by The Leopard
“If you ask me, de Chilham has his hands full, at least with Lady Marguerite. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wandered off on purpose. She risked her own life and Lady Astra’s for the sake of a lark. Anyway, while de Chilham may not have had the decency to thank us, Lord Fitz Hugh is another matter. I wager he will offer us some boon for rescuing his daughter and niece from the clutches of those animals.”
“By God, you’re right!” Richard responded enthusiastically. “Perhaps it was divine will that they appeared in our pathway. Perhaps Fitz Hugh will reward my bravery with a small manor, or at least another suit of armor or a warhorse.”
“God’s toes, Richard. Do you think of nothing else? Your greed wearies me.”
“Weary are you? I know just the thing.” Richard gave his friend a merry smile and gestured toward the refreshment booths. “I fancy a drink myself. Saving damsels in distress is damn tiring business.”
Three
“I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” Marguerite sighed as they rode toward Repton Abbey. “Papa will be truly wroth with me this time. I don’t know how I’ll ever explain.”
Astra nodded, unsure whether to comfort her friend or scold her. Marguerite had accomplished one of her astounding changes of mood. At this moment at least she appeared contrite.
“I truly didn’t mean to get us into such a plight. How was I to know those men were little more than criminals?”
“Really, Marguerite,” Astra admonished. “I grew up in a convent, and even I knew they were untrustworthy. Why ever did you allow them to lead us into the woods, away from everyone?”
“You could have said something, Astra. If you were worried, why didn’t you insist we return to our escort?”
Astra pressed her lips together and didn’t answer. Why indeed?—she wondered. Was she so eager for an adventure she was willing to risk being kidnapped and ravished? Mother of God! She should never have left the convent if she was going to act like such a fool.
“I’m sorry, Astra,” Marguerite said after a moment. “You are right. You trusted me to take care of you, and I failed you.”
“That’s not true,” Astra protested. “You didn’t mean to lead me into danger. And the rest of the day was wonderful... the fair, the food, all the pretty things...” She couldn’t resist smiling at the memory of the delights she had experienced.
Marguerite smiled back. “Speaking of pretty sights,” she teased. “Were those young knights not thrilling? I’ve never seen such shoulders as the one called Richard had. No wonder they call him the Black Leopard!”
Astra’s smile faded. “I thought he behaved very oddly. He kept staring at me. I can almost feel his eyes upon me even now.” She gave an involuntary shudder.
“Perhaps he was so bedazzled by your beauty, he could not look away.”
Astra gave her friend a disbelieving look. Their plain gray bliauts and white wimples were spattered with mud and blood, and Astra’s face felt so sweaty and filthy she could hardly bear it. Compared to the stunningly attired women she had seen at the fair, it was inconceivable that any man would look twice at her. Still, Sir Richard’s interest in her had been unmistakable. He had watched her so intensely, his eyes seeming to burn through the slits of his helmet. And the way he held onto her arm—Jesu, she had been afraid he would never release her!
“I couldn’t really see the other man’s face, but Lord de Lacy is certainly handsome,” she told Marguerite.
Marguerite nodded. “Handsome, aye, but too pretty for my taste. I would have liked to have seen the other one, Richard, without his helmet. Odd that he didn’t take it off, even when his companion asked him to. You might think he was hiding something.”
Astra shivered again. What did Sir Richard’s face look like? Was it as fierce and deadly as his battle epithet—the Black Leopard?
* * *
The rest of their journey was uneventful, and they arrived at Repton soon after sunset. The tranquil, quiet atmosphere of the priory filled Astra with relief. The bells announcing vespers, the quiet chant of prayers, the sense of order and peace—Astra felt as if she was coming home. They ate a plain, sparse meal and then an elderly monk led them to the guest quarters.
“Mon Dieu, you would think we were back at Stafford.” Marguerite wrinkled her nose at the tiny austere cell they were offered. She poked one of the pallets on the floor with her foot and swore in disgust at its obvious hardness. “We are noble guests, not penitents, surely they could have offered us more comfortable accommodations.”
“Prior Grosbert believes comfort is an enemy of the pure in spirit,” the old monk replied gravely. “He offers his guests a quiet refuge to examine their sinful lives and pray for forgiveness.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes and quickly dismissed the man, then flopped down on one of the pallets with a sigh. “I am so tired, I think I could sleep anywhere, even on this wretched rock of a bed.”
Astra sighed. She was exhausted as well. The day had begun very early and been filled with more excitement than she had experienced in months. She removed her wimple and bliaut and stretched out on one of the lumpy pallets, then pulled up the thin, rough blanket.
Long minutes passed. Next to her, Marguerite’s breathing slowed and deepened. Astra twisted restlessly and tried to find a comfortable position. A sense of anxiety crept over her as she recalled the danger she and Marguerite had faced in the forest. They could have been raped or even murdered!
Astra’s heart pounded and her tense muscles tightened even further as she contemplated what might have happened. Perhaps she should never have left the priory. She was obviously too naive and foolish to avoid the evils of a country fair. What would happen to her when she faced the dangers and depravities of a king’s court? It might be best if she returned to Stafford before something truly awful occurred.
Astra clutched her chest and felt her heart thundering beneath her fingertips. Jesu, what a coward she was! One little scare and she was ready to go fleeing back to Stafford. If she did, it would be the end of her dreams of a husband and family. The rest of her life would be spent in the narrow, numbing world of the cloisters. No, she thought resolutely, she would not be so spineless.
As she had many times before, Astra thought of her father. She could not remember him, but she knew he had been a brave man, not only a courageous soldier, but also a man of strong convictions. Many years ago, Brian de Mortain had defied evil King John and refused his request to murder a man who had offended the king. His defiance had eventually ruined him, but de Mortain had never expressed regret over his choice. Recalling her father’s life—he had drowned crossing the channel in 1233, only months after Astra’s mother had perished of childbed fever—Astra could not help but be inspired. Her father had stood up for what he believed, despite the cost. She, too, must follow her convictions.
A sense of determination replaced her panic. To return to Stafford would be to choose the easy path, the safe one. For the sake of her father’s memory she could not do that. She must continue to search for the destiny she was meant to pursue.
She sighed and willed herself to relax. As the tension left her body, she thought again of the knight in the forest. She recalled his hand upon her arm, his dangerous dark eyes staring at her. The memory made a warm tingle rush down her body. The sensation surprised her. What did it mean? Was she afraid of the fierce-looking knight, or was it something else? She considered asking Marguerite about it in the morning, and then decided she would not. Her friend would only tease her mercilessly.
* * *
Will de Lacy felt a vague apprehension as he gazed around the dingy, sweltering alehouse. The tournament had attracted knights from the nearby shires, along with a less savory element of ruffians, gamblers and petty criminals. The very air of the Boarshead Tavern seethed with menace. He felt for the dagger at his belt and wondered if he would have need of it.
Across the greasy plank that served as a table, Richard conversed animatedly with another knight, arguing various
fighting techniques and their relative merits on the tournament field. Will scarcely listened. To his mind tournaments were dangerous and foolish, and he had tried without success to dissuade Richard from entering this one.
He took another swig of bitter ale and surveyed the room gloomily. His eyes met those of Guy Faucomberg, a hard-eyed young man who was said to be one of the richest men in England. For a moment their gazes locked, and Will’s uneasiness increased. His body tensed, and a wave of grim weariness washed over him. It was always this same battle.
Four feet away Richard gave a delighted laugh. The conversation had turned from weapons to women, and on that subject the Black Leopard was truly an expert.
Will glanced toward the door, planning his escape. From the look in Faucomberg’s eyes, there was going to be trouble, and Will didn’t want Richard drawn into the unpleasant business. He stood. Richard looked up, regarding him with curiosity.
Will schooled his face to a calm, unconcerned expression and tried to slow his racing pulse. Then he began to walk toward the door, pushing his way through the mass of sweaty, drunken soldiers who blocked his way.
“Fleeing again, de Lacy? Too much of a coward to face me?”
Will paused and turned stiffly toward his challenger. Faucomberg stood about ten paces away, his orange-colored hair bristling above his high forehead, his sneering mouth a red slash in his pale face.
“If you have something to say to me, Faucomberg, I suggest you join me outside.” Will turned back toward the door and edged carefully past the men in his way. They took note of his rich velvet tunic and the heavy gold chain at his neck and moved aside.
“Oh, aye, you unnatural bastard. Go outside where your men can defend you.”
The harsh loathing in Faucomberg’s voice carried remarkably well in the suddenly quiet tavern. Will heard the indrawn breaths and excited whispers behind him. The confrontation was becoming a public event. Two barons facing off in a grubby Tudbury alehouse—it was a thing not to be missed.
A third voice rose above the hush: “What’s that, Faucomberg? Did you say something to Baron de Lacy? I thought you called my friend a coward, but I must have misunderstood.”
Will turned in dismay. Of course Richard would come to his defense, damn him. It was just like him to risk his neck in a hopeless cause. Didn’t he realize there was no fighting Faucomberg? The gist of his words was true, and getting into a brawl over them would only fan the flames of the man’s hatred all the higher.
“No misunderstanding, Reivers. I did call de Lacy a coward. I hadn’t realized you would be fool enough to defend him. Can it be that you have forsaken your whoring ways and become a lily lover like him?”
There was a collective gasp from the bystanders. Faucomberg enjoyed some protection because of his wealth and title, but everyone knew the Black Leopard was a vengeful man and one who feared nothing. All eyes turned to Reivers. He looked exactly like his animal namesake—tense and deadly, ready to spring upon his opponent with unbridled savagery.
Will thought he saw a flicker of fear in Faucomberg’s eyes, but it was nothing compared to what he felt. He couldn’t stand by and watch Richard throw away his career and perhaps his life.
“Stop them!” he called out. “If they fight and someone is killed, Lord Darley will cancel the tournament.”
The hard-eyed, half-drunk men around him muttered knowingly. Tournaments were already denounced by the Church. If blood was shed here, there would be even more reason to outlaw their favorite entertainment. The crowd watched the two combatants uneasily. Richard had drawn his knife, and no one appeared brave enough to take it away from him.
The knife flashed, shimmering like a silver fish in the dim tavern light. Faucomberg jumped back, fear making his white skin grow whiter still. He gave a slight, imperceptible nod, and the group of men behind him surged forward like a menacing tide. Richard was surrounded.
The Black Leopard eyed his assailants disdainfully and then fixed his cold, pitiless glance on Faucomberg.
“Cowardice? I give you cowardice—ten men against one.”
A murmur passed among the spectators, unfriendly, mocking. Faucomberg gained color rapidly, his face flushing almost as red as his hair. “Seize him!” he hissed.
Will pushed forward, only to see Richard disappear in the midst of a flurry of flailing arms and grim faces. When he could finally see him again, Richard’s knife was gone, and three men had his arms pinned behind him. His eyes were black whirlpools of hate.
“Face me on the tournament field, you bastard. I dare you!” Richard taunted.
Faucomberg’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t respond. He jerked his head toward the door. His men abruptly released Richard and followed after him.
Will was finally able to reach Richard. His friend was glaring toward the door and cradling his right hand against his chest. Blood trickled down his fingers in a dark stream.
* * *
“It’s only a scratch, Will. I won’t even notice it by tomorrow.” Richard lay on a pallet before the fire while one of the de Lacy squires rubbed goose grease into his thick muscles. Will glanced at his friend’s bandaged hand morosely. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was in the worst possible place—cutting across the palm of Richard’s sword hand. It was sure to weaken his grip on the heavy lance he would wield in the tournament.
“You shouldn’t have gotten involved, Richard. All you did was make a dangerous enemy and get yourself hurt.”
“I wasn’t going to stand there and let that arrogant sack of shit call you names!”
Will shook his head. “You must learn to ignore it. I can’t change what I am, and there will always be men like Faucomberg who can’t resist taunting me.”
“But he called you a coward!”
Will shrugged; “In his mind those who share my aberration are something less than men. I’ve grown used to it.”
“Miserable wretch! If he would meet me on the tournament field, we’d see who is the coward then!”
“It will never happen, Richard, and it’s just as well. You have your own reputation to consider. If you appear as my champion...” Will hesitated. “People might say that you and I...”
Richard’s eyes hardened. “Pathetic, gossiping fools.”
The slap of the squire’s palms on Richard’s sleek, oiled skin was suddenly the only sound in the room. Will’s taste in lovers was a subject neither man wanted to discuss.
“Let me get someone to look at that hand, Richard. I want to make sure you don’t need it stitched.”
“Stitched!” Richard sat up abruptly. “God’s blood, Will. I told you, it’s only a little scratch.”
“Still... I’d feel better if you had it looked at. I could ask the serving wench if she knows of a physician...”
“A physician? You must be mad. I wouldn’t let one of those murdering bastards near me if I was on my deathbed!” A slight smile quirked Richard’s lips. “But perhaps you should get the serving wench up here anyway. I have this ache in my groin that needs attending.”
Will groaned. “You’re hopeless, Reivers. The next thing I know you’ll be asking for a skin of wine to kill the pain. Get some rest. You have a tournament tomorrow.”
* * *
Richard frowned as he rolled out of the sagging bed. His hand was sore and throbbing. He pulled off the ragged bandage and stared at the wound. It was clean, no festering. Still, it hurt. The thought of clutching a heavy lance made him wince.
He shrugged his shoulders to ease his morning stiffness and tried to banish his doubts as well. He needed to win this tournament, and he had no intention of letting a sore hand interfere with his plan. He’d fought with much worse injuries before, and this time he was competing for something he’d dreamed of all his life. Land of his very own.
A thrill went through him as he considered the rich hill country around Tudbury. Already he could envision it: his own small but formidable fortress and surrounding it, ripening fields gleaming golden in the sun, s
heep grazing peacefully in the meadows, with cattle down by the river. In the fall, the produce of his prosperous lands would fill up a dozen sturdy carts and be taken to market. There it would be changed into gold, and the gold used to buy exquisite things to fill his hall.
Richard sighed. He had dreamed of possessing his own demesne for so long. It would make up for everything: the danger and wretchedness of soldiering, the galling years of deferring to vain, stupid noblemen who considered themselves superior to him, even his lonely, fatherless youth.
He clenched his hand tightly and ignored the burning pain of the knife wound. He would not fail now—not when he was so very close.
The tournament ground was already busy when Richard arrived. Peddlers and farmers were setting up carts and booths. In a few hours they would be offering joints of beef, meat pasties, sausages, and pails of ale, milk and water to the hordes of spectators. At one end of the long oval field, knights, squires and horses gathered near the brightly-colored pavilions, while along one side, workers put the final touches on the canopied enclosure where the nobility would sit. Richard glanced scornfully at the rows of wooden seats covered in gold and purple cloth. Faucomberg would likely watch the tournament from there, a velvet cushion under his bony, worthless arse. And he had the nerve to call Will a coward!
Richard made his way to a pavilion marked by a banner of deep crimson embroidered with a gold dragon. He would fight under the banner of Deaumont as he always had. It seemed the least he could do for the family who had given him a chance at knighthood.
Inside the pavilion, his squire was rubbing down his huge warhorse, Sultan. The youth smiled at him, showing the slight gap between his front teeth.
“Splendid day for a tournament, sire.”
Richard nodded. Absurd as it seemed, he was nervous. He was never nervous in battle, and he could not fathom why he felt so skittish now. Perhaps it was because this tournament meant so much to him.
