Lady Of Fire (31 page)

“Nay, ’tis rare the Brevilles and De Gautiers come together anywhere other than on a battlefield.”

Until now. Of course, Lucien might well turn the lists into his own private battlefield.

So caught up was Alessandra in watching Lucien that Sir Rexalt would have passed by unnoticed had Melissant not elbowed her.

Gripping the ribbon, she stood and beckoned to him.

His seemingly perpetual smile widened. “Lady Alessandra.” He lowered his lance. “I am grateful for your kind regard.”

Head bent to the task of securing the ribbon between the sleeve and girdle of two other ladies, Alessandra sensed Lucien’s gaze. Guilt crept over her, but she reminded herself that as he did not want her favor, he had no right to care whom she bestowed it upon.

Sir Rexalt hoisted his lance, waved it jubilantly, and urged his destrier forward.

Alessandra looked to Lucien who had just completed his parade at the tilt, and their eyes met. Was the anger in his simply that, or jealousy, too?

As she sank into her seat, Lucien rode to the far pavilion and lowered his lance for the favors women clamored to bestow. Like brightly colored streamers, more than a half-dozen articles adorned it when he advanced to the center pavilion and halted before Alessandra. However, he did not lower his lance, even when the lady beside Agnes waved him to her.

The din of the pavilions lapsed into murmurs, and Alessandra realized she was onstage as she stared at Lucien. In spite of the scar tracing his cheekbone, the hard planes of his face, and a mouth that offered no hint of a smile, he appeared a most attractive man.

Thinking that if he would only give her some encouragement she would gladly tear both sleeves from her gown, she offered a tentative smile.

He urged his destrier past and gained several more favors before exiting the lists.

Jervais and Vincent also paused before the center pavilion.

Ignoring the latter, Melissant tied her second stocking to the youngest De Gautier’s lance.

Though Vincent certainly had no need of more favors, he ill disguised his disappointment at being snubbed.

“Did you see Mother?” Melissant whispered as the lists cleared. “I thought she might snatch my stocking off Jervais’s lance.”

Alessandra frowned. “She does not like him?”

“She does not know him.”

“Then?”

“He is not the heir, and only an heir will satisfy her.”

And Lucien was the De Gautier heir. Yet he had made it clear that not even for the return of his lands would he wed a Breville.

A herald crying the commencement of the contests started the clamor anew. “Come hither he who wishes to do battle!”

Trumpets blared, and favors that had escaped being bestowed upon knights were scattered to the sanded ground.

With the appearance of the two champions chosen to joust first, there was a collective gasp.

As Alessandra watched Lucien and James being led upon their destriers by their squires to opposite ends of the lists, it seemed her heart stopped beating. Doubtless, it was a fitting opening to the tournament for these two adversaries to face off after the events of yestereve, but it boded ill.

Facing each other, Lucien and James lowered their visors and made ready for the confrontation.

When the squires moved away, the chief marshal called, “In the name of God and King Henry, do battle!”

All in the pavilions surged to their feet and shouted when the knights and their destriers came to life. As they raced down the lists toward each other, the ground trembled, sand sprayed, and all Alessandra could do was join her hands in prayer.

Bent low over their saddles, Lucien and James raised their shields and leveled their lances at one another. A moment later, the splintering of wood sounded like the crack of thunder.

Alessandra clapped her hands over her ears and watched wide-eyed as the destriers struggled to regain their balance, both riders brandished broken lances and scraped shields, and the spectators shouted with excitement.

Though Melissant had described the contest of the joust, Alessandra had not expected such a horrific, primitive display.

Lucien and James turned their destriers and cantered back to position where they were met by their squires who handed them new lances. Once again, they rushed at each other and met the same fate, both sustaining broken lances and battered shields. And again—with the same result. Finally, each having broken three lances, it should have been called a draw, but the contestants called for fresh lances and rode a fourth time.

The moment before they met, James swerved just enough to cause him to miss his mark and to take the impact of Lucien’s lance across his shield. Propelled out of the saddle, he slammed to the ground and narrowly escaped his destrier’s hooves.

Melissant’s shriek was muted by the roar of the spectators as James struggled to his feet.

Dear Lord,
Alessandra prayed,
let it be done that I might wander the garden. That I might put my nose in a boring book. Anything but watch grown men behave as animals.

Melissant turned to her. “Now Father must pay De Gautier a ransom for his horse and armor.”

“Whatever for?”

“’Tis the price of the victor.”

A commotion in the lists returned Alessandra’s and Melissant’s attention to it. Armor dulled by dust and the scratch of sand, James thrust his sword toward Lucien. A challenge?

Alessandra stepped alongside her sister. “Is it not done?”

Around the thumbnail she chewed, Melissant said, “It seems not.”

Lucien slid his visor back. “First, the ransom,” he shouted.

Those in the pavilions quieted to await James’s response.

“Name it!” his voice rang from the depths of his helm.

“De Gautier lands.”

James shoved his visor back. “You know the price. Coin will not buy them back.”

Hearing his blood thrum in his ears, Lucien glanced at Alessandra. “Nor Breville wife,” he said, then silently cursed her for the sun in her hair that reminded him of gentler moments and emotions he had never thought to feel, that stirred jealousy at the remembrance of her awarding her favor to Sir Rexalt.

“’Tis your last insult,” James shouted, sword glinting in the sun. “Come down from your horse, De Gautier!”

Dancing his destrier sideways, Lucien said, “For a price.”

James laughed. “The lands are mine. Only under my terms will they be restored to you.”

“And only under my terms will I enter swordplay with you, old man. And here they are—should I be victorious, you agree to sell the De Gautier lands to me for the price you paid. Should I lose…” He glanced at the pavilions. “…I will agree to your peace through marriage.”

Those last words were bitter, but they were only words, he assured himself. He had spent these past weeks in merciless training for this confrontation, and if his sword arm remained as true as he had honed it, he need not worry over the humiliation of being forced to wed in order to regain his lands. Certes, he would better Breville, and however many others it took to raise the money.

Though Breville obviously burned to test his skill against Lucien’s he lowered his sword. “Naught, then.”

Lucien smiled. “You need not fear my sword, Lord Breville.” He drew the weapon from its sheath. “As you can see, ’tis dull-edged for the tourney and will draw little blood. Too, I will be gentle with you.”

James’s sword swept the air again. “I fear no man’s sword,” he shouted, the visible portion of his face flushed.

Drawing his quarry in, Lucien resheathed his sword. “You fear mine, else you would trust yours to keep my lands. Perhaps your sword arm has grown infirm with age?”

James’s struggle was short-lived. He hurled his sword to the sand, bellowed, “Bring me a blade that will pierce this knave!”

Lucien’s blood surged. “My terms, Breville?”

“Aye, and your blood!”

Lucien called for his own cutting sword and, amid shouts from the goading crowd, dismounted and slapped his destrier’s rump. It was time to take back his lands.

The contents of her belly churning, throat dry, Alessandra looked to Melissant. “True weapons are not permitted,” she repeated what she had been told.

Melissant jerked her chin. “’Tis not looked kindly upon by the Church.”

Both turned to Bishop Armis.

He appeared unconcerned by the challenge being taken up. In fact, he seemed eager where he leaned forward in his chair, staring at the combatants with the same intensity a worldly man might show a comely wench.

Even more obvious was Agnes, her eager smile, sparkling eyes, and shifting carriage evidencing she was not averse to a contest that might see one or both men wounded, perhaps dead.

It appalled Alessandra, this bloodlust echoed by men and ladies alike.

“What say we dispense with armor?” James said. “All but the breastplate.”

Lucien accepted the honed sword his squire handed him, motioned for the young man to remain. Unhurriedly, he peered down one edge of the blade, twisted his wrist, peered down the other. “We may dispense with armor altogether if you like,” he finally answered.

James hesitated, then said, “For the love of the ladies, the breastplate remains.”

“As you will.”

Immediately, the squires began the process of removing the armor piece by piece.

Alessandra looked to the bishop again, but still he did not move. Thinking to appeal to him, she started to step around Melissant, but her sister pulled her back.

“What are you doing, Alessandra?”

“I would speak with the bishop. Surely he cannot allow this to go forward.”

Melissant shook her head. “He, more than any, enjoys such sport. You will only anger him if you interfere.

“But if I do not, who will?”

“None. These contests are a part of England. You cannot change that.”

Alessandra looked back at the lists. The squires and varlets were carrying away the armor. All that remained were the breastplates and arming doublets to which they were attached.

“Fools,” she hissed.

The chief marshal called for the contestants to take position, then cried, “Be worthy of your ancestry. Do battle!”

The clash between Lucien and James was an unspeakable thing to witness. Hugging her arms about her, Alessandra forced herself to watch, tensing with each meeting of steel on steel.

Though Lucien had the advantage of height, James appeared a good match, his greater experience surely making up for the ten inches he lacked.

Lucien was the first to draw blood, his blade piercing James’s mailed sleeve and causing the links to color red.

Amid the roar of approval, James cursed, retreated, raised his shield, and lunged again. “Get your fill, De Gautier,” he yelled, “for that is all you will ever have of a Breville.”

Lucien landed another blow, but in denting his opponent’s breastplate, left himself open.

James seized the moment, swung, and slashed through Lucien’s unprotected thigh.

Blood discolored Lucien’s chausses, but he continued to hack and slice. His sword tip caught his opponent’s jaw, cut downward, and snagged the edge of James’s shield and sent it flying.

Thus, James’s fate was questionable, but he pressed on and was granted a swipe at Lucien’s arm. More blood, alternately Lucien’s and James’s.

The crowd became more frenzied, their cheers and excited voices closing in on Alessandra until she could hardly breathe. Teeth clenched, her mind reeled with every prayer she had ever memorized, while tears slid down her cheeks.

When the shifting battleground moved in front of the center pavilion, she stepped back, but not before her father’s blood flecked her and the others in the front row.

Alessandra gaped at the pattern of red across her bodice, cried, “No more!” and pushed past Melissant who also appeared horrified to find herself marked by battle.

“You must stop this!” Alessandra entreated the bishop. “Now!”

He swept a hand before him. “You block my view, child.”

“Your view? Is it not the edict of the Church that only weapons of peace be used at tournaments?”

Nostrils flaring, he said, “Remove yourself from my presence.”

Alessandra did not. Thus, Agnes stood, snatched her arm, and jerked her aside. “’Tis the way of men” she hissed. “Now take your seat or I will have you returned to the keep.”

“But it is wrong! A tournament—”

Agnes shook her. “’Tis no longer a tournament. A vendetta is what it is, and one that ought to have been settled long ago.”

Alessandra broke free. “Not this way. Not with blood.”

“Aye, with blood, you little fool. As much blood as it takes to bring the De Gautier dog to heel.”

Alessandra stilled. Stared. Though her mother had said England was where her daughter belonged, it seemed no better than Algiers. Worse. This woman was James’s wife, yet it mattered not that he was injured or doing injury to another—the De Gautier dog as she had called Lucien.

“You are a pitiful excuse for a Christian,” Alessandra said, fully aware her voice carried. Then she met the bishop’s imperious gaze. “As are you.”

She heard the crack of flesh on flesh before she felt the burn. Dazed, she touched her cheek where Agnes had slapped her, looked to the woman.

Agnes’s expression was reminiscent of another, one who had shown little emotion in the face of Sabine’s death. One whose eyes had challenged Alessandra to prove her wrongdoing. One who would have been more content had it been Alessandra whose veins coursed with poison.

She blinked to dispel the face of the woman who could not possibly stand before her, but it persisted, dragging her back to a time she had tried to convince herself was past.

With a cry, she fell upon the one who had murdered her mother—who, this time, would pay.

A chair collapsed beneath the force of their combined weight, and they crashed to the floor of the pavilion. As the commotion around them rose, Alessandra fit her hands around Leila’s neck. Against her fingers she felt straining muscles; her palms, the vibrations of a scream; her thumbs, the swift flow of blood that ought not to flow. But it was not Leila’s face that stared in horror at her. It was Agnes’s.