to gain it.  Don't hold back again; I want you alive," he added in a quieter voice.

Gwendolyn stared at the hand he had balled in emphasis of his words.  Silently, she covered it with her gauntleted one and pressed it tightly.

Then, James was at her side, slipping on a new shield and handing her the mace.  She glanced quickly at Miles before walking out on the field again.

Although there had been fifty victors, only twenty knights remained.  Many of the victors had been too badly hurt to continue.  As Gwendolyn stepped into the ranks, she saw Morgan eye her and then join the same line as she.

Smiling to herself, she knew she had baited him properly.

He would face defeat rather than miss the opportunity to face her alone.

The trumpets sounded, and Gwendolyn dipped her head formally to her new opponent, who unlike Sir Jason, ignored this formality and charged her straight on.

Gwendolyn spun and raised her shield simultaneously, ducking under the hiss of the mace and, as the knight slipped past her, using her shield, rather than the lead ball, to hit his unprotected side in warning.

Then, when the knight faced her, she heeded Miles's words and attacked him relentlessly.  The mace was like lightning in her hands, as she used it in the double-circle method of striking that Miles had taught her.  The other knight tried to ward off her attack, but Gwendolyn was lost to the music of the fight and the whistle of the morningstar.  Nothing could prevent her charge.  She heard not the cheers of the crowd, nor the sounds of the other knights in combat.  All she saw was her foe before her, his shield torn to ribbons, his mace never landing upon her.

Her attack was so furious that the knight could not stand in place and was forced to retreat.  He back stepped, continually deflecting the lead ball with his shield, until there was nothing but tattered remains of the once-leather-covered wood.

Gwendolyn, heedless of the spectators' cries for blood, continued on.  Then it happened-the knight tripped over another fallen victim and lay on the ground defenseless.

Gwendolyn, with the sweet taste of her victory filling her, jumped over the body of the first knight to stand above her opponent.

Her mailled foot moved like lightning, pinning his wrist to the ground, his mace useless.  Whirling her mace above her head, Gwendolyn saw the knight's eyes widen.  She swiftly swung it down, and the dull thud of lead upon the earth, inches from the knight's head, sounded loud in her ears.  Then wordlessly, she waited.

"I yield," the knight whispered.  Instantly, Gwendolyn's foot left his wrist and she stepped back.  She waited for the knight to rise, and when he did, she once again bowed to her conquered opponent.

Grudgingly he returned the courtesy before turning his back and walking from the field in defeat.  Again, a loud cheering rose when Sir Eldwin looked at the crowd.  Turning, Sir Eldwin looked to see who remained.

As Gwendolyn glanced across the field, she saw Morgan standing over his opponent, his mace hanging limply in his hand.  A wide, animalistic sneer was on his face as he looked at her in renewed challenge.  Looking down, Gwendolyn saw his opponent unmoving upon the ground, and saw, too, a steady stream of blood flowing from beneath the cracked helmet.

Instantly, she knew he had killed yet another of England's knights in his attempt to win everything set before him.  She shook her head sadly at the sight before walking back to her position by James.

Upon reaching James, Gwendolyn sighed loudly.  "Have you been hurt?" he asked quietly.

Gwendolyn shook her head and dropped the mace.  She began to wind her arm in circles, loosening the cramps the last contest had brought out.  She realized she was tiring, but fought against it with every ounce of strength she possessed.

"Hold this," Miles said, handing her a rope encased stone.  She looked at it and then at Miles.  "It's much heavier than the mace.  Hold it for a while, and then the mace will feel lighter."

Gwendolyn took the heavy rock, and while she held it, Miles spoke again.  "You handled the last man well.  Try to end the next fight quickly.  You were right; Morgan is counting on you to win.  He wants you badly."

When the trumpet sounded, Gwendolyn released the rope and took the mace from James.  It was just as Miles had said.  The mace felt light once again.  Taking several deep, preparatory breaths, she crossed the field and stood next to Morgan.  She faced her next opponent, the one she must defeat in order to meet Morgan.

This time, instead of waiting for the call, she bowed formally.  Her opponent returned the courtesy, squared his shoulders, and hefted the mace.  She watched the man's eyes, tensing her body for the first attack.  The trumpet sounded and, moving swiftly, Gwendolyn back stepped before the knight could strike.

He shook his head and came on.  She saw his lips moving, but did not hear his words.  Then she realized he was not speaking aloud, but urging himself on.  He had seen Sir Eldwin's prowess and was nerving himself to best her.

Intuitively, Gwendolyn stopped and, even as she lifted her mace, charged the knight.  She accepted the full strike of his rounded morningstar on her shield while she whipped her own mace over the leather rim.  She caught the chain of his mace with her own and, still having the advantage of surprise, moved her wrist whip-like and yanked sharply.

Before the knight realized her strategy, his mace was entangled in hers, and was ripped from his hand.  The duel had taken no more than twenty seconds, but with the knight weaponless, there was no choice but to yield.  Gallantly, Sir Eldwin lowered her mace, and shield and waited.