True Love, page 22
The mounted combat began. Men were unhorsed, weapons clashed, clouds of dust rose to obscure the fallen knights. Catherine tried to look as if she was interested, but she was thinking about Braedon, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Perhaps he had crept back into Wortham Castle to try to get information out of Achard. Or perhaps he was miles away.
The first half of the day's entertainment finally ended and servants began to offer trays of refreshments, wine and dainty pastries, or bread and cheese for those who were more hungry. Anyone who craved still heartier fare could visit the long tables that were once again set up behind the stand, where the common folk were welcome.
Catherine sipped a cup of wine and nibbled on a pastry, but she wasn't really hungry. Her growing sense of unease was fueled by the tense restlessness of the man beside her. Cadwallon's face was flushed, and he repeatedly looked around as if he expected to see someone who had not yet arrived.
Just before the duels were scheduled to begin Catherine heard a murmur from the crowd, a sound that quickly escalated into loud cheers. A tight knot of people at one side of the field separated to let a man on a black horse approach.
“It's him!” the crowd roared. “L'Inconnu has returned! Cheers for l'Inconnu!”
It was indeed the same black warhorse, with the same black and silver trappings. And the same large, chainmail-clad knight sat astride the horse, the butt of his upright lance resting lightly on his foot. As on his first visit, his face was hidden by the noseguard and cheekflaps of his solid metal helm.
The knight rode directly toward Royce, halting a few yards in front of the stand to dip his lance in salute.
“My lord,” l'Inconnu called in a hoarse voice, “I have returned to offer a challenge to one of the men fighting here.”
“The last time you came to these lists, you almost killed a man,” Royce said.
“What else are such contests for, if not to win?” asked l'Inconnu.
“Who is the knight you wish to challenge?” Royce demanded. “Reveal his name before I decide if you may fight him.”
L'Inconnu waited before responding, waited until the noise of the crowd had subsided to a murmur and the nobles in the stand were all craning forward, eager to learn who the chosen opponent was.
“I challenge Sir Eustace of Sutton,” l'Inconnu called out.
“Why?” Royce's voice rang across the field and the silence grew deeper. “Eustace of Sutton is my kin by marriage. For what reason do you challenge him?”
Catherine looked at her father in surprise. It was enough for a knight to issue a challenge. The reason could be, and often was, simply the desire to hone one's own skills by meeting a worthy opponent. She could not understand why Royce was making an issue of l'Inconnu's reason, until she recalled that Eustace was a rather clumsy and brutal fighter...and during this Whitsuntide entertainment, nothing at Wortham actually was as it appeared to be. She stared at the unknown knight on the black horse, trying to see the face behind the concealing helm, and puzzled by the feeling that she ought to know him.
“Eustace of Sutton is a liar, a habitual drunkard, and worst of all, a rapist. Eustace is a violator of innocent maidens.” L'Inconnu's harsh voice carried clearly to the crowd. Every noble, every knight, and each ordinary person within the sound of his voice went absolutely still, awaiting the response that Eustace was now required to make.
“Oh, dear heaven!” Revelation came upon Catherine in a flash. Of course, l'Inconnu would accuse Eustace of rape Furthermore, she understood why Sir Desmond was not supposed to be at the tournament. She started to rise. Only Cadwallon's firm hand on her shoulder kept her in her seat. She tore her gaze from the man on the black horse to look at Cadwallon – and saw in him no trace of her easy-going, affable friend. Cadwallon's eyes were steely, his jaw was set in a hard line. She had not noticed before how very firm Cadwallon's jaw was.
“Say nothing,” he ordered her. “Stay where you are, and do not reveal what you have guessed.”
“I have guessed rightly.” It wasn't a question. She knew the identity of the knight who sat quietly on his horse, awaiting Eustace's response to his challenge. Furthermore, after a quick look at Royce's set face, she would have wagered her life that he also knew who l'Inconnu really was.
It wasn't Eustace who responded to l'Inconnu's challenge. Phelan rose from his place a few seats away from Royce. He put his beefy hands on the bright fabric covering the rail at the edge of the stand and leaned forward as if he wanted to meet l'Inconnu nose to nose.
“You are the liar,” Phelan shouted at the knight.
“Are you willing to meet me in combat to prove the truth of that charge?” asked l'Inconnu. There was just the faintest hint of insolence in his hoarse voice, as if he was certain Phelan would refuse to do battle with him.
“Leave my father alone,” Eustace shouted, riding onto the field. He drew his horse to a halt a little distance away from l'Inconnu, but also facing Royce while he made his response, which was properly couched in formal terms. “My lord Royce, as you know, I was among the knights who fought in this morning's earlier mock battle and I was resting in my tent in preparation for my return to the lists, when word was brought to me of a challenge to my honor that requires an immediate response. Here I am to answer that challenge. It is my desire to fight l'Inconnu, to prove my worth, and my innocence, by force of arms.”
“'Tis you who violate innocence by force,” l'Inconnu stated loudly. “Beware, Eustace. You are in the wrong; thus, you are doomed to lose this fight.”
“You are the one who is doomed!” With no warning, without waiting for Royce's permission to begin the contest, Eustace lowered his lance and swung it at l'Inconnu, who ducked just in time. The lance whirled over his head and the black horse sidestepped neatly, taking its rider out of the path of a second swing of Eustace's lance.
“Halt!” Royce was on his feet, fist in the air, signaling to the herald and to the men-at-arms who were charged with keeping order. “Unfair! Stop this unlawful combat!”
Three men-at-arms rode onto the field and surrounded Eustace. One of them seized the lance, pulling it out of his grasp, while the other two grabbed the reins of his warhorse. Still mounted, Eustace was brought toward the stand to face Royce.
“How dare you violate the rules of this tournament?” Royce exclaimed. “You did not have my permission to begin combat, and the use of your lance was most unknightly.”
“That so-called knight, who hides his face and his name, insulted me!” Eustace cried. “I have a right to defend my honor.”
“He challenged you by the rules clearly stated before ever this tournament began,” Royce said. “You are in the wrong here, and your unlawful actions suggest that l'Inconnu was not insulting you, but merely stating the truth.”
“I did not give you leave to berate my son before all these witnesses!” Hand on his sword hilt, Phelan turned on Royce. Several women shrieked and scrambled to vacate the seats between the two men.
“Sit down, Phelan.” Royce spared only a fast glance for the enraged noble. “You are disturbing the ladies. I will allow no more interruptions to the day's activities.
“Sir l'Inconnu,” Royce said, “Eustace has wrongfully attacked you. Do you still wish to maintain your challenge against him?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Very well, then. Eustace of Sutton, you no longer have a choice. After what you have done, you must meet l'Inconnu in combat. I will be watching you closely, and so will my men-at-arms. If there is one more violation of the rules of this tournament on your part, I will order the combat stopped at once. You will be imprisoned and I will personally see to your punishment. Do you understand the terms under which you will be fighting?”
“I understand that you favor him,” Eustace said in the surly way that Catherine remembered well from her encounters with him during the previous winter. Once again, the violence residing in Eustace’s soul was barely constrained by the rules of knightly honor.
Without her conscious thought, Catherine raised her left hand to her face. She recalled the confrontation with Eustace about his abused wife’s decision to leave him, which he blamed on Catherine. She could feel again the weight of his fist connecting with her left cheek, and the sudden, slashing pain of it. She had not revealed to her brother then, or to her father later, or to Braedon, that Eustace was the brute who had dealt her a blow so harsh that she was scarred for life as a result. If any of those men learned what Eustace had done to her there would be serious contention among them over who had the right to kill him. Much as she despised Eustace, she did not want his blood on the hands of anyone she cared about, so she had decided to keep silent.
The only other person who knew who was to blame was her friend and now her sister-in-law, Margaret of Sutton, who was Phelan’s daughter and Eustace’s sister. Margaret had agreed with Catherine’s decision in order to protect her family’s honor, though she declared her deep shame at her brother’s act and swore to have nothing more to do with him.
“I will not allow the combat!” Phelan shouted, his rude words recalling Catherine to what was happening around her.
“Eustace brought this contest on himself,” Royce said. “Phelan, if you do not sit down and remain quiet, I will have you removed from the stand.”
After casting a bitter look at Royce, Phelan did as he was told. He sat grumbling and muttering to himself while Royce completed the formalities of the contest between l'Inconnu and Eustace.
The crowd was tense with expectation when the two knights faced each other from opposite ends of the field. Eustace's lance had been restored to him with a command from Royce not to misuse it a second time.
Catherine was certain that being exposed to public shame was only going to make Eustace more determined to win against l'Inconnu and, therefore, more likely to make a move that was in violation of tournament rules. The fact that his own actions had brought the shame upon him would mean nothing to Eustace. He wasn't capable of realizing his own mistakes.
At Royce's signal the knights lowered their lances and galloped toward each other. They met directly in front of where Catherine was sitting, so she saw every detail of what happened.
Just before the knights met, Eustace raised his lance so he was no longer aiming at his opponent's body, but at his head. In immediate response to Eustace's murderous intent, l'Inconnu bent out of his saddle to avoid the blow, which meant his own lance went wide of its mark. The two horsemen swept past each other, continuing to the ends of the field.
“Foul!” Cadwallon was on his feet, shouting with the other men in the stand. “Eustace aimed for his eyes, not his shoulder or chest.”
“I saw.” Royce was signaling to the men-at-arms to call a halt to the action. When the combatants were brought before him, he glared at Eustace as if he would like to take a lance to the man. “Are you incapable of fighting fairly?” Royce shouted at him.
“I did nothing wrong,” Eustace protested. “My horse shied at the last moment.”
“Untrue!” yelled Cadwallon. “You deliberately raised your lance.” His complaint was echoed by every other man in the stand except for Phelan, by the knights and squires watching on the outskirts of the field, and even by the common folk.
“Sir l'Inconnu,” Royce said, “Eustace has lost the contest by default. You may leave the field satisfied that the truth of your challenge has been borne out.”
“My lord,” l'Inconnu replied, “with your permission, I would continue the contest. I do understand the rules, but default is not satisfaction enough for me.”
“As you wish.” Royce raised his voice so all could hear. “Since Sir Eustace is incapable of employing his lance in an honorable manner, the remainder of the contest will be fought on foot.”
A few minutes later the men faced each other, swords drawn, and the combat began anew. It was quickly apparent who was the better fighter. L'Inconnu was faster on his feet, more agile and daring, and far more disciplined than Eustace, who hacked and slashed in an increasingly clumsy way.
“He's tiring,” Cadwallon said to Catherine. “Eustace was up late last night drinking, and he fought in the melee for most of the morning. He won't last long.”
But Eustace was not too tired for more trickery. He began a fierce, slashing attack that brought him ever closer to l'Inconnu. And when they closed, grappling face to face, Eustace drew from his belt a knife that had been concealed there and with his left hand stabbed at l'Inconnu. A line of red appeared on l'Inconnu's right arm and began to run down the silvery chainmail.
L'Inconnu broke away, spun around on the ball of his foot, and came back in the blink of an eye with the point of his broadsword firmly placed at Eustace's throat. Eustace stood panting, sword in one hand, illicit knife in the other, as aware as everyone watching was that all l'Inconnu needed to do was push a little harder on the blade to ram it through the chainmail and into his neck.
With incredible self-discipline after all Eustace had attempted to do to him, l'Inconnu stayed his hand and looked toward the stand for Royce's decision.
“Enough,” Royce said. “Eustace is clearly in the wrong on many counts. But his sister is married to my son, and so I am compelled to grant him his life. Sir l'Inconnu, I thank you for fighting fairly in the face of great provocation. Your claims against Eustace are proven. This contest is ended.”
“Thank you, my lord.” L'Inconnu lowered his sword. He bowed to Royce and then, without another glance for Eustace, he began to walk across the field toward the squire who waited with his horse. Every eye followed his tall, muscular form, the men openly admiring, and perhaps envying, his combat skills, the women murmuring their approval with a different assessment in mind.
No one was watching Eustace.
Suddenly, a mail-clad shape raced toward l'Inconnu with sword in hand and deadly intention obvious. Catherine saw the glint of sunlight on Eustace's sword blade as he raised it to strike and she screamed a warning.
“No! No!”
Once again l'Inconnu pivoted on the ball of his foot to meet an attack from Eustace. With his own sword grasped firmly in both of his hands, l'Inconnu dealt a mighty blow across Eustace's belly with the flat of the blade, knocking him to the ground.
L'Inconnu stood looking down at Eustace, making no move to kill him, which was certainly his right. The squire who had been holding his horse dropped the reins and ran onto the field, gesturing toward the blood coursing down l'Inconnu's arm. As the squire waved his hands the hood covering his face fell back.
“Robert!” Aldis cried. “Why is Robert here? Why isn't he with Braedon?”
It seemed to Catherine that from the moment when she heard Aldis cry out, everyone at the tournament went into rapid motion. She saw her father's men-at-arms rush to surround Eustace, who appeared to have suffered no more harm than a badly bruised belly and having the breath knocked out of him. The crowd of commoners surged forward, moving toward the combatants while uttering threats against Eustace, and the men-at-arms who were acting as guards were hard put to keep them back. Knights and squires milled around, disturbing the horses, some of which tried to break away from the squires.
Royce vaulted over the railing of the stand and ran to where l'Inconnu stood. Several noblemen followed him, while their ladies began a more graceful but no less rapid exit by the way they had come. Lady Edith was one of the first to leave.
With Royce gone from the stand Catherine became aware of the infuriated expression on Phelan's face. She saw that he was not hastening to his fallen son, but moving quickly toward her, and he was shouting something at her. She couldn't hear what he was saying, because the few nobles who remained in the stand were all yelling about Eustace's unlawful attack on l'Inconnu and they were drawing back from Phelan as if he were a leper, which made his progress toward her easier.
Then Cadwallon took Catherine's arm and set her into motion, too, pulling her out of Phelan's path and along the row of now-empty benches, toward one end of the stand, following the last of the fleeing ladies.
“What are you doing?” Catherine demanded.
“Remember your promise to Braedon and obey me,” Cadwallon said. With that, he caught her by the waist and swung her down from the stand, into the arms of a tall, sandy-haired man who was apparently waiting for them.
“Sir Desmond,” Catherine exclaimed, recognizing him. “Will someone please tell me what is happening?”
“We are trying to keep you out of Phelan's clutches,” Cadwallon told her. “From the way he came at you just now, it's easy to guess that he wants to take you as a hostage for his son's safety. You are coming with us.”
“But, my father – Braedon – Aldis,” she cried. “I cannot leave them.”
“Your father knows about our plan to get you away should Phelan threaten you,” Cadwallon said. “I consider the look on Phelan's face to be threat enough. Robert will see to it that Aldis isn't hurt. And as you may have noticed, Braedon can take care of himself. He will join us before long.”
She was not at all surprised to discover there were horses saddled and awaiting them, hidden among the mounts the guests had used to ride to the tournament. Within a very few minutes the three of them were galloping down the road to Wortham village.
Chapter 16
They slowed their pace when they reached the village, and by the time they crossed the bridge on the far side and were riding through the open fields the men decided that Phelan was not pursuing them.
“All the same,” Cadwallon said to Catherine, “I think it's best if we escort you to the place where Braedon has promised to meet us. It's a hidden spot that's deep in the forest. You will be safe there.”
“I ought to return to the field, to be with my father and Braedon in case they need me,” Catherine said, “or at least go back to the castle.” She pulled the horse she was riding to a stop, preparing to turn around.
