Chivalrous (29 page)

Anger surged through Warner DeMontfort, and he slashed his hand across the table, sending Morgaine's basin of water and herbs crashing to the floor of his chamber. “I have missed my chance! How dare you speak such drivel? How dare you mock me? I know not why I ever believed you.”

Morgaine raised a haughty brow at him. “Do you think angering the evil spirits shall help your cause? They alone have sustained you thus far.”

“I do not need you or your blasted spirits. I have an entire squadron at my disposal, and North Britannia shall yet be mine!”

She snickered at him. “Imbecile. You shall fail.”

“Get out.” He snatched her sack from the table and pelted it at her head. “And do not return to me!”

“You have made a deadly mistake this day.” Her words flew his way like daggers of ice and pierced his chest.

But he would not give in to the pain.

She picked up her sack from the floor and turned to leave. With her hand upon the latch she paused and glared at him with a pure hatred. “On second thought, you should attack. What have you got to lose?”

He would no longer allow that witch to control his life. And he would no longer suffer his hoyden of a cousin, Adela, to steal the power and riches that should rightly be his.

He still did not understand why the North Britannian army
had slighted him by sending a troop his way, then turning back without even a single word. Had they come to offer support to Lady Merry, then heard of her escape? Had they in fact aided her? And when he heard word that it was led by the Lord Barnes, he had experienced a moment of hope that he might finally be coming over to his side.

But nothing.

Did the man simply wish to poke at his pride? Did the entire dukedom?

If so, it had worked. He would suffer them no longer. With the duchess's nuptials looming and the new young king headed to North Britannia, he must secure the dukedom now.

Mentally, he flagellated himself yet again for letting Merry Ellison slip through his fingers. Perhaps Morgaine was right, he had been an imbecile, but he would remain one no longer. No longer would he hide away, vanquished and dispossessed. He would go for everything or nothing at all. In two days' time, while the entire region was distracted by the tournament, he would attack.

Nothing could stop him now!

“No!” Gwen whispered, clutching her hands to her heart as Gawain's eighth opponent of the day crashed to the ground.

The sun beamed bright and joyful overhead, as if mocking the travesty of this tournament that would decide her fate. Her father cheered at her side, as if Gawain's unmitigated dominion over Gwen was something to be celebrated. Even her mother, seated to the other side of Gwen, faked a pleasant smile at Gawain's easy victory to placate her husband.

Rosalind slipped into the small space between Gwen and her mother to offer a sympathetic squeeze of her hand. “Do not lose hope. Our prayers shall not be in vain.”

Gwen, Rosalind, and the duchess had spent many hours on their knees over the past few days. But over the same duration, Gawain had established his reign of terror, declaring Gwendolyn his by right and threatening anyone who might oppose him.

While tournaments often featured thirty to forty contenders, today only nine men had dared register to fight Gawain. Eight down upon the ground. One to go.

As Gawain in the Ethelbaum's blue and green colors pranced and strutted, the crowd booed and hissed. He waved his hands toward himself, as if he welcomed their disdain. “Come! Will no one make me sweat this day? This is too easy. You send me pups when I wish to slay a wolf.” He cackled at his own pompous jest, at which the crowd booed and hissed all the louder.

Gwen craned forward to better view the duchess next to Allen. Both looked as miserable as she felt. She had chosen to sit away from them today, knowing that Allen's presence at her side could only make this experience that much more awful.

But she broke into a small grin at the more welcome sight of Randel standing near the duchess, leaning over the rail and clutching it with his good hand. He let go and swiped at Gawain in disgust. Randel appeared to be pleading with the duchess and several of the high-ranking councilmen who sat near her.

But the duchess only shrugged her delicate shoulders in defeat, for she had done all she could.

The herald announced the final contender, one Sir Wilbur of Whichester. Gwen did not recall the name, but as he came to bow before the duchess, she indeed remembered him, for she had met him briefly at the most recent feast.

A man of few words and slightly awkward in social settings. A second son who was late into his twenties, with a crooked overlarge nose and a scar cutting through his left brow. But if his reputation held true, a good and honest man.

Certainly preferable to Gawain.

Sir Wilbur looked to be several inches shorter, but nearly as wide as his opponent. The largest fellow to face Gawain so far this day. Perhaps all was not yet lost.

If only Hugh would make an appearance, she might not have to rely upon this virtual stranger to rescue her. As the two men
faced off upon their steeds and lifted their lances, she hollered, “Go, Sir Wilbur! Garnet and grey! Garnet and grey!”

Her champion offered her a shy smile before pulling his visor down over his eyes, and she tossed her kerchief his way.

“Stop that this instant,” Father ground out at a whisper. He reached over to pinch her arm hard beneath the flowing sleeve of her amber gown in a way that no one would notice but that would surely leave a bruise.

“Ouch!” she yelped.

He shot her a glare. “Do not cross me further. The Barnes family is cheering for Sir Gawain this day.”

But in her heart she continued to chant.
“Wil-bur. Wil-bur.
Wil-bur.”

She studied the two men and their individual techniques. They flew directly toward one another, both fearless and bold. Sir Wilbur remained straight and true. But precisely as he had done each time she watched, Gawain lifted his lance for a brief moment just before he struck.

Then right as they might have clashed, both dodged to the outside and sped past one another unscathed.

Gwen sighed and shook Rosalind's hand in her excitement. Rosalind patted her shoulder with her free hand.

After circling about, the two men galloped at each other again. Again, Gawain lifted his lance for the briefest moment, but then he brought it back dead center. Within an explosion of shattering lances, both men tumbled off their horses.

Rosalind bounced on her toes and raised her brows to Gwen.

Gwen's heart raced even as Sir Wilbur's must at that moment, joining them in that simple manner.

The combatants found their feet and drew their swords. They slashed and ducked, dodged and parried. It looked for a moment as if Sir Wilbur might stand a chance, but then Gawain surged
at him with a piercing howl and such fierce determination that Sir Wilbur stumbled backward.

In a flash, Gawain had him pinned to the ground by the point of his sword.

And all seemed lost.

But no. Gwen could not despair. She squeezed her eyes closed and steadied her breathing as Rosalind clutched tightly to her hand.

Gawain commenced to preening and strutting once again. “That is all of them. I have won. Lady Gwendolyn is mine. And I now shall claim my prize!”

He thrust his hips forward in a most threatening and unchivalrous display. Gwen felt faint at the thought of what the vulgar gesture forewarned. For a moment her faith faltered like Saint Peter struggling as he walked upon the water, but she could not afford to sink.

Her future, her life, and her happiness were all at stake.

The duchess stepped forward and held up a steadying hand. “This tournament has not ended yet. It is still early in the day.” She appealed to the audience. “Will no one else offer to fight for Lady Gwendolyn's hand?”

Gwen bit her lip and awaited her miracle.

That is when she spied him. A handsome knight thundering upon a noble steed toward the arena. Two attendants swung the gate wide and let him enter. Gwen's spirits soared. So much so that she rose from her chair and thought she might float away.

Her beloved brother Hugh pulled to a stop next to Gawain. “Do not celebrate yet, you arrogant coxcomb! I intend to put you in your place and choose a husband for my sister myself.”

He leapt down from his horse and spoke directly to the duchess. “I would like to challenge Sir Gawain.”

“Sir Hugh, you are just in time,” the duchess said.

“This is not fair!” Gawain whined like an overgrown child. “He cannot fight for his own sister's hand. And he did not register for the tournament in an official manner.”

As the two hulking knights stood side by side, Gwen smiled to note her brother's even taller stature and even broader shoulders. Gawain had already endured nine matches. Although he had by some mishap managed to best Hugh once, it would not happen today.

The duchess raised her chin and shot Gawain a quelling glare. “I say he can fight for his sister's hand. We declared that you must face
all
challengers. What is the trouble? Are you afraid, Sir Gawain?”

“I . . . no . . . but . . .”

Just then Gwen's father hopped over the railing and down a good six feet, as if he were still a fit young knight himself.

He dashed onto the field and stood between Gawain and Hugh, waving his hands high over his head. “Wait! I must speak with my son before you commence with this farce.”

Lord Barnes, every bit as tall and broad as his champion son, grabbed the younger man roughly by the arm and pulled him back toward the gate, where they might speak more privately. He flailed his arms in the air as he chastised his son.

Hugh stood firm, feet planted in the ground, staring down his father, angrily pointing to Gwen, then Gawain and back again.

Father's face turned bright red. Even at a distance, Gwen spied the throbbing vein. He clenched the collar of Hugh's purple surcoat in his meaty fist. Whatever he said next quelled Hugh. Hugh ripped himself away and took a few steps back with his jaw gaping.

He rubbed his hands over his face, concealing it for just a moment. But when he dropped them to his sides, Gwen knew his decision had been made. Across his pale face he wore an
expression of defeat, which melted into raw fear as her father continued his tirade.

She sunk back to her chair. Her spirit, which had soared so high a moment ago, threatened to bury itself deep within the earth, never to rise again. But still, somehow she must cling to her faith.

Randel leapt over the rail much as her father had. He ran to the men and pleaded with Hugh. No doubt ensuring him that he wished to marry Gwen and entreating Hugh to reconsider. But it was too late. Due to whatever threats her brutal father had made, her brother would not fight for her.

Hugh trudged back toward the duchess with his head hanging low. He did not bellow with confidence as he had the last time. But Gwen heard him all too well nonetheless.

“It seems I have made an error. I did not rightly consider all the consequences my actions might evoke. I withdraw my bid to battle Sir Gawain, and I declare him victor of my sister's hand.”

The duchess clenched her jaw. She looked to Allen, then to the council. Then she turned and caught Gwen's gaze.

After taking a deep breath, finally the duchess spoke. “Concede if you must, Sir Hugh, but I will not decree this contest over. Today is a day of celebration, and I shall not have the fun end so soon. The sun has barely reached its zenith in the sky. We shall wait and see who else might offer to fight.”

The duchess glanced about, no doubt noting the lack of potential candidates.

“In fact,” she said with a forced smile, “let us bolster the game and increase the merriment. I declare that even the common folk may enter for the prize of the noble Lady Gwendolyn and her dower lands. I will provide the needed battle gear. Let us take a break for our midday repast so that all in attendance might consider this offer. I open the field to all contenders.”

As those words, “
I open
the field to all,”
echoed in Gwen's head, an idea burst to life in her mind.

This battle was not over yet.

Rosalind dashed down the lane after the retreating Sir Hugh as he led his horse away from the tournament grounds. She had never been so disappointed with another human being in her entire life. Well, except perhaps with herself. He was nearly to the city gates, but Gwendolyn had trained Rosalind well, and she ran to catch him.

“Hugh! Hugh! Please wait.”

He turned and, upon spotting her, froze in his place.

A portion of Rosalind longed to throw herself into those strong arms. But a mountain of hindrances now stood between them. She pulled to a stop before him and took a moment to catch her breath. “How . . . how could you?”

A defeated Hugh hung his head low. “Do not judge me, Rosalind, for you know not what he threatened.”

“To take away your inheritance? So what? You are only a third son, and you are a valiant soldier. You can earn your own way in the world.”

“To disinherit me? You would like that, would you not? Perhaps you fancy I would settle down and marry you then. But no, it was nothing so benign as that. He threatened to declare me illegitimate and my mother an adulteress. He would shame us all to get his way. Mother has her faults, but she has always been a faithful wife. I cannot win against my father.”

Those words stole the fight right out of Rosalind. Yet he had mentioned marriage. Perhaps if she had waited. . . . Perhaps if she had chosen differently. . . .

“Can I go now?” Hugh collected the reins of his horse.

She watched him preparing to leave through tear-filled eyes. “But what of us?”

“Is there an
us
? I thought we agreed this was only a dalliance. I will marry whomever my father declares, just like my poor sister must.”

“I realize we could never marry.” She glanced about at the once-pretty street, but it had lost all its color, all of its vibrancy, all of its charm, taking on a grey sort of haze, as had her entire life.

And so she turned her gaze down to her hands as she wrung them together. “There is something I feel you deserve to know before you leave.”

He tilted his head and waited for her to continue.

“I . . . we . . . that is . . .” She took a deep breath for strength. Rosalind pleaded with him with her eyes. From the core of her being. He simply must forgive her. Offer her the absolution she so desperately needed. Elsewise, how could she ever go on living?

“I've been sick these last weeks. And I discovered that . . . I was with child.”

Now she dared not look up at him, but rather focused upon her hands and rushed on with her tale. “I knew it would cause too many problems, for both of us. So I borrowed some coins from the stash you mentioned you keep hidden at the townhouse, and I went home to my village for a few days. I paid . . . the herbalist . . . and . . . well . . . 'tis taken care of now.”

Finally she lifted her gaze to his, but those playful blue eyes she so adored had turned hard and cold.

“
It
has been
taken care
of
?” he repeated with ice dripping from each of the words.