True Love, page 10
“I see I am too late,” Catherine murmured to Aldis. “I wanted to give my scarf to Father, but Lady Edith reached him before I could.”
“I am sure he is only being polite to a guest,” Aldis said. “Lady Edith hasn't a sensible thought in her head and she is much too vain to hold Lord Royce's attention for more than a single afternoon.”
“Thank you for those reassuring words,” Catherine said, laughing away the notion that her father was seriously interested in Lady Edith. “But I still must avoid giving my scarf to Achard. He is certain to ask me for a token to wear when he goes into battle.”
“The best way to evade an unwelcome request from Achard is to give your scarf to another man first, just as you planned,” Aldis said. She punctuated her words with a significant glance toward the tent into which Robert was just disappearing.
“I know.” Catherine's reaction was a bit sharp. After her peculiar interlude with Braedon on the previous afternoon, she had resolved to keep her distance from him. He had made it quite plain that his true devotion lay with King Henry. Even so, Catherine was sure that, in accordance with his promise to her, Braedon would do everything he could to keep her safe from Achard's importunities. She believed his concern for her stemmed from his cousin's mistreatment by Eustace. Braedon would not allow Linette's fate to befall any other woman, if he could possibly prevent it. He would protect Catherine, as he would protect any lady who needed his help, but his protection was not offered out of deep personal affection; it was simply something that Braedon felt bound to do.
Catherine briefly interrupted the flirtation between her father and Lady Edith so she could wish Royce luck in the melee and give him a warm kiss and a hug. Aware of the jealous expression on Lady Edith's pretty face, Catherine did not tarry with her parent.
“Here comes Achard,” Aldis whispered as she and Catherine left Royce. “In another moment he'll see you, and we both know what his first question will be. If you give him your scarf, he's sure to take it as a sign that you will accept his marriage proposal. He will become even more forward and arrogant. Catherine, you will have to depend upon Sir Braedon's protection.”
“Yes, you are right. There is only one thing to do about my cursed scarf.” Catherine set off in the direction of the dark blue tent where they had encountered Robert. Deciding it was better to be rude than to risk having Achard catch up with her, she burst through the tent flap without asking permission to enter.
She found Braedon bending over from the waist while Robert slid his chainmail tunic over his hands and head. The padded gambeson Braedon wore under the chainmail was so well fitted to his upper body that Catherine could see his muscles straining against the fabric as he shrugged to help Robert move the heavy mail.
Braedon shoved his arms through the arms of the chainmail and then he straightened, his head emerging from the metal links with his short, dark hair in disarray. Robert tugged at the mail, adjusting the tunic over Braedon's shoulders and back. His legs and feet were already encased in mail.
“Oh my.” Aldis came into the tent just behind Catherine and she stared wide-eyed at the tall knight.
Braedon heard her and turned, but he did not look at Aldis. His gaze was on Catherine.
“My ladies, please,” Robert cried, making a motion as if to shoo them out of the tent. “This is not proper.”
“We will only stay for a moment,” Catherine said. She could not help herself; she shivered a little when she looked at Braedon. Covered by his armor he presented a daunting appearance. He seemed to her to be something other than mere human flesh, a cold, fierce creature made entirely of steel. Only his eyes were warm and they blazed with such heat that Catherine was almost afraid to look into their midnight-blue depths.
“What is it you want, my lady?” Braedon said to her, his voice clipped and precise, as cold as his metal-clad body.
“I've brought you my scarf to wear,” Catherine said, holding out the wisp of bright blue silk.
“I cannot.” He directed a glare at the silk, as if the sheer fabric were to blame for some unspeakable crime. “You should not ask this of me.”
“My lady, you will offend Lord Achard,” Robert protested.
“It's because of Lord Achard that Sir Braedon must agree to wear Catherine's scarf,” Aldis declared. To Braedon she added, “Oh, don't you see how Achard will insist upon Catherine giving her scarf to him so he can make much of the gift?”
“I do see,” Braedon said. “Still, there must be another knight who will gladly wear the token, to keep it away from Achard.”
“But you are Catherine's champion!” Aldis cried. “Only yesterday you protected her from Achard's wicked designs on her, and made Robert and me promise to help you keep her safe in the future. That gives you the right to wear her badge.”
“Aldis, you have said quite enough,” Catherine declared. “I knew I should not let you convince me to enter this tent. Sir Braedon, I apologize for asking of you a favor you are not free to grant. Come, Aldis.” She was almost out of the tent when Braedon's large hand covered the fingers that clutched her blue scarf.
“Give me that.” He took the scarf from her. “Rather than let Achard claim it and perhaps use it to exact rights from you that you do not wish to bestow on him, I will wear it.”
“That's not a very gracious acceptance,” Catherine said.
“Perhaps I do not know how to be more polite because, until this day, no lady has ever offered me such an emblem of honor.”
He touched her cheek lightly, brushed his knuckles along her jaw and then, in a gesture she was beginning to know well, he laid a finger over her lips. Catherine stood very still, looking into his eyes, wherein she thought she perceived both grief and longing. To her surprise she discovered that she had to blink away unexpected moisture from her own eyes.
“Will you tie it on?” he asked, holding out the scarf.
“Yes, of course.” She fumbled as she wrapped the length of silk twice around his upper arm. Her fingers were numb; she tied the knot, then had to retie it again to make it secure. When she was finished she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“I wish you well today,” she said. “I wish you victory.”
“Catherine.” His face was set and expressionless, and his eyes gazed inward, though he appeared to be looking at her. “Thank you, my lady. You do me great honor.” His voice was so husky that Catherine knew he was holding back strong emotion.
There was nothing more to say, and Catherine could tell by the way Robert was fidgeting that there were preparations still to be finished before the tournament began. She gave Braedon a last smile and left the tent with Aldis.
Sure enough, she had scarcely taken two steps away from Braedon's tent when Achard appeared at her side.
“I have been seeking you,” Achard announced. “You will, of course, have a token for me, a scarf or ribbon, or a glove, that I may wear during the melee.”
“Alas, my lord, you are too late,” Catherine told him. “I have already presented my scarf to another knight.” Hoping he would leave her alone, she continued on her way to her place in the stand.
“You may not do that.” Achard grabbed her arm, stopping her. He was wearing his chainmail and his sword was already belted on. With the brilliant sunlight full upon him, he would have presented a glittering vision of knightly beauty, were it not for the grim set of his handsome features and the cold and calculating look in his eyes. “I am your acknowledged suitor. Your favors are to be bestowed on me, alone.”
“How can I acknowledge so laggard a suitor, my lord? All of the other ladies have been asked for their tokens long before this hour. I assumed you had forgotten me.” Catherine tried to shake off Achard's restraining hand. He only held her tighter. “Do you intend to repeat yesterday's assault on my person?” she demanded.
“Royce permits you entirely too much freedom,” Achard said. “He allows you to express your opinions to men, which it is wrong for any gently bred maiden to do. He certainly ought not to give you the right to choose your own husband; that is a privilege reserved to a lady's parents or her guardian. Nor should you be free to give away your scarf wherever you will.”
“Release me, Lord Achard.” Catherine wished she dared to tell him there were no circumstances under which she would ever agree to marry him. Despite his handsome appearance, Achard was physically repulsive to her, and he was so rough and overbearing as a suitor that she was sure he would be intolerable as a husband.
She could not tell him so, at least, not yet. She had promised her father that she would allow Achard's courtship for the duration of the Whitsuntide festival, and she would not go back on her word.
“The tournament is about to begin,” Aldis noted, coming to Catherine's aid. “My lord Achard, Lady Catherine must take her seat at once.”
“Who is wearing your scarf?” Achard demanded of Catherine. “Tell me the man's name.”
Catherine lifted her chin and parted her lips to inform him that she had no intention of revealing who was wearing her scarf, when Braedon stepped out of his tent with his sword girded at his waist and the swath of blue silk conspicuous on his upper left arm. Robert followed him, bearing Braedon's shield and battleaxe.
Achard looked from the bright silk around Braedon's muscular arm to Catherine's gown, which was exactly the same shade, and he came to the obvious conclusion.
“You gave your scarf to that landless bastard?” Achard demanded of Catherine in a low, dangerous voice. “To him, and not to me?”
“Why, my lord, I thought he was your friend,” Catherine said with false meekness. “When you did not request a token of me, I thought you would not mind if I granted the favor to Sir Braedon. Having given him my badge, I will not ask him to return it.”
“You -!” Achard dropped Catherine's arm as if it were poisonous.
“What, Lady Catherine, are you still here?” With exaggerated casualness, Braedon sauntered over to her. “You ought to be in your seat by now.”
“So I have been telling her,” Aldis put in, sounding desperate.
“Good day to you, Achard,” Braedon said, nodding politely. “Are you ready for the melee?”
“Ready, and more than ready,” Achard growled at him. Neglecting to take proper leave of the ladies, he stalked away, shouting to his squire to bring his shield and other weapons.
“I fear I have greatly annoyed my lord Achard,” Catherine said.
“You knew you would,” Braedon told her with a quick glance for the scarf on his arm.
“Be careful,” she murmured.
“I am always careful. Until this evening, my lady.” Braedon bowed and left her, with Robert at his side.
“I wonder if I have made a mistake in giving my scarf to Braedon,” Catherine said as she and Aldis made their way to the stand.
“It's a bit late to worry about that,” Aldis snapped. “I was surprised by your hesitation. Compared to Lord Achard, Sir Braedon is much the better man.”
“And my father is a better man than either of them,” Catherine returned. “If I could have given my scarf to him, there would be no quarrel between Braedon and Achard. Now I fear Achard will take his anger out on Braedon during the fighting.”
The viewing stand was crowded with Royce's guests. The scalloped edges of the blue canopy fluttered above the eager, waiting spectators. The same breeze that ruffled the canopy, when blowing across the field of mock battle would afford relief from the summerlike heat to the knights who were about to begin fighting. A seat in the center of the first row of benches was designated for Catherine's use, and at her behest Aldis was given a place beside her. Catherine noticed that Lord Phelan, who was not participating in the melee, was sitting just a few spaces away from her.
The action of the melee involved two troops of mounted knights fighting against each other as if they were opposing armies. As the first activity of the day, the men drew lots to determine who would fight on which side. Next, the herald in charge of the tournament called out the rules of the melee in a loud voice and all of the participants shouted their agreement. When the herald called for dissenting voices, not one man responded.
“Since all are in agreement,” the herald shouted, “let the tournament begin!”
After the horsemen rode past the viewing stand to salute the ladies and the older noblemen who were not fighting, and then separated into the two mock armies, Catherine was relieved to see that Braedon and Achard were to be on the same side, though they would be opposing Royce.
“The arrangement ought to prevent Achard from doing harm to Braedon,” she murmured to Aldis.
“I see Eustace is riding with the troop commanded by Lord Royce,” Aldis noted. “That may not be a good thing. I hope Eustace doesn't take this opportunity to settle the score with Sir Braedon after their quarrel the other day.”
Catherine did not respond. She was too intent on the contestants to think of anything but the battle that was about to commence. The two mock armies drew apart. Royce, as host of the tournament, had gallantly offered the advantage to the leader of the other troop, who chose to occupy a slight rise where the land began to slope upward toward the castle. Royce and his men were located on the flat meadowland near the river. Both sides awaited the sign to begin the charge. Their restless steeds pawed the ground. A hush fell over the audience; even the boisterous commoners were quiet.
Catherine stood. It was her duty to give the starting signal. The mounted herald who was in charge of seeing to it that the rules were obeyed leaned over the front of the stand to hand a square of white cloth to her. This she raised high, waving it to be sure all the contestants could see it. Then, with a silent prayer that no one would be killed or seriously injured, she lowered her hand. At once the herald sounded his trumpet and a roar rose from the spectators, nobles and commoners shouting with one voice.
Couching their lances, the horsemen on the higher ground began to move forward, picking up speed as they raced down the slope. Royce's men galloped to meet them. The two groups combined with a fearsome clash of metal on metal. Horses reared and neighed. Mail-clad bodies went flying as knights were unseated. Some men scrambled to their feet at once; others lay where they had fallen.
From the first charge it seemed to Catherine that all was confusion on the field. She found it difficult to identify individual warriors, or to tell which side held the advantage. Apparently, the nobles sitting in the stands, all of whom were former warriors, did understand what was happening. They watched the action with great interest, cheering on their favorites.
“Aha!” shouted Lord Phelan, leaping to his feet in excitement. “Look there! See how clever my relative, Lord Royce, is. Wonderful strategy, dear fellow.”
Catherine followed the direction of Phelan's pointing finger and noticed what she had missed while she was trying to locate Braedon in the melee. From the rear of the men commanded by Royce a large group broke off and wheeled around to attack the opposing band of knights from the side.
The maneuver was so unexpected that a good number of knights were unhorsed. By the rules agreed upon beforehand, these men were permitted to continue fighting on foot, as would happen in actual warfare. The scene quickly became more complex, with groups of horsemen still fighting with lance or sword, while their unhorsed companions pursued the battle with swords and axes.
As half a dozen horsemen surged toward the stand, Catherine saw her scarf on the tallest man's arm. He was battling a brawny warrior who used his broadsword to hack at Braedon, and at his horse, with relentless fury. Catherine's recognition of Braedon's opponent was quickly confirmed.
“Eustace!” Phelan was on his feet again, pounding the air with his fist. “Yes! Yes! Unhorse that lowly bastard.”
Eustace lunged off his horse, grabbing Braedon around the neck in an effort to pull him out of the saddle. If Braedon was to avoid breaking his neck, he must allow himself to be unseated. The two men fell together, their impact with the ground jolting them apart. Braedon rolled away and got to his feet, sword at the ready. Freed of their riders, the horses galloped off until they could be caught by the squires.
Obeying the rules, Braedon waited for Eustace to rise and resume their contest. Catherine saw his broad chest heave several times; she suspected the fall had knocked the wind out of him, but he looked steady on his feet and appeared to be uninjured.
From his place a short distance away from Catherine, Phelan was still shouting advice to Eustace, though there was so much noise that Catherine didn't think Eustace could hear his father. Eustace stayed on his knees, wavering a bit, the hilt of his sword clenched in both hands. Braedon stepped closer and said something to him, apparently a question about his ability to continue. Without warning Eustace swung his sword at Braedon's lower legs. Braedon leapt away at the last instant. The force of Eustace's own blow tumbled him to the ground. Again, Braedon waited, his sword lowered, giving Eustace the opportunity to rise and continue.
“Catherine, you are hurting my fingers,” Aldis complained.
Only then did Catherine realize that all during the confrontation between Braedon and Eustace she had been gripping her cousin's hand tightly. Knowing how much Braedon despised Eustace, she marveled at his self-control. For a few moments Eustace had been entirely at Braedon's mercy, yet he had waited, giving Eustace the chance to recover from his self-inflicted fall, so their duel would be a fair one.
Slowly, shaking his head as if he was dazed, Eustace pushed himself to his feet. Phelan's loud cheers for his son were echoed by the nobles sitting near the proud father, who were doubtless influenced by his enthusiasm.
Having released Aldis' hand, Catherine sat twisting her own fingers together as the fight between the two men began anew. She was only faintly aware of horsemen regrouping at some distance for yet another charge at an ever-shrinking band of mounted warriors, or of the individual combats being waged on foot nearer to the viewing stand. All Catherine's attention was on Braedon, withstanding the vicious attack of a recovered Eustace.
It was only a mock battle, supposedly waged for sport, but Eustace would not relent. His hatred of Braedon was so palpable that only the greatest dullard among the onlookers could be unaware of the personal nature of their duel. There was no question that Eustace was trying to inflict serious injury on Braedon.
