Queen Of Knights Read online

  Even as she swung, her arms were reversing, and when the axe passed near Morgan's face it seemed to waver in the air. Then, it was returning from the opposite direction, and Morgan barely raised his shield in time. He deflected the blow, but again, Eldwin's axe wavered hauntingly before coming at him again.

  Morgan back stepped quickly, trying to adjust to this new attack. But the faster he moved his shield, the faster Eldwin changed the axe's direction.

  Gwendolyn followed his retreat, knowing she must not let up. She swung ceaselessly, and with each pass, pieces of Morgan's shield flew away. Her left shoulder was beginning to ache badly, and she realized that his axe had penetrated the three layers of armor, striking her flesh.

  Forcing away the pain, Gwendolyn continued her attack until suddenly, Morgan ducked beneath one harsh blow and spun away. He screamed and charged. Gwendolyn side- stepped, and Morgan's wild slash grazed her left arm, another blaze of pain erupting even as she withdrew to await his next attack.

  Then she saw his face, and the savage smile that spread across it. He had seen the blood seeping through the maille, and now stalked her mercilessly. Taking a deep breath, Gwendolyn prepared to face him. Morgan came on, but he stopped suddenly. Gwendolyn held herself at bay, waiting to see what his next move would be.

  Morgan began to circle her slowly, and she had no choice but to follow. Halfway around, he lunged toward her. Gwendolyn raised her axe and warded off the blow, spinning to her left, and at the same time lashing out at him.

  Her axe met Morgan's and the two shafts of wood came together. Then Morgan, using all his great weight, lunged forward, forcing Gwendolyn back. He stepped back suddenly, freeing her, only to begin his circling movements again.

  "You are good," he yelled, "but I am better!" Morgan stopped and waved his axe in the air. Watching him carefully, she saw both the lifting of the axe, and the slight movement from his shield.

  She set herself for the attack even as he lunged at her. She swung quickly, and the ax heads met in the air. Sparks flew, and a loud metallic sound rose above them.

  But when she tried to bring her axe down, Morgan's shield rammed into her chest. She was lifted from her feet and thrown onto her back. The sudden meeting of earth and armor stunned her, knocking the breath from her as the axe flew from her hand.

  It was over, she realized bitterly. Fighting to regain her breath and trying, also, to raise her hand in the gesture of yielding, she saw Morgan's distorted features glaring down at her. Then she saw his axe raised high, even as the crowd screamed its denial.

  Morgan stood above her, his eyes growing wider while he savored his moment of victory. Then his arm reached back further, and Gwendolyn realized he meant to kill her. Before she could move, a dull thud sounded, and an inch below the head of Morgan's axe an arrow shaft appeared.

  A loud cheer erupted, and with it, Gwendolyn rolled from beneath the axe's blade. Regaining her feet, she glanced quickly around. She saw Miles, halfway to her, his longsword drawn. Then she saw the green-clad peasant standing twenty feet from Morgan, his bow notched with a second arrow, his eyes fixed on the wide-set knight.

  "Your opponent has yielded, Sir Knight. Know you not the chivalry you represent? Does a mere peasant have to teach you?" he called derisively.

  Before anything could happen, Richard was striding across the field, his face held in stern lines. He stopped next to the archer, and his hand covered Locksley's, forcing him to lower the longbow.

  "We thank you for your swift action and are indebted to you. Morgan, I hold that you were but caught up in the fever of battle. And, we pray it will not happen again in tournament," he said pointedly.

  Morgan shook himself, and then bowed before the king.

  "My apologies Sire. I was unaware of my actions."

  "So we have noted. Try, good Knight, to keep some restraint on yourself, at least until we face the Saracen. We need every noble man to hold our country strong."

  "Yes, Your Majesty," Morgan said, but no one present missed the glare of hatred he shot at Locksley.

  "I declare Morgan of Guildswood victor of the second day of tournament," Richard proclaimed to the crowd.

  Although the cheering was loud, Gwendolyn heard the name of Sir Eldwin again being hailed as Richard draped the scarlet sash of victory over Morgan's head.

  Turning, she walked toward Locksley, and although she could not speak, reached out her hand and grasped his.

  "If ever you are in the North Country and seek aid, callout my name to any and I will hear," he said. "For you are not like the others; of that I am certain."

  "And you, Robin Locksley, if you should require aid of any sort, send to Radstock, for I and all my people are indebted to you," Miles Delong stated, covering both their hands with his own.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gwendolyn was immobile, staring vacantly as she sat inside the large tent. Her defeat at Morgan's hands was a blow she had been unprepared for, and one which gave her more pain than the axe blade's bite.

  She had been silent from the moment she'd entered the tent, and even after James had removed her armor, and Miles had cleansed and dressed her shoulder, she had not said a single word. Hours later, with tapers illuminating the interior, she could not take her thoughts from the afternoon's fight.

  She relived, over and over, all her mistakes, trying to ascertain the cause of her defeat. She knew in part that overconfidence had reared its ugly head. But at the same time she wondered if Morgan's superior strength had also been a determining factor. Yet, no matter what reason she sought, what excuse she used, only one fact remained. She had failed!

  Miles had been sitting near throughout Gwendolyn's silent ordeal and had wisely let her be. But as the hours passed, he sensed that if this continued, she might never recover the confidence to fight again, and he knew he could not let that happen. Others might want a simple wife, but during the last year, Miles had learned that anything less than the strength Gwendolyn possessed would not be enough for him.

  She was unique, and he knew that in marrying her he had been granted a rare privilege. But, for that privilege he must prove himself, and Miles Delong, of the original seeds of England, would do what was necessary.

  "You must eat."

  "No."

  "Gwendolyn, there is no shame in losing."

  "For me there is."

  "No. Your shame is in your pride!"

  "It is shame nonetheless."

  "And because of today you will let Morgan take what he wants?"

  His words struck at her, but no anger welled to stop their passage; instead, there was only a dark void. No tears of release came to her aid, and she felt as if a part of her had died.

  Miles stood suddenly, the movement in the quiet tent forcing Gwendolyn to look into his face. His green eyes, usually so gentle and compassionate, were hard. His lips were drawn in a tight line: a muscle spasmed angrily in his cheek. But not even this sight affected her.

  Miles strode purposefully across the tent and went to her equipment. A moment later he stood with her silver sword.

  "It has been almost a year since you swore me to my oath and took me to your cave to show me this sword. You told me of your destiny—and of mine. I believed in you. I trained you. I gave in to your desires. No woman has ever become a knight before. Perhaps, it is for the very reasons you show now," he finished, his voice dropping derisively at the last.

  But still no spark of will reflected in her sky-blue eyes.

  Miles shook his head sadly and looked at the sword in his hands, his anger growing in proportion to her apathy. "Shall I give this blade to Richard? He could melt it down and fill his war chest even fuller."

  Gwendolyn listened to everything Miles said, but though she knew him to be right, she could not find the strength to bring herself to action. His word struck cruelly when what she wanted from him was comfort.

  "Hold me, Husband," she pleaded.

  "I hold only my wife who is my equal. I take no weak-wil
led female into my arms."

  The harshness of his words, coupled with his unyielding glare, brought home to her the truth of everything he'd said. Her gaze shifted to the sword he gripped with white-knuckled hands. She stared at it and, rising, took the blade from him.

  She searched for the comfort of its power, but felt only the coolness of the metal. "There is nothing," she whispered.

  "You feel nothing? How could you? It takes more than a witch's words and a sorcerer's sword to make one a knight. It takes something far greater!"

  "What has happened to me?" she asked as she stared at the blade in her hands..

  "You must find that answer yourself."

  "Damn you!" she screamed, rage sweeping through her in unreasonable waves. Spinning from him, she angrily flung the sword into the ground. The blade bit into the earth and held. The sword swayed back and forth, a metronome to her haunted thoughts.

  Miles watched carefully, relief flooding through him when she cast the sword from herself. It was not what she did, but the fact that she did something. At last some spark of life had returned. He called her name, but she did not turn. Stepping next to her, he saw her eyes fixed on the sword and realized that she was fighting a battle within herself. Anything and anyone else would be nonexistent until the fight was done with and the results determined.

  Walking quietly, Miles left the tent, and when he stepped outside, he ordered the squires to stand guard and let no one enter. All around him were the sounds of revelry, but he had no desire to join in. He walked away from the tent city to find some peaceful spot where he could sit in solitude and ponder his thoughts.

  Inside the tent, the sword continued to sway, and Gwendolyn was unable to take her eyes from it. She did not hear Miles call her name or leave, but sensed she was alone. She sank to the ground a bare inch from the upright blade and reached out to touch the silver hilt.

  "I believed in you," she whispered hoarsely, her fingertips caressing the cool metal. "Were you only in my imagination?" Wrapping her hand around the hilt, she drew the sword from the ground. With the sword in her hand, she closed her eyes and thought back through the years. Her memory responded with rare crystal clarity, and she saw her mother again, taking her to the Pool of Pendragon, as well as to the cave for the first time. The excitement and thrill of holding her father's sword was rekindled in her mind as she once again felt its pulsating power.

  But when she opened her eyes the power vanished. Concentrating, she willed the channel in her mind to open, but found only a dark void. "What has happened to me?"

  And the words Miles had spoken earlier returned to echo hollowly in her ears. You must find the answer yourself.

  "Help me …" she pleaded, and her body obeyed her as her eyes filled with tears. And suddenly she knew some of the answer. It had been she, rather than Morgan, who was responsible for the defeat. Because he, of all the men she had faced since the start of the tournament, had been the only one who had ever brought out fear within her. In the joust she had been lucky, she realized, because Morgan had not been prepared for a decisive thrust at the first charge. But this afternoon, when she'd faced him, she'd been deceived by the blackness of his aura and had lost her concentration and will power.

  She had defeated herself. It had not been Morgan, it had been she. At last in accord with her thoughts, she held the sword high. It began as a gentle hum in her mind, until it increased, and she felt the sword vibrate in her hands at last.

  It had returned to her, and relief flooded her mind, awakening the senses she herself had turned off.

  With this new singing in her blood, she understood what Miles had tried to tell her earlier. It took more than a sword to make a knight—it took more than training, and more than knightly trappings. Gwendolyn had just learned exactly what it was: It was a state of mind.

  Concentrating, Gwendolyn opened the channel, and as she did, the interior of the tent filled with light. Her blood rushed through her veins, and the sword came fully alive.

  Remembering the lessons of the priestess, Gwendolyn released the hold within her mind, and the sensation of separation from her body returned. She rose, bodiless, within the tent and willed herself to see the afternoon again. Suddenly, the afternoon's bright sun washed across the tournament field, and she saw two figures beneath her. She watched again those final minutes of the duel between herself and Morgan and saw her fatal mistake when she left herself open to Morgan's timely shield thrust. She saw, too, the dark ugly aura surrounding him and watched it expand while she lay defenseless beneath him.

  "You are learning, child." The words filled her mind, returning it to her body, but she did not look for the priestess. Gwendolyn knew she was alone. The heaviness and despair that had held her for so many hours now vanished, and once again, Gwendolyn's body swelled with life as she gave herself over to the powers that roamed the heavens and drew sustenance from within her own soul.

  <><><>

  "I want to know who he is!" roared Morgan, his face red with anger as he glared across the table.

  "My lord, he is but a peasant."

  "I want him! I want him dead!" Morgan declared.

  The two mercenary knights glanced at each other in warning. Then, the one who had spoken, stood. "I will put out the word."

  "No, not yet. He is a hero to the rabble. Just find out who this Robin Locksley is. I will deal with him another time." Morgan turned to the other knight and fixed him with a hard stare. "And Eldwin? How badly is he hurt?"

  "We learned nothing. Delong's tents are well-guarded, and no one will speak of it. "

  "Something is not right about this masked fighter; what?" he asked, more to himself than the others. The tournament had changed greatly in the last two days. When the longsword duels commenced the next day, there would be but a handful to compete. And Morgan knew that at the end it would be he and Eldwin.

  "You must work on his shoulder," advised the first man. "Of that you can be sure," Morgan stated. "And both of you must find out about Eldwin. Spend whatever is necessary. I want to know who this man is!" Then he stood and called his squire. "Bring her in now. I have need of her."

  A few moments later the squire returned, bringing with him a young girl dressed in an old, stained tunic, whose face reflected a combination of loathing and fright. When they entered, the other two men left. Just as quickly, the squire released the girl and withdrew.

  Morgan fingered his chin while he studied the peasant girl.

  She was young, no more than thirteen, with wide, tear-filled eyes. While he stared at her, he felt himself stir. Whenever he fought, whether in a joust or in battle, and when it ended, he was filled with a need that sought release. Just thinking about his earlier fighting today stirred his passions.

  "Come here," Morgan commanded as he removed his short tunic to reveal his hairy, naked body.

  The girl stood still, her mind frozen, fear holding her prisoner, her eyes growing even wider when she saw his engorged length stand out straight from the thick mass of hair at its base.

  "I said come here!" Morgan roared, angered that she would not listen to him after he had paid her parents with gold. Naked, he stepped across the tent and seized a fistful of her hair. With his free hand, he ripped the bodice of her shabby tunic to bare her small, developing breasts.

  Ignoring the tears and low sobs that came from her mouth, Morgan cruelly pressed his lips to hers. Then he dragged her to the ground and pried her legs apart. His hand roamed freely along her thighs until he cupped her just sprouting mound and then sank two fingers within her. She lay still, her body paralyzed with fear.

  But when he moved his bulk between her thighs she screamed. His hand flashed, striking her cheek harshly.

  "Quiet! No one cares what happens to you."

  "Please…" she cried hopelessly.

  "I own you now. You are mine!" Moving quickly, one hand still gripping her hair, his other covering a budding breast, Morgan crudely thrust into her young, unprepared body.

&n
bsp; He felt her tear with his entrance, and another scream tore through the tent. But Morgan, caught within his twisted passion, heard it not as he ruthlessly satisfied himself with the virgin. All his thoughts fled while he took the girl: the failed assassination attempt on Delong, his loss in archery to the peasant, and the fact he had not killed Eldwin today as he'd planned. Yet although he moved savagely within the slave beneath him, disregarding the blood seeping from her womb, he saw not her coarse features or long black hair—he saw only porcelain skin, blue eyes, and white-blonde hair.

  It was after midnight when Gwendolyn arose from the floor. Her mind was no longer heavy with tortured thoughts of self-loathing; rather, a new resolve had come to ease her loss. She stretched her cramped muscles and went to the front of the tent where she called Arthur and asked after Miles.

  "I do not know where he is."

  "At the hall?"

  "No. He walked in the opposite direction. I think he wanted to be away from the crowds, my lady."

  "Thank you." Gwendolyn went to the chest and drew on the single woman's tunic she had brought. After that, she took out her long hooded mantle-like cape. She hung the Saracen dagger around her neck and put on the mantle, wrapping herself completely within its folds, before drawing the hood low across her brow.

  "You can't go outside, my lady."

  "Put out the tapers. Stand guard with your brother and let no one enter," she ordered, disregarding his protest as she strode across the tent floor.

  She ignored James's startled glance and turned into the street to begin her search for Miles. Behind her, Arthur whispered urgently in James's ear. The squire nodded quickly, loosened his dagger, and began to follow Gwendolyn.

  The streets were quieter now, but still the people carried on the spirit of the tournament. Everywhere she looked, Gwendolyn saw couples fondling each other openly. The senseless bodies of those who'd drunk too much littered the ground, and while she walked, she could feel the eyes of the men mark her trail. But something about her carriage stopped those who would, from following the dark form of her passage.