Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
Bose watched, his entire body
flooded with a surge of excitement and encouragement, as she elegantly took her
seat. Her cheeks were flaming madly and she refused to look at him, and he
slammed his visor closed, digging his spurs into the smooth black sides of his
charger. Reliving her words the entire jaunt back to his starting position,
there was no doubt in his mind that he would win this tourney.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Artur and the knights were
waiting for him when he returned to starting post. They had all seen the
confrontation between Bose and Stephan, and the subsequent encounter between
Bose and Breck. Therefore, it stood to reason that they were also well aware of
the ensuing conversation between their liege and the lovely lady after the
scuffling had subsided. There wasn’t a man among them not extremely curious to
know what had transpired; Bose de Moray in the middle of a contest for a lady's
affection was an unknown event.
But the moment Bose joined the
ranks of his men, the group was wise enough to bank their curiosity in lieu of
preparing their liege for the coming bout. If Bose suspected the wild interest,
which of course he did, it was apparent he was unwilling to elaborate on the
subject. Retrieving his pole from Tate, Farl handed the man his shield as Artur
fussed over the destrier's impeccable armor.
"This beast's chamfrom is
off-center," the old man grumbled, struggling with the face armor of the
horse. "And your caparison is nearly disheveled. How did this
happen?"
Bose adjusted his lance,
balancing the pole under his arm as he tightened his gauntlets. Tate and Morgan
straightened the banner across the horse's body that Artur had accused of being
disheveled, although the wide standard was in exceptional shape. To their
liege's aged uncle, however, nothing within their midst was ever perfect. His
biggest delight in life was to find fault with every matter. It made him feel
more useful.
"Tate," Bose caught his
knight's attention as he continued to adjust his glove. "Fetch Stephan du
Bonne to me immediately. I have something I must say to him before I attend the
field."
Tate nodded briefly and was gone,
momentarily deterred from pestering his lord as to the current status with the
lady in the lodges. But Morgan was not so encumbered; without Tate to take the
offensive, he was left on his own and his curiosity was nearly killing him.
When Bose finished with his
gauntlets, the older knight handed him his sword. "She is a beautiful
woman, Bose. I'd kill Breck Kerry, too, if the bastard attempted to steal her
from me."
Through his lowered visor, Bose
found Summer's persimmon colored gown on the lodges and the pounding of his
heart flooded his eardrums. It was a moment before he was able to reply.
"Have you ever been in love, Morgan?"
Morgan stared at him, his dark
brown eyes soft with deliberation. After a moment, he smiled weakly.
"Once, when I was young. Her name was Lily and she wanted absolutely
nothing to do with me."
"Wise woman," Bose
muttered He continued to gaze at Summer’s distant form. "Do... do you
remember the thoughts and sensations, Morgan? Do you recall the feelings you
experienced? Like nothing you've experienced before?"
"Or since," Morgan eyed
the normally-reserved man. "Why do you ask? Are you thinking that mayhap
you are feeling more than simple attraction for the lady?"
Bose's gaze never left the remote
figure on the lodges. After a brief silence, he slowly shook his head. "I
do not know," his voice was nearly a whisper. "The only measure of
wisdom I possess in the matter is the fact that I believed all my emotions
pertaining to the opposite sex to have died in childbirth four years ago.
Since yesterday, however, they seemed to be resurrecting themselves whether or
not I am willing to accept them.”
Morgan listened to the confession
with a faint glimmer to his eye; for Bose to be conversing on a matter of
personal conviction was an event of the enormous significance. It was one
Morgan did not take lightly; he clapped his liege on his thickly armored leg in
a gesture of commiseration.
"If she brings about
sentiment you thought to have perished, most certainly I would not oppose the
obvious," he said, eyeing Artur as the old man fussed with the caparison
over the horse's rear quarters. "You've known her less than a day, Bose.
What you are experiencing could be nothing more than infatuation. Give yourself
time before you decide whether or not to run from your feelings."
He meant it in half-jest,
half-not. Beneath the lowered visor, Bose smiled thinly. “My feelings for Lora
were gradual, Morgan. A slow, steady pace of discovery," turning his
armored head in the direction of the lodges, the helmed head slowly wagged back
and forth. "What I feel for Lady Summer is something I have never before
experienced. In fact, I believe it to be more powerful than I am at
times."
"And this frightens
you?"
"It scares me to
death."
Artur, finished with the banner
across the charger's haunches, moved forward in his complete inspection of
Bose's armor. The heralds were impatient to begin the bout and Breck Kerry had
already taken the field in full regalia. The crowd in the lodges grew restless
and Morgan knew the private conversation between him and his lord was ended for
the moment.
"Remember, Bose," Artur
fixed on his mighty nephew, oblivious to the fact that he had all but shoved
Morgan out of the way in his haste to make conversation with the armored
warrior. "Breck breaks low and to the left at mid-point. You'll have to
compensate if you do not want to be unseated on the first run."
Forcing himself from the
conversation with Morgan, Bose listened to his uncle's sound words. "I
know, Uncle Artur. I have fought the man before, many a time," his helmed
head suddenly bobbed about as if he was eagerly searching for something.
"Where's Tate? I want to speak with Stephan before the round
commences."
Farl and Adgar, standing ahead of
their liege by the edge of the field, were attempting to explain to the heralds
why their lord was delaying. He could see that the heralds were eager to begin
the bout and he knew he would be unable to delay any further. Stephan or no,
the crowd was expecting his appearance.
The massive charger moved
forward, sensing the excitement from the rumbling crowd. Artur scampered
alongside the dancing beast to impart his last few gems of wisdom.
"If he doesn't unseat you on
the first pass, the second run will be aimed at your head," the old man
huffed and panted. "Well you remember what he did to Sir Rolf at last
year's tourney in Wrexham?"
"Broke his neck," Bose
answered unemotionally. "The man has no use of his arms and legs and can
scarcely breathe."
Artur's black eyes were intense.
"Mind he doesn't break your neck as well."
Bose did not reply as they
reached the edge of the lists. The crowd, noting the circuit champion was
preparing to take the field, began to roar with anticipation. The heralds moved
to their respective positions along the joust course as the lead herald moved
to the center of the barrier, raising his hands to quiet the unruly, eager
throng.
When the commotion died to a
muted roar, the chief herald lowered his quieting hands and drew forth Lord
Edward's sword.
"Let Sir Bose and Sir Breck
come forward!"
The crowd began to stir again as
Breck, who had been prancing about at the far end of the field, took position
beyond the end of the joust barrier and raised his lance to a full upright
position. Bose watched the man's arrogant stance from his location at the
opposite edge of the field, experiencing the resurgence of the jealously and
anger. He was going to enjoy unseating the idiot. And the man would be
fortunate if he did not find a lance aimed at his head.
Farl and Adgar were beside him,
watching their liege's opponent with a good deal of loathing. They had all
competed against the man, innumerable times, and there was not one among them
who had not been subjected to the knight's unscrupulous tricks.
"If you cut him high on the
first run, he shall miss the move because he shall be expecting you to counter
his low maneuver," Farl's Irish accent was heavy with disgust.
"You'll be able to take his damn head off."
Bose was silent, as was usual
before a bout as he utilized his concentration for the upcoming strategy. Adgar
and Morgan, standing on the opposite side of Farl, exhibited varied expressions
of loathing.
"Pimple-faced idiot,"
normally mild-manner Adgar was grim. "I drew Duncan in the third round.
Best the eldest, Bose, and be done with it. I have a penchant to do the same to
his whelp brother and we can defeat the Kerry lads in one mighty blow."
Bose listened, digested, stored
for future reference. The chief herald, however, was expecting the presence of
his second competitor and Bose's grip tightened on the reins as he prepared to
spur his charger forward. But the moment he moved to do so, a shout in the
distance halted his progression.
His head turned stiffly in the
direction of the shout, a feat made difficult within the confines of his helm.
Moving toward him across the trampled green earth was Stephan du Bonne astride
his chestnut charger. Tate ran alongside in his mail and portions of leg
protection, his fair face glistening with sweat.
Stephan reined his horse to
within several feet of Bose, his handsome features inquisitive. Considering
Bose was required upon the field this very moment, it was surprising that he
should delay in any manner. But the man was determined to have his say and
Stephan had a suspicion as to the subject. He would oblige the man by
listening. Mayhap, in a sense, he would be making amends for his lack of faith
in the truth of Bose's reputation.
"My lord?" there was a
dozen men between them, mostly de Moray's men in colors of black and white. But
Stephan ignored them as he focused on their mighty liege. "You wished to
speak with me?"
"Indeed," Bose directed
his horse a few feet in Stephan's direction, knowing the heralds must be
nearing seizures of anger by his lack of readiness. "I am afraid I must
make this brief and I apologize for taking you away from any pressing business.
I... I simply wanted to thank you."
Stephan's visor was raised, a
blond eyebrow lifting slowly. "For what?"
Bose was apparently unconcerned
with the dozens of ears witnessing their conversation. "For allowing me to
speak with the lady. Although you had originally denied me, still, I thank you
for relenting your stance. Your generosity is commendable."
Stephan stared at him a moment,
listening to the increasingly agitated roar of the congregation as their
champion delayed his arrival to his joust position. "'Twas your right, I
suppose, after you subdued Kerry," his bright green eyes sought the
impatient knight in yellow and green standards at the far sight of the field.
"I suppose you must subdue him again."
Bose had said what he had
intended, feeling satisfied that he had made his thanks known. Somehow, it was
important to him. Knowing that without Stephan's approval, the chances of
courting the man's lovely sister were slim and he was determined to earn his
support. After a moment, he dipped his head again in a gesture of gratitude.
"I suppose I must," he
said, gathering his reins. "And if I do not arrive shortly, I fear the crowd
will rip Kerry's pole from his grasp and gore me in a fit of impatience."
The last few words were muffled
as he dug his spurs into his charger's heaving sides, the crescendo of the
crowd and the thunder of hooves all but drowning out the bass-toned voice.
Stephan watched with an odd mixture of envy and understanding as the multitude
of spectators welcomed the previous day's melee champion.
Bose assumed a prepared stance,
his lance in the customary upright position and his shield poised as the chief
herald moved to the edge of the lodges with Lord Edward's sword. Since Bose had
delayed the match by several minutes, they were eager to commence the bout
immediately. As the squires vacated the field and hovered about the edges, the
crowd quieted dramatically in great anticipation.
Fortunately, the wait had ended.
As the sun traversed the sky-blue field above in its hunt toward the nooning
hour, the chief herald raised the sword high into the crisp sea air of Dorset.
"For honor and glory,
charge!"
***
Summer could hardly stand it. The
herald's shout to commence startled her and the thunder from the chargers was
more than she could bear. In spite of her, however, she was unable to look away
from the spectacle before her.
The green and yellow lance
splintered on Bose's shield, sending daggers of wood exploding in all
directions. A piece of coated pole landed a foot or so away from Summer and she
stared at it a moment, forcing herself to breathe as she realized Bose had made
it through the first pass unscathed.
Even though the recoil motion
with the contact sent the chargers reeling onto their hind legs, both knights
remained seated and finished the first pass. Summer turned her relieved gaze in
the direction of her champion as the lodges around her were literally mad with
delight.