A Dark and Stormy Knight (A Knight's Tale Book 3)

by Diane Darcy

  The queen pushed a heavy curtain aside so she could peer out. “The field below the castle has been prepared for the joust. I imagine it is already crowded as word will have spread from village to keep.”

  The village was lined with people, many who followed, calling out to the queen as the carriage slowly passed by.

  It took them about fifteen minutes to arrive.

  The queen wasn’t wrong about the crowds.

  It was much like what she’d seen at Stirling Castle. Crowds gathered onto the field, food vendors sold their wares, a general air of excitement.

  A barrier was set up, defining the battlefield, and a dais for king and queen, with just enough standing room for maybe five of their retinue on each side.

  The door to the coach opened, and the queen was helped down and guided to where the king had already seated himself.

  So much for leading him men in gentlemanly behavior.

  The crowd parted and Cara followed the other three ladies in the queen’s wake, until the queen sat beside the king, and the four of them stood at her side.

  King Henry grinned over at her. “Lady Cara, perhaps I should tie you to my chair to make sure you do not jump into the fray? What say you?”

  Everyone laughed and Cara was getting sick of that particular joke, but she smiled gamely and gave the king a quick curtsy. “And spoil all my fun, Your Majesty?”

  Oh, he liked that, laughing harder than ever and pounding the arm of his chair as he glanced around, inviting the men gathered nearby to laugh with him.

  There was a sudden scream, and Cara glanced around and her stomach tightened when she saw Wallace and his stamping warhorse, almost trampling a man who got too close.

  The man ducked away and, disaster averted, Cara took in her knight.

  Oh. He was magnificent.

  Big, muscular, sitting in the high-backed saddle upon his black destrier, the animal covered with a red blanket trimmed in gold, decorated with black wolves. Black leather, studded with metal, emphasized the breadth of the destrier’s chest.

  Wallace was completely covered, head to boot, in chainmail over a black tunic, a helmet with a plume of black and red feathers trailing behind.

  Muscles and chainmail rippled at his slightest move, and looked big, intimidating, dangerous.

  She lost her breath, and didn’t take another until dizziness forced her to suck in air and grip the queen’s chair.

  And, oh. He was magnificent.

  She glanced over at Rupert, further away, his horse dancing in place. He was a contrast in gleaming gold and white.

  Her brows suddenly creased. As impressive as Wallace was, perhaps looking so much like a villain wasn’t the best choice.

  After all, for whatever reason, Wallace in the role of villain had resonated through the centuries.

  She glanced around at the crowd to gauge their reactions, but beyond excitement and anticipation, there didn’t seem to be a clear favorite, as of yet.

  She couldn’t really see Wallace dressed in white, anyway, and at this point, what was done, was done.

  If this were Hollywood, there would be no doubt that Wallace was the bad guy, and Rupert the hero.

  Easy enough to see how the mistake had been made, and repeated throughout the centuries.

  If Wallace insisted on going around looking like that, she supposed she’d have to continue to play the part of his PR representative.

  And, what? Somehow convince the crowd that anti-heroes were this year’s new champions?

  Her breath left her in a rush.

  Maybe a quick prayer would be the better option.

  Chapter 35

  Thunder boomed in the distance and dark clouds, heavy with moisture, sat low in the sky.

  Wallace stared down the lists to the other side of the field where Sir Rupert had his lance tilted upward, waiting.

  Sir Rupert’s horse, feet stamping, relayed the other man’s nerves as clearly as if Sir Rupert spoke them aloud.

  In contrast, his own horse was still, muscles bunched with excitement as Wallace, cold inside, awaited the king’s command.

  He’d worked toward this for so long, and now that he was to have his chance, he just wanted it over and done.

  He wished to return to Wolfsbane, reclaim his inheritance, and clear out any rabble Dinsdale had installed.

  A sense of being here before broke his concentration as he remembered feeling much the same way at Stirling.

  A sudden chill raced up his spine.

  He glanced to where Cara stood, slightly behind the king’s chair, her hand gripping the back.

  She looked straight at Wallace, concern and worry upon her face.

  Worry for him?

  His mount snorted as if in response to her concern.

  Did she think him incapable of winning?

  No one, not even Cara, would interfere with his victory this time.

  Two of his men had watched his mount and equipment throughout the night. And Wallace had neither food, nor drink save for the water from the skin he kept with him when traveling.

  He glanced around for Lord Dinsdale, and spotted him standing in the crowd across from Sir Rupert.

  He stared at his son, but did not speak to him, which struck Wallace as curious.

  If his own father were there, he would offer advice, give instruction, and discuss the best way to defeat his opponent.

  Grimness gripped him, his mouth setting. His father was not there, and would never be again, and the wretches responsible would finally pay for that, this day.

  He glanced at the crowd, already lining up, and deemed them far enough away that no one should be injured unless they interfered.

  That took his attention back to Cara, safely beside the king and queen, with no chance to disrupt the tournament.

  The dust in the air, and the smell of roasting meat had his stomach clenching.

  Villagers jeered, mostly at him, and he ignored them all.

  As the crowd became more restless, it seemed some of them, no doubt full of ale and sweetbread, braved more, and a lout and his companions, jeered from a short distance away.

  “Is the king giving ye another chance, then? Do ye suppose ye’ll be able to get yer lance up this time?”

  Nearby raucous laughter told of others enjoying the crude joke.

  Wallace did not react.

  He continued to scan the crowd, as far as he was able, studying the people around him, ever expecting an attack, a cheat, a backstab of some sort.

  Two of his own men stood at his back, also watching.

  A couple of fools moved into the middle of the field, one falling down and waving a feminine handkerchief in the air, while the other ran at him, rearing up at the last moment in a parody of a horse.

  The crowd laughed louder, showing he had few friends in this group.

  He spotted his mother, off the side of the dais, looking his way, and knew she could not see his face.

  He saw her expression well enough though, and could hear her voice in his head as clearly as if she spoke to him. You know what is at stake here.

  He did. They either won, or lost all today. And if Wallace were to fall, his family would be left with a desperate future.

  His stomach roiled with sudden emotion, and he willed his certainty back to the fore.

  He’d honed his skills over years of fighting. No one could defeat him.

  The king stood, obviously in good spirits, smiling, and lifting his hands in the air as a signal for the crowd to quiet.

  They slowly did, nudging each other until everyone turned, craning their necks to see.

  “Lady Helena, will you and your girls join me?”

  His mother moved through the gathered aristocracy, the girls following, and the crowd finally parted to let them through.

  “And, Lord Dinsdale, will you not join us as well?”

  His mother’s face jerked toward the king.

  The monarch apparently wanted to draw blood, wishing all of the
players front and center so he could see every nuance of emotion from both winner and loser.

  With Cara and his family now on the side of the queen, and Dinsdale stepping up beside the king, all the participants were in place.

  “Wallace of Wolfsbane,” King Henry gestured for Wallace to come forward.

  “Sir Rupert of Dinsdale.” Everyone quieted as they waited for Sir Rupert to take his place next to Wallace, facing the king.

  The king would have his spectacle, but it would be over soon enough.

  “What many of you may not realize, is that you are about to witness an historic event. For one thing, I have changed my mind on an issue, something I rarely do.”

  After a moment of silence, he laughed, and only then did laughter break out among the audience.

  Wallace did not feel so much as a sliver of amusement.

  “As you know, this particular fight was to take place at Stirling, and was interrupted in a most unusual manner.”

  The two jesters in the crowd ran onto the field again, one pawing the air and neighing, the other waving a handkerchief and playing the damsel. Everyone, including the king, laughed all the harder.

  The king raised both hands again gesturing the crowd to silence once more.

  “The matter will be decided this day, at this time, and naught will change the outcome. I’ll not reconsider a second time, that I can promise. There will be a winner, there will be a loser, there will be a definitive answer before God,” he lifted his gaze to the sky before looking directly at Wallace. “And king.”

  The crowd cheered and when they quieted once more, the king said, “This time, if any person runs, or is pushed onto the field,” he gave Cara a dark look, “then I order you to run them down. I will accept no cries of foul.”

  The queen leaned forward in her chair and said something to the king.

  The king gave an indulgent smile. “Of course, of course. Lady Cara, will you please come forward.”

  The queen said something to Cara in a low undertone as she passed, and Cara nodded and untied the ribbons around her arm.

  His heart twisted in his chest as he saw she wore his colors and in another heartbeat’s time, the emotions he’d worked hard to suppress roared to life.

  Get control, Wallace. He’d seen tragedies occur on the battlefield after even the briefest loss of attention.

  She was not the first lady to gift a favor upon him before a joust. A kerchief, ribbon, or sleeve. But she was the first lady who was his, and his alone.

  Her steady gaze met his. Her beautiful hazel eyes, her lashes ridiculously thick against her pale face, the moment seemed to stretch, grow, the very air seeming to weigh heavy.

  “Wolfsbane! The lady would like your lance,” the king said, as he, and others laughed.

  Wallace, coming to himself, lowered his lance and Cara tied her ribbons at the end of it.

  She was nervous, a little clumsy, and it only made him love her all the more.

  He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat. He did love her. With his whole heart. No one had ever caused this yearning tenderness she so easily unlocked inside him.

  Tenderness welled within him, an astonishing emotion in the midst of all this, every eye upon them, but moments before the fight of his life.

  He was humbled by the opportunity she’d won for him. He could still be languishing in the dungeon, and instead, was on the cusp of not only getting everything back, but having her as well.

  She finished tying the ribbons, and looked up at him once more, her face solemn. “You’ve got this,” she said, her strange way of telling him she had confidence in him.

  That tender emotion grew and expanded. She’d never been more beautiful to him than she was in that moment.

  She was quickly becoming his everything.

  When he won today, he’d have it all. His home, his properties, his lady.

  The king laughed aloud once more. “Take thy positions!”

  As he turned his mount, he kept his gaze upon Cara’s face for as long as he could.

  Chapter 36

  They took positions, and Wallace’s heart thudded hard and slow.

  He felt this before, often in fact, when fighting, training, or jousting.

  His thoughts became focused.

  His hearing, sharper.

  His mount pawed at the ground, as muscles bunched beneath him, readying, yearning for the fight he’d been trained for.

  The sounds of the crowds, screaming and clapping their excitement, muted, as he lined his horse into position.

  He gazed down the field at Sir Rupert, their slitted gazes meeting, though from the distance, he could make out neither color nor emotion.

  He ground his teeth, his hatred of the Dinsdales narrowing to the one target.

  A bugle signaled.

  Wallace dug heels into the destrier’s flanks, his horse reared, before springing forward.

  As his mount picked up speed, Wallace balanced himself, lowered his lance, and roared as he lined up, same as he’d done a thousand times before, to hit the other man square in the chest, even as he leaned so that Sir Rupert’s weapon glanced off him.

  The wooden pole slammed, shattered, jarring his arm as satisfaction blasted through him.

  It was a direct hit, a good one, yet, when he looked back, somehow Dinsdale managed to keep his seat, weaving drunkenly atop his horse before pulling himself back into position.

  Cheers from the crowd were deafening.

  Hooves thundering, Wallace rode back into position on the opposite side.

  His heart pounded hard as he set up again, eyeing his opponent across the field. Sir Rupert straightened, rolled a shoulder, still feeling the force of the blow.

  Sir Thomas brought a new lance, and Wallace hefted it, still watching his enemy.

  He’d aim lower this time, get the man on the ground and end this, once and for all.

  Sir Rupert leaned slightly to the side and bent forward, but he slowly straightened back into position and his squire handed him a lance.

  The bugle sounded and destrier and man lunged forward, his hate for this family rising to the fore.

  They’d killed his father. Stabbed in the throat.

  They had taken Wolfsbane properties, power, position.

  Left his mother and sisters all but destitute, ruining their futures.

  A growl erupted from between Wallace’s clenched teeth as they surged toward each other and crashed, bodies jolting hard, wood splintering, crowd roaring their approval.

  The blow took his breath, but not his will, and he turned to see Sir Rupert still upon his mount!

  This would end now, and he would end it.

  The misery, uncertainty, bitterness and anger all surged, his world narrowing to the necessity of seeing this through.

  Both of them set up, a bugle blast, and Sir Rupert surged forward, Wallace racing to meet him, the striking of hooves resonating as the distance closed.

  Wallace aimed, and struck true. Hard.

  Sir Rupert took the hit.

  Wallace turned in the saddle so he could look back, only to see Rupert still clinging, somehow.

  The man was going to force him to win by points.

  The crowd cheered for Sir Rupert, some chanting his name as both of them moved to opposite ends and set up.

  Sir Thomas rushed forward with a new lance, Favian at his side. “My lord? What do you need?”

  Without a word, he exchanged his shattered lance for another, hefting it in his hand, feeling its weight, the moment the horn blasted, digging his heels into his mount for another run.

  What he needed was to win.

  The firm wood of the lance, gripped tightly in his fist, the taste of the dirt, swirling in the air, the roar of the crowd, the beat of his heart, all of it coalesced into a focused moment in time.

  He couched the lance directly over the high pommel of his saddle and braced himself against stirrups, anticipating the moment of impact.

 
His world exploded.

  He hit Sir Rupert square in the chest, even as Sir Rupert hit him, and pain erupted in his left shoulder.

  He grabbed hold of the pommel to right himself, even as Sir Rupert toppled over backward onto the ground.

  Wallace swung his horse around so all could see he was in complete control, before dismounting, tossing his helmet, and raising his hand to catch the sword Sir Thomas threw toward him.

  Wallace waited until the other man gained his feet to show his king what honor looked like on a battlefield, rather than out of consideration for Dinsdale.

  Sir Rupert’s squire rushed to give him his sword, and Wallace waited, while he struggled, gasping for breath, trying to remain standing.

  Wallace had but to plunge his sword into the other man’s gut to end this, but again, good sportsmanship stayed his hand.

  The Dinsdale family acted without honor, Wolfsbanes did not.

  His mother, sisters, and lady were here to witness his strength, and the regaining of their lost power, and he would be damned if he did it without honor.

  Sir Rupert finally steadied himself enough to lift his sword, and Wallace moved forward.

  They circled each other, looking for an opening, and Wallace felt a surge of satisfaction as Sir Rupert held one arm to his chest, his breathing harsh and ragged.

  He didn’t see any blood, but he’d bruised the other man’s sternum, mayhap even breaking bones.

  The Dinsdales’ reign was over, finished, and Sir Rupert swung his sword, easily blocked, the weakness displayed proof that he lacked strength.

  Not that he would let his guard down, as Dinsdales were a sneaky, sly and murderous lot.

  Another swing from Sir Rupert, easily deflected as Wallace’s breathing evened out, even as the other man stumbled back.

  The crowd, whipped into frenzy, screamed for blood, cheering for their favorites.

  Sir Rupert lunged again, Wallace easily countered, and Sir Rupert grasped his hood and tore it off, revealing damp blond hair, a pale face, and wild eyes. “Blast you! Cease toying with me.”

  Wallace tore his hood off as well, quickly, so as not to put himself at a disadvantage.

  He cared naught for Dinsdale, but wanted the Wolfsbane name vindicated once and for all, without the taint of foul play.