Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "M'lady." A knight from her husband's entourage assisted Elena in dismounting from her horse.

  She ignored the leer he gave her, a shudder of disgust shivering up her spine.

  Riding at a leisurely pace from the castle, she and her servants had only just arrived. The tournament was in full swing, but she knew none of the actual jousts would have started yet. Not without her and her despicable husband present.

  "Thank you," she said, extricating her hand from the eager knight's grasp. Thank the Lord in Heaven she was wearing gloves—even still she wiped away the man's touch onto the skirt of her gown.

  Her ladies-in-waiting quickly stood around her, six in all. They proved to be a perfect barrier for her, as her husband detested all women. Despite the delicious aroma of decadent dishes, her stomach roiled with nausea. She sucked in a deep calming breath and entered Lord Kent's tent.

  The urge to run far away was overpowering, but instead she held her gaze steady, her feet planted squarely. Her husband stood, brows drawn together, lip curled in irritation. He walked over to her.

  "I shall see you at our place for the joust, soon." He stressed his last word, letting her know he wouldn't tolerate her tardiness as he exited the tent.

  God forbid she should embarrass him in front of his people by not obeying his orders. Her fingers dug into her palms, the gloves saving her skin from nails that would surely draw blood. She nodded stoically to him, relieved her limbs weren't trembling. He turned from her without another word. How long would she be able to endure such a horrific match? She hadn't had much choice in the marriage, actually none at all. She turned to her ladies, her face devoid of emotion.

  "Let us eat, before we join my lord husband."

  After completing a quick repast, of which Elena tasted nothing—just as it was for her at most meals—the ladies took to the grounds to mull over the various merchant's goods.

  "We still have time before we must meet with Lord Kent. Let us walk." Elena smiled at her ladies eager nods. She'd been known in the past to purchase them each a little token, and today would prove to be the same. It was the least she could do for her faithful companions. Without them, her life would be utter misery. At least these women shed some light onto her dreary existence.

  "Beautiful ladies, won't you come over? Let me show you these elegant fabrics," a merchant called to them.

  Elena nodded and headed in his direction. The crowd separated like the Red Sea as Elena and her entourage passed. After being married to Kent for six years, she still wasn't used to the amount of respect and worship she received from the people. Perhaps they were in awe of her survival of such a man. She certainly was, and included it in her daily and nightly prayers. On instinct, her hands rubbed against her bruised ribs. They were healing nicely since his last assault, and at least this time, he hadn't marred her face. That was double the punishment. To ache in more places than she knew she had and be confined to her chamber for weeks while visible signs healed, almost made her go insane.

  Oh, how she wished she could return to Enniscorthy Castle, her family, her friends. And there was one in particular… The one she trusted above all others. Her eyes burned with threatening tears, and she blinked rapidly to keep them at bay.

  "M'lady, may I be so bold as to say your gold brocade gown brings a sparkle to your green eyes?" the merchant said.

  Elena smiled. Even if the merchant was only trying to garner a few coins from her, the compliments were welcome. She shifted her gaze around to make sure no one but her ladies had heard. She couldn't risk Kent hearing of it and believing the merchant meant more than a simple compliment.

  "Thank you, kind merchant. Might you have a fabric of similar coloring, mayhap with some flowers embroidered within it?"

  "I believe we do, m'lady." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "While I fetch it, would you care to peruse the scarves? Perhaps find one for a handsome knight?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and Elena and her ladies all feigned shock, gasping and covering their mouths.

  "Sir, you are too bold, now go and fetch my fabric." She softened her rebuke by smiling at him genuinely. His soft laughter could be heard behind his trailing figure.

  If only she did have a handsome knight she could give a token to. All of her husband's men were either overly eager for her affections, making it quite clear which affections they wanted, or they were just as horrid as her husband. Hurling vulgar offenses at Elena and her ladies was one of their favorite post evening meal delights. She always insisted on leaving at that time, not wanting to see how far they would try to take their churlish behavior.

  Michael stopped short, his eyes riveted on her. Suddenly he felt like a little boy spying on his first love. But this was no little boy's heart warming toward a female. No, this was much different.

  "Elena…" he whispered.

  A sheer gold hood covered part of her hair, but he'd know those wavy, honey-hued locks anywhere. She stood with a retinue of ladies, looking just as regal as he remembered her. He frowned, his hands fisting at his sides. What he knew of her now was only through a third party—a mutual friend. She looked so full of pride, not like anything he would have guessed from the missive. A slow smile curved his lips. She was the same. Even at her lowest, she would never let her back curve in defeat. The woman would go down with her chin held high, and her stance as battle ready as any knight.

  She turned toward him, the fairest beauty in all of Christendom. He ducked behind a stand full of oranges, apples and walnuts before she could see him. The last vision of her mossy green eyes flashed behind his closed lids.

  How was it a woman could do such a thing to a man? Michael was no simpering fool, but a fierce knight, and just looking at her had his stomach twisted into knots. He had to get a hold of himself. Hell, if just seeing her did this to him, how was he to ask for her favors before the joust?

  Or face her in any social situation?

  Straightening and putting some sense into his mind and brusqueness into his form, Michael stepped from behind the stand with every intention of at least making eye contact.

  Before he could approach her, a strolling minstrel bounced in front of him.

  "Care to hear a ballad, sir? You must be in need of entertainment, your face is more strained than mine this morning in the privy," the man laughed.

  Michael groaned inwardly and tried to walk around the minstrel but bystanders crowded around him, blocking his view of Elena. He wouldn't be able to move without causing a scene. Attention toward himself was the last thing Michael wanted.

  He could do nothing but stand there and listen, his mood growing foul. The minstrel began reciting the ballad, Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight. With each word, Michael's irritation burned another degree higher.

  "Fair lady Isabel sits in her bower sewing. Aye as the wildflowers grow gay. There she heard an elf-knight blowing his horn. The first morning in May…"

  Michael tuned the man out and craned his neck, even pushing a few people aside for any sight of Elena. He met with no success, and only incurred several wrathful looks from those watching and listening to the minstrel.

  By the time the minstrel moved on and the crowd dispersed, she was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, he needed to prepare for his joust, and it would be best to get her out of his mind.

  That was of course, easier thought, than accomplished.

  Elena's nerves prickled. Someone was watching her, someone always was. Her husband's spies were everywhere. Turning to look through the crowd, she spotted a knight's gaze fixed on her. But she wasn't repulsed as she normally was with gaping knights—there was something familiar about his black wavy hair. She squinted, half in memory and half trying to decipher how she recognized the man. His eyes. Even from here she could see the depth of emotion clouded within them. She only knew one man with eyes as powerful as his. Bright blue by the irises, then slowly fading into a brilliant green. Flecks of gold sprinkled throughout. He was a little older, brawnier, having lost the boyish look she'd r
emembered.

  "Michael…" His name left her lips on a breath, and a smile curled her lips.

  Before he could come her way, he was blocked by the crowd. She searched the sea of faces, but he was lost to her.

  "Ladies, I am indeed in need of a scarf for a noble knight."

  Elena's blood raced through her veins. She felt giddy, overjoyed—scared. When she'd written him months ago—trusting a knight close to one of her lady's maids to send it—there had never come a reply. She feared he'd forsaken her, that the vows they'd so innocently expressed were all for naught. That he'd moved on with his life… However much that thought had broken her heart, she'd wished him happiness anyway. He would not be the only one who'd forsaken her, left her to rot underneath Kent's evil hand. Her own family did not return her letters.

  Then again, there was always the possibility that the letter never arrived. Or his reply had been intercepted. That sent fear ricocheting through her, but it couldn't be the case, Kent would have seen her punished without a doubt.

  Elena had hoped, prayed, that he'd come, but she'd never been certain. Was he aware of the prize? Would he be participating in the joust? The sword fight? Oh, how she wished he was and wished he wasn't. She wanted him to win. But she didn't want him to get hurt either. So many thoughts crowded into her mind, and all of them were run over by fear.

  Fear that he'd be hurt. Fear of her husband finding out about the letter. Michael was an excellent warrior from what she remembered. And so much more… But there were many skilled knights in attendance. A number of them from her husband's own retinue. All of them fighting for the charge of Captain of the Guard at Kent Castle.

  If Michael were to win —

  But if he were to lose…

  She didn't let her mind get away with her. It would be better not to get herself worked up. If he weren't to succeed she would surely plummet into despair. If she thought of him winning, her husband would pick up on her excitement and have him banished from the tournament. That couldn't happen. Michael could be her savior from a lifetime of unhappiness. Even if they could not make good on their promise to each other all those years ago, at least they could see each other day in and day out.

  Grabbing a sheer gold scarf from the pile, she wrapped it around her neck. Elena let each of her ladies pick a scarf, their girlish antics taking her mind from Michael for the moment.

  The merchant returned with a bolt of the most beautiful brocade fabric. The background was a lovely shade of gold, maroon roses with green vines were embroidered throughout.

  "It's lovely, sir, I will take it."

  After she paid for her purchases, Elena turned to one of her lady's maids. "Raelyn, please make sure this fabric gets to my tent."

  Elena wanted to walk around. She needed to catch another glimpse Michael before she had to return to her husband's side. Had to know if he was really there. And she wouldn't be a minute late either. For if she was, she was sure Kent would send her to the tent or worse back to the castle and she would miss not only all of the tournament events, but a chance at greeting Michael in person.

  A strolling minstrel stopped her and her ladies in their path and began a lively tune. Elena stood smiling, tapping her foot to the rhythm as her ladies danced a little to the music. Furtive glances around the crowd rewarded her with no sight of Michael. Although, several other oglers surreptitiously conveyed they would be more than willing to take his place.

  Disgusted by the vast amount of unwanted amorous attention she was getting, Elena clapped her hands for her ladies, turned from the minstrel, and walked toward the list fields. She would just have to sit and wait until the joust began. Besides, tournaments were only entertaining to an extent. Elena couldn't stand when knights got hurt. She also couldn't fathom why having animals fight each other seemed to be a sport. She always felt sorry for the poor things. The food, music, laughter and merchants' goods were exciting—and whenever there was a tournament, the people seemed most happy. It also meant she'd get to avoid her husband and his roughened friends for more time than was usual—as they would be fully concentrating on the events and not her.

  After greeting her husband, Elena settled herself into her chair, her ladies surrounding her. She smiled inwardly as her husband physically shifted away from them in his seat. While she waited for the first event to begin, her ladies fanned the heat of the sun from her. Kent virtually ignored her, which she was more than thankful for.

  When would Michael appear? Surely he was participating in the tourney. Why else would he have come? Oh, she'd be more than happy to know he had come only for her, but it wasn't at all proper, and if she remembered Michael correctly, he would never do anything to jeopardize her safety and reputation.

  How fabulous would it be when and if he did approach her? Asked her for a token? Would she be able to hide her excitement? Keep his familiarity to herself?

  Arthur raced along the dirt road as fast as his nimble legs would take him. He'd finished his duties in the field in just enough time to hopefully make it to the list fields before too many of the jousts were completed. It was his favorite part of a tourney. Well, that and the nice big jug of ale and leg of fowl he'd inhale.

  Tripping over a rock, he righted himself, and looked around to make sure no one had seen him. His toes stung something awful. What he wouldn't give for a sturdier pair of boots.

  He prayed he wasn't too late. Whoever won the joust today, he would beg to become his kipper. Aye, he knew it would be hard to gain this employ; kippers were fast losing their popularity with chivalry taking the front row. A chivalrous knight might not want someone following him into battle, beating those he'd knocked down into unconsciousness to steal their spoils. But if that were the case, maybe he could become a servant, even if it only meant fetching water or feeding the horses. He was sure he couldn't be a squire, and knew he'd never be a knight. Only kings and royalty could knight peasants. Even if he were to become some sort of assistant to the knight, that still placed him nowhere near King Henry… However the king was known to favor more his lower-born vassals than those born of nobility. That was definitely something to think about.

  Life in the fields was no place Arthur wanted to be. At eight and ten summers, he'd already figured that much out. Now he wanted to serve a knight. He'd enjoy seizing the armor and other accoutrements from fallen men. He'd even learn to fight. And if the mighty knight took mercy on him, and gave him the duty of kipper, he would be forever in the man's debt.

  His mother, before she'd passed, had often told him she'd named him Arthur, after King Arthur of Camelot. She'd brewed within his mind that he could be better than the sorry life she'd been able to give him. Taught him all his life that he could make something of himself. Whenever he talked of saving up enough money to purchase land and working it as a tenant farmer, his mother boxed his ears.

  "No, sirree, ye won't! I didn't half starve myself and the rest of the family so ye could buy a farm. Ye get off your arse and make something of yerself." After yelling at him she often would wander away muttering that she named him Arthur for nothing.

  And then she'd passed, not six months ago. Poor, sorrow-filled woman.

  Now he was alone, since his father had died a few years before his mother. Being the youngest and only boy in his family, his five older sisters had already married and had babes of their own. They were all too poor to take him in. Besides at eight and ten, he was a man now. High time, he started acting like one and taking fate into his own hands. He'd show his mother she hadn't wasted a good name on him, and that the many meals she missed so he could eat were worth it.

  He vowed on his mother's deathbed, that he would find a better life for himself. It was then word of his master, Lord Kent's tournament came about, and he knew just how to make his promise come true. Arthur felt certain he'd be able to convince Lord Kent to give him up as a field hand. It wasn't like he'd be leaving the service of his lordship anyway. In fact, he'd be adding to the lord's safety. That was just how he p
lanned to persuade him, too.

  A niggling prickle of fear danced along Arthur's spine. His lord and master wasn't known for being too understanding. He'd seen the man beat the spit out of senseless serfs, including women and children. Some of those poor souls hadn't made it either… A shudder rippled through him. Mayhap his plan to ask his overlord wasn't such a good one. He favored living, dying didn't seem too pleasant. What if Lord Kent took Arthur's desire to work with a knight as an insult? What if he beat him within an inch of his life? Or worse?

  Arthur arched his back remembering the whip as it sang through the air and landed with a resounding crack against his skin. The pain so intense it was almost numb until the next smack ripped another strip of flesh open, blood spewing, vomit projecting.

  He had to stop running for a moment, and bent over, his hands on his knees, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. Arthur had only been whipped once, but it'd only been ten lashes. His father hadn't faired so well… He received sixty lashes by their overlord when the harvest hadn't produced enough wheat to even cover their normal due. He'd died nearly a week later from infection.

  Kent hadn't even so much as flicked his eyes in his family's direction. Never once caring that he'd killed their patriarch. And he certainly hadn't backed down on the amount of wheat and barley he expected them to harvest. They were exhausted. And he was through with it. If it came down to it, he would just run away. There was bound to be work he could do somewhere else, and not be subjected to the fields.

  A serf didn't have much choice in life. But who was to say they'd know who he was? He'd hidden in the shadows of his mother's skirts, especially after his father was brutally beaten. He doubted if the lord even knew he was alive. A wide smile spread over Arthur's face.

  From this day forward he was not Arthur of Edenbridge, he would be Arthur of—Hmm… Arthur of what? He didn't know any other places. He supposed that ought to be the first thing he figured out. He frowned. What if some of the other serfs recognized him? He'd just have to make sure they kept quiet. He'd work on growing his beard to cover up his face. Arthur reached a hand up to feel the whiskers on his chin. They were soft, not rough yet like a man's. How much longer would he have to wait before his body caught up with his years?