Morgan stared at the snickering young knight, hardly believing what he had heard. To declare that the omnipotent, focused Bose de Moray was interested in a woman was beyond his scope of comprehension. A smile of hope creased his lips. “Who is she?”
Casting Bose a long glance from the corner of his eye to make sure the man was paying attention, Tate crossed his arms smugly. “She is the Lady Summer du Bonne, a mere eighteen years old one week ago today. She is unmarried, unpledged, and unattached. And from what I have been able to discover, something of a hermit. Her father keeps her under constant isolation for reasons I have been unable to ascertain.”
Although his manner indicated a lack of interest, Bose was nonetheless listening carefully to Tate’s information. As his squire secured his remaining gauntlet, he struggled between the instinct to demand more of Tate’s knowledge on the woman and the urge to deny the situation. Bewildered and confused, for the moment, denying his interest was the only manner of self-preservation he could think of…at least, until he could come to better understand the chaos for himself.
“I am not surprised to discover you been wasting your time in pursuit of useless knowledge when there is a tournament to be had.” Determined to move from the subject, he gestured sharply to Morgan. “Did you finish repairing your scabbard? And what about your horse? Have you checked on the animal since Artur wrapped his leg?”
Morgan’s gaze was even at his brusque lord; since it was rare that Bose display any emotion whatsoever, he was able to deduce by his sharp mannerisms that Tate’s ramblings held a measure of truth. But how much truth? If for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity, Morgan was determined to find out.
“Whether I tend the beast now or at tournament time will be of little difference in how correctly the leg has healed. Clearly, I have done all I can,” turning to Tate, he met the man’s twinkling eyes. “Is that all you discovered about the Lady Summer? What of her schooling, her beau?”
Tate shook his head, struggling not to look at Bose as he spoke. “Apparently, she did not leave home to foster and from what I have been told, she has not entertained a single suitor. Most strange, considering the woman is lovelier than any female I have yet to witness.”
Morgan cocked an eyebrow. “Lavish praise coming from a man who had known his share of feminine companionship,” he said. “But I do believe your clues are obvious – there must be something wrong with the woman. Mayhap beneath the beauty and grace, she harbors the temperament of a shrew.”
Tate sensed the game, taking the lead. “God be merciful, I should have realized. ’Tis the only explanation. Mayhap… mayhap she harbors a hideous defect. Like a third leg hidden beneath her gown, or a chest carpeted with hair.”
Morgan made a distasteful face. “Good Lord, I can hardly imagine running my lips over breasts as hairy as mine,” suddenly, his unpleasant expression turned to one of overstated dismay, his eyes bulging with mock horror. “What… what if she is not a woman at all? What if she is truly a man, merely dressing as a woman?”
“An incubus!”
“A demon!”
“A sorceress! Good Lord, a sorcerer!”
“A…!”
“Enough!” Bose finally roared, out of character for his normally restrained disposition. Turning away from the sword he had been fumbling with, his dark face was lined with irritation. “I have heard enough from the two of you. No more talk of hairy chests or men wearing women’s clothing. And I do not want to hear another word regarding Summer du Bonne. Do you comprehend?”
Unable to keep the smile from his lips, Morgan snickered softly and clapped a companionable hand on Bose’s shoulder before returning to his own equipment. “Indeed, my lord. Not another word.”
Bose’s black eyes were piercing as the older knight continued to snort disrespectfully. “I do not jest, Morgan. Not another word.”
Morgan eyed the man, nodding his head with earnest agreement. “I indicated that I understood, Bose. There is no need for threats.”
“Aye, there is. You are pushing me to the brink and should be amply forewarned.”
“I have done nothing of the kind. What has happened to your sense of humor?”
Bose continued to stare at the man long and hard a moment before turning away. “It is intact given the proper circumstances, and considering we have a competition in fifteen minutes, I hardly find your amusement valid.” He lifted his arms as his squire secured his scabbard for the melee, long and free and at the ready, as he cast a final glance at his two comrades. “Tate, get mounted. Morgan, if you are not going to compete, you and Artur discover from the heralds who is to be on our team for the melee. I would know these fools who intend to ride upon my glory.”
With a smirk, Morgan quit the tent. Tate maintained his position a moment longer, wondering if Bose intended to press him for more information regarding the fair Lady Summer without Morgan’s presence. Even though he was well aware that Morgan was Bose’s closest friend, still, it would somehow be easier to discuss the lady between two men rather than three.
But Bose apparently had no intention of pressing the issue further and Tate wisely left the tent, heading for the gnarled oak where his squire had prepared his charger. Bose’s massive beast was prepared as well, muzzled to prevent him from attacking his handlers.
As Tate mounted, making sure the banner decorating his horse’s body was properly secured beneath the armored tack, he wondered if he shouldn’t attempt to ascertain more about the young maiden who had captured Bose’s eye. The further his lord denied such interest, the more Tate knew the fair lady had indeed succeeded in snaring the man’s attention.
The silver peals of the trumpet could be heard, calling all spectators to the lodges and announcing to the competitors that the event was about to commence. Forcing thoughts of Bose’s lady aside for the moment, Tate straightened the decorative plume atop his helm and reined his charger toward the arena, his excitement mounting. He knew that Bose’s remaining two knights would already be at the field, awaiting his company. And with all of the houses preparing to combat in honor of Lance du Bonne, the day would prove to be exciting and profitable.
Tate looked forward to certain victory. With Bose de Moray on his team, there was no question.
*
Colorful knights of every house were lining up on opposite sides of the tournament field, emblazoned with standards and fancy armor and brilliantly-colored lances. Seated between Genisa and her father, Summer was overwhelmed with the sight and spectacle before her. Never in her life had she seen so many knights, all lavishly dressed as if they were preparing to attend a feast rather than a battle.
Magnificent shields were lodged over the left knee of each knight, positioned for ease and access. War implements crowded the armored saddles; swords, axes, maces, flails and war hammers gleamed wickedly under the brilliant afternoon sun. The horses themselves were covered with beautiful banners embossed with the colors of their knight and, in some cases, his crest.
As two teams prepared for the coming melee, Summer scrutinized every knight who happened to thunder past the lodges, or every warrior who seemed to be gaining a bit of practice before the competition began. She was wide-eyed with wonder.
“Do you see that your father’s heralds have divided the knights into two teams?” Genisa was saying. “The two teams will charge one another and fight until only one man is left. That is why they call it the melee.”
“It is quite a brutal spectacle, Summer,” Edward’s high-pitched voice was an annoying buzz over the excitement of the crowd. “Certainly, there are codes the knights must adhere to; they must not intentionally try to kill their opponent, and they must not strike a man when he is down. Once a knight is off his horse, he is out of the competition. The object, of course, is to remain mounted and try to keep your head on in the process.”
Summer knew all that; she had heard her brothers explain tournament rules a thousand times. On her other side, Genisa piped up again.
> “The team that loses becomes the prisoners of the victors and must pay them ransom,” she said. “That is how the knights make their money.”
“Or lose it,” Summer responded dryly.
Genisa giggled, nodded. “Stephan lost a good deal last year at the tournament in Swindon. Not only was he on the losing team in the melee, but he lost to Bose de Moray in the joust as well. He was so angry with the money he lost that he cursed de Moray for an entire week.”
Summer smiled, her thoughts once again turning to the mysterious knight who had saved her from her brothers’ foolery. Glancing to the east side of the field, her golden eyes searched for the black and white standard she knew to be de Moray’s. But there was no black and white on that team, only innumerable brilliantly sewn hues, including those of the du Bonne red and white.
Shifting her attention then to the west side of the arena, the distinctive black and white standard of the House of de Moray was evident. An odd, fluid warmth pulsed through her veins as she drew deep the sight of the striking banners; with all of the scrutinizing she had been doing of every man and beast within the confines of the field, she wondered how she could have missed the de Moray colors.
It began to occur to her that her brothers and de Moray were on opposite teams. Pondering the dilemma, Summer’s attention was drawn to the perimeter of the field opposite the lodges. Even with the multitude of men and horses milling about, the squires and stable hands and grooms and servants scurrying to and fro, still, she found herself drawn to a particular figure making his way toward the eastern siege line.
“Look, Summer!” Genisa’s high-pitched voice startled her. “There is Sir Bose. See him? Over there, on the massive black charger.”
If only to quiet the woman, Summer nodded her head sharply. But Genisa, too, seemed to be entranced with de Moray’s appearance and she poked a finger in his direction.
“He is hardly wearing any trappings, as the other knights do,” she said. “No plumes or fanciful helms. Only his banner across his charger’s haunches. In every competition I have ever seen him in, his dress is always the same. He is much more understated than the rest.”
“Mayhap he doesn’t wish to draw attention to himself,” Summer said quietly, her heart thumping against her ribs with the thrill of seeing de Moray. “He seemed rather understated today, when we met.”
Genisa shrugged, reclining against the cushioned chair. “I have never met him before, to be truthful, nor heard much about him. Today was the first Stephan has truly spoken in depth of him.”
Mercifully, the woman quieted herself and Summer was permitted to gaze openly at the distant knight uninterrupted. She observed every fluid motion of his massive arms, bringing about his shield emblazoned with the mighty Gorgon crest and poising it over his left knee. There were three other knights from his house competing on his team, and the men seemed to swarm about him when they noticed his presence. A little man on the ground handed him his lance and he collected it easily, a great black and white spiral pole.
Summer watched, enthralled by the only knight she had ever met aside from her brothers, until Genisa once again screeched in her ear.
“Summer!” she burst. “Look; the herald is taking the field. The game is about to commence.”
Rubbing her ear where Genisa had nearly punctured the drum, Summer noted that indeed the herald was taking the field. On her left side, Edward leaned close.
“See the sword in the man’s hand?” he gestured to the red and white clad servant. “That is my sword. Grandfather fought on the Lion Heart’s crusade with that weapon.”
Summer recognized the sword; it held a decorative place of honor above the massive hearth in the main hall. Edward, sensing his daughter’s excitement, took her hand and squeezed it tightly in an extremely rare show of encouragement. In spite of the surprise of the uncommon display, Summer gripped her father’s hand with natural ease, smiling happily at him as the herald demanded readiness from the opposing sides. All visors went down in varying order in answer to the herald’s demand, indicative of the combatant’s state of preparedness. As several other heralds positioned themselves about the arena in preparation for refereeing the event, the primary herald held the sword high.
“In the king’s name, do your battle!”
The sword came down. With a roar that made Summer’s hair stand on end, dozens of lances came down from their upright positions and hovered parallel to the ground, pointing menacingly at the men on the opposite side of the field. The thunder of chargers filled the air as spurs dug deep into the sides of the beasts, urging them on to victory. Great clumps of earth were kicked up by the excited steeds, pelting the spectators who happened to be standing too close.
Summer hadn’t realized she had let out a small cry as the opposing waves of knights crashed into one another in a great roar of flesh and metal. Poles snapped, sending colored pieces of wood hurling into the air as the grunts and shouts of men in mock-battle penetrated the damp sea air. A few men were felled in the initial clash before they had scarcely had a chance to fight and the crowd in the lodges went mad with glee and terror.
Summer continued to observe as flails sang through the air, pummeling unfortunate opponents with their spikes and weight. The echoes of heavy broadswords filled the air as knights did battle against one another, sharpening their combat skills and showing off for the crowd. Already, chargers were going over on their sides and Summer gasped as brave young squires rushed out to the field to assist their fallen masters.
“The b-boys will be killed!” she insisted to her father, as if he hadn’t noticed the actions of the foolish young lads. “Make them stay away until this is finished!”
His expression was intolerant. “Summer, ’tis their duty to remove their fallen masters from the field. Otherwise, the men would be trampled under the feet of others.”
Distressed, Summer returned her apprehensive gaze to the field, watching as a strong young squire dragged his armored liege from the battle. But the man’s charger, still on the ground in the midst of the chaos, was too injured to rise and Summer came to the conclusion that the melee wasn’t exciting any longer. It was brutal, barbaric, and reckless.
The thrill of her first tournament began to fade as she watched several more men go down, one of them bearing de Moray’s colors. Some were able to walk from the field on their own, others had to be carried off. Chargers limped away, others dashed away, kicking up their heels and crashing through the barriers. As Summer became disillusioned with the battle before her, others in the lodges were shouting for more.
Summer’s stomach churned as a knight bearing colors of yellow and red fell to the ground, blood streaming from the slit in his visor. His squire was too small to carry him away and began to shout for help, waving to the heralds milling about the battle’s perimeter. But the heralds refused to assist, demanding that other squires move in to aid the lad. As Summer watched, the small squire and two other young men carried the injured man from the field.
The game was no longer entertaining. Summer could not imagine what Genisa or her father found amusing within the vicious sport of the melee, men hacking and bleeding and fighting all in the name of glory. In faith, she hadn’t known what to expect from the event; somehow, she imagined chivalrous knights doing delicate battle, denting armor and little else. Certainly not this blood sport before her, knights savagely fighting until only one man was left standing.
She did not want to watch any more.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Father, I demand you stop this now!”
Edward tore his gaze away from the exciting spectacle, shocked to discover his daughter near tears. His brow furrowed unsympathetically. “Summer, what is the matter?”
“This,” she jabbed a slender finger toward the bleeding, writhing mass in the center of the field. “Men are d-dying in there!”
Edward forced himself to pat his daughter’s hand in a feeble attempt to calm her. “No one is dying. It is all a great comp
etition of skill and talent.”
Summer yanked her hand away from her father, exasperated that the man failed to see the seriousness of the situation. Turning to Genisa, she attempted to gain a measure of support for her protest. “And you? How can you enjoy this travesty?”
Genisa looked shocked and remorseful at the same time. “What’s the matter with you, Summer? I thought you were excited about this.”
Sensing she would receive little backing from her sister-in-law, Summer frowned with dismay; no one seemed to understand her concern and that, in turn, greatly distressed her. As she contemplated the blood-thirsty side to Genisa and her father she had never known to exist, another harrowing cry emitted from the battlefield and she turned in time to observe a massive green and yellow charger list heavily to one side. Bearing down upon the toppling beast was none other than the mighty Gorgon himself.
All thoughts of terror faded for the moment as Summer watched Bose wield his broadsword high, bringing down blow after powerful blow upon a man astride the collapsing destrier. In fact, it seemed that Bose was actually pushing the horse and rider to the ground with his tremendous strength, and Summer winced when the final blow from Bose’s powerful sword sent the man to the ground once and for all.
It had been quick, bloodless and swift. Somehow, Bose’s battle hadn’t been a fight to the death and Summer found her distaste for the game oddly eased. As she continued to watch the massive warrior astride the black and white charger, Bose turned to the man next to him and plowed through the unfortunate knight as if he were no more than a child.
Summer observed with a mixture of fear and fascination as Bose bloodlessly unseated yet another hapless victim. With an additional rival sent to the earth, he appeared to pause slightly to discern just who would be his next casualty. As Summer watched, he moved directly for a red and white charger.
“He’s going after Stephan!” Genisa’s cry suddenly mingled amongst the shouting of the crowd. “Stay away from him, you beast! Stay away from my husband!”
Fathers and Sons Page 96
