The Falls of Erith (16 page)

“Would
you like a piece of candy, Norman?” she pulled out a chunk of gold-colored
candy. “It’s made from burnt sugar, honey and vanilla. It’s delicious.”

Norman
nodded and held up his hand.  Edgar didn’t even ask; he knew she would not give
him any.  Norman broke his piece in two and handed a half to Edgar.

“Why
are you giving him some of your candy?” Brooke wanted to know. “He’s done
nothing to earn it.”

Norman
shrugged. “He is my brother. I give him whatever I have.”

She
stuck her lip out in a frown.  “You should not give him anything. He does not
deserve it.”

Edgar
chewed the candy, alternately glaring at Brooke and looking at his feet.  She
looked pointedly at the boy. “If you were nicer to me, I would give you some.
But you are a horrid creature.”

Edgar
didn’t say anything; he’d been warned by Dallas against violence involving
young ladies and he had promised never to strike one again.  But Brooke
continued to push him.

“And
you are very mean and nasty.”

Edgar
swallowed the candy. “And you are skinny and ugly!”

She
kicked him. He kicked her back. Brooke forgot about the candy in her hand, her
new surcoat, and everything else. She leapt over Norman and grabbed Edgar by
the hair. The boy howled and tried to get up and run, but she held him fast.

“You
apologize, Edgar,” Brooke shouted.

Edgar’s
response was to kick her again, right in the knee. Brooke lost her grip and it
was enough for him to pull away.  He took off with Brooke on his heels, yelling
like a banshee.

Norman
was up, racing after the pair. Two of the men at arms broke away from the main
body of the group and also made chase. Dallas and Geoff, having been standing
in quiet conversation just inside the door, heard the commotion and came out just
as Norman and the men at arms took off at a run.  They bolted after them,
leaving Graehm to wait for Braxton and Lady Gray.

Edgar
was fast. He plowed through the crowd on the street, dashing behind some stalls
and coming out on a street on the other side. He could hear Brooke behind him,
yelling threats, so he broke right and continued running.  Edgar may have been
fast, but Brooke was relentless.  Edgar left the avenue and crossed a small
lot, only to stick his foot in a rabbit hole and twist his ankle.  He collapsed
in pain as Brooke caught up to him.  She jumped on him.

She
whacked him on his arms, head and chest.  They were open handed slaps, not
particularly painful, but loud.  Edgar just laid there and moaned about his
leg. 

“And
that’s for sticking your tongue out at me!” she told him as she slapped him on
the shoulder.

Edgar
didn’t fight back. His ankle hurt too badly. Brooke gradually became aware of
this and slowed her attack just as Norman ran up on them. By the time the big
brother arrived, she had stopped completely.

“You
are a coward and a faker, Edgar,” she scolded him. “You are not hurt in the
least. You are just crying because you got beat by a girl.”

But
Edgar’s foot was still in the hole. Both Brooke and Norman turned to see that
the foot was indeed lodged. Brooke climbed off of him as Norman tried to remove
his brother’s foot from the narrow pit. Edgar yelled.

By
this time, the men at arms, Geoff and Dallas had arrived.  They could see what
had happened. Dallas lifted Edgar up gently as Geoff pulled his foot free. 
Then they sat the boy down on his buttocks so they could take a look at the
ankle.   Edgar was trying not to cry, furiously wiping at his eyes so no one
would see his tears. It hurt terribly and Brooke tried not to look at his face,
tried not to feel guilty. 

Dallas
knelt beside Edgar, running his hands over the joint.  The boy flinched.
“Well,” Dallas said after a moment. “I cannot say if it is broken, but it is
certainly sprained.  Let’s get him up and back to the wagon.”

He
reached down and lifted the boy in his arms.  They began to retrace their steps
back in the direction they had come when the sound of trumpets caught their
attention. Off to the northwest was the tournament grounds and banners flew
high over the lists.  There seemed to be a moderate crowd on hand; they could
hear the rumble and roar.

“What
is that?” Brooke wanted to know.

Dallas,
Geoff and Norman came to a halt, gazing off into the distance. “A tournament,”
Dallas said. “Probably just a local one.”

“What
does that mean, ‘probably just a local one’?” she asked.

“Just
that. Only local contenders; no reputable names to speak of,” Geoff elaborated.
“Matches like that are usually sloppy spectacles. The big matches with
reputable knights are the true essence of the sport.”

The
men started to walk away, but Brooke just stood there, watching the pennants
flap in the mild breeze and listening to the ebb and flow of the crowd in the
distance. 

“Have
you been in many tournaments, Sir Geoff?”

Geoff
paused. “Aye, my lady.”

“Have
you won any?”

“One
or two. Mostly in the mêlée.”

“What’s
that?”

“When
knights see who can out sword-play each other. The combatants are on their
feet, not on horseback as they are with the joust.  The mêlée is mostly about
strength and stamina, whereas the joust is mostly about skill and tactics.”

She
turned to look at the field in the distance. “What about you, Sir Dallas?”

Dallas
was far enough away that he barely heard her, but he politely came to a stop.
“I have known a few in my time,” he said. “I tend to be more successful in the
joust. Geoff wins the mêlée simply because he’s so tall. No one can get a good
strike at him.”

Geoff
and Dallas exchanged amused glances as Brooke continued to stare at the distant
field. “I want to see this one.”

Dallas
lifted an eyebrow. “You must ask Sir Braxton and your mother.”

“They
will let me,” she said confidently. Then she turned to look at the knight, with
Edgar in his arms. “Edgar wants to see the match, too. Don’t you, Edgar?”

She
was nodding her head at him as she asked the question. The boy made a face at
her and she puckered her lips angrily.  “Don’t you want to see the tournament?
We can sit in the lists and eat custard.”

The
lure of custard had his attention. Edgar looked at his brother, at Dallas.  “I
would like to eat custard,” he said timidly.

Dallas
could see that Lady Brooke would not let the subject rest. It was important he
return to Braxton and Lady Gray so that they could take charge of the willful
little lady.  He turned away from Brooke and the distant tournament field.

“Come
along, lady,” he said to her. “If you want to visit the tournament, you’ll have
to ask your mother.”

By
the time they returned to the Street of Merchants, Braxton and Gray had just
come out of the merchant stall where they had been shopping.  The men at arms
were piling bolts of fabric and other goods onto the wagon as Braxton stood
with Graehm, supervising the loading. Hearing the approach of the errant group,
he turned to them. By his expression, he did not look pleased. 

“What
goes on?” he asked as Dallas and Geoff approached. He eyed Edgar, in Dallas’
arms. “What happened to him?”

“He
injured an ankle running from Lady Brooke,” Dallas told him. “I cannot say if
it is broken, but he cannot walk on it.”

Gray
had come out of the merchant stall in time to hear Dallas mention her
daughter’s unruly behavior. Though Braxton had not told her about the earlier
confrontation between Brooke and Edgar, she wasn’t surprised to hear of her
daughter’s actions against the young lad. Brooke could be quite disruptive, and
she had been known to be particularly aggressive when challenged. She frowned
at her only child.

“Brooke,”
she scolded. “Why were you chasing him?”

Brooke
was torn between self-righteousness and regret. “Because he kicked me.”

“You
kicked me first,” Edgar yelled as Dallas sat him on the wagon bench.

Gray’s
expression darkened. “You did this to him?” she grabbed her child by the arm. 
“Tell me the truth.”

Brooke’s
indignant stance was rapidly slipping. “But… Mama, he has been rude and horrid
to me. He needed to be punished.”

Gray
gave her daughter a small shake, silencing her. “Enough. I shall deal with you
later.”

While
Brooke sulked, Gray went over to the young boy with the dark hair and big blue
eyes, a victim of her daughter’s misbehavior. “Remove his shoe,” she told
Dallas. “Let me see the ankle.”

Dallas
obliged and Gray took a close look at the joint. Brooke, hoping to distract her
mother’s anger, tugged on her arm. “Mama,” she said timidly. “There is a
tournament happening. May we go watch it? Edgar has said he wants to see it.”

Gray’s
head came up. “Edgar?”

Brooke
pointed at the lad. “Him.”

Nothing
would heal a sprained ankle like entertainment. It just so happened that Brooke
would also benefit from Edgar’s wish. Not strangely, Gray wasn’t buying it.

“Not
today,” she said. “We have other plans.”

“But
I do not want to shop,” Brooke begged. “I want to watch the tournament. I have
never seen one. And it would make Edgar feel better. Please?”

“Nay,
Brooke,” Gray told her, more forcefully. “We have not the time today. Mayhap
another day.”

Pouting,
Brooke turned away from her mother and folded her arms angrily across her
chest.  After a moment’s indecision, she focused on Braxton.  He was standing
with Geoff, watching Gray as she gently inspected Edgar’s ankle.

“Sir
Braxton,” Brooke said, mock sweetness in her tone. “Have you ever been in a
tournament?”

He
looked at her. “Several.”

“Did
you win?”

He
lifted an eyebrow, searching for a correctly worded answer, when Geoff chimed
in. “My lady, Sir Braxton is a master on the tournament field,” he said. “Since
I have known him four years, he has competed six times and has won the joust
every time. He has one lost once in the mêlée that I know of, and that was last
year. Did you not have a broken shoulder during that bout, my lord?”

Braxton
nodded modestly. “Broke it in the joust earlier that day.”

Geoff
nodded in remembrance. “He should not have even been competing, but honor
dictated otherwise.”

“Who
won the mêlée?” Brooke wanted to know.

Geoff
tilted his head in Dallas’ direction. “Dallas did.”

Brooke
was excited with the thought of Braxton and Dallas locked in mortal combat,
battling one another to the death before a throng of screaming fanatics.  She
looked at Dallas, his head bent over Edgar’s foot, and then looked back to
Braxton.

“Would
you please compete in this tournament so that I can see such a fine spectacle?”
she asked.

The
corner of Braxton’s mouth twitched. “I am sure the match cards are full.
Moreover, I do not have any of my equipment with me. My joust poles and my
banners are back at Erith.”

“But
you can send one of your men back for those things,” she went to him, putting
her hand on his arm. “All my life I have wanted to see a tournament, but we
never had the time or money. Now we have both. Won’t you please take me?”

Gray’s
head came up from Edgar’s ankle. “Brooke,” she admonished with a threatening
glare. Then her eyes sought out Braxton. “Forgive her, my lord. She is young
and silly.”

Braxton
looked at Gray, so lovely with her hair pulled away from her face, bent over
the injured boy. It suddenly occurred to him that he might like for her to
witness his skills on the tournament field. He’d never had a lady in the lists
cheering him on, at least not one he cared about. A strange sense of pride
filled him, and perhaps a stronger sense of egotism. Though he was a warrior,
and a mercenary at that, he was also a very skilled knight. Gray had never seen
him in action, at least not the kind of action he would have liked her to see.
He couldn’t take her to the battlefield with him. But he could take her to a
tournament.

“So
you really want to see a tournament?” he asked Brooke.

She
nodded eagerly. “Please? Would you enter?”

Braxton’s
gaze lingered on the young girl for a long, pregnant moment. “Graehm, send a
few men back to Erith for my joust equipment,” he spoke to the knight while
still looking at Brooke. “Make sure to bring the banners.  Dallas, go to the
field marshals and see if they have any openings in the match cards.”

“Can
we all compete?” Dallas asked him, his blue eyes twinkling. “It has been a long
time since we’ve all gone to sport against each other.”

Braxton
shrugged. “If you are all willing to be crushed by me, then by all means, enter
your names,” he watched Dallas grin and walk away. Braxton refocused on Brooke.
“If the field marshals will allow late entries, we may very well have a
tournament for you worth watching.”