Queen Of Knights Page 19

  Taking a deep breath, Miles headed into the crowd. The insignia of his rank opened a path and, without looking at the people, he went-straight to the tent's opening where Arthur and James stood guard at the entrance. When Miles reached it, they opened the flap and let him in, following quickly behind.

  When he stood in the center, Gwendolyn rose and embraced him. "What do they want of me?" she asked when they parted.

  "You are their hero today. They just want to see you again. Put on your surcoat and mask."

  With her mask in place, Gwendolyn paused by her equipment. She didn't know why, but some inner sense warned her to take the sword. Carrying it unsheathed, she stood next to Miles.

  James and Arthur went first, and then Miles. Finally, Gwendolyn stepped into the night, and as she did, a loud cry rang out. Her throat tightened when she surveyed the crowd. Slowly, she bowed her head. The name of Sir Eldwin rose from fifty throats, and Gwendolyn lifted the silver sword high.

  Satisfied that their hero had come out to greet them, many in the crowd began to leave. Miles turned to Gwendolyn, smiling as he motioned the squires to open the tent's entrance.

  When she turned, Gwendolyn's senses flared in warning and, lifting the sword, she spun around at the ready. The whistling of an arrow sounded loud in her ears, and her hand, guided without her realizing it, moved in a blur.

  The sound of an arrowhead hitting metal echoed distinctly. Everyone froze as a feathered shaft fell to the ground. Then a new cheer rang out, for those who had witnessed Sir Eldwin's deflection of the arrow by the sword cried out a new belief of their champion. Miles, reacting quickly, ushered Gwendolyn and the squires inside.

  "Why?" Gwendolyn asked after she took off her mask. "Morgan." Miles spat and related the tale of what had happened in the great hall between him and Morgan.

  "He will pay for this," Gwendolyn swore.

  "No!" Miles stated fiercely.

  "He tried to kill one of us," Gwendolyn whispered.

  "Not one of us—you. But he failed. Gwendolyn, how did you know?"

  "I didn't. I sensed something, and it happened. Miles, I can't explain it. My arm seemed to move of itself."

  "Arthur, I want three of my knights posted outside ...Guy, Poole, and Talen. Tell them what has happened, and to be on the watch for any of Guildswood's men. James, stand the first watch until the men arrive. Then I want you and Arthur to sleep in my tent. Answer no summons except for mine," he ordered.

  When the squires were gone, Miles held Gwendolyn's hand tightly. "Do not let this disturb you; you need your concentration for tomorrow."

  "You were wrong," she told him when the squires had gone.

  "Wrong?"

  "The arrow-it was not meant for me, it was meant for you."

  "No."

  "Yes. Miles, if you were killed, Morgan would be free to take me from Radstock. He would petition Richard and show prior claim. He would also take the lands."

  "I think not."

  "It is so. Miles, I did not stop that shaft. I heard it and my arm moved. But I did not do anything!"

  "Your instincts are good," Miles argued, choosing to ignore the meaning of her words.

  Gwendolyn sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "Miles, I . . ." But she could not go on.

  "Come, let us sleep together. You must rest and be fresh for the morrow."

  "Yes, my lord," Gwendolyn replied. And in that moment she realized Miles had known the destination of the shaft all along.

  The morning of the second day of the tournament was as cloudless as the first. The air was crisp, and the scents of the cooking fires chased away the smells of the overcrowded streets.

  Within the tent of Sir Eldwin, James was dressing the knight for the tournament while Arthur checked each shaft that Gwendolyn would shoot.

  "It will be a long day," Miles warned as he began to explain to Gwendolyn what she would be facing today. "They say the archery will be the fiercest in years. Richard has once again shown his greed and opened the competition to all, even peasants. If a peasant wins, he will gain a gold purse, but they have also paid dearly."

  "You have taught me the longbow's use quite well," Gwendolyn replied confidently.

  "I speak of this only because I want you to know that if you do not win, it has no effect on the tournament as a whole."

  "I shall do my best."

  "It is this afternoon that worries me," Miles admitted.

  "Hold your worry until the proper time. I will avoid Morgan for as long as possible, I promise you that."

  "You must be quick. You must not let anyone's blow land on you."

  Gwendolyn stared at Miles for a moment while James cinched her gambeson. Then, with a half smile, she lifted her mask and put it on, effectively ending any further conversation.

  Miles shook his head, but knew there could be no more talk. "I will cheer for you," he told her as he left the tent.

  "He worries greatly for you," James said while anchoring her coif-de-maille into place.

  Putting her hand on his shoulder, Gwendolyn squeezed it gently. She saw within his young, intelligent eyes the understanding of what she tried to convey.

  With James walking behind her, she left the tent. Outside, people lined the pathway, cheering for their mysterious champion.

  Then she was on the field. Together with all the contestants, she walked in rank before the king's stand. The sun was strong today, and Gwendolyn sweated beneath the maille. But she ignored the unpleasantness while she surveyed her competition. All the knights who remained uninjured from yesterday's joust were on the field and, in addition, there were perhaps thirty peasants.

  Again, as he had yesterday, the Archbishop of Canterbury stood next to the king and offered the day's benediction. When he finished, Richard spoke.

  "The archers of England have always been the finest in the world. Their aim has always been true, and because of them, we have been victorious time and again. Today we shall learn who the best long bowman in our country is."

  The spectators were silent as they watched the most colorful king England had known for generations. But, when his hands rose, and the fur-collared mantle fen back from his arms, a low roar grew from their combined throats.

  "Let the tournament begin," he proclaimed.

  Bedlam broke loose when the contestants returned to their squires and the first of the archers lined up on the mark. Even while Gwendolyn walked toward James, she became aware of a sound breaking above the noise of the crowd. She stopped when she realized what it was. From hundreds of throats, the name of Sir Eldwin was being called. Turning, Sir Eldwin looked toward the spectators and raised a mailled hand in salute. The shouts grew louder, following Gwendolyn as she walked towards James.

  There, she watched the first fifty archers notch their shafts. Her eyes were drawn to a tall, thin man who stood half a head higher than the rest. No matter how hard Gwendolyn tried to draw her eyes from the tall man, she could not. His face was gaunt, its lines severe, but she saw that among them all, he was the most relaxed.

  Then the king's chamberlain lifted his staff and banged its tip three times. The archers, who were made up of the thirty peasants, as well as twenty squires who wanted to test their aim, drew their longbows and let fly the shafts.

  Two minutes later, the three judges, William Marshall among them, returned from the targets. They went to the chamberlain and gave the results.

  "Ten archers have hit the center mark," declared the chamberlain. He called out the names, and the crowd responded with applause. But Gwendolyn still watched the tall archer who she knew had hit dead center. "Robin Locksley," called the chamberlain at last. The tall man bowed once and walked from the field.

  The next group of fifty went to the mark, and when their arrows were scored, only two had reached center. The third wave of archers stepped forward, and Gwendolyn's eyes locked with Morgan's. He stood at the mark, but he looked at Sir Eldwin, and all could see the challenge written across his features.

  Th
e arrows were notched, yet Morgan still stared at Gwendolyn. Only when the signal to shoot came did Morgan take his eyes away. He seemed careless to those who watched. Drawing back his bow, he fired almost without taking aim. As soon as his shaft was loosened, his eyes went back to Gwendolyn, seemingly uninterested in the results.

  When the winners' names were called, only one rang out.

  "Morgan of Guildswood, dead center." Even with his name ringing in the air, Morgan acknowledged nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Gwendolyn's in challenge.

  Then Gwendolyn was walking toward the line, and the air was filled with the name of Sir Eldwin. Forcing herself to concentrate on her task, Gwendolyn shut all else out. She stared at the target two hundred feet away and made herself breathe easily. She strung the longbow and lifted three shafts. Gazing at each carefully, she chose the one that looked the most perfect.

  When the call to mark came, she once again heard Miles's patient voice within her mind. "Do not rush. Breathe deeply and hold. When you are ready, exhale while you release the shaft. Concentrate on your target, concentrate…."

  Gwendolyn drew her breath in slowly while she pulled back the gut. Concentrating on the target, she let herself become one with the powerful hardwood bow. Suddenly she felt the bow vibrate and forced her muscles to steady it. When the tip of the shaft pointed properly, she let loose the string.

  The shaft arced smoothly, and as the rest of her breath left her, she watched it fly true to its mark. Lowering the bow, she waited until the judges withdrew the shafts.

  Three names were called this round, Sir Eldwin's the first.

  When her name was announced, Gwendolyn turned to face Morgan. The sneer on his mouth sent a lance of rage shooting through her, and it took all her will power not to challenge him directly. Instead, still staring at him, she bowed her head, and was rewarded by Morgan turning his back to her.

  Gwendolyn stayed where she was, and the rest of the survivors of the first round came to their marks. There were twenty-two of them. Morgan stood three men away from Gwendolyn, but to her surprise, the tall peasant came to the spot next to her.

  "My compliments, Sir Eldwin. That was a fine shot."

  Sir Eldwin nodded to him, in reply.

  "I have heard of your vows, and respect them. I am Robin Locksley, of Nottingham," he said in introduction.

  When the call to mark came, Gwendolyn chose a new shaft. She glanced at Morgan, who was again glaring at her.

  "Concentrate," whispered Locksley, "do not let his anger reach you."

  With that, Gwendolyn drew back the longbow and willed herself to think only of the target. She let fly her shaft and heard the echoes of the other bows. Again, when she looked at her target, she saw her aim had been true.

  "Well done," Locksley said. Gwendolyn nodded to the man, wondering just who he was. He wore the poorly dyed clothing of a peasant, but spoke with the accent of a noble-man.

  Of the twenty-two, only ten survived—Sir Eldwin, Morgan, and Locksley among them. The remaining archers toed their mark, and once more Gwendolyn drew back the powerful bow. Letting loose another shaft, she saw her arrow strike dead on center.

  This time Morgan did not look at her. His arrow, too, had reached the proper mark, but just barely. Now there were six. The crowd was on its feet, every voice exhorting its chosen champion. Yet, as Gwendolyn listened to the names called out by the populace, she heard not the name of Locksley.

  But Gwendolyn had recognized in the way the man stood, and the way he held his bow, that there was not a better bowman in the tournament. She could not cheer him, so instead, as the archers chose their next shafts. Sir Eldwin's mailled hand fell across Locksley's. In it was one of her arrows.

  Locksley gazed at the knight's masked face for a moment.

  "My thanks, my lord," Locksley said in a low voice. Gwendolyn watched him notch the arrow and face the targets. Behind him she saw Morgan, his face dark with silent rage at this new affront.

  Gwendolyn drew back her bow, and at the call, loosened the shaft. But even as it flew, she knew she had lost her concentration. When her shaft sank into the target, she saw it had barely missed the center mark. Quickly, she glanced at the other targets. Morgan's shaft was again dead center, as was Locksley's. She and the other three knights had lost. Only Locksley and Morgan were left.

  Gwendolyn turned and looked toward the king's stand.

  She saw Richard, and behind him, Miles. Miles nodded, no disappointment showing on his face. But, by the time Gwendolyn reached James. Miles had appeared.

  "You let Morgan break your concentration." he whispered.

  Gwendolyn stared at him for a long moment, forcing herself to think back to the final shot. Then she remembered when she had drawn the shaft back, letting her eyes flicker toward Morgan.

  "He will not win in any event." Miles remarked. Gwendolyn studied Miles's features for a moment, before looking back at the two remaining archers. The chamberlain stood behind them, waiting until their arrows were notched. Then he called them to their marks.

  She watched as Morgan drew back his bow, and Locksley did the same. They released the arrows at the same time, and the sound of gut reverberated in the air. The arrows flew true, and both landed dead center.

  Then Richard stood, and in a loud voice called for the final shoot. "One target. One shot," he decreed.

  Both Morgan and Locksley bowed to signify their acceptance. This time, with the crowd shouting only Morgan's name, the two archers stood side by side and drew their bows. Gwendolyn's breath caught when she saw it was her arrow Locksley had notched once again.

  Morgan let loose first, and even as his arrow was sailing toward the target, Locksley's bow twanged and his shaft followed.

  A great cry wafted from the crowd when first one arrow struck the target and then the second. This time no one could see the results as Marshall and the two other judges stepped directly in front of the target. They lifted the leather-covered board and carried it to Richard.

  The crowd gasped as one when they saw the two shafts almost touching. Carefully, Marshall pointed to the one closest the center.

  "Robin Locksley of Nottingham!" he yelled for all to hear.

  Both Gwendolyn and Miles stared at Morgan, whose face grew darker with Richard's words. He turned and walked to his men, and Gwendolyn felt a twinge of fear as she suddenly remembered the dark aura she had seen surround him yesterday. She knew that this afternoon Morgan would be more dangerous than ever.

  But not even her worry of Morgan interfered when she listened to Richard commending Locksley.

  "You have stood well today, Robin Locksley, and all the men of England are proud of you. Your victory has earned you a purse of gold," Richard declared, holding up a heavy leather purse. "To the victor goes the spoils," he added, throwing the purse to Locksley.

  But when the tall peasant rose from his knees, the purse clutched tightly in his hand, he did not turn to leave; rather, he faced Richard bravely and spoke. "Sire, may I request a boon?" he asked.

  The crowd hushed at his words, some plainly frightened, and others aghast at his audaciousness. Yet, Gwendolyn sensed there was more to this peasant than met the eye, and silently cheered him on.

  Richard, for his part, always the champion of the brave and foolhardy, merely nodded. "I seem to be plagued with requests and boons for this tournament," he stated acerbically. "Speak your mind."

  "Sire, I wish you to know that the men of the North Country are behind you and look forward to many years of a good reign. Because of this, and in the name of the common people of England, I wish to donate this purse to aid you in your fight against the Saracen."

  Richard seemed taken aback by the peasant's words, but his majestic bearing overcame the surprise and he nodded slowly. "With my thanks, and England's, I accept your offer," Richard replied.

  Locksley smiled and insolently tossed the heavy purse back to Richard. Then, instead of leaving, he spoke once again. "Sire, do not leave your country unatt
ended for too long; there are those who would take it from you."

  "And you?" Richard asked quickly, staring intensely at the peasant dressed in green.

  "I will but try to hold it for you, your Majesty," he said in a tight voice.

  The tension was thick in the air, and the grumblings of the nobility sounded dangerous. Richard merely laughed, then became serious. "I shall count on you."

  "Thank you, Sire," Locksley said, bowing once again.

  The cheers of the common people grew louder, for before them was a champion who had stolen the day from their lords and masters, and for one very rare moment, they felt themselves transformed from their poor existence.

  "There is something about him that is strong," Miles commented, studying the man who walked toward them. Locksley stopped three feet away, bowed his head, and then extended Gwendolyn's shaft to her.

  "I thank you for not looking down upon me, and am in your debt," he said formally. "Guard yourselves well this day, for word is that Morgan means to destroy you both." With that, the tall archer left.

  "We must discuss this, this afternoon," Miles said suddenly, but he was not looking at Gwendolyn; rather, his eyes stayed on Locksley's back until he was swallowed by the crowd of celebrants.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Damn it, woman, listen to me!" Miles yelled through clenched teeth, his tall, muscular body blocking Gwendolyn's.

  "Don't yell at me, my lord. My mind is made up."

  "I forbid it!"

  Gwendolyn stared at Miles for a moment and then reached for her leather mask. His fingers grasped her wrist and held it steady.

  "Don't hide behind the mask. Face me. You cannot do what you are planning," he told her in a quieter voice.

  Gwendolyn tried to raise her arm, but Miles's strength was too much for her. Yet she refused to yield, and he refused to relinquish his hold. A moment later she nodded, and Miles released her wrist.