Weston heard his little son, turning his head so he could look at the boy. There were tears all over his face, soaking Amalie’s surcoat. Colton pushed the sword on his father.
“You have it, Dada,” he insisted.
Weston couldn’t help but smile at his son, so moved by the little boy who sensed something terrible and was doing what he could to help his father. He was giving him his most prized possession, a gesture that was not lost on Weston. His screaming, spoiled son had a heart and soul, and he was deeply touched.
“Thank you, lad,” he said, sniffling. “But you can keep your sword.”
Colton stared at him with his big blue eyes, trying to figure out what had his father so upset. Weston put his big hand on the boys head and pulled him to his lips for a kiss, but Colton didn’t want a kiss. He whined and pulled away, his attention returning to his little sword as he walked away. When he wandered off, Aubria took his place.
“Dada,” she said seriously. “We should get the goats. They would make you feel better.”
Weston looked into her beautiful little face, a mirror image of her mother, and the tears started to come again. He turned away from her, laying his head on Amalie’s belly once more. Amalie stroked his head, his shoulders, soothingly, feeling him tense again.
“What is it, sweetheart?” she whispered.
His eyes were closed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “She is my child,” he hissed. “She has always been my child. She is mine.”
Amalie sensed what his issue was. She hugged him tightly. “She is absolutely your child,” she kissed the top of his head. “There is no part of her that is not yours.”
“That foul bastard did not father her. Tell me that is true.”
“It is true,” Amalie could feel tears sting her eyes. “She is your daughter, body and soul. You are her father.”
Without looking, he reached out an enormous hand and grasped Aubria by the arm, pulling her into an embrace against both parents. Aubria permitted her parents to wrap her up in their arms, although they were both weeping and she didn’t know why. The poppet in her hand was more interesting to her and as her father kissed her cheek and hugged her gently.
Weston’s tears quieted eventually as Amalie cuddled both him and Aubria, her gentle touch soothing his grief-stricken heart. Just as he was calming sufficiently, Sutton entered the tent. His tunic was stained with his mother’s blood from where he had held her since early morning, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed.
One look at his brother on his knees, wrapped up in Amalie’s arms, and he knew what had happened. He had heard the shouting while he had been huddled with his mother’s body and knew that Weston had lost control. Before he could speak, Colton let out a yell and ran to him, and he picked the boy up, finding comfort with a two year old banging on him with a toy sword. Weston caught sight of his brother and pulled himself away from Amalie’s comforting embrace, kissing her hands as he rose stiffly to his feet.
“Where is Mother?” he turned to his brother.
Sutton was trying not to get hit in the head with the sword. “She is still in the tent,” he replied. “I summoned a priest.”
Weston nodded faintly, feeling emotionally drained. “I will have her prepared for transport back to Netherghyll,” he said, running a hand through his cropped blond hair. “There are people I can hire to do that.”
“I will do it,” Amalie said, struggling against her tears for her husband’s sake. “I do not want unfamiliar hands touching her. She should only be touched by those who love her.”
Weston and Sutton looked at her; Sutton was less discreet about wiping his tears away. “Thank you, Ammy,” Sutton whispered. “She would appreciate that.”
Amalie smiled bravely, but it was difficult as both Weston and Sutton wiped at their eyes. She could see how grief stricken they were, powerful knights reduced to weeping little boys at their mother’s passing. She wanted to give them what comfort she could.
“Listen to me, both of you,” she said softly, moving to Sutton and taking one of his big hands in her own. “Your mother was a lovely woman who loved you both very much. You were extremely lucky to have her in your life; I know this well because my own mother, though alive, has never paid any noticed to her only daughter. Elizabeth, in the short time I knew her, was far more of a mother to me than mine ever was. Instead of grieving your loss, which cannot be undone, you must rejoice in the mother you knew and honor her memory. You must rejoice even more because she is now with Heston, someone she loved more than anything else on this earth. Do not grieve for her passing, for she is happy now. She is with her husband.”
Sutton kissed her hand and let it go. “She was deeply grieved by his passing,” he said softly. “It took something out of her when my father died.”
Weston looked curiously at him. “Your father?”
Sutton met his gaze. “Heston was my father. He was yours, also.”
Weston’s brow furrowed. “How did you know?”
Sutton lifted an eyebrow. “He told me,” he replied. “Also, I look just like him. Close resemblance such as that cannot be coincidence.”
Weston smiled faintly. “You surprise me, little brother. You are smarter than you look.”
“You already knew?”
“I did, but only recently. Mother told me.”
“She was very grateful that you two had reconciled.”
Weston sighed. “I thank God that I came to my senses when I did.”
Sutton nodded faintly, perhaps in reflection, before turning to Amalie. “As for you, my lady, ’tis wise words you speak,” he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I shall remember them. Thank you.”
Amalie smiled at him, seeing that both men were at least regaining some of their composure and thankful for it. Heath entered the tent at that moment, carrying a big wooden pitcher and several cups.
As he handed the cups over to Weston and Sutton and poured them a measure of wine, Amalie thought the best thing for everyone would be to focus on other things to help them forget their grief, at least for the moment. Especially Weston; he seemed particularly fragile. She watched him down two full cups of wine in short order.
“We have a busy day ahead of us,” she said to him. “West, I will need to go into the village and….”
He put up a hand and cut her off. “You are not going anywhere with Sorrell running loose,” he informed her. “You and the children will remain by my side every second until he is found.”
She nodded patiently. “I understand,” she said. “But in order to prepare your mother’s body, I will need a few things.”
“And you shall have them,” he told her. “But not now. I would wait until Sorrell is located first.”
Amalie didn’t have an argument to that. She simply shrugged and looked to her daughter, who was now standing next to her mother as she played with her poppet. She touched the silky blond head as Sutton, with Colton still in his arms, spoke.
“I hate to bring this up,” he said as he looked at his brother, “but you are scheduled for a second round match later this morning. Shall I cancel it?”
“Nay,” Amalie said firmly, looking between her husband and brother in law. “There is no need. Baron Cononley will compete as scheduled and all will know that not even personal tragedy can prevent my husband from carrying on as he must.”
Weston sighed. “I would rather….”
She cut him off. “West, we came to this tournament so that the people of North Yorkshire could see what the new baron is made of. You will win this tournament in tribute to your mother’s memory and show everyone your strength of character. Let them see the man I know; let them see and be awed. It is what your mother would want.”
Weston gazed into her green eyes, loving the woman so much that he couldn’t express it adequately. She was so wise and beautiful. After a moment’s hesitation, he reluctantly nodded.
“As you wish,” he whispered. “I will compete. But I wanted my mother to witness my victo
ry and be proud of me.”
Amalie smiled and went to him, her hands to his rough cheek. “She was proud of you,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. “You have already made her very proud.”
He looked at her, the tears threatening, but he fought them. Clearing his throat loudly, he swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep, cleansing breath. Leaning down, he kissed her soft lips.
“I would have you remain in the tent for your own safety,” he told her. “I will leave Heath and John with you and I’ll put another half-dozen soldiers on the perimeter of the tent. Sutton and I must conduct some business now but I will return for you when it is time to take the field.”
Amalie nodded, waving him away. “We shall be ready.”
With a lingering look to his wife and children, Weston quit the tent with his brother in tow. Sutton handed Colton over to his mother and caught up to his brother outside.
“What will we do now?” he asked Weston.
Weston’s gaze was lingering on the group of marshals and knights that were still loitering over by his mother’s tent.
“Find Sorrell,” he growled. “Find the man and make him pay.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
By early afternoon, Sorrell had still not been located and everyone was coming to think that he had simply fled the town.
Weston should have been satisfied but he was not; he wanted the man in his hands and vowed with every breath he took that he would find him even if it took the rest of his life. How one man, who had no relation or particular association with Weston, could have so badly damaged his life was beyond comprehension. But Sorrell had affected Weston’s life in more ways than he could comprehend and Weston wouldn’t be satisfied until the man was dead and buried.
Weston was slated to compete in the first round after the nooning hour. He drew Simon Wellesbourne as his competition, a big blond knight who neatly did away with his opponent yesterday morning after the big brawl. As Weston suited up and prepared for his match, Wellesbourne was doing the same on the east side of the arena.
What Wellesbourne didn’t know was that Sorrell was watching him. The man had been hiding in plain sight since his murder spree the night before, losing his armor and weapons in favor of peasant clothing he had stolen off a man he had killed. With dirt smeared on his face and stinking clothes on his body, he had blended in with the crowd of visitors, even when de Royans and Billingham knights turned the town inside-out in their search for him. Sorrell had lain in the gutter, pretending he was drunk, and no one had bothered him. But as the situation began to calm and it was apparent that the joust bouts, including de Royans, were to proceed as normal, Sorrell began to formulate his plan.
By the reaction of Lady Elizabeth de Royans’ murder, Sorrell knew that he had struck at the heart of Weston de Royans. He hadn’t killed the de Vere bitch but he had gotten very close. He knew that he would never be able to get close to Lady Amalie now that everyone was up in arms; undoubtedly she was well guarded. It would be suicide to try to get near her. With that realization, Sorrell turned his focus to Weston himself.
The man was competing in the first round of the afternoon against Simon Wellesbourne. Sorrell had heard the announcement from the field marshals. With security presence heavy in and around the arena, especially when the Lady Amalie de Royans arrived, Sorrell knew he would have to be very clever. He knew he couldn’t simply walk up to de Royans and spear him. But watching Wellesbourne dress for the match over by the edge of the arena gave him an idea.
Sorrell made his way to the eastern edge of the arena, lurking in the shadows of a smithy shack as he watched Wellesbourne put himself together. He knew he had to get Wellesbourne away from his men somehow, and get him alone, but he wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish that. Wracking his brain, he was given a gift from the gods when Wellesbourne suddenly broke away from his men and headed to the privy.
Sorrell thanked his good fortune and followed. Caught off guard with a dagger to the back, Simon Wellesbourne’s body would be found in the privy pit the next day.
Dressed in Wellesbourne’s armor, the helm of which was a bit too big but not enough to make a difference, Sorrell assumed the man’s place. With the visor of the helm lowered, Wellesbourne’s men unfortunately never knew the difference.
Amalie sat in the lists with her children, Heath and John, watching her husband at the west end of the field take up station in preparation for making his first pass.
The day was breezy and sunny, perfect game weather, and the lists were filled to capacity with eager fans. The chatter and excitement was at a dull roar as people milled into the arena and found their seats before the games began.
Heath and John had given up their spot in the second round of the joust because Weston did not want to leave his wife without protection, so they sat in the lists with her and eyed the pretty women surrounding them.
Paget eventually joined Amalie even though her father had not wanted her to associate with the de Royans family; everyone knew a murderer was out for de Royans’ blood and Lord Clifford, understandably, did not want his daughter in danger.
Paget was stubborn, however, and joined Amalie anyway. The two of them sat together with the children, surrounded by both de Royans and Clifford knights, and discussing trivial things. Amalie was grateful for the company, a spot of brightness in an otherwise horrendous day.
When Weston moved forward astride his big blond charger to take his position, the crowd went wild and Amalie smiled at the reaction. It made her very proud to hear the reaction for her husband and even though Lady Elizabeth’s absence was sorely felt, she knew that Elizabeth would have been overwhelming proud too. Weston de Royans, the sixth Baron Cononley, was proudly carrying on the family tradition.
Since Weston’s previous bout had gone so smoothly, Amalie wasn’t feeling any anxiety as the two competitors prepared for their first run. She was looking forward to her husband’s victory. But she was distracted from the approaching charge by Aubria, who wasn’t particularly interested in watching her father joust. She wanted to go find the man with the monkey. As the marshals took the field and prepared to start the bout, Amalie found herself dealing with a grumpy daughter.
As she pulled her whining daughter on to her lap, the field marshals dropped the flag and the chargers surged forward. Amalie was trying to watch the pass and deal with her daughter at the same time, but Aubria dropped her poppet and began crying. As Amalie bent down to pick up the doll, the crowd suddenly gasped and groaned and a loud smacking sound filled the air.
Amalie’s head popped up, startled, but everyone had jumped to their feet so she couldn’t see anything. Frightened, she stood up to try and get a better view but all she could see was clouds of dust and debris on the arena floor. She grabbed Heath’s arm.
“What happened?” she demanded.
Heath was furious. “Wellesbourne dropped his lance in front of Weston’s head,” he motioned with his arm across his neck. “’Tis an illegal move meant to break a man’s neck. Weston had no choice but to duck out of the way, but he managed to break his lance on Wellesbourne’s shield.”
Amalie’s eyes were wide with shock as she watched her husband circle around the field to resume his starting position for the next round.
“If it is illegal, will the field marshals disqualify him?” she asked.
Heath nodded, watching Wellesbourne and two of the marshals over by the east end. “They should,” he replied. “Unless Wellesbourne insists it was an accident, which it was not. It was a deliberate move.”
Amalie glanced at Heath, pondering his words, before returning her attention out to the field where Wellesbourne was in deep discussion with the marshals. She sighed, picking up Colton when the boy tugged on her and whined.
“Why would he do such a thing?” she wondered aloud.
Heath shook his head, regaining his seat because everyone else was. “I do not know,” he said. “Wellesbourne is a man of character. I would not expect dirty tri
cks from him.”
Amalie didn’t like the sound of that all but she regained her seat, holding Colton on her lap. She and Paget exchanged nervous glances before she looked to the west end of the field where Weston and Sutton were in conversation. She could see her husband’s helmed head nodding now and again. Paget grasped her arm gently.
“I am sure it was an accident,” she said softly. “This pass will be much better.”
Amalie smiled weakly. “I hope so,” she said, looking at the woman. “Were you able to see Sutton’s bout yesterday after the chaos died down?”
Paget grinned, flushing brightly. “I was,” she sighed. “He was magnificent.”
Amalie’s smile grew and she squeezed Paget’s hand. “Aye, he is.”
Paget’s smile faded as she looked off to the west where Sutton was helping Weston with his joust lance. “I… I do not know what to say to him about his mother,” she said. “I hardly know him and I do not want him to think me rude or bold by speaking out of turn on a sensitive subject.”
Amalie squeezed Paget’s hand again. “He would not think you rude or bold to offer your sympathies,” she said. “He loved his mother a great deal and will miss her. It would do him good to hear of your concern. It would give him comfort.”
Paget’s timid smile returned and she nodded in agreement. The crowd roared, distracting them, and they both turned to see that the field marshal had tossed the flag to start the second pass.
Amalie realized that Wellesbourne must have had a good reason for the illegal move, as the second pass had commenced and he had not been disqualified. She watched with apprehension as the chargers drew near one another, the knights leveling their lances along the guide that was built to keep the horses from running in to each other.
Just as they came within striking range, Wellesbourne suddenly lifted his lance. As the crowd watched in horror, he waited until Weston charged past him before swinging the lance backwards with all his might and catching Weston on the back of the head. It all happened so fast that no one had time to react. Unprepared, Weston was knocked off his charger and face-first into the dirt of the arena.
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