Suzanne Robinson (10 page)

The procession was nearing the central lodge. Already the ladies were calling out to the knights, draping favors across lance tips, urging their favorites on to victory. Juliana’s palms grew damp, and her skin felt as if a multitude of ants scurried beneath its surface. De Valence and the Earl of Ravensford approached. They paused to salute the countess and Havisia.

Laudine startled her by calling out to that French knight with the mocking blue eyes, Lucien, but Juliana managed to remain still. A welcoming smile flitted over her lips. That great black destrier began to walk again.
Her vision filled with wide shoulders clad in chain mail and emerald silk. She curled her fingers around the cloth of silver kerchief. Yolande would be hurt, but she was young and would forget.

Watching the tip of that favor-shrouded lance, she was ready when it began to dip. Her body craned forward toward the railing that separated her from him. She let her hand edge forward, holding the gossamer silver. The tip of the lance sailed gently down, past her shoulder, slightly out of reach. In that brief space of time, she caught herself before her hand could reach out to pursue the weapon. Jerking it back, she thrust it into her lap and watched the lance tip point at the girl beside her, Yolande.

Had all the blood drained from her face? Her mouth had frozen into a smile; of this she was certain. Drawing her shoulders up, she scooted back, as if she had been changing to a more comfortable position. Her gaze shifted so that she stared ahead. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Yolande blush and let her finest embroidered sleeve fall over the lance of Gray de Valence.

The procession moved on. Lances saluted, dipped, sailed up draped with colorful prizes. Juliana smiled and offered her congratulations to Yolande and her sisters for the number of favors requested of them. She laughed at Laudine’s jests, whispered judgments of the prowess of various knights. It was the most difficult thing she’d ever done—harder even than surviving Edmund Strange’s repudiation of her.

De Valence hadn’t wanted her favor. He’d never intended anything so honest as an open tribute. Why had he spoken to her as he had if he didn’t want her favor?
Fool, for a base reason even you should have suspected, though you’re unaccustomed to such attentions being directed your way
. No, she wouldn’t think of it. She had to
survive this hell-spawned tournament with her pride intact. She hadn’t betrayed herself, had she?

Even as she affected her pretense, mortification and pain suffused her, then gathered and settled in her chest somewhere. Was it in her heart? Her throat ached from the effort to stifle a sob, but she would rather suffocate than shame herself by bursting into tears. Later, when she was alone, she would flay herself with rebukes for believing the lies of another rooster knight. Then she would let the hurt out in tears. Now she would save her pride.

No one, especially not de Valence, would suspect she’d been so foolish as to hope for a suitor. The tournament progressed around her, although she paid no real heed to any of the jousts. Hugo had declared that arms of peace be used, so lances and sword points were blunted. Sword blades were dull, and lances were light and made of brittle wood. This she regretted, for it lessened the chance that Gray de Valence would be killed.

Still, some mischance might occur. Perhaps there was something to look forward to in this tournament after all. Juliana settled down to wait, for during the time in which she’d been sitting here dazed, de Valence’s herald had issued a challenge to Richard. The announcement had created a great stir among the crowd; everyone knew of the unspoken enmity between the two men. Richard had one more joust before he met de Valence.

There was hope yet. She had seen Richard fight, and he was formidable, especially with a sword. If she was patient, she might be granted the pleasure of seeing Gray de Valence skewered right between the golden wings of that dragon on his chest.

He was furious. Years of anticipation were to have culminated in Richard Welles’s disgrace, and now that bastard
had ruined everything by coming to him with the truth. Stunned by what Welles had told him just as the tournament began, Gray de Valence had been performing his part in the contest through a haze of confusion. He’d been so preoccupied that he’d forgotten his instructions to the herald to challenge his enemy. Too late now to withdraw it.

Standing in the lists behind the inner palisade, he allowed his squire to relace his chain mail while he lapsed into agitated thought. Welles had come to his tent as he was arming, surprising him and his entire household. Neither of the other two men he’d sought out in revenge had wanted to talk to him. That is, except Gamier de Moselle, who had talked after he’d attacked Gray when his back was turned. Then he’d begged for mercy when he lost anyway. The begging had been a delay while the whoreson got his hand on a concealed knife. Gamier was dead.

But Welles had come openly to his tent. He’d come openly and had the temerity to chastise Gray for his quest for vengeance. He had stood there in all his majestic, black-haired bulk and shaken his head at Gray. Shaken his head!

“I knew you were but pretending to be the reformed and gentle knight for my uncle’s benefit. This farce in which you’re engaged does you no good, de Valence. Avenging yourself upon innocent men won’t take away the stain on your honor.”

Gray pulled a mailed glove onto his right hand and worked the fingers. “Haven’t you ever heard of trial by arms? God is my judge, and my witness, and he’s seen me defeat William Lawrence and your friend Gamier de Moselle.” Gray left off studying his glove and fixed Welles with a frost-ridden stare.

“And he told me the truth at last. Before he died, that
is. He told me it was you who had seduced Baron Etienne’s wife, that you feared discovery after being caught with her by a maid. That’s why you cast blame upon me. To avoid being exposed for the deceiving spawn of Satan that you are. Once, I thought you were my friend, Welles. I can forgive much, but not the betrayal of a knight who said he was my friend.”

Instead of loud refutations or defiant laughter, all he got was a gaze of bewilderment.

“Gamier said I was the lover?”

“Very good, Welles. Such honest confusion. You’d do well in the Egyptian caliph’s court.”

Welles was frowning, distracted. “Why would he tell such a lie? He knew I didn’t—”

“This farce is useless. I don’t believe you, and I will kill you.”

He grew more annoyed than ever when it became apparent that his enemy wasn’t listening to him. Welles wasn’t even looking at him. He walked back and forth in Gray’s pavilion, head down, rubbing his chin. He stopped suddenly to contemplate a clothing chest and mused.

“He must have feared for his life.”

“True,” Gray said lightly. “And he wouldn’t risk dying with the stain of a lie upon his soul.”

“But he did.”

“What do you mean?” Gray snapped.

“He did go to God with that sin upon his soul, for I never touched the baron’s wife. We all thought you did.”

“We?”

“Everyone in the household,” Welles said. “I remember the day the baron found out. Gamier and William Lawrence came from his chamber, told the rest of us knights the truth and swore us to silence.”

“While I was hunting.”

“Yes, but then why would he lie all these years later
when …” Welles suddenly looked up at Gray. “Dear God and the Blessed Virgin, Gamier and William.”

Gray was growing uneasy. “You’re the one who took me prisoner. You’re the one who accused me and threw me on that ship.”

“At Baron Etienne’s request. But—”

“Damn you, what’s wrong?”

“I never thought about it, but Baron Etienne gave no sign that he knew until after Gamier and William sought private words with him. And it was Gamier who suggested abducting you and taking you abroad. He always was jealous of you. His jealousy was the talk of the demesne.” Welles approached Gray and lowered his voice. “And if he told you such a lie after all these years, then I think he may have been lying all along.”

Gray turned away from Welles and picked up another gauntlet. “I didn’t know you were so afraid of me.”

“Afraid?”

“Why else would you make up such a tale?”

Welles’s eyes widened and he turned crimson. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No doubt you’ve heard of the craven way Gamier died.”

“I, Gray de Valence, do not lie.”

“Ha!”

“You’ve been too long among heathens, de Valence. Slavery must have made you feeble-witted, or you would have remembered one small thing.”

“What is that?”

“During the weeks in which the baron’s lady was supposed to have strayed, I was recovering from a wound near the groin I got while training with the new squires. I’m surprised you don’t remember since you dragged me from the practice yard yourself. You saw the wound, so
tell me how I could have bedded the baron’s wife in such a condition.”

Gray shook his head, his thoughts confused.

“I beg your forgiveness, de Valence, though I don’t blame you if you withhold it. I was your friend, and I never came to you and asked you for your side of the quarrel. I should have, and I deserve whatever punishment God ordains for me.”

All Gray could do was mutter, “You were wounded—just God, you were wounded, and all this time I—”

The noise and confusion of the tourney battle rose around him as Gray remembered Richard Welles’s revelations. It was true; Welles had been wounded. And even so brawny a man as he couldn’t have performed with a woman before the injury healed. The news hurled him into chaos. Of the precepts and grudges that had ruled his life since his disgrace, the most powerful had been Richard Welles’s guilt. Now that was gone. And he had killed the real culprit without knowing it. Gamier, the cur, had robbed him of the sweetest of revenges—knowing the truth and avenging it.

Simon wrapped his sword belt around Gray’s waist. It hung low on his left side where his scabbard waited to hold his sword, but Gray made no move to sheathe it. Since recognition of the truth had burst upon him, he’d carried out his duties at the tournament with but half his attention. He was fortunate not to have been trounced, so far had his attention been from the three jousts he’d won. The squire lowered the great helm onto his head and attached it.

Gray shook his head. He had to put aside his frustration and the disorder of his mind. Simon was leading his destrier forward. The animal bobbed his head and jerked at the bridle. Gray sheathed his sword, checked that his two-handed battle sword was in place on the saddle, and
mounted. Taking up lance and shield, he turned his horse into the lists as trumpets sounded the call to arms.

An abrupt silence descended upon the tournament grounds. Neither the de Valence nor the Welles pursuivants indulged in the customary exchange of shouted insults. Gray faced Richard Welles across the expanse of the lists, both of them rigid on their tall destriers.

A marshal waved his white baton and called, “In the name of God and Saint Michael, do battle!”

Gray saw his opponent mirror his sudden kick to his stallion. A shout went up from the lodges. The ground quaked beneath him, and sod flew as he hurtled across the lists. As the stallion reached a gallop, he bent low in the saddle, swung his shield to cover his body, and lowered his helm almost to the top of his shield. Through the slits in the helm he could see Welles doing the same. Years of training urged him forward. He was committed to the attack.

Swerving his horse so that he passed his opponent on the right, he dropped his lance point, his aim deadly. At the last moment, almost against his will, he shifted his aim. Not much, just enough. The crash jolted his whole body. His lance splintered, and he dropped it as his horse swung back on his haunches. Hooves cast great clods of dirt. Quickly he swerved to look at Welles. A long jagged mark on his enemy’s shield told him he’d struck true. A cheer rose up from the crowd.

They rode at each other a second time with the same results. Again that tense silence marked the charge. Again both men came away still in the saddle. Now his arm vibrated with the shock of the clashes. For the third time Gray’s destrier surged forward. Through flying dirt and the thunder of hooves he galloped. His lance dropped. This time he forced himself to keep it straight. The jolt rammed through him and sent him sailing through the
air. He hit the ground hard and sprawled there. A great clatter of armor told him Welles had been flung from the saddle too.

Gray shoved himself to his feet beside his snorting, plunging destrier and drew his sword. He barely managed to pick up his shield before Welles was upon him. He countered an overhand blow. The force of it dented his blade. He feinted, lifted his shield to a second blow, then lunged.

His sword caught Welles in the ribs, and he heard a muffled cry. It was a sound he’d imagined hearing for what seemed like centuries, the sound of his betrayer’s pain. And there was no fulfillment. Instead, the sound left him feeling empty. There was no exultation, no vindication, no triumph. He was fighting an innocent man because he hadn’t wanted to give up his desire for revenge. He was a fool.

With that thought, Gray dodged a brutal blow that would have dislocated his shoulder. As Welles hurtled at him with the impetus of the strike, Gray swung his sword. As he swung, he turned the weapon so that the flat of the blade struck his opponent in the stomach. Welles cried out, doubled over, and fell on his face. He rolled, but Gray was too quick for him.

Gray stopped the roll with his boot and shoved Welles back to the ground. The tip of his sword descended to rest over his enemy’s heart. Welles froze.

Something was wrong. Gray hesitated for a moment, then realized that the crowd had gone silent again. He looked up at the lodges for the first time, and saw Hugo staring at him, white-faced. His gaze dropped to a smaller figure with wide gray eyes. He almost smiled. The little black duck who haunted his dreams thought he was going to kill her cousin.

He’d had enough of killing. Stepping back, he lifted
his sword with a flourishing salute and offered his hand to Richard Welles.