Word of Honor (Knights of Valor Book 1) (25 page)

Geoffrey
stood in the hot June sun, sweat already gathering under his mail coif and
hauberk. The king had allowed both combatants to wear heavier protective gear,
unlike the time Geoffrey had bested Barrett in France in a simple padded jerkin.

Also
different from that trial by battle was allowing each man his choice of
different weapons. Geoffrey had fought Berold’s oldest son with only a pole in
hand. This time, Edward announced they could have two weapons of attack.

As he’d
approached the field, he noticed Benedict’s second held an arming sword, for
thrusting and cutting, as well as a baselard for the knight to use. Geoffrey
had almost chosen the short dagger himself. Instead, he decided to strap a
graffe, a smaller dagger, to his lower right calf. His chief weapon of choice
would be the bastard sword that Gilbert now held for him. Its weight took two
hands to control, but he believed it more powerful and effective in the long
run.

As before,
a battlefield of sixty square feet had been marked off outside the gates of
Southwark. Four of the king’s royal guard stood at each corner. The onlookers
gathered to watch included a large crowd made of up the king’s royal progress, the
occupants at Southwark, and the two hundred soldiers brought by Geoffrey and
Hugh.

And Merryn.

He glanced
over at his wife, taking pride in her height and graceful posture as much as
the chestnut hair that lit up like fire in the bright sunlight. She had grown
so wise in the years that great responsibility had been thrust upon her. She
had the love of the tenants at Kinwick.

And his. By
God, she had all of his love.

Geoffrey
had lain awake most of the night, Merryn enfolded in his arms. Losing to Symond
Benedict could not be an option. If he did, it meant the royal guardsman would
take his place as lord of Kinwick. He couldn’t stomach the thought of that
monster in charge of his people, much less taking Merryn to bed.

And his
threat of harming Ancel brought fresh waves of anger. Geoffrey realized he must
harness it and not let his emotions get the best of him.

Merryn had
argued that the king should have put Benedict through an ordeal by fire or
water, but he told her that was more for commoners. In truth, Edward could have
called for a trial by jury if he did not want to punish Benedict himself or
render a verdict. But it could have set a bad precedent for any member of the
king’s royal guard if accused of a crime, so Geoffrey understood why Edward
decided to go with a judicially sanctioned duel in front of a field of
witnesses.

He’d
actually referred to their meeting as a wager of battle, a different term than
the Black Prince had used. Because of that, it did not surprise him when the
king announced they would fight till the death. The crowd gasped at hearing the
harsh terms spoken by their liege. Geoffrey avoided Merryn’s eyes though he
felt her gaze burning into him. Edward added the option of uttering the phrase
Craven
,
which translated from the French as
broken
.

Geoffrey
vowed never to speak that word. If he did, it would signal he was vanquished
and the fight done. Benedict would not only claim victory, but by law, Geoffrey
would be deprived of his legal rights. Any man might kill him on sight.

And he knew
Symond Benedict would take advantage of that.

They went
through the same ritual where they both declared they had nothing to do with
witchcraft or sorcery. Their seconds handed them their weapons of choice. Both
men marched side by side toward the center of the field.

As they
moved away from the others, Benedict boldly told him, “Your land and your lady
will be mine for the taking, de Montfort. I cannot wait to couple with Merryn
and hear her scream my name in pleasure.”

Geoffrey
refused to respond as he continued ahead. He would focus on defeating Symond
Benedict. It was kill or be killed—no in-between.

They came
to a halt at the middle of the field and turned, taking ten steps away and
facing one another as they had been instructed. Geoffrey glanced down to make
sure his graffe was in place as he gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands.
Benedict held his sword in his right and the dagger in his left. Hate poured
from his eyes.

“Let the
contest begin!” The king’s voice rang out, cutting through the silence which
blanketed the area.

Geoffrey
had the advantage of height by several inches. His arms would reach longer, and
his sword could move more closely to the red-bearded knight. Yet being taller
and more broad-shouldered could be a disadvantage as there was more of him to
attack. He had speed on his side, though, having always been quick with a sword
and his feet.

And he had
a heart bursting with the need to protect his loved ones.

He would
win. Anything less was unacceptable.

The summer
day’s peace was shattered by the clanging of swords. Geoffrey paced himself,
knowing they could be at the contest some hours. The chances of him tiring
first were greater because of the weight of his weapon, but the bastard sword
would also prove more deadly in the end.

An hour
passed as they dipped and thrust at one another. Geoffrey had thrice sliced
Benedict’s lower thighs, which his hauberk did not protect, and managed a deep
cut on the man’s upper left arm. In turn, he had suffered a gash in his own
left forearm. Benedict hadn’t gotten close since that lone injury occurred.

The heat
burned through him. Geoffrey found his hands dripping with sweat. He did not
want to lose the grip on his hilt. Sweat also poured from under the mail coif
into his eyes. He backed off from his opponent and wiped it away with a brush
of his arm. Still, it continued to stream from his head, disrupting his
concentration.

With a
quick parry, he whipped to his left and as he took a few steps away from
Benedict, Geoffrey used his left hand to tear the mail coif from his head. He
tossed it aside. The crowd gasped. True, his head would be more vulnerable now,
but already the slight breeze of the day began cooling him, allowing him to
regroup.

His
opponent dropped his dagger to the ground and ripped his own mail coif off.
Instead of casting it to the ground, he threw it at Geoffrey. The heavy mail
hit him square in the face, causing him to stumble a few steps back as Benedict
bent and retrieved his dagger.

In France,
the combatants had been told they could use their poles—and anything else on
their bodies. They could kick, punch, even bite their opponent if they came
close enough. Nothing had been said about that at the start of today’s contest,
but Geoffrey assumed Benedict’s action was allowable since no one had stopped
the contest.

Blood
trickled from his nose, which had taken the brunt of the coif’s hit. He shook
his head and charged, full force toward Benedict, his sword steady in his
hands. He needed to take advantage of the knight’s bare head. Benedict blocked
his first wave, but Geoffrey quickly raised his sword again and sliced
downward, next to the soldier’s head. An ear came cleanly off, falling to the
ground. Blood immediately gushed from where the ear had sat only moments
earlier.

Benedict
roared an obscenity and hurdled toward him. Geoffrey swiped his sword across
the man’s chest. Benedict careened toward the ground. He hit it hard, rolling
to his back. Geoffrey moved swiftly to press his advantage. As he came close,
Benedict’s dagger shot out. He rammed it into Geoffrey’s calf.

Geoffrey
staggered away, the dagger protruding from his leg. No pain came as the
adrenaline soared through him. He removed his own dagger from its sheath and
threw it hard. It landed in Benedict’s throat, directly under where his ear had
been.

Now blood poured
from two places on Benedict’s head and neck and dribbled from beneath the mail,
a much less serious wound. Geoffrey yanked the baselard from his own leg and
steadily moved toward his enemy.

Benedict
pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his arming sword. He left the dagger
in his throat as he staggered about. Geoffrey knew if Benedict removed it, the
wound would prove instantly fatal since the knight had no way to staunch the heavy
blood loss.

With a
final effort, Symond Benedict charged at him as a mad boar stampeding through
the forest, a guttural cry passing his lips. Geoffrey saw the swirling pageantry
of colors that surrounded the field. Heard no sound other than Benedict’s
pounding feet as he approached. Tasted the blood that dripped from his nose.

And knew he
had to end the contest. Now.

He wielded
his sword, his hands firm around the hilt, and planted his feet. Geoffrey saw
in his opponent’s eyes as he came closer that the knight knew defeat to be merely
moments away. As he reached Geoffrey, Benedict closed his eyes. He never saw
the arc of the sword coming.

“Does Cook
have the Yule dolls ready?” Geoffrey asked Tilda.

“Aye, my
lord. The little gingerbread people are ready for their heads to be ripped off
and dined upon.”

“Father!”

He turned
and saw Ancel striding through the Great Hall. Now a lad of fourteen, he was
nearly as tall as his father.

Geoffrey
embraced him, holding his boy tightly for mayhap a moment too long, but Ancel
did not protest. They had made their peace long ago and now were as close as a
father and son could be.

“How is
Lord Winterbourne treating you these days?” he asked.

Ancel’s
face lit up. “Very well, Father. He is pleased with me and has called me the
best of squires.”

Geoffrey
captured his son in a bear hug, pride rushing through him.

“Ancel!”

Alys came
running toward them. The twins embraced.

“You look
quite grown up, little sister.”

Alys beamed
at his compliment. She twirled in a circle. “Do you like this color on me?” she
asked both of them.

“You look
as if you came straight from court,” Geoffrey teased. “Far too fancy for our
paltry festivities at Kinwick.”

She punched
her father in the arm. “I did enjoy my time fostering at court,” she said. “Queen
Philippa was a most marvelous woman. Elegant and refined, yet kind and wise.
But Avelyn helped me sew this cote-hardie. She is quite the seamstress.”

Merryn
joined them, their youngest child in her arms. She passed the two-year-old girl
to her sister and greeted her son with a kiss to each cheek.

“’Tis good
to have you home for Christmas. Did Hardi come with you?”

Ancel
nodded. “Lord and Lady Winterbourne are chasing their boys up and down the
stairs to the keep. I should probably go help them. The imps actually follow me
about like lost lambs.”

“I’m sure
they look upon you as an older sibling,” Merryn said. “I know you set a good
example for them.”

At that
moment, Hardi entered the Great Hall, his four-year-old tucked under one arm as
he chased after his six-year-old. Ancel grabbed the loose child and took the
younger one off the earl’s hands.

“Come,” he
told the boys. “Let us go look for my brothers.”

“They’re
upstairs in their bedchamber,” Geoffrey called after him.

Hardi
puffed out his cheeks as he let a long breath escape. “Those boys will be the
death of me.”

“And just
think,” Geoffrey told him. “You’ll be taking on seven-year-old Hal after this
holiday. You will certainly have your hands full with that one, Hardi.”

“That is
going to break his little brother’s heart,” Merryn added. “Mayhap you’d like to
add another one to foster in your household?” she teased. “He’s only five but
already tall for his age.”

Hardi
laughed. “I doubt you’d let him come to me that early, Merryn. ‘Twould only
leave you with your two girls.”

Geoffrey
drew his wife close. “Ah, we can always work on adding to our fold.” He kissed
her temple, inhaling her vanilla scent and wishing he could excuse them and bed
her. He would never grow tired of making love to this woman.

She
caressed his cheek, a twinkle in her eye, as if she knew his very thoughts. And
agreed with them.

“Enough of
that, you two,” Johamma exclaimed as she joined their circle. “I would swear if
a stranger met you, he’d insist you were newly wedded.”

Merryn
placed a hand upon his chest. “I cannot help it, Johamma. Geoffrey is the love
of my life.” She beamed. “I do not care who knows.”

“Greetings!”
Hugh called out. He and Milla crossed the Great Hall, their two children
looking about.

“Alys, take
your sister and cousins upstairs to play. We shall call you when ‘tis time for
the feast and games to begin.”

Alys put
her sister down and let the child toddle toward her older cousins excitedly
before she led the group from the Great Hall.

Geoffrey
watched them leave, thinking how blessed he was to have five healthy children
and good friends and family in their midst to celebrate the beginning of the
Christmas season. He turned and greeted Hugh and Milla as Tilda brought a tray
of mulled wine for the adults to share. They adjourned to a trestle table and spoke
of their children and news Alys had brought from court.

As he
basked in the warmth of the nearby fire and listened to the conversation,
Merryn slipped her hand in his.

Geoffrey
gazed down at his wife—the woman whose image had kept him going during his
years of battle in France and whilst imprisoned at Winterbourne. The one he had
always loved from childhood. The one who would remain beautiful to him, even
when her hair had turned gray and wrinkles from laughter lined her face.

He bent and
said in her ear, “We are most fortunate, my love. We were a love match from the
first.”

“And we
will stay a love match until the grave and beyond,” Merryn replied, entwining
her fingers through his.

Geoffrey
touched his mouth to hers for a lingering kiss. The taste of her mouth would
always mean coming home.

Coming
home. To love. Forever and always.