England's Greatest Knights: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  A few more soldiers joined the growing crowd on the field, men who served Aubrey. One of them was an older man, serving as Field Marshall. Avalyn tried not to stare at Brogan, poised and waiting on the south end of the field, as Barton finished securing his gauntlets. St. Alban was standing alongside Brogan now, speaking to him and apparently directing him. She could see the old man gesturing with his hands. As she was watching St. Alban, Thel and Aggie came upon the platform and stood respectfully behind William.

  Avalyn looked over at her ladies, who gazed back at her with big eyes. Having been searching for Brogan at the Knight’s Quarter’s, they had met up with St. Alban and had been told of the bout. Now they could only offer silent support as the foot soldier faced off against the knight.

  Avalyn’s gaze lingered on the ladies, on William, and finally on Brogan in the distance. So many people willing to risk their lives for her. She still did not know what she did to earn such loyalty, but she was grateful for her blessings. Still, she could feel their anxiety. It matched her own.

  When it was apparent that Barton was ready, Charles walked to the edge of the list and emitted a shrill whistle from between his teeth. Immediately, Barton spurred his charger forward. Brogan spurred his own beast forward a split second later. As the horses thundered towards each other at break-neck speed, Avalyn rose from her seat. Her eyes were riveted to the hurling masses of flesh, heading towards one another as if to run each other over. The lances were lowered and aimed.

  Avalyn found her focus on Brogan, watching him for any signs that the man was not as skilled as he wanted everyone to believe. But he held the lance steady; the only outward sign of his lack of experience was the fact that he was bouncing too heavily in the saddle. Barton, with years of horsemanship behind him, used his knees to steady himself so that he did not bounce so terribly. He appeared suspended above the saddle while Brogan was entrenched in it.

  It was a matter of individual preference how the man rode and not an indication of inexperience, however. Avalyn’s hand went to her throat as she watched them draw closer and closer still. Sounds of thundering hooves shook the ground. Barton was faster, but Brogan was moving firm and steady like a mountain. As they came upon each other, Avalyn wanted to put her hands over her eyes but somehow didn’t move fast enough; as everyone watched, Barton’s lance plowed into Brogan’s shield and splintered in a million pieces. But then, a strange thing happened; somehow, Brogan had managed to lift his lance above Barton’s head and as the knight moved past him, he swung it back around and caught St. John in the back of the head. It was literally sweeping the man off his horse, and plunge off his horse Barton did. He ended up in a heap as Brogan circled around at the north end of the field.

  It all happened so fast. St. John was in a seated position quickly and obviously not hurt as Brogan came upon him, his lance propped up on his right knee and still quite intact. St. John flipped up his visor and gazed up at him.

  “That,” he said slowly, “was an illegal move.”

  Brogan lifted an eyebrow. “In tournament, aye. But this is not a tournament. It is a demonstration of my skill.”

  “I would say you used more strength than skill with that move.”

  “Then let us make another pass and I shall play by tournament rules.”

  Barton shook his head and rolled to his knees. His squires were there, making sure he was uninjured as they helped him to his feet. He motioned to his horse. “Bring me my sword,” he bellowed, eyeing Brogan as someone raced to give him his weapon. “Let us see how you fight, Gervaise. Now that I know you are tricky, you’ll not catch me with my guard down.”

  Brogan grinned and dismounted his steed. St. Alban came to him as quickly as his fat body was able to move and silently took the horse as Brogan unsheathed the broadsword strapped to the saddle.

  The old man gazed at Brogan steadily, wanting to impart a few final words before the foot battle began, but Brogan wasn’t looking at him. He was focused on St. John in a manner that St. Alban had seen many a time in battle, only this wasn’t a battle. He genuinely feared for Barton’s safety. The past two weeks training Brogan to fight as a knight had shown the man to be completely fearless and bordering on madness at times. St. Alban himself had taken a few good slices from Brogan during practice as the result of the man’s intensity in battle. St. Alban knew that Brogan had difficulty drawing the line between practice or play and a real battle. The instinct to kill was quick to surface.

  “Tygor,” St. Alban said loud enough to be heard. When Brogan looked at him, the old man lifted his eyebrows for emphasis. “A practice round only. You are not out to kill the man.”

  Brogan merely nodded, his attention refocusing on Barton, who suddenly rushed at him with his sword aloft and delivered a seriously heavy blow that sent Brogan stumbling backwards.

  A series of sharp, skilled thrusts followed the initial blow and Brogan was on the defensive. Barton’s skill with a weapon was blatantly evident and Brogan let the man have his way for a few minutes as he studied the way he moved. Since part of Brogan’s job at The Tower was to train new soldier recruits, he knew better than most the skills and tactics of swordplay. He sized up his opponent by studying his methods. On foot, Brogan was in his element and St. John would soon be the one on the defensive.

  It didn’t take long for Brogan to come to life and charge after Barton. With a double-handed grip, he lodged three strong thrusts at St. John that, had the man been any slower, would have taken his head off. It was evident very quickly that Brogan was far stronger than Barton. As those around them watched, Brogan turned into the animal he was so often accused of being on the battlefield. It turned into a serious confrontation.

  In the lists, Avalyn still stood with her hand on her throat, watching the vicious session progress. Barton was staying alive by sheer skill alone, as he was no match for Brogan’s strength. Terrified for both men, she put her hand on Charles’ arm.

  “My lord,” she said, her eyes never leaving the field. “Perhaps you should stop this before someone gets hurt.”

  Charles, too, was riveted to the battle. “My God,” he breathed. “That man is a beast. Look how he tries to overpower Barton.”

  “I see,” she said, clipped. “I do not like this. Please order it stopped.”

  Charles tore his eyes away from the battle long enough to look at her. He could see she was not enjoying it in the least, although he personally lived for a good fight. There was something exciting in the brutality of it. Though he would have liked to continue marveling at Gervaise’s power, he would, as always, bow to the lady’s wish.

  “Enough,” he finally roared, loud enough to cause Avalyn to start. “I have seen enough. Both of you; come here.”

  Barton stopped immediately; Brogan was a split second slower. Sweating with exertion, the two men made their way over to Aubrey and stood before him, breathing heavily. Their massive broadswords hung at their sides, still gripped in the gloved hands, still ready to lift at any moment and continue. Aubrey’s gaze moved between the two.

  “Barton,” he addressed his knight. “What is your opinion of Gervaise’s skills?”

  Barton flipped up his three-point visor and flicked the sweat from his eyes. “He is careless and, at times, unethical with his tactics, but I can state with certainty that he is the strongest opponent I have ever faced.”

  Aubrey’s attention moved back to Brogan. “I see,” he said, still speaking with Barton though his eyes were on his massive adversary. “Would you say that he would be an excellent addition to our knightly ranks?”

  “I would, my lord.”

  “Then I shall accept his pledge.” Charles moved to the edge of the list, almost eye to eye with Brogan from where he stood. “Welcome to Guerdley Cross, Sir Tygor. May we have a long and pleasant association together.”

  Brogan bowed to his new liege. “You have my loyalty and my sword, my lord.”

  With that, Charles turned away from him and took Avalyn by the hand.
Carefully escorting her off the list, his focus was solely on the lady as the knights behind him disbanded to collect their things. Only Inglesbatch followed several paces behind them, deliberately ignoring Brogan and St. Alban as the men sheathed swords and collected the rest of Brogan’s equipment.

  So, the first test had been passed. Brogan was now sworn to Aubrey. Inglesbatch honestly didn’t know if he felt better or worse about that. There was a relief to it and also a sickening sensation. So much of him wanted to aid Avalyn in her quest for happiness, but with Brogan now entrenched in Aubrey’s ranks, an entirely new crop of problems would arise. William knew that the sooner Brogan left with Avalyn, the better, for the longer he lingered, the greater the chance for discovery. Already, their drive to be together was difficult to control. William wondered how much longer he could keep them in check, or if they could see beyond their emotions long enough to restrain tale-tell actions.

  He caught a flash of material from the corner of his eye, turning to see Thel and Aggie walking beside him. The ladies had their heads down, watching the ground pass beneath their feet. William’s gaze lingered on Thel a moment; so many people were involved in this. So many people to be in jeopardy. It wasn’t simply him any longer. He knew Avalyn realized the gravity of it. He wondered if Brogan really did.

  As the crowd wandered off the field, the last of the soldiers lingered, watching the knights and lord and lady disburse and cleaning up the remnants of the skirmish from the grounds. One soldier was even up on the list, sweeping off the stool and setting it back out of the elements. The older warrior who had acted as field marshal was standing with another old soldier of rank, a sergeant, who had served Aubrey’s father. Both men had seen a good deal of action and discussed the tactics and skill of St. John’s fight.

  “Sir Barton has the skill, but the other – what is his name? – clearly has more strength,” the field marshal was saying. “Should I be on the battle field, it would be far better to be that man’s ally than his foe. I’ve never seen such power.”

  The sergeant nodded, watching as one of the squires kicked the other in the arse and laughed when the youth went sprawling. “He’ll be a great advantage when we go against Edward’s armies,” he said. Then, he cocked his head. “That Germanic knight looks very familiar to me. Can’t place him, though.”

  The marshal chased the fighting squires away. “Do you know him?”

  “I do not know how I possibly could. I’ve never been to Germania.”

  “Then he looks like someone you know.”

  “Nay,” the sergeant shook his head slowly. “He fights like someone I’ve seen before.”

  The old marshal began to walk back to the barracks. “You’ve fought a great many battles, Hackley. Years back, for Edward and Warwick. You’ve fought with a good many men.”

  Hackley followed the old man, scratching his chin. “Thirty years I’ve been doing battle.” He finally shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, well, it will come to me. I never forget a fighting man.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The feast that night was truly a spectacle to behold. Although Charles loved to eat well, the meal that evening was the most elaborate yet and he had begged Avalyn for a half hour to attend. Her normal routine would be to sup in her room alone, or sometimes with Inglesbatch. She didn’t like supping in the great room of Guerdley Cross. But tonight, she would make the exception because a very special guest would be in attendance. Brogan would be there.

  Keeping in accordance with her usual habit and not wanting to seem too eager to dine in the great hall, she had permitted Aubrey to beg for quite some time before agreeing. That way, it did not look suspicious. He had been verily pleased with his skills of persuasion. Though he had hoped she would assume her place as chatelaine, she did not seem entirely comfortable doing so and he went about his usual routine of seeing to the evening meal. Such a thing was almost unheard of, for the lord to see to household duties, but Charles was comfortable doing so. Moreover, he was an excellent chatelaine. The more Avalyn came to know of Aubrey, the more she was coming to feel guilty for betraying him. He deserved better. But her selfishness had the better of her and she was determined to follow her heart, no matter what.

  Evening fell, soft and spring-like, and the clouds rolled in from the sea to create a salty mist in the air. In her bower high in the keep of Guerdley Cross, Avalyn sat before a massive dressing table that had once belonged to Charles’ mother. It was an enormous thing made from oak and marble, with a polished and very precious glass mirror as its focal point. The glass was amazingly clear, though slightly tarnished, giving her reflection a soft grayish appearance. As Avalyn gazed back at herself while Aggie finished making long, fat curls of her chestnut hair, she tried hard to recognize the woman staring back in the reflection.

  So much had happened in the past few weeks. Brogan, the orphan, Inglesbatch’s undying devotion, her uncle’s virtual banishment of her, and coming to live with Aubrey. The events had been so swift that they were disorienting. Gazing at her oval face, golden eyes and pink cheeks, she seriously wondered what had happened to the lady she had always known herself to be. Professional, calculating, political, sensible… she had been all of those things, once. Now she was not sure who she was any longer. All she knew was that she saw happiness such as she had never hoped for with Brogan d’Aurilliac. And with Aubrey, she saw a life she always thought to have; no real happiness, only moderate contentment and serious politics. Her life would revolve around them. But she didn’t want to be a part of them any longer.

  The chamber was warm from the brilliant fire, and smelled strongly of rushes and lilac that Charles had brought her earlier in the day. Thel and Noe had dressed her in a golden brocade surcoat with soft white rabbit lining on the plunging neckline and at the base of the bell-like sleeves. Underneath, she wore a shift and underthings of the softest white wool, while a boned corset kept everything neat and snug along her slender torso. With her hair gathered in soft waves away from her face, she did, in fact, look magnificent.

  But she didn’t feel magnificent. She was feeling befuddled and anxious. Her mind was on Brogan, far away from the vision of loveliness that The Sirens were creating. When a soft knock came to her bower door, she almost didn’t hear it.

  Thel rushed to the chamber door, opening it cautiously. Charles stood in the entry, his ruddy expression polite.

  “I would like to speak with my lady,” he told Thel, moving into the room. “You and the other women will leave us.”

  Thel passed a glance at Avalyn before motioning to the others to vacate. Avalyn rose from her dressing table, moving to meet Aubrey half-way across the chamber. He was dressed in his finest red tunic, a nervous smile playing on his lips. Avalyn returned his smile.

  “My lord,” she greeted. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “My lady,” he said, as he bowed swiftly, nearly stumbling in his haste. It was obvious that he was nervous. “I… I have come bearing gifts.”

  He suddenly thrust a box at her, almost hitting her in the chest. As he apologized profusely, Avalyn struggled to conceal a grin at his agitation as she bade him sit in a largest chair she had that would support his bulk. But it was near the blazing fire, causing him to sweat abundantly. Had it not been so comical, it would have been pathetic.

  She perched on a stool opposite him, paying no mind to his nervous condition and damp forehead. “What is it you have brought me, my lord?”

  He placed the box in her hands. “It belonged to my mother. Please open it.”

  Avalyn did as he asked, her slender fingers lifting the latch and flipping back the lid. Inside the silk-lined box lay a necklace of emeralds, exquisite and perfect. And underneath the necklace lay a gold ring with an emerald on it the size of a small bird’s egg. It was enormous.

  Hesitantly, Avalyn removed the necklace. It was gorgeous. As Charles watched her face ripple with reaction, he began to speak anxiously.

  “Please consider the necklace a
wedding gift,” he said. “And the ring… well, I was hoping you would wear it as a token of our marriage.”

  Avalyn wasn’t sure how to react. She smiled wanly at him, not touching the ring. “The necklace is lovely,” she said. “Thank you for a most generous gift.”

  “And the ring,” he said again, pushing the point. “I hope it fits. Will you not try it on?”

  He was cornering her. Not that he didn’t have every right to, but she struggled with her resistance. She did not want to cause a scene or be cruel. With a heavy sigh that he could not have missed, she removed the ring from the box and placed it on the middle finger of her left hand.

  “It is a little large for me,” she held her hand up, showing him that it shifted loosely.

  He reached out and took her hand, feeling for himself just how loose the ring was. Then he snorted. “My mother was quite a bit larger than you are. All of her rings are large because her hands were so fat. This was the smallest one I could find.”

  Avalyn smirked because he was smirking. But he wasn’t letting go of her fingers. Discreetly, she pulled her hand away and fiddled with the ring, removing it from that finger and trying it on others to see if she could find a better fit.

  “It is lovely, my lord,” she said, knowing he was expecting an answer of some kind. “As always, your generosity is outstanding.”

  Charles watched her as she slid the ring on nearly all of her fingers. His hands fidgeted fretfully in his lap, his gaze moving between her lovely face and the activity on her fingers. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and twice he closed his lips. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say what he was thinking, struggling to summon the courage.

  “I should like to discuss our wedding with you, if I may,” he finally blurted, causing her to look up at him with surprise. “I…I realize that the time spent here at Guerdley has been time for us to become acquainted and I have enjoyed it very much. But I must be honest when I say that I am anxious for us to wed. I am anxious to come to know you better and to have you as my wife. Surely there will be no prouder man in all of England.”