My Noble Knight (9 page)

Layne stared at the stirrup. It had not been natural wearing of the leather. It had been cut.

S
hivers shot through her body.
She heard heavy footfalls and quickly shoved the stirrup leather into her tunic. Then began rummaging through the saddlebags. For a moment, she couldn't remember what she had been looking for.

The footfalls stopped.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Carlton stood in the tent opening, his arms akimbo. “Do you need help?”

“I can't find --” Then her hand closed over the ale flask and she took it out victoriously. “No.” She brandished it happily, containing her nervousness behind a smile. “I've got it.”

Griffin refused to be distracted by the woman who sat on the top of the fence, her booted feet hanging loosely below her. She clutched the top rail. He had to get a dress for her. It was inappropriate for her to be dressed in breeches and a tunic. A man could see all her curves!
He
could see all of her curves and it was distracting. Very distracting.

Griffin tore his gaze from her and reined Adonis around. He took the lance from Carlton and spurred his stallion, charging down the field toward the quintain. He hated the static quintain. It swung around in a circle and hit less experienced knights in the back hard, but it was useless for a knight of his caliber. When he had been at home, practicing with his brother, they had developed a quintain that rocked. The object of their passes was to hit it hard enough to knock it over. It was a difficult thing to do as the quintain weighed almost as much as a fully armored opponent. But Griffin had mastered it. And challenged himself to hit it just hard enough to teeter it, without knocking it over so that it would return to its original position. That was a challenge! He missed that.

Griffin couched the lance beneath his arm and charged toward the quintain. He held the lance firmly, aiming for the center of the quintain. He leaned in slightly, expecting the moment of impact. He struck the quintain square on, the impact sending reverberations down his arm into his torso and down into his legs. It pushed him back against the rear of his saddle, his legs and knees gripping Adonis.

As he passed, the quintain began to swing. He leaned forward over Adonis’s neck as the weighted portion swung, missing hitting him in the head or back. When he was clear, he lifted his lance and began to slow Adonis. He turned to see the quintain spinning around in a circle.

But he was not satisfied. It began to slow after two whirls, which meant he had not hit it hard enough. He grimaced and came around to where Carlton was standing. He tried not to look at Layne.

Her smile was jubilant and full of excitement. Every time he hit the quintain, she grinned and smiled like an excited child. This was not the place for her, Griffin told himself again, but even as he did, he was glad to see her so happy. Something blossomed in his chest at her lively expression.

He tossed the lance at Carlton’s feet. “What was wrong with that pass?” he demanded, adjusting his leather jerkin.

Carlton looked down at the lance, then at the quintain. “You used the stirrups.”

“Aye,” Griffin agreed. “I did. I will not on this next pass. What else?”

Carlton looked thoughtfully at the lance again. “The lance is still in one piece. You didn’t hit it hard enough,” he said quietly as if talking to himself. Then his gaze snapped to the quintain. “The quintain. It only swung around twice.”

Griffin nodded. “Good. Well done.” He reached down as Carlton handed the next lance up to him. He glanced once at Layne who was leaning forward in anticipation. Then, he focused on the quintain. He removed his feet from the stirrups and nudged Adonis forward with his heels. The horse charged forward.

“Let’s show her how dangerous this can be,” Griffin whispered to his horse. He leaned forward, couching the lance. He set his teeth, preparing for impact, aiming dead center.

He struck the quintain at full speed, the impact resounding through his arms and down his torso, shoving him back against the cantle of the saddle. The lance crumbled against the quintain, shards of wood flying out. He ducked his head in protection from the pieces of wood as well as the weighted portion of the quintain.

He tossed the destroyed lance aside as he straightened, turned and brought Adonis to a halt. The side of the quintain was gone. He had struck it with enough force to break the wooden side. It whirled around like a small tornado.

He heard a holler and glanced toward it.

Layne had leapt down from the fence and was in the field. Her face was a mask of awe and exhilaration. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in utter astonishment.

Griffin glanced at Carlton to see a wide grin on his face. He cantered Adonis back toward Carlton.

Layne ran forward to greet him. “You smashed the quintain apart!” she said in excitement.

He dismounted, ready to chastise her for being in the field. But there was something contagious in her excitement and he held his tongue.

She rushed up to him, throwing her arms around his neck, gasping, “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Startled, Griffin could only catch her around the waist.

She pulled back to look at him. There was true amazement in her large blue eyes and something else…admiration. She released him and turned back to the quintain, running her hands through her hair. “Look at it!” She spun on Carlton. “An entire side plank is gone!”

Carlton could only mutely nod agreement, a grin on his lips.

She spun to Griffin. “How did you do it?!”

Griffin stared at her. If it were Carlton, or another knight, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell them what he did. But this was Layne. He was trying to teach her to be a woman. To act like a woman. Still… the elation in her was stunning. He enjoyed the radiance blooming on her cheeks, the glow of exultation glowing around her. He hated to say anything that would diminish her joy. And yet, this was exactly what had gotten her into trouble in the first place. “It is not a woman’s place to know the technicalities of the joust.”

Her contagious excitement evaporated. Her face fell as the joy left it. It was almost a physical thing. Her gaze swept him and her shoulders drooped. Her hands dropped to her side. She bowed her head.

Griffin regretted his words immediately. He glanced at Carlton.

Carlton looked at the ground with a resigned acceptance.

This only added to Griffin’s guilt. And this angered him. He was doing the right thing. He was protecting her. Didn't she see how dangerous jousting was? If he had hit her with full force like that in their joust, she would have been seriously injured or killed.

Layne didn’t look at him as she nodded. “Sorry,” she mumbled and retreated to the fence again. But she didn’t sit on the top of the fence as she had before. She ducked beneath it and retreated to a large tree close by.

Griffin watched her plop beneath it, facing away from the field of honor, without casting a look in his direction. He sighed softly. It was for the best. She shouldn't feel excited about the joust, and most assuredly, not be joyful he had destroyed the quintain. Yes. He was right telling her so. But when he remembered her radiant smile and the glowing excitement in her eyes as she looked at him, he found it difficult to justify how harsh he had been with her.

Layne plucked a blade of grass from the ground. She thought back to the last time she had been made to feel so useless. She had defeated Frances in sword to sword combat. She had been overjoyed. It had been the first time she had defeated him. She rushed to the manor, to her aunt’s manor, to tell her father, knowing he would be so proud of her. That was all he cared about. Jousting, sword fighting. Tournaments. Even later when he got sick, that was what he wanted to hear about.

But when she told him of her greatest accomplishment, of beating Frances, instead of taking her into his arms and reigning praise on her, he had looked away from her. Her aunt reprimanded her for not finishing her embroidery, for wearing breeches instead of a dress. And her father had banned her from fighting with her brothers.

She ripped the blade of grass in half. She had been confused then. But not now. Now, it was clear how her father favored her brothers. Just because they were men. Women didn't have a place in the sports he loved. She loved her brothers with all her heart, but she never fit in. Not then, not now.

Colin knew. He knew how miserable she was. How lost. He had spoken to their father, convinced him to let her come with them. She overheard him telling their father they needed her to cook for them. Cook. She couldn’t cook! But Colin had covered for her. He had made up an excuse so she could join them in the tournament circuit.

And she had humiliated him by jousting. She had risked everything to joust. The farm they were saving up to buy so their father had a place to live in his final days in. Their reputation.

She deserved to be sent to the dungeon. No, she deserved to be sent home. That would be even worse than the dungeon.

Jousting and swordplay had made her feel part of the family; she could participate with her brothers, talk to them about it. It was all that interested her. It was the only thing that her father liked to hear about. She didn’t care about writing and reading. She didn’t care about music. Her Aunt would reprimand her and tell her that she would never amount to anything. No man would ever want her if she couldn't cook, if she couldn't embroider. But she didn't care.

In the beginning, when they had first arrived at the manor home, she had tried. She had attempted to do all those things that were expected of her. She would proudly display her father’s mended pants, but he wasn't interested. She had tried again and again telling him stories of the lessons of the day, of her knowledge of fashion. But her father didn't care. He would not listen and his eyes would glaze until one of her brothers came into the room. He would listen to Colin’s story for hours. But he never seemed to find the time for her stories.

She ripped another piece of grass from the ground. And now, here she was with a man who was much like her father, unable to see her for who she was. Really see her. She grabbed a lock of her hair that fell over her shoulder and swished the end of it. He looked at her and thought she should wear her hair in those horrible metal circles. She brushed at her breeches. That she should wear a velvet cotehardie. She looked at the field of honor.

Griffin rode toward the quintain again, his lance held steady, his focus unrelenting.

The problem was, if her father didn’t like her for who she really was, how could she hope that the best knight she had even seen would? She tore the blade of grass in half.

And even worse, since she wasn't allowed to know about jousting and sword play and horses, how could she ever tell Griffin that someone had cut the stirrup leather? He would only scold her again and reprimand her for talking of things that were not fit for a woman.