Chivalrous (11 page)

Gawain rushed directly at Allen now, but Allen could not allow the young lad to perish. With no time to think, Allen tossed his sword to the ground and ran with every ounce of his strength toward the dangling child. He dove over the chest-high enclosure with one neat move, tumbled along the ground, and back to standing. The boy's fingers lost their grip, and the child began his agonizing descent. Just before he crashed to the hard-packed ground, Allen surged forward and caught the boy in his arms.

The crowd grew deathly still.

What had Allen just done? Had he thrown it all away? But as he clutched the warm bundle to his chest, he knew he could never have chosen otherwise.

“My baby! My baby!” a woman shrieked, clambering down the stairs toward him.

Allen walked around to meet her, and the crowd finally seemed to put the pieces together and began cheering once again.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, kind sir. You are truly the most chivalrous knight in the land.” The crying woman kissed Allen's hand.

Gawain, grinning his evil, arrogant smile, held Allen's sword high over his head. “Did you lose something?”

Allen's stomach sank as his dreams crashed to the earth, just as surely and violently as the boy might have crashed to his death. If Allen had sheathed his sword, the match would have continued. But in that fraction of a second, the child could have perished, or at the least been maimed. Any honorable knight would return the sword to Allen, but Gawain had no honor in him.

The victory might belong to Gawain, but at least Allen had
won the spirit of the day. He would not give up all hope yet. The duke remained a just man.

“I was thinking that rather I had found something.” Allen held the boy high over his head and the crowd went wild once again.

Gawain sneered at Allen with deadly hatred in his eyes. Once the woman gathered her son, Allen climbed back into the arena, and the crowd settled, Gawain spat upon the ground. “You are mistaken, Sir Allen. For we all know that in forfeiting this sword, you lost the round to me.”

Silence now reigned in this place that had been thundering with noise all day.

Allen would give Gawain the benefit of the doubt and assume the man did not understand that the child could have died without his help. He glanced about, unsure of what came next. The herald should declare Gawain the winner now, yet he stepped back and said not a word.

The duke stood and raised a hand. “Is this truly how you wish to play the game, Sir Gawain?”

“I have won fairly, and I have won most assuredly. That is precisely how I wish to play. The child was naught but a convenient excuse, for Sir Allen knew he could not beat me.”

A few boos and hisses emerged from the observers, but mostly they remained as stunned and still as Allen himself at this man's outlandish audacity. For a moment nothing happened. No one moved. Allen approached the grandstand, hoping that might prompt the duke to end this lingering torture.

He might not win, but he would yet hold fast to his honor. Standing side by side with Gawain, Allen spoke. “I concede. Gawain has won. I know the rules, and I relinquished my sword. There is nothing else to be said.”

“Understand that I have taken the measure of the both of you
today. I shall not soon forget this outcome.” The duke nodded slowly to the herald.

With disdain thick in his voice, the man announced, “The victory goes to Sir Gawain.”

“Yes!” the pompous fool shouted. “Yes! Yes!”

But no one joined him in celebration.

The duke tossed a bag of coins to the man, the likes of which might have supported Allen for years. Might have allowed him to look forward to marriage and family. His stomach clenched.

But then Gwendolyn stood, resplendent in a gorgeous amber gown, tall and elegant and drawing the attention of the entire crowd. “Sir Allen! Your prize for your valiant deed this day.” She tossed down her kerchief to him.

Then the duchess stood and did the same. And the comely dark-haired lass next to Gwendolyn. And then a shower of fabric drifted from the sky toward him like a soft spring rain. Every color imaginable. Embroidered silks and satins next to rough scraps of beige flaxen fabrics.

Gawain turned a slow circle, shaking his bag of coins and his triumphant sword over his head as if the attention were all for him. Allen chuckled at the absurdity of it all, and at the glory of it all. He might not hold a bag of gold, but he held the esteem of these people. Just as he had always hoped he deserved.

Gwendolyn cheered and clapped with a huge grin upon her face.

The duke just smiled and nodded at Allen.

Perhaps all was not yet lost.

Allen entered the elaborate great hall of Edendale Castle with its soaring ceilings and colorful banners and braced himself for an uncomfortable evening. A part of him had wanted to stay home and pout over his loss that day, but since home yet consisted of a bedroll next to a stream, and as he still needed to win the favor of the duke, he had hastened himself to the celebration.

He smoothed down the dark blue linen of his finest tunic, unfortunately the same one he had worn last night. Then again, no one but Gwendolyn had given him much heed, and he didn't think her the type to care about fashion.

There she was.

His evening took a sudden turn for the better as Gwendolyn rushed to him and took his hands in her own. A sense of coming home washed over him. She was a vision of loveliness in a gown of turquoise and silver with silver ribbons twisted through her golden tresses. As he leaned close to kiss her hand, he noted she smelled not of traditional roses or lavender, but of a wilder herbal scent, which better suited her feisty nature.

He hesitated for the briefest moment, pausing over her hand like a honeybee hovering before taking its first taste of sweet nectar. The room seemed to hush as he fleetingly touched his lips to her skin. Truly, he must cease this silliness and think of her only as a dear friend.

“Sir Allen.” The admiration in her voice warmed him and bolstered his confidence.

“Lady Gwendolyn.”

Despite his resolve, tiny charges like lightning crackled from her hands to his and back again. He breathed up a quick word of thanks that she was not yet a married lady who must hide that glorious mane of hair.

Thoughts of prayer caused him to recall her request for the first time this day. He gave her hands a squeeze. “I am so sorry, but I just realized that I did not have the opportunity to search out the Scriptures for you as I promised.”

“You were rather busy.” She grinned up at him. “And quite amazing. Congratulations on a fine tournament.”

“But I did not win.” He lowered his head as his bliss diminished by half.

She tipped it up with her finger. “You won favor and respect and proved yourself the more honorable knight. Duke Justus was none too pleased with that awful Gawain.”

Perhaps all was not lost. If the duke was pleased with Allen's character, then he might still apply for service as a knight of the region. Although he was as yet unsure if that would put him in close proximity to—as Gwendolyn called him—that awful Gawain. “I take it you like him no more than I do.”

“He is a coward and a bully.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

Gwendolyn looked as if she would like to spit the foul taste of the man from her mouth. “And if my father tries to force me
to marry him, I might try my chances as a forest outlaw after all. Would you consider joining my band?”

Allen's stomach clutched as he recalled the oaf Gawain backhanding his maidservant. Such behavior was sadly tolerated in England, but he knew not the statutes here. Either way, it was churlish and unchivalrous in the extreme, and he would never wish to see Gwendolyn with such a man. “Surely your father would never. Does he not realize that the man is a brute?”

Gwendolyn frowned. “My father knows exactly what Gawain is, and loves him all the more for it.”

And Allen's stomach churned all the more over it. Though he dare not think of Gwendolyn in a romantic light, he would not stand by idly and see her wed to that fiend.

“Excuse me, please.” A deep voice interrupted them.

Allen turned to see Duke Justus himself at his side.

“Your Grace!” Allen bowed, before stopping to think if that was the correct response.

The duke lifted him with a brush to his shoulder. “No need, Sir Allen, though I appreciate the sentiment. My Lady Gwendolyn, would you forgive me if I steal this chivalrous young knight from your company?”

“Of course. I dare not keep the man of the evening all to myself.” Gwendolyn offered a smile of reassurance his way. “I think Sir Allen is a person you should get to know better.”

“Ah, precisely as I was thinking. Come, my good man.” The duke pressed a friendly hand to Allen's back and led him to a table where a group of auspicious-looking men gathered. “Sir Allen of Ellsworth, may I introduce you to some of my council members.”

Allen's head swirled as the duke called them each by name, title, and role. He would never remember it all. For the next ten minutes these men shot questions at him about his training
and background as Allen fought to maintain his composure. He had not been reared for such interviews, although his time with Lord Linden had helped to prepare him. He only hoped he would not make an utter fool of himself. But by the looks on their faces, he seemed to be managing adequately.

“Outlawed by King John—you don't say!” An ostentatious-looking council member in a plumed hat chuckled. “That alone is enough to win you favor in these parts.” He slapped Allen heartily upon the back.

“And you stayed with those children to protect them all that time.” The duke nodded with admiration. “Little wonder you put the child's welfare above your own today.”

“But ward to a nobleman?” A voice came from Allen's left. Allen searched out the skeptical-looking older man in a simple russet tunic—a historian, if Allen recalled correctly—but he saw no malice in the man's eyes, only concern. “Are you certain you have no noble blood at all?”

Allen sought out Gwendolyn, who hovered nearby watching the exchange. She sent him a nod of support. Allen scanned his mind, and surely enough, an answer came to him.

He had not thought of it in years, but . . . “My old grandfather used to tell tales of an ancient Breton king in our family, but I always considered them fanciful stories.”

“Merciful God in heaven,” whispered the man with the long black beard beside his interrogator with awe in his voice. “This one might be a descendant of the legendary Arthur himself.”

Allen laughed at the ridiculous extrapolation. “I never made any claims like that.”

“But it all makes sense now,” the old historian said. “You showed such nobility upon the field today.”

Allen clenched the edge of the table as anger flickered in his
chest. He was not at all sure that he liked the way the conversation was heading. “I was told that Duke Justus honored nobility of heart above nobility of birth.”

The duke sent the historian a pointed look. “Sir Allen has the right of it, Lord Fulton.”

“But such nobility does not merely appear out of the ether.” The historian, evidently named Lord Fulton, held his ground.

“Sir Allen,” called a man dressed in red bishop's robes with a tall pointed hat. “Do you consider yourself a religious man?”

Allen held in a sigh of relief. He felt more comfortable with this line of questioning. “I was blessed to be instructed by the finest priest during my childhood. Although to hear him speak of the matter, it seemed to be more about a relationship between a man and his God than religion per se.”

“I see.” Interest sparked in the clergyman's deep brown eyes. “Do explain.”

“I spend much time communing with God through prayer, and I long to please Him with every choice I make.”

“And do you please God by coming to North Britannia?” asked the duke.

“I hope you will not think it arrogant of me to say so, but I believe I sensed God leading me in this direction.”

It seemed the duke and bishop sent several silent messages back and forth between them, but Allen could not discern a single one.

Finally the bishop spoke again. “Do you spend time in the Scriptures as well?”

“I confess that I only learned to read Latin during this past year. But I have spent many a free moment in the evenings studying the Scriptures, and nearly every penny I earn on candles to do so.”

That provoked a round of laughter from the men at the table.

“Tell me the most surprising thing you have found in the Scriptures,” the priest challenged, he alone maintaining a serious expression.

With Gwendolyn fresh upon Allen's mind, the answer came easily. “The prophetess Deborah. Although I was never one to think women inferior to men, I had always heard that God ordained men to do the leading. I was intrigued to learn in reading of Deborah that this was not always the case. And I served under the most amazing noblewoman during my time in the forest.”

A moment too late, Allen wondered if he had spoken too transparently.

“Excellent answer, my boy.” The bishop offered his first smile of the evening. “We like to think of this as a progressive dukedom, which is open to new places that God might lead us through the study of His Word. Although I imagine we are still more mired in English traditions than we might hope.”

Allen sat forward with excitement. “How has North Britannia managed to hold to such high ideals despite the depravity all around?”

The duke tapped the tabletop. “It has not been easy. My father had a vision of a fair and honorable region after the fashion of Arthur's Camelot. We managed to break in most practical ways from the reprobate Prince John when he stirred up so much trouble during Richard's absence, and then completely when he was at odds with the pope a decade ago.”

His eyes glowed with pleasure as he spoke. “From that time until the coronation of our new king, Henry, we functioned as an independent dukedom. Our laws have long contained the sort of freedoms sought by the English rebels in their recent Charter of Liberties. It took much prayer, much determination, and much education to bring us to this place.”

“Precisely,” the old historian said. “Over time people realized it was for the best.”

“Most people,” said the bishop with a raised eyebrow.

“There will always be dissidents.” Fulton spoke directly to Allen. “A few selfish noblemen would rather keep everything for themselves, but they are not worthy of our notice. The common people have embraced the new ways, and we must continue this forward momentum.”

“Well.” The duke leaned back in his chair and nodded to Allen. “Intelligent, kind, humble, honorable, and spiritual. What more can we ask?”

Evidently he needed not ask any more at all, for every man at the table nodded.

“Absolutely,” Lord Fulton said.

“Without a doubt.” The bishop smiled to Allen again.

“Indubitably!” The man with the plumed hat affirmed his assent so heartily that he nearly lost said hat.

Allen alone sat mystified concerning their meaning.

“Sir Allen, my good man, what do you say to joining our ranks?” The duke put an end to Allen's bafflement, yet left him stuttering nonetheless.

“As a knight? I would . . . I mean . . . that is to say . . .” Wonder overtook Allen and set his head to spinning all over again. This had been far easier than he expected, particularly after today's farce at the tournament. Truly God stood on his side. “That is what I wished for all along.”

The group of councilors began to laugh again. Allen hoped his answer had not seemed too pathetic.

“As a knight, certainly,” the duke said. “You are welcome to move into my garrison this very evening. But we need godly men like you to help lead this region. Besides which, I wish to send a strong message about the occurrences at the tournament.”
Again he paused to survey the men at the table. “Sir Allen of Ellsworth, would you consider joining our council?”

Allen could no longer think straight, nor could he keep his jaw from dropping open. From the side of his eye, he noticed a flash of turquoise as Gwendolyn moved closer with a questioning look upon her lovely face. Only one thought fought its way through the sea of confusion to the forefront of his consciousness.

Perhaps the fair Lady Gwendolyn was not out of his reach after all.

“Yes,” he mouthed silently to her, meaning so much more than that simple word could convey.

She clasped her hands to her bosom and grinned her support. How forever grateful he would be that she had shared this miraculous moment with him. He could hardly wait to escape this interrogation and spend more time with Gwendolyn.

But he must not run away too quickly. A member of the council! Allen could hardly fathom it. He must put first matters first and secure his place in the dukedom. Once that was settled, perhaps he might win the favor of some young lady—dare he dream even of the Lady Gwendolyn?—for good.

For what was all the success in the world without a loving family by one's side?

From behind a marble pillar, Warner glared in the direction of Justus and his passel of squawking imbeciles. Let them laugh now, for they would not be laughing long.

And what was this nonsense? Why did they consult with that lowborn knight as if he were one of the magi from the east? Matters at court had clearly gone from bad to worse during the five years since he last spied upon them, and they would soon
reach a critical crossroad. He had returned none too soon, it seemed. If Justus had his way, before long the peasants would be running the country entirely.