True Love (14 page)

“I wonder if I have made a mistake in giving
my scarf to Braedon,” Catherine said as she and Aldis made their
way to the stand.

“It's a bit late to worry about that,” Aldis
snapped. “I was surprised by your hesitation. Compared to Lord
Achard, Sir Braedon is much the better man.”

“And my father is a better man than either of
them,” Catherine returned. “If I could have given my scarf to him,
there would be no quarrel between Braedon and Achard. Now I fear
Achard will take his anger out on Braedon during the fighting.”

The viewing stand was crowded with Royce's
guests. The scalloped edges of the blue canopy fluttered above the
eager, waiting spectators. The same breeze that ruffled the canopy,
when blowing across the field of mock battle would afford relief
from the summerlike heat to the knights who were about to begin
fighting. A seat in the center of the first row of benches was
designated for Catherine's use, and at her behest Aldis was given a
place beside her. Catherine noticed that Lord Phelan, who was not
participating in the melee, was sitting just a few spaces away from
her.

The action of the melee involved two troops
of mounted knights fighting against each other as if they were
opposing armies. As the first activity of the day, the men drew
lots to determine who would fight on which side. Next, the herald
in charge of the tournament called out the rules of the melee in a
loud voice and all of the participants shouted their agreement.
When the herald called for dissenting voices, not one man
responded.

“Since all are in agreement,” the herald
shouted, “let the tournament begin!”

After the horsemen rode past the viewing
stand to salute the ladies and the older noblemen who were not
fighting, and then separated into the two mock armies, Catherine
was relieved to see that Braedon and Achard were to be on the same
side, though they would be opposing Royce.

“The arrangement ought to prevent Achard from
doing harm to Braedon,” she murmured to Aldis.

“I see Eustace is riding with the troop
commanded by Lord Royce,” Aldis noted. “That may not be a good
thing. I hope Eustace doesn't take this opportunity to settle the
score with Sir Braedon after their quarrel the other day.”

Catherine did not respond. She was too intent
on the contestants to think of anything but the battle that was
about to commence. The two mock armies drew apart. Royce, as host
of the tournament, had gallantly offered the advantage to the
leader of the other troop, who chose to occupy a slight rise where
the land began to slope upward toward the castle. Royce and his men
were located on the flat meadowland near the river. Both sides
awaited the sign to begin the charge. Their restless steeds pawed
the ground. A hush fell over the audience; even the boisterous
commoners were quiet.

Catherine stood. It was her duty to give the
starting signal. The mounted herald who was in charge of seeing to
it that the rules were obeyed leaned over the front of the stand to
hand a square of white cloth to her. This she raised high, waving
it to be sure all the contestants could see it. Then, with a silent
prayer that no one would be killed or seriously injured, she
lowered her hand. At once the herald sounded his trumpet and a roar
rose from the spectators, nobles and commoners shouting with one
voice.

Couching their lances, the horsemen on the
higher ground began to move forward, picking up speed as they raced
down the slope. Royce's men galloped to meet them. The two groups
combined with a fearsome clash of metal on metal. Horses reared and
neighed. Mail-clad bodies went flying as knights were unseated.
Some men scrambled to their feet at once; others lay where they had
fallen.

From the first charge it seemed to Catherine
that all was confusion on the field. She found it difficult to
identify individual warriors, or to tell which side held the
advantage. Apparently, the nobles sitting in the stands, all of
whom were former warriors, did understand what was happening. They
watched the action with great interest, cheering on their
favorites.

“Aha!” shouted Lord Phelan, leaping to his
feet in excitement. “Look there! See how clever my relative, Lord
Royce, is. Wonderful strategy, dear fellow.”

Catherine followed the direction of Phelan's
pointing finger and noticed what she had missed while she was
trying to locate Braedon in the melee. From the rear of the men
commanded by Royce a large group broke off and wheeled around to
attack the opposing band of knights from the side.

The maneuver was so unexpected that a good
number of knights were unhorsed. By the rules agreed upon
beforehand, these men were permitted to continue fighting on foot,
as would happen in actual warfare. The scene quickly became more
complex, with groups of horsemen still fighting with lance or
sword, while their unhorsed companions pursued the battle with
swords and axes.

As half a dozen horsemen surged toward the
stand, Catherine saw her scarf on the tallest man's arm. He was
battling a brawny warrior who used his broadsword to hack at
Braedon, and at his horse, with relentless fury. Catherine's
recognition of Braedon's opponent was quickly confirmed.

“Eustace!” Phelan was on his feet again,
pounding the air with his fist. “Yes! Yes! Unhorse that lowly
bastard.”

Eustace lunged off his horse, grabbing
Braedon around the neck in an effort to pull him out of the saddle.
If Braedon was to avoid breaking his neck, he must allow himself to
be unseated. The two men fell together, their impact with the
ground jolting them apart. Braedon rolled away and got to his feet,
sword at the ready. Freed of their riders, the horses galloped off
until they could be caught by the squires.

Obeying the rules, Braedon waited for Eustace
to rise and resume their contest. Catherine saw his broad chest
heave several times; she suspected the fall had knocked the wind
out of him, but he looked steady on his feet and appeared to be
uninjured.

From his place a short distance away from
Catherine, Phelan was still shouting advice to Eustace, though
there was so much noise that Catherine didn't think Eustace could
hear his father. Eustace stayed on his knees, wavering a bit, the
hilt of his sword clenched in both hands. Braedon stepped closer
and said something to him, apparently a question about his ability
to continue. Without warning Eustace swung his sword at Braedon's
lower legs. Braedon leapt away at the last instant. The force of
Eustace's own blow tumbled him to the ground. Again, Braedon
waited, his sword lowered, giving Eustace the opportunity to rise
and continue.

“Catherine, you are hurting my fingers,”
Aldis complained.

Only then did Catherine realize that all
during the confrontation between Braedon and Eustace she had been
gripping her cousin's hand tightly. Knowing how much Braedon
despised Eustace, she marveled at his self-control. For a few
moments Eustace had been entirely at Braedon's mercy, yet he had
waited, giving Eustace the chance to recover from his
self-inflicted fall, so their duel would be a fair one.

Slowly, shaking his head as if he was dazed,
Eustace pushed himself to his feet. Phelan's loud cheers for his
son were echoed by the nobles sitting near the proud father, who
were doubtless influenced by his enthusiasm.

Having released Aldis' hand, Catherine sat
twisting her own fingers together as the fight between the two men
began anew. She was only faintly aware of horsemen regrouping at
some distance for yet another charge at an ever-shrinking band of
mounted warriors, or of the individual combats being waged on foot
nearer to the viewing stand. All Catherine's attention was on
Braedon, withstanding the vicious attack of a recovered
Eustace.

It was only a mock battle, supposedly waged
for sport, but Eustace would not relent. His hatred of Braedon was
so palpable that only the greatest dullard among the onlookers
could be unaware of the personal nature of their duel. There was no
question that Eustace was trying to inflict serious injury on
Braedon.

Catherine's throat was dry and her eyes
burned, yet she could not look away. So afraid for Braedon's life
was she that she could scarcely breathe. Other sounds faded away
until all she could hear was the dreadful slide of metal on metal,
and Eustace's frequent, obscene oaths. On one stroke Eustace nicked
Braedon's left arm. The blue silk scarf slowly began to turn brown
as blood seeped into the fabric. Seeing it, Catherine felt
faint.

Braedon fought silently, intent on what
Eustace was doing, never betraying by the slightest sign that he
was aware of the cheering audience in the stand, or the shouting
commoners behind the ropes, or even the other knights who continued
their individual duels nearby. Still, as he moved about the field
Braedon skillfully avoided the other combatants.

The knot in Catherine's bosom tightened with
every passing moment. She could no longer think clearly; she knew
only that she wanted Braedon to survive and be victorious. In her
state of heightened emotions, with rational thought put aside, she
was incapable of lying to herself about her intense feelings for
Braedon. During those moments it did not matter to her that they
had known each other for only a few days. Her heart knew him – had
known him from the instant they met. Later, she would recall that
his first allegiance, and the only devotion he allowed himself, was
to King Henry, and that he had clearly stated he could permit no
other entanglements. Later, she would remember that his parents had
never wed, that his mother was a weaver's daughter and, therefore,
Braedon was totally unsuitable for the daughter of a great
nobleman. Those were unimportant problems that were to be faced,
and resolved, later.

In the present, in those few, heart-pounding
moments of recognition, Catherine accepted without question or
qualm that Braedon was her one true love.

Eustace dealt a ferocious blow. Braedon
countered it, their blades grinding together. Then, suddenly,
Eustace's sword flew through the air to land hilt up, point buried
in the ground. Eustace backed away from his opponent as if he
expected Braedon to run him through. In his haste, Eustace slipped
and fell. Flat on his back, he looked up at Braedon. Catherine,
sitting yards away in the stand, could feel the fury and the hatred
in Eustace's gaze.

Slowly, Braedon moved his sword until the tip
rested at Eustace's throat. Catherine knew the temptation Braedon
was resisting, the urge to seize the opportunity to avenge Linette,
to cut Eustace's throat and be done with the villain there and
then. Her heart all but stopped by tension, she sat immobilized,
until she heard Braedon's voice over the yells of the excited
crowd.

“By the rules of this day's contest, to which
all the knightly participants have agreed,” Braedon shouted, “Sir
Eustace of Sutton is vanquished. He fought well. We will meet again
and perhaps fight on the same side, during the next two days of
contests.” Braedon sheathed his sword and held out his hand to
assist Eustace to stand.

Such a defeat was a blow to any knight's
pride. Most men, adhering to the concept of knightly honor, would
have accepted the end of the duel with outward generosity. Knightly
honor was beyond Eustace. Ignoring Braedon's offered hand, he
rolled over and laboriously got to his feet. Braedon shrugged and
turned away, heading toward his tent and Robert, who stood waiting
for him at the edge of the field. Eustace stumbled to his sword and
pulled it out of the ground. Holding it in both hands, he lifted
the weapon as if about to strike at Braedon.

A mocking shout went up from the spectators.
Eustace turned his head toward the crowd.

Lord Phelan stood in the first tier of the
stand, his knuckles white where they gripped the front edge of the
structure. To Catherine, her startled gaze fixed on Phelan, it
seemed that he was trying to convey a message to Eustace; not a
message to behave honorably, but a warning not to do anything to
jeopardize their position as guests at Wortham. In Phelan's tense
posture, Catherine saw all the man's ambition, all his longing to
hold on to his relationship with Royce. She almost pitied Phelan –
almost, until Eustace finally lowered his sword and walked off the
field of combat, and Phelan spat in the direction of Braedon's
departing back.

To Catherine's great relief, her father
proclaimed himself completely unharmed after hours of vigorous
fighting, though weary enough to take to his bed immediately. She
left him to the tender ministrations of Lady Edith and went to see
to the other men.

Mercifully, the injuries incurred on that
first day were minimal. The worst was a broken arm, suffered when a
knight from Mercia named Cadwallon fell from his horse. Under
Catherine's direction Cadwallon's squire held him down while she
and Aldis set the bone and wrapped the arm between two narrow
strips of wood.

“Do not attempt to fight again until autumn,”
Catherine told Cadwallon as she watched him drink the hot herbal
brew that Aldis had prepared. “Then begin practicing slowly, until
the arm strengthens. You are fortunate that the broken bone did not
pierce the skin. Open breaks are a far more serious kind of
injury.”

“Thank you, Lady Catherine. I am forever in
your debt.” Cadwallon was in too much pain to object to being out
of service for so long a time, or to complain about Catherine's
orders that he was to be carried to his chamber in the castle,
rather than riding his horse from the melee field. Catherine left
him with a flask of wine infused with poppy syrup, warning the
squire not to drink it himself, and promising to check on his
master later in the evening.

The other injuries she attended were mostly
cuts and scrapes, which would cause no permanent problems so long
as they were kept clean.