by Jill Barnett
“Milord!” the man’s eyes bulged and he swallowed hard, gulping down his next words.
“I said, who paid them? Give me the name, man, and I won’t slit your scrawny throat!”
The man began to stammer. “I . . . I—”
“Now,” Tobin said with deadly calm.
“That blond one.”
“What blond one?”
“Baron Robert’s son.”
“Warwick?”
“Aye, sir. ’Twas him. Richard Warwick.”
’Twas not long afterward that Tobin found Richard Warwick in the Great Hall, sitting at a table with some other knights and young lords, all boasting about their prowess on the field and in bed.
’Twas the talk of young men. He had once been one of them. But he was no more.
He strode into the room with one purpose in mind, ignoring the greetings and comments, his eyes focused on his quarry. As he passed, even more wished him speedy health and good will.
At that moment he did not care for good will. He was so angry he wanted to crush something with his bare hands. Warwick’s throat for one thing.
He came up to the table where Richard Warwick and Thomas Moore were sitting. He just stood there.
Warwick cast a glance over his shoulder. “De Clare. Welcome. Sit and have a cup with us.” He started to move.
Tobin planted a hand on his shoulder, gripping him as hard as he could with his bad arm. “Do not move, Warwick, or I shall be forced to kill you now.”
“Kill me?” Warwick laughed, then he looked at Tobin’s face and his laughter grew nervous and higher pitched, then faded. “What jest is this?”
Tobin removed his gauntlet and threw it on the table in front of Warwick.
There was a gasp of surprise and the room grew suddenly quiet.
A challenge was made. A glove was thrown. This was no jesting thing among knights.
“I, Sir Tobin de Clare, challenge you, Richard Warwick. In the honorable name of my lady wife.” Then Tobin turned and walked from the room.
Sofia found him in the armory, sitting on a bench and oiling his sword.
She came rushing inside. “There you are. What is this foolishness I hear?”
“What foolishness would that be?”
“You challenged Dickon Warwick?”
“Aye.” He was not looking at her, but sat there rubbing the oil up and down the blade, then taking a stone and honing the edge till it was more finely wrought.
“You cannot fight him. Look at you. Your wounds are not yet healed. Just look at your arm!”
“What about it?”
“You can barely move it.”
“I can move my arm just fine.”
“I will not let you do this. It is stupid.”
“You have no say.”
“You did this for my name. You think I do not know that?”
“I issued the challenge. Warwick chose the time and place. We will meet tomorrow, in the field outside Camrose.”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “Please, husband. You cannot do this. Please. He will kill you.”
“You have little faith in your own husband’s skills.”
“I have complete faith in your skills, but not when you are ill. Not when your arms and chest have been torn to shreds. Do not do this for me. I do not care about the sheet. I do not care. A piece of bloodstained cloth is not worth your life.”
“But I care. I care, Sofia.” He stood and looked at her. “It is honor at stake here. Honor, wife. A man must have his honor.”
Chapter 34
They lined up ten deep on either side of the field, for this was not a tourney, where the crowd was as much a part of the games and the ritual as the combatants. There were no gaily striped tents flying pennants of like colors. There were no galleries with benches for the ladies to wave their favors. There were no date sellers and sausage hawkers, no jongleurs singing of the great jousts of William the Marshall from so many years before, no cheers from the crowd, for this was a solemn moment.
This was not about prizes of gold and horses and weapons. This was about justice.
His wife rushed into the armory, where Tobin was waiting for his squire to bring the lances.
“Thud cannot find your lances.”
Tobin was strapping on his armor and he looked over his shoulder at her, his expression irritated. “They are in the weapons room. I put them there myself.”
“Let me help you,” Sofia volunteered, as she took the buckle from the back of a piece of plate armor and fastened it to the front piece, then drew it tight. “There.” She gave him a pat.
It almost made him laugh, the gesture, to pat his armor. He moved to the next piece of plate, the arm guards, and he slid them over his mail and did the buckle himself.
She looked up into his eyes. “How is your arm?”
“Fine.” His voice was sharp, but he was tired of answering that question. He had been answering it all morn.
Since he’d made the challenge, Merrick, Sofia and even the King himself had all talked to him, arguing the possibility that he was not physically ready to meet Warwick.
They were all wrong. He was more than ready to meet him and he did not need full use of his arm. He was so angry he could funnel his rage into the lance and sword.
He had no doubt he would win.
But when he looked at Sofia, he saw that she stood there, wringing her hands the way she did when she was upset. She would not look at him, so he stopped what he was doing and reached out to her.
He tilted her chin up so she had to look him in the eye. “’Twill be fine, sweet. I know you are worried. My arm is strong.”
She looked down at her clasped hands and nodded.
After Tobin strapped on the last piece of plate, he fastened his sword belt and turned. “I suppose I shall have to go fetch those lances myself.” He did not understand how Thud could miss those lances. But then he had not been into the weapons room in weeks. Perhaps someone moved them.
“Thud was still there when I left.” Sofia followed him out the door and up the stairs. The weapons room was on the west side of the castle, near the upper wall, so men could be armed and easily move back to their posts. The room was small, but packed with swords and daggers, crossbows, arrows, quivers, maces and axes and extra mail and plate, in addition to any kind of missile from stone to oil that could be thrown or poured from the castle walls.
Tobin moved more stiffly than usual. His armor was weighty and made the climb to the room at the top of the castle a long one. He was still sore and his chest was not all that comfortable in mail and plate. He could feel his torn flesh, feel the scabs and the tightness.
He ignored it.
At one point, he glanced outside through an arrow slit He saw the crowd below and the strip of field. He was ready. His blood sped through his veins. He had been ready since yesterday and the moment he laid eyes on Warwick and thrown that glove.
He opened the door to the weapons room. “I know those lances are in here, Thud.” He stepped inside.
A second later the door slammed closed.
Tobin looked up.
His squire, Thud, was in a corner, tied up and gagged.
He turned.
The lock clicked.
“Sofia!” he bellowed! “Sofia!”
But she was already gone.
Since de Clare had sought justice in this challenge, there was to be a judge, an advocate to choose the winner. ’Twas not a death challenge, only justice for the sake of the name of Tobin’s wife.
There was no better judge than King Edward, himself. He and the Queen along with Merrick and Lady Clio sat above the others, waiting. Next to Clio was a chair for Sofia, but when Merrick looked, the girl was not there.
He knew that she did not want Tobin to fight any more than he did, and he wondered if in her own stubbornness, she refused to watch.
’Twould not surprise him. Those two were both hard-headed enough for five couples.
The
re was a blare of a trumpet and the crowd grew quiet. Warwick rode out from the north end of the field, his horse thundering and his plate rattling. He stopped and raised his visor and saluted the King with his lance. Then he rode to the end of the field and took his place.
All turned to the south side of the field. But there was no rider. De Clare was not there. They waited, and waited. The King frowned to Merrick, who shrugged. The crowd began to talk.
De Clare’s mount came into view, the armored knight riding tall and lean in the seat. But it was not de Clare’s silver armor and blue tunic that the rider wore, but instead the armor was all black, no markings, not even on the tunic to give clue to the rider.
Merrick frowned. He stood. “What the hell?”
“Sit Merrick. ’Tis de Clare’s right to choose a substitute, a champion,” Edward said. “I suggested it to him last eve. I’m happy to see he took my advice, although I had thought he would choose you, Merrick, and not some unknown knight. Who do you suppose that is?”
“De Clare would not use a substitute. He would only champion himself. Believe me, I tried, too.”
The knight rode over to the King and saluted him, then before Merrick could do a thing, the rider wheeled de Clare’s mount around with ease and rode to the south end of the field.
The knights faced each other, then saluted, as was the custom. Warwick dropped his visor, and lowered his lance. A sign of readiness. A trumpet would blow to signal the start, but Warwick, the challenged, had the right to signal the set. The signal was the set of his lance.
They would ride until one was unseated, then the battle would continue on the ground, with sword and skill, until a man was down and raised his hand in forfeit. The winner would have his honor avenged and the loser would have to live with his lost pride, more deeply wounded than any sword could ever cut.
The black knight controlled his mount, which was side-stepping and throwing his head, sensing the tenseness of the moment. He set his lance and waited, leaning forward and signaling his readiness for blood sport.
Merrick did not know who this knight was, but watched him closely. He knew how to set his lance, how to keep his mount ready but controlled and he sensed he knew exactly when the trumpet would sound.
The moments went by slowly. The crowd was silent. The chargers, massively built mounts, snorted and pawed the ground, anxious and ready.
The herald raised the trumpet to his mouth.
The high, loud notes of it carried out into the air.
There was a gasp from the crowd, then the thunder of hoofbeats pounding the ground.
The armored riders moved with ease in the saddle, their lances set into their shoulders, straight, points blunted and not deadly, structured so they would slide off the plate armor, making it difficult to unseat the opponent.
The horses moved swiftly despite all the weight and the metal and cloth trappings, trained in this sport, as much a part of the knight’s success as was his skill.
They were closing in, closer and closer with each canter. The lances were close, their points passed each other.
The black knight leaned forward, an advantage, for the lance point hit Warwick square in the chest.
The crowd gasped.
Warwick spit out a loud grunt from the impact and leaned to his right, as if he were losing his balance. But he gained control and righted himself an instant later.
The crowd gave a murmur of disappointment.
The riders took their places again, each at one end of the field. Warwick set his lance. The black knight did the same. They waited, horses stomping.
The trumpet sounded.
They were off again. They rode faster this time, lances aimed for surety, for strike and for besting the other.
Warwick was stiff in his hold. Merrick saw that once again the black knight moved slightly on the approach, changed the angle.
This knight was trained better than most of the knights he’d ever seen. ’Twas a subtle trick, that angle and shift, that few could master even if they knew of it. William the Marshall had known, and he won every tourney he ever fought in. Merrick knew, but he had never given that secret away and never would. So it was something to see the black knight use it.
Their lance points passed again. Warwick leaned awkwardly, trying to get an advantage.
The black knight twisted in the saddle. His lance caught Warwick under the arm and sent him flying.
The crowd roared as Warwick hit the ground, then lay there for a moment during which no one knew if he was out cold or just winded.
He shifted and sat up, then stood and drew his sword, holding it high.
The black knight reined in and dismounted, then slapped the rear of his mount so the horse trotted off. They stood a few feet apart.
Warwick was bigger than the lean knight, taller and more muscular, but the smaller man was lithe, even in his armor, and moved with speed as they circled each other, a speed that could be an advantage to offset Warwick’s extra weight and power.
Warwick struck out, their sword hilts locked high over their heads. Warwick shoved hard. The black knight stumbled backward, but kept his balance.
He charged at Warwick, the clanging of their swords piercing the air and ringing through the crowd. They parried and thrust and struck, each blocking the other.
A second later Warwick charged, again locking hilts, but this time he used his foot at the back of the other knight’s knee, caught him and sent him to the ground.
Warwick’s sword point was at the black knight’s throat.
He drew his weapon back suddenly as if he were going to do the unthinkable. To drive it through the opponent. To kill in a challenge that was not to the death.
A roaring battle cry pierced the air.
A de Clare!
The crowd turned toward the sound.
It was Tobin, his sword raised as he moved toward Warwick.
“Kill me you bastard! Kill me!” He shouted over the surprise and noise of the crowd. He struck down with his sword and then stepped between Warwick and the fallen knight, who had not moved, but lay there. Still.
De Clare was like a madman, his sword deadly and fierce, moving swiftly and with power and ear-rending strikes that surprised even Merrick.
It took de Clare barely a few minutes to send Warwick’s sword flying, then Tobin dropped his weapon and grabbed Warwick by the mail under his arm plates, dragged him across the field and began to beat his helmet against the low stone wall, shouting he would kill him.
Merrick left his seat, ran to Tobin and pulled him off of Warwick. “Stop! Stop! De Clare! This is not to the death.”
“He was going for the kill!” Tobin growled. “I swear I will kill him!”
Warwick’s helmet was dented and his head and neck were loose, when Merrick finally pulled Tobin away. Warwick slumped to the ground, unconscious.
De Clare stood there, head down, his breath hard and ragged, his gauntlets in fists at his sides. Then he looked up. He pulled off his helmet and turned and faced the black knight, who was just sitting up on the field, holding his head.
De Clare shook Merrick off of him and crossed to the fallen knight. “You bloody fool!” He bent and pulled the knight to his feet, shook him so hard the armor rattled like pans, then grabbed the helmet and jerked it off.
Sofia’s black hair tumbled out and halfway down her back
There was a universal cry of surprise and the crowd began to talk in hushed whispers and stunned realization.
The King swore viciously and loud enough for all to hear. Merrick stood there, dumbfounded, unable to believe Sofia was the skilled knight he had just seen with his own eyes.
But it mattered not, for Tobin was dragging her off the field, his face enraged.
Sofia thought he was going to hit her. He was that angry. He looked down at her. In his eyes was a fury so strong it could have bored holes in her skin.
“You could have been killed! Do you realize that? How close you were to being run
through?” He was still shaking her with each angry word. “I swear he was going to kill you when I came on the field.”
“’Twas you or me. I chose me,” she said.
“I would not have been killed.” He lowered his face to hers. “And even if I had it was my challenge, woman! My honor!”
She met him nose to nose. “Dammit, Tobin! It was in my name that you challenged him! Does that not give me the right to fight for it?”
“Where the hell did you learn to joust? To wield a sword? To ride like that?”
“At Grace Dieu,” she muttered.
Tobin drove a hand through his hair and paced back and forth. “Do you know what you have done?”
“I have fought for you.”
“You have dishonored me, shamed me before all and sundry! A woman! They will think Tobin de Clare asked his wife to fight for him.”
Sofia stood there, chewing her lip. He had a point, one she had no argument for.
“Do you not see what they will say behind my back? You have cut my pride and my honor out from under me. I have nothing left.”
“You have me.”
He turned. His look cut like a sword. A moment later he stormed out of the room.
Chapter 35
She heard about her folly from everyone. From the King and Queen, from Merrick and Clio, even from the servants. Tobin’s men-at-arms would not look her in the eye. Thud and his brother Thwack, the sweetest people in the world, stopped speaking to her. She might as well have been a leper.
Tobin had not been back to their chamber again. For two long nights she slept there alone. She did not even know where he was and no one would tell her. She cried for herself the first night. She cried for him the second.
The morning of the third day, Eleanor came into her room.
“Sofia.”
“Aye?”
“We are leaving for Caernarvon today.”
Sofia nodded.
“You will be traveling with us for part of the journey.”
“Me? Why?”
“You are to go to Torwick. It is your home.”
“Tobin and I are leaving Camrose? He did not tell me.”
