Queen Of Knights (8 page)

<><><>

“My lady?” Roweena called as she rushed out to the parapet that Gwendolyn was on
. 
She stopped next to her mistress and gazed quickly out at the darkening sky.

“I s
e
e them
,
” Gwendolyn
r
eplied, pointing to a line of mounted riders
. 
The banner of the house of Guildswood fluttered at the column’s head.  “Prepare my clothing for the evening meal
,
” she commanded
.

“Yes, my lady
,
” Roweena replied in a subdued voice, leaving Gwendolyn alone once again
. 
Roweena was deeply disturbed about her mistress, but would never let it show in her voice or face
.

They shared a close relationship, almost a friendship, she thought quickly, but washed the errant thought from her mind
. 
It was wrong
. 
She was base born, the daughter of a scullery maid and blacksmith in the service of the Duke of Halsbred
. 
When she had turned six, only two years younger than her mistress, she had been chosen by Lady Gwyneth to become Lady Gwendolyn’s personal maid.  She began her training then
,
and in nine years had never willingly been far from her mistress’s side.

Roweena
l
oved Gwendolyn with a loyalty rare among servants.  She had always been treated well and had served as best she could.  She never challenged her mistress’s strange ways, and always accepted whatever Gwendolyn required of her.

But tonight something seemed different to Roweena.

Rarely had she seen Gwendolyn in as dark a mood as covered her mistress now.  But she also knew the mood was caused by the imminent arrival of Sir Morgan, and the next day’s tournament.

For the last three days, everything in Kildrake Castle had changed.  The king and his men had stayed, and because of that, the servants worked five times as hard
.

Roweena also noticed the change in Gwendolyn with each passing day
. 
Although she knew nothing of love, she realized her mistress was in love with Sir Miles.  They spent more time together than was proper
,
and not once had Gwendolyn left the castle without Miles.  When she and her knight left, they always returned together.  That, too, was different from the times she rode with Morgan, with whom she rarely returned to the castle
.

And Sir Miles was as gentle a man as he was handsome, never raising his voice in anger to his squires or the other servants.  Each night since his arrival, Roweena had prayed that Miles would defeat Morgan and gain her mistress’s hand.

With the insight of one who sees all, and must live within the restrictions of a society she has no control over, Roweena knew her life would be a good one as the maid to the Lady of Radstock.

A sudden knocking at the chamber door startled Roweena.  She put down the tunic she was holding and went to the door.  When she opened it, one of Sir Miles’s squires stood before her, an intricately carved leather box in his hands.

“Arthur?” she ventured.  The boy, Roweena’s age, smiled and shook his head
.

“James.”

“How does anyone tell you two apart?” she asked, her brows knitted together in perplexity.

“I’m the younger brother,” James said dryly as he held out his hands.  “This is from my lord, for the Lady Gwendolyn.”

Roweena accepted the box and smiled.  “I will see she gets it at once,” she told him.

By the time she put the box down and lifted the long undertunic from the bed, Gwendolyn had entered through her private doorway on the other side of the room.  “This one?” Roweena asked, holding up a brightly trimmed overgarment.

“Yes,” Gwendolyn said absently.  Because of her height she disliked the newer fashions; they restricted her movements.  But tonight, as she had since Richard’s arrival, she would wear the more uncomfortable, fashionable clothing.

“Sir Miles’s squire brought you a gift,” Roweena ventured and saw her mistress’s eyes widen for a moment.  “‘Tis on the bed,” she said
.

“The white undergarment also
,
” Gwendolyn ordered as she went to her bed.  While Roweena prepared her clothing, Gwendolyn looked at the leather box.  Lifting it slowly, she inspected the leather’s intricately tooled handiwork.

When she opened the box she gasped
. 
Inside, on a bed of velvet, rested a small, jewel
-
encrusted dagger, its blade encased within a tooled leather sheath.  She set the box down and lifted the small curved blade in her hand.  Then she saw the piece of parchment and took that from the box.

Unfolding it, she read the neatly scribed Latin, and a smile lit her face.  Miles had written that he had purchased this Saracen-made blade in Italy, but had not known why at the time
. 
When he met Gwendolyn, he had learned the reason
.

Gwendolyn put down the note and gazed at the knife.  It was beautifully crafted, and when she withdrew it from its
scabbard, its barely curved length glinted dangerously
. 
She had seen only one such dagger before
,
and that was years ago at Halsbred, in Sir Guy’s armory.

“My lady?” Roweena called.  Gwendolyn turned and smiled at her servant
. 
The smile faded when she gazed at the clothing.  She shrugged away the helpless feeling and nodded.  Roweena undressed her and then began the process of dressing.

First she stepped into the s
l
ippers Roweena had set out for her, and then the undergarment went on.  Not for the first time did Gwendo
l
yn wish she had been born into the lower classes
. 
If that were so, then she would not have had to wear anything more than this garment.  Sighing, Gwendolyn allowed Roweena to attach the cloth girdle around her waist.  Then she stood still while the servant fluffed out the skirt
. 
When that was done, Roweena held up the outergarment.

Gwendolyn stepped into it and waited u
n
t
i
l Roweena adjusted the bodice for her breasts and clasped the five silver buck
l
es together at each side
. 
The bodice rose to the base of her neck in a perfect circle
,
emphasizing its grace and beauty.  The outergarment was tucked in at her waist, and cut at her hips, where the material tapered to a point, centered midway to her knees in front and back.  The sleeves belled downward, reaching a
l
most to the floor
,
and Gwendolyn shook her arms to free their many fo
l
ds.

The sleeves, and the bor
d
e
r
of the neck, were braided in a bright blue, and compleme
nt
ed both the garment and her comp
l
exion.

“This suits you we
l
l, my lady,” Roweena said.

“I still dislike it
.
”

“I think Sir Miles will l
i
ke it.”

“Enough!” Gwendo
l
yn said i
n
a loud voice, but fai
l
ed to put any anger into it.  She smiled when she saw Roweena trying not to.  “My hair?”

“I can braid it and use the sil
v
er comb
,
” Roweena suggested.

“Not tonight
. 
I think a simple crown braid will do
,
” she decided.  Twenty minutes later Roweena finished her hair and Gwendolyn stood.  “The mirror
,
” she ordered.

Roweena brought out the po
l
ished-steel oval and held it for Gwendolyn.  She studied herself critically until she nodded her approval
. 
Her ha
i
r flowed in smooth waves down
her ba
c
k, but the sides had been braided in a tiara, and rested on the top of her head
.

“Did you wish a necklace?”

Gwendolyn shook her head and turned away.  “Wait,” Gwendolyn called.  “My long chain, I have a use for it,” she said.  Moments later she held the gold rope in her hand.

She took the small jeweled dagger from the box and, using the link that was on the sheath, attached it to the
l
ong golden rope.  Then she had Roweena slide
i
t over her head.  The jeweled handle of the dagger fell in the exact center between her breasts, and Gwendo
l
yn knew it was perfect
.

“I think it is time I made my appearance,” Gwendolyn whispered, speaking to herse
l
f as much as to Roweena.

Gwendolyn had already spent too much time preparing, and was, because of it, negligent in her duties.  Tomorrow was the tournament, and tonight the center courtyard would hold
t
he feast
.

She had spent the entire afternoon involved in preparations for the feast, and instructing the servants on how to set up the courtyard for their guests
.

Kildrake Castle was filled with guests
. 
Since the moment the king’ s messengers had gone out to report of his decree to Guildswood, all the neighboring nobility had come to witness the fight between Morgan and Miles, and partake in the presence of the king.  Tonight’s feas
t
would be a long one, and one that Gwendolyn knew would draw deeply on her reserves of composure.

Gwendolyn thought again of the Druid priestess, and her words in the cave
. 
She turned from Roweena and closed her eyes
. 
She p
i
ctured the silver sword in her hand, and the peaceful, pure white light that had been cast by it, and opened her mind to it
. 
Warmth flowed through her, and the tension that held her prisoner began to drain.  Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned back to her servant only to dis
c
over Roweena staring wide
-
eyed at her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Did you see it?” Roweena whispered, genuflecting quickly.

“See what?” Gwendolyn asked.

“The light
. 
You were surrounded by a light, my lady
.
” “A trick of the tapers,” Gwendolyn said quickly, regretting the impulse which had made her call those strange
powers when another person was present.  She promised she would not do it again.  “I saw nothing,” she added.  But she knew Roweena had seen it, she could still feel the warmth of the light, and the peacefulness flowing through her veins
.

“Come, it is time.” Striding purposefully toward the door, she prepared herself to face the long night ahead.

Chapter Four

MILES
stood in the center of his chamber; the tapers lighting the room aided him in the inspection of the equipment his squires had prepared for tomorrow’s match
. 
His hauberk had been cleaned and glowed darkly.  His helmet shone, and its nasal bar looked like an inverted cross.

On the floor next to the maille were his cuisses, the leather-padded leggings that protected his thighs
. 
The heavy gamboise undergarments would add even more width to him, and the gambeson that would be between the maille and his surcoat had been freshly aired.

Because it was a tournament and not a fight to the death, Miles decided to not wear several of the heavier pieces that would slow him down.  Blunted swords and flat
-
tipped lances were dangerous but rarely fatal, and in a joust such as this, no thought was given to killing or maiming, just winning.

Miles waved away greaves, hournskull, and breastplate, but nodded to the rerebraces that would protect the outer part of his upper arm.

“We think it best you wear the greaves and breastplate
.

We’ve been talking to some of the other squires,” ventured Arthur.

Miles looked at the twins and nodded his head.  He regarded them with love and caring, and knew they felt the same toward him.  When they ventured an opinion, Miles had found it best to listen
. 
“Go ahead,” he ordered
.

“It is said that Sir Morgan gives no quarter, even in tourney
. 
He likes to beat his opponents badly
,
not merely win
,
” whispered Arthur.

“He goes for the legs also,” added James.

“Very well,” Miles said
. 
“Set up full armor then, but not the hournskull.  I want my face free
.
”

“Yes sir,” the twins replied in unison, their blue eyes brightening and blonde heads bobbing with his words.

Miles was filled with a restless energy and decided to take a walk.  He was not tired, and the sounds from those who still feasted echoed into his room.  He needed a place to be alone, where he could think, undisturbed, about tomorrow.

After giving the twins further orders about his equipment, he left the room and went through the hall to a door on the far side that opened onto the parapet.  There he walked by himself for a while, thinking about his life, and his future.

He was committed to Richard, even as his father had been committed to Richard’s father, Henry.  Miles had spent four years at Richard’s side, fighting whomever Richard had chosen, and traveling through Normandy, Italy, and secretly visiting the Holy Land.  He had sworn an oath with Richard, outside the walled city of Jerusalem, to come back with Richard and return the land to Christianity’s embrace.

Miles knew that in a year Richard would have his army gathered, and they would debark on a crusade against the Saracens.  He wanted to be at Richard
’
s side when they rode through the gates of Jerusalem
.

Miles stopped to gaze at the star-filled sky
. 
He knew tomorrow marked an important day for him.  It signaled a change in his life, a significant change, and he was eagerly looking forward to it.  By winning tomorrow’s joust he would gain a wife and complete the first part of his commitments to his family.  And that commitment was a strong one.  Miles of Radstock was the last male of his line.  His only legitimate brother, Roger
,
had been killed fighting for King Henry the Second, and his bastard-born brother, Theodore, had chosen the life of the church.

Just as Richard took the crown upon his father’s death, so did Miles draw on the mantle of the Earl of Radstock upon the news of Roger’s death.  Roger had died without leaving issue, and it was up to Miles to continue a line that was as old as Britain itself.

But it was more than the responsibilities of his name and rank which filled Miles’s mind—much more.  From the first time he had seen Gwendolyn of Kildrake he had known what love was.  Watching her fight the two men had been a gift given to him, and he had seen a vision permitted to few.  He also knew he would never allow Morgan to take her from him.

Miles thought himself to be a simple man, enjoying everything about life and devoting himself to the arts of being a knight.  His desires were normal, and his vows sacred.  It bothered him to some degree that Richard had to issue his edict for Miles to gain Gwendolyn’s hand, but short of open warfare against Guildswood, there was no other way.

Yet with tomorrow’s sun, Miles felt he would be absolved from the deceit which enabled him to take Gwendolyn from Morgan....

Miles remembered Morgan’s arrival this evening.  Miles had been standing to one side in the great hall, talking with a knight he had not seen in some time when Morgan had entered with his entourage.  Miles had carefully watched Morgan, studying his adversary closely as he approached the king.

Sir Morgan of Guildswood was taller than average height, but still a good four inches shorter than Miles.  His lack of height was more than made up for by his powerful width.  His neck, rising out of the light maille hauberk, was thick and powerful.  His arms were massive, and his legs, encased within the padded riding hose, were like two tree trunks.

Before Morgan had reached the king, his head had turned and his eyes had found Miles’s.  Within their deep-set darkness, Miles had seen the man’s hatred flare.  A chill coursed through him when he sensed the rage contained within the knight’s stare.

When Morgan had turned from him, Miles knew he had gazed into the eyes of a man who was destined to become his lifelong enemy, and a dangerous one at that.  He had thought this even as Morgan reached Richard and made his obeisance to the king.  When Morgan had lifted Richard’s hand to his lips, Miles had left the hall to go to his room and dress for the evening’s festivities.

A loud bark of laughter reached Miles on the parapet and he recognized Richard’s laugh.  The king would be among the
last to finish tonight; he had to impress his new subjects with his presence, his stories, and his power.

Mi
l
es concentrated in an effort to see through the darkness, and was rewarded by glimpsing the shadowy shapes of tents on the flat tou
r
nament field.  Even now his squires would be making their way toward his tent to layout his armor and weapons
—
to sleep by them, to make certain everything would be ready for the morning.

It would be there, on the fields tomorrow, that he would meet Morgan.  And, if everything went well, by the time the sun was setting tomorrow, the day of his wedding would be set
.

For the last several days, Miles had wondered to himself if he were mad
. 
He wondered if he saw more in Gwendolyn than there was.  Her height alone was unequaled, and her beauty was made even more apparent by this height
. 
It was this evening
,
at the feast, that had given Miles the answer to his unasked questions.  When she had entered the courtyard he had seen the jewe
l
ed blade hanging on its golden rope.  The handbreadth-long dagger swayed gently between her breasts, and he had known that everything she had said to him had been true.  She had been the first woman to capture his heart, and Miles was suddenly glad of this
.

In an effort to pull his mind from Gwendolyn, he thought of the feast of which he himself had partaken so little.  But throughout the long hours of revelry
,
he had been aware of everything happening around him.  His mind had been as clear as the crysta
l
night under which they had eaten.  The lights from the torches added to the silvery sheen of the ten thousand stars that had shown down upon them
. 
The night, like his mind, had been open and calm.

<><><>

In the forefront of the courtyard, set five feet above the rest of the tables, was the High Table.  At the table’s center was King Richard
,
to his right, Hughes, and to his left
,
Gwendolyn.  At the extreme ends of the table of honor, separated by Richard’s advisors, sat the opponents, Miles and Morgan
.

Below the table, and spread out across the wide courtyard were the tables of the Duke’s guests
. 
All the nobility from the surrounding countryside were in Devonshire to witness the fight between Miles and Morgan for the right to wed Gwendolyn.  With them were their families, their knights, and behind them, their personal
s
ervants and squires.

“She is a lovely morsel, Miles, but is she worth this folly?” Edward, Earl of Lydford asked.

Miles glanced at the earl, a man he had known for several years, and one whom he had shared battle with in Normandy.  “Morsel?” he asked with a smile.

“Well, perhaps a healthy bite,” the earl added jovially
. 
“Edward, my friend, I promise you this is not folly,” he whispered.

“It had best not be.  Morgan is no man to trifle with
. 
My brother met him in tourney last year and felt the blows of his sword for almost two fortnights
. 
He told me that fighting Morgan is like fighting the devil
. 
The man has no mercy in him
.
”

“He moves slowly, he does not worry me overmuch,” Miles said confidently
.

“He is built like a bull, and like a bull, when he is in full charge, he is a fearsome thing,” Edward warned
. 
“He flinches not in the fight, and he cares nothing for what happens to him
. 
He seeks only one thing, victory!”

“I shall heed your warning and act accordingly
,
” Miles promised.  “I thank you for your concern.”

Miles turned and glanced at Morgan.  He studied him for the hundredth time since sitting down at the High Table
. 
The other knight was dressed in the modern Norman manner.  His overcoat was shorter than Miles’s, barely reaching to his massive hose-covered thighs.  The overcoat was trimmed boldly with a multitude of gold threads, and Morgan’s coat of arms, a black-winged lion floating above a castle, was wrought carefully across his chest
.

Miles smiled at him.  Morgan met his stare but his lips did not move from their straight line
. 
Then he saw Morgan turn toward Gwendolyn.  Miles watched Morgan’s eyes sweep across Gwendolyn’s face, and then drop to the full swelling of her breasts.

Rather than be angered by this proprietary gesture, Miles kept his features emotionless.  Between her breasts hung the Saracen dagger, which Morgan could not miss noticing.  When Morgan looked back at Miles, Miles smiled fully at the knight
—
he knew Morgan had been told of his gift
. 
Morgan’s
face darkened with anger, which Miles countered with his continued smile.

“Careful,” Edward cautioned, “or you’ll be fighting on top of this table.”

“Which you would greatly love to see.”

“I’ll not deny that,” Edward replied with a laugh.

But Edward’s laughter was only an echo as Miles turned to Gwendolyn and was ensnared by her blue eyes.  She sat proudly at the king’s side, her shoulders straight, and her hands daintily picking at the food before her.  He knew that somehow, tomorrow, he must beat Morgan and win Gwendolyn.

Throughout the meal, Miles had let his glance continually wander to Gwendolyn, and he had noticed that she barely ate from the array of platters on the table
. 
Her silver cup sat untouched, and Miles knew she was as tense as he.  Whenever their eyes met, unspoken messages passed between them, and Miles took refuge within these.

He too ate sparingly, just enough to satisfy his hunger, and when he lifted his cup of wine, he barely let the sweet liquid touch his lips.  Tomorrow was too important to be slowed by drink or food.  Yet, across the boards, he saw Morgan eat his fill.  But he did notice that the knight drank very little.

Good, Miles thought, at least he has more brains than most.  A fanfare of trumpets called, and Miles took a deep breath.

The cheers of the guests rang out as a long line of servants began to wind its way through the tables.  Each servant carried a silver platter, and centered upon it was a dressed pheasant.  The tenth course was being served.

By the end of the feast, twelve courses would be served, and as many wines and meads would accompany each course.  A feast such as this held certain obligations to those who attended, and each person was expected to eat his fill, again and again.  To do less would be to dishonor their host.

So Miles took a portion of pheasant and began to slowly cut at it with his knife, but in a few minutes, James, as he had been doing all evening, would take his platter and replace it with an empty one.