The Gorgon (9 page)

Her voice was quiet but firm as
she eyed her apprehensive sister-in-law. "Go away, Genisa. Please go away
and leave me alone."

Genisa's expression washed with
genuine remorse. "Summer, I am truly sorry. But you know as well as I
that... we must make sure you are kept silent and protected."

"Protected? Ha!" Summer
snorted. "You mean properly hidden."

"Hidden?" Genisa
repeated, sincerely confused. "Not hidden, Summer.
Protected
."

"Call it what you will,
Genisa. Regardless of the term used, it means the same thing. Isolating me from
the world."

"Not by choice,"
Genisa's voice was quiet. "There are those who simply do not understand
your flaw."

Although Genisa had meant to
describe her affliction and nothing more, Summer interpreted her statement as an
insult. Cheeks flushing with shame, she whirled on her sister-in-law in a
vicious billow of golden satin. "My flaw is that I cannot speak a sentence
without f-faltering at times. Your flaw is that you talk too much and your
voice grates upon my ears like the b-bray of an injured goat. Now tell me;
whose flaw is greater?"

Genisa gasped, her mouth opening
with outrage. "How cruel you are. I was merely trying to protect you,
Summer!"

"Do not protect me!"
Summer practically screamed, oblivious to the curious glances upon the two
shouting ladies. "I do not want your protection! In fact, I do not want
you near me at all!"

Genisa's mouth gaped further, her
cheeks mottling a hot red. "You ungrateful wench. How dare you spurn my
concern!"

Summer let out a strangled groan.
"Concern for what others will think of your reputation with a
sister-in-law who stutters," when Genisa attempted to lodge a stern
protest, Summer simply turned on her heel and marched in the opposite
direction. "Go b-back to Stephan, Genisa. I do not need nor do I want any
more of your p-protection."

Genisa called to her and
attempted to follow, but Summer gathered her skirts and dashed off as if the
Devil himself were nipping at her heels. In and out of vendor shacks she ran,
renting a wild path through the cluster of visitors in an attempt to elude her
sister-in-law. She wanted to be free of the woman, if for no other reason that
to compose her thoughts.

By the time she entered the
perimeter of tents housing opposing knights, Genisa's shouts had faded and
Summer slowed her pace, wiping the steady stream of tears from her cheeks. The
day was waning as the sun set steadily in the western sky and high above,
seagulls called loudly in their search for food.

Summer ignored the gulls, the
cooling sea breeze, and the distant roar of the crowd populating the vendors
stalls and surrounding area. In spite of the clusters of unfamiliar tents, she
knew the area well and realized, eventually, she would emerge onto the road
leading to Chaldon. So she wandered, staring at the ground and going out of her
way to avoid a knight or squire or servant within the field of the tightly
clustered shelters.

She did not want to speak with
any one. Nor did she particularly want to see any one, given the fact that the
only man she possessed a desire to see was probably lodged within the warm
comfort of his tent, congratulating himself on a fine victory and putting her
out of his mind.

Toying with the ends of her hair
absently, her expression molded into that of a permanent pout, she wandered to
the base of a gnarled old oak and deposited herself at the roots. The pungent
smells of roasting meat filled the air as the evening meal drew close, but
Summer wasn't hungry in the least. There wasn't a food or drink in the world
that could ease the ache she was experiencing at the moment. It was an ache
that only intensified when she caught sight of the striking black and white
tent in the near distance.

The proud Gorgon banner flapped
sharply in the brisk sea wind, silently saluting the onset of a mild evening.
Summer ripped up clods of grass, venting her turmoil and wondering why God had
saddled her with so horrible an affliction. She oft made a conscious effort not
to stammer her speech, speaking slowly and distinctly. And sometimes, her
efforts worked. But more often than not, she would forget her slowed pace and
return to her natural pattern and stuttering syllables.

Sir Bose wasn't to blame for his
unwillingness to defy her father's denial. In truth, she did not blame him; she
blamed her father for his sense of pride, unwilling to expose his daughter to a
potential suitor and thereby release the secret of her speech impediment. And
once Sir Bose discovered her imperfection, certainly, he would formulate his
own rejection.

But, Dear God, somehow she wished
he would be able to overlook her flaw in lieu of her better qualities. As if,
somehow, he would be able to tolerate her stammering in lieu of coming to know
the woman beneath the defect. Dear God... she wished he would be different from
the rest.

The sun descended the western
sky, turning the colors from blue to orange to gold; still, Summer continued to
sit beneath the old oak tree in gloomy silence. As dusk drew nigh and the damp
sea breeze turned cold and wet, still, she sat and pondered her impending
future. Realizing that, indeed, she appeared not to have one at all.

***

In spite of the fact that the
evening meal should have been a victory celebration, there was very little
happiness at all. Within the encampment of the House of de Moray, the mood was
oddly sullen and strangely quiet. As the knights in Bose's service commenced
their meal of mutton, onions and sweetened carrots, there was far less
joviality than usual. Little talk, meaningless banter, and at the head of the
silence sat none other than Bose himself.

A trencher of half-eaten mutton
sat before him, cooling and scarcely touched. On his right, Morgan picked
through his meal in respectful silence, eyeing Tate now and again to make sure
the knight had every intention of keeping his mouth shut on the subject of Lady
Summer. To make sure they all kept their mouths shut. There was not one man
among the morose crowd that wished to broach the truth.

They had all seen Bose ride to
the dais with the intention of speaking to the beautiful young woman. And they
had all seen the lady escorted from his presence. What could have been a
potentially pleasing situation turned dark and moody the moment the lady left
his company.

Even after the lady had long
since vanished, still, Bose had remained silent and pensive and isolated,
poised before the lodges that had once been filled with people screaming his
name. There was no one left to congratulate the victor; not even the only woman
from whom he would have gladly accepted the accolades. So he turned away from
the vacant seats and returned to his encampment, empty-handed and closed mouth.

There was not one man in the tent
that hadn't suspected Bose's purpose when he boldly approached the dais.
Knowing their lord as they did, his reserved nature and disinterest toward life
in general, it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage for him to
initiate the action. And further knowing the man as they did, there wasn't one
man in the tent immune to the sting of rejection their liege was experiencing.

Beyond Morgan's pensive silence
and Tate's deliberate quiet, Farl McCorkle eyed his liege with a good deal of
sympathy. A massive, burly Irishman, he had served with Bose for several years
within the organization of the household guard. His bushy red eyebrows and
overgrown mustache almost gave him the appearance of an unkempt heathen; in
truth, there was no finer warrior in the heat of battle and Bose considered
himself fortunate to warrant the man's loyalty.

Seated next to the crusty Irish
knight was a diminutive warrior by the name of Farl Ross. Where his Celtic
counterpart was brawny, loud and curt, Farl by contrast was quiet,
well-manicured and faintly handsome. Nearly as old as Morgan, in spite of his
small stature and meek manner he was a fierce fighter and an intelligent
tactician. Bose and Farl had carried on many a conversation regarding battle
methods and maneuvers before competition, establishing a winning pattern that
carried through to this very day.

Aye, Farl and Adgar were worth
their weight in gold as far as Bose was concerned. As in the melee today, they
had been powerful contenders who had lasted admirably. But this night, their
usual advice and commentary regarding the day's match was unwanted by their
brooding liege. Having been advised of the circumstances regarding a certain
young lady, the two knights maintained their respectful silence just like the
others.

That is, all except for Artur. Bose’s
great-uncle wasn't a knight, nor had he ever been. He was a tiny old man born
with a crippled arm that had prevented him from training as a proper knight. In
spite of his defect, however, Artur possessed the extreme de Moray trait of
determination. He had fostered in a fine household and although unable to
participate in actual knightly training, he nonetheless learned all he was able
and soon took to training knights himself, working in apprenticeship with a
collection of powerful warriors.

Artur had helped train Bose's
father, and Bose himself when he had come of age. Throughout his grand-nephew's
years of service as Captain of the Guard, Artur had been at the forefront of
organizing and instructed the captain's men. Bose refused to be without the
little man - he may have been stubborn, private and independent, but he was
extremely loyal to those closest to him. 'Twas a tightly knit group
encompassing the House of de Moray, protective and strong, and if Bose never
accomplished another feat of glory in his life, he would have gone to his grave
extremely proud of the life and relationships he had nurtured.

"Why would not the baron let
you speak with his daughter, Bose?" Artur finally asked the fateful
question they had all been pondering for the better part of an hour. "Did
you offend him somehow?"

Morgan and Tate looked to each
other, waiting for their liege to explode. Although Bose wasn't a naturally
violent man, he had been known to break furniture on occasion when pushed
beyond his limits. Farl simply pretended he hadn't heard the question while
Adgar focused on his half-finished meal.  When is grand-nephew did not answer
right away, the old man pushed.

"What did you do,
Bose?"

On his fourth cup of ale, Bose
contemplated his pewter chalice in silence. After a lengthy pause, during which
Artur grunted an additional measure of encouragement, he grasped the cup and
drained the contents. Morgan refilled it immediately.

"In faith, I do not
know," his baritone voice was hoarse with fatigue and alcohol. "I
suppose I am not considered a fine enough prospect for the baron's lovely
daughter."

"Posh," Artur spat,
shuffling across the floor and shoving Tate from his chair. Taking the man's
seat, he focused intently on his brooding nephew. "You are as fine a
knight as has ever lived, Bose, and certainly a suitable match for a baron's
daughter."

Faintly, Bose shook his head.
"It's not the fact that she is a mere baron's daughter. She is so damn
beautiful that surely they are awaiting a more... attractive prospect."

"Rubbish!" Artur
crowed, jabbing a gnarled finger into the man's chest. "There's nothing
wrong with your appearance. So you have a few scars; so what? There's not one
perfect individual upon the face of the earth, including Lord du Bonne's daughter,
I'd wager. Surely the girl has a flaw."

"Not this girl."

Artur shook his head in
exasperation. "You are too quick to praise and too quick to concede
defeat. The Bose I know would not have given up as easily as this. Are you so
lacking in confidence that you will not fight for what you want?"

Bose's brow furrowed with
confusion and he took another hearty draw of ale. After a lengthy hesitation,
he emitted a loud sigh. "God's Beard, Artur, I never said I wanted the
girl. I merely wished to ask for her favor and suddenly, everyone is acting as
if my marriage proposal was rejected."

"'Tis because you are acting
in the same manner. I would tend to believe that you want more than a favor
from the girl."

Looking into Artur's face for the
first time, it was an effort for Bose to scowl convincingly. "You are
mad," he hissed, draining his cup and rising from the table. Still clad in
his mail tunic and plate armor, he wandered away from the table. "How
would you know what I am feeling? You've never even seen the woman; you are
basing your observations on what these fools are telling you. They insist I am
somehow in love with a woman I do not even know, and you believe them."

"I believe my eyes and ears
and instincts. And they are confirming what I have been told."

Bose grunted with frustration,
turning away from the collection of men huddled about the small cherrywood
table. "You are all mad. The woman means absolutely nothing to me."

"Then why are you so
troubled?"

Bose stared at the half-open tent
flap, his frustration fading as pondered Artur's softly-uttered question. God's
Beard, why
was
he so troubled? He'd never spoken to the Lady Summer;
he'd seen her barely twice and the relationship they shared was purely one of
smiles and glances and nothing more. There was no physical contact involved, no
stolen kisses, nothing whatsoever to warrant a strong emotional attachment.