Authors: Teresa Medeiros
"How would you like another black eye?"
Blaine backed away hastily. At Sir Boris's tactful suggestion, they started back toward Ardendonne in a bedraggled parade. Blaine and Gareth shared the black stallion, struggling not to touch each other. Irwin trailed behind, praying and crossing himself in a sudden fit of piety.
The slick waxed leather slipped from Irwin's hands. After the fourth try, he managed to buckle the cuirass only to discover he had the leather armor on backwards. Perhaps if he wore his helm backwards and walked backwards, no one would notice. He mopped his dripping brow, wondering what madness had possessed him to challenge Sir Gareth to a tournament. Damn Rowena's prettiness, anyway.
She had looked so soft and appealing clinging to Sir Gareth, her nose smudged with dirt, her skirt stained with grass. It had reminded him of the times they had wrestled as children. He had conveniently forgotten that it was always she who ended up on top and he who ended up squealing for mercy like a gutted pig. He had also forgotten the sharp lash of her tongue until she had flung Sir Gareth's pledge of honor back in his face with the force of a whip.
He stripped off the cuirass and wrestled with it until he got it turned around. He plopped down on the floor in a crackling heap. As his fingers fumbled with the laces on the chausses, he regretted chasing Big Freddie from the chamber. He could not bear for his cousin to see his shaking hands. And he could not bear to see the tears Big Freddie kept dashing out of his eyes when he thought Irwin was not watching.
The leather thong snapped in Irwin's hand. He hurled it away with an ineffectual oath. He hobbled over to the bench and lifted the coif-de-maille. The links of braided chain curled around his hand. He lowered it over his head, staggering under its weight, and silently cursed the fat-headed knight generous enough to loan it to him.
His neck craned forward like a turtle's as he groped for the silver helm, struggling not to lose his balance. As he dropped the helm over his head, a cudgel came down against the side of his neck.
He straightened for an instant, then dropped like a stone. The helm struck the floor with an echoing clang.
He lay blissfully insensible as a pair of hands jerked off his helm and lowered his head gently to the floor. His coif-de-maille was stripped off, followed by chausses, cuirass, and short tunic until his pale mound of a belly rose and fell over nothing more than his linen slops. After a thoughtful pause, the narrow scrap of linen was unwound and added to the pile.
He rolled to his side, mumbling something about strawberries steeped in jam, and never hearing a bolt drop outside the door with a final thump.
"Come forth, knights, come forth!"
A shrill burst of trumpets poured into the air like liquid gold. Without rising from his stool, Gareth lifted a corner of the tent flap. A triangle of sunlight penetrated the hazy interior of the tent. The herald's invitation was not directed at him. In a testament to his prowess as master host, virtually overnight Blaine had managed to arrange a series of minor jousts and melees to entertain his guests.
"Had Richard had such organized commanders, Saladin's hordes would have fallen in a single combat," he muttered.
"From laughter, no doubt," came a muffled reply.
Gareth grunted an agreement as jesters and tumblers garbed as knights streamed out of a striped tent, flipping and tripping over one another in gay abandon. He let the tent flap fall, content to sit in the scarlet gloom. A boy's slender form, apparently headless, was stretched out on his stomach at his feet.
Gareth yanked the boy's ankles, and Little Freddie's head appeared inside the tent with a disgruntled expression.
"No need to wallow about on your belly, lad. You may go outside and watch the proceedings in a civilized manner."
Little Freddie brushed himself off, the jut of his lip stopping just short of a pout. "I am to attend to you as your squire. 'Twas Rowena's command."
"Why? You dislike me nearly as much as she does."
"Not quite."
Gareth could find no answer for that. He stood and paced the tent, his chain mail hauberk clinking with each weighted step. He had been up and armored since dawn. Rollicking laughter filled the air outside the tent. He turned to pace the other way. Little Freddie placed the stool Gareth had vacated just inside the tent flap where he could peek out at the festivities. A snort of boyish laughter escaped him. Gareth stopped his hand short of patting the boy's cap of blond hair. His gauntleted fingers curled at the memory of gossamer blond strands cupped in his palm, and a frustrated despair flowered deep in his belly.
"What else did your sister have to say this morn?" His words came out more harshly than he intended.
Freddie shrugged. "She refused your request for a scrap of cloth or trinket to gird your lance with."
The screams of laughter died. An expectant murmur arose from the list. Gareth drew himself up straight. Little Freddie scrambled through the pile of Gareth's belongings in the corner. Gareth had left nothing in the castle. After this ridiculous tournament, he planned to claim his lady and go. He inclined his head. Little Freddie stood on tiptoe and slipped a black surcoat trimmed in silver over the knight's hauberk. Gareth stood motionless as the boy cinched a silver chain around his waist. He wore no sword. His only weapon would be the lance propped outside, its sharp tip blunted with a rounded coronal.
A trumpet sang out, casting a reverent hush over the crowd. Little Freddie hefted Gareth's helm, but even on tiptoe, his height was not sufficient. With an apologetic grimace, he clambered atop the stool and placed the helm on Gareth's head. Gareth flipped the visor up.
His pulse quickened of its own volition as the trumpets trilled a mighty flourish.
Once again, the heralds cried in unison, "Come forth, brave knights, come forth!"
This time their cry was not followed by a rush of grinning jesters. Two men stepped out of tents set at opposite ends of the list. After the hot, still air of the tent, the rush of fresh wind ruffled Gareth's brain, making him giddy. The sun blinded him. For a long moment, he could make out nothing but dark shapes on a tapestry of velvet green. He mounted the black destrier Blaine had provided him, wishing for Folio.
The world slowly came into focus. The hillside below the tilting ground was dotted with colorful tents. Canopied pavilions lined the grassy list, gaudy with scarlet and emerald hangings, undulating with the tense movements of those seated within. For a long moment, the only sound was the pennants fixed atop the pavilions flapping in the wind.
Then a mighty roar burst from the farthest pavilion and traveled like a wave down the list. Feet stamped in unison until it seemed the pavilions themselves might collapse in protest. The thunder of applause rocked the air. Little Freddie tossed the lance. Gareth caught it in a gauntleted hand. It was then that he realized every face was turned toward him. Every cry of approval was being sent to his ears. The crowd climbed to their feet, ignoring their slender host mounting his caramel destrier at the end of the field. They lifted their voices with one accord to cheer Sir Gareth de Crecy, the Dark Lord of Caerleon.
Word of his innocence had spread through this curious crowd like wildfire. With one voice, they sought to rectify the misdeeds of twenty years. At Gareth's command, the destrier trotted forward until the center gallery came into view. Brightly garbed ladies thronged the wooden rail. Kerchiefs and ribbons fluttered from their delicate fingers.
Gareth had waited for this moment for twenty years. But now his peers' salutes were as hollow to him as the vacant seat on the gallery, the throne of honor—the traditional place of the Queen of Love and Beauty. The crowd's colors seemed garish, their voices shrill. Gareth's head pounded as he wheeled the horse back to his end of the list, hearing beneath his helm a vitriolic whisper.
You've gained that most precious thing you've sought your whole life
—
your honor
.
He longed to see the golden flash of Rowena's hair in the sunlight. To find her slender figure leaning over the gallery rail to cheer him to victory. He had fought many jousts in his life—some to the death. In each, he had counted on his pride to carry him through, knowing within himself that right could make might whether they believed him or not. Knowing that beneath his grim facade lay the boy his father had born and bred to be a man of honor. Today, in the most important tournament of his life, he felt hollow and silly. He had nothing left to prove, except to Rowena, and he had the cross sensation that he was going about it in completely the wrong way.
Blaine drew his finger across his throat. Sir Boris, the appointed marshal of the tournament, trotted to the center of the list to a new burst of cheers. Sunlight glinted off gold as a row of trumpeters lifted the bells of their horns in the air. A melodious flourish sounded. Gareth's knees tightened on the satin blanket draped over his steed.
Sir Boris boomed out, "In the name of God and St. Michael, do—"
He stopped as Gareth raised his palm. The knight leaned down and whispered something in his squire's ear. Little Freddie ducked into the tent.
Blaine made a disparaging comment that Gareth could not hear but which drew a handful of snickers from the crowd. Little Freddie reappeared and handed him something. Gareth affixed it to the pole of his lance. A sigh of approval arose from the ladies as a veil of peach silk rippled in the wind. They could not know the veil had been captured from Rowena, not given freely. Rowena had never surrendered anything to him freely, except herself. He did not dare delve into the memories that thought evoked. He signaled to Sir Boris that he was ready to proceed.
Sir Boris cleared his throat and began again. "In the name of God and St. Michael, do your battle!"
The heralds chanted in response, "Do your duty, valiant knights!"
They scattered, clearing the list for battle. Gareth slammed his helm shut. The world narrowed to a swath of green with his opponent at the end of it. He lowered his lance and raised his shield. His heart pounded in his ears.
Golden spurs touched destriers' flanks. The horses leaped forward in a rush of hooves. Chunks of turf flew as they thundered toward each other from opposite ends of the list. Gareth bent low over the charger's back, bracing himself for the blow to come.
For a fleeting instant before his lance struck Blaine's shield, he caught a glimpse of narrowed brown eyes through the slits of Blaine's visor. Lance struck shield with a mighty crack. Both lances held. The impact vibrated up the length of Gareth's arm and down his spine. He swayed but held his seat. The crowd roared its approval.
Gareth could not help glancing at the gallery as he galloped past. The lady Alise blew him a kiss. The seat of honor was still empty. His horse reeled around. A throng of peasants shoved against the ropes enclosing the far end of the field. Men shouted coarse suggestions on how to defeat their lord. A woman with a broad, sun-wrinkled face thrust a little girl in the air. She tossed a bouquet of heather on the field.
Gareth's mount trampled the blooms heedlessly as he drove toward Blaine once again. He bent over his pommel. The horse's mane whipped at his helm. Wind whistled through his visor. The crowd disappeared. All that lay before him was the long, straight stretch and the falcon carved on the shield of the knight hurtling toward him. Gareth fixed his gaze on the falcon's eye. He lowered his lance a fraction of an inch. He refused to think of the lance driven at his own shield. He refused to think of the weeks his muscles would ache from the impact. All he thought of was the brightly blinking eye of the falcon.
He closed his eyes on impact, knowing before Blaine's lance struck that he had won. Blaine's lance splintered with a terrible crack, folding in the knight's hand like a broken twig. The crowd gasped. Gareth pushed on. Blaine's stallion sank back on his haunches. The unrelenting force of Gareth's lance sent Blaine tumbling head over heels to the turf.
Blaine's horse wandered off to munch grass at the foot of the ladies' gallery. A laughing young maiden crowned his ears with a chaplet of gillyflowers. Blaine's squire trotted out to his master, but Blaine waved him away.
Without dismounting, Gareth leaned over and stretched out a gauntleted hand. "Come, my friend, arise. Be thankful you did not wager your castle."
Blaine sat up and pulled off his helm. He glared at Gareth and rubbed his ringing ears. "What is a castle with no lady to crown it?"
Gareth grinned. "I've recently begun to ask myself that same question."
The crowd whooped as Blaine took the hand Gareth proffered. Gareth hauled him to his feet. Applause filled the air. Blaine spread his arms and made a bow that would have done any jester proud. He staggered slightly as he straightened.
"The next time my friend and I will take our spats to the chessboard or the hazard dice," he called out to good-natured jeers and catcalls.
"Not hazard." Gareth shook his head emphatically. "Never hazard."
Blaine slapped his knee. "I hate to leave you like this, but I see a gallery of sympathetic ladies waving me forward. There is nothing like a wounded little boy to bring out their maternal instincts. I see several laps I'd love to recover on. Besides, you've another challenge to meet."