by K. C. Helms
The spectators burst into wild applause.
Edward held up his hand and the crowd quieted. “Let it be known this is no jouste a l'outrance, but a fight a plaisance. There shall be no bloodletting. I have need of all mine knights in the coming weeks. The contest is concluded when one knight is unseated. And let it be known, thereto, that Sir Robert’s name shall not die out. The winner must accept the name of de la Motte, as though born to it.”
A surprised murmur raced through the crowd at this unusual command. Edward’s voice boomed over them. “The winner shall henceforth be known as the lord of Haughmond Castle and all the lands that surround that domicile.”
Edward looked down at the two knights. “Do you accept the terms of the joust?”
“Yea, sire!” came their answers in unison.
“Do you accept my judgment of the tourney?”
Again came both voices. “Yea, sire!”
“Then let the tournament begin!”
The spectators roared their approval.
A desperate prayer surged across Katherine’s lips.
Sweeping aside his golden cape Edward settled onto his cushioned chair beside Eleanor and watched the field with keen interest.
Both knights bowed, then whirled away toward opposite ends of the field. Exchanging their banners for long wooden lances, they settled themselves securely within their high-backed saddles.
The spectators fell silent.
Katherine clutched her hanky so tightly her nails tore through the delicate fabric.
Down went the flag. Spurs set the war-horses into motion. Both animals leapt forward, charging across the field toward the other. The tall lances, pointing skyward, began to lower into position.
Closer they came. The legs of both horses flashed as the destriers gained momentum. Behind the knights, the silken mantling on their helms flowed in their wake. With heavy lances couched in position, each knight made ready to strike his opponent’s shield.
’Twas magnificent.
’Twas horrifying!
She could not bear it, yet could not tear her eyes from the awful sight. She had marveled how a knight could view the world through so narrow a slit in a great helm. ’Twas no longer awe, but anguish holding her captive, forcing her to watch with bated breath, her gaze riveted on Rhys. How could he possibly defend himself? How could he see to defend himself?
Onward the knights charged at full speed, with blunted lances, aiming for the other’s shield. A lance could break or catch an opponent in the throat. ’Twas not a fight to the death, but—
Sir Geoffrey’s caveat surged through her, swamped her composure. Accidents occurred. A space could be found betwixt shield and armor. An unintended injury could be as deadly as a deliberate blow.
Frantic—helpless—she twisted in her seat, not able to sit still. Her hanky shredded beneath her fingers.
The two knights met with a horrific blast. Amid wild cheering, the lances with their splayed metal tips, crashed into the wooden shields. Rhys’s lance struck Sir Dafydd’s shield at an angle and did no damage. But he took a hard hit from Sir Dafydd’s lance. While it shattered into pieces against his shield, Rhys lurched sideways in his saddle, all but losing his seat.
Watching Rhys grapple for control as his horse cantered down the field, Katherine fought down the cry rising in her throat. By the time he reached the far end, she could sigh in relief, for he had maneuvered himself into a more secure position within his saddle.
The spectators responded with a rousting cheer.
Sister Mary Margaret leaned toward Katherine. “Do you fall faint, my lady?” she inquired in a gentle voice.
Unwilling to answer, Katherine swallowed down the bile threatening to choke her and stared fiercely at Rhys, willing him to prevail.
Sir Dafydd galloped steadily toward the far end of the field and whirled his charger. Given a new lance from his squire, he hefted it into place and waited, sitting like a threatening god beneath his horns of evil. His black consort stomped the ground with its ominous hooves, impatient at the delay, its muscles bunched in readiness beneath the heavy mail caparison.
Her fears rushed through her. Affrighted by the outcome of this unjust contest, dreading that Rhys might be disgraced, Katherine trembled. Having shown her preference, she thereto, would be disgraced. But her loyal nature demanded fidelity. Holding her head high, she forced herself to stare, unblinking, at the field. With all her being, she poured out one last silent and desperate prayer for Rhys’s success, and for her own salvation.
Down went the flag. Rhys spurred his mount into action, lowering his heavy lance. It dipped dangerously close to the ground before he drew it level. With bated breath, Katherine went rigid, panicked by his display of weakness.
From the other end of the tourney field Sir Dafydd came at full speed. His lance slid smoothly into position as his destrier surged forward.
A hush fell over the crowd as serf and gentry alike craned their necks, watching the two horses close the distance in a fury of galloping hooves.
Sir Dafydd leaned forward in the saddle. At the last moment he rose in his stirrups and aimed with deadly accuracy. ’Twas a dangerous placement, for it left him vulnerable. But the horse’s weight became part of his momentum, making his attack all the more potent.
Katherine shuddered.
The blow slammed into the middle of Rhys’s shield, hurling it back into his chest. While his weapon glanced harmlessly off Sir Dafydd’s shield, Rhys’s head snapped back from the fierce blow. The impact knocked him up and out of the high-backed saddle. He clawed at his horse’s mane, forcing the destrier onto its hind legs, while the long lance slid from his grip. The destrier found its footing, came down with a hard thud. Rhys lost his hold and went crashing to the ground.
With a cry, Katherine leaped to her feet.
Sister Mary Margaret pulled her back down onto the bench, holding her firmly in place. “Nay, Lady Katherine,” she murmured in a soothing tone. “The king remains seated.” She turned to Sir Geoffrey. “Congratulations, sir knight, your kinsman has vanquished his opponent and garnered prestige for your family.”
On the field the unseated knight lay motionless, though his horse’s reins remained clutched within his fist. The destrier whinnied but stood fast. ’Twas a long moment before he rolled to his knees.
Sir Dafydd spurred his horse toward his fallen opponent. He swept up his visor and scowled down at the knight who braced himself with one foot upon the muddy turf. Leveling the metal tip of his lance against his opponent’s neck, pressing into the flesh next to where a vein pulsed, he muttered, “Fool! Your word is worthless. You were to fall with the first pass.”
Chapter Fourteen
A cheer went up from the multitude. Serf and castle folk alike lauded the victor, who sat tall and proud in his saddle in the midst of the tourney field. Some spectators rejoiced more than the rest, those who had placed winning bets. Others good-naturedly paid up. But all quickly grew restless at the delay. Their impatient voices swelled as they beckoned to the victorious knight.
The king stood, obliging all to follow his lead. Sister Mary Margaret tugged Katherine out of her seat.
Dumbfounded, Katherine watched the defeated knight struggle to his feet. Her instincts urged her to rush to Rhys’s side, to pour out her love, to share her strength. Her heart was breaking—for the man she loved and for her bleak future.
“Congratulations, Sir Geoffrey.” Sister Mary Margaret beamed a bright countenance upon the knight. “Your kinsman is victorious.”
Sir Geoffrey did not acknowledge the comment. Like Katherine, he stood stunned and silent.
The good sister’s smile continued undaunted. She went on in a cheerful tone. “Do you feign indifference for my sake, or mayhap for your own?”
The knight’s lowering scowl was the only indication he heard her remark.
“In truth, do you not know the victor?” Though her tone was sharp, the nun’s words were more than beguiling. Specu
lative glances turned in their direction. “Faith, Sir Geoffrey,” she continued, “you needs make the victor’s acquaintance with all due speed.”
Sir Geoffrey finally turned, his eyes slits of suspicion.
With a serene smile, the nun bestowed her attention upon the field of honor, where the two knights dallied overlong. She took no further heed of the knight and his palpable discomfort.
A royal guest spoke to Sir Geoffrey. “How are you and Sir Dafydd related?”
Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I am uncertain. I have never laid eyes on the victor.”
The nun tilted her head with an artful expression and spoke sufficiently loud, that all could hear, “’Tis your son, in truth.”
Dazed by the revelation, Katherine’s stomach turned. Sour bile pricked her tongue. Sister Mary Margaret’s pronouncement was too bald not to be soothfast. And being Sir Dafydd’s kinswoman, the nun was Sir Geoffrey’s, thereto.
They were beset by de Bornes!
Weak with horror, Katherine nigh collapsed onto the bench behind her. But Sister Mary Margaret’s quick hand steadied her, preventing the blunder. Wrapped in despair, she watched her beloved stumble from the field and scarcely heard Sir Geoffrey growled oath.
“Do not vex me into ill temper!” Edward thundered, his voice resonating through the pavilion. A frown marred his countenance, while an angry flush spread up his neck. Silence descended upon the royal guests. He pivoted on the ball of his boot and turned to the nun with a sharp glare. “How is it, sister, you have knowledge of this happenstance?”
The nun dipped her head politely. “We are frequently privy to such matters, sire, when victims seek refuge from life’s woes.”
“Your abbey gave succor to the mother?”
Throwing Katherine a cautious glance, the nun nodded in reply.
Edward cast a dark glower at Sir Geoffrey. “Sir knight, you needs make restitution to an innocent. I will not have my subjects forced to bear bastards. Thereto, you must needs seek contrition from the bishop. I expect to see it accomplished, forthwith.”
Sir Geoffrey bowed stiffly. “As you command, sire.”
Across the field the victor turned his horse and set spurs to it. The destrier broke into a gallop.
Katherine’s breath deserted her. Desolation poured over her. Geoffrey de Borne’s son was to be her future husband? The new lord of her castle?
On Saint Winifred’s bones, it must not be!
The knight drew closer, his body in fluid motion with his great steed, the sight drawing renewed cheers from the spectators.
She struggled to maintain her composure and lost the battle with each steady pace of the war-horse. Her hands shaking, she clasped them to her midsection.
Then, with an abrupt stomping of hooves, Sir Dafydd was upon them. His horse’s heavy caparison swirled to silence while he sat tall and straight, his long and gnarled dark horns piercing the bright, blue sky.
Viewing the knight through a narrow red haze, Katherine did not see the king beckon. Of a sudden, her hand was crushed within his steely fist and she found herself yanked forth to stand beside him.
“Be not so dismayed, Lady Katherine, that you do mete out rudeness to our victor.” The king’s severe tone had not abated. “As the lady of the joust, you must needs be ever gracious.”
Katherine blushed, as much from anger as embarrassment. She had not meant to give offense, yet could think of naught but Rhys’s appalling defeat. Mortified by the royal reprimand, she was saved further chiding by the herald’s ear-splitting trumpet blast.
A cheer erupted from the crowd. Edward allowed it to swell before he finally raised his hand for silence. As the great war-horse pawed the muddy ground, the only sound was the soft whisper of the steed’s chain mail trapping.
With a stern frown, the king released her hand. He turned to the crowd. “The outcome of the joust is decided.” His ponderous voice drifted across the tourney field. “Sir Dafydd has won the match. Henceforth, he shall be known as Sir Dafydd de la Motte, Lord of Haughmond Castle. A week next he shall take Lady Katherine as his bride.”
Another cheer rushed into the air. A wedding was always an excuse for celebration.
The knight’s chain mail armor glistened in the bright daylight, yet his dark, shaggy brows and drooping moustache obscured his face. Katherine shivered, finding naught savory about his appearance.
Sir Dafydd bowed to his liege, then turned toward Katherine.
She shuddered, yet she stared back unerringly, making certain her own expression manifested the loathing that flourished within her.
The king glanced from the victor to Katherine, and back again. “Would that your valiant efforts could compel a kind token from your lady, Sir Dafydd. Do you force her?”
At the castigating tone, the knight’s brooding gaze darted from Katherine to Sister Mary Margaret.
The nun gave a small shake of her head, bringing a troubled glint to Sir Dafydd’s eyes. His gaze shifted to the king. “Nay, my lord,” came his grim reply. “The morrow will be sufficiently soon.”
“Then sir, you have my leave.” The king’s tone was both frosty and abrupt. “With me, Eleanor!” He turned on his heel and stomped down the steps of the pavilion as a bright red flush worked its way up his neck and into his cheeks.
The victorious knight swung away and galloped toward the end of the jousting field.
Katherine’s gaze followed him the distance, her aversion pulsing with each thudding beat of her heart. Dutifully, she followed behind Queen Eleanor, but only after Sister Mary Margaret nudged her into motion.
* * *
Sir Geoffrey watched the victor cross the field. That perfect image of a knight had sprung from his loins? ’Twas not often he did recall the women he bedded. Like the stars in the sky, they were many. ’Twas likely he had a score of progeny littering the countryside.
But he would not claim them.
’Twas surprising, though, how vexed he was, that he could not put a face to the wench who had birthed this remarkable specimen. She would needs have been a singularly rare woman. His brows lifted in astonishment. He could not imagine why he did not recall her.
Forsooth, with so public an accounting of his misdeeds, ’twas impossible to repudiate the whelp. Would the king demand he recognize Dafydd as his heir? Venting his spleen would not help. The young knight could have had no reason to trounce him so thoroughly, sight unseen. ’Twas merely an unfortunate coincidence they should find themselves thus together. He shrugged. Given the allure of the king’s court, ’twas to be expected. He should have reckoned he wound cross paths with—
Turning, he studied the nun as she walked toward the castle gate beside Katherine. Her drab habit could not hide her unblemished beauty. Though he had found her tongue more than annoying, Sister Mary Margaret possessed the most mesmerizing eyes, an unusual color of green.
Such a waste. Kindling her ardor and drowning in the depths of those deep, beautiful pools of emerald would have brought him great joy. It had been many weeks since he’d had a wench as comely. Perchance—
How many indulgences would it take to pardon such a sin? Dare he chance God’s wrath?
He focused on the field. Sir Dafydd had dismounted and was walking toward his tent with a swagger, his shoulders swinging to and fro. Sir Geoffrey cocked a surprised brow. ’Twas a younger vision of himself.
A newfound pride bloomed within him. A son of his—a worthy and deserving son—had won the joust, had gained powerful Haughmond. Yet a dose of humility marred his joy, for Dafydd would forever carry his enemy’s name.
To be sure, revenge from the grave.
He had stolen Robert’s unfaithful wife and enjoyed her castle these many years, but he did not savor this unwarranted humiliation. “Damnation to you, Robert de la Motte,” he snarled beneath his breath, then cast a hasty glance around. Air hissed through his clenched teeth. He stood alone in the pavilion and could say what he pleased.
“Dafydd de Borne.” He t
asted the name on his tongue. ’Twas a worthy appellation. “My son needs own my name!” Sir Geoffrey clenched his teeth again as a different and unsavory name flowed through his thoughts. Dafydd de la Motte. Plainly, ’twas the price for not acknowledging this impressive bastard. Rage and bitterness boiled up within him. Inhaling raggedly, he wrestled with his churning emotions.
But could humiliation not be useful? Cloaked in humility, mayhap his son would find him more approachable. Licking his lower lip, he gave consideration to the intriguing idea.
Unexpectedly, he grew anxious to make his son’s acquaintance. Suddenly, the victory was personal. He felt boastful and proud. Spying an abandoned hanky on the wooden floor of the pavilion, he ground it beneath his heel with a satisfied chuckle. Leaping down the steps, he hurried to catch up with his son.
* * *
“Wellaway, the seed is as twisted as the vine. Sir Dafydd much resembles his sire,” Katherine proclaimed, relieved to find the wardrobe empty. Her ire provoked beyond endurance, she had withdrawn from the prying eyes of the king’s court, taking Anne with her. “I shall never share vows with that knight.”
“You must needs resign yourself to it,” Anne said gently. “Mayhap—”
With an irate sweep of her hand, Katherine turned away, refused to listen. Her sister meant well, but naught could fetter the outrage that had her pacing back and forth within the chamber.
“Look how he essayed to affright us with his dark presence,” she continued in a bluster, stepping around the pallets of straw scattered across the floor. “His helm decorated with horns? Like the devil? I shall never be his bride!”
But ’twas far easier to make declarations than to live with reality. She quivered, fearing she would be forced against her will. She must needs find a way to prevent the king’s unreasonable edict.
Could she flee? But to where? Unrest plagued the country. ’Twas impossible to know the difference betwixt friend and foe. Many Welsh renegades roved the forests this side of the Severn River. She could well find herself in a worse predicament. Had this venture not proven so?
