Queen Of Knights Page 7

  Miles thought himself to be a simple man, enjoying everything about life and devoting himself to the arts of being a knight. His desires were normal, and his vows sacred. It bothered him to some degree that Richard had to issue his edict for Miles to gain Gwendolyn’s hand, but short of open warfare against Guildswood, there was no other way.

  Yet with tomorrow’s sun, Miles felt he would be absolved from the deceit which enabled him to take Gwendolyn from Morgan....

  Miles remembered Morgan’s arrival this evening. Miles had been standing to one side in the great hall, talking with a knight he had not seen in some time when Morgan had entered with his entourage. Miles had carefully watched Morgan, studying his adversary closely as he approached the king.

  Sir Morgan of Guildswood was taller than average height, but still a good four inches shorter than Miles. His lack of height was more than made up for by his powerful width. His neck, rising out of the light maille hauberk, was thick and powerful. His arms were massive, and his legs, encased within the padded riding hose, were like two tree trunks.

  Before Morgan had reached the king, his head had turned and his eyes had found Miles’s. Within their deep-set darkness, Miles had seen the man’s hatred flare. A chill coursed through him when he sensed the rage contained within the knight’s stare.

  When Morgan had turned from him, Miles knew he had gazed into the eyes of a man who was destined to become his lifelong enemy, and a dangerous one at that. He had thought this even as Morgan reached Richard and made his obeisance to the king. When Morgan had lifted Richard’s hand to his lips, Miles had left the hall to go to his room and dress for the evening’s festivities.

  A loud bark of laughter reached Miles on the parapet and he recognized Richard’s laugh. The king would be among the last to finish tonight; he had to impress his new subjects with his presence, his stories, and his power.

  Miles concentrated in an effort to see through the darkness, and was rewarded by glimpsing the shadowy shapes of tents on the flat tournament field. Even now his squires would be making their way toward his tent to layout his armor and weapons—to sleep by them, to make certain everything would be ready for the morning.

  It would be there, on the fields tomorrow, that he would meet Morgan. And, if everything went well, by the time the sun was setting tomorrow, the day of his wedding would be set.

  For the last several days, Miles had wondered to himself if he were mad. He wondered if he saw more in Gwendolyn than there was. Her height alone was unequaled, and her beauty was made even more apparent by this height. It was this evening, at the feast, that had given Miles the answer to his unasked questions. When she had entered the courtyard he had seen the jeweled blade hanging on its golden rope. The handbreadth-long dagger swayed gently between her breasts, and he had known that everything she had said to him had been true. She had been the first woman to capture his heart, and Miles was suddenly glad of this.

  In an effort to pull his mind from Gwendolyn, he thought of the feast of which he himself had partaken so little. But throughout the long hours of revelry, he had been aware of everything happening around him. His mind had been as clear as the crystal night under which they had eaten. The lights from the torches added to the silvery sheen of the ten thousand stars that had shown down upon them. The night, like his mind, had been open and calm.

  <><><>

  In the forefront of the courtyard, set five feet above the rest of the tables, was the High Table. At the table’s center was King Richard, to his right, Hughes, and to his left, Gwendolyn. At the extreme ends of the table of honor, separated by Richard’s advisors, sat the opponents, Miles and Morgan.

  Below the table, and spread out across the wide courtyard were the tables of the Duke’s guests. All the nobility from the surrounding countryside were in Devonshire to witness the fight between Miles and Morgan for the right to wed Gwendolyn. With them were their families, their knights, and behind them, their personal servants and squires.

  “She is a lovely morsel, Miles, but is she worth this folly?” Edward, Earl of Lydford asked.

  Miles glanced at the earl, a man he had known for several years, and one whom he had shared battle with in Normandy. “Morsel?” he asked with a smile.

  “Well, perhaps a healthy bite,” the earl added jovially. “Edward, my friend, I promise you this is not folly,” he whispered.

  “It had best not be. Morgan is no man to trifle with. My brother met him in tourney last year and felt the blows of his sword for almost two fortnights. He told me that fighting Morgan is like fighting the devil. The man has no mercy in him.”

  “He moves slowly, he does not worry me overmuch,” Miles said confidently.

  “He is built like a bull, and like a bull, when he is in full charge, he is a fearsome thing,” Edward warned. “He flinches not in the fight, and he cares nothing for what happens to him. He seeks only one thing, victory!”

  “I shall heed your warning and act accordingly,” Miles promised. “I thank you for your concern.”

  Miles turned and glanced at Morgan. He studied him for the hundredth time since sitting down at the High Table. The other knight was dressed in the modern Norman manner. His overcoat was shorter than Miles’s, barely reaching to his massive hose-covered thighs. The overcoat was trimmed boldly with a multitude of gold threads, and Morgan’s coat of arms, a black-winged lion floating above a castle, was wrought carefully across his chest.

  Miles smiled at him. Morgan met his stare but his lips did not move from their straight line. Then he saw Morgan turn toward Gwendolyn. Miles watched Morgan’s eyes sweep across Gwendolyn’s face, and then drop to the full swelling of her breasts.

  Rather than be angered by this proprietary gesture, Miles kept his features emotionless. Between her breasts hung the Saracen dagger, which Morgan could not miss noticing. When Morgan looked back at Miles, Miles smiled fully at the knight—he knew Morgan had been told of his gift. Morgan’s face darkened with anger, which Miles countered with his continued smile.

  “Careful,” Edward cautioned, “or you’ll be fighting on top of this table.”

  “Which you would greatly love to see.”

  “I’ll not deny that,” Edward replied with a laugh.

  But Edward’s laughter was only an echo as Miles turned to Gwendolyn and was ensnared by her blue eyes. She sat proudly at the king’s side, her shoulders straight, and her hands daintily picking at the food before her. He knew that somehow, tomorrow, he must beat Morgan and win Gwendolyn.

  Throughout the meal, Miles had let his glance continually wander to Gwendolyn, and he had noticed that she barely ate from the array of platters on the table. Her silver cup sat untouched, and Miles knew she was as tense as he. Whenever their eyes met, unspoken messages passed between them, and Miles took refuge within these.

  He too ate sparingly, just enough to satisfy his hunger, and when he lifted his cup of wine, he barely let the sweet liquid touch his lips. Tomorrow was too important to be slowed by drink or food. Yet, across the boards, he saw Morgan eat his fill. But he did notice that the knight drank very little.

  Good, Miles thought, at least he has more brains than most. A fanfare of trumpets called, and Miles took a deep breath.

  The cheers of the guests rang out as a long line of servants began to wind its way through the tables. Each servant carried a silver platter, and centered upon it was a dressed pheasant. The tenth course was being served.

  By the end of the feast, twelve courses would be served, and as many wines and meads would accompany each course. A feast such as this held certain obligations to those who attended, and each person was expected to eat his fill, again and again. To do less would be to dishonor their host.

  So Miles took a portion of pheasant and began to slowly cut at it with his knife, but in a few minutes, James, as he had been doing all evening, would take his platter and replace it with an empty one.

  While the guests ate and talked loudly over the entertainment, he once again
sought Gwendolyn’s eyes. He watched her converse with Richard, and felt his heart swell. He had never met a more beautiful woman, nor one who held herself so proudly. He knew himself to be favored by what would soon be his, but at the same time he instinctively knew she would be his only on her own terms.

  She was no meek daughter of nobility, bred to sew and breed. His one glimpse of her naked body when he’d first seen her, with its smoothly outlined muscles, had told him she was much more than that. Added to that was the quickness of her mind, and the fascinating mystery within her sky-blue eyes.

  Miles reached for his cup and lifted it. As he did, Arthur bent to his ear. “It is time,” he whispered.

  Miles handed the silver cup to his squire before rising. He turned to Edward and smiled. “I leave you to enjoy yourself, and I pray that your head will not hurt overly much in the morning.”

  Edward grinned lopsidedly and struggled to his feet. “I care not whether my head aches in the morning, I shall be seated on wood watching you. I pray that God grant you victory,” he said as he grabbed Miles’s hand within both of his.

  “My thanks,” Miles replied as he left the knight and walked to the center of the High Table.

  Suddenly the voices in the courtyard were stilled, and the only sounds were of the musicians. Miles knew every eye was on him as he walked. When he reached Richard, he faced him across the High Table and he waited until the king acknowledged him. Bowing his head, Miles spoke in a voice that carried to everyone’s ears.

  “With your permission, Sire, I would retire for the night to prepare for the ‘morrow.”

  “Granted,” Richard said.

  “Sir Hughes, Lady Gwendolyn, good-night,” Miles said, gazing deeply into Gwendolyn’s eyes. Only then did he turn to face Morgan. He stared into the other’s hate-filled eyes and bowed his head to the knight. “On the ‘morrow,” he said in a low voice. Without further words, Miles turned back to Richard, bowed, and left the courtyard. When he reached the archway leading to the south wing of the castle, he turned to see Morgan repeating his movements of moments ago. Miles smiled to himself. His purposely early departure had been more of a goad at his opponent than a courtesy to the king. Morgan’s stiff formality was the sign he watched for and found. His being first to leave the feast had served to fuel even more anger in Morgan’s mind. An angry opponent on a jousting field is less cautious. However, Miles studied his adversary’s movements and saw that the knight was no slouch. Instinctively Miles saw Morgan was as much a fighter as he himself.

  Footsteps intruded on Miles’s thoughts of the banquet and drew him back to the reality of the parapet. He turned to see Roweena, Gwendolyn’s servant approach him.

  He waited patiently until the girl reached him and dipped her head. “Yes?”

  “My lady sent me, Sir Miles. I have a message,” she whispered as if afraid of being overheard.

  “Go on,” Miles instructed gently.

  “It is written,” she replied and handed him a rolled piece of vellum.

  Miles accepted the paper and nodded his head. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Sir Miles?” Roweena asked. “Yes?”

  “I pray you win,” she said before quickly disappearing through the archway.

  Miles waited until she was gone before he opened the message. Stepping close to a torch, he read the neatly scripted Latin.

  When he was finished, he smiled. The message was short and perfectly put. “Valkyrie shall watch over you on the fields tomorrow. On his wings will be my love; it, too, shall watch over you.”

  Miles folded the message and turned to the edge of the parapet wall. Once again he gazed out at the darkened field where he would be fighting tomorrow. His mind was strangely calm, and he made an oath to himself that tomorrow he would be victorious.

  <><><>

  Gwendolyn had avoided any public meeting with Morgan, preferring to speak with him only at the feast. Then, after Miles and Morgan had departed, she too had asked the king’s permission to withdraw. When it was granted, she had returned to her rooms. With Roweena’s help, she had undressed and changed into the tunic she would sleep in.

  She sat at her dressing table and gazed fondly at the dagger Miles had given her. Its jeweled pommel reflected the light in the room, and a myriad of sparks flew outward from the handle. Carefully, Gwendolyn slid the blade free from the sheath to look at it. The lightly curved blade bore several indentations, and as she studied them she realized the words were written in the Saracen language.

  Suddenly there was a knocking at her door. As Roweena answered it, Gwendolyn placed the knife on the table and turned to see who was there. At that very instant, she saw her servant flung away and Morgan step inside.

  “I have tried to speak with you since my arrival,” he said in a growling voice. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “I thought it improper,” Gwendolyn replied, glancing at the frightened servant to make sure she was all right.

  “Leave us,” Morgan ordered.

  Roweena looked at Gwendolyn, and Gwendolyn nodded.

  “Wait in your room,” she said to the servant. Both she and Morgan remained silent until Roweena disappeared behind her tapestry. Then Gwendolyn rose to face Morgan.

  “How dare you come into my rooms and give my servants orders. This is Kildrake Castle, not Guildswood.”

  “You left me no choice! You are betrothed to me!”

  “I know,” she replied as she stared into his eyes. Inwardly, Gwendolyn shivered, but nothing of her revulsion showed on her face. “But the king has made a decree, and there is nothing my grandfather can do.”

  “I care nothing for what that sodomist has decreed. It should have been John, not Richard, who sits on the throne of England! But it is not, yet! So, my lady, I will win you again, tomorrow. Gwendolyn, you will be my wife!”

  Gwendolyn stayed silent; there were no words to be said. “When the joust is done, and I have defeated this fool, I will take you to Guildswood. “

  Gwendolyn heard both the boast and the threat within his words as she held his eyes with hers. “There must be a marriage first,” Gwendolyn reminded him.

  “I have already spoken with the king’s bishop. When the joust is over, I will wed you on the very field where I defeat this thief of a knight who would steal you from me. I will wait no longer to have you!” he swore.

  Gwendolyn listened to his tirade, noticing that his voice grew huskier with each word he spoke. When he finished, he moved unexpectedly, and before Gwendolyn could evade him, his arms were around her, pulling her to him. As his mouth reached for hers, Gwendolyn slipped from his hold and stepped back.

  “You have not won yet. Until you do, and we are married, I will not have you pawing me like your whores!”

  She saw her words strike Morgan, and she saw his face stiffen even as his eyes widened. His face hardened and he stepped toward her. Gwendolyn retreated until she was against her dressing table.

  “You want him, not me!” Morgan declared as he stared at her. “Don’t try to deny it, you deceitful bitch! You planned this, didn’t you? Answer me!” he demanded.

  Gwendolyn silently stared at his angered face.

  “No, I did not plan this,” she protested, but even as she spoke, she knew her true emotions were visible on her face. Suddenly she no longer cared.

  “I will have you,” he whispered. “No man will stop me. And when I’ve had you, you’ll want no other.”

  “You will never have me,” Gwendolyn hissed as she put her hands on the table for support.

  Morgan’s face turned darker, and Gwendolyn knew he was about to enter one of his mindless rages. Morgan’s lips turned ashen just as Gwendolyn’s fingers touched something cool and hard—the Saracen dagger.

  Then time slowed as Morgan drew his arm back. She saw his hand open, readying to strike her, but she had no fear of him as her hand closed around the dagger’s handle.

  Moving swiftly, before Morgan could react and bring his arm toward he
r, Gwendolyn brought the dagger out from behind her. With a blurring movement of her arm, the blade flashed in front of her and, as Morgan’s eyes saw the glint of steel, she stepped forward and pressed the point to his throat, breaking the first layer of his skin.

  “Leave! Now!” she commanded him.

  Slowly, while Morgan’s eyes remained locked on the dagger, his lowered his hand. “You will regret this.”

  “Leave!” she repeated.

  “I will leave your lover lying in a pool of his own blood tomorrow. And tomorrow night, the blood of your virginity had best be on my bed!” Morgan spat the threat at her, turned and walked from the room.

  When the door closed, Roweena emerged from behind the tapestry and gazed at Gwendolyn.

  “Do not look so worried; Miles will win,” she whispered, fighting hard to control her emotions. Everything had happened quickly, but the few seconds it had taken had seemed like an eternity.

  “He must,” Roweena said as her eyes traveled to the door, and then to the dagger, still clenched within Gwendolyn’s fist.

  Gwendolyn wiped the drop of blood from the dagger’s tip before replacing it in its sheath. She sat at the table and, opening a small leather box, took out a single sheet of vellum. Then she opened a small jar, and dipped her quill. She wrote quickly and neatly and when she was finished, the dark ink blotted, she handed the paper to Roweena, instructing her to deliver it to Miles. After Roweena had gone, and Gwendolyn was alone, she walked to Valkyrie and gently stroked his head. She gazed into the eagle’s amber eyes and drew a peace of sorts from them.

  “We will win,” she whispered to the bird. “We will win.”

  Chapter Five

  AN hour before dawn, Miles rose from his bed and strode across the room. The fire had died, but there were still a few glowing embers to point out its former might. Before he reached the tapestried guardroom, James was at his side.

  “I would be alone for a while,” Miles told the boy, gently placing a strong hand upon his shoulder. “Go to your brother. I will be at the tent shortly.”