Queen Of Knights Page 17

  The streets, actually pathways of the tent city, were filled with a multitude of people. Some were going about their business, while others hawked wares and food, and yet others did nothing except watch and join whatever merriment happened along.

  Women, be they camp followers, slaves, or peasants trying to find a master to serve who would ease their lot, scurried to-and-fro. Watching it all was the mysterious hooded knight who spoke not a word, nor ventured from his tent, save to exercise with his squire.

  It was the day before the tournament would commence, and a festive mood filled the air. For most, the putrid scents of rotting food and unwashed bodies differed little from normal day-to-day life, but for Gwendolyn, in the guise of Eldwin, each passing hour taught her more and more about the people of her homeland, and the seriousness of their lot.

  Inside the walls of Windsor, Richard sat on his high chair, addressing the gathered nobility before him. For this occasion, the great hall of Windsor had been turned into a meeting room, and everywhere within the hall, Richard's knights, barons, dukes, and earls stood in attendance.

  They had listened to Richard talk of the coming war, and had heard him read aloud the communication he had received from the French King Philip, that Philip and his army were finally ready to join Richard.

  Richard boasted that it was he who had forced the deceiving king to hasten his preparations by sending a missive to the pope.

  He laughed when he related the story, and laughed even louder when he told his men that Philip had been warned by the pope to either make ready, or face excommunication.

  "It was a wise move," called Alfred of Wight.

  "It was the only move left," replied Richard candidly.

  "We leave a fortnight after this tournament." Spontaneous cheering reached the heavy rafters of the hall, as all the knights gave vent to their yearning for combat and blood.

  "But now," Richard went on, "prepare for our feast, and for the games on the morrow." Everyone bowed when Richard stood, and they stayed that way until the king had left.

  The milling nobility broke into small groups to discuss what they had heard, and Miles, seeing his chance to escape, began to make his way toward the door. But before he reached it, a large hand fell on his shoulder.

  "Hold," William Marshall said in a low voice. "Richard would see you."

  Miles nodded and followed the earl to a door which led into the large walled keep. A few minutes later, Miles stepped into Richard's chamber and bowed low before the king.

  "Rise, Miles, we have no need of formalities in private. We have missed your presence over the winter months."

  "My apologies, my lord," Miles said in a low voice.

  "But we understand the reasons. Does the Lady Gwendolyn still please you?" he asked.

  "Daily."

  “And you have planted the seed for an heir?"

  “At this time I know not."

  "But you have worked hard to try, have you not?" Richard asked with a wide smile. "I have heard the stories of your disappearance from Radstock for many months. I envy you."

  "Thank you, Sire,"

  "But we miss the Lady Gwendolyn. Why is she not in attendance?"

  "She has taken sick, my lord, and I would not have her travel in that condition."

  "Is it serious?" Richard inquired quickly, and Miles saw a true concern cover his features.

  "I think not; the change of season has affected her," he explained, strangely pleased with this new revelation of his king.

  "I understand. I have seen many strong men felled by the same. Yet I had hoped to feast with her this night. She is a woman worthy of the company of men."

  "I will convey your words to her; she will be pleased."

  "And what of you? Are you less anxious to be off to war now that you have such a woman warming your bed?"

  "I am only anxious to have done with it, and to defeat the Saracens so that I may return quickly to her," Miles said truthfully, realizing for the first time that he did want a fast end to this crusade.

  "Then we shall have to be swift. This tournament has helped to fill our coffers, and with it I have added hundreds of knights to my banner. When we reach the Holy Land we will be strong!" he declared in a loud voice.

  "So I pray, Sire," Miles said as he stole a glance at William Marshall, whose face had flickered sourly.

  "But I am troubled," Richard continued. "We have fought many times together, and yet you do not enter the tournament. Why?"

  "I have no need of more lands. I am content with what I have."

  "Yet, I had hoped to watch you defeat all others. Miles, it saddens me that these knights will not see a true warrior battle."

  Miles gazed at Richard, wondering how far he dare go, yet sensing that Richard's disapproval was only due to his thirst for the fight.

  "Fear not, for there will be a knight fighting under my banner. His fee was paid months ago by the Lady Gwendolyn."

  "Is that so?" Surprised, Richard glanced at Marshall who nodded in confirmation. "And who be this knight you have such trust in?"

  "His name is Eldwin, and he was knighted by my own hand. I have appointed him Protector of Radstock in my absence."

  "To have such trust in a mercenary is foolish, Miles. You of all people should know better."

  "I have full trust in this knight, Sire. He is like no other in all England."

  "Your judgment has always been good; I pray it is in this case."

  "It is," Miles declared.

  "Yet, if he is victorious, as you seem to think he will be, you would lose this knight to the earldom he wins," Richard stated smugly as he ran his fingers across his lips in a characteristic gesture of thought. "Yes, I would see the mettle of this knight. You will point him out to me tonight," Richard ordered.

  A warning chill raced along Miles's spine as he held the king's gaze tightly. "I am sorry, Sire, but Sir Eldwin cannot join the feast."

  "Why?" Richard demanded harshly.

  "He has taken a vow of silence until you have succeeded with your mission in the Holy Land."

  "Silence does not stop one from feasting or enjoying life!"

  "True, but he is sworn never to show his face to another until the Saracens are defeated, and because of that, he wears a hood to shield his face from other eyes."

  "Then how does he eat?"

  "Privately, and I would beg you to not force him to break his vow. He is not like most," Miles added in a low voice.

  "I dislike not knowing the faces of my vassals," Richard growled in defeat.

  "Sir Eldwin is loyal to England, Sire. I stake my life upon it."

  "It will be your life if you are wrong. And if he wins the tourney, how can I make an earl of a faceless man?"

  "You cannot. Sir Eldwin seeks no title. If he wins, he has but one simple request," Miles informed Richard.

  "Simple?"

  "Yes, Sire. He wants to be knighted, again, by your hand. That is the only reward he seeks."

  "If he wins, he shall have it," Richard declared, flinging his hand before him in dismissal. Miles bowed low and began backing toward the door, but Richard's voice stopped him. "I thought you should know that Morgan of Guildswood has petitioned to fight by my side in Jerusalem and offers two hundred knights."

  "He is a strong fighter," Miles replied carefully, forcing away the warning produced by Richard's words.

  "He is," Richard said and waved his hand once again in a final dismissal.

  Miles left the audience and walked through the large keep, his mind whirling with the last words Richard had uttered. Why did Morgan choose to make his petition now? But Miles knew that the enemy he had made in Devonshire had returned to haunt him and understood that once the crusade was under way, he must watch Guildswood carefully.

  Shrugging the thought away, he entered the crowded tent city and strode purposefully toward the banner of Radstock which flew high above his tent.

  <><><>

  Within her large tent, her mask always in p
lace, Gwendolyn sat upon a rush mat awaiting Miles's return from his attendance at Richard's court.

  She had used her time wisely, forcing herself to remain calm and relaxed, repeating silently to herself all the lessons she had been taught by her husband. When the flap of the tent parted, her concentration dissolved and she looked into the worried face of Miles.

  She watched him secure the flap so that no one could enter, and when that was done, Gwendolyn removed the mask, and took a deep breath.

  "What is bothering you?" she asked.

  "Morgan."

  Gwendolyn waited patiently until he explained what had happened with Richard. "But that should make no difference to you. You care not for the glory Richard and the others seek. You go only out of your obligation as the king's vassal."

  "It is not the crusade I worry about. I do not fear Morgan, but I fear for you tomorrow, and for the entire tournament. When I left Richard I went inquiring among the knights I know. Morgan has been boasting that he will defeat me in this tournament and recoup his losses from our last meeting."

  "But you are not entered in the tourney."

  "Morgan has not yet learned of that. When he does, he will go after you with a vengeance. I had not thought of that when I agreed to this tournament and am at fault."

  "Fear not, Miles, for Morgan does not frighten me."

  "He frightens me!" Miles spat. "I've fought him. I know his power. He is strong and ruthless and will stop at nothing to defeat anyone under the colors of Radstock."

  "Calm yourself, my husband. I shall not give Morgan the opportunity to harm us."

  "You may not have the choice."

  "I will stay across the field from him until there is no other opponent. Perhaps someone will defeat him first," she said hopefully.

  "I will pray for that, but his hatred is a strong force within him."

  "And one that may help to defeat him. But," she said as a smile brightened her face, "did you speak with Richard about my request?"

  "Yes. If you win, you shall be knighted again by Richard himself."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "Do not thank me until the deed is done," Miles cautioned.

  They sat silently until darkness fell, and Arthur came to dress Miles for the banquet. When he was gone, Gwendolyn again put on the mask of Sir Eldwin and sat cross-legged on the rush mat with the silver sword resting upon her thighs. She cleared her mind and fell into a trancelike state, willing the channel that linked her to the sword to open, and when it did, she drew from it the strength and calmness she would need on the morrow.

  <><><>

  The tournament began as none other save the king's would. The long procession of knights was led into the wide green swarth by the king's bodyguards and was preceded by five ranks of trumpeters blowing the call to arms.

  The knights, dressed in full armor and colors, presented a picture that would not be forgotten quickly. Three hundred proud warriors rode into the arena. Of the large group, a full three-quarters were landless knights, each of whom was hopeful that at the end of three days, he would be proclaimed an Earl and elevated to the ranks of nobility. Of the others, who already ranked in the nobility of England, each of them wanted two things: the prestige and glory of winning the king's tournament, and the added riches of more land and yet another title.

  For the crowd who gathered to witness this day, excitement swirled thickly in the air. Women called out to their husbands, mothers cried to their sons, and all felt the thrill of the battle that would soon commence, for a battle it would truly be.

  Gwendolyn, wearing her full armor and sitting astride her mount in the second rank of knights, gazed steadily at where Richard stood on his platform. Waiting for him to speak and order the tournament to begin, she thought back to the morning, and the words of caution her husband had given her.

  <><><>

  The early cock's first cries drew Gwendolyn from her sleep. She had awakened instantly and opened her eyes. Blinking, she had seen Miles's shadowy form sitting next to her.

  "Your day begins," he had whispered.

  "Our day," she had replied as she raised her hand to caress his large shoulder. His hand covered hers and squeezed it gently.

  "This is your first tournament. I must speak to you of it," he had said in a low voice. He had waited until Gwendolyn nodded her head before he went on. "Although you have witnessed many tournaments, there is nothing to prepare you for it. Gwendolyn, you must remember that the difference between a tournament and a true battle is almost indistinguishable. Those knights whom you will face today, and in the coming days, are fighting for something they want. They will fight their opponents as if it were to the death, and indeed, there will be many who will lose their lives."

  "I understand," Gwendolyn had told him, and she did. She knew well the history of the tournament. It was a Norman tradition, used to train their knights for battle. Only rarely was there a tournament such as Miles and Morgan had fought, when only one knight faced another. Most were like the one today, a melee. There would be two sides-two armies-who would fight each other. And, as the losers fell, the victors would ride again, and again, until there were but two knights left to face each other. At the end of the day, only one out of three hundred would be the winner.

  And then it would begin again the next day, and the day after, until all methods of fighting had been used, and there was but one knight who stood above the rest.

  "You must concentrate. You must pick your first opponent, and your concentration must not be broken by anything. Look neither right nor left when you charge. Pick your knight and picture him unseated. That is the way of victory," Miles had declared heatedly.

  "I shall, my teacher, I shall," Gwendolyn had whispered.

  Then she had gone into his arms and drawn from his strength all the security and confidence she needed.

  <><><>

  The trumpets signaled a fanfare, pulling Gwendolyn from her thoughts. The crowd stilled, and King Richard, resplendent in a long red mantle, moved forward on the specially erected platform. A narrow gold crown rested on his head, and his shoulder-length hair sparkled in the sunlight. He raised both hands high, and when he did, the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped forward.

  The archbishop lifted his gold-encrusted staff, and the blessings of the tournament rolled smoothly from his tongue. When he finished his benediction, he stepped back to the carved wooden chair next to the king's and waited.

  Richard stepped forward, and the crowd began to cheer again. "For the glory of England, for the love of God, and under the code of chivalry, I hereby order this tournament begun."

  From a thousand throats came a loud, animal-like cry. The knights lined up before Richard and lifted their swords high before wheeling their mounts around and racing to their squires.

  Gwendolyn felt a surge of energy race through her when she spurred the stallion toward James. Excitement made her nerves hum tightly.

  Reaching James, she dismounted and let her squire help her to mount Miles's heavy charger. When she sat in the special saddle Miles had designed, which would hold her securely against the hard thrusts of a lance, she gazed across the field to survey her opponents and felt the full impact of Miles's earlier words. Across from her, the opposing knights were gathering and the wall they created sent a chill racing along her spine.

  No specific knight would face off against another until the field was narrowed down. Because of the great amount of entrants, the full numbers of knights could not participate at the same time. So, the marshal of the tournament had declared there be two opening jousts. One hundred and fifty knights, seventy-five to each side, would battle. When this first wave of jousting ended—and it would end only when there were but seventy-five survivors—the next hundred- and-fifty knights would take the field. Again, only when there were seventy-five victors, would the knights of the first wave face those of the second.

  Gwendolyn was in the first wave, which she was pleased about, and as she looked across t
he field, she saw that Morgan was not mounted and would be in the second wave.

  Glad to postpone what she knew would be the inevitable, Gwendolyn accepted the lance James handed her. "Be aware of the riders on both sides," James cautioned. "They may put you off-stride."

  Gwendolyn adjusted the shield on her left arm and used her spurs to move the heavy charger forward. Concentrating on the line of knights thirty yards across from her, Gwendolyn prepared her body for the first assault.

  The trumpets signaled, and the sounds of hooves rose in the air. She braced herself in the saddle and charged for- ward. Her body moved as one with the horse, and the weight of her armor added to her comfort and confidence. As the two lines closed, she picked her opponent and dipped her lance once. Then only ten yards separated them, and the tip of the other knight's lance grew large.

  Her body tensed, but she forced the tightness away as she heard Miles's voice in her mind. "Do not tense. Do not wait. Attack and believe your opponent unseated." And she did. Sir Eldwin, with her lower back braced and her shield held firm along her left side, met her first opponent. A bare second before their lances reached the shields; she saw his eyes go wide in warning and braced her arm. The sound of her own lance hitting his shield came at the same time as she felt the jarring impact upon her leather-covered shield, and a wave of unexpected pain raced through her shoulder.

  She was lifted in the saddle, but did not loosen the grip on her lance. Suddenly, there was no more resistance, and she rode past the now riderless horse of her opponent.

  It had ended faster than she'd thought possible. She had won her first joust, and the thrill of her victory raced headily through her mind. Wheeling her mount around, she gazed at the fallen knight. She did not know him, but he stood proudly before her and bobbed his head in salute. Gwendolyn rode close to him and returned his chivalrous compliment by dipping her lance in his honor.

  Then, with the cheers of the crowd dwindling, Gwendolyn rode back to James and, with his help, dismounted from the ungainly charger.