Fathers and Sons

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Give Antony a piece of bread, Morgan,” Bose said as he listened to the hearty crunch of apple in his ear. “I have none to give him.”

  Morgan Skye cocked a graying eyebrow, dutifully handing over a thick crust. Nearing the ripe age of forty years, he had seen nearly twenty years of service within the crown’s ranks. As athletic and spry as men half his years, he continued to compete in tournaments and games when other men his age were well removed from the physical strains of life. When he should have been anticipating the winter of his life, Morgan served as an inspiration to others who considered retiring because of their advancing years.

  “Good Lord,” he hissed as Bose stole a carrot off his plate. “Get that hairy rat his own trencher and leave mine alone.”

  Bose repressed a smile as his furry friend devoured the carrot. “Antony loves you, Morgan. How can you be so selfish?”

  “Easily. I do not take kindly to an alleged friend defecating all over my baggage.”

  “What did you expect? He’s been sealed within your satchel for hours.”

  Morgan swallowed his substantial bite, eyeing Bose as he drank deeply of the medium-bodied ale. “Next time, the rat can ride in your possessions. I refuse to carry him any longer.”

  Bose cocked an eyebrow, the glimmer of mirth in his eyes fading. “My bags are always too full.”

  Morgan shook his head. “That is a lie and you know it. You insist that the rat ride within my possessions because you are terrified someone will discover your weakness for this hairy beast. It is much easier to explain my attachment to such a pet due to my age or some other sort of nonsense. Who would ever believe the great Bose de Moray capable of fondness for a ferret?”

  Bose scratched Antony’s nose with massive fingers, his black eyes glittering across the dim tent. “I am not ashamed of Antony.”

  Again, Morgan shook his head. How many times had they shared this conversation? “Nay, you are not ashamed of the bearded rat. But you are ashamed that a mighty warrior of your station should be firmly committed to a foolish little animal. Why not admit the truth, Bose? No one would fault you for your attachment to your deceased wife’s pet.”

  Bose looked away, his black eyes pondering the dim surrounding of the black and white tent. In the far corner, the servant raised a small flap for ventilation and illumination, but Bose ordered the man to seal the breach. He had a difficult enough time keeping his ferret protected from the world without the additional exposure of an open window.

  “What about your charger?” Bose’s voice was subdued as he changed the subject. He did not want to argue about the only bit of tenderness within his dark life. “Is the beast lame?”

  Morgan mopped his trencher with a piece of bread. “He’s got a genuine strain, but I would not go so far as to say that he is lame. Artur has made a healing mash and has the leg securely wrapped. I suppose time will tell.”

  As Antony crawled about his master’s neck, his beady eyes glittering in the faint illumination, Bose poured himself more ale. “Will you avoid the joust altogether and simply concentrate on the melee?”

  Morgan nodded, consuming the last of his meal as the faint rumble of commotion of the tournament field grew louder. “One fool with a misaimed blow and my charger would be ruined for good.”

  Bose digested the statement, bobbing his head in agreement. “I shall miss you, then. But we will be unbeatable in the melee.”

  Morgan drained the remaining ale from his cup. “Against Breck Kerry?”

  “Against them all. We will be invincible this day.”

  “Even against Lance du Bonne? It is, after all, his day of celebration. Mayhap you should allow the lad to win, just this once.”

  Bose stared at Morgan a moment; the mere mention of the du Bonne name had been enough to remind him of the elusive du Bonne maiden and, once again, he found himself recollecting her radiant visage.

  “Did you know the du Bonne brothers have a sister?” he asked casually, stroking Antony’s fur when the animal scampered down his arm.

  Rising from the collapsible chair, Morgan grunted as he stretched his tautly-muscled body. “Nay, I had no such knowledge,” he cast a glance as he twisted from side to side. “What about her?”

  Bose shrugged, laboring to appear blasé in manner. “Nothing, I suppose,” he said. “I met her today when we entered the gates. Lance and Ian were chasing her about with pig-masks over their faces, creating a deplorable spectacle. Were I Edward du Bonne, I would lock the lads in the vault for a week or so. That would do enough to age their juvenile spirits.”

  Morgan snorted at the mental vision of Lance and Ian du Bonne with pig-masks over their faces. “Good Lord, what an exhibition. Were those two not such excellent fighters, I would consider them most useless.”

  “Useless indeed.”

  Since Morgan had no helpful knowledge regarding the enigmatic Summer du Bonne, Bose let the subject rest for the moment. Moreover, the melee was rapidly approaching and he needed his focus to prepare for the rough and glorious event. Not strangely, however, it was difficult to force her from his mind as he went about the necessary tasks. It seemed that with every subsequent recollection, it became more and more difficult to rid himself of her consuming memory. God’s Beard, he had scarcely met the woman and already he was unable to forget her. But forget he must if he was going to be of any use in the melee and subsequent joust… until he remembered she would be in attendance.

  Oddly enough, his words to Stephan came back to haunt him. The only chance you will have against me at the tourney is if your sister attends the games. Surely her beauty will distract me so terribly that a mere knave will be able to best me.

  He realized it was the truth.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Come along, Summer,” Genisa’s squeaky voice was crisp. “The du Bonne men will not wait for us. If we are late, they shall simply leave us behind.”

  Hovering before a long mirror made of rare polished glass, Summer stroked her honey-blond hair with a heavy horse-bristle brush. Using her hands, she curved the lengthy ends into fat curls, knowing the waves would not remain so entirely tame throughout the day’s activities and wondering why she was attempting to make the well-groomed effort.

  But it was a joyful effort nonetheless, considering the event of her very first tournament was less than an hour away. Her excitement was thrilling and debilitating at the same time, and she fought to contain both nerves and nausea.

  “Summer, what are you staring at? We are going to be late!” Frustrated that her pleas were going ignored, Genisa endeavored to relay the seriousness of the situation. Clad in a gown of ice-blue with her pale blond hair properly secured in a bejeweled net, she looked ravishing. “Certainly, if you brush your hair any more, you are going to pull yourself bald. Put the brush aside. We are expected.”

  The brush stopped in mid-stroke as Summer continued to gaze at herself, half-listening to Genisa’s demands and half-ignoring them. Tardy or no, what mattered most at the moment was her outward appearance and she would not proceed before properly and precisely prepared. As Genisa prodded and pleaded, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.

  “You see?” Genisa raised her hands in the air in a beseeching gesture as she moved for the oak panel. “That is Stephan and he shall blister our hides for this delay.”

  True to her prediction, Stephan was indeed lodged in the open doorway. Although his handsome features were somewhat perturbed, he nonetheless tapped his wife affectionately on the chin as he entered the feminine chamber.

  “We are waiting to escort you to the field, ladies,” he said, eyeing his sister still poised before the mirror. “Are you ready?”

  Genisa looked to Summer, a golden goddess from head to toe. When the woman refused to answer, she sighed delicately. “Aye, darling, we are ready. Aren’t we, Summer?”

  After a moment’s reluctance, Summer nodded and set the brush to a table beside her. Clutching a delicately embroidered handkerchief to stave off th
e unseasonable warmth, she smiled bravely.

  “Aye Stephan. We are ready.”

  He smiled faintly, offering one elbow to his sister and the other to his wife. Escorting the ladies down the smoke-stenched corridor, they descended the wide stairs into the stone-walled entry. Just as they dismounted the last stair, a rotund, cumbersome figure emerged from the shadows in a harried burst of fine silks and wool.

  “Great Gods, ladies,” he exclaimed. “The games are nearly ready to begin.”

  Summer forced a smile at the ruddy man, his sparse hair the color of hers. Releasing her brother’s elbow, she claimed the man’s fleshy arm in a reassuring gesture. “Calm yourself, Father,” she said. “The games cannot b-begin without you.”

  In spite of his agitation, Edward du Bonne could not help but smile at his youngest child. The beautiful girl his wife had perished giving life to, a child so delicate and lovely that he had stared at her for three straight days after her birth in awe and wonder. A female child completely unexpected after three healthy boys, so unanticipated that no feminine names for such an occurrence had been discussed.

  Edward’s wife had been positive that her fourth child was male. After all, there was little doubt since the three preceding pregnancies had resulted in a herd of strong du Bonne sons. Therefore, on a warm summer’s eve eighteen years ago, Edward had been faced with a most pressing decision. Beyond the grief of losing his wife, he was forced to select a name for the unexpected female offspring who had claimed her mother’s existence.

  The baron, unfortunately, was not a clever or particularly attentive man and he lacked the concern to name his new daughter. Giving the child over to a female servant and her spinster daughter, he delegated them the task of naming and caring for his newest, if not particularly wanted, child. The two aging women, unable to think of a properly suitable name and fearful of displeasing the temperamental baron with a less than appropriate selection, made the most convenient, if not logical, selection; Summer Evening du Bonne.

  A name, in fact, that was perfect for her. She was as warm and beautiful as the summer months, soft and fresh and radiant. Even now as the earl gazed into dark golden orbs, he could scarcely recall ever seeing a finer creature. It was a cruel twist of fate that her beauty was marred by a disturbing speech impediment, for she would have made a very fine marriage match for the du Bonne family. Edward had resigned himself to the fact that his beautiful daughter would never know the experience of a decent marriage, and for that he was truly sorry.

  The day was warming as the damp sea breeze caressed the dusty grounds of Chaldon as Edward, Summer, Stephan and Genisa quit the dark-stoned bastion and made their way outside. Summer’s hair whipped about her and she struggled to keep it at bay, knowing the over-brushed curls were vanished and wishing she was married if only so she would have been able to net the unruly mass as Genisa did. As a maiden, however, it was customary to keep one’s head uncovered to show the beauty of a maiden’s hair.

  As the small party neared the edge of the bailey, the tournament field came into focus and Summer forgot all about her misbehaving hair. Her focus was completely on the distant cluster of colorful tents, the faint hum of the crowd, and the thunder of the chargers as knights took in a few bouts of last-minute practice.

  Somewhere in the distance, a lute and lyre could be heard entertaining the throng and Summer was about to comment on the beauty of the song when a great black banner caught her attention. It was the same black banner that had saved her from a pig-masked fate. She turned to Stephan.

  “Is that de Moray’s b-banner?” she asked.

  Distracted from a game of slap-and-tickle with his wife, Stephan passed a glance at the towering standard. “Aye,” he replied, casting his sister a curious glance. “How did you know his name?”

  Summer pursed her lips wryly. “Good Heavens, Stephan, you spoke the man’s name and it was only obvious that I should hear you,” turning from her brother, she once again eyed the flapping colors. “Who is he?”

  Stephan took a contemplative breath, adjusting his pinching helm. “God’s Beard, where to begin? What is it you wish to know?”

  She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Everything. For example, do you know how he acquired his unusual name?”

  Stephan shrugged. “Mayhap it is an old, well-used family name.”

  “B-Bose,” Summer repeated softly, drawing out the long “o” until the name sounded like “Bow-z”. “Where does he come from?”

  “He has a keep outside of Salisbury called Ravendark, and he’s been on the tournament circuit for four years,” finding a comfortable position for his helm, Stephan once again glanced to the foreboding standard. “Until he joined our ranks, my competition was limited. Now I am lucky if I run a close second to de Moray’s talents.”

  Strangely, Summer felt a good deal of pleasure at that statement. Her brother was praising the man who had saved her from certain torment and she smiled faintly, feeling oddly attached to the fearsome black banner. “What is that on his standard? I do not recognize the s-symbol.”

  Stephan, disinterested in speaking of a man he would very shortly be competing against, kissed his wife’s hand fondly before lowering his visor. “’Tis a Gorgon.”

  “A Gorgon?”

  “Aye,” Stephan’s voice was muffled behind the steel protection. “They call de Moray the Gorgon because he is massive and dark and ugly. Therefore, the term has become his crest.”

  Summer’s brow furrowed. “I b-believe I have heard of a Gorgon. Isn’t that a demon?”

  Stephan nodded. “Greek demons. Oddly enough, however, they are female, but the very name means ‘dreadful’, which describes de Moray perfectly.”

  Summer’s smile faded as she looked to her brother. Somehow, in calling de Moray ugly, it was inferring that he was imperfect. Flawed. Just like she was, in a sense – her imperfect speech against his imperfect looks. But having never seen the man’s face through his lowered visor, she had no way of disputing Stephan’s claim. After a moment, she turned away and refocused her attention on the field before her.

  “How cruel,” she murmured. “You should not taunt him for his lack of b-beauty.”

  Stephan snorted, catching a glimpse of his charger near the small tent bearing the red and white du Bonne colors. “You have yet to see the man, Summer. Just because he saved you from Ian and Lance’s foolery, do not permit yourself to have any romantic notions regarding his magnificent knightly appearance. In spite of that fact and other nasty rumors regarding his reputation, he has no shortage of admirers.”

  Feeling somewhat defensive on the knight’s behalf, Summer frowned at her arrogant brother. “Rumors that are lies, I am sure. Sir B-bose is noble and chivalrous, unlike several other knights I know who shall remain nameless. Women are able to sense good within a man regardless of his physical appearance.”

  “That is not the reason, my ingenuous little sister,” Stephan said patronizingly, waving to his squire to let the boy know he was on the approach. “The women who pursue de Moray are simply interested in his wealth and nothing more. With all the winnings he has acquired over the four years of tournament play, he is amply loaded with the stuff and the wealth alone is enough to outweigh the darker implications of his name.”

  Bidding his family a distracted farewell, Summer watched her brother stroll across the trampled grass, pondering his words. As Genisa moved to Edward’s free arm, Summer obeyed her father’s insistence that they proceed to the tournament field. After all, the games could not begin without the attendance of the illustrious castle Constable and already they were a half-hour truant.

  Let the games begin.

  *

  “Very well, Bose. Ask me any question about the Lady Summer. I can tell you anything you wish to know.”

  Bose did not look up as he assisted his squire in latching the last of his chest protection. And he furthermore did not look to his confident friend as the young squire finished the final fastens about his massive
neck, straightening the mailed hood underneath the plate steel. Only when the lad moved away to collect his master’s gauntlets did Bose fix his onyx-black eyes upon the smug, entirely annoying knight.

  “I told you that I did not want to know anything else about her. There is no need.”

  By the corner of the tent, Morgan looked up from repairing his well-used scabbard. The end of the aged leather was fraying and he was distraught with worry; however, his fret did not prevent him from overhearing Tate’s thoroughly self-satisfied statement.

  “Who is Lady Summer?”

  “No one,” Bose grumbled.

  “A certain lady who seems to have captured our illustrious leader’s attention,” Tate supplied with restrained humor as Bose looked away, fumbling with the gloves offered by the squire. “Although he refuses to admit anything, I am quite confident that he has a moderate interest in her. Am I incorrect, my lord?”

  Bose maintained his silence as Morgan rose from his corner seat, his brown eyes wide with genuine surprise. “God’s Blood, Bose. Is this true? Have you finally found interest in a woman?”

  Yanking on a glove in a distinct exhibition of annoyance, Bose’s black eyes blazed with threat and hazard. “Not in the least. And if Tate isn’t careful, he shall find himself impaled in the melee by my very own weapon. Do I make myself clear, Farnum?”

  Much to Bose’s aggravation, Tate merely snorted humorously to the deadly threat and turned his attention to a still-surprised Morgan. “You should see her, old man. As beautiful as when the world was new,” spacing his hands a foot or so apart, he outlined an obvious female figure. “And her form is in fine shape. Fine, fine shape. My God, I do believe I would have her myself had our liege not expressed interest first.”