Wicked (40 page)

Tobin looked up.

His squire, Thud, was in a corner, tied up and gagged.

He turned.

The lock clicked.

“Sofia!” he bellowed! “Sofia!”

But she was already gone.

Since de Clare had
sought justice in this challenge, there was to be a judge, an advocate to choose the winner. ’Twas not a death challenge, only justice for the sake of the name of Tobin’s wife.

There was no better judge than King Edward, himself. He and the Queen along with Merrick and Lady Clio sat above the others, waiting. Next to Clio was a chair for Sofia, but when Merrick looked, the girl was not there.

He knew that she did not want Tobin to fight any more than he did, and he wondered if in her own stubbornness, she refused to watch.

’Twould not surprise him. Those two were both hard-headed enough for five couples.

There was a blare of a trumpet and the crowd grew quiet. Warwick rode out from the north end of the field, his horse thundering and his plate rattling. He stopped and raised his visor and saluted the King with his lance. Then he rode to the end of the field and took his place.

All turned to the south side of the field. But there was no rider. De Clare was not there. They waited, and waited. The King frowned to Merrick, who shrugged. The crowd began to talk.

De Clare’s mount came into view, the armored knight riding tall and lean in the seat. But it was not de Clare’s silver armor and blue tunic that the rider wore, but instead the armor was all black, no markings, not even on the tunic to give clue to the rider.

Merrick frowned. He stood. “What the hell?”

“Sit Merrick. ’Tis de Clare’s right to choose a substitute, a champion,” Edward said. “I suggested it to him last eve. I’m happy to see he took my advice, although I had thought he would choose you, Merrick, and not some unknown knight. Who do you suppose that is?”

“De Clare would not use a substitute. He would only champion himself. Believe me, I tried, too.”

The knight rode over to the King and saluted him, then before Merrick could do a thing, the rider wheeled de Clare’s mount around with ease and rode to the south end of the field.

The knights faced each other, then saluted, as was the custom. Warwick dropped his visor, and lowered his lance. A sign of readiness. A trumpet would blow to signal the start, but Warwick, the challenged, had the right to signal the set. The signal was the set of his lance.

They would ride until one was unseated, then the battle would continue on the ground, with sword and skill, until a man was down and raised his hand in forfeit. The winner would have his honor avenged and the loser would have to live with his lost pride, more deeply wounded than any sword could ever cut.

The black knight controlled his mount, which was side-stepping and throwing his head, sensing the tenseness of the moment. He set his lance and waited, leaning forward and signaling his readiness for blood sport.

Merrick did not know who this knight was, but watched him closely. He knew how to set his lance, how to keep his mount ready but controlled and he sensed he knew exactly when the trumpet would sound.

The moments went by slowly. The crowd was silent. The chargers, massively built mounts, snorted and pawed the ground, anxious and ready.

The herald raised the trumpet to his mouth.

The high, loud notes of it carried out into the air.

There was a gasp from the crowd, then the thunder of hoofbeats pounding the ground.

The armored riders moved with ease in the saddle, their lances set into their shoulders, straight, points blunted and not deadly, structured so they would slide off the plate armor, making it difficult to unseat the opponent.

The horses moved swiftly despite all the weight and the metal and cloth trappings, trained in this sport, as much a part of the knight’s success as was his skill.

They were closing in, closer and closer with each canter. The lances were close, their points passed each other.

The black knight leaned forward, an advantage, for the lance point hit Warwick square in the chest.

The crowd gasped.

Warwick spit out a loud grunt from the impact and leaned to his right, as if he were losing his balance. But he gained control and righted himself an instant later.

The crowd gave a murmur of disappointment.

The riders took their places again, each at one end of the field. Warwick set his lance. The black knight did the same. They waited, horses stomping.

The trumpet sounded.

They were off again. They rode faster this time, lances aimed for surety, for strike and for besting the other.

Warwick was stiff in his hold. Merrick saw that once again the black knight moved slightly on the approach, changed the angle.

This knight was trained better than most of the knights he’d ever seen. ’Twas a subtle trick, that angle and shift, that few could master even if they knew of it. William the Marshall had known, and he won every tourney he ever fought in. Merrick knew, but he had never given that secret away and never would. So it was something to see the black knight use it.

Their lance points passed again. Warwick leaned awkwardly, trying to get an advantage.

The black knight twisted in the saddle. His lance caught Warwick under the arm and sent him flying.

The crowd roared as Warwick hit the ground, then lay there for a moment during which no one knew if he was out cold or just winded.

He shifted and sat up, then stood and drew his sword, holding it high.

The black knight reined in and dismounted, then slapped the rear of his mount so the horse trotted off. They stood a few feet apart.

Warwick was bigger than the lean knight, taller and more muscular, but the smaller man was lithe, even in his armor, and moved with speed as they circled each other, a speed that could be an advantage to offset Warwick’s extra weight and power.

Warwick struck out, their sword hilts locked high over their heads. Warwick shoved hard. The black knight stumbled backward, but kept his balance.

He charged at Warwick, the clanging of their swords piercing the air and ringing through the crowd. They parried and thrust and struck, each blocking the other.

A second later Warwick charged, again locking hilts, but this time he used his foot at the back of the other knight’s knee, caught him and sent him to the ground.

Warwick’s sword point was at the black knight’s throat.

He drew his weapon back suddenly as if he were going to do the unthinkable. To drive it through the opponent. To kill in a challenge that was not to the death.

A roaring battle cry pierced the air.

A de Clare!

The crowd turned toward the sound.

It was Tobin, his sword raised as he moved toward Warwick.

“Kill me you bastard! Kill me!” He shouted over the surprise and noise of the crowd. He struck down with his sword and then stepped between Warwick and the fallen knight, who had not moved, but lay there. Still.

De Clare was like a madman, his sword deadly and fierce, moving swiftly and with power and ear-rending strikes that surprised even Merrick.

It took de Clare barely a few minutes to send Warwick’s sword flying, then Tobin dropped his weapon and grabbed Warwick by the mail under his arm plates, dragged him across the field and began to beat his helmet against the low stone wall, shouting he would kill him.

Merrick left his seat, ran to Tobin and pulled him off of Warwick. “Stop! Stop! De Clare! This is not to the death.”

“He was going for the kill!” Tobin growled. “I swear I will kill him!”

Warwick’s helmet was dented and his head and neck were loose, when Merrick finally pulled Tobin away. Warwick slumped to the ground, unconscious.

De Clare stood there, head down, his breath hard and ragged, his gauntlets in fists at his sides. Then he looked up. He pulled off his helmet and turned and faced the black knight, who was just sitting up on the field, holding his head.

De Clare shook Merrick off of him and crossed to the fallen knight. “You bloody fool!” He bent and pulled the knight to his feet, shook him so hard the armor rattled like pans, then grabbed the helmet and jerked it off.

Sofia’s black hair tumbled out and halfway down her back

There was a universal cry of surprise and the crowd began to talk in hushed whispers and stunned realization.

The King swore viciously and loud enough for all to hear. Merrick stood there, dumbfounded, unable to believe Sofia was the skilled knight he had just seen with his own eyes.

But it mattered not, for Tobin was dragging her off the field, his face enraged.

Sofia thought he was
going to hit her. He was that angry. He looked down at her. In his eyes was a fury so strong it could have bored holes in her skin.

“You could have been killed! Do you realize that? How close you were to being run through?” He was still shaking her with each angry word. “I swear he was going to kill you when I came on the field.”

“’Twas you or me. I chose me,” she said.

“I would not have been killed.” He lowered his face to hers. “And even if I had it was my challenge, woman! My honor!”

She met him nose to nose. “Dammit, Tobin! It was in my name that you challenged him! Does that not give me the right to fight for it?”

“Where the hell did you learn to joust? To wield a sword? To ride like that?”

“At Grace Dieu,” she muttered.

Tobin drove a hand through his hair and paced back and forth. “Do you know what you have done?”

“I have fought for you.”

“You have dishonored me, shamed me before all and sundry! A woman! They will think Tobin de Clare asked his wife to fight for him.”

Sofia stood there, chewing her lip. He had a point, one she had no argument for.

“Do you not see what they will say behind my back? You have cut my pride and my honor out from under me. I have nothing left.”

“You have me.”

He turned. His look cut like a sword. A moment later he stormed out of the room.

Chapter 35

She heard about her folly from everyone. From the King and Queen, from Merrick and Clio, even from the servants. Tobin’s men-at-arms would not look her in the eye. Thud and his brother Thwack, the sweetest people in the world, stopped speaking to her. She might as well have been a leper.

Tobin had not been back to their chamber again. For two long nights she slept there alone. She did not even know where he was and no one would tell her. She cried for herself the first night. She cried for him the second.

The morning of the third day, Eleanor came into her room.

“Sofia.”

“Aye?”

“We are leaving for Caernarvon today.”

Sofia nodded.

“You will be traveling with us for part of the journey.”

“Me? Why?”

“You are to go to Torwick. It is your home.”

“Tobin and I are leaving Camrose? He did not tell me.”

Eleanor was quiet. She took a deep breath. “You are going to Torwick Castle with a few servants and a contingent of the de Clare men-at-arms.”

Sofia stood there, realization hitting her like a slap in the face. “Tobin is not going.”

Eleanor shook her head. “He is leaving on a mission for Edward.”

Sofia bit her lip and stared at her hands. She had not thought of this. She had not thought of the consequences of her actions, only the need to act.

“It is a devastating thing for a man to lose his honor, Sofia. In their minds it is perhaps the worst thing that can happen to them. Most would prefer death to loss of honor. It is even more devastating to a young man with Tobin’s pride.”

Sofia began to cry. “I love him, Eleanor. I only wanted to save his life. He could have been killed. I could not just sit there and do nothing. I could not watch my husband ride out to his death. I could not bear it!”

Eleanor sat down beside Sofia and put her arms around her and just let her cry. “I know, child. I know. Ours is not an easy life, we women who love our men. But sometimes when you love something, you have to understand it, deep inside. You have to understand what matters and sometimes, you have to let go.”

They rode over the
crest of the hills around Torwick Castle a week later. Sofia had not been home for fifteen years. ’Twas odd how different it looked now. Not as huge and cold as she remembered.

She sat atop her mount and looked down at the lushly wooded valley, over freshly mown grass, and up the next rise, where Torwick stood, a gray stone keep and square walls that overlooked all of the river valley and forest below.

This was home. Her home. She did not know how she felt about that, whether it could ever be home to her. A chill ran down her arms and legs, gooseflesh and a numbness that had nothing to do with the number of hours she had spent in the saddle.

She did not know what awaited her there, at that castle in the distance. Memories or images? Or nothing but loneliness?

It did not matter because that was all she had now, without Tobin. So she took a deep breath and kicked her horse into a canter, heading to the home she did not know.

The main room and two of the old bedchambers, hers and her parents’, had been made ready. She moved through the rooms a few hours later, stopping and looking around, searching for something that would tell her this was home. She tried to remember anything she could from the past. She tried to see the faces of her mother, of her father.

But when she stood in those rooms, all she saw was a strange place where it felt as if she did not belong. Her belly was tight, as it had been for nearly a week, since the day she heard Tobin was sending her away.

She felt ill constantly, her food spent most of the day in her throat. Being at Torwick did not seem to help. Even the tray of soup and fresh bread that a maid brought to her did nothing to make her feel better.

She explored, out of desperation. She needed to find something familiar. Just one single thing. She walked down the stairs and along the dark hallways.

The stones on the floors were rough on her bare feet. She moved slowly because the rushlight would flicker if she walked too swiftly and sparks would fall from the rushes and burn the skin on her arms and hands.