Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
Bidding his family a distracted
farewell, Summer watched her brother stroll across the trampled grass,
pondering his words. As Genisa moved to Edward's free arm, Summer obeyed her
father's insistence that they proceed to the tournament field. After all, the
games could not begin with the attendance of the illustrious castle constable
and already they were a half-hour truant with delays.
Let the games begin.
***
"Very well, Bose. Ask me any
question about the Lady Summer. I can tell you anything you wish to know."
Bose did not look up as he
assisted his squire in latching the last of his chest protection. And he
furthermore did not look to his confident friend as the young squire finished
the final fastens about his massive neck, straightening the mailed hood
underneath the plate steel. Only when the lad moved away to collect his
master's gauntlets did Bose fix his onyx-black eyes upon the smug, entirely
annoying knight.
"I told you that I did not
want to know anything else about her. There is no need."
By the corner of the tent, Morgan
looked up from repairing his well-used scabbard. The end of the aged leather
was fraying and he was distraught with worry; however, his fret did not prevent
him from overhearing Tate's thoroughly self-satisfied statement.
"Who is Lady Summer?"
"No one," Bose
grumbled.
"A certain lady who seems to
have captured our illustrious leader's attention," Tate supplied with
restrained humor as Bose looked away, fumbling with the gloves offered by the
squire. "Although he refuses to admit anything, I am quite confident that
he has a moderate interest in her. Am I incorrect, my lord?"
Bose maintained his silence as
Morgan rose from his corner seat, his brown eyes wide with genuine surprise.
"God's Blood, Bose. Is this true? Have you finally found interest with a
woman?"
Yanking on a glove in a distinct
exhibition of annoyance, Bose's black eyes fairly blazed with threat and
hazard. "Not in the least. And if Tate isn't careful, he shall find
himself impaled in the melee by my very own weapon. Do I make myself clear,
Farnum?"
Much to Bose's aggravation, Tate
merely snorted humorously to the deadly threat and turned his attention to a
still-surprised Morgan. "You should see her, old man. As beautiful as when
the world was new," spacing his hands a foot or so apart, he outlined an
obvious female figure. "And her form is in fine shape. Fine, fine shape.
My God, I do believe I would have her myself had our liege not expressed
interest first."
Morgan stared at the snickering
young knight, hardly believing what he had heard. To declare that the
omnipotent, focused Bose de Moray was interested in a woman was beyond his
scope of comprehension. A smile of hope creased his lips. "Who is
she?"
Casting Bose a long glance from
the corner of his eye to make sure the man was paying attention, Tate crossed
his arms smugly. "She is the Lady Summer du Bonne, a mere eighteen years
old one week ago today. She is unmarried, unpledged, and unattached. And from
what I have been able to discover, something of a hermit. Her father keeps her
under constant isolation for reasons I have been unable to ascertain."
Although his manner indicated a
lack of interest, Bose was nonetheless listening carefully to Tate's
information. As his squire secured his remaining gauntlet, he struggled between
the instinct to demand more of Tate's knowledge on the woman and the urge to
deny the situation. Bewildered and confused, for the moment, denying his
interest was the only manner of self-preservation he could think of…at least,
until he could come to better understand the chaos for himself.
"I am not surprised to
discover you been wasting your time in pursuit of useless knowledge when there
is a tournament to be had," determined to move from the subject, he
gestured sharply to Morgan. "Did you finish repairing your scabbard? And
what about your horse? Have you checked on the animal since Artur wrapped his
leg?"
Morgan's gaze was even at his
brusque lord; since it was rare that Bose display any emotion whatsoever, he
was able to deduce by his sharp mannerisms that Tate's ramblings held a measure
of truth. But how much truth? If for no other reason than to satisfy his
curiosity, Morgan was determined to find out.
"Whether I tend the beast
now or at tournament time will be of little difference in how correctly the leg
has healed. Clearly, I have done all I can," turning to Tate, he met the
man's twinkling eyes. "Is that all you discovered about the Lady Summer?
What of her schooling, her beaux?"
Tate shook his head, struggling
not to look at Bose as he spoke. "Apparently, she did not leave home to
foster and from what I have been told, she is not entertained a single suitor.
Most strange, considering the woman is lovelier than any female I have yet to
witness."
Morgan cocked an eyebrow.
"Lavish praise coming from a man who had known his share of feminine
companionship," he said. “But I do believe your clues are obvious - there
must be something wrong with the woman. Mayhap beneath the beauty and grace,
she harbors the temperament of a shrew."
Tate sensed the game, taking the
lead. "God be merciful, I should have realized. 'Tis the only explanation.
Mayhap... mayhap she harbors a hideous defect. Like a third leg hidden beneath
her gown, or a chest carpeted with hair."
Morgan made a distasteful face.
"Good Lord, I can hardly imagine running my lips over breasts as hairy as
mine," suddenly, his unpleasant expression turned to one of overstated
dismay, his eyes bulging with mock horror. "What... what if she is not a
woman at all? What if she is truly a man, merely dressing as a woman?"
"An incubus!"
"A demon!"
"A sorceress! Good Lord, a
sorcer
er
!"
"A...!"
"Enough!" Bose finally
roared, out of character for his normally restrained disposition. Turning away
from the sword he had been fumbling with, his dark face was lined with
irritation. "I have heard enough from the two of you. No more talk of
hairy chests or men wearing women's clothing. And I do not want to hear another
word regarding Summer du Bonne. Do you comprehend?"
Unable to keep the smile from his
lips, Morgan snickered softly and clapped a companionable hand on Bose's shoulder
before returning to his own equipment. "Indeed, my lord. Not another
word."
Bose's black eyes were piercing
as the older knight continued to snort disrespectfully. "I do not jest,
Morgan. Not another word."
Morgan eyed the man, nodding his
head with earnest agreement. "I indicated that I understood, Bose. There
is no need for threats."
"Aye, there is. You are
pushing me to the brink and should be amply forewarned."
"I have done nothing of the
kind. What has happened to your sense of humor?"
Bose continued to stare at the
man long and hard a moment before turning away. "It is intact given the
proper circumstances, and considering we have a competition in fifteen minutes,
I hardly find your amusement valid," lifting his arms as his squire
secured his scabbard for the melee, long and free and at the ready, he cast a
final glance at his two comrades. "Tate, get mounted. Morgan, if you are
not going to compete, you and Artur discover from the heralds who is to be on
our team for the melee. I would know these fools who intend to ride upon my
glory."
With a smirk, Morgan quit the
tent. Tate maintained his position a moment longer, wondering if Bose intended
to press him for more information regarding the fair Lady Summer without
Morgan's presence. Even though he was well aware that Morgan was Bose's closest
friend, still, it would somehow be easier to discuss the lady between two men
rather than three.
But Bose apparently had no
intention of pressing the issue further and Tate wisely left the tent, heading
for the gnarled oak where his squire had prepared his charger. Bose's massive
beast was prepared as well, muzzled to prevent him from attacking his handlers.
As Tate mounted, making sure the
banner decorating his horse's body was properly secured beneath the armored
tack, he wondered if he shouldn't attempt to ascertain more about the young
maid who had captured Bose's eye. The further his lord denied such interest,
the more Tate knew the fair lady had indeed succeeded in snaring the man's
attention.
The silver peals of the trumpet
could be heard, calling all spectators to the lodges and announcing to the
competitors that the event was about to commence. Forcing thoughts of Bose's
lady aside for the moment, Tate straightened the decorative plume atop his helm
and reined his charger toward the arena, his excitement mounting. He knew that
Bose's remaining two knights would already be at the field, awaiting his
company. And with all of the houses preparing to combat in honor of Lance du
Bonne, the day would prove to be exciting and profitable.
Tate looked forward to certain
victory. With Bose de Moray on his team, there was no question.
***
Colorful knights of every house
were lining up on opposite sides of the tournament field, emblazoned with
standards and fancy armor and brilliantly-colored lances. Seated between Genisa
and her father, Summer was overwhelmed with the sight and spectacle before her.
Never in her life had she seen so many knights, all lavishly dressed as if they
were preparing to attend a feast rather than a battle.
Magnificent shields were lodged
over the left knee of each knight, position for ease and access. War implements
crowded the armored saddles; swords, axes, maces, flails and war hammers
gleamed wickedly under the brilliant afternoon sun. The horses themselves were
covered with beautiful banners embossed with the colors of their knight and, in
some cases, his crest.
As two teams prepared for the
coming melee, Summer scrutinized every knight who happened to thunder past the
lodges, or every warrior who seemed to be gaining a bit of practice before the
competition began. She was wide-eyed with wonder.
"Do you see that your
father's heralds have divided the knights into two teams?" Genisa was
saying. "The two teams will charge one another and fight until only one
man is left. That is why they call it the melee."
"It is quite a brutal
spectacle, Summer," Edward's high-pitched voice was an annoying buzz over
the excitement of the crowd. "Certainly, there are codes the knights must
adhere to; they must not intentionally try to kill their opponent, and they
must not strike a man when he is down. Once a knight is off his horse, he is
out of the competition. The object, of course, is to remain mounted and try to
keep your head on in the process."
Summer knew all that; she had
heard her brothers explain tournament rules a thousand times. On her other
side, Genisa piped up again.
"The team that loses becomes
the prisoners of the victors and must pay them ransom," she said.
"That is how the knights make their money."
"Or lose it," Summer
responded dryly.
Genisa giggled, nodded.
"Stephan lost a good deal last year at the tournament in Swindon. Not only
was he on the losing team in the melee, but he lost to Bose de Moray in the
joust as well. He was so angry with the money he lost that he cursed de Moray
for an entire week."
Summer smiled, her thoughts once
again turning to the mysterious knight who had saved her from her brothers'
foolery. Glancing to the east side of the field, her golden eyes searched for the
black and white standard she knew to be de Moray's. But there was no black and
white on that team, only innumerable brilliantly sewn hues, including those of
the du Bonne red and white.
Shifting her attention then to
the west side of the arena, the distinctive black and white standard of the
House of de Moray was evident. An odd, fluid warmth pulsed through her veins as
she drew deep the sight of the striking banners; with all of the scrutinizing
she had been doing of every man and beast within the confines of the field, she
wondered how she could have missed the de Moray colors.
It began to occur to her that her
brothers and de Moray were on opposite teams. Pondering the dilemma, Summer's
attention was drawn to the perimeter of the field opposite the lodges. Even
with the multitude of men and horses milling about, the squires and stable
hands and grooms and servants scurrying to and fro, still, she found herself
drawn to a particular figure making his way toward the eastern siege line.
"Look, Summer!" Genisa's
high-pitched voice startled her. "There is Sir Bose. See him? Over there,
on the massive black charger."
If only to quiet the woman,
Summer nodded her head sharply. But Genisa, too, seemed to be entranced with de
Moray’s appearance and she poked a finger in his direction.
"He is hardly wearing any
trappings, as the other knights do," she said. "No plumes or fanciful
helms. Only his banner across his charger's haunches. In every competition I
have ever seen him in, his dress is always the same. He is much more
understated than the rest."