Authors: Teresa Medeiros
Gareth snorted. "I think not. If I know Irwin, he is halfway to Revelwood by now."
Sir Boris stepped forward again, followed by a line of beaming heralds. "As tradition demands, I must ask if there is any other knight who cares to challenge Sir Gareth in tourney today?"
Several knights found this an opportune moment to pick their teeth or kiss their favorite ladies.
"If any man cares to step forward," Sir Boris intoned, "let him do so now or forever—"
A horse appeared high on the hill.
"—hold his silence," he finished weakly.
Gareth pushed his visor back farther on his brow, squinting at the dark shape silhouetted against the afternoon sun. A balmy wind dried the sweat on his face. The list sank into silence.
The helmed figure lifted his lance. The crowd murmured at the obvious challenge, entranced by the mysterious figure. Gareth frowned, trying to determine if the rider possessed Irwin's bulk. His challenger gave him little time to ponder.
Raising shield and lowering lance, the rider charged down the hill. Gareth slammed his visor down. The crowd caught its breath in a collective gasp as the white stallion's hooves left the ground, clearing the ropes strung at the end of the list with a mighty leap. Sweaty palms grasped the rails as the watchers wondered if the challenger was going to run Gareth down, casting aside all rules of the tilt.
Gauntleted hands sawed on the reins, bringing the stallion to a rearing halt. Gareth blinked. An icy tendril of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The stallion was not Folio. Tufts of black starred its forelock and mane.
The stranger made a cutting gesture toward the marshal, and Sir Boris's words came tumbling out as if he cared very little for the thought of standing between two such unpredictable opponents. "In the name of God and St. Michael, do your battle!"
The heralds' response was gibberish. They shoved each other out of the way, heedless of the trumpeters they trampled.
As Gareth faced the rider, an unfamiliar sensation tightened his gut. He was afraid. The fear infuriated him. If this was Irwin's idea of a prank, he would turn the lad over his knee after he bested him. He raised his lance with a growl that sent the ladies in the gallery swooning into each other's arms. The hair on Blaine's nape stood on end.
The stranger raised his shield. Two sets of booted feet slammed into their mounts' flanks. One set wore spurs. The other did not. The horses lunged forward, beating a cloud of dust out of land still damp from the spring rain. The stranger's shield was unmarked. Gareth could find no target to aim for. The ground rolled out from beneath his destrier's hooves and before he was ready, lance struck shield with a jarring blow. Both riders swayed but kept their balance. The crowd's cheer was muted, as if they were still held in the stranger's thrall.
There was barely time to wheel around before the rider charged again. Gareth cursed under his breath, still reeling from the last blow. He searched for any hint of humanity beneath that unmarked helm. Sunlight glinted off the narrow slits, mocking him with its deceptive brightness. The visor held its secrets, sealed tight by shadows. He was only halfway toward the center of the field when his opponent's lance slammed into his own. His horse reared, hooves flailing at the air. Anger tightened his jaw.
He knew by now that he was not fighting Irwin. Irwin possessed neither the skill nor the grace to maneuver stallion, lance, and shield simultaneously. The rider came at him again, relentlessly driving his mount down the emerald swath of green that separated them.
In the flash of time before their lances clashed, Gareth straightened and held his lance high. The rider lunged forward, shield and body braced for the blow from Gareth's lance. When that blow did not come, the momentum of the stranger's lunge carried him into Gareth's shield, following the pass of his own lance through shield, then air. The force of the blow shuddered Gareth. He gripped the stiff saddle with his knees. His mount lurched in an awkward circle. The tip of his lance caught on the roof of the gallery, and the wooden stake ripped the peach veil in two. The coronal blunting the tip of his lance fell into Alise's lap.
Spurred by the rending of the veil and unaware of what had happened to his lance, Gareth swung the long pole around, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. Struggling to control his own stallion, the rider lifted his shield an instant too late. Sunlight reflected off steel. A woman screamed as the silver tip of Gareth's lance pierced the rider's armor.
The crowd came to its feet. All was silence.
Gareth stared in disbelief as blood poured over leather, staining silver to red. His lance thudded to the ground. The white stallion pranced sideways, away from Gareth. The rider slumped, clutching his pommel with rigid arms. One of the heralds began to mumble in Latin.
Time passed in a haze that knew no moments. No squire took the field to aid his wounded master. Gareth shoved his visor back, his blood freezing to ice in his veins as a horrible suspicion was spawned in his mind. The rider doubled over. With a determination that daunted Gareth, gauntleted fingers curled around the helm. He wanted to close his eyes, unable to watch the fall of long, dark hair he knew would follow.
The rider lowered his head and wrenched the helm away. Wheaten curls spilled over ashen skin.
The list exploded into movement. Blaine screamed for a physician. The physician screamed for a priest.
Alise fainted. A small, silver-haired figure detached itself from the farthest tent and came sprinting down the long stretch.
But it was Gareth who reached Rowena first. He plunged off his destrier, forfeiting his victory, and caught her in his arms as she fell. He eased her to the ground. The slickness of blood stained the stallion's pristine coat.
He cradled her across his lap. Golden curls poured over his surcoat. Her blue eyes were dimmed with a haze of pain. She ran a gauntleted finger along the curve of his jaw.
Her lips curled in a small smile. "I am free, milord. I have won myself."
Her sandy lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she lapsed into a merciful faint. An errant spurt of wind tore the veil from the gallery post and sent it soaring upward until it was only a splash of peach against a sea-blue sky.
Big Freddie guided Rowena's head over the edge of the bed with swift, competent hands. His broad palm cradled her forehead as the meager contents of her stomach came forth. Her eyes did not even flicker. Her damp lashes lay against her cheeks like drowned spiders. Blaine reached out a hand, but Gareth lurched past him and out the door. Big Freddie gently lowered Rowena's still form back to the pillows as Blaine followed Gareth with Little Freddie trailing behind.
They found Gareth on the battlement, clutching the parapet and taking ragged gulps of air. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to go back inside. Blaine stopped him.
"You need rest. You've had no sleep in three days. Give yourself some time."
Gareth shrugged his hand away. "She may not have any time. She needs me. I cannot abandon her."
"Big Freddie is tending her."
Gareth pushed Blaine's hand away a second time, but stumbled as he started for the door. He turned abruptly back to the parapet, gripping the stone. He raised his face to the cool rain misting over the balcony and closed his eyes briefly. Shadows lay like bruises beneath his eyes.
They stood in silence, listening to the drowsy patter of rain tripping from a distant gutter.
"The sickness is good for her," Blaine gently said. "The physician says that the more of the wound's poison she purges from her body, the more chance she has to live."
"Are the fits good for her? I had to throw myself on her with all my strength last night just to keep her from flying off the bed. Are the fevers good? Or the chills? Or the nightmares?" Gareth's voice broke. His head dropped. Rain drifted across the balcony in misty sheets until his hair hung in limp strands around his face.
When Blaine could give him no answer, Gareth lurched back into the castle. Blaine followed. Little Freddie stood staring over the gray bowls of fog that hung over the distant hills. Blaine had stayed faithfully at Gareth's side since Rowena had taken ill. No one knew what dark secrets the two men had shared the first night they spent bolted in Rowena's chamber. Voices raised in heated argument and the echo of a hoarse sob were the only clues. Once there was even a loud crash like that of a body being slammed against the door.
But when morning came, Rowena was still alive. Gareth had refused to allow the priest to administer the words that might grant her soul an unfettered passage into Purgatory. The Lord of Caerleon had willed that she would live. And she had. Little Freddie felt his own lips form the words of a prayer, stiff and half-forgotten from disuse. When words failed him, his eyes scanned the grim sky, pleading that God might recognize enough of His own arrogance and passion in Gareth's love to have mercy on them all.
Little Freddie sat in the doorway, stroking the yellow hound that lay across his lap. Gareth dipped a doth in water and dabbed at Rowena's parched lips. A waxy coolness had claimed her skin in the wake of the fever that had wracked her body through the long night.
Her skin was stretched tight over the bones of her face, giving her once rosy cheeks a sunken pallor. He lifted her to a sitting position and bent her slight weight over his arm. The bandage on her side was clean and dry. He plumped up the pillows and laid her back down.
Blue eyes stared up at him. Gareth's breath froze in his throat. Then one corner of her mouth lifted in a weak smile.
"Thank you, milord." Her voice cracked. Clearing her throat sent her into a shuddering cough that ravaged her body with its force.
She closed her eyes. Gareth leaned forward and peered into her face. Her eyes flew open again, huge and bright.
"Gareth?"
Her bright gaze was uncompromising. To escape it, Gareth picked up a comb and gently drew it through the limp strands of hair spread across the pillow.
"Aye, my love?"
"Are you terribly angry with me?"
His smile softened his answer. "Furious."
"Forgive me."
The comb froze in mid-motion as her head fell to the side. Her lips touched his wrist.
He twisted a strand of hair around his fingers, letting the smooth skein cut into his hardened flesh. She yawned and nestled her cheek into the pillow, her breath coming evenly for the first time in days.
The curl he had made slipped out of his fingers. Gareth stood and strode from the tower, stepping over boy and dog without breaking stride. He sank down on the narrow staircase, dropped his face in his arms, and quietly cried.
Blaine's head flew up as the door to the donjon crashed open. He dismissed the seneschal at his side with a careless flick of his hand. The man dropped the parchments he had been gathering with a grateful squeak and sidled past the hollow-eyed knight in the doorway. Gareth was garbed in mail and surcoat. A broadsword hung at his side. Blaine steepled his fingers under his chin, fearing the worst.
A pouch of gold sailed through the air, thumping to a halt on the oak table.
Blaine frowned at it. "I charge you no rent. You are my guest."
" 'Tis not for you. 'Tis for Rowena."
Blaine relaxed. He tossed the pouch back. "Give it to her yourself."
Gareth plunked the pouch down and leaned over Blaine, supporting his weight on his hands. "I won't be here."
Blaine's brow puckered. He loosened the pouch's drawstrings and peered inside. His eyes widened. " Tis a substantial sum."
"Enough."
Blaine snorted. "Enough to purchase an earldom."
"If she so desires."
Blaine leaned back in his chair and propped his heels on the table. "Is that what you wish?"
"She has won her freedom. That dower should give her the freedom to choose any man she wants." He added deliberately, "Or no man at all."
Blaine grinned sheepishly, picking a thread off his knee. "You trust me with her gold, but not with her."
"I'd be a fool if I did. I do, however, trust you with her brother. There is enough gold in there to ensure Little Freddie a proper education."
Blaine lifted a mocking brow. "You wish me to mold him in my image?"
"Heaven forbid. I wish you to mold him in your father's image."
Blaine's fingers tenderly smoothed the worn parchment beneath his hand.
Gareth studied it. "Flanking towers?"
Blaine shrugged. "Some old sketches of my father's. I was considering some additions to Ardendonne."
"Your halls were deserted."
"I sent the guests packing. With invitations for May Day, of course."
A smile touched Gareth's eyes. "Of course." He gave Blaine's shoulder a hard clasp and started for the door.
"Gareth?"
Gareth turned, reluctantly.
"What shall I tell her when she awakens calling your name as she is wont to do?"