Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Sir Cedric’s prompt response made it clear he did not. “I’ll agree to be judged by combat—single combat against your chosen champion.”

  Above her gag, Eloise’s eyes widened.

  Alaun noticed, and gave mute thanks for the gag. “Accept,” he advised Edward in an undertone.

  “Think you can take him?” Edward’s eyes remained on the black knight.

  His eyes locked on the blade glinting at Eloise’s throat, Alaun’s reply was a feral growl. “Twill be a pleasure.”

  “Save something for me.” Then Edward raised his voice so all could hear. “In order to secure the safety of the lady, I agree to abide by the outcome of single combat between yourself and my named champion. Should you prevail, you’ll have escort from my domains. Should you lose, I will pass judgment upon you. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Sir Cedric removed the knife from Eloise’s throat, but caught her arm, his gaze shifting to his erstwhile companions-in-arms. “But first, disarm your prisoners.”

  Edward snorted, but gave the necessary orders. The remaining outlaws, disgusted and disillusioned, were ready to surrender. They were removed, and a circle of knights formed about a flat area some yards from the tent.

  Eloise saw her father and William come shouldering through the crowd, followed by the Earl of Oxford and Edward’s commanders, Sir Nicholas Dreythorne and Sir Hubert Neville. Together with Montisfryn, they conferred briefly with Edward, then the king turned and approached, Roland beside him.

  “Surrender the lady.”

  Sir Cedric released her.

  Edward’s eyes narrowed on the bruise on her cheek. “Are you well, lady?”

  Tugging the gag from her lips, Eloise bobbed a curtsy. “Tolerably so, Your Grace.”

  “Go with Sir Roland, lady.”

  “Your Grace, I beg—”

  “Go…with…Sir Roland.” This time, Edward enforced his command with a royal stare.

  Eloise met it, and would have disregarded it had Roland not said, “Nay, lady—tis pointless. He will fight, and you will not change that.”

  Turning to glare at him, she found herself surrounded—by her father and brothers, as well as Roland.

  “Stop arguing, sister,” William tersely advised. “Be thankful Montisfryn has allowed you to watch—myself, I would not have permitted it. And I daresay any or all of us might yet have second thoughts about humoring his views.”

  Eloise snapped her mouth shut. And glared at them all.

  “The combat will commence immediately.” Edward’s voice rang clearly over the sea of heads gathered around the circle. “I declare Alaun de Montisfryth, Earl of Montisfryn, my champion this day. The judges will be myself, the Earl of Oxford, and Sir Nicholas Dreythorne. Are the combatants ready?”

  “Aye.” Montisfryn, his broadsword gripped in one mailed fist, stepped into the ring. He saluted Edward.

  Sir Cedric was slower, but took his place. “Aye.”

  Edward waited, but Sir Cedric offered no salute, apparently engrossed in studying Montisfryn. Disgusted, Edward waved. “Let the combat commence!”

  Wedged behind Roland and William, with her father and John behind her, Eloise had to crane her head to keep the fighters in view. The two men circled, Montisfryn moving with his habitual, deceptive slowness. Then she looked at Sir Cedric—and swallowed. Black-visaged, black-garbed, shorter than Montisfryn, but heavier, the traitor-knight would be no easy conquest. “Sir Cedric was very convinced he could beat any knight born.”

  Both Roland and William heard her. In concert, they turned their heads to stare at her, as if unable to credit the idea that she could doubt Montisfryn’s ability.

  She put her nose in the air. “Doubtless, he’ll soon learn otherwise.”

  A sword clanged, and saved her from further embarrassment; Sir Cedric had launched his attack. Within minutes, it was clear that he believed Montisfryn overly slow on his feet. Dancing about, Sir Cedric rained blows like an out-of-control thresher, but found no opening. Then Montisfryn struck back; Sir Cedric’s shield shuddered. The sheer force of the blow made the onlookers wince. From then on, the combatants traded blows more evenly, but it was clear that that first thundering response from Montisfryn had rocked Sir Cedric’s confidence. He backed away; Montisfryn simply stood stock-still and waited for him to return. Sir Cedric did, only to receive another hellish wallop that shook him to his knees.

  A cheer went up from the watching crowd, but Montisfryn didn’t press his advantage. He stepped back and waved Sir Cedric to his feet.

  Eloise couldn’t believe her eyes. “Roland—why did he do that?”

  “Tis an insult of sorts,” Roland hissed. “To show his contempt for the villain.”

  The villain was trying to kill him—and he took time to issue subtle insults. Eloise drew in a deep breath and held it. “Oh,” was all she allowed herself to say.

  The clash of steel refocused her attention. Sir Cedric had lumbered to his feet—and swung directly into the attack, broadsword swinging furiously.

  “Foul!” came from Sir Nicholas Dreythorne. “Attempt to trip.”

  Eloise gasped and pressed forward. The autumn sun was sinking, its dying rays lancing along the swinging blades, red-gold fire gilding the sharp edges—bringing home to her that this was no tournament bout. These swords were not blunted; this was a fight to the death.

  Her heart lurched as Montisfryn took a sheering blow on his upper left arm. He disengaged, but as he turned, she saw a thin trickle of blood bead on the polished surface of his armor. Her heart contracted to a painful lump; unconsciously she pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes never leaving the scarlet-surcoted figure in the center of the ring.

  Both men had taken cuts, but neither seemed to notice. Sir Cedric fought with increasing desperation. Montisfryn remained as ever—invulnerable, unshakeable, grimly resolved.

  She knew the moment the tide turned. There was something in the set of Montisfryn’s powerful shoulders, in the increased, yet rigidly controlled power in his swing, that heralded the end. It came in a brief flurry of expertly executed blows that felled the traitor-knight, first to his knees, then, when he attempted to strike at Montisfryn’s mailed legs, to his back.

  Stretched out on the scuffed earth, Sir Cedric lay panting, snarling, a beaten, but still vicious cur; his great barrel of a chest heaved as he looked up through his visor along the length of Montisfryn’s broadsword. The tip rested at his throat, pressing threateningly through the links of his gorget.

  His arm shortened for the final thrust, Alaun raised his visor and glanced at the king.

  Edward strode forward; a deathly hush descended. He stopped by Alaun’s side to look down at the traitor, then glanced about him. “Hear ye. I, Edward Plantagenet, by God’s grace ruler of this realm of England, do hereby pronounce sentence on this man, convicted by his own words and actions of visiting mayhem on our people. He demanded and we graciously permitted trial by combat. The outcome is clear to all. Thus do I condemn this man, no longer knight, to death.” Edward reached out and, without shifting the blade, took Montisfryn’s broadsword. “And by my own hand do carry out the sentence.”

  From her position, all Eloise saw was the downward thrust of Edward’s powerful arm.

  There was a moment of grim silence, then the tension faded; murmuring, the men about the ring dispersed, their attention shifting to all they needed to do before night fell.

  Alaun met Edward’s eyes. They exchanged a look of grim satisfaction, then Edward uttered a short laugh and clapped Alaun on the shoulder, handing him back his sword before turning aside as others hurried up.

  With a brief sigh, Alaun turned away from the still twitching corpse—just in time to catch Eloise as she flung herself at him. She tried to hug him, an impossibility given he was fully armored, even while she railed at him.

  “You did not have to be champion—there were any number of others who could have fought—William, for one. Tis not wise to be forever putting yourself forw
ard. Are any of those cuts deep? How many are there? This one is bleeding. Tis senseless—”

  “Cease, lady!”

  The bellowed words achieved their objective. Stunned, she blinked up at him.

  He scowled at her. A whirlwind of emotions was rampaging through him—the aftermath of a fear that came close to terror feeding a rage so raw he could not comprehend it, all mixed with the crazed lust of battle, all drowned by a bone-deep longing to sweep her into his arms. But if he gave into the latter, his armor would bruise her.

  Holding her silent with his gaze, he tugged off his gauntlets and handed them to Bilder, who had already relieved him of his sword, then hauled off his helm. Wordlessly, Bilder took it, handing it on to a younger squire before setting fingers to the buckles of Alaun’s plates.

  His expression granite-hard, Alaun lifted one hand and caught Eloise’s chin, tilting her head to the fading light. “Where came you by this bruise, lady?”

  Barely able to breathe, Eloise tried to see through the storm clouds hazing his golden eyes. His gaze was merciless, yet his eyes were dull.

  “And I have yet to hear your explanations for how you come to be here, why you left Montisfryn against what you knew to be my wishes, and with no escort of any kind.” Eyes narrowed, he towered over her, his expression unyielding. “Which last is a point we will discuss in considerable depth later, make no doubt.”

  The undiluted promise in his words sent a shiver of sensation squirming down her spine. Lifting her chin from his grasp, she reached for the buckles of his armplates. “I left a letter in which I explained my actions. Tis not my fault did you not read it.”

  “That epistle?” He snorted derisively. “I read it. Your reasons did not feature. Even had they done so, they would not serve to excuse you.”

  There was a resolution in his eyes which she wasn’t certain she appreciated. “We can discuss such matters later. Tis your injuries I would see to now.”

  Finally freed of his plates, Alaun planted his fists on his hips. His hands were shaking, so great was the urge to touch her. If he did, in his present state, the consequences would be beyond his control. He gritted his teeth. “I understand it not, lady, why, if my injuries so concern you, you do not heed my orders. Think you on this—tis the third time I have fought for you.”

  The words shook Eloise. She looked up and met his turbulent gaze. Her lips softened and she looked down. “I am sorry if I have again been a burden, lord.”

  “You are not a burden!”

  Startled by the force behind his words, she glanced up to see him cast a mute appeal heavenward. He looked down, impaling her with golden spears.

  “You are mine! Tis time you understood that.”

  She blinked—and realized that the man standing by Montisfryn’s shoulder, facing away yet near enough to hear every word, was none other than Edward Plantagenet. She shot a startled glance at Montisfryn. “Aye—I am your chatelaine, lord.”

  He did not take the warning well.

  His eyes slitted. His expression harder than granite, his voice deep and low, he growled, “Lady, do you seek to deny what lies between us?”

  Inwardly, she quivered; outwardly, she cast a pointed glance at Edward’s back, then glared at Montisfryn. “I know not what you mean, lord.”

  A muscle in his jaw flickered. He glanced up, over her head, then looked down at her again. “My pavilion is being erected yonder. I will explain it to you there.”

  His eyes told her very clearly what would happen once they reached his pavilion. She lifted her chin. There was yet a chance she could salvage the situation. “Nay, lord. My father is here and I would visit with him, and the king—”

  “The king is here, and has a few decrees of his own to make.”

  Eloise bit back a gasp, her eyes flying to Edward’s. He had turned, and now joined them. She sank into a curtsy, then drew herself up, frostily regal.

  Edward eyed her with scant approval. “You, lady, have caused me, your father, and Montisfryn much concern. Tis not meet that you continue unwed. As Montisfryn is already under edict to marry, I will see you two legally joined this night.”

  Stunned, Eloise felt her eyes grow wide. Her jaw had dropped; she rapidly retrieved it. “Nay, sire!”

  Large, protuberant hazel eyes, not as gold as Montisfryn’s, blinked at her. Slowly, Edward leaned forward so his face was level with hers. “Nay?”

  Fleetingly, Alaun closed his eyes, wishing he could shake them both. Gritting his teeth, he reopened his eyes, no longer caring if his emotions showed.

  “Tis not a matter open to royal edict, not in my case.” Eloise was sure of her ground; chin high, she held it without a qualm. “I say naught to your wish to see Montisfryn wed, but I will not marry him.”

  She glanced at Montisfryn; what she saw in his eyes rocked her. Her breath caught in her throat. Distantly, she heard herself falter over the words, “At least, not at your command.”

  Edward’s expression was incredulous; Alaun doubted his sovereign had ever been thus plainly denied. He watched as Edward blinked, owlishly, stared at Eloise for several long moments, then straightened and turned to him.

  “I shouldn’t have interrupted. For the Virgin’s sake, take her away and explain it to her. Clearly.”

  Alaun smiled grimly. “Aye, sire. I will see to the matter immediately.”

  Edward humphed. He turned as one of his knights hurried up, speaking rapidly, indicating a rumpled figure being helped from the dun-colored tent.

  Once more favored with the king’s back, Eloise was determined to cling to the slim hope that remained. “Lord, I would visit with my father—”

  “Nay, lady.” Montisfryn looked down at her. “We will have this matter out in my pavilion.” His eyes were beaten gold, his glance razor sharp. “Now.”

  The last word was imbued with sufficient force to shake her confidence and rob her glare of its sting.

  “So that’s how it was.” Gesturing to an approaching figure, Edward glanced back at Montisfryn. “The brigands knew which of the regions and merchants to target because they’d kidnapped one of my senior clerks.”

  Eloise blinked.

  Edward turned to welcome said clerk. “How now, Master Driscoll—did you suffer much at these scoundrels’ hands?”

  Approaching from beyond the king, Driscoll couldn’t see Eloise; she was shielded by both Edward and Montisfryn. She risked a glance around Montisfryn, and saw the clerk make deep obeisance to Edward.

  “My days of captivity have not been easy, sire.” Driscoll sighed, artistically weak. He looked around, shaking his head. “I pray you, sire, allow me to retire at once to Hereford. I am not a man of war, and like not the atmosphere of this place.”

  Edward looked a little taken aback, but, as ever in victory, he was willing to be gracious. He opened his mouth.

  “Sire—a word, if I may.”

  Edward cast an impatient glance over his shoulder. “I am busy, lady.”

  Eloise met the royal gaze calmly. “You are about to be taken for a fool, Your Grace.”

  The comment had the desired effect. Edward bristled, an intimidating sight. Montisfryn glanced down at her, but made no move to check her. A fact of which Edward took due note. Head erect, buttressed by Montisfryn’s unquestioning support, Eloise waited patiently.

  “You had better explain yourself, lady.”

  Gracefully, she inclined her head. “When last I saw this man you call Master Driscoll, he’d been struck by the false knight, Sir Cedric—you can see his cut lip—to prevent Master Driscoll from killing me, so that later I would not be alive to identify him as the instigator of the plot.”

  The calm pronouncement riveted all attention.

  Master Driscoll, who had paled on hearing her voice, peered at her from behind the king.

  Edward turned back and surprised him. “How answer you this charge, Master Clerk?”

  Driscoll smiled, visibly shaken, yet dismissively confident. “The lady is distraught
, sire. Tis well known the female mind can be temporarily unbalanced by seeing acts of violence. She’s hysterical and knows not what she says.”

  He glanced at Eloise, an unctuous smile on his lips—and quailed.

  Even Edward, following his gaze, was impressed.

  “That, sire, is a vile calumny!” Eyes blazing, Eloise looked down her nose at Driscoll as if he was a species of rodent. “I have never,” she declared, “been hysterical in my life. There are many here who can vouch for that.”

  Edward raised his eyes to Montisfryn’s; Alaun answered the silent question with a nod.

  “Be that as it may,” Eloise swept on, “my evidence that this man, Master Driscoll, was not only in league with these outlaws, sire, but the instigator of the scheme, lies not just on my observations of today, which I will come to in good order. I first came across Master Driscoll while at Versallet Castle. I overheard a conversation between him and Sir Percival Mortyn, in which he instructed Sir Percy to mass his men in the Savernake. I did not, at the time, comprehend the significance of what I had heard and spoke to no one of it, but perhaps Sir Percy is among the knights you overpowered here today, and might be persuaded to tell his story?”

  Edward nodded to a hovering knight, who immediately went to find out. Turning back, Edward asked, “When was this, lady?”

  Eloise hesitated. “During the tournament recently held by my father, Your Grace. Some…”

  “Four sennights ago,” Montisfryn supplied.

  She looked her surprise. “Is it that long?”

  He cast her an inscrutable glance. “Aye.”

  “There were other meetings you witnessed?” With a raised finger, Edward summoned a pair of guardsmen.

  “Aye. The next was at Gloucester cathedral. While my lord was conferring with the priest, I chanced to look through the chapel windows, and saw and heard Master Driscoll approach Sir Cedric. Master Driscoll spoke of settling an agreement to their mutual advantage.”

  Driscoll viewed her with distaste, a muscle twitching above one eye. “She has plainly mistaken me for someone else, sire.”