Queen Of Knights Page 8

  James nodded once and left the room quickly. In the guardroom, with its taper glowing low, Miles dipped his hand into the basin of water James had set out and washed the sleep from his eyes. Then he dressed himself in the waiting tunic, slipped on his sandals, and took a deep breath.

  Five minutes later, Miles was walking along the battlements of the near tower. He paced casually, but inside he was anything but calm. He knew his future depended on the outcome of this day, and because of that, his nerves were stretched tautly. But, as he faced east, he paused. The sun was rising and casting a golden glow across the spring moors. Emerald green began to shimmer even as the pink clouds of dawn faded.

  Miles was caught within the beauty of the Devonshire morning and let himself become one with it. By the time the sun floated above the moors, the sky was cloudless and crystal clear. He blinked twice and shook his head, realizing for the first time that the color of the morning sky was the exact color of Gwendolyn’s eyes.

  Moving only his eyes, Miles looked across the outer keep to gaze at the banners flying above the myriad of tents. Then he looked at the open tournament field, and the rows of tiered benches that had been built in the last two days. In a little while he would be out there on the greensward, fighting for his very life—not his physical life, but the life he knew he wanted.

  A loud cry from above him wrenched his mind and drew his eyes aloft. High above Castle Kildrake, Miles saw the large golden eagle spiraling skyward. He watched the magnificent bird arching in the morning sky and wished that for once, he, too, could be freed from his earthly bonds to float above the world, uncaring of the machinations of men.

  Valkyrie seemed to hang motionless in the air over Miles’s gaze. Then the eagle turned once more, and Miles thought the giant bird had heard his wishes, because Valkyrie, his amber eyes locked upon Miles, dove to the very spot on which Miles stood.

  As he had been caught by the beauty of the morning, Miles was also captured by the grace of the wide wings of the diving bird. Then Miles caught his breath, but did not flinch, when Valkyrie swept past him, barely a foot above his head and cried out once more. Miles followed the eagle’s path while it circled the outer ward in slowly descending loops.

  Still Miles’s body would not relax while he stared at the eagle, which dropped to the height of the tent tops. Another loud cry echoed through the air as Valkyrie circled above his own mast and banner. Then the golden eagle descended once again, and came to rest upon the cross staff of the banner of Radstock.

  All at once the tension which had held Miles drained, and he let go his breath in a gentle sigh. Gwendolyn had sent the eagle to him, it· was her way of being with him during the morning. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered to Gwendolyn. “And to you Valkyrie, I, too, grant a boon. When I win today, your form shall be’ added to my family’s crest.”

  With his decision made and his mind more at ease than it had been since waking, Miles left the battlements without returning to his-room, and went down the three levels to the ground, crossed the inner ward, went through the barbican, and angled toward his tent.

  “My lord,” cried Arthur, when Miles entered the tent.

  James turned from polishing Miles’s sword to bow toward his lord.

  Miles smiled confidently at his squires, who were on the brink of manhood. “Do not look so sober, the tourney has yet to begin.”

  “I have prepared a light meal,” Arthur said, knowing Miles’s habits well “Please,” he added, pointing to the small table.

  Miles went to the table, set with a platter of cold meat, a tankard of mead, and another of water. He pushed aside the mead and began to eat; watching the twins work over every inch of his maille, carefully inspecting it to make sure that there was nothing that could cause injury to their lord.

  A half hour later, Miles rose from the table and removed his tunic. He stood naked before his squires, and, as they had so often in the past, they moved to him with fresh garments in their hands.

  First, Arthur undraped a narrow sheet of material and wound one end around Miles’s waist. Then he slipped the free end down his buttocks and through his thighs, capturing Miles’s loins within it, and passing the end through the material at his waist. He reversed the order and repeated his movement once more, effectively protecting Miles and securing his organs within the confines of the uncolored loincloth.

  Then James and Arthur together helped Miles into the padded-leather gamboise, the only protection his skin would have against the hardness of the maille. This particular gamboise was split, as was his hauberk, but was a good inch shorter than the maille itself. Next, the squires attached the cuisses, the vertically padded protection for his thighs, knees, and shins. When they were buckled, and Miles flexed his knees to test them, the squires nodded solemnly to each other and stepped to the armor.

  First came the chausses—the maille leggings. While Arthur laced one, James did the other, carefully weaving the metal upward to his knees. At the knees, the squires manipulated the metal, leaving his joints free for movement. Then they laced the chausses to mid-thigh and secured them tightly before putting on the greaves, after which came the poleyn, the hard leather knee-protector. Now, Miles was protected from toe to mid-thigh.

  They worked on his arms next. First came the rerebraces to protect his upper arm, then the vambraces for his forearm. When they were laced on, again, the squires stepped back.

  Still working silently, the squires lifted the hauberk and carried it to their lord. Together, they held the heavy maille coat and draped it over his body. A moment later, they adjusted it properly.

  Throughout this time, Miles maintained his silence. His squires had been trained by himself, and he trusted them implicitly. Although he was impatient to be done, the hour it took to dress him properly was necessary to bring his nerves to the fine edge he needed.

  He closed his eyes when the boys placed the arming coif on his head, knowing the heavy leather piece would protect his scalp from the bite of the maille. Then came the coif-de- maille, the full head protection that no knight could do battle without and hope to return alive. The metal throat guard and chin protector was heavy, but not uncomfortable. The squires adjusted the coif, and secured it to the hauberk.

  Next came his helmet, a simple curved cap with a nasal bar. When that was in place, the squires, acting as one, slipped on the maille gloves. Then, almost reverently, James and Arthur lifted Miles Delong’s gipon, his armorial surcoat, and carried it to him. They slipped it on him and adjusted it smoothly. When the gipon was on and adjusted, the squires attached the waistchains for his weapons.

  Miles knew exactly what he looked like. Although all that was visible of his skin was cheek and mouth, no one could possibly mistake him for another. The crest of Radstock was proudly displayed on both the front and back of his gipon: a scarlet shield with the Welsh dragon in one corner, the lion of Normandy opposite, and the chevrons of Radstock beneath. Miles Delong, in full battle armor, was a sight to behold, and one that few ever forgot.

  “Weapons?” asked James, while he and his brother encased Miles’s mailled hands within his tournament gauntlets. Then James placed the sword and its scabbard onto the waiting chain.

  Miles flexed his gauntlet-covered fingers while eyeing the weapons his squires had laid out. “The axe,” he whispered.

  “My lord, Morgan is a full Norman. He will use the mace ...“

  “I am counting on that. The axe!” Miles ordered sternly. Without argument, James picked up the axe and attached it to yet another of the chains. “We have picked four lances,” he said as he and Arthur brought the mighty wooden poles to Miles. Each lance was smoothly finished, with a tapering, but blunt tip. On each hung the pennant of Radstock.

  “Good. It is time to go.” But his words were almost drowned out by a loud cheering that washed through the tent. “Yes,” he added, knowing that Richard had arrived.

  <><><>

  Gwendolyn stepped from her room and took a deep breath of
air. Trailing five feet behind her was Roweena. Gwendolyn was dressed in a style befitting King Richard’s presence; however, her Norman dress still held signs of her proud Saxon heritage. The bodice was close to her skin, and the V of the neckline plunged to the valley of her breasts. The sleeves of the dress were tight until they reached her elbows where they began to grow wider. By the time the upper part of the sleeve reached her wrist, the lower part was a hairsbreadth above the floor. Around her waist was a girdle of silver. This was her Saxon heritage, and she displayed it proudly. Attached to the girdle was the Saracen dagger. The skirt billowed out from her hips in gentle folds, emphasizing both her elegant height, and her womanly figure. Upon her head rested yet another golden coif-de-maille, set with amethysts, rubies, and sapphires.

  No matter what her outer trappings were, within Gwendolyn turmoil was rampant. Yet she knew that none of her thoughts must show on her face.

  By the time she and Roweena reached the courtyard, her grandfather had appeared. At his side, standing almost a half head taller, was Richard.

  Gwendolyn dropped to her knee gracefully before the king and rose at his touch upon her shoulder. When she was again standing, she gazed into his golden-flecked eyes, but remained silent.

  “You are a worthy prize, Lady Gwendolyn. Would that I had found you first,” he whispered.

  “You are too kind, Sire,” Gwendolyn responded quickly.

  “And an example of chivalry to all. “

  Richard’s smile was hesitant yet gentle, and she saw a vague flicker within his eyes. “You remind me of my mother,” he said absently. “Not in your looks, but in your carriage. She is a brave woman, too, a strong woman. There are so few of them…." Richard suddenly shook his head. “But, it is time Mamsell,” he stated, offering his arm gallantly.

  With Gwendolyn on one side of the king, and Hughes on the other, the entourage walked slowly from the inner ward toward the tournament site. With each step, Gwendolyn’s heart beat faster, and she was hard pressed to keep her face free of emotion.

  Within the sanctity of the seats set aside for Richard, Gwendolyn looked outward at the vast array of tents across from the joust arena. Her eyes skimmed across their tops until they came to rest upon the standard of Radstock, above which sat Valkyrie. Her heart speeded again for a moment when she saw her eagle, but she forced her eyes to move again when she heard Richard speak.

  “Tell me, Marshall, who shall you wager on?” the king asked.

  William Marshall, the burly knight and chief advisor to Richard, and before him, his father Henry, laughed loudly and shook his head. “To wager against one, is to be for the other. We cannot afford to lose either.” When the older knight finished, he fixed Richard with a powerful stare. “And you, my lord?” he asked.

  “I must agree in conscience, if not in fact.”

  “Then stop this foolishness,” demanded the knight. “An injury to either man will hurt all of England.”

  “I cannot and will not stop it!” Richard replied in a steely voice.

  “Very well,” Marshall whispered and turned to stare out.

  But not before Gwendolyn saw the look of suppressed fury on his face. She had met William Marshall several times and had been impressed by his logical thinking and steadfast loyalty to England, rather than to Normandy.

  Before anything further could be said, a fanfare rang loudly. Gwendolyn’s breath caught as she watched the mounted knights ride forward, resplendent with all their weapons. The sun glinted off Miles’s dark maille, and sparkled from the pointed tip of his helmet. She let her breath escape in a low hiss a bare second before both knights stopped in front of the king.

  Suddenly, within Gwendolyn’s racing mind, the words of the old priestess returned, and with them, her body relaxed. Miles will be triumphant, she told herself. He must be!

  She gazed into Morgan’s face and a shudder passed along her length. His dark eyes held hers, and she felt as though he were ravishing her before the world.

  “Are you ready, my knights?” Richard called in a deep voice.

  “I am,” replied Miles.

  “I am,” echoed Morgan. But before Richard could continue, Morgan turned his charger and moved it a step closer to Gwendolyn. “As your rightfully betrothed, I ask a favor to carry into tournament. “

  Gwendolyn stared at Morgan for a long moment. She turned to look first at Richard, whose eyes were etched with amusement, and then she looked at her grandfather. When she spoke, her voice was flat and unemotional. “Because of the nature of this tourney, Morgan of Guildswood, I cannot give one man a favor without giving the same to the other.”

  In the silence that followed her words, Morgan’s glare of hatred darkened, and within it, Gwendolyn glimpsed the empty, horrid future awaiting her if Morgan was victorious today.

  Suddenly Morgan reined his charger back, and turned to face the king. “At your command!” he shouted, lifting a gauntlet-covered hand.

  Richard stood, his arms extended, one hand toward Miles, the other toward Morgan. “I charge you both with the following rule. This is a tourney, not a battle. The winner and loser shall both walk from this field to do battle, in earnest, with the enemies of our country. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Miles called softly, before bowing his head to Richard.

  “And you, Morgan of Guildswood?” Richard asked when the knight remained silent.

  “Yes, my lord,” Morgan said, but everyone, including Richard, heard the reluctance within his voice.

  “Then let the tournament begin,” Richard declared. Gwendolyn breathed deeply at the words and watched the knights ride to their squires at the opposite ends of the jousting field. While the squires removed the weapons that would not yet be needed, she tried to calm her emotions.

  Jousting was a relatively new part in the tourneys, and a part that Gwendolyn despised. It caused too much injury, and many times, even with the blunted tips of the lances, death was found.

  She forced herself to think of other things as she waited for the first joust to begin. The morning sun was growing hotter overhead, and still no cloud had appeared in the skies above the moors of Devonshire.

  The fanfare of trumpets called out, and with her lower lip caught between her teeth, she watched Miles and Morgan charge each other. The sound of eight hoof-beats echoed like thunder, and was the only sound to be heard. They met ferociously, and the loud splintering of wood upon shields crackled in the air. Both knights remained in their saddles, but their lances were splintered and broken. They turned their chargers about and rode to their squires.

  Miles threw his shattered lance down and took the fresh one from James, as Arthur turned the heavy-boned charger around. “He’s like a rock. It didn’t even jar him,” Miles said, more to himself than the squires. His arm still vibrated from Morgan’s lance shattering on his curved tournament shield, and he willed away the trembling as he readied himself for the next charge.

  Fitting the lance under his arm and resting it against his side, Miles spurred his charger to the gate. When the fanfare signaled loudly, Miles thought of nothing except the target charging toward him. The charger, for all its great weight, moved swiftly and surely along the path. Three seconds later they met amidst a jarring collision of wood and leather, and the snapping of lances sounded loudly.

  Miles whirled his mount and started toward his squires.

  When he passed Morgan, the knight spat on the ground before him. “You will die today,” Morgan called in a voice loud enough for Miles alone to hear.

  Miles ignored both his words and gestures as he rode to receive his new lance. Again, when the trumpets sounded, Miles charged forward, his eyes fixed only on Morgan’s shield.

  They met in the center of the outer ward, as they had twice before, and for the third time, the sounds of their meeting echoed. Miles shook the sweat from his eyes and rode back to his squires.

  With his new lance in place, he waited for the next charge.

  But he w
as bothered by the last. He’d barely deflected Morgan’s lance, which had grazed the inside edge of his own shield. Only his quick deflection upwards had stopped Morgan’s lance from hitting his abdomen. And, Miles knew it had been intentional. Yet, because of that, Morgan had not splintered his lance and had lost points.

  “His lance!” Arthur warned when the trumpets sounded.

  Miles’s eyes left Morgan’s shield and he saw what had caused Arthur’s yell. Morgan had changed lances, and this new one had a sharp tip. It was not a metal head, but the wood was almost shaven to a point. Taking a deep, preparatory breath, Miles spurred the charger on.

  He moved with the mount, sitting deep in the wooden saddle, his buttocks pressed tightly back, awaiting the impact of the lance. Suddenly, he spurred the charger harder, knowing that if he were to live, he must do the unexpected. The sharp tip of Morgan’s lance was coming nearer and would soon penetrate through the heavy leather of the shield.

  His horse moved faster, and when they were within five feet of each other and Miles saw the position of the lance, he bent forward, tilting his shield at the last second. This deflected Morgan’s deadly intent, just as the blunted tip of his lance bit the exact center of Morgan’s shield. A loud gasp rose above the sounds of combat. Miles’s lance bent, but did not splinter. Suddenly the lance was free, and a loud cheer followed. Miles reined in the charger, turning the lumberous horse as quickly as he could and saw Morgan just beginning to stand. He had unseated him. He had won the first round of the tourney.

  Miles, elation flowing through his body as fast as his blood pounded, rode to the squires and dismounted. On his feet, he turned to stare at Morgan, whose squire was running to him, his mace held forward.

  “Axe,” Miles called as he studied the mace, making sure that it was indeed a tournament mace, and not a spiked battle weapon.

  As Morgan’s squire reached the knight, Arthur handed Miles the heavy axe. Its blade was blunt, but even so, it could kill if necessary. Miles had no wish for that. A moment later, his regular shield on his left arm, he stepped forward to meet Morgan.