But then she hesitated. She could seriously hurt him, perhaps injure him so severely he would never joust again. She could never do that to a knight. She turned the lance away at the last moment. It was unchivalrous to do something like that.
His lance struck her a light blow. She saw his plan. She was so intent on his hand that she didn’t see him turn the lance in at the last moment. Only by moving her lance did she bump his and cause the glancing blow instead a full unhorsing.
She tossed the lance down. He was clever, she would give him that. She had noticed something else, too. Something she bet the others never saw. It was just a minor mistake. He held the lance slightly tilted to the inside until he was very close. Then he adjusted his aim. It was not necessarily a flaw in his technique, but it was something she might be able to take advantage of.
As they moved past each other, crossing to the other side of the field, she could see his blue eyes through the visor of his helmet. She couldn’t read the emotion and they passed before she could figure out what it was.
She rounded the field, her gaze on Wolfe. She did her best to ignore Colin’s glare of fury, forcing herself to concentrate on the immediate task at hand. She had an idea that would play on the subtle weakness she saw in Wolfe’s technique. It was a dangerous move, but if she was right, she would unhorse him. And win. It was a chance she had to take.
She took the lance from Michael and spurred Angel. Through the small slit in her visor she watched Wolfe charge toward her. He sat low in the saddle, leaning over his horse’s head. Like she had seen him do before, he held his lance aimed toward the inside.
She matched his movement. Let him think she thought he was aiming for her stomach.
They raced toward each other, Layne’s breath coming in small huffs matching the thundering pace in her horse’s steps. Wait, she told herself. Don’t move the lance. Wait until he does. Then move and aim for his stomach.
He drew closer and still Wolfe did not move the lance.
Layne forced herself to wait when every instinct was telling her to protect herself, not to leave herself so wide open.
The horses thundered closer. The distant roar of the crowd sounded like the wind in her ears. Her heart hammered hard in her chest.
At the last moment, she saw Wolfe shift his lance. Immediately, she followed suit and then closed her eyes, preparing for the impact. The force of the collision was brutal, slamming into her shoulder with enough force to spin her around in a complete circle, flinging her from the saddle. She landed hard on her back on the dirt ground.
She didn’t know how long she lay there staring at the sky. It was blue with no clouds. Just simply blue. Slowly and groggily, noise filtered into her senses. A horse whinnied somewhere. Birds chirped. The realization she wasn’t on Angel seeped into her mind.
Unhorsed. She had been unhorsed.
With a groan, she boosted herself onto her elbow. Aches exploded to life all over her body. Her left shoulder was numb and throbbed with explosive pain. She mentally took stock of her body. Her shoulder and her pride hurt the worst. Her back was sore, from the fall she guessed, but the pain was tolerable.
She slowly sat up.
Unhorsed. She shook her head, trying to clear it. She would never hear the end of this from her brothers. They would tell her that was why women did not joust. Now, her head hurt, too. She looked around.
For the first time she noticed the strange silence that had settled over the field. Everyone just stared. All the villagers leaning over the fence, all the nobles in the grandstands, all the knights, all the squires, they all just stared.
Layne climbed to her feet. A gasp came from the crowd. But it wasn’t accompanied by applause. Something wasn’t right. Her shoulder ached. She couldn’t move her left arm; it was completely numb. A wave of light-headedness fell over her and she hesitated a moment, wanting to sit back down. She blinked, forcing the sensation away. She spotted Angel a few yards away, the horse standing still, watching her. She turned. Michael stood near Colin, both staring at her with an open mouthed expression. They probably thought she was hurt. She should wave or something…
That’s when she spotted the other horse, Wolfe’s horse at the end of the field where Michael was.
The horse was riderless!
Shocked, Layne spun, searching the dusty field for Wolfe. Sunlight reflected off of armor in the dirt of the field of honor. Wolfe lay on the ground.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. For a moment, she stared like everyone else. He was unhorsed! He was lying on the ground. Unhorsed. By her!
She started toward him in disbelief. Was he hurt? Had she harmed him?
Michael raced up beside her, whispering, “Colin said let him be. He said to get out of the field of honor.”
Layne still couldn’t believe she had unhorsed Griffin Wolfe! No one else had done it! “Get me a sword.”
“Layne,” Michael begged.
She glared at him. “Sword!” She could beat him! Didn’t they understand? She could win!
Michael’s lips thinned and he reluctantly handed her a sword.
Frances’s sword was heavy and her arms ached with the effort to hold it. She had to use both of her hands. The tip of the sword dragged in the dirt for a moment before she was able to bring it up. Her left shoulder shrieked in agony, but she fought back the pain as she approached Wolfe. The nearness of victory deadened any agony. He still did not rise to defend himself.
She stood over him for a moment, the sword held out. Her left shoulder throbbed.
Nothing. No movement. She reached out with the sword and flicked up his visor.
His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping.
Layne scanned his body, unsure of what to do. She was about to look over her shoulder at Michael and Colin when she spotted blood dripping from the gap above his breastplate onto the dirt below. She dropped the sword and fell to his side. She tried to unbuckle his breastplate, but with the gauntlets on, she couldn’t. She ripped them off and cast them aside. She unbuckled his breastplate, first from one shoulder and then the next, wincing at the pain in her own shoulder. She lifted it and peered beneath it. Red soaked the doublet below his shoulder.
She couldn’t see! Sweat trickled down her forehead into her eyes. She tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand, but her fingers brushed the cold metal helmet. She ripped the helmet from her head and cast it aside.
Cool air kissed her sweat-drenched brow. She leaned over him to unlace the other side of the breastplate. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. He had to be all right.
Michael raced to her side, joined by Wolfe’s squire.
“He’s hurt,” she stated, unbuckling the side. She pulled the breastplate from his torso. Blood seeped through his doublet, soaking it. She pushed the padded material up over the flat planes of his stomach, up over the ridged muscles of his pectorals. “Help me,” she commanded the boys. Fingers worked together to lift the doublet higher. A gash about a hand’s width seeped blood near his shoulder. She pressed her hands against it, commanding Michael. “Get me clean towels. He needs –”
Wolfe suddenly gasped a sharp breath, his eyes flashing open. His hands grasped at his wound, touching Layne’s fingers. Her eyes locked with his.
Then, hands pushed her back, away from him. People crowded around, shoving her out of the way.
Slowly, she climbed to her feet.
Someone roughly grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Let’s go.”
Her shoulder screamed in pain at the rough movement and she looked up to see Colin’s angry brown eyes glaring at her. She didn’t fight as he led her quickly from the field. Disoriented and frightened, it took until they reached the outskirts of the forest for Layne to recover. She glanced back over her shoulder. “He’ll be all right.”
“Which is more than I can say for you,” Colin growled.
Michael rode Angel up to their side. “He’s on his feet. Physicians are helping him.”
Layn
e felt a wave of relief wash over her. She stopped trying to look backward and walked with Colin.
“Pack up,” Colin ordered Michael. “We leave immediately.”
His words stopped Layne in her tracks. “But I won!”
Colin whirled on her. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” he demanded in a harsh growl.
“Yes!” Layne exclaimed. “I won the purse for us! I beat the knight who couldn’t be beaten! We can go home!”
Colin grabbed her breastplate and pulled her toward him, shoving his face close to hers.
“My shoulder,” she gasped. “You’re hurting me.”
Colin released his grip, but his face remained full of rage. “You removed your helmet! Everyone knows you’re a girl!”
His words slowly soaked in. Not only was she not a knight and forbidden from entering tournaments, but she had beaten their best knight. A woman had beaten a man. They would never get the purse. They would be lucky to leave with their heads intact. Oh, this was bad. “I couldn’t see… He would have died if I didn’t…”
Colin turned to Michael. “Michael, run ahead and get Frances to help you start packing.”
Michael nodded and rode off through the forest.
Colin whirled on her. “Of all the stupid ideas! What were you thinking?”
Layne gaped at him. She had never seen him so angry. “I… wanted to win…”
“You wanted to joust! That’s all you’ve been asking me for lately.”
Layne scowled. “And why shouldn’t I be able to? I won!”
“Because you’re not a knight!” he exploded, stepping toward her.
“Well… I could be.”
“But you're not!”
Her brows came together. “I was better than all of them! Better then Frances! Better than Wolfe! Better than you!”
Colin’s jaw clenched tightly and Layne knew she had gone too far. “You got lucky, that’s all.” Colin turned and stormed toward their tent. “I’m sending you home where you belong.”
It was like a crossbow bolt to her heart. “No,” she gasped. “Colin!” She raced after him. Not home! To live with her cousins. With her father. To tend him like some servant woman. He would never let her touch a sword. Never… She grabbed Colin’s arm.
Colin spun on her. “You don’t listen anymore. You’ve endangered all of us! You shouldn’t be here.” He stalked back to the tent.
Layne watched him go, tears rising in her eyes. He’s right. It was foolish what she had done. Foolish and reckless and… Stupid! She glanced back toward the forest. The large trees blocked the field from her view.
Women didn’t belong in the field. Not jousting. Not sword fighting. It didn’t matter how good they were. Angry and hurt, she pulled at the buckles on the breastplate. They didn’t belong in armor or on a horse. She tugged the buckles open and when the last one caught and wouldn’t open, she lifted the armor over her head, tugging and yanking it. A lock of her hair snagged, but she didn’t stop, she continued panting and pushing and pulling at the armor until it ripped the strand from her head. She tossed the armor aside with a shout of agony and landed on her bottom.
Huffing, she stared at the armor. It glistened dully in the early morning sun. She would never joust again. She would never touch a sword and lift it in challenge. The only problem was she enjoyed it. She enjoyed riding Angel; she enjoyed wielding a lance and she had relished jousting. She looked down at her hands to find them still covered in Wolfe’s blood. It could just as well have been her own.
Michael emerged from the tent. He saw her sitting in the dirt and signaled for her to come over. When she didn’t move, he cast a glance at the tent and then hurried to her side. “They’re as hot as a boiling pot of stew. You’d better start helping.”
Layne stared down at the blood on her hands. She had hurt Wolfe, but she had won. A woman had won the joust. They would never let her get away with it. Not Colin. Not Wolfe. Not Lord Dinkleshire who had sponsored the tournament. They would make up some excuse to deny her victory and then they would punish her and her family. “What have I done?”
Chapter Two
Carlton leaned over Griffin, pressing the cloth against his wounded shoulder. Physicians fussed over him as if he were an old lady. Griffin sat up and shoved his squire away, motioning for everyone to leave with a wide sweep of his arm, ordering them out of his pavilion with a growl.
When they had fled, his mind was finally able to focus on what had happened. He remembered opening his eyes and seeing twin beacons of blue gazing down at him. For a moment, he thought he had died and she was an angel. Then, he recognized her slim face and full lips. The girl he had knocked over before the start of the joust. It took a moment longer for him to realize that she wore armor. And now, now, he realized what had happened and the full extent of her treachery. Dressing as a knight to joust against him! His fingers curled over the edge of his straw mattress. It was impossible! He had been knocked from his horse, senseless. And if that weren’t maddening enough, it had been by the hand of a woman!
He swung his legs from the raised mat and pain flared through his shoulder. He looked down, peeling away the cloth his squire Carlton had placed over the wound. He studied the gouge. He must have received it from the lance. A lucky shot, that much was certain. It was bleeding, but it was no death wound. He would survive. He tossed the cloth aside.
A woman! What type of joust was Dinkleshire running? How could he allow this? It wasn’t chivalrous to face a woman in a joust! It wasn't chivalrous to raise any weapon against a woman! Griffin rose. He planned to have words with Dinkleshire. He grabbed a tunic and pulled it over his head, marching from his pavilion as he tugged at the cloth.
“M’lord!” Carlton greeted as he exited. He was a young man of seventeen, standing a hands-breadth shorter than he, a valuable aide always eager to learn the ways of a knight. His dark hair was uncombed, looking like brambles of thorns were entangled in it. He brushed strands from his eyes. “Sir, your shoulder–”
“It will be fine,” Griffin insisted. He was grateful those pesky physicians had departed.
He looked up to see Lord Dinkleshire hurrying across the grassy plain toward him. Short and stocky, the host of the tournament reminded Griffin of a nervous rat. He wrung his hands as he approached. “Sir Griffin!” he called. Other participants of the joust followed him, with a crowd of onlookers behind them.
Vultures, Griffin thought with distaste. Wanting to see what punishment would be levied.
“I am truly sorry about this. I–”
“As you should be,” Griffin interrupted.
Dinkleshire puffed up his chest. “This shall be remedied immediately. I shant stand for such insult in my tournament. You shall be proclaimed winner and the purse shall be yours.”
Griffin nodded, but he couldn’t get past the fact he had not won.
Dinkleshire urged a small boy on with a quick wave of his hand, and then followed the child as he scampered around the tents. Four armed guards followed the boy.
With a scowl, Griffin joined the crowd, moving up to Dinkleshire’s side. Around him, he recognized some of his opponents. Their jaws were tight, their brows furrowed. Some mumbled about hanging.
Prickles raced across Griffin’s neck. This could quickly get out of hand. Dinkleshire wasn’t strong enough to command this rabble. They were angry and wanted retribution. When Carlton joined him, he whispered, “Bring my sword.”
Carlton disappeared immediately, racing back to the tent.
The small boy they were following burst through the edge of the forest. “There!” the boy shouted, pointing his slim arm. It was obvious which tent was theirs. It was the only pavilion being pulled down. Dinkleshire marched up to the tent, his fists clenched at his sides. The crowd followed behind him.
Two men who had been yanking the tent fabric down looked up at the crowd. They stopped their work and the one with dirty blonde hair stepped forward.
“Where is she?” Dinkleshire deman
ded.
“She?”
“The woman who injured Sir Griffin. You know women aren’t allowed to joust.”
“Of course I know that,” the man replied.
“Then present her this moment.”
Griffin was impressed at the manner in which the nervous little Dinkleshire ordered the man. He had seen this knight at other tournaments. He was the elder brother. There were two Fletchers that jousted, he vaguely recalled.
“Lord Dinkleshire, what my sister did is unforgivable. She did it without my knowledge,” the Fletcher brother said.
“It is not my concern that you cannot control your family. Where is she?”
A moment of heavy silence spread through the clearing.
Griffin glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. Scowls of disapproval, and even anger, marred more than one man’s brow. One knight had his hand on the pommel of his sword. Where was Carlton with his weapon? When he looked back at the dismantled tent, he saw her, the woman he had seen leaning over him in the field of honor. Long brown hair hung in waves down her back. Her nose was pert and delicate. Black leggings fit snugly over the womanly curves of her thighs and lower hips. Her torso was covered by a green tunic. The whirlwind who had slammed into him before the joust. He stared at her face, looking at her large eyes, wanting to see if they were truly so blue as he remembered, but she was gazing at Dinkleshire. Griffin’s gaze swept her again. She was so young. But it was her, there was no doubt in his mind. Griffin’s surprise and distress only added to his anger and humiliation.
The crowd around him grumbled as one, their voices crashing over him in a sea of displeasure.
A younger boy stepped beside her.
She hung her head and a lock of her hair fell forward.
“Lord Dinkleshire, I take full responsibility for my sister,” the eldest brother stated.
This drew the gazes of the rest of the Fletcher siblings.
“As you should, Sir Colin,” Dinkleshire said. “You will be fined. Fifty shillings.”
A collective gasp moved through the crowd like a small breeze.
Griffin’s eyebrows rose. That was a hefty fine. One could buy a war horse for fifty shillings. But it was a fair price for the crime. He nodded in agreement. The matter was settled. They would pay the fine and hopefully the little chit would be put in her place and never joust again.
My Noble Knight Page 2
