by Ana Seymour
Ellen flashed a glance of thanks at the man. “There’s your Saxon conspiracy, Sebastian,” she said. “Do we have to get every man jack of William’s troops to testify to the man’s perfidy before you’ll believe that this young boy was simply defending his sister’s honor, just as any good Norman lad would do?”
Lord Wakelin pushed on the table in front of him and stood. “I believe I’ve heard enough. The boy’s story seems to be true, and I’m hereby ruling that Sir William’s killing was in self-defense.”
Sebastian began to protest, “Uncle, you cannot—”
But Lord Wakelin cut off his words. “I’ve made my ruling, Nephew. Now I suggest you get your men to loosen the bonds from this boy so that we can all go on to enjoy the day’s festivities.”
He bent down to utter a few words to the clerk who was sitting at a side table, recording the event, then began to walk in the opposite direction. His steps were plodding, suddenly like those of an old man, and the sight gave Ellen’s heart a twinge, but at the risk of causing him more grief, she had one more matter to put before him.
“Father, there’s one more item,” she called. When he turned back to her, she continued, “The horse master, Connor Brand, was named outlaw solely for his part in helping John Cooper that night. Now that John’s been declared innocent, Master Brand should be freed of such a designation.”
Sebastian shot his uncle a contemptuous look. “Tis as I’ve told you, she’s besotted with the man.”
Lord Wakelin looked over to where his daughter stood celebrating her victory with her new Saxon friends. His expression was troubled. “’Tis a capital offense to aid a fugitive from the king’s justice,” he said after a long moment. “The results of the trial change nothing.”
Before Ellen could continue to argue the matter, he had stepped off the platform and walked away.
The Cooper family was the center of attention for the rest of the morning as the villagers celebrated John’s acquittal. John and his mother made a point of personally thanking the Norman soldier who had come to his defense. Several of the other castle guards gathered around to offer their own congratulations and, when invited, joined in the villagers’ celebration.
Ellen was pleased to see the mingling of the two groups. The ordeal had been hard on the Cooper family, but it could turn out that the event was a blessing in disguise if it served as a beginning for Norman and Saxons to come together in peace.
She only hoped that the day had not proven to be too much for little Karyn. The girl had not left her mother’s side since the trial, but when Ellen knelt down and spoke to her, she answered, actually answered, in her own shy whisper.
The tears were gone, and when Ellen looked down at her now as they headed out to the course that had been set up for the chase, Karyn gave her a little smile.
“Are you ready to see the horses run, sweetling?” Ellen asked her.
“Aye, ‘lady,” Karyn said, duplicating her brother’s form of address, and even added, “Will ‘lady ride on Jocelyn?”
Agnes beamed with happiness to hear her daughter speaking naturally once again, and Ellen gave a laugh of delight. “Nay, sweetling, ‘tis but men can race in the chase, though I trow I could beat a goodly number of them if they’d let me try.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” said a voice from behind her. She’d not seen Connor since the start of the trial. She assumed that he’d heard her father’s refusal to lift his outlaw status and had decided it would be better to stay well hidden. Nevertheless, she’d found herself looking for his tall form around every corner as she’d wandered with the Coopers through the maze of cookshops and merchant tents, the latter selling bolts of fine cloth, tinware and precious avoirdupois goods from the East—alum for cloth dying, and rare spices.
At the sound of his voice she whirled around to face him, her heart lifting. “Oh, Connor!” she exclaimed. “Did you hear it all? John found innocent? And little Karyn speaking?”
He smiled at her. “I heard it all, princess. ‘Tis a happy day for Saxon England.”
“Aye, and for Norman England, too,” she said, gesturing around to where groups of Norman soldiers and Saxon villagers engaged each other in friendly conversations.
“Aye,” Connor agreed.
Suddenly she remembered that not all had gone well that morning. “’Twill turn out well for you, too, Connor, I promise. My father needs time to consider the matter, but I know he will change his mind on this. He’s normally a fair man.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I fear your father is just a man who is afraid for his only daughter, and I blame him not.”
“Sebastian has poisoned his mind on the subject.”
Connor cocked his head and asked her with a twisted grin, “Was it then a lie that your cousin told, when he said that you were infatuated with me?”
The misunderstanding of the other night seemed forgotten for the moment as he stood not a foot from her, his eyes suddenly hungry. But the physical craving that had flowed between them, almost from the moment they first saw each other, did not alter the circumstances.
Connor seemed not the least concerned over his outlaw status, nor depressed at the thought that her father’s strictness on the matter might stem from disapproval of her feelings for him. Obviously, her Saxon lover had neither hope nor desire of a future for the two of them together.
So be it. She took a step back and looked up at him. “’Twas not entirely a lie, as well you know, horse master, but rather a happenstance irrelevant in the large scheme of things.”
His mouth quirked and his expression lost none of its amusement “Ah,” he said. “Irrelevant.”
Once again, it appeared he was mocking her, and she felt her temper rising. Looking around, she said impatiently, “Aren’t you in danger of being seen here? If you don’t care about your own safety, you might consider the rest of us. People are having a good time. Wouldn’t it spoil the festivities if they had to witness the arrest of their former lord?”
“Would it spoil your day, princess?” he asked, leaning close to her again and speaking in the low, husky voice that made her stomach churn.
“I’ve no desire to see you in chains,” she snapped.
He flashed his grin again and said, “I’m glad to hear it.” But he made no move to leave.
“When the chase begins, every soldier who’s not entered will be here watching. You’re sure to be recognized.”
“I’ll be gone by then,” he said with irritating nonchalance. “I just came to see how the Coopers were faring and to spend a few minutes with you.”
“Then what? Will you be heading back to the caves?”
“Nay. I’ve had my fill of hiding.”
She put a hand on his forearm. “Connor, you must give me time to talk with my father. I can’t do it now, because he’s going to be riding in the chase. Go away for this night at least, and we’ll see what happens on the morrow.”
He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the lips. “You may be surprised what the morrow will bring, princess. Now let me look at those golden eyes of yours one more time before I go to my post”
“Your post?”
“At the course.”
“You’re going to ride in the chase?” she asked, confused.
“In the past I’ve ridden it many times, but this year you might say that I intend to serve as a sort of an uninvited official.”
He put his big hand at the back of her head and held her steady while, heedless of the crowds moving around them, he gave her another kiss, this time deep and wet and long.
When he pulled away, Ellen’s face was flaming, but before she could utter a word of protest, Connor had disappeared once again into the crowd.
Chapter Nineteen
In the olden days, the village folk had often spent the better part of the winter building an elaborate course known as the chase. When they were finished, sometimes the meadow where it was situated had resembled a small village, with mock buildings, ston
e walls and small trees that had been felled and brought in to serve as miniature forests.
The Norman revival version was nowhere near as elaborate. It had taken some time for the organizers of the event to convince the older folks in the village to lend their expertise and their help, and by that time, it had been too late to make elaborate plans.
Most of the skill in running the race this year would consist of making sharp turns around posts designated as course markers. There were four jumps, set up with logs, each a little higher than the previous one. The final jump ended in a small pool of water.
This year most of the builders’ work had gone into the finale, a crowd-pleasing innovation that hearkened back to the more complex races of years ago. The obstacle was a small model castle, flimsily built of timber and stone, but substantial enough to provide a cunning illusion for the spectators. It was placed on the course in such a way that a rider had to descend a grassy incline, then turn sharply onto the castle’s drawbridge. Crossing the bridge triggered the raising of a portcullis gate allowing horse and rider to thunder right through the mock castle and emerge on the other side for a race to the finish line.
Connor had been suspicious about the obstacle since he’d heard from his castle informants that the idea had been proposed by Sebastian, supposedly taken from a jousting tournament he’d attended in Paris.
There had undoubtedly been more dangerous obstacles in some of the races Connor himself had run. The Brand brothers had been fearless horsemen, unafraid of the wildest feats. But he was older and wiser now, and it seemed that there were several problems with the castle stunt. Too sharp a turn could send an unpracticed horse skidding off the narrow drawbridge. It was raised only a few feet from the ground, but the distance was enough to tumble a rider or break a horse’s leg.
Then there was the mock portcullis itself. It had been fashioned from pikes such as the one he’d examined in the old armory, fastened together with heavy leather strips. Any problem with the crude mechanism that had been rigged to raise and lower it could send it crashing down on top of the rider trying to pass beneath.
“I can’t believe Lord Wakelin has agreed to participate in this,” Connor had told Martin the previous evening as the two brothers secretly studied how the course had been designed. “’Tis a young man’s game.”
“Aye,” Father Martin had agreed with a shudder. “This is one of the times I’m glad my holy robes absolve me from worldly activities. But I hear the old lord was goaded into it by a challenge from his nephew.”
“The same nephew who proposed the resumption of the event in the first place,” Connor had added.
“Aye.”
Connor had nodded as if to confirm his suspicions. “You’d best get back to the abbey before they wonder where you are, brother,” he’d said.
“Aren’t you coming?”
Connor had thought of Ellen, once again getting ready for sleep in the thin chemise that by the light of a single candle showed every detail of her luscious body. “Nay,” he’d answered his brother. “I intend to take a closer look at Sebastian Phippen’s miniature castle.”
By now, as he watched the spectators streaming in to capture the best viewing spots for the upcoming competition, Connor knew every hillock and swale of the course, as did Lord Wakelin’s blood bay mount, Firestorm, with whom Connor had spent the better part of the night.
In addition to his knowledge of the course, Firestorm was now also possessed of a few tricks he had not known before his long night with the horse master.
They’d set up a blanket for Agnes on a slope well back from the main part of the meadow where the chase was to be held. The widow had insisted that she and the twins were better off out of the fray. But once she was situated, the four younger people, Sarah, Rolf, John and Ellen, pushed forward, trying to get a better position to see the race.
When people saw that one of the newcomers was the lady Ellen, they stepped respectfully aside, so that little by little the foursome crept closer and closer to the starting line.
Most of the entrants were from her father’s guards. Very few of the villagers could ride, and few of those had been confident enough to place their big workhorses against the Normans and their battle-trained mounts.
Ellen saw her father at the far end of the line of entrants, mounted on Firestorm. The big stallion had proved a reliable mount for him these five years past, but it gave Ellen a shiver of apprehension to see her father’s gray hair amidst all the rash young men who made up the rest of the field.
“’Tis a foolish trick of my father’s to make this attempt,” she said to John, who stood next to her, trying his best to protect her from the crush of the crowd.
“Mayhap not, your ladyship. In truth, it has boosted his esteem with the lads of the village.”
Ellen shook her head. “Not with the women, I’d guess. They’re no doubt thinking the crazy old coot, and I’d not blame them.”
John laughed. “Some things are best understood by men,” he agreed. “While I was being held prisoner, I heard the guards say ‘twas your cousin who persuaded Lord Wakelin to race.”
This news increased Ellen’s uneasiness. She searched the ranks of the entrants for Sebastian. “Was not my cousin to run as well?”
“Aye, so they said.”
“He’s not there.”
They both looked again, but there was no sign of the slender Norman knight. “Mayhap he’s changed his mind, milady,” John said finally, with a shrug.
“Aye, and left my father to his foolhardiness,” Ellen muttered under her breath.
There was no more time for talking, as the riders had mounted and were bringing their horses up to the line that had been marked off in the grass. Ellen counted fourteen entrants, including her father.
She felt her stomach clench as the starter lifted a banner high in the air, ready to drop it as the signal to begin. Her father sat tensely on Firestorm, his eyes focused on the course ahead. The harsh afternoon sun showed every wrinkle of his weathered face, she noticed with a pang. All at once she wished that she had insisted on taking the time for a reconciliation this morning. She felt sick and guilty that she had not embraced him and offered him Godspeed on his race.
It was too late now. All she could do was watch and pray as the banner came down and the fourteen horses leaped into action all at the same time, like cogs on a giant waterwheel.
Around them the crowd screamed with excitement. The loudest shouts were for the four Saxon riders and for Lord Wakelin himself, no doubt due to both his status and his age.
The horses stayed bunched together through much of the long beginning stretch, but by the time they reached the first jump, they’d begun to string out. Ellen was relieved and secretly proud to see that her father was holding his own. There were only four horses ahead of him, and those belonged to four of the most experienced of his guardsmen.
“Your father rides well, milady,” John said with a low whistle. “I see where you inherited the skill.”
Ellen stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to scan the crowd. Where was Connor, anyway? Family pride made her hope that he was watching the race from somewhere and, like John, taking note of her father’s proficiency.
By the end of the third jump, four riders had dropped out of competition after their horses had misstepped, though, fortunately, none had fallen. The fourth jump was the one that ended in water, a hazard that spelled doom for three more of the competitors.
Though seven had now disqualified themselves, Ellen was surprised to see that there were eight, not seven, horses pounding down the final stretch toward the mock castle. Somehow she must have miscounted at the starting line.
Lord Wakelin was seventh in the line. Ellen vowed to say a prayer in chapel on the morrow to St. Theresa if her father finished the competition in one piece. Two prayers, she added hastily, if he didn’t finish last.
The first rider had reached the castle, and the crowd let up a roar as his mount’s hooves thundered
across the drawbridge and the makeshift portcullis shot upward.
Ellen clutched John’s arm in excitement, and he screamed above the noise, “’Tis not a marvel, milady?”
“Aye,” she shouted back. The points of the pikes gleamed wickedly in the sun as the rider shot through and the gate slammed shut again.
The second rider was fast upon the first, and once again, the gate wheeled up, then came slamming down, just as the horse and rider cleared it.
“It looks dangerous,” Ellen shouted to John, cupping her hands to be heard.
“Nay, ‘tis just the look of it, milady,” he reassured her. “The ropes are strong, and there’s a guard at each side to be sure the gate stays open while the rider is underneath.”
For the first time Ellen noticed the two men holding thick ropes, one on each end of the gate just inside the mock castle. In the shadows of the interior, she could see that they were dressed in Norman livery, but she could not make out their identities.
She was glad to know that precautions were being taken for the dangerous trick, but nevertheless her knuckles grew white on John’s arm as four more riders thundered through, each clearing the gate and emerging from the other side of the castle to a tremendous cheer from the crowd.
Lord Wakelin was still in seventh place, next to pass. Ellen’s breath stopped in her throat. Her father spied her in the crowd and flashed her a smile, then leaned over his horse and held tight to the reins in preparation for the sharp turn onto the drawbridge. Firestorm executed the maneuver perfectly, and the crowd roared as, at the other end of the bridge, the gate cranked upward. Traversing the bridge would take only seconds, then he’d be through the little castle and out on the easy home stretch. Ellen let out her breath.
In the distance, the first rider reached the finish line, to the sound of a tremendous cheer. Ellen looked in that direction momentarily, then turned back, expecting to see her father shoot smoothly through the castle as the other riders had before him.
