Queen Of Knights Read online

"You did well, my lord," James stated proudly. "You defeated Simon of Northumber, a worthy knight."

  Gwendolyn nodded, the only form of communication she could use while attired as Sir Eldwin, and watched the continuation of the first wave of jousts. A third of the knights of the first joust had been unseated, but until there were no more opponents, the second wave would not begin.

  The horses charged, and the joust continued. Gwendolyn surveyed the crowd for a moment before glancing toward Richard. Seated around Richard and the archbishop was his military council, and among them, she saw Miles.

  She wanted to go to him, but knew she could not, and only hoped be was as proud of her as she was of him. Knowing she must keep her attention focused on the fighting, Gwendolyn drew her eyes from Miles's form and concentrated on the men in the field.

  Another hour passed and the first wave was ended. The survivors of the joust rested now, preparing for their next fight while the second wave mounted and rode onto the field of combat.

  Gwendolyn glanced quickly to where Miles sat and saw his eyes fixed on Morgan. She, too, looked at the wide-set knight and felt the old familiar shiver of disgust when she saw his smiling lips.

  Then the trumpet sounded and the horses charged. She watched Morgan's lance go level and saw him spur his horse harshly. The two lines met in a loud crashing noise. The sound of shattering lances echoed, and the screams of one knight ripped through the air.

  The dust settled, and Gwendolyn gazed at the seated victors. Morgan sat on his horse proudly, but his lance was gone. Then Gwendolyn looked at the ground and saw Morgan's opponent writhing in pain, a piece of the lance's shaft protruding from his chest.

  Revulsion filled her, and she tasted the bitterness of bile in the back of her throat. Death was no stranger to tournaments, but she still despised this senseless need to kill. When she looked at Morgan's face, she realized that death was the only thing he sought when facing an opponent, whether on the game field, or on the battlefield.

  "You shall not win," she promised, but the words did not pass her lips; they only echoed in her mind.

  By the time the sun passed its zenith, the first rounds of the joust were over, and the second had begun. This jousting would differ from the morning's in only one way. Half the knights had been eliminated, and there would be but one initial wave. This joust would continue, no matter how long it took, until the final two surviving knights faced each other. And, Gwendolyn was determined to be one of them.

  Gwendolyn sat astride Miles's charger and gazed across the field. She had purposely chosen a spot diagonally across from Morgan, not because she feared him, but because she wanted to face him later.

  The trumpet sounded, and again Gwendolyn's skin rippled with excitement. One hundred and fifty lances fell to the horizontal and the horses rushed forward.

  Forcing her body to relax, Gwendolyn braced herself in the saddle. She met her opponent, and the loud cracking of lance on shield sounded in her ears. But this time she was not lifted from her saddle as her opponent's lance shattered at first impact. Her own lance shattered as well, and when she halted the charger, she turned to face the other knight. They bowed their heads and raced off to their squires to retrieve new lances, and Gwendolyn renewed her concentration and determination to be victorious.

  By mid-afternoon there was not a part of Gwendolyn's body that did not hurt. It had taken four runs to finally unseat her first opponent, and only her own self-confidence had helped her to win. Five more times she had ridden against other opponents, but none, save the first knight she'd faced, had survived her first charge. Gwendolyn, her mind blank except for her purpose, had become not only an extension of her charger, but had become as one with the lance. She had fought unmercifully, charging across the green swarth to hit her opponent's shield, and to be rewarded by the sound of a clean hit against the onrushing knight.

  She had thought not about anything, but had concentrated solely on her immediate opponent. And, when the seventh knight who faced her had been dismounted, and she had returned to James's smiling face, she breathed a sigh of relief. She saw in his face that she had done what most would consider impossible. She had survived to the very end. But her taste of victory and relief was short-lived when the cheers of the spectators grew louder.

  Turning, she froze. There was but one knight left to face, and recognition burned tightly in her chest. Morgan of Guildswood sat astride his charger, his shield lowered to his side, awaiting a new lance.

  Gwendolyn thought of her sword, and of the powers it contained to help heal her, but even before the thought fully formed, she chased it away, as Miles's face floated before her eyes. "Do not waste the power. Your body is strong; rely on it."

  I will, she thought, taking the new lance from James and riding to the center of the arena. The crowd quieted, and their silence made Gwendolyn's nerves grow tighter. Then Morgan rode up to her and stared at her masked face. A ripple of fear tugged in her mind that he might see through her mysterious facade and know whom he faced, but with his first words, that fear dissolved.

  "Are you so ugly you cannot show yourself!" he asked. Gwendolyn stared at him through the eyeholes for a long second before she turned her head toward the king.

  Richard was standing, his arms again upraised. In one hand he held the scarlet sash of victory. "Let the joust be joined," he intoned. Both Gwendolyn and Morgan bowed their heads to him and turned their horses to face each other's. Gwendolyn dipped her lance in salute, and Morgan replied in kind.

  But before she could spur the charger away, Morgan spoke again. "I will be the victor today, faceless one, and you shall lie broken at my feet in the place of your master, the coward who is too afraid to meet me on this field of honor." With that, Morgan spurred his charger across the field, accompanied by the cheers of his men-at-arms.

  Yet Gwendolyn, upon hearing his words, felt no fear.

  Instead, a searing anger filled her, making her want nothing else but to defeat Morgan quickly and decisively, to pay him back for his cruelty, deceit, and hatred. She urged her mount across the field, but refused to force the now-tired horse into a run. She rode regally, and in response to this show, the crowd called loudly to her.

  Gwendolyn stopped the charger at the gate and turned to face the crowd. She stood tall in the stirrups and dipped her lance once again to Richard. Then she sat deep in the saddle, hefted her shield, and lowered the lance.

  As she did all this, she opened that special channel in her mind to draw upon its warmth and comfort, but did not call for its ethereal aid, nor ask for its help in defeating Morgan. Today was her first test, and Gwendolyn knew that she must win this joust by herself, for both herself and Miles. She let the light fill her, soothe her nerves, and shore up her determination. Her eyes focused on Morgan across the field, and she was suddenly aware of a dark aura surrounding him. She realized then that he was evil, that all about him radiated a black visage which could not be denied.

  The trumpet sounded, and her highly trained instincts took over. Closing her mind to the light, she charged forward, the blackness surrounding Morgan also dissolving. All that remained was his bulky countenance. Then there was nothing left in creation, save the muscular horse beneath her, and the oncoming knight.

  Adjusting her shield as she rode, she moved it a fraction to her left so that when their lances met, his would follow the curvature of the shield and be deflected properly. Suddenly time slowed, and it seemed they would never meet, as everything around Gwendolyn took on otherworldliness.

  Morgan grew larger, wider than before. The helmet he wore was stained dark, and the crossed nasal bar looked like a scar rather than metal protection.

  Gwendolyn was aware of everything about him, including the point of the lance that suddenly dropped lower. No! she screamed silently when she saw his intent. He was going after her horse. It was a legal move, but one that was frowned on.

  Reacting quickly, Gwendolyn pressed her knee into the charger's side and the horse moved
over a foot. This move took Morgan by surprise and he lifted the lance higher while he maneuvered his mount anew.

  Then there was no time for him to readjust as their lances met. Gwendolyn, her teeth clenched and her body ready, accepted the full force of his lance on her shield, and even as the wood met the leather, her arm moved instinctively, deflecting the blow as her lance hit the center of his shield. This time, unlike the previous jousts, Gwendolyn did not let her lance waver mercifully, but instead tightened her arm against her side and kept the long wooden pole firm.

  She heard a loud cry of denial and saw Morgan's arms fly in the air as her lance ripped his shield from its binding. Then Morgan was flying backward, even as she passed him and slowed her mount. Everything returned to normal, and time resumed its usual fast pace.

  Turning, Gwendolyn watched Morgan rise to his feet and glare at her. Although she did not hear his words, she read his lips plainly.

  "I will have your life," he mouthed.

  Then she could not watch any longer as James took the reins of the charger and led the hooded knight before King Richard.

  She dismounted quickly and knelt before the king.

  "Rise, Sir Eldwin, champion of the jousts, victor of the first day of our tournament," he said in a loud voice.

  Gwendolyn did as she was told and faced her king. But when she looked at him, she also saw Miles behind him, a smile on his face, his green eyes sparkling proudly.

  Richard placed the scarlet sash over her head and stepped back. "I have heard of your vows and accept them as they are meant."

  Gwendolyn bowed low before Richard and then turned to the crowd. The spectators rose to their feet and cheered. Many women, seeing a mystery beneath the masked face, threw wildflowers at Sir Eldwin's feet when she walked toward the edge of the tournament field. They would return tomorrow to urge on this unknown knight in his quest for victory. The crowd now had a champion, and such a one as only the legends of their forefathers had spoken of.

  Chapter Twelve

  The night of the first day's tourney was one of celebration. The great hall was filled with people, as was the entire keep and the streets of the tent city. Within the great hall, knights talked of the day's joust, pointing out to each other just where they had made their mistakes. Boasting would then begin anew of how each of them would regain their prominence the next day, with bow, axe, or mace.

  Richard, sitting at the High Table, joined in with his own comments, telling each of the bested knights what he had done wrong. But, as Miles watched, he wondered if Richard was but goading each of them so that his own blood thirst could be sated.

  Miles understood that for Richard, who had spent his life fighting, to sit and watch a tournament was a form of torture to the young monarch. Yet Richard, as king, could not be a part of this tournament.

  Lifting his pewter cup, Miles sipped the wine and continued to watch the knights in the room. He wanted to be with Gwendolyn, for their time together was coming to an end. He would soon have to honor his obligation to Richard and leave with the king for the Holy Land. But the hour was still early, and the revelry in the hall not fully underway, and, therefore, he could not leave yet.

  "Morgan is coming," whispered Arthur, covering his words by pouring Miles more wine. Following the direction of the squire's gaze, Miles saw Morgan of Guildswood enter the great hall.

  Morgan wore a short tunic with the crest of Guildswood on his breast. Full leggings covered powerful thighs and calves, and a tong dagger rested against one hip. Halfway across the hall his eyes met Miles's and he stopped. Hatred sparked from Morgan's dark orbs, but rather than react to it, Miles lifted his cup in salute.

  The gesture caught Morgan off guard, and he turned from Miles to speak with another knight standing near him. Just then, Richard leaned over and called to Miles.

  "Your Sir Eldwin has caught the people's fancy," remarked Richard.

  "Their fancy?" Miles questioned, his eyes still on Morgan.

  "All I have heard about since the end of this day's fighting has been about your knight. The people love this mysterious man. But Miles," Richard said, and the tone of his voice forced Miles's eyes from Morgan's, "will he win tomorrow, and the next day?"

  "I believe Eldwin will be the victor when the tourney ends, Sire," Miles replied in a low voice.

  "Morgan is not one to let it happen easily," came the deep voice of William Marshall as he took the seat between Miles and Richard.

  "I have faith in Eldwin," Miles declared.

  "You must. Wasn't that one of your squires attending him?" Richard asked.

  "Yes, Sire. I have given James over to Sir Eldwin's service."

  "Why have I never seen or heard of this knight before?"Marshall asked suddenly. His dark blue eyes probed Miles's face intensely.

  Miles knew he was being tested by both men. "His father and mine were friends. My father made a deathbed promise that he would see to the young boy's training. But before he could, his uncle claimed him and there was nothing my father could do."

  "A petition to the king?" Marshall queried.

  "No, sir; the uncle took the boy to northern Wales. We could not go after him at the time; King Henry forbade it. It seemed your father," Miles said pointedly to Richard, "had plans for that area of Wales and did not want my father to do anything that would hold him back."

  "That sounds familiar," Richard muttered.

  "Then how did he come to your service?" Marshall asked, again proving that he never let anything deter him from his goal.

  "Five years ago, his uncle died. Eldwin escaped and made his way to Radstock. There, he came to me and told me who he was. From that day on, he trained as a knight as my father had promised," Miles finished.

  "But why the oath?" Richard asked, drawn into the story as only one who had felt the restraining hand of battling guardians could.

  "Sire, it seems Eldwin had a very powerful vision, and because of that he took his oath."

  "He must be strong-willed," Marshall muttered.

  "Sir Eldwin is more than that," Miles shot back, holding Marshall's challenging stare with his own.

  "No matter what he is, and no matter if he wins the tournament or not, I shall knight him for this day's victory alone, if need be," Richard said.

  Miles held his face expressionless, but felt relief. Richard believed the story, and that was what mattered. Yet Marshall's face still held some doubt.

  "No, Sire. Eldwin will not accept that. He wants to prove himself and earn his reward."

  "He is prideful," Richard said after a moment.

  "Sir Eldwin is as idealistic as he is good. He will win," Miles declared.

  "He will not!" came the coarse voice of Morgan who had come to the High Table unobserved by those in conversation.

  Miles gazed into Morgan's sneering features and felt a cold chill. He shook his head slowly and insultingly turned back to Richard. "As I have said, my lord," Miles repeated, "Sir Eldwin will be victorious."

  "Or dead!" Morgan stated as his hand went to the hilt of his dagger. Miles refused to look at the knight, and kept his eyes level with the king's.

  "You fought well today, Morgan of Guildswood. There is no shame in losing to Eldwin," Richard told the angered knight.

  "It was but a trick. He swerved his horse at the last moment," Morgan defended.

  "Do you think a Saracen would do elseways?" William Marshall cut in. Morgan, again caught off guard, glared at Marshall.

  "I would expect such from them, but not from a Frankish knight, as they call us."

  "Was not your lance held low?" Miles asked in a mild voice.

  "Do not anger me, Delong, or there will be yet more blood spilled!"

  Miles had trained himself to hold his anger in check, but Morgan's brash threat broke his will power and a sudden rage took hold of him. Standing quickly, he grasped the handle of his dagger and faced Morgan across the wide table.

  "If it's blood you hunger for, perhaps you should drink of your own,
" Miles spat, drawing his dagger. Morgan's blade was out in a flash. A sudden silence fell in the hall, as all eyes focused on the two knights. Before anything could happen, Marshall grabbed Miles, pinning his arms to his sides.

  "There will be no fighting among my men!" decreed Richard, who stood, glaring at both Miles and Morgan. "May I suggest, Sir Morgan, that you save your energy for the field. You have points to regain."

  Shaking with anger, Morgan bowed to Richard. "As you say, Sire." Morgan sheathed his blade and walked from the great hall with every eye following his exit.

  "That was stupid," Marshall chided.

  "The man angers me," Miles replied after he sheathed his dagger.

  "You took something from him; he seeks revenge. I hope your Sir Eldwin does not fall victim to it," Richard said.

  "Or to the women who have besieged his tent," Marshall added with a laugh.

  "Besieged?" asked Miles, taken aback by the old knight's words.

  “Aye, it seems the bards are already telling the tale of the masked knight. He is a romantic figure to all the maidens, and to quite a few who are far from that age."

  Smiling, Miles shook his head slowly.

  "Do you know something we should?" Marshall asked when he saw Miles's strange reaction.

  "No, I find it amusing that with all the men who seek the maidens' charms, they should chase the only one whom they cannot have."

  "He has taken a vow of chastity, also?" Richard asked, incredulously.

  "Hardly, Sire, but when in tournament, he reserves his strength for his opponents."

  "Perhaps a few of these men should learn from that example," Marshall said with a barking laugh as he swept his hand around the room. Miles and Richard both joined in his laughter as they saw various knights fondling whatever women came within reach.

  A moment later, Miles called Arthur to him and whispered orders. Arthur quickly departed, and within half an hour, Miles bid his king and Marshall good-night.

  "We look forward to seeing your knight upon the field tomorrow," Richard called in parting.

  Miles left the great hall and walked directly to the tents of Radstock. Twenty feet from the tent he froze. The path was five deep in people, and most were the peasant women of whom Marshall had spoken. They stood patiently, awaiting just a glimpse of their new champion, and more than one lewd comment reached Miles's ears.