Off to Weston’s right, Sutton began to move away with Colton in his arms. He could see where this was leading and was positive there was about to be a blood bath. Looking about frantically, he spied John and Heath several dozen yards away as they supervised some of the squires working on the chargers and Sutton caught John’s attention with the wave of a hand.
John grabbed Heath and soon both of them appeared at Sutton’s side. When they looked at him curiously, all he had to do was point at Weston and Sorrell. No words needed to be spoken, for they all knew the stakes at that moment. Sutton handed Colton off to Heath, who knew the boy better than John did, and Heath took the child away from what would surely be a volatile battle. Only Sutton and John remained, watching, waiting.
Weston, however, wasn’t prepared to strike, not just yet. He had lived this moment over and over in his mind, carefully planning out what he intended to say to the man who had so brutally assaulted his wife. He wanted to make sure Sorrell knew the facts before he was struck down. He wanted to make sure there was no mistake. He digested Sorrell’s casual statement before replying.
“Did you see where she went?” he asked steadily.
Sorrell shook his head, now fussing with the mail coat around his shoulder. “The last I saw her, she was over by the arena entry,” he replied. “Why? Do you know her?”
Weston nodded faintly, taking a step in Sorrell’s direction. “You could say that,” he said, his voice low. “She did not flee Hedingham as you suspected. She hid from you until you left. I found her when I arrived.”
Sorrell looked at him, a bushy eyebrow lifted. “Is that so?” he shrugged, the grin returning to his face. “It is of no matter, I suppose. I had no use for her at the garrison other than to warm my bed. She was a sweet little thing. Delicious.”
Weston’s heart began to pound as he took another step and ended up very close to Sorrell. His palms were sweating with the need for vengeance. He looked the man in the eye as he spoke.
“Listen to me and listen well,” he growled, his voice quaking because he was having so much difficulty reining his anger. “I married Amalie de Vere. She is my wife. She told me what you did to her, you foul bastard, and I have sworn upon my father’s grave every night since that time that when I found you, I would make you pay for every pain and every shame you heaped upon her. You are beyond vile, Sorrell; you are kin and kith to Satan himself and when I wipe you from this earth, every stroke from my blade and every pain you feel will have Amalie’s name on it. Is there anything you do not understand so far?”
By this time, Sorrell was looking at Weston with some astonishment. There was no fear in his expression, at least not yet. But there was disbelief.
“You married her?” he repeated, shocked. “Why would you do that? She is sister to a perverted madman. She is nothing but a whore.”
It was the wrong thing to say and Weston’s control snapped. A massive fist lashed out and grabbed Sorrell around the neck while the other fist pounded the man squarely in the face. Sorrell went toppling backwards as Weston pounced on him, using his enormous fists to pummel the man unconscious in a few short blows. But the blows had been so powerful that Sorrell face was destroyed and he was choking on his own blood and broken teeth. It was instantly a bloody, chaotic scene.
Knights and men began jostling to gain a better view of the fight as Weston picked up Sorrell’s limp body and hurled the man into the wall of the arena. He swooped upon the unconscious man and began to beat him about the head and chest with his fists, working out years of anger and anguish with every blow. When a few of Billingham’s knights saw what was happening, they leapt in to intervene and were stopped by Sutton and John. Soon, a full-scale brawl erupted with Weston, Sutton and John in the middle of it.
The field marshals began to run towards the east end of the arena as the lists erupted in cheers and cries. Everyone could see the massive battle escalating and everyone wanted a good view. This was better entertainment than the tame joust. As the entire area deteriorated and the swords began to come out, all was peaceful and still over in the competitor’s encampment as Amalie remained blissfully unaware of the mortal combat being staged in her honor.
“Can I get you anything, Lady Amalie?” Paget asked softly. “Some wine perhaps?”
Amalie lay upon the big bed she shared with her husband and children, gazing up at Paget’s lovely brown eyes. She smiled faintly.
“Nothing, thank you,” she sighed. “I am sorry for seeming so silly. I am newly pregnant with my third child and my constitution is not as strong as it normally is. It is very kind of you to sit with me while I rest.”
Paget smiled and pulled up a small stool. “It gives us a chance to become better acquainted,” she cast her a sidelong glance. “It also gives me the chance to learn more about Sir Sutton.”
Amalie’s smile grew. “Of course,” she said. “What would you like to know?”
Paget shrugged, tucking her silky brown hair behind an ear as she thought on her reply.
“He is devilishly handsome,” she admitted, casting Amalie a flirtatious little glance. “Surely he has other women he is interested in. He must have dozens.”
Amalie rolled onto her side, sighing faintly as she thought on Sutton. “None that I am aware of,” she replied honestly. “You would think that he indeed had women following him around, but since I have known the man, I have not seen him with one lady. All he has spoken of is you.”
Paget’s brown eyes glimmered. “All I have thought of is him,” she said softly. “May I beg you to tell me of what you know of him? What kind of man is he?”
Amalie’s green eyes were warm. “He is kind, thoughtful and considerate,” she said. “He loves to laugh. He can be quite happy when he has imbibed too much drink. And he loves my children very much; he spoils them terribly. Like his brother, he will be a wonderful father.”
Paget’s cheeks pinkened as she averted her gaze, looking to her hands and thinking on handsome Sutton de Royans. “That is good to know,” she said shyly. “He… he has led an eventful life in the service of Bolingbroke, has he not?”
Amalie was prepared to reply when the tent flap suddenly slapped back and Heath appeared holding Colton in his arms. The redheaded knight’s expression seemed rather anxious and Amalie sat up on the bed, wondering why the man was holding her son. Last she had seen, Weston had hold of Colton. Apprehension began to well in her chest.
“Heath?” she stood up from the bed and went to retrieve Colton. “Where is Weston?”
Heath didn’t want to tell her the truth, fearful of her reaction.
“He is over at the arena, Lady de Royans,” he said honestly. “He asked me to return his son to camp.”
Amalie’s apprehension was eased as she took sleepy, fussy Colton in her arms. “Thank you,” she replied. “Is it Sutton’s turn to compete yet?”
Heath looked edgy; he kept glancing out of the tent in the direction of the arena. “Nay, my lady.”
Amalie noticed his behavior and instinctively went to see what he was looking at. Heath couldn’t stop her; he couldn’t lay his hands on her to physically prevent her from looking, so all he could do was stand back as she stepped from the tent to peer off towards the arena.
Immediately, she could see great clouds of dust and the sounds of men shouting and horses braying. Her brow furrowed.
“What is happening over at the arena?” she asked.
Heath sighed faintly, so very reluctant to tell her. But he had no choice; moreover, he had to return and he didn’t want her following him out of curiosity. Perhaps if he told her the truth, she would stay away out of simple fear.
“A scuffle, my lady,” he told her hesitantly, then added: “Weston and Sorrell.”
Amalie looked at him so swiftly that her neck nearly snapped. Her green eyes were huge in her porcelain face, knowing that whatever was occurring wasn’t as simple as a scuffle. Men were fighting and more than likely dying, including Weston. She began to scream
.
“Esma!” she cried. “Esma, come and take Colton!”
The tubby servant had been in one of the smaller tents and came bursting forth at the panicked sound of her mistress. Amalie was already running towards her, depositing the fussing boy into her arms before turning on her heel and gathering her skirts. By this time, Paget had emerged from the large tent at the sounds of anxiety, her brown eyes wide with fear.
“Lady Amalie?” she asked, concerned. “What seems to be the…?”
Amalie couldn’t even answer her; she was already off running with Heath behind her. Paget, not wanting to be left behind, took off running as well.
Amalie tore across the encampment, her brilliant blue surcoat hiked up around her knees as she raced like the wind towards the east side of the arena. Her heart was in her throat as she approached, terrified that Weston was in trouble. After Weston’s declaration yesterday about killing Sorrell, she had little doubt that he meant what he said. She only prayed that, in his assault on Sorrell, the result wasn’t a different one than Weston intended.
As she drew close, she could see that a big brawl was taking place with swords and fists. Men she didn’t know and had never seen were doing battle as she charged into the maelstrom, ignoring the shouts of Heath as he tried to stop her. All she could think of was finding Weston in this bloody, dusty mess of men and weapons and she slugged through, getting bumped around as she screamed Weston’s name.
Dust flew up in her face and she began to shove back as men scuffled around her. One man almost bowled her over and she kicked him squarely in the arse, sending him off balance and away from her. But she spied Sutton in a fist-fight with a big knight and she screamed at him, catching his attention and watching as he was clobbered in the mouth. But Sutton came back strong and brained the man, sending him crashing to the ground. Swiftly, he went to Amalie.
He put his big arms around her to protect her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, blood trickling from his mouth. “We must remove you from this battle.”
Amalie dug in her heels. “I am not going anywhere until I find my husband,” she declared. “Where is he?”
Sutton truly had no idea; he looked around, a tall man with a good view of the crowd, and spied his brother’s cropped blond head in the midst of clashing men over by the arena entry gates.
“He is over by the gates,” he told her. “But he will murder me if I do not remove you from this fighting. Please let me …”
She yanked away from him, heading in the direction he had indicated. “If you will not take me to him, I will find him myself.”
Sutton caught up with her and surrounded her with his big arms once more. “Nay, Ammy,” he summoned the courage to deny her. “For your own safety, you must leave this mess. Weston can handle himself.”
Terrified and upset, Amalie thrust a fist into Sutton’s neck, causing him to momentarily release his hold on her. Grabbing her now-filthy skirts from all of the dust, she bolted in the direction of the west entrance to the field, screaming Weston’s name. It wasn’t long before she received a bellowed response.
Amalie thrust herself between a pair of knights and ran headlong into her husband. Weston had been heading in the direction of her cries and nearly ran her down. Horrified, he wrapped his enormous arms around her and held her tightly against him, pulling her away from clashing swords nearby. Amalie wrapped her arms around his neck tightly and he ended up picking her up, keeping her well off the ground and clutched tight against his chest.
“What are you doing here?” he half-demanded, half-pleaded. “Are you well? You are not hurt, are you?”
She shook her head verging on tears. “Nay,” she breathed, her head against his. “But Lady Paget and Heath came with me. They are over there, somewhere. We must find Paget…”
She trailed off breathlessly, jabbing a finger off towards the encampment. With his wife still clutched up against his chest, Weston charged off.
“Sutton!” he roared. “To me!”
Sutton was already there; he hadn’t been far behind Amalie. “What is…?” he began.
Weston cut him off. “Your Lady Paget is somewhere in this mess,” he growled. “Find her before someone hurts her. Find Heath; she may be with him.”
Startled, Sutton began throwing men out of the way in his quest to find Paget. More than anything, the fact that she was rumored to be with Heath upset him greatly and his anger was roused. Weston closed in behind him, following the path blazed by his brother with the intention of removing his wife from the fighting.
Because Weston had been one of the original combatants, the field marshals were following him, ordering men to cease fighting in the process. It was mad and chaotic by the time Weston and Amalie reached the edge of the roiling crowd.
When there were no more combatants within close range, Weston carefully set Amalie on her feet. Just as he did so, Heath and Paget approached from several yards away. Paget saw Amalie in her husband’s arms and rushed to her.
“My lady?” she grasped Amalie’s arm. “Are you well?”
Amalie nodded, clutching Paget’s hand. The two of them held on to each other tightly. “I am well,” she replied. “But, more importantly, my husband is well.”
Paget turned her great brown eyes to Weston and the man could see, in that moment, why she had his brother so smitten. It was the first time he had seen her at close range and she was a beautiful little thing. But his attention was focused on his wife.
“What madness is this that you would go charging into a group of fighting men?” he was suddenly very angry at his wife now that he had taken her to safety. “Have you lost your mind?”
Instead of bursting into tears, Amalie remained calm in the face of his fury. “I have not lost my mind,” she replied steadily. “Where is Sorrell? Did you kill him?”
Weston’s fury quickly abated. “He is alive,” he said after a moment. “Why did you not come to the entrance to the field as you said you would? Did Sorrell chase you away? He said he saw you.”
Amalie let go of Paget and pressed her hands into his big glove. He held her hands, tightly.
“He did not chase me away,” she said softly. “But I did see him. It upset me.”
Weston was sure that was an understatement and he kissed her gently on the forehead, pulling her in to a comforting embrace. At the moment, he could only feel extreme relief that Amalie was safe and that his vengeance against Sorrell, for the moment, was sated. But only for the moment.
“Everything will be well, my angel,” he murmured. “Did Colton make it back to camp?”
She nodded, lifting her head to find Heath standing a few feet away. “Heath returned him safely,” her gaze moved to Paget, standing next to her. “And I do not believe you have met the Lady Paget Clifford. She kept me company until Heath and Colton appeared. Lady Paget, this is my husband, Weston.”
Paget smiled her dimpled smile at Weston but her gaze was clearly drawn to Sutton, standing to the right of Weston.
“’Tis an honor to meet you, Baron Cononley,” she said, her eyes riveted to Sutton. “Sir Sutton, you appear as if you have some injury to your mouth.”
Sutton was gazing at her, dreamily, but snapped out of his trance when he realized that something must be amiss on his face. He swiped a finger over his chin and came away with some blood. He smiled weakly.
“It is nothing,” he assured her. “But I thank you for your concern.”
Paget’s pretty smile grew. “I should be happy to tend your wound if needed.”
Sutton just stared at her, dumbfounded, as Weston cleared his throat loudly and elbowed his daft brother in the ribs.
“That would be a good idea, Sutton,” he said. “Take Lady Paget back to our encampment and let her tend your lip. You have a bout coming up soon, so do not take too long.”
Sutton abruptly realized the golden opportunity his brother was suggesting and, with a grin, extended his hand to Paget. She took it happily and he tucked her han
d into the crook of his elbow, leading her away towards the competitor’s encampment. But he made sure to make a snarling face at Heath as he passed by the man, as if to mark his territory, and Heath looked properly contrite. Pretty though she might be, he knew Lady Paget was out of his league.
Weston and Amalie watched Sutton and Paget walk away with some amusement until two of the field marshals abruptly converged on Weston.
“Baron Cononley,” a man with bad skin and yellow teeth spoke. “Were you attacked, my lord? Surely this trouble was caused when you defended yourself.”
The smile vanished from Weston’s face as he turned to the officials. “I was not attacked,” he replied frankly. “I was seeking vengeance against a man who brutally attacked my wife. It is my right and my due. You will not interfere.”
The officials looked somewhat taken aback by his response. By now, the brawl was dissipating and men were clearing the area and moving on to the business at hand. Fights like this were not uncommon in great gatherings such as this, especially since feuding factions often appeared at the same event.
As the dust settled and men cleared, the marshals whispered to each other before facing Weston again.
“We will not involve ourselves in personal matters of honor, my lord,” the lead marshal said. “But we would like assurance that this will not happen again.”
Weston snorted rudely. “I will give you no such assurance.”
“Then perhaps you will give it to me.”
A big knight in pristine armor approached. He was taller than anyone there, a towering man with brilliant blue eyes and dark hair. Amalie was uncertain and apprehensive of the knight until she glanced up at her husband to see that there was warmth in his expression. Weston, in fact, smiled.
“Le Bec,” he rolled the name off his tongue. “It has been ages since I last saw you.”
Lords of the Kingdom Page 28
