The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3)

by Cecelia Mecca

  Toren reached for his steel-tipped lance. Alfred, now sworn to the service of Clan Kerr, struggled to keep it upright. He was a nimble lad, and quite resourceful, though not the strongest of young men. Alex would train him. The most patient of Toren’s brothers, Alex excelled at building both character and skill in others.

  They’d reached the fifth day of the tourney, which meant the remaining participants in the joust would be the most skilled. Without the Waryn brothers in attendance, only Lord Thornhurst would give Toren any real competition. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be beat. One slip of the hand or lapse in concentration could mean defeat.

  “Lord Covington to match against Toren Kerr,” the herald shouted. He didn’t recognize the standard, but he did recognize the name.

  Now that the crowd of knights had been reduced to a mere fifty men, twenty-five on each side, the formalities had become even more pronounced. It was the first day favors were to be given, and nearly everyone attending the tournament had come out to watch the day’s matches. The earl and his countess sat above all others under a canopy, which was hardly necessary on this grey, sunless day. Rain threatened at any moment.

  When he entered the lists, Toren spotted Jules immediately. She sat in the middle of the galleries, her white gown in stark contrast to the bright colors around her. He knew accepting her favor was wrong. For so many reasons, he should look away. Avoid her completely.

  But he was powerless to do so. Instead, he found himself nudging his horse forward, the animal’s hooves kicking up dirt and grass with every step. The crowd cheered as his opponent accepted a favor from a noblewoman in the crowd.

  The prospect of facing the highly skilled, armored knight on his massive destrier did not trouble him, while the sight of Jules lifting a small, pure white ribbon into the air made his heart beat faster.

  He should not take it.

  Toren stopped in front of her. Without his helmet, he could see her features quite clearly. She smiled, a secret, perfect smile, and reached out as he tipped his lance toward her. Toren did not see her companions’ expressions, for he could not look away from her as she tied the ribbon to the tip of his lance.

  The crowd cheered once again as he pulled the lance toward him, straightening it into the air, and returned to the start line. Assisted by Alfred, Toren donned his tourney helmet, and once prepared for the joust, moved back into position and awaited the sound of the trumpet.

  The joust was not much of a contest. Although he failed to unseat Covington on the first pass, it only took one more for the man to fall—and he did so in a frighteningly awkward manner. Toren returned to the field after two blasts of the trumpet declared him the winner. He jumped from his mount and tossed his lance aside, making his way to the injured knight who still had not moved.

  It would not be the first death at a tournament, though Toren had never before had the bad luck to kill a man in sport.

  A physician ran to his opponent’s side and lifted the helmet off his head. There were no apparent signs of injury, but that meant nothing.

  “Step aside. Move along.”

  Toren took a step back, relieved to see movement in the man’s legs. A moment later, the knight opened his eyes.

  “Very good,” the physician said. “Now sit up. Slowly. That’s right, sit up.”

  Confident that the man would live, Toren walked away, looking up into the galleries once more. He nodded to Jules, who appeared just as relieved as he felt. Anxious for any cause for celebration, the crowd cheered again when his opponent stood and made his away off the field to allow for the next match.

  “A shame,” a voice murmured from behind him.

  Blackburn.

  “A shame he lived?” Toren’s hand instinctively moved to his side.

  “A shame you both lived.”

  He knew better than to challenge the English knight on English soil in front of a few hundred witnesses.

  “Turning on your own countrymen too? It doesn’t seem wise to instigate both sides of the border, Blackburn.”

  He started to walk away.

  “Tell that to the Hallington wench.”

  He was going to kill the man.

  Toren spun, hand on his sword, and stood so close to Blackburn their faces were nearly touching.

  “Spew your hate elsewhere, Blackburn. Or this tournament will be your last.”

  He would not let the man goad him into violence.

  Toren walked away, his fists clenched so hard his forearms ached. It was as much restraint as he could muster. Letting Alfred attend to his equipment, he left the field as cheers began for the next match.

  And then he froze.

  In the heat of the moment, his only thought had been to defend Juliette against the cad, but something had just occurred to him. If Hallington had accepted a bribe from Blackburn to ensure he wouldn’t be brought to trial during the next Truce, wouldn’t he be grateful to the man? Why would he speak ill of the daughter? Something wasn’t right.

  Though she was very much biased, it was hard to deny Juliette’s intelligence. He must balance her relationship to Hallington against her assessment of the situation.

  He would get answers.

  Tonight.

  10

  “Lady Juliette, may we speak in private?”

  She looked at Christina, whose shrug indicated she knew not what her husband intended. They had just finished the midday meal and were making their way through the castle’s entrance into the crowded courtyard.

  Hedford smiled at his wife and offered his arm to Juliette, who took it without hesitation. Her best friend’s husband was rising in her esteem, but she still had more questions about him than she did answers. Why did he refuse to speak about his travels? How had he been injured? And why had he agreed to escort her to the tournament? To placate Christina? Her father? Perhaps this would be her chance to have a frank talk with him.

  “We’ve not yet been given the opportunity to speak in private,” Lord Hedford said with a smile. “Although you and my wife seem to do so quite frequently.”

  He appeared amused rather than upset.

  “We are more akin to sisters than friends. ’Tis my hope —”

  “Nay, you’ve no need to explain. As your chaperone, I merely wish to ensure you’re being well-treated.”

  “Aye, my lord.” She wasn’t sure what was he asking, but it seemed best to be agreeable.

  “Your affinity for a certain Scottish chief—”

  “Affinity? I would hardly call it thus. The man in question is—”

  “My lady, I mean no offense.”

  He knew. She wasn’t sure how much, but his steady gaze indicated he had not been as oblivious as she’d thought—nay, hoped.

  “It’s my duty to ensure your safety. I would be remiss if I failed to speak to you about the dangers of being alone with a man who is not your husband.”

  Oh God! Did he know about last eve?

  “Especially in the Scots’ tented city. At night.”

  Oh. That. So he didn’t know of Toren’s visit to her chamber.

  “How do you. . . did Christina—”

  He chuckled, a pleasant sound coming from this very proper man who was serious more oft than not.

  “Nay, never. She would sooner toss herself from a turret than break your confidence, as I’m sure you know. Which makes it even more imperative that you understand your position.”

  “My position?”

  He lifted his hand to Christina, who was watching a juggler with a growing crowd of spectators. The festivities stretched from the inner bailey of the main keep well into the field beyond it. Juliette had really never seen anything like it.

  “As an unmarried maiden.” Hedford was most definitely measuring his words. “And as the daughter of a man whose actions impact the tenuous peace along the border.”

  “How is my father’s position related to my safety here at Condren? There’s something you’re keeping from me, Hedford.”

&n
bsp; Though she was certainly sheltered, Juliette was not stupid. If only everyone would stop treating her as if she were. She looked toward the crowd surrounding the juggler. The group of English—and some Scottish—knights, ladies, and servants smiled and clapped, uncaring of matters of allegiances and peace. All knew of the dangers that lurked just beyond the borders of this demesne, yet they had set their worries aside for a brief moment.

  Could she not do the same?

  She thought of how Sister Heloise might respond.

  “I thank you for your concern, Lord Hedford, but I can assure you I am taking care to ensure my safety. You will no doubt deliver me to the confines of Chauncy Manor at the conclusion of the tournament, or mayhap direct to Wytham if my father has a say in the matter. And I will live quite peacefully inside yet another prison hidden away from the Scottish brutes and lawless reivers who would cause me harm. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  He called out her name, but she ignored him as she made her way to the juggler. This talk of family and clan, English and Scottish. . . she’d heard it her entire life. Today, she wanted to forget all of it.

  Today, she wanted to enjoy all this tournament had to offer. Its abundance and jollity. Its deliberate attempt to deny that dangers lurked so close they were mimicked within these very walls, on the lists and later this week on the mock battlefield.

  She was not a fool, but for one day she would be happy to act like one. There would be plenty of time for responsibility. An entire lifetime, to be precise. She could wait to bear the yoke.

  “Juliette, have you ever seen anything like him?”

  Christina pointed to the juggler, easily the most talented one she’d ever seen.

  “Nay, he’s quite good!”

  Although the sun had failed to peek through the clouds, the rain had not yet come. It was a fine day indeed, and the evening that followed would be even more interesting. Her heart skipped a beat thinking of it.

  “I need to speak to you,” she implored her friend.

  Christina must have recognized the urgency in her voice.

  Lord Hedford stood at a small distance, already engaged in another discussion. Christina took her hand and pulled her toward him.

  “My lord, we will return shortly.”

  Christina didn’t wait for a response before guiding Juliette toward the castle gardens behind the main keep.

  “I’ve been wishing to see their gardens,” Juliette exclaimed. She smiled at the sight before them. Though not quite as grand as this vibrant display, the abbey’s gardens were every bit as beautiful. Lush and green, flowers peeking out from every corner, it was one of her favorite sanctuaries, and the nuns allowed her to read alone there once a week. It made her feel more at home to have found a similar haven here.

  “Come, sit.” She gestured to an ornate marble bench next to a patch of bright lavender-blue asters in full bloom.

  Christina smoothed her dress as she sat. “Is this about Matthew? What did he say to you?”

  Juliette glanced around the garden, lowering her voice even though they appeared to be alone. “Nay. He knew of my visit to the tent city, but not that Toren came to see me last night.”

  “But you said nothing happened?”

  “Nothing did. But that doesn’t mean your husband would approve of me entertaining him in my bedchamber!”

  “Why, of course he wouldn’t. Then what—”

  “Tell me more about lovemaking.”

  Christina clearly hadn’t been prepared for that particular request. “Juliette, what. . . that is to say. . . please tell me you’re not serious.”

  “I have never been more serious in my life.”

  Christina grabbed both of her hands, pulling her closer. “You can’t do it. I won’t allow it. You’ll be ruined. Your future husband—”

  “Will marry me, and all will be well. Christina, what would you have me do?”

  “I would have you marry the Scots chief if you’re intent on being with him. Or at least--”

  “He won’t marry me.”

  Christina released her hands and stood. Now it was she who paced, their roles from the previous evening reversed.

  “What do you mean, won’t marry you?”

  “He does not wish to marry, and I can hardly force him to do so. And if I’m never to know a man, then I would like--”

  “Oh Juliette, this is not a story. We speak of your life, your real life, and I fear you’re making a grave mistake.”

  “Please stop and sit.”

  Although she listened, Juliette could tell her friend was having a difficult time understanding.

  “Christina, please. Hedford will be looking for us. Please. Tell me more than you have in the past.”

  Her mother had never spoken to her of what happened between a man and a woman, and while Juliette had overheard the servants speaking freely about such matters, she wanted to understand.

  “I don’t know what will happen when Toren returns, but—”

  “When he. . .”

  Christina trailed off, and she appeared quite incapable of speaking.

  “When he’s near, I find it difficult to think straight,” Juliette said. “My hands shook as I tied the ribbon around the tip of his lance earlier. I’ve never felt this way before, and I may never do so again. Christina, please. . .”

  As she stared into the eyes of the one person she trusted above all others, Juliette felt a rush of gratitude.

  “Thank you for being my friend.”

  Christina’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Oh, Juliette. I do adore you so. I just want you to be happy. And safe.”

  “And I want the same for you. Now tell me, are you happy? Does Hedford make you feel the way Toren does for me?”

  Christina’s smile was her answer.

  “I am very grateful to have been given such a man. I know not all ladies are so lucky. But yes, he does. And I am very much beginning to care for him as well. And lovemaking. . .”

  Her cheeks turned pink. They’d never discussed such a thing in detail before.

  “It is. . . very pleasant. The first time,” she winced, “hurt a bit. But after that. . . it’s quite nice. Matthew is quite skilled with his—”

  Juliette’s eyes widened.

  “Hands.” Christina smiled, likely knowing the direction of her thoughts. His hands? How precisely? She was prepared to ask when a rustling sound interrupted them, followed by a man’s voice saying, “Come my dear, we won’t be noticed here.”

  The lady’s only reply was a giggle—so, a pair of lovers planned to rendezvous in the garden.

  There was more murmuring, and Juliette and Christina exchanged a glance. “Let’s go,” Christina whispered, tugging on her hand.

  They ran from the garden and spilled out into the courtyard where they continued their conversation. By the time Hedford discovered them, Juliette could not look the man in the eyes.

  “Ladies. . .” He looked from his wife to Juliette and back to Christina. Neither of them could stop smiling. “What in the devil?”

  Juliette was about to make an excuse for their behavior when a commotion near the blacksmith’s forge drew their attention. A crowd gathered, and though Hedford tried to stop her from joining it, Juliette was too curious to heed him. As she made her way to the outer ring of people, a man shouted at the edge of the crowd. Everyone turned toward the sound, and Juliette shivered when she saw him, sword raised, pushing his way toward the forge.

  Toren.

  Spectators parted, and Juliette took advantage of the dispersion by running forward rather than edging backward. What was he doing?

  Then she saw what the crowd had concealed—two men on the ground, rolling from side to side as they pummeled each other. She’d never seen a fight this close before and was struck by the violence of it. The second thing that caught her attention was that other knights, all with weapons drawn, had formed two lines on either side of the fighting men. Her eyes sought Toren’s. He stood shoulder to should
er with three other men, one of whom she recognized.

  All of the warriors on Toren’s side were Scottish, and the men who stood opposite them were English knights. So much for peace. It was clear the fight between two men was about to turn into much more if someone didn’t stop them.

  And then one man stepped forward.

  At first Toren had thought to stay out of the fight. Staying out of others’ arguments was how he ensured his clan’s survival. With the exception of Bristol and this current mission, but those had both been edicts from his king.

  But that was before he saw Juliette standing calmly at the edge of the crowd. He was hurrying forward to pull her away when he heard someone yell, “Saw his wife with Campbell. . .”

  Gregory!

  Pushing through the crowd, Toren groaned when he saw the men gathering on either side of the fray. Fights between English and Scottish were not uncommon at this annual tournament, but this year, with the Day of Truce rumored to be in jeopardy, tensions were even higher.

  By the time they fought in the melee, it would be an outright tournament of war.

  Aware that Juliette was still in the crowd, Toren rushed toward the fight. Barely glancing at his friend tumbling on the ground with an unknown Englishman, he drew from his experience on the battlefield and the countless times he’d stopped his own clansmen from re-arranging their opponents’ features, he shouted out a few orders. Men from both sides rushed to break the men apart and he finished the job, reaching between them and receiving a blow to the shoulder for his efforts. Moments later, he’d stopped the fight and convinced the other men to stand down.

  Before he could pull Gregory away to give him a talking-to, someone called to him from behind.

  “Kerr,” the male voice shouted.

  Toren, still practically holding his friend in an upright position, turned to find Juliette’s guardian following him.

  “Can you stand?” Toren asked Gregory.

  “Aye, I can walk, but the bastard nearly broke my damn knee when he kicked me from behind. Coward.”

  Though his friend stumbled at first—the fight had left him battered and bloody—he caught himself and stood tall.