Eden gazed at him in some trepidation. He was on the opposing side to Roland. Then her eyes turned back to the side of the field where the fallen knights had been dragged. To her horror, she found they were being bound hand and foot by the squires. “Whatever are they doing?” she asked faintly. “Surely they should be having their wounds being treated to, rather than being handled so roughly?”
Hal glanced at her face and then the direction of her gaze. “Oh, them? They’ll be ransomed tonight at the feast.”
“Ransomed?” Eden stared at him.
“Aye, for prize money,” he explained calmly.
Eden, suddenly realized that these rural tournaments were a lot more rough and ready than the court ones she had attended.
“Eden,” said Gunnilde, shaking her arm. “You’ll miss the next charge!”
Roland had wheeled his horse around again and looked poised to charge. To Eden’s trepidation he looked exactly center in the line-up now which meant his direct counter was the ferocious Lord Kentigern. Eden felt a sense of foreboding stealing over her. Roland’s tall, muscular physique was impressive, but Lord Kentigern looked like the stuff of nightmares. Eden found her fingernails biting into her palms, and had to force herself to uncurl her fingers. This was brutal! How could people find this entertaining?
“There’s a hair on this piece of gingerbread!” complained Hal, sticking out his tongue.
“It’s probably your hair,” tutted Gunnilde. “Father keeps telling you to get it cut.”
Eden winced as the shields and lances met in a loud splintering and a dust cloud went up from the horse’s hooves. Her eyes blinked at the ensuing confusion. “Is he down?” she muttered, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene. Then she spied Roland’s horse, and it was rider-less. “Oh!” she covered her mouth.
“His horse has trampled him!” squeaked Gunnilde in dismay.
Eden gasped, seeing Roland’s prone form lying under his horse. A few of the previously unseated knights were darting forward, ready to pounce on him, but Bavol tossed his head and lunged at anyone who approached, snapping his teeth together as if he would bite. “Nay, wait,” said Eden. “I think he is protecting his master.”
Hal whistled. “I believe you’re right. That’s one good beast.”
“What is his name?” said Gunnilde, clapping her hands together.
“Bavol,” Eden told her, grateful she knew at least one piece of Vawdrey trivia.
“Most noble steed!” choked Gunnilde, dabbing at her eyes again.
Eden watched Roland roll onto his side, and then swiftly climb to his feet. He paused a moment to pat Bavol’s neck and then drew his sword. Slapping his horse on the rump, he dispatched him to the edge of the field. She watched him roll his shoulders as if testing for injury, as two knights on foot simultaneously charged him. He beat their attacks aside as effortlessly as if he were swatting mere flies. Then, suddenly, they fell back and were re-forming their ranks again as the last remaining mounted knights wheeled their horses about. Eden watched Roland gesturing with his hands as he spoke to his allies. “Is that his friend?” she muttered aloud, as one clapped him on the shoulder. She was speaking to herself in truth, as it was unlikely that her companions would even know.
“The yellow stag?” asked Hal, withdrawing a list from his belt and unfurling it. “Sir Edward Bevan of Knollesley,” he read aloud.
Eden nodded. “That is he.” At least he was among friends, though she would rather he was still on horseback than in the midst of the fray.
“They’re about to come around again,” said Gunnilde, bouncing in her seat.
Eden felt a sense of dread as the horses charged. Roland looked perilously prominent to her eye and positioned too far forward. Suddenly, she realized he was poised to spring and to her disbelieving eye, she watched him, leap up and drag Lord Kentigern from his saddle. “He’s mad!” she uttered faintly, as Hal yelled and cheered in her ear.
“Not for nothing is he the King’s champion!” the boy whooped, leaping out of his seat.
Lord Kentigern came crashing down like a lead weight, and the two of them rolled around in the dust as Kentigern’s massive horse reared and plunged like a crazed thing, eyes rolling with fear. Sir Ned Bevan ran forward and caught it by the head, pulling it away with dogged determination.
“Oh that was well done indeed!” marveled Gunnilde. “What did you say his name was Hal?”
“Bevan, Sir Edward Bevan,” her brother replied, sinking back down onto the bench.
Eden was sat ramrod straight, her hands clenched so hard together she had lost all sensation in her fingers. Roland sprang to his feet, and drew his sword, waiting as Lord Kentigern staggered about, shaking his head jerkily as if to clear it.
“That grotesque helmet surely does not help?” murmured Gunnilde. “Why, it has probably turned from back to front and he cannot see!“
“Good!” fired back Eden, surprising herself along with her friend. “Why does he not attack him now? While he is incapacitated?”
“Because he is the King’s champion perhaps?” suggested Gunnilde, looking taken aback. “It would hardly seem chivalrous…”
“Chivalrous?” blurted Eden hotly. “How is any of this remotely chivalrous? Just strike him!” she shouted furiously, leaping out of her seat. “What are you waiting for?” As if he had heard her anguished cry, Eden watched Roland’s helmet snap up to look in her direction. She drew a ragged breath. Surely he had not heard her? Clapping her palms to her over-heated cheeks, she dropped self-consciously back down into her seat.
Hal chuckled, but Eden did not have the chance to feel any more embarrassed as a terrific clanging of blades could now be heard above the clamor. She re-focused on the fighting and found Roland and Lord Kentigern were now trading blows with their broad-swords. In her opinion Roland should have forced his advantage while he still had it. Lord Kentigern looked to wield a freakish strength. Even though Roland was giving as good as he got, who knew how long he could keep this terrible pace up?
“The knights are coming back around!” yelled Hal excitedly.
Eden felt sick to her stomach as she looked from the two combatants, to the charging horses. How could they be oblivious to the fact they were about to mowed down by a mass of horses’ hooves? She closed her eyes. The crowd bayed and Eden felt herself go hot, then cold all over. Feeling her hand squeezed tight, she realized Gunnilde had hold of her nerveless fingers.
“All is not lost,” her friend was assuring her. “Look. They still stand.”
Eden blinked as the dust settled. By some miracle, their two figures were still stood, swords swinging, oblivious to the fact there was now only one knight left astride his horse. A bugle sounded. A cheer went up from the crowd.
“Wait - what is happening now?” asked Eden urgently.
“The melee is over,” explained Gunnilde. “See?” she pointed. “Only one knight remains unseated.”
Eden spared a glance at the knight with his arm raised in triumph. “But, who is going to tell them?” she asked impatiently, as Roland and Kentigern continued locked in their private battle.
One of the buglers approached them cautiously and raised his horn. When the bugle blast rent the air at such close quarters, they both staggered back, looking around in seeming confusion.
“Oh dear,” said Gunnilde. “I do hope poor Sir Roland will not be too disappointed to be on the losing side.”
After all that, he’d lost? Thought Eden in bewilderment. Sure enough, the seated knight was wearing a blue arm band.
“To my eye there seems to be more blue hostages though,” said Hal. “So I’d say it probably works out that the yellows will receive the fatter purse, all told.”
“This – this melee makes no sense!” Eden complained tightly. “No sense whatsoever!”
“Do you think not?” asked Gunnilde sounding surprised. “To me, it seems to imitate actual battle quite closely.”
“How?” demanded Eden, irritably. “To my min
d, there is no clear winner. It is chaotic. It is unfair. It’s hard to even tell which side anyone is on and…” she broke off distractedly. “Oh,” she said catching Gunnilde’s meaning. Clearly there was a lot more to her new friend than met the eye.
Gunnilde gave her a sad little smile. “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “My Father was taken as a hostage for three years after the battle of Oskirk. And yet, to all intents and purposes our side were the victors.”
Eden huffed. “But why should anyone want to celebrate anything so… so nonsensical?” she broke off, in agitation.
“Is it not better to have pretend battles where there are far less casualties, than actual battle?” asked Gunnilde so sensibly, that Eden felt guilty for feeling so irritated by her words.
Why did she feel so wound up about it all, she wondered and took a deep breath. “In any event, I found it very hard to watch,” she said in a muffled voice.
“But you weren’t bored,” pointed out Hal, nudging her in a familiar manner she really ought to discourage. “Bored people do not jump out of their seats at tournaments and shout.”
Eden gave him sideways look. “A momentary lapse, I assure you.”
He sniggered and Eden pursed her lips.
“Tis likely you found it hard to watch because you have a loved one in the field,” said Gunnilde kindly patting her on the shoulder. It occurred to Eden that she’d had more physical contact with other people in the last two days than she had for the rest of her twenty-two years in entirety. She felt her cheeks color. Gunnilde’s theory didn’t really hold water, but she could hardly say as much.
Servers filed onto the field carrying trays of ale and mead and small pastries.
“Oh good,” said Hal, perking up. “I’m half-starved.”
“What happens now?” asked Eden watching the various knights still milling around the field.
“Well, that’s today’s main entertainment,” Gunnilde explained. “This afternoon there will be a Challenge to Arms, but otherwise…”
“What’s that?” asked Eden, accepting a cup of ale from a passing page.
“Last night at the feast an open invitation for any challengers was issued by a group of knights who did not enter the melee. Their shields will be hung shortly from that tree over there,” said Gunnilde pointing to a large oak. “Any knight who wishes to take them up on it, will ride up and hit their shield with their lance. That will take place around three o’clock,” Gunnilde explained. “But those taking place in tomorrow’s jousting will likely take it as an opportunity to rest up in preparation.”
“I see,” replied Eden. She was wondering uncomfortably where she was to be put up for the evening. She had noticed bunks in the tent Roland’s friends were occupying. But surely she would not be expected to bed down in such a communal arrangement? Then she remembered Roland had sent some of his baggage up to the house. So deep in thought was she, she nearly jumped out of her skin when her shoulders were seized, and she was spun around to face Roland Vawdrey, who seemed to have shed half his armor, and must have vaulted over the barrier.
“Well, wife?” he asked, sounding in high good humor. Why did he look so pleased with himself? She scanned his jubilant face. Did he not just lose? He walked her backward until the back of her knees hit the bench, and she was forced to put a hand to his forearm to steady herself. Ale sloshed over her other hand, but for the life of her she could not look away from his gaze. “I saw you out of your seat, cheering for me,” he said in a low intimate voice that turned Eden’s face quite scarlet. She could see he was pleased by the idea, and could not quite bring herself to correct him.
“I – er – yes,” she gulped. “It was all most – um…” Words failed her, as his gaze focused on her mouth. Oh gods, he wasn’t going to kiss her, was he? Eden’s wits scattered even further. It would be just like midwinter all over again! She made a strangled noise in her throat and at that, his eyes snapped to hers. There was a question in them. Eden darted her eyes meaningfully to the left and right. He frowned, but tore his attention from her to take in sea of faces all around them. Reluctantly, it seemed to Eden, he dropped his hands from her shoulders. There was almost a collective sigh of disappointment from the crowd. She cleared her throat. “Allow me to introduce my new friends, Harold and Gunnilde Payne.” She wished to goodness she did not sound so breathless. “My husband, Sir Roland Vawdrey,” she said as Gunnilde dropped into a curtsey and Hal performed a rather wooden bow. Roland returned a perfunctory nod. “They have kindly been explaining the melee to me,” she added somewhat desperately.
“May we wish you joy on your recent marriage,” offered Gunnilde politely. She jabbed her brother with her elbow, no doubt hoping to jolt him into offering his congratulations, but he was staring up at Roland with a star-struck expression on his face.
“Congratulations,” Hal said squeakily. “The way you brought down Lord Kentigern was masterly!”
Roland’s gaze flickered to the boy with a little more interest. “Liked that, did you?”
“The Lady Eden did not think you struck soon enough,” Hal confided. “But I saw naught amiss with your attack.”
Eden inwardly cringed at Roland’s startled glance in her direction. Mercifully the hurried approach of Sir Aubron forestalled any further discussion of Roland’s technique in the field.
“Sir Roland,” beamed their host. “What a display! What an outstanding display you have treated us to this day! We are honored to see the King’s Champion in action, positively honored! I declare the loudest cheer of the tournament so far, went up when you unseated Lord Kentigern in your glorious act of valor!” Roland heartily returned Sir Aubron’s congratulatory embrace and they slapped each other’s shoulders a few times. Eden was surprised to see the older man had tears of sentiment in his eyes. “Never did I dream to see such feats, in the grounds of my humble home. Entertainment fit for a King! A veritable King!” A smattering of applause ran through the audience at his words, and he nodded and smiled in response. “How proud your Father, the old Baron would have been to see it! And such a treat, indeed, for your new bride to see your manly skills on display,” he said turning his benevolent gaze on Eden.
“Quite,” she agreed after the tiniest pause. It seemed there was cause for celebration after all, she pondered, hoping she did not look as confused as she felt.
Gunnilde sidled up to her discreetly. “They award a prize to the most skillful fighter on both sides at tonight’s banquet,” she whispered.
Oh! Well, that made a lot more sense. She cast a grateful look at her friend.
“Will you join us now for some refreshment up at the manor, before the Challenge to Arms?” asked Sir Aubron hopefully. “I have some friends and neighbors here this day who would be very happy to converse with the King’s Champion himself.”
“Mayhap later,” said Roland absently, reaching out and capturing Eden’s hand, drawing her to his side. “I’ll take Eden back to our tent for now, while I wash and change.” Eden blinked. Why would he expect her to return to the tent for that? Then she noticed the Conways hovering close with Sir Christopher. Suddenly the tent seemed preferable to confronting that bunch, so she decided to meekly go along with it, squeezing his fingers in a mute show of support. He lightly returned the pressure and cleared his throat. “We’ll take our leave of you for now, Sir Aubron,” he said with a nod.
“I’ll look for you later Eden,” called Gunnilde above the clamor of well-wishes toward Roland.
“Yes,” agreed Eden, flashing a quick smile over her shoulder, as Roland whisked her from the tent. “And I for you!”
**
Roland cast a sideways glance at his new wife as he strode across the field with her hand firmly in his. She was facing forward, with her nose stuck in the air as always, and even though she had to be taking three strides to his every one, she managed to keep up with him, far too haughty to ask him to slacken his pace. For some reason he could not fathom, it warmed his blood. He knew not why, and di
d not care to examine it too closely, but the fact Eden Montmayne was now his, made his chest tight and his pulse quicken. She was his. He felt it again, that overwhelming something that he’d felt when Oswald had first called Eden his bride. It rushed over him, fair taking his breath away and he found himself exerting a slight pressure on her fingers. He’d liked it when she’d squeezed his fingers when old Sir Aubron was talking to him. Making him aware of her presence – not that he needed reminding. His attention had been inexorably drawn to her for the last six months. Since he’d felt her breath mingled with his at that Solstice feast. His feet had been set on this path to her, and now he’d arrived at his destination. Finally. It was a good feeling. Almost like coming home. They arrived at the tent and threw open the flap,
“Out!” he said without much heat to Bev’s squire who was lolling on one of the benches. He scowled, but jumped up and made himself scarce. “Boy’s bloody useless,” Roland murmured, seeing he had not cleared away the remains scattered all over the table from the last meal taken there. He turned hearing the tent flap open again, but this time it was Cuthbert, carrying a bucket of steaming water for him to wash. Roland took it from him without comment and poured it into the basin. “Help me unbuckle,” he directed, pointing to the pauldrons, still strapped onto his shoulders. His squire swiftly unfastened the leather bands and Roland stripped to his waist to begin his ablutions.
Cuthbert moved around the tent swiftly, fetching him soap leaves and clean cloths. From the corner of his eye, Roland could see Eden hovering uncertainly. “Sit down,” he told her. “I won’t be long.”
She trailed over to the bench and sat down. “Shall I pour us a drink?” she asked.
He shook the water from his eyes, and picked up the soap. “Good idea.”
“Ancel’s disappeared again,” complained Cuthbert, laying out his mail hauberk and hood ready for the morrow.
Roland frowned. Who the fuck was Ancel?
“Roland just dismissed him,” explained Eden.
An Ill-Made Match (Vawdrey Brothers Book 3) Page 9