Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  The lance lay across his thigh, pinned firmly under his arm and held in place by Bernard’s left hand, while the other slanted his shield for protection. When the lance struck his opponent’s shield, the long wooden pike barely moved, so true was its aim. Marven fell neatly off his mount and onto the ground.

  Bernard turned Rock to ride back again, glancing at the man to assure himself he’d attained no injury, and then along the line of spectators, still hoping to see Joanna. He was rewarded this time, for he saw her, sitting next to Maris near the middle of the stands. He nodded in the general direction of the crowd, but when he placed his hand over his heart, and the hidden favor that rested beneath his tunic, ’twas meant for her.

  He galloped back to where Rowan and his father waited as the next challenge was announced.

  “Fine job, son,” greeted Harold as his son wheeled up to him, removing his helm. “It wasn’t a sufficient test of your abilities, but ’twas over quickly and simply.” Coughing and waving the dust out of his eyes, he looked up with a smirk. “Do you not wear the favor of your lady?”

  “Aye, that I do—but ’tis not for your eyes, Father.” He handed the lance and helm to his squire and swiped an open hand over his damp curls. “And do not give me a look with that smugness, for you have no reason to believe your machinations have come to fruition.”

  Harold’s thick brows rose up a high forehead. “Oh, aye? And did I not see you with mine own eyes head-to-head with Lady Maris last eve, and did I not see you follow in her steps out of the Hall? You can not fool me with such protestations, as I saw where your eyes led over yonder.” He gestured toward the spectator stands, and still the satisfied smile curved his face.

  Bernard’s response was lost as his name was again announced, coupled with a different challenger. With a smile of pleasure, he kicked Rock, and they bounded off for the lists.

  The powerful thrust of his opponent’s lance was poorly aimed, but nearly unseated Bernard on the second pass. He held firm in the saddle, taking the brunt of the blunted lance in the shoulder of the arm wielding the pike. Even through the mail that protected his body, Bernard felt the strength of the man’s blow.

  On the third pass, the same lance struck the same sore spot on Bernard’s shoulder, and he cursed aloud as the pain intensified. His aim was true, though, and he took pleasure in watching his stocky opponent waver, then fall from the saddle just as they passed each other. With a grunt of triumph, Bernard allowed his own lance to his rest on his thighs, and prodded Rock into a canter back to his squire.

  Groaning in pain, Bernard slid from the saddle as Rowan leapt to take the shield from him. Harold and his own squire attended him as well. “God’s blood—that bastard had poor aim to strike twice in the same wrong place.” He tried to rotate his shoulder, but the throbbing heat radiated up his shoulder and along his arm, fading over to his shoulder blade.

  “Aye,” Harold said. He began to pull Bernard’s tunic off his shoulder, but his son jerked his arm away.

  “Father, there is no need to play nursemaid to me—especially when there are others watching. The injury is not that severe.”

  But he had barely spoken those words when his name was called yet again. “Peste!” Bernard turned to whistle for his horse, but Rowan had heard the challenge and brought Rock immediately. He pulled himself into the saddle, smothering a wince, and took a new lance offered by Harold’s squire.

  “Stay in your seat,” Harold called after him as they galloped off. Bernard choked on a retort at the needless warning, and put his meddling father out of mind.

  Swiping the sweat from his face yet again, Bernard eyed his third opponent. It wasn’t Ralf, though he’d been expecting to be called to challenge him at any moment. This man again was someone that he did not know, and he appeared very solid and heavy in his saddle. The horse was fine, enough for Bernard to notice in appreciation, though not nearly as perfect as his own Derkland-bred mount.

  He’d barely settled the lance in his lap, attempting to keep it from weighting on his injured shoulder until the very last moment, when the signal was given. Rock leapt forward before Bernard even gave him the heel of his boot, and suddenly the wind streamed over his face as they galloped down the list.

  Thwack! The impact of his opponent’s lance struck Bernard even as his own bounced off the top of the other man’s shoulder. The power of his thighs gripping Rock was the only thing that kept him from tumbling onto the ground, and his fingers loosened, dropping the lance onto the dusty ground.

  A loud exclamation rose from the crowd, either because it was the first time Bernard had missed a hit, or because he’d taken a good one, but he barely heard it through the searing pain that shot down his arm. The other knight’s lance had caught him again near the injury he’d sustained in the last challenge, and now agonizing heat caused black spots to dance before his eyes.

  Of all the bad luck.

  Gritting his teeth, Bernard turned Rock and headed back to his side of the list, keeping the dancing mount to a trot to give himself time to catch his breath. Rowan met him there with a choice of four lances to choose from. Again, taking as much time as he could, Bernard hefted each one in his hand before selecting the first one.

  He gave a quick nod to his father’s questioning glance, then, steeling himself for one, mayhaps two, more passes, he kicked Rock into motion. He managed to make it through the next two charges without being unsaddled—though it was a close one on the last. He did not manage, however, to unseat the other man, and, instead, took one more hit to his shoulder.

  “Who have you angered thus to keep you in the lists?” asked Harold jovially as Bernard returned and dismounted, tossing his shield to Rowan.

  Breathing heavily, Bernard nearly discounted the jest, but then realized that without meaning to, his father spoke the truth. Surely it was Ralf’s doing, for Bernard knew few of the men here, and none of his challengers thus far. Swerthmore’s intent was likely to tire him before meeting him on the lists, and mayhap causing him some injury. “Bastard.”

  His father looked at him, but Bernard dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “’Tis naught of your concern.”

  At last, after Bernard was called thrice more, the challenge he’d been waiting for was announced. A fresh wave of anger—and determination—rushed through him as he selected a lance. He’d saved himself as much as possible during the last passes, now knowing Ralf’s game.

  With a glance toward the stands, Bernard stroked a corner of Joanna’s veil, feeling its softness clinging to his sweaty torso. If for no other than her, he’d see Ralf face-down onto the ground.

  Bernard and Rock settled into their place at one end of the list, the horse dancing with impatience as though sensing that there was more at stake with this challenge. The signal broke the tension and they leapt forward, galloping toward Ralf at full speed.

  Thwump! Bernard nearly screamed aloud as his opponent’s lance passed by his shield, driving into his injury, just where his arm and shoulder met. He saw black and heard a loud, hard laugh as they passed by, his own lance slipping off into nothing and nearly causing him to topple. He could barely breathe, the pain was so intense, and he realized what had happened.

  He’d given Ralf too little credit—for the man had selected very skilled jousters to challenge him. Their intent was not to up-end him from the saddle, but to injure him in a manner that would keep him from his best. All of them had struck the same place—purposely. And now Ralf had chosen to put the finish on him before claiming victory.

  Weary, but his teeth clenching hard enough to take his mind from his throbbing shoulder, Bernard chose another lance and, adjusting his shield, turned to face his opponent.

  Twice more.

  They charged as the signal was given, galloping down the list toward each other at breakneck speed. Bernard felt sweat slick his hand, but he held fast, determined to knock the bastard onto the ground this time.

  He concentrated as Ralf sped toward him, picking out
his faint slant in the saddle, looking for an opening—and found it. He leveled the long lance, aiming, forgetting the pain in his shoulder by thinking of what Joanna had lived through. Just as they met, just as the other lance brushed his shoulder, Bernard twisted slightly and found his mark. The other lance slipped harmlessly up and over his shield and the other man teetered in his seat.

  Bernard and Rock roared past Ralf, and only the disappointed groan from the crowd told him that his opponent had recovered. He cursed the luck of the devil, and spun his mount around to choose his last lance.

  Breathing heavily, Bernard took little care in selecting the lance offered by Rowan. He trusted his squire, and meant only to get back to the lists for the final pass. His shoulder’s ache had lessened slightly, but when he moved to steady his long halberd, the pain shot down his arm.

  The last time.

  He sensed the fury and hatred emanating from the other man—waves of it came across the field—and it seemed as though the watchers felt it too, for a near hush fell over them. Only the sound of Rock stamping his feet, and the jingle of mail and bridle, fell on his ears….or mayhap ’twas just that he concentrated so solidly.

  The cry to arms bellowed from the announcer, and he kicked Rock forward. They nearly flew through the air, smoothly, as one. The intensity of his pain diminished as he sighted the lance on Ralf’s shield, focusing on the place that would dump him from the saddle.

  He leaned forward, urging Rock on, holding the lance steady as they barrelled toward Ralf.

  One moment more…

  He fought the hovering pain as he gripped the lance, steadying it, ready to thrust it forward….

  Thump!

  Pain crashed over him as he took the brunt of Ralf’s own blow in his shoulder, even as his lance connected with the other man’s shield. With a howl of rage, Bernard held steady and gave one last thrust as they passed by.

  He heard the roar of the crowd dimly through hot, white streaks that shot up his arm and across his shoulder. Gasping for air, he turned Rock around in time to see Ralf struggling to his feet. A faint lift of one side of his mouth was all he could managed as he galloped past the stands and to his father and squire.

  Bastard.

  5

  Joanna smoothed the crinkling paper, examining the black marks that identified the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Wyckford Heath Hall. Even as a young girl, she’d heard stories of the passages that led out of the keep, but had never been able to find them.

  She’d also heard the tales that treasures hidden centuries earlier by the Saxons during the Anglo invasion were still in the tunnels below. Therein lay Ralf’s interest in the map—while hers rested only in the freedom it would gain her.

  She rolled the map and tucked it behind a loose stone near the fireplace, for she hadn’t time to make a false sketch for Ralf before he returned from the tournament.

  At the thought of the competition, a great rush of warmth surged through her as she recalled the mighty, powerful Bernard—how he rode his steed, and wielded his lance in too many challenges to count. She’d watched him, swelling with pride and nearly crying when he was struck with bone-shattering blows—yet he’d remained in his saddle as a fresh and untested Ralf had not.

  Maris had rushed to see to his hurts after the last challenge while Joanna returned to her chamber, grieving the fact that she could not attend him as well.

  Instead, she relived the gentle moment with him in the stable loft, where they’d come together in a passionate kiss that still caused her heart to race. She might be damned for wanting and kissing another man whilst she was bound to another, but in her heart of hearts, she believed that God—who helped those who helped themselves—would not judge her too harshly. For was not love the greatest gift?

  Bernard was the first person in her life to truly show her love.

  The door to the chamber flew open and Joanna turned, startled, to see Ralf limp in. His face held no expression as he stared at her. Her middle dropped and she moved to stand by her stool at the fire, keeping her expression carefully blank.

  Without relieving her from his gaze, Ralf shoved the door behind him, and it closed with a dull thud that made sweat spring to her temples. Her voice wavered. “May I tend to you—”

  “Silence!” His voice lashed across the room.

  Joanna swallowed, her heart thumping so hard that she thought it would burst from her chest. Ralf took a step toward her…then another. “Do you gloat at my defeat this day?”

  She did not move, even to step away, and replied, “Nay, my lord, I do not—”

  “Bitch!” he snarled.

  The backhanded slap sent her head crashing into the stone wall, and sharp pain radiated along the side of her face. Warm, metallic liquid filled her mouth. A pounding reverberated in her temple where she’d struck stone.

  He stared at her, his harsh breathing rasping in the air between them. “Do you dare to laugh at me? I would show you the error of your ways, Joanna.”

  Her fingers became ice and the room shifted. “My lord, please—”

  “Did I not tell you to be silent?”

  A fist plowed into her breast, and another into her abdomen. Her lungs emptied and she could not gather enough air to cry out. She sank to the floor, her hand splaying over the rough stone. Her fingers spasmed over the slate as his booted foot slammed into her hip.

  “Where is the map?” Her stool crashed onto the floor next to her, splintering in pieces and barely missing her head.

  The map. Somehow she dragged herself from the pain to realize that he would not kill her until he had it. Struggling to draw a breath, she whispered, “I do not have it.”

  “You do not have it?” he screamed, lashing out with his foot.

  Joanna tried to roll away, but she found herself trapped between Ralf and the unyielding wall. Fists and feet pummeled her, driving her into a corner from which she had no escape but the warm memories of Bernard.

  Bernard endured the excruciating pain inflicted upon him by Maris’s instructions to Harold and Rowan. His arm had become dislodged from his shoulder with Ralf’s last thrust, and it took the strength of the two men to pop it back into place.

  That done, he promptly slid into the comfort of blackness even as he heard Maris giving more directions to Rowan.

  When Bernard awoke, it was dusk, and well into the evening meal. Rowan, as a good squire should, stayed with him to tend to his needs, but ’twas obvious he was as hungery as Bernard. They went down to find a place at the long trestle tables, Bernard’s injured arm strapped to his torso by an adamant Maris.

  Joanna was not at dinner—though her evil husband sat near her father, the Lord of Wyckford. Bernard flattened his lips at the thought of Ralf’s manipulations this day, and he felt that same penetrating fury he’d experienced earlier emanating from across the loud hall.

  Once, Ralf turned to look at him, steadily, for a long moment, and Bernard felt prickles erupt along the back of his neck. There was a self-satisfied glint in the man’s eyes, accompanied by dark fury. Though he knew himself to be the stronger and more-skilled fighter, Bernard felt a queasiness curdle in his middle. The man was pure evil.

  A sudden burning desire to see Joanna—to hold and kiss her, and to whisk her away from her monstrous husband—caused Bernard to bolt to his feet. Now, whilst Ralf busied himself with dinner…now, mayhap he could chance to find her in her chamber.

  Lord Harold, who sat plotting with Maris of Langumont’s father, looked up and gave his son a knowing smile. Bernard drew his brows together in a glower and gave an angry shake of his head before turning to stalk out of the hall. When would his father give up the chance to meddle in his life?

  It did not take much for Bernard to learn where the chamber of Ralf, Lord of Swerthmore, and his wife, Lady Joanna, boarded. One simple question to the stable boy Leonard, and Bernard found himself hurrying back into the keep and down a dark, torchlit passageway to a chamber on the second floor.

  H
e knocked boldly, not caring whether anyone might hear him—wanting only to see the woman who had somehow become everything to him in the last two days.

  There was a long pause, and then just as he raised his hand to pound again, the door cracked open…then was flung wide.

  “Lady Maris.” Bernard stepped in to find the room warm and sunny with a blazing fire and three candles. “What do you here?”

  He did not need to wait for her answer, for in the wake of his words, he saw his Joanna lying on her side in a large bed. She was curled into a ball, her hand fisted under her cheek, her eyes closed and her breathing fast and shallow.

  When he saw the cuts on her face and hand, the black and purpling on her face, he swayed and had to clutch at the bedpost as white rage poured through him.

  “Joanna!” he choked, moving to her side to touch her clammy cheek, to trace gently an angry cut along her fair cheek.

  “She is well hurt,” Maris told him. “She was beaten nearly to death by Ralf.” Even as she spoke, her voice sharp and flat with fury, she ground herbs with a small mortar and pestle.

  Joanna remained still, only the short puffs of air belying that she yet lived. Rage and guilt swelled within him as he looked down at her battered body. How could he have left her to this man’s anger? He should have known—known—that Ralf, having lost the battle, would take out his fury on Joanna.

  “She must be taken from him, Lady Maris, and then I will kill him.”

  ’Twas his own fault that Joanna now lay still as death, for if Bernard hadn’t angered Ralf so, the cock-sucker would not have been propelled to injure her thus.

  Guilt, strong and sharp as the lash of a blade, made him ill and weak. How could he have left her to this? “We must take her from here, now,” he said.