The Gorgon (19 page)

"Nobly done!" Edward
shouted from his elaborate chair, cushioned with a fine satin pillow. "A
fair break, indeed."

Summer was distracted from Bose's
undamaged vision by her father's cries of pleasure. She cast the man an
intolerant glance, suggesting she did not agree with his assessment. He caught
her expression, his fair face folding into a smile.

"What is the matter
now?" he asked jovially. "You do not like the joust, either? It does
not possess the violence of the melee and for that, I should think you would be
appreciative."

Summer's gaze lingered on her
father a moment and she shrugged. "I do not believe appreciative would be
the word I would choose to describe my opinion," she passed a glance at
Genisa, who was completely unruffled by the spectacle. "How can you be so
entirely c-calm throughout this savagery?"

Genisa patted her arm. "'Tis
easy, truly. Stephan is not competing at this moment, therefore, I am calm. My
demeanor will change considerably when he takes the field, I assure you."

Summer shook her head, not
particularly surprised when her father turned away to involve himself in the
food his servant delivered. The man was barely beyond a word of comfort and she
was accustomed to his indifferent manner in all aspects. Therefore, she
returned her attention to the field as Breck was handed a fresh lance.

"Do not worry so,
Summer," Genisa's voice was soft, nearly humorous. "Sir Bose is the
very best. Even Stephan says so."

Summer cast her sister-in-law a
dubious glance. "I do not think I like the tournament, Genisa. I b-believe
this shall be my last spectacle."

Genisa smiled slyly. "But
what if you marry Sir Bose? He is a member of the tournament circuit and you,
as his wife, should travel with him."

Summer's doubtful expression
softened as a faint flush mottled her cheeks. "Good Lord, Genisa, what
would lead you to believe that B-Bose would want to marry me? We've only just
met."

"And he hasn't left you
alone for a minute. I'd say his attention has been a distinct sign of serious
interest."

Averting her eyes uncertainly,
Summer fixed on the field before her. "I cannot b-believe his attention
toward me is anything other than normal chivalry. Why would he want a wife who
stammers?"

Genisa's reply was cleaved as the
chief herald shouted another start. Summer's apprehension returned full-bore as
Bose and Breck charged each other on opposite sides of the joust barrier. The
rumble of destriers filled the air as the opposing knights rapidly closed the
distance, lances leveling and shields fixing as they drew closer and closer
still.

The crowd in the lodges was taut
with anticipation as the competitors swiftly shortened the gap. An expectant
hush settled as the second run appeared to be going smoothly. But the illusion
dashed when Bose suddenly jerked off-center in the saddle, a last minute move
with no apparent reasoning until deafening sounds of metal against wood filled
air.

It was not a normal sound to be
associated with a joust. As a horrified crowd looked on, Bose's helm went
spinning from his head, flying through the air in a violent burst of twisted
steel.  The dented piece of protection that had once been on Bose’s head
smashed into a supporting post near the center of the lodges, sending people
scurrying with screams.

But no one screamed louder than
Summer. Convinced she had just witnessed Bose's beheading, she screamed in
horror and covered her eyes. She could feel Genisa grasp at her, a faint
trembling voice of comfort in her ear, but she was unable to comprehend the
meaning of the words.  Somewhere above the hysteria, she thought she heard her
father's voice, demanding she cease her screaming and look to the field. But
she kept her hands over her eyes, sobbing.  She couldn’t bear to look.

"Look, Summer!"
Genisa's voice was in her ear, stronger than before. "Sir Bose is at the
end of the field; he's still mounted!"

As if by magic, Summer's hands
came away from her face and she bolted to unsteady feet, her golden gaze coming
to bear on the near side of the field. Indeed, Bose was still seated astride
his warhorse, his black hair spiky with sweat beneath his askew mail hood and
his face pale. But he was alive and Summer was so swept with relief that she
was weak with it.

But her relief was cut short when
Bose turned in her direction. Blood streamed down the right side of his face,
coating his mail and disappearing beneath his plate armor. The chief herald
stood alongside him as well as several of his knights, concern and fury evident
in their expressions as they evaluated his ability to continue the event.

Bose's unnaturally tight
expression listened intently to the herald's words and he nodded now and again,
eventually shaking his head as if to disagree with what was being said. Summer
watched with her breath caught in her throat as he conversed with the
distressed men about him. When it became apparent that he planned to continue
in spite of his wound, Summer could not help her reaction. With all of the
volatile emotions she has sampled over the past few moments, there was
truthfully no other outlet for her tension and strain. The tears returned with
a vengeance.

In spite of his spinning head and
ringing ears, Bose was acutely aware of Summer's hovering presence by the edge
of the platform. Although he had convinced the heralds and his men that he was
indeed capable of finishing his bout, he was truthfully having a good deal of
trouble focusing his eyes and could scarcely remain balanced atop the saddle.
But the fact remained that Breck Kerry's vicious tactics could not go
unanswered.

Bose was well aware that Breck
was retaliating for the earlier justice dispensed on Summer's behalf and he was
equally aware that Breck had fully intended to do more than unseat him. There
was no doubt the lance had been aimed at his head in a last-minute maneuver
that left Bose hardly able to compensate. Even though he had been able to dodge
the full effect of the blow, he had still been caught on the side of the helm.

Unfortunately, his head
protection was smashed and distorted and there was no possibility of wearing
the damaged equipment until it could be properly repaired. Better the helm
destroyed than his skull. He ignored Morgan's and Tate's protests as he
prepared to take his third run without his head armor.

Even as he disregarded the pleas
of his loyal knights that he at least borrow another helm, he found he could no
longer disregard Summer's distant form. Her hands were to her mouth and
although he tried not to look directly at her as he struggled to straighten his
mail hood, he could only imagine that she must be terrified. If the melee had
served to jade her opinion against the civility of tournaments, then he could
only assume that his near-beheading had only further served to increase her
distress.

When he righted his hauberk as
best he could in spite of the stinging gash to his scalp, he could not help but
look to his favored lady to make sure she was calm enough to witness his third
run. Even though his eyes were hazy and out of focus, he could nonetheless see
her reddened face and terrified eyes.

Bose's heart sank as he viewed
her expression; he realized he could not continue until he eased her distress.
Even though his primary concern should have been the imminent unseating of
Breck Kerry, still, he found he could not focus on the coming run until his
lady was adequately calm. He did not like to see her so terribly, though
understandably, upset.

Morgan and Tate continued to
prattle about their lord's foolishness should he decide to finish his bout
without adequate protection; they might as well have been speaking to the birds
for all Bose heard them. Asking the anxious heralds to return to their
positions, he ignored his troubled men and reined his charger in the direction
of the lodges.

Summer saw him coming towards
her, sobbing softly into her hand and unconcerned with the fact that she was
making a spectacle of herself with her emotional display. Bloodied, dizzy and
all, Bose directed his charger next to the lady's feet and smiled wanly into
her frightened face.

"Do not weep so, my
lady," he said softly. "As you can see, I am well enough to finish
this bout for your glory. I promised to win the joust, did I not?"

She sobbed pitifully. "I
d-do not w-want you to compete any longer," she gasped. "I-I...I-I
w-want you t-to l-let me tend your wound."

Genisa rose from her chair,
lingering behind Summer with a comforting hand to the woman's shoulder. Her
bright blue eyes were laced with concern as she focused on the scarred,
bloodied knight.

"I must agree with her, Sir
Bose," she said timidly, knowing her opinion had not been solicited.
"Your head is bleeding and must be tended. Moreover, you surely must be
feeling ill as a result of your brutal blow."

Bose sighed faintly, his gaze
moving from Stephan's lovely wife Summer's pitiful expression. He could feel
himself weakening, willing to overlook a matter of honor purely for the fact
that his pride was causing Summer a great deal of distress. And with the added
plea of another concerned lady, he was not immune to the feminine pressure.

"I appreciate your concern,
Lady Genisa," his bass voice was soft. "'Tis true that I have felt
better, but I am fully capable of doing away with my opponent. If you would ask
your sister-in-law to sit, I shall be but a moment and then I will happily
submit to her nursing."

"Nay!" Summer's hand
came away from her mouth and she moved forward, the same hand touching his
great mailed head before she could control herself. "You are injured,
Bose. P-P-Please do not do this. P-Please!"

Gazing into her pained golden
eyes, Bose realized he was willing to relent. She was distraught and he felt a
tremendous sense of pleasure and satisfaction with her concern for his welfare.
But the fact remained that Breck was waiting impatiently at the end of the
field for the conclusion of their bout and the heralds were expecting him to
take immediate position. Hating himself for his determined sense of knightly
honor, he took her hand and kissed it gently.

"My lady, I promise this
will only take a moment and I swear to you that when I have finished, I will
submit to your healing hands completely," when she shook her head again, he
smiled bravely and kissed her hand again. "I promise that I will unseat
him on this pass. For that fact that he has frightened you so terribly, I will
do this and take great pleasure in his humiliation."

He was smiling encouragingly at
her, attempting to offer a measure of comfort and ease when he, in fact, was
the injured party and in dire need of the same comfort. Genisa whispered in
Summer's ear, telling her to let the man finish his bout. Genisa understood the
pride of a knight, knowing that honor and dignity meant everything in a world
of battles and glory and death, and where vengeance was a part of that honor.

Summer simply did not understand
all of the elements composing the soul of a true knight, but she was somewhat
aware of the fact that Bose felt a need to unseat his unscrupulous opponent for
the very reason that he would not allow the man to dishonor him with his
unethical tactics. To concede the round, even with a gashed head and reeling
senses, would be to admit that his adversary had managed to weaken him.

Summer's weeping faded as she
allowed Genisa to gently pull her from Bose's grip. The knight was grateful for
the married woman's assistance and, with a confident wink to his quivering
lady, drove his charger to his assigned position.

"Come and sit, Summer,"
Genisa gently directed her back to her cushioned chair. "He shall be
finished in a moment and then you will be able to tend his head."

Touching the hand he had so
tenderly kissed, Summer plopped limply into her chair, silently cursing herself
for not being firm enough in her demand that he abandon his bout, yet knowing
in the same breath that knightly honor was a rigid, consuming thing.

"You are far too emotional,
Summer," Edward looked up from the last of his food, licking the fruit
juice off his fingers. "Blood and injury is simply part of the sport. The
element of harm makes it far more exciting."

Summer cast her father a long
glance, accustomed to his insensitive perspective and not particularly affected
by his words. He was an odd man, truly, and although she tolerated him for the
mere fact that he was her sire, their relationship lacked any true measure of
affection. Old Kermit the tutor had been more of a father to her than her own
and she had felt his death with the same intensity of sorrow. The man seated
across from her slurping the last remnants of food from his flesh had always
been more a stranger than a relative. And he liked it that way.

"Forgive me if I embarrassed
you, Father," she said quietly, feeling herself calming as the knights on
the field prepared for the last run. "But I cannot help my d-disgust for
this tournament."

Edward eyed her as his manservant
poured a third chalice of fine Bordeaux. "Mayhap that is true, but you are
still intent to watch de Moray as he attempts to level Breck Kerry,"
wiping his hands on his sleeves, he accepted a goblet from the submissive
servant. "Stephan told me of him, Summer. I am not sure if I approve."