True Love, page 13
“Of course,” Catherine responded with a smile. She was genuinely glad to see him. According to her father, Cadwallon was an honorable soul who was devoted to his wife and young children, and from what Catherine had personally observed of him, she was certain he would never make inappropriate advances to her or to any other woman. She saw how stiffly he moved, as if all of his muscles ached, and how he winced when his broken arm was jostled as he made his way to the seat next to hers, and she decided she would send another potion of poppy syrup to him that night, to aid him in sleeping.
If her headache did not improve, she might even swallow a drop or two of the stuff herself. In the meantime, lord Cadwallon's bluff good humor and his knowledgeable comments about the day's contests helped to divert Catherine's thoughts from the darker areas where they had been lodged for a day and a long night. Despite herself she began to enjoy the tournament.
“Well, now,” Cadwallon exclaimed when the day's third contest of men fighting on foot was about to commence. He pointed off to one side. “There's an unusual sight.”
“What is that?” Catherine had not been paying strict attention to what was going on at the edges of the field, because during the interval between contests she was trying to locate her father and Braedon.
“A new contestant has just arrived, a man who is not a guest at Wortham,” Cadwallon answered her. With rising enthusiasm he continued, “Aha! This ought to add fresh interest to the day's business. The new knight apparently wants to enter the fray without revealing his identity.”
“Do you think my father will allow it?”
“It's certainly not against the rules Royce has stipulated. Sometimes, well known men prefer to fight incognito. It's less embarrassing if the man should be defeated, and if he wins the prize at the end of the tournament he can reveal his identity then and surprise his admirers.”
Catherine stared at the unknown knight, who rode a huge black warhorse, an animal that, once seen, was not likely to be forgotten. The horse's trappings were black trimmed with silver. Over the knight's silvery chainmail his sword rested in a silver-decorated black leather scabbard that hung from a black belt with a large silver buckle. His long oval shield was also black, with no decoration at all. He wore a metal helmet with noseguard and cheekflaps that covered his face except for his eyes and his mouth.
“He's an imposing sight,” Aldis whispered to Catherine.
“Yes. For a man who wants to remain anonymous he certainly has made himself conspicuous,” Catherine responded dryly. She frowned at the stranger in rising annoyance because, despite his disguise, there was something familiar about him, though she could not decide just what it was that nudged at her memory. “All we need at Wortham just now is yet another mystery,” she muttered.
“Lord Royce has accepted the new man into the list of competing knights,” Cadwallon informed her. “It looks as though he will begin by fighting mounted.”
“So would I, if I owned a horse like that,” Catherine said, her interest piqued in spite of her irritation.
The day's schedule was quickly rearranged to accommodate the man who most appropriately named himself to the herald as le Chevalier Inconnu, the Unknown Knight, or, as the common folk immediately renamed him, simply l'Inconnu. As soon as he was accepted into the list Achard issued a challenge to him. It was decided by Royce and the herald that the two were to meet on horseback and then to continue their match on foot if either was unhorsed.
When their contest began Achard held the superior position, having been accorded a starting location atop the slight rise in the ground, while l'Inconnu was on the flat meadowland, an area made slippery by the rain of the previous day, its condition intensified by the earlier contests.
The instant the signal was given to begin the two knights galloped toward each other. With every step the black horse's hooves sent up huge clods of mud and grass, but for all his great size he was surefooted. Achard's lighter horse slid once on the downward slope, then regained its footing.
The climax occurred almost too rapidly for Catherine's eyes to take it in. She noted the fierce set of Achard's mouth, saw him bend surprisingly low over his horse's neck when he couched his lance. Then a black and silver whirlwind assaulted him with a lance better aimed than Achard's and Achard went flying through the air to land flat on his back on the muddy grass. Achard's horse raced away, unharmed.
L'Inconnu galloped to the end of the field, turned and came back at a slower pace. Tossing his lance to a waiting squire, l'Inconnu leapt from his horse to bend over Achard. His hand was ready on his sword hilt, but he let the blade slide back into its scabbard and went to his knees beside his opponent.
Meanwhile, Royce and a group of squires ran from the sidelines to Achard's supine form. Catherine saw Braedon following Royce, and she saw l'Inconnu step away from the fallen man.
“Is Achard dead?” Aldis cried.
“Most likely he's only winded,” Cadwallon answered her. “See, his legs are moving and now he's trying to sit up.”
“Do you think he's wounded?” Catherine asked. “Perhaps I ought to see to his care.” She said it reluctantly, for she did not want to have to see to Achard's injuries.
“It looks to me as if he's only dazed,” Cadwallon said. “I've taken several falls like that and no harm done. If none of his bones are broken he'll be sore tomorrow, but able to fight again on the next day of the tournament. Achard's squires ought to be able to tend to him.”
In fact, even as Cadwallon spoke, Achard's two squires helped him to his feet. With an arm over each squire's shoulders Achard was taken from the field to his tent.
Catherine saw Braedon speaking to l'Inconnu, and a short time later the herald announced another previously unplanned contest. Braedon and l'Inconnu would fight each other on foot, armed only with swords.
“I cannot believe Sir Braedon challenged l'Inconnu over Achard,” Aldis exclaimed.
“It didn't look like a challenge to me,” Catherine responded.
“A formal challenge is not necessary in games such as these,” Cadwallon explained. “They only need to agree to fight for the sport of it, to discover who is the better man.”
It was Catherine's opinion that such a decision could not be made by means of armed combat, but she knew she was alone in her belief, so she kept quiet.
The two knights began their combat directly in front of Catherine's place in the viewing stand. Raising their broadswords they saluted the spectators and Catherine saw Braedon's grin flash in her direction.
The opponents were almost exactly the same height and were similar in the breadth of their shoulders. It soon became apparent that they were also well matched in strength and training. With both chainmail-gloved hands gripping the hilt of his heavy sword, each man took a turn at slashing toward his opponent. They circled and slashed again, wove back and forth with quick footwork, bent and twisted and ducked to get into better position to deliver a telling blow. The ground beneath their armored feet grew ever more muddy and dangerous, yet the knights kept their footing.
The nobles in the stand fell silent out of respect for the surpassing skill they were witnessing, and soon the rowdy common folk went quiet, too, as they became caught up in the growing tension.
There were some telling hits. L'Inconnu struck Braedon's arm where his old wound was not yet healed and it began to bleed. Braedon got in a fast thrust to the thigh and l'Inconnu displayed a streak of red running down his leg.
Catherine did not know how long the duel continued. She was watching so intently that she was unaware of time passing, and she all but forgot her headache. There was a horrid fascination in the movements of the two accomplished warriors before her.
“They must begin to tire soon,” Aldis whispered.
Indeed, so silent was the audience that it was possible to hear the rasping breaths of both men, and it seemed to Catherine that they were moving more slowly, thrusting and parrying with greater effort.
Then, as Catherine stared in disbelief, l'Inconnu raised his sword high. Catherine thought it was too high; she could see how he left himself open to Braedon's attack. It appeared to be a move out of character with the way l'Inconnu had been fighting until that moment. Braedon took advantage of the opening as Catherine expected him to do – and as l'Inconnu also expected him to do, for as Braedon stepped nearer, l'Inconnu dealt him such a blow on his left side that Braedon faltered and went to his knees. Another hard blow across his shoulders from l'Inconnu's flashing blade and Braedon was face down in the mud.
L'Inconnu approached the stand and raised his sword in salute. Catherine had the strangest impression that the gesture was meant for her. The unknown knight offered a similar salute to Royce, who acknowledged it politely. Then Royce hastened onto the field, heading in the direction of Braedon's inert form, with Robert and several other squires in attendance.
The unknown knight turned and walked off to the side of the field, where a squire was holding his huge black horse. L'Inconnu mounted and rode away before anyone thought to stop him.
All of this Catherine observed within the space of a few heartbeats, while she sat stupefied with shock, along with the rest of the audience. A low murmur rose as people began to talk again, to cheer or hiss the result of the match, depending on who was each individual's favorite combatant.
Catherine saw that Braedon had not moved, that her father was reaching down to grasp his left shoulder and roll his limp form over to lie face up. The sight of Braedon's left arm flopping onto the ground as if there was no life in him restored Catherine's ability to speak and move.
“Braedon!” She was on her feet, one hand at her mouth in horror, the other hand pushing urgently at Cadwallon's sturdy form. “Let me pass. I must go to him.”
Cadwallon swung his knees to one side, and Catherine flung herself toward the end of the row of benches. Within a moment she was out of the stand with Aldis and Cadwallon right behind her.
“Braedon!” She had almost reached him when her father stopped her.
“He is not dead, only unconscious,” Royce said. “Robert will see to him.”
“I can help,” she protested. “I treated the wound he took the other day. I have bandages ready, tinctures and salves—”
“Your duty,” Royce told her coldly, “is to return to your seat and witness the rest of this day's contests.”
“My duty is to help the injured,” Catherine cried. “Let me go to him.” She tried to dodge around her father, but Royce caught her by the shoulders, preventing her from getting near Braedon.
“Resume your seat,” he said, still speaking with unusual coldness. “You are embarrassing yourself, and me.”.
Catherine stared unbelieving into her father's eyes. She saw there an implacable will. She saw something else, too, something Royce could not quite conceal from one who knew him as well as she did. There was another reason for his insistence that she carry out her responsibilities as hostess for his entertainment. She was sure that reason was connected with his secret work and his unexplained motives for holding the Whitsuntide festival.
“Do you know le Chevalier Inconnu? “ Catherine asked. It was the only question of all the unanswered questions in her mind that she dared give voice to at the moment.
Royce did not answer her; neither did he lower his eyes from hers.
Braedon moaned. The squires were lifting him onto a stretcher at Robert's direction, in preparation for removing him to his room at the castle. The pitiful sound drove all other thoughts out of Catherine's mind. She saw Braedon lying there with his arms hanging down on either side of the narrow stretcher and it was all she could do to stop the cry that rose to her own lips. Again she met Royce's cool gaze, this time with defiance.
“You must tell me how badly he is injured,” she exclaimed.
“There is no way to know that just now,” Royce said.
“I want to go with him.”
“You did not make such an outcry for Achard's sake,” Royce said. “You will return to the viewing stand and remain there, as I will return to my duties. We will continue with the tournament. Lord Cadwallon?”
“Aye, my lord.” Cadwallon stepped to Royce's side.
“Will you be kind enough to conduct my daughter and her cousin back to their seats and remain with them until the end of this day's contests?”
“It will be my great honor, my lord.” Cadwallon extended his good arm to Catherine.
With her father watching her, Catherine had no choice but to lay her hand on Cadwallon's wrist. Wityh Aldis following them, they returned to the stand. And there Catherine sat through the rest of that long, hot afternoon, pretending to pay attention to the various contests while her heart was with Braedon and her headache steadily increased to an unbearable level. When at last she mounted her horse to return home she could barely see for the pain.
Catherine decided to leave direction of the evening's feast to her competent servants while she retreated to her cool bedchamber.
“Tell me what to do for you,” Aldis said, closing the shutters against the piercing rays of late day sunlight.
“Bring me some of the leaves of feverfew that are hanging in the stillroom and a flask of the minted boiled water I keep there,” Catherine answered. “But first, find Gwendolyn and tell her I want a bath as quickly as possible. Cool or lukewarm water will do. I will have another assignment for you when you return.”
Aldis came back sooner than Catherine had hoped. While Catherine chewed on the feverfew leaves to stop the headache pain and washed them down with the minted water, which she hoped would settle her churning stomach, Aldis helped her to undress. By the time she was stripped to her shift Gwendolyn was knocking at the door. She led in the servants bearing the bathtub and the buckets of water. As soon as the tub was full Catherine dismissed everyone but Aldis and Gwendolyn.
Catherine stepped into the tub. The water was just warm enough to be comfortable, and she bent her knees and sank into it with a grateful sigh.
“Gwendolyn,” Catherine said, resting her head against the rim of the tub with her eyes closed, “what have you heard about Sir Braedon's condition?”
“There are some wild rumors,” Gwendolyn reported, “but I'll not trouble you with them, for I know nothing that's certain except that he was carried senseless from the field of combat. His squire is with him, and Lord Royce has just gone in to see him, but no one else is allowed into the room.”
“Not even Father Aymon?”
“No, my lady. Not yet at least, so he can't be at death's door, can he? Robert did order several buckets of hot water, so I would guess he's bathing his master. Whether that's a good sign or not, I cannot say.”
“Thank you, Gwendolyn.” Catherine closed her eyes, trying to relax and let the pain in her head float away with the feverfew and the mint and the pleasures of warm bathwater and lavender-scented soap. But she could not relax, not until she knew Braedon wasn't going to die of his injuries, not until she could see him for herself. After her confrontation with her father, she harbored a feeling that seeing Braedon wasn't going to be an easy thing to do.
“Gwendolyn, is my father still with Sir Braedon?”
“I believe so, my lady.”
“Thank you. That will be all.” Catherine heard the door open and close. She finished washing and used the extra pitcher of water to rinse away the soap, then climbed out of the tub.
“Aldis, can you find a way to talk with Robert?”
“Of course I can. You ought to rest; there is still time for a nap before the feast and you are pale.”
“I'll try to sleep.” Catherine nibbled on another feverfew leaf and sipped more minted water. “You must be weary, too.”
“If I may, I'd like to use your bath water,” Aldis said, “and change my gown and brush my hair before I confront Robert. By the time I'm ready, Lord Royce will surely have left Sir Braedon's room.”
Clad in a fresh shift Catherine stretched out on her bed. She was sure she wouldn't sleep, not when she was so worried about Braedon. Left to herself, she would have gone to his room the moment she returned from the tournament. But she did not want to meet her father there, and some extra sense was warning her to be cautious. Aldis was splashing in the tub, humming to herself. Catherine's thoughts began to drift and all sounds faded away.
Chapter 9
“He deserved what happened,” said Eustace in a loud voice that carried from one end of the high table to the other. “After the way Braedon took unfair advantage of me during our contest on the first day of the tournament, it was a pleasure to watch him being defeated this afternoon. May all his wounds fester till his limbs turn black and require amputating.” Eustace raised his wine cup and drank deeply. A few nobles nodded as if they agreed with his sentiments. Some snickered. Most looked the other way and began to speak on more neutral subjects.
“It was a fair fight,” Catherine protested. She intended to say much more to Eustace, until her father's repressive glance in her direction silenced her. He said nothing to her, perhaps because Lady Edith was once again sitting beside him, but she understood from the single parental look that Royce did not want her to provoke a public quarrel with Eustace.
It was not Catherine's place to defend Braedon but, as Royce's official hostess, it was her duty to maintain a pleasant setting for his guests. She tried her best, though it was difficult to continue smiling and making polite conversation while she was seriously worried about Braedon and while Eustace continued his loud and scurrilous remarks on Braedon's supposed unknightly behavior. His voice grated on her ears, making her stomach knot until she was unable to continue eating.
Not until the long evening banquet was over and Royce had accepted Lady Edith's suggestion that they walk upon the battlements to watch the moon rise, and had left the great hall with her, and two men-at-arms had assisted Eustace to his bed, did Aldis finally approach Catherine with news of Braedon.
