Forbidden Warrior

by Kris Kennedy

  She sat back and was proper as Yves began his welcome speech.

  “Lords and ladies and honored guests, you are welcome to this, the greatest tournament that has ever been,” he began.

  The crowd erupted into cheers. Cassia clapped too, after a nod from her father showed he approved of the excess.

  Lord Yves waited until they were quiet again.

  “You have come for revelry, for grandeur and glory and great deeds. You will not be disappointed. Heralds have gone out through the lands, and your chevaliers have responded.

  “Knights and squires, noblemen and their entourages have come from England, Scotland, Wales, and France, for a single purpose: you. They come to display feats of courage and skill and strength to impress and delight...and to strike fear.

  “This week, the lowest shall face off against the most renowned. There will be jousts and battle and tests of will. There will be men proving their honor” –cheers erupted—“or their dishonor.”

  A low chorus of boos met this possibility.

  Overcome by excitement, Cassia started to boo as well.

  Her father stirred beside her.

  Again, she sat back, barely noticing the bite of…irritation? She had no words for the banded, frustrated feeling that welled up inside her whenever her father told her to be proper.

  “And they will be judged,” Yves went on, his voice loud and resonant. “Some will be found worthy, others wanting.”

  A drunken member of the rabble along the rails raised his fist in joy, perhaps at the idea of noblemen being found wanting. He promptly tumbled headfirst over the railing into the jousting ring.

  Lord Yves’s grim-faced soldiers ducked under and dragged him off. A chorus of heckling followed them off the field.

  Cassia kept her attention fixed on Lord Yves. There was no point in attending to a commoner when a silk-clad nobleman was speaking.

  Her future lay in the hands of such men.

  “Let us speak plainly: these are troubled times.” Yves’s voice grew somber. “The king is held captive. There are rumors of rebellion. Everywhere, people plot and scheme.”

  He looked the crowd over, as if suspecting some of them. “But here, we shall set the world's troubles aside. For the next week, we are one. You are nothing more, and certainly nothing less, than my honored guests at the greatest tournament that has ever been.”

  He finished in a shout and the crowd responded, crying their approval and hammering their fists on the board walls and railings. He held up a hand and silence fell.

  “In a moment, my honored guest, Lord Marcus Debar,” he gestured to a lanky, wiry nobleman sitting in his box, “will announce the rules of the tournament. But first, I have a charge to lay upon you all.”

  The crowd rustled in surprise. A whiff of tension entered the festival air.

  “A solemn mission for all who gather here, be they great or humble. Nay, an oath. A binding task I set upon all who attend these festivities...”

  His voice dropped. Everyone in the stands and those lining the rails leaned forward, ears pricked.

  “...The thing you must do above all else...”

  Cassia held her breath.

  He lifted both arms and shouted, “Go find your champion!”

  The roar of approval was instantaneous. Trumpets blared and the rules were read, then the trumpets sounded again and a far gate swung open. The knights began to enter the jousting arena.

  Resplendent in their armor and brightly colored tunics, each preceded by a herald bearing a pennant, they rode on mighty destriers before the assembled crowd.

  This time, the cheers were deafening. Men shouted and whistled, ladies clapped and waved ribbons to their favorites as the knights made their circuit around the arena.

  Cassia rested her elbows on the railing and leaned forward. Her father, beside her, snapped his hand around her elbow.

  “You look like a wanton, draped over the railing,” he said in a low, furious hiss.

  Her face flushed as the other ladies in nearby boxes turned to look at them. “I—” she whispered.

  Her father's eyes grew hard and, for the first time in years, centered in on her with an intense focus that made it feel as if he finally, truly, saw her.

  It was not pleasant.

  “Sit, Cassia, ere I make you.”

  Shock overtook all other emotions. She sat on the cushioned bench, staring sightlessly, her cheeks flaming, her eyes smarting. The other ladies averted their eyes.

  Knights were still streaming into the arena, entering through the far gate. She turned to watch.

  Through the opening, she saw the usual array of squires and milling festival goers. What drew her eye, though, was a single figure not moving or milling or evidencing any excitement at all.

  A man.

  Just beyond the gate, watching through the opening. He wore a simple tunic and hose and boots, and stood in a lazy stance, arms crossed, observing the festivities with something approaching boredom. People bustled and shouted all around him, but he was like the calm in the eye of a storm. He did nothing but watch—watch her.

  Or rather, her part of the stands. It made sense: this is where many of the fairest, most noble maidens were seated, and it was the most laughter-strewn part of the entire stadium.

  Somehow she did not think it was the laughter that drew his attention.

  But his stillness drew hers.

  Even from a distance, she could tell his build was capable of wielding knightly armor and lance and sword. So why wasn’t he? There was much coin to be had here. Horses, armor, renown.

  What reason would a man so clearly capable of fighting come to a tourney meant for fighting, and not fight?

  He must not be a knight.

  A late-arriving combatant trotted in front of him. She tipped to the side to keep him in sight.

  She could almost have sworn he was looking at her.

  Her father's voice came from behind. She jerked slightly, moving away from the hand that always reached for her, correcting, maneuvering, making her be precisely what he required her to be to get what he most desired: coin.

  It was a shame he was such a gambler, and it all slipped through his fingers.

  “Here is Sir Bennett now, Cassia.” Her father's voice was rich with satisfaction. “Make yourself agreeable for once.”

  A blond-haired knight on a huge horse paused before their box.

  “My lord. Lady Cassia,” he said in a rich, mellifluous voice. The man of every woman’s dreams. A skilled warrior, wealthy, courteous... Passionate.

  Surely it was passion that had made him back her into a dark corner when he visited her father earlier this spring and plant a kiss on her mouth.

  Surely it was gallantry that made him promise more such pleasures once they were wed.

  Surely.

  She told herself adventures could be complicated things. After all, one could not dictate an adventure be pleasing in every way. Surely there would be moments of mild discomfort.

  Sir Bennett was the best knight here. Champion of tourneys in England and on the Continent. A jouster par excellence.

  His gaze slid appreciatively over her body. “My lady, you shine more brightly than the sun which can never be dimmed.”

  She smiled. “I thank you for the compliment, sir. And yet, as the annals show, the sun can indeed be dimmed, as during the eclipse in King Henri I’s reign, when it was said—”

  Her father leaned forward. “Forgive her,” he said, his jaw tight. “She has had too much learning.”

  Sir Bennett’s flat gaze shifted to her father. “Think nothing of it, my lord,” he said with a bow from his saddle. He cast a last dubious glance at Cassia and rode off.

  She’d inexplicably failed again.

  Her gaze skidded back to the gate. The man was still there.

  Her father grunted in irritation. “What are you looking at?” He bent to follow her gaze.

  Without warning and in a single fluid movement, the m
an pushed off the wall and walked out of sight.

  “Nothing, Father.”

  He started to say something, then glanced toward the lord's box. From the shadows within, someone beckoned to him.

  “I must away,” he said. “I will gather you later. Stay seated and for God’s sake, show some decorum. You have six potential husbands here. Do not make them regret placing a bid for you before they've even fought for the privilege of your hand.”

  Face flushing with embarrassment, heart hardening with the old bitter ache, she sat back and acted proper as he strode off.

  Chapter 3

  The knights continued to parade into the arena and the gate stood open, attendants milling about, jostling each other good-naturedly as they maneuvered to see inside.

  Máel stood a few paces back, scanning the stands and boxes reserved for honored guests, debating his choices.

  A straight-out attack didn't seem wise. On the other hand, he didn't have many options.

  It was at times like this he wished he was more like Fáelán, who didn't sneeze without a plan.

  Máel had nothing even approaching a plan.

  One could not simply pull a sword on a cursed English nobleman in the middle of a tourney surrounded by a plethora of other cursed noblemen—armed ones at that.

  He supposed he could sneak up on d’Argent and stab him, but that would not get him Moralltach.

  Which left...what?

  “Hold your horse for you, sir?”

  He looked over sharply. Seeing no one, he looked down.

  A boy stood there, no more than ten years old, peering up expectantly. His face was dirty, his clothes dirtier yet. Clearly, one of the legions of poor or homeless youth that populated every town and city. A tournament like this, with battle, festival, and market rolled into one, was an unprecedented opportunity. The children were everywhere, offering every conceivable service, robbing one blind along the way if they could.

  Máel respected the sort.

  But he didn't need any help, and he surely didn't need any attention on him.

  “No.” He went back to planning his non-plan.

  “See you haven't an attendant, sir,” the urchin persisted. “Happy to carry your lance or polish your armor.”

  This time Máel examined the boy for an extended beat of annoyance. “Do I look as though I have a lance?”

  The boy shook his head slowly, like a sage. “No, sir. You look like an outlaw.”

  Ignoring this accurate slight on his character, he turned back to the arena. D'Argent would be sitting in one of the boxes—the front hung with pennants, his treacherous arse settled on a velvet cushion.

  The boy's voice chirped up again. “Certes, sir, I can find you anything you need. Weapons, lodging, whores...”

  Máel looked down slowly. “How old are you?”

  The boy grinned. “Old enough to find you a whore.”

  “I don't need a whore,” he said curtly, then went still, his attention centering on one of the boxes.

  There he was. D'Argent, Lord of Ware. Looking the other way, toward Lord Yves’s box. A woman sat beside him...a daughter?

  D'Argent had a daughter.

  A beautiful one.

  She might be useful.

  He had no idea how, specifically, owing to his complete lack of plans, but an heiress seemed like a useful thing.

  The boy, apparently undeterred by Máel's lack of need for a lance, a squire, or a whore, tipped to the side and peered into the arena with him. “Which one is she?”

  He snapped his gaze down. “She?”

  The boy shrugged. “You’ve the look of a man who’s watching a woman.”

  Máel stifled a sigh and dug into one of the pouches on his belt. He drew out a penny and dropped it into the boy's hand.

  The child stared at the coin, then lifted suspicious eyes. Smart urchin.

  “What's this for?” he asked.

  “Going away.”

  A grin flashed across his dirty face, light shining through ash. He darted off, then stopped and looked at the penny he'd earned for doing absolutely nothing. He turned back.

  “You sure you don’t need anything? I can help. A nice place to stay?” He ran the back of a grimy hand under his nose. “P'rhaps some wine or ale? Or a tavern—”

  “I need to get in there.”

  The boy followed the direction of his nod toward the arena. A line of knights still awaited entry, leather and metal clinking as they prepared to ride in to the adoring crowds.

  “I could walk you over,” the boy said uncertainly, reaching for the reins of Máel’s horse. “But it'll cost you a ha'penny.”

  “You'd charge me to walk my horse ten paces?” Máel was shocked. Even he and Rowan and Fáelán didn't charge these kinds of fees.

  “I'd charge to say God bless you.” The child looked between the arena and Máel. “You're not a knight, are you?”

  “What do you think?”

  The boy snorted. “I think you're never getting in that parade.”

  Máel glanced at the baron’s daughter again and a plan formed swiftly in his mind. “I don't need to get in the parade. I need to get in the stands.”

  “Oh, sure, I can do that.” The boy held out his hand.

  Máel sighed and dropped another penny into it.

  The boy shoved them into some hidden pouch on his person and cast another, less approving, look at Máel. “You've got a lady love in there, haven't you?” He sounded disgusted.

  Máel frowned. “What's your name, boy?”

  “Odin, sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir.”

  The boy grinned. “Follow me, outlaw.”

  Máel took one last look inside the arena.

  D’Argent’s daughter was looking at him. The baron was leaning forward, following her gaze.

  He turned and walked away.

  Chapter 4

  Cassia was sitting in her father’s box, quite properly, when she felt a stillness arrive beside her, on the other side of the low barrier that separated the reserved boxes from the general stands.

  She peeked out the corner of her eye. A little shiver of recognition moved through her. It was the man from the gates.

  He sat alone. Eating a strawberry. Raw.

  How dangerous.

  He noted her attention and nodded. She angled her face a quarter-turn away and pretended she hadn’t been watching him.

  “'Tis a fine, large morning,” he said by way of inappropriate greeting.

  She ignored him and his lack of manners and his beautiful, dangerously raw strawberry.

  “Which one's your favorite?” he asked, quite as if they knew each other. As if he had a right to be speaking to her.

  Which did nothing to explain why she replied, albeit with a sniff to show she did not wish to be speaking to him. “I haven't one.”

  He nodded, then lifted his hand and pointed with one of the strawberries. “Don’t cheer for that one. He’s a bit wobbly in the saddle.”

  Voice dripping with disdain, she turned to him. “I'll have you know that is Sir Albert. He won three jousting tourneys last summer alone.”

  “Aye? Good for him. Do you think he cheats?”

  The shock of the question made her turn fully in her seat to examine him. “How dare you say such a thing? Of course he doesn't cheat.”

  He nodded, as if glad to hear it. “Good. Wouldn't want any cheating among noblemen.”

  She looked away, determined not to speak to him gain.

  He was quiet a moment too, then continued the conversation she did not wish to be having.

  “'Tis simply he doesn't look the sort to win three championships in his entire life, let alone one summer.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His eyes held hers. They were quite blue. “He hasn't a good seat on the horse. Aye, the saddle will hold him in for a bit, but...” He shook his head sadly. “That's not enough. You need some strength in here.” He tapped his broad, calloused hand—and
the luscious red strawberries held in it—against his chest. A chest that looked as though it had a great deal of strength.

  She should not be noticing such things. Especially about impolite rogues who spoke to ladies they should not be speaking to.

  Cheeks hot, she slid her glance back to the arena field, making a solemn vow to ignore him. She would not say one more word.

  Before she could ignore him sufficiently, though, he continued his unwanted commentary by aiming his strawberry-fisted hand in the direction of Sir Bennett.

  “Now that one, he looks like he could do some damage. Too bad his legs are spindly.”

  Her jaw fell.

  “And his armor is parted just there, behind his left shoulder—”

  Unable to resist, she examined Sir Bennett's left shoulder, then spun in indignant anger. “That is Sir Bennett of Carlisle and he is one of the greatest tourneyers of our age.”

  He gave a low whistle. “Our entire age, is it?”

  She sniffed. “He has won more tourneys than almost anyone here. He is confident, skilled, unbeatable in fact, and he may well be my betrothed in a sennight.”

  “Ahhh.” It was a low sound that could be comprehension or flat-out mockery. “Well, you might want to tell him about the armor.” He angled his hand over his own shoulder to indicate the area.

  She stared down her nose at him, as much as she was able. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  His ice-blue eyes met hers. “No one, my lady.”

  She felt the presence of this “no one” like heat from a fire. Best to keep her distance.

  She turned her face decidedly away, then, unable to resist, whipped back. “You look to be of sound body, if not mind, sirrah, yet I don't see you out there, braving anything.”

  “Oh, I'm not brave,” he said comfortably.

  She was almost dizzy at his escalating impropriety.

  And still she did not get up.

  Instead, she retorted acidly, “Of course you are not. Else you would not be sitting in the stands being inappropriate with a lady above your station. You’d be fighting like a real man.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “Fight?” he said incredulously. “For what?”