Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Unable to keep the smile from his lips, Morgan snickered softly and clapped a companionable hand on Bose’s shoulder before returning to his own equipment. “Indeed, my lord. Not another word.”

  Bose’s black eyes were piercing as the older knight continued to snort disrespectfully. “I do not jest, Morgan. Not another word.”

  Morgan eyed the man, nodding his head with earnest agreement. “I indicated that I understood, Bose. There is no need for threats.”

  “Aye, there is. You are pushing me to the brink and should be amply forewarned.”

  “I have done nothing of the kind. What has happened to your sense of humor?”

  Bose continued to stare at the man long and hard a moment before turning away. “It is intact given the proper circumstances, and considering we have a competition in fifteen minutes, I hardly find your amusement valid.” He lifted his arms as his squire secured his scabbard for the melee, long and free and at the ready, as he cast a final glance at his two comrades. “Tate, get mounted. Morgan, if you are not going to compete, you and Artur discover from the heralds who is to be on our team for the melee. I would know these fools who intend to ride upon my glory.”

  With a smirk, Morgan quit the tent. Tate maintained his position a moment longer, wondering if Bose intended to press him for more information regarding the fair Lady Summer without Morgan’s presence. Even though he was well aware that Morgan was Bose’s closest friend, still, it would somehow be easier to discuss the lady between two men rather than three.

  But Bose apparently had no intention of pressing the issue further and Tate wisely left the tent, heading for the gnarled oak where his squire had prepared his charger. Bose’s massive beast was prepared as well, muzzled to prevent him from attacking his handlers.

  As Tate mounted, making sure the banner decorating his horse’s body was properly secured beneath the armored tack, he wondered if he shouldn’t attempt to ascertain more about the young maiden who had captured Bose’s eye. The further his lord denied such interest, the more Tate knew the fair lady had indeed succeeded in snaring the man’s attention.

  The silver peals of the trumpet could be heard, calling all spectators to the lodges and announcing to the competitors that the event was about to commence. Forcing thoughts of Bose’s lady aside for the moment, Tate straightened the decorative plume atop his helm and reined his charger toward the arena, his excitement mounting. He knew that Bose’s remaining two knights would already be at the field, awaiting his company. And with all of the houses preparing to combat in honor of Lance du Bonne, the day would prove to be exciting and profitable.

  Tate looked forward to certain victory. With Bose de Moray on his team, there was no question.

  *

  Colorful knights of every house were lining up on opposite sides of the tournament field, emblazoned with standards and fancy armor and brilliantly-colored lances. Seated between Genisa and her father, Summer was overwhelmed with the sight and spectacle before her. Never in her life had she seen so many knights, all lavishly dressed as if they were preparing to attend a feast rather than a battle.

  Magnificent shields were lodged over the left knee of each knight, positioned for ease and access. War implements crowded the armored saddles; swords, axes, maces, flails and war hammers gleamed wickedly under the brilliant afternoon sun. The horses themselves were covered with beautiful banners embossed with the colors of their knight and, in some cases, his crest.

  As two teams prepared for the coming melee, Summer scrutinized every knight who happened to thunder past the lodges, or every warrior who seemed to be gaining a bit of practice before the competition began. She was wide-eyed with wonder.

  “Do you see that your father’s heralds have divided the knights into two teams?” Genisa was saying. “The two teams will charge one another and fight until only one man is left. That is why they call it the melee.”

  “It is quite a brutal spectacle, Summer,” Edward’s high-pitched voice was an annoying buzz over the excitement of the crowd. “Certainly, there are codes the knights must adhere to; they must not intentionally try to kill their opponent, and they must not strike a man when he is down. Once a knight is off his horse, he is out of the competition. The object, of course, is to remain mounted and try to keep your head on in the process.”

  Summer knew all that; she had heard her brothers explain tournament rules a thousand times. On her other side, Genisa piped up again.

  “The team that loses becomes the prisoners of the victors and must pay them ransom,” she said. “That is how the knights make their money.”

  “Or lose it,” Summer responded dryly.

  Genisa giggled, nodded. “Stephan lost a good deal last year at the tournament in Swindon. Not only was he on the losing team in the melee, but he lost to Bose de Moray in the joust as well. He was so angry with the money he lost that he cursed de Moray for an entire week.”

  Summer smiled, her thoughts once again turning to the mysterious knight who had saved her from her brothers’ foolery. Glancing to the east side of the field, her golden eyes searched for the black and white standard she knew to be de Moray’s. But there was no black and white on that team, only innumerable brilliantly sewn hues, including those of the du Bonne red and white.

  Shifting her attention then to the west side of the arena, the distinctive black and white standard of the House of de Moray was evident. An odd, fluid warmth pulsed through her veins as she drew deep the sight of the striking banners; with all of the scrutinizing she had been doing of every man and beast within the confines of the field, she wondered how she could have missed the de Moray colors.

  It began to occur to her that her brothers and de Moray were on opposite teams. Pondering the dilemma, Summer’s attention was drawn to the perimeter of the field opposite the lodges. Even with the multitude of men and horses milling about, the squires and stable hands and grooms and servants scurrying to and fro, still, she found herself drawn to a particular figure making his way toward the eastern siege line.

  “Look, Summer!” Genisa’s high-pitched voice startled her. “There is Sir Bose. See him? Over there, on the massive black charger.”

  If only to quiet the woman, Summer nodded her head sharply. But Genisa, too, seemed to be entranced with de Moray’s appearance and she poked a finger in his direction.

  “He is hardly wearing any trappings, as the other knights do,” she said. “No plumes or fanciful helms. Only his banner across his charger’s haunches. In every competition I have ever seen him in, his dress is always the same. He is much more understated than the rest.”

  “Mayhap he doesn’t wish to draw attention to himself,” Summer said quietly, her heart thumping against her ribs with the thrill of seeing de Moray. “He seemed rather understated today, when we met.”

  Genisa shrugged, reclining against the cushioned chair. “I have never met him before, to be truthful, nor heard much about him. Today was the first Stephan has truly spoken in depth of him.”

  Mercifully, the woman quieted herself and Summer was permitted to gaze openly at the distant knight uninterrupted. She observed every fluid motion of his massive arms, bringing about his shield emblazoned with the mighty Gorgon crest and poising it over his left knee. There were three other knights from his house competing on his team, and the men seemed to swarm about him when they noticed his presence. A little man on the ground handed him his lance and he collected it easily, a great black and white spiral pole.

  Summer watched, enthralled by the only knight she had ever met aside from her brothers, until Genisa once again screeched in her ear.

  “Summer!” she burst. “Look; the herald is taking the field. The game is about to commence.”

  Rubbing her ear where Genisa had nearly punctured the drum, Summer noted that indeed the herald was taking the field. On her left side, Edward leaned close.

  “See the sword in the man’s hand?” he gestured to the red and white clad servant. “That is my sword. Grandfa
ther fought on the Lion Heart’s crusade with that weapon.”

  Summer recognized the sword; it held a decorative place of honor above the massive hearth in the main hall. Edward, sensing his daughter’s excitement, took her hand and squeezed it tightly in an extremely rare show of encouragement. In spite of the surprise of the uncommon display, Summer gripped her father’s hand with natural ease, smiling happily at him as the herald demanded readiness from the opposing sides. All visors went down in varying order in answer to the herald’s demand, indicative of the combatant’s state of preparedness. As several other heralds positioned themselves about the arena in preparation for refereeing the event, the primary herald held the sword high.

  “In the king’s name, do your battle!”

  The sword came down. With a roar that made Summer’s hair stand on end, dozens of lances came down from their upright positions and hovered parallel to the ground, pointing menacingly at the men on the opposite side of the field. The thunder of chargers filled the air as spurs dug deep into the sides of the beasts, urging them on to victory. Great clumps of earth were kicked up by the excited steeds, pelting the spectators who happened to be standing too close.

  Summer hadn’t realized she had let out a small cry as the opposing waves of knights crashed into one another in a great roar of flesh and metal. Poles snapped, sending colored pieces of wood hurling into the air as the grunts and shouts of men in mock-battle penetrated the damp sea air. A few men were felled in the initial clash before they had scarcely had a chance to fight and the crowd in the lodges went mad with glee and terror.

  Summer continued to observe as flails sang through the air, pummeling unfortunate opponents with their spikes and weight. The echoes of heavy broadswords filled the air as knights did battle against one another, sharpening their combat skills and showing off for the crowd. Already, chargers were going over on their sides and Summer gasped as brave young squires rushed out to the field to assist their fallen masters.

  “The b-boys will be killed!” she insisted to her father, as if he hadn’t noticed the actions of the foolish young lads. “Make them stay away until this is finished!”

  His expression was intolerant. “Summer, ’tis their duty to remove their fallen masters from the field. Otherwise, the men would be trampled under the feet of others.”

  Distressed, Summer returned her apprehensive gaze to the field, watching as a strong young squire dragged his armored liege from the battle. But the man’s charger, still on the ground in the midst of the chaos, was too injured to rise and Summer came to the conclusion that the melee wasn’t exciting any longer. It was brutal, barbaric, and reckless.

  The thrill of her first tournament began to fade as she watched several more men go down, one of them bearing de Moray’s colors. Some were able to walk from the field on their own, others had to be carried off. Chargers limped away, others dashed away, kicking up their heels and crashing through the barriers. As Summer became disillusioned with the battle before her, others in the lodges were shouting for more.

  Summer’s stomach churned as a knight bearing colors of yellow and red fell to the ground, blood streaming from the slit in his visor. His squire was too small to carry him away and began to shout for help, waving to the heralds milling about the battle’s perimeter. But the heralds refused to assist, demanding that other squires move in to aid the lad. As Summer watched, the small squire and two other young men carried the injured man from the field.

  The game was no longer entertaining. Summer could not imagine what Genisa or her father found amusing within the vicious sport of the melee, men hacking and bleeding and fighting all in the name of glory. In faith, she hadn’t known what to expect from the event; somehow, she imagined chivalrous knights doing delicate battle, denting armor and little else. Certainly not this blood sport before her, knights savagely fighting until only one man was left standing.

  She did not want to watch any more.

  Chapter Four

  “Father, I demand you stop this now!”

  Edward tore his gaze away from the exciting spectacle, shocked to discover his daughter near tears. His brow furrowed unsympathetically. “Summer, what is the matter?”

  “This,” she jabbed a slender finger toward the bleeding, writhing mass in the center of the field. “Men are d-dying in there!”

  Edward forced himself to pat his daughter’s hand in a feeble attempt to calm her. “No one is dying. It is all a great competition of skill and talent.”

  Summer yanked her hand away from her father, exasperated that the man failed to see the seriousness of the situation. Turning to Genisa, she attempted to gain a measure of support for her protest. “And you? How can you enjoy this travesty?”

  Genisa looked shocked and remorseful at the same time. “What’s the matter with you, Summer? I thought you were excited about this.”

  Sensing she would receive little backing from her sister-in-law, Summer frowned with dismay; no one seemed to understand her concern and that, in turn, greatly distressed her. As she contemplated the blood-thirsty side to Genisa and her father she had never known to exist, another harrowing cry emitted from the battlefield and she turned in time to observe a massive green and yellow charger list heavily to one side. Bearing down upon the toppling beast was none other than the mighty Gorgon himself.

  All thoughts of terror faded for the moment as Summer watched Bose wield his broadsword high, bringing down blow after powerful blow upon a man astride the collapsing destrier. In fact, it seemed that Bose was actually pushing the horse and rider to the ground with his tremendous strength, and Summer winced when the final blow from Bose’s powerful sword sent the man to the ground once and for all.

  It had been quick, bloodless and swift. Somehow, Bose’s battle hadn’t been a fight to the death and Summer found her distaste for the game oddly eased. As she continued to watch the massive warrior astride the black and white charger, Bose turned to the man next to him and plowed through the unfortunate knight as if he were no more than a child.

  Summer observed with a mixture of fear and fascination as Bose bloodlessly unseated yet another hapless victim. With an additional rival sent to the earth, he appeared to pause slightly to discern just who would be his next casualty. As Summer watched, he moved directly for a red and white charger.

  “He’s going after Stephan!” Genisa’s cry suddenly mingled amongst the shouting of the crowd. “Stay away from him, you beast! Stay away from my husband!”

  Summer watched intently as Bose and Stephan exchanged brutal sword blows. Metal against metal, strength against strength, the two men battled furiously as their chargers screamed and snapped at one another. Genisa gasped with terror as Summer continued to observe, frozen in a world of awe and apprehension as the ruthless battle waged before her.

  As other horses crashed to the ground and knights were summarily dishonored by being unseated from their mounts, Stephan and Bose appeared to do battle much longer than was usual for a single bout. They continued to hack away at one another as their horses turned circles upon the earth, screaming and grunting in the heat of battle.

  Summer forgot her distaste for the melee; watching Stephan and Bose compete in a fierce battle was exactly as she had imagined the tournament to be. Now, finally, she was glimpsing the essence of the games within the powerful blows and deft skills of her brother and Bose de Moray. No injured horses, no flowing blood, only talent and knightly prowess as it was meant to be. This, she decided, was definitely worth watching.

  Summer was hardly aware when the field cleared, leaving Stephan and Bose to do final battle as if they were Lucifer and Gabriel. With their comrades shouting encouragement from the sidelines, Summer could do nothing more than watch the brilliant demonstration of mastery, knowing how fatigued the warriors must be but neither willing to concede defeat. Certainly, Stephan considered himself the best competitor in the realm. And, undoubtedly, Bose considered himself the same. More hacking, more grunting, until finally, a broa
dsword clattered to the earth.

  It was Stephan’s.

  Genisa whimpered as her husband struggled to regain the mace secured to his saddle, dodging some of Bose’s heavy blows but absorbing others. It was only a matter of time before Bose was able to unbalance Stephan enough to give him a hard shove and send him smashing to the earth. As a roar of victory went up from the lodges and sidelines alike, the knights on Bose’s team congratulated their victor for a job well done and Summer could not help but cheer for him as well.

  Her applause, in fact, was the only praise Bose heard. Aye, he had seen her seated at the edge of the lodges with Stephan’s wife and Lord du Bonne. He could not keep his eyes from her as the competition began, coming dangerously close twice to being pummeled. But in the heat of the battle, he had overcome the distraction caused by the lady’s lovely presence and had delved into the melee with his customary vengeance. One man, two men, five… all of them had succumbed to the Gorgon’s mighty sword.

  Including Stephan; Bose had already disposed of Ian when he sought out the man’s older brother, purposely targeting him in the midst of the chaos. He knew that Summer would be monitoring her brother’s progress and Bose intended that she should see him as well, even if he was intent to do away with her beloved sibling.

  Even as he saw her sitting in the lists, a faint sea breeze gently lifting tendrils of honey-blond hair, he had no idea what sentiment was stirring deep within his heart, but he knew enough to realize that they were emotions he had only experienced once in his life, when he had met his Lora. He felt sick to his stomach when he realized that even the initial attraction he had held for his wife was nothing compared to what he was feeling for Summer du Bonne. What he was experiencing for her was something different altogether.