The Warrior's Wife

by Denise Domning

  Agony followed. If her need to touch him was so strong now, it would be horribly hard to resist him when next they met, especially when she knew their time together would soon end. Once the wedding celebration was done she’d never again see Rafe. Oh, this was most definitely love, tragic, deep and never to be requited love.

  Beside her, Ami laughed. “Best you stop staring at him before your father notices.”

  “You needn’t worry on that account,” Kate replied with a small smile. “My father has eyes for no one but Sir Warin, God be praised.” As she spoke, her gaze shifted from Rafe to the other end of the field. Her sire stood near Warin, his pride in his steward measured by the sheer width of his grin.

  “Ladies,” Sir Josce’s scarred friend called to them, motioning them closer still as they drew near. “We’d be honored if you’d join us to watch these final runs.”

  “Why, we’d be delighted,” Ami replied so swiftly that it was clear she’d hungered for the invitation.

  She dragged Kate with her as she closed the distance between her and her love. “Sir Josce, how do you? I was sorely disappointed to see you fall.”

  Kneeling, his head and shoulders still caught in his chain mail tunic, the big man fought his way out of it. Gasping as he dropped back to sit on his heels, he yanked off his leather coif then raised his head to look at Ami. His blond hair stood up in spikes around his face. Chagrin twisted his face.

  “Would that you hadn’t witnessed that. This is the third time I’ve let Rafe pry me from the saddle. I fear it’s become a habit.

  “Lady de Fraisney,” Josce said, acknowledging Kate. “Do you know my companions, Sir Simon de Kenifer and Sir Hugh d’Aincourt?” The two men aiding in his disarming offered Kate brief bows. Kate nodded to Sir Simon and smiled at the scarred Sir Hugh, recognizing him as her dancing partner from the previous evening.

  “I, for one,” Ami said, drawing Sir Josce’s attention back to her, “was certain you’d take the purse for your half-sister’s honor.”

  “Against Rafe?” Sir Simon scoffed. “I think not.”

  Leaving the acquaintances to argue over whether Sir Josce’s fall was mere chance or due to Rafe’s superior skill, Kate went to stand next to the temporary fencing that surrounded the field. At the Daubney end of the grassy expanse Warin had remounted. Her father stepped away from Warin’s horse. A page, a lad Lord Haydon had loaned to her sire for the day, the same lad that Ami had pointed out as a potential husband on the wedding’s first night, lifted up a long spear to Warin. Once Warin had it in hand, he signaled the herald.

  “They’re ready to run,” Kate called to the others without looking away from the combatants. Excitement shot through her. It was Rafe, not Warin, she wanted to take the day. Aye, he was her sire’s enemy and it was wrong to want what her sire despised, but she couldn’t help it.

  Ami came to stand beside her while Sir Josce, yet wearing his mail leggings, stopped behind her. As the other two men joined them, the crowd hushed until the only sound was the odd horse’s snort and the chuckle of water in the stream. Riding to the center of the field, the herald held up his hand in an unnecessary grab for attention.

  “For the Daubneys, Sir Warin de Dapifer. For the Godsols, Sir Ralf Godsol. Ride with God,” the old man shouted, then gave the sign.

  The two horses sprang into motion, moving so swiftly that their tails flew straight out behind them. Every muscle in Kate’s body tensed. Her fingers dug into the soft, green wood of the fencing.

  Wood met metal in a thundering retort. In that split second Rafe rocked back in his saddle. With a resounding bass snap, Warin’s lance broke. He teetered atop his horse but didn’t fall.

  “Only a draw for the first run,” Sir Josce cried in disappointment over his friend’s failure to score. His words were nearly drowned out as around them the crowd roared out its appreciation for such a show.

  “Lord, but they’re evenly matched. Did you see the Daubney steward shake our Rafe in his saddle?” Sir Hugh shouted out.

  “No matter. Rafe will take the day,” Sir Simon said, his voice filled with complete confidence. He turned to look at Josce. “I think there’ll be time enough to remove your chausses before they’re ready for the second run.”

  “I’ll undo your cross garters,” Ami said, speaking of the leather strips that kept Sir Josce’s loose steel stockings from sagging about the knight’s calves. The group of them backed up a few steps to do their chores.

  On the field Warin continued riding down the alley, his course taking him directly toward Kate. When he was but a few yards away he drew his big black warhorse to a stop. He laid a hand against his heart, a reminder of where he carried her hidden ribbon.

  Guilt seared Kate. Why, oh, why couldn’t she have realized she didn’t love Warin before she’d given him her token? The very idea of having to confess to him that she loved him no more when she retrieved her ribbon made her stomach knot.

  Despite the shadows Warin’s helmet cast on his eyes, Kate saw them narrow. His jaw tensed beneath his beard. She started. Oh, heavens, but she’d been so lost in her own quandary that she hadn’t given him the sign he’d expected in return.

  Powered by guilt her hand flew to her breast, only to have shame at pretending something she didn’t feel bring it back down just as swiftly. Every line in Warin’s body tightened until anger screamed from him. Jerking his horse’s head around, he kicked the beast into motion.

  Kate cringed as she watched him go. He knew. Somehow Warin knew she loved him no more. Just as she feared, he wasn’t taking it well.

  Like a tiny breath of relief a single thought tumbled through her. A true knight, a man like Lancelot, would never be angry with his lady if her love for him ended. Nay, his heart had no room for such emotions. Instead, he remained constant even if his lady rebuffed him all his years. That Warin could glare at her so only proved he wasn’t that sort of knight, despite his similarity in appearance to Lancelot. Given that, perhaps a single ribbon wasn’t so great a price to pay to be quit of him.

  * * *

  Gateschales walked on toward the Daubney end of the field as Rafe dropped his lance and shook his head. It didn’t help. His ears still rang. Worse, somewhere back behind him lay the shattered remains of his confidence.

  Saints above, but running his lance into Sir Warin’s shield had been like hitting a stone wall. Never mind the purse. Another meeting like that, and they’d both die, blunted lance tips or not. Since death wasn’t what Rafe had in mind for his future, especially when he hadn’t yet bedded Kate, he needed to find a way not only to survive this contest but also to best his opponent. At that very instant the ribbon hidden in his palm shifted, as if to call his attention to it.

  Rafe’s confidence roared back to life, fully reborn. Aye, it was Kate’s ribbon he needed. One glimpse of it, and Sir Warin was sure to be incensed. An angry man made for a careless jouster. That’s all the edge Rafe needed right now, the chance to take advantage of a simple mistake on Sir Warin’s part.

  Needing a few extra moments in which to recover, Rafe let Gateschales walk all the way to the temporary fencing before he turned the horse. His confidence took another leap as he again faced the alley on the way back to his starting point. Sir Warin was only now turning his own horse and starting back. That meant but one thing: Sir Warin was in the same star-spinning, ear-ringing state as he.

  Rafe grinned as he studied his opponent. Better and better! The smug assurance that had infected the set Sir Warin’s shoulders--indeed, the whole line of his body--was gone. In its place was a new and uncomfortable tension. So the steward now doubted his easy victory, did he? Aye, the time was nigh to show Sir Warin the ribbon.

  Fishing a good foot’s length of the thing from his glove, Rafe let the wide strip dangle from his cuff. Just before he and Sir Warin crossed paths at the center of the field, Rafe pulled Gateschales to a halt and smiled at the worm-eater.

  “I vow, Sir Warin,” he called, “you’d have had me if yo
ur lance hadn’t broken.” It was the sort of nonsense a man was expected to spew to his competitor.

  Sir Warin didn’t even glance in his direction. Instead, he kept his narrowed eyes aimed into the distance as his horse walked on. Rafe swallowed a foul curse then tried, “Better luck with your next run.”

  As he spoke, he held up his hand in a friendly gesture, all the while praying Sir Warin’s eyes would follow the motion. God was good. In that instant the breeze lifted, the moving air sending the ribbon fluttering in Sir Warin’s direction.

  The knight’s gaze shifted as he caught the motion, then his whole head snapped toward Rafe. Sir Warin’s eyes flew wide. His jaw dropped, but surprise swiftly gave way to a snarl. Nearly lunging out of his saddle, the knight snatched for the rippling ribbon. Rafe yanked back his arm as Gateschales danced to the side, taking him out of the steward’s reach.

  Sir Warin’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Bitch’s son, if you value your life you’ll tell me how you come to have that,” he commanded, his hand dropping to his side where his sword would have hung if this hadn’t been a friendly match.

  Anger surged in Rafe at his insult. He strove to quell his reaction. It was Warin he wanted careless, not himself.

  “What, this?” he asked, nonchalantly stuffing the ribbon back into the body of his glove. “Why, it came from a lady at court. I use it as a talisman when I joust. It’s worked so far. I’ve never been defeated whilst I carry it.” That was true enough. He hadn’t been defeated yet today.

  “Liar!” Warin shouted, his word so vehement that spittle flew from his lips. His eyes were wild as he wrenched himself around in his saddle to stare at Kate. “Aye, and you’re not the only one telling falsehoods. She didn’t lose that ribbon, she gave it to you. That little whore’s playing me for the fool!”

  Rage tore through Rafe. No worm-eater was going to call his Kate a whore! Harsh words formed on his tongue, but before he could spill them Warin dug his heels into his mount’s side and sent his big horse cantering off to the Daubney end of the field.

  The need to split the steward’s skull, not just bash wood against the man’s shield, exploded in Rafe. He kicked Gateschales into motion, reaching his end of the field a little ahead of Sir Warin. As he turned his horse, he thrust out a hand for a lance without a word. Priest laid a new spear into his palm as Stephen stared up at Rafe, astonished.

  “What on God’s earth did you say to him?” Stephen demanded. “I couldn’t believe it when yon ice man burst into flame out there!”

  Rafe only shook his head and drew his shield into position. His blood boiled. By God, he’d lift the rat-kisser from his saddle this time.

  At the other end of the field, Sir Warin rode his horse in a circle around the page and Lord Bagot. Instead of stopping to take the lance, he but leaned down in his saddle and snatched his new weapon from the arms of the page.

  Rage ate up all Rafe’s other concerns. The worm-eater was cheating! It was the speed of the horse that determined a jouster’s power. From a standing start a horse needed half the length of the field to reach its fastest stride. If he didn’t go now Sir Warin would have the advantage.

  He dug his heels into Gateschales. His horse was ready. Even after so long a day, the gelding threw himself into his long stride.

  At the center of the field the herald called out the foul, commanding the two men to stop. No such complaints bothered the crowd. They cheered over this unorthodox turn.

  Rafe’s world narrowed until all he saw was Sir Warin’s shield. Again the impact was tooth-jarring. This time Rafe’s blow hit true.

  Not so Sir Warin’s. The steward’s weapon slid across the face of Rafe’s shield with an ear-shattering shriek. Sir Warin followed his lance, twisting in his saddle. Triumph shot through Rafe. The point for this run was his.

  His world didn’t expand again until he’d reached the end of the field. The crowd roared in approval over the trick. Some of the gentlemen had migrated to the ends of the field. All of those at Rafe’s end shouted out their congratulations over his point.

  Rafe ignored them. Tossing aside his used lance, he pulled Gateschales into a tight turn. All the accolades in the world meant nothing if Sir Warin tried the same trick twice and started ahead of time.

  Sure enough, as Rafe turned he could see Sir Warin pulling his own horse around to return to the run’s starting point. Back to their respective ends of the alley they rode almost as swiftly as they’d made their way down it.

  The herald sat upon his horse in the alley’s center, his face dark with disapproval over their breach of etiquette. As they neared him he lifted his arm in a demand that they halt. Neither Rafe nor Sir Warin slowed their horses a whit as they passed the old man. Approval exploded from the audience for such a drama.

  This time, Rafe did as Sir Warin had done in the previous run, guiding Gateschales in a circle at his end of the alley. Priest and Stephen were ready for him. Together they held up a lance so Rafe could take it without slowing or leaning too far from his saddle when he reached them.

  As he came about Rafe threw a glance at his opponent. Sir Warin was well into his own circle, but unlike Rafe’s friends, the page serving him hadn’t expected his temporary master to ignore the herald. The lad’s hands were empty. Warin screamed for a lance. Lord Bagot shoved the page aside and raised the lance he carried to his steward.

  New outrage tore through Rafe. The lance’s blunting cap was gone. That God-bedamned Daubney snake-eater was trying to kill him! Even across the width of the field, Rafe could see the grin that stretched across Sir Warin’s face as he snatched the lethal weapon from his master’s hands. Screaming like a wild man, the steward started down the alley.

  It was too late to stop, not that Rafe would have done so anyway. No man threatened his life and walked away unscathed. He leveled his new weapon and touched his heels to Gateschales’s sides.

  From some hidden reserve Gateschales found new strength and flew into a gallop. The crowd screamed, some in excitement, others in protest as they noticed the uncapped lance. Defiance and exhilaration took fire in Rafe. Let them scream. He’d pluck the bitch’s son from his horse and ride about the field with the man hanging from his lance in punishment for his perfidy. When he was done there’d be no one in the world brave enough to challenge him, not even Lord Bagot after Rafe had taken that shit-licking Daubney’s daughter from him.

  * * *

  Kate stood frozen in horror as she watched Warin race toward Rafe. The herald howled his command that they stop. Lord Haydon, already halfway across the field after Rafe’s and Warin’s first breach of etiquette, now lifted his heels into a run.

  Chaos erupted around her. Every Godsol in the crowd rose to his feet, cursing the Daubneys for their treachery. Screaming charges of attempted murder, Sir Simon crashed through the flimsy willow fencing that stood between him and his comrade. Sir Hugh followed, his mouth grim, while Sir Josce, yet too shaken from his fall to run with them, set himself to kicking an even larger hole in the fence standing between him and his friend.

  Unable to watch Rafe for fear that she’d see him die Kate locked her gaze onto Warin. With all her heart, she willed her former love to stop. Warin didn’t slow, not even a whit. Then just before they met his lance tip lifted, just a little.

  It was enough. With the lance off center the weapon’s sharp tip slipped away from Rafe on the slight curve of his shield, gouging a deep crevice in the metal as it went.

  Not so Rafe’s lance. His met Warin’s shield dead center. Warin tumbled backward out of his saddle, just as Sir Josce had done.

  Cheers, jeers, bellows of rage and whistles of appreciation rang from all across the field. Kate’s senses swam. Rafe lived.

  Her knees weakened, and she collapsed to sit upon the ground, heedless of the damage she did to her new gown. She gulped in a great breath of air. Out on the field the herald and Lord Haydon, as well as a good number of other knightly guests, all converged on the fallen Warin. Every one
of them screamed accusations at him when Kate knew the uncapped lance wasn’t his fault.

  Someone else had removed its cap and Kate’s wayward glance had caught the villain at it. Tears stung at her eyes. Her father, horse thief and murderer that he was, had just used Warin and his weapon to try and kill the man she loved.

  Lord Humphrey leaned back on the bench he shared with his daughter in Haydon’s hall. Beside him, Kate toyed with what remained of the day’s feast on her bread trencher.

  “My steward is an honorable man,” her father said to Sir Ronald of Witton, one of his liege men, who stood behind them. He had to raise his voice a little to be heard. With the day’s champion decided, everyone had retired to the hall for a mid-afternoon meal. Now, as the last course was finished and the conversations were beginning to flow, the noise level rose.

  “So he has always been in his dealings with me,” agreed Sir Ronald. Kate made a face at her meal. Sir Ronald’s voice held all the sincerity of a man whose livelihood depended upon the good will of his better; the knight held his lands from Bagot’s lord.

  “Of course he has,” Lord Humphrey said. “I tell you, those who blame Sir Warin for what happened on the field this day are full wrong. I’ll say it again. That cap must have fallen off when I transferred the lance to my steward. So swift were our movements that I doubt he could have noticed what happened. God knows I didn’t.”

  Kate shot her sire a scathing sidelong glance. Neither man noticed. It shamed her that her father could so easily and boldly lie. The deeper shame was in how little honor he had, allowing another man to suffer for what he’d done.

  Poor Warin. Although she knew she didn’t love him Kate’s heart ached over the wrong being done him. A near mob of onlookers had accosted him after he fell from his horse, every man calling him scoundrel or villain. Warin’s protests that he hadn’t noticed the lance’s state fell on deaf ears. In the end he’d been banished from the wedding. Why, at this very moment he was in their tent packing his meager belongings. The bishop had arranged for him to stay at the priory for the remainder of the celebration so he needn’t ride the full way back to Bagot on his own.