My Victorious Knight

by O'Donnell, Laurel

  The men met each other happily, grasping arms in the customary warrior greeting.

  Osmont greeted, “Ellie, it is good to see you again.”

  Elora lifted her chin in subtle defiance. It had only been a year ago that he had stayed with them at the castle. Sarah had relayed stories to her about his cruelty to the servants. They had all been happy when he left.

  A strange silence settled around the group as they looked at her. What could she say? She wasn’t happy to see Osmont.

  Osmont looked at Edward. “Do you mind if I escort her in?”

  Edward glanced at Elora. He knew what she thought of their cousin.

  She hesitated for a moment. Then she removed her hand from Edward’s arm and placed it on Osmont’s. He would not intimidate her. “I would be delighted.” A lie, a polished lie. Of all the men in the group, it was Osmont that made her cringe the most. She wondered at the poor servant she’d seen running from the group as they approached.

  Osmont smiled. It would have been a charming smile if it weren’t for the condescending gleam in his eye. He guided her through the iron-bound doors into the Great Hall.

  The clinking of knives and animated conversation filled the room. Long wooden tables stretched at either side of the aisle leading to the front of the Great Hall. Knights, villagers, and nobles dined at the tables. Colorful banners with different knight’s heraldry lined the walls. Soft, rhythmic music filled the spacious hall.

  “I’m surprised you allowed me to escort you,” Osmont said, nodding to one knight.

  “My brother is right behind us. I don’t imagine you will shove me to the ground or threaten me while he is so close.”

  Osmont’s smile slipped. “I was a child then. Surely, you do not hold that against me.” He turned to watch a servant girl who passed them.

  “Children play games; they do not torture animals or girls.”

  “I am a man now, and I can guarantee you I do not torture animals or girls.”

  “Really? Then tell me what you were doing to that poor servant girl in the corridor.” Osmont’s grin disappeared completely, and Elora knew she’d hit the mark. “She looked terrified.” They stopped walking when they reached the first table below the dais where Lord Yves would eat. Elora looked at Osmont; her chin raised in disdain. “Abusive little boys grow into abusive little men.”

  Osmont’s gaze raked her face, and his lip curled. He bowed slightly before returning to his rowdy group of friends.

  Edward came up beside her. “Osmont is quite a character.”

  Elora didn’t reply. He was less than a character. She took a seat at the table, and Edward sat beside her. His friends settled themselves all around them. Osmont sat farther down the table. For that, Elora was grateful.

  When Julian finished practicing, he and Baldwin returned to the tent to find Gilbert lounging against a tree as he cleaned the weapons. Julian sat beside Gilbert, taking the ale sack, uncorking it, and raising it to his lips. He drank deeply and handed it to Baldwin. “How many knights struck my shield?” Julian asked with barely bridled enthusiasm.

  Gilbert glanced at Baldwin and then continued rubbing the sword he held with a cloth. “None.”

  “None?” Julian repeated, cocking his head. He slapped his palms against his thighs. “How can that be?”

  “You can’t let that bother you, Julian,” Baldwin explained patiently. “This is the first eve. Not all the knights have arrived.”

  “You’ve only won one tournament,” Gilbert added. “Hardly a challenge for the other knights.”

  Julian shot to his feet. He swept his hand across the field where pavilions of all colors dotted the landscape, and banners with heraldry flapped in the small breeze. “There’s enough here that one should have challenged me! Are they afraid?”

  Baldwin scratched his head, and his eyebrows rose. “More likely, uninterested.”

  Julian grimaced. He shook his head and paced, muttering, “This is unacceptable.” How was he to participate in the joust without any challengers? He paused and pursed his lips. He walked to his horse and mounted.

  Gilbert stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Baldwin asked.

  “I am going to the tree of shields. If they won’t challenge me, then I will challenge them. Every one of them.”

  Chapter Four

  Unable to sleep, Elora rose early the next morning. She ran to the window, flung wide the thick drapes, and pushed open the shutters. The light of the early sun filtered in softly, bathing her face in warmth. Finally! The market would be open. Vendors and merchants of all sorts would line the streets with their wares. Of course, she was not allowed to go without an escort. Edward would be even more unhappy if he knew the real reason for her visit, which was why she and Sarah had to sneak out in every town they visited.

  She scoured the markets for unique additions to her knives and dagger collection. What proper woman would want such a collection? She grinned to herself. She would never give up her interest. It reminded her of the wonderful time she’d spent with her father. She cherished every moment they had spent talking about her blades. She had always been grateful to the boy in the field who had suggested she bond with him over daggers. She didn’t remember what he looked like but often imagined him as her true knight.

  She paced the room, waiting impatiently for Sarah, her mind wandering excitedly over the different types of blades she might find at the market. When the door opened, and Sarah entered, Elora asked quickly, “Did you bring it?”

  Sarah smiled, nodding her head. She held up a brown cotton riding cloak. “Of course.”

  Elora eagerly took the plain cloak from her, donned it, and pulled the hood up over her head. Edward never rose early, so Elora was not concerned he would find her gone. She planned to be back before the morning meal.

  They hurried through the castle and out into the courtyard. They skirted knights riding their steeds and a caravan of arriving guests. A group of children raced by them as a merchant chased them with a raised stick. A servant walked quickly as he carried two buckets of sloshing water. The ting of the blacksmith echoed through the ward. The portcullis was raised, and the gates were open to the town.

  They entered the streets of Gracious Hill and made their way toward the center where the market was, avoiding the path of carts being pulled by villagers and merchants, and the horses ridden by knights.

  As they neared the start of the market, calls from the vendors echoed through the dirt streets.

  “Candles!”

  “Fresh bread!”

  Elora pushed the side of her hood back, so she could see better. Farther down the street, the crowd thickened. They paused at an intersection. Elora wrung her hands and stood on her toes to peer about. Murmured talking hummed through the market. The delicious scent of freshly made bread wafted to her, making her mouth water. Lining the sides of the streets were wagons with items ranging from fresh vegetables to expensive fabrics. Some sellers had placed blankets on the ground to organize their wares. Knights and villagers moved through the streets from cart to cart, eyeing the displays.

  She glanced at her friend. Sarah had shoved her hood from her head and was grinning, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

  Elora giggled and grabbed Sarah’s hand, moving into the crowd. Hope was alive within her. Hope that she would find a dagger made with exquisite skill, one that would have made her father proud.

  As they strolled the street, she scanned stalls filled with pots, candles, and other goods, searching only for knives and daggers. Mumbling and haggling sounded from some customers as they passed. A boy bumped into her leg and sped by. She watched his retreating form for a moment before glancing back at the wares.

  They had done this countless times before, but Elora still felt she never fit in. She didn’t care. She just wanted to find a special knife or dagger and enjoyed the thrill of disguising herself as a commoner. No one bowed to her here, and there were no empty smiles or greetings she had to retu
rn.

  “Make sure you round your shoulders,” Sarah whispered.

  Elora had often practiced her stride. Sarah said she moved as a noble, floated almost. Elora forced herself to slow her walk and concentrate on slouching. It was very unnatural for her, and she had to constantly think about it.

  A farmer bumped sharply into her shoulder and turned abruptly. “Watch what yer doin’,” he grumbled.

  As he moved down the street, Elora grinned. He would never speak to her that way if he knew who she was. It was thrilling to be one of the commoners. She looked at Sarah, and her grin grew. Sarah shrugged.

  Around them, men sat on the ground, their products displayed before them. One man had pots; another man had vegetables. A woman had a cart with an awning above it for shade. She had eggs and a chicken, as well as some vegetables.

  Sarah led Elora down the street. It was crowded, but Sarah seemed confident she knew where she was going.

  As she passed, a flash of silver from one of the stands caught Elora’s eye. She stopped suddenly, pleasantly surprised to find knives displayed on a small cart. She looked up quickly for Sarah. Her friend had paused steps from her, waiting. Elora pivoted back to the display, scanning them. She had learned much about knives from her father. Her favorite memories of him were of the two of them sitting before the hearth, with her father using the warm light of the fire to teach her the technique used to create the dagger and point out what the flaws were in the process.

  Her gaze moved from dagger to dagger, searching for the best. One drew her attention. It was not the blade that captivated her, but the beechwood handle. Elaborate scrollwork was etched into it. She gently touched the swirls, running her finger lightly across the engraving.

  “I would not have thought a woman would find knives interesting.”

  She looked up to find a man standing beside her, staring at the display. His jaw was chiseled and square; his nose straight. His brown hair hung in waves to his shoulders. He was a good head taller than she was. When he turned his head to her, eyes the color of sapphires pinned her to the spot. Her breath caught in her throat, and tingles danced across her shoulders. She glanced back at the knives as a strange warmth flooded her body.

  “Knives are used for eating as well as fighting,” she justified.

  He chuckled softly, drawing her gaze. “The one you have your finger on is used for fighting.”

  She quickly withdrew her hand, tucking it inside the sleeve of the cloak. “I was admiring the workmanship. Women can do that, can’t they?”

  “I meant no insult. I was intrigued by your choice.”

  “I was not planning to purchase it.” She continued to peruse the display.

  “Hmm.” He looked at the knives. “If I were going to purchase one, I would choose this one.” He pointed to a plain black blade.

  Elora inspected the weapon. It had a sharp tip, easy to puncture meat as well as a body. The handle looked comfortable to grip. “You can use it for fighting and for eating. A prudent choice.”

  “Which would you pick if you were going to purchase one?” he wondered.

  She studied the daggers. Her gaze continued to return to the scrollwork on the handle of the blade she had been drawn to. “If I had enough coin…” She ran her fingers lightly over the elaborate detailing again, admiring the sophisticated design. “This one.”

  “That one?” he echoed with distaste.

  “With the amount of effort carved into the handle, I would assume it was pricey. The blade appears to be sharp and certainly not one a woman would use for eating. But…” She touched the pattern again. “I am drawn to the intricacy and details.” She suddenly realized he was not speaking. She found him staring at her with an appreciative grin. His gaze drifted over her face. Heat ignited inside her, and she glanced back at the knives. “If I had enough coin.”

  “I knew a girl once who was interested in daggers.” His voice was low and thick. “A long time ago.”

  Elora looked up at him through her lashes. She parted her lips, but nothing came out. Her heartbeat quickened, and her palms were suddenly slick.

  Abruptly, a shrill scream sliced through the market.

  Elora snapped her gaze toward the sound. Villagers began running. She looked at the merchant with the knives. He was quickly gathering his wares, scooping them into a basket. “What’s happening?”

  Another merchant bumped into her, spilling strawberries around her feet. He glanced down at them for a moment and then hurriedly ran past her, abandoning them.

  The man beside her took hold of her arm. “This way. Quickly.”

  “Sarah!” Elora scanned the market street as the man pulled her.

  “Hurry,” the man urged.

  Another woman screamed. A large group of men surged forward like a tide, throwing punches and hurling curses. Elora noticed a man sitting on the ground, bleeding from his nose and mouth, as a bearded man stood over him, lifting his fist for another blow.

  The man tugged at her arm, pulling her away from the brawl. She could no longer find Sarah amongst the fleeing crowd and hoped her friend had moved to safety. Elora grabbed the man’s hand and let him guide her, knowing if she stayed, she would be swept up in the fight and possibly injured.

  As they moved with the pack of villagers trying to escape the commotion, men sprinted past them in the opposite direction toward the battle.

  Elora looked over her shoulder. A sea of bodies clashed. Men shouted and swore. Thunks sounded as fists met flesh. Dust swirled about the fighters. One bald man grabbed another man with a green tunic around the head and flipped him to the ground. The brawl was spreading.

  The man held her hand and pulled her through the increasingly chaotic crowd. Someone ran into her from behind. She stumbled but righted herself. What if she couldn’t escape the fight? What if she got hurt? A villager ran between them, breaking her hold on the man’s hand. Desperately, she surged forward, reaching for him, but the villagers swarmed around and jostled her.

  He looked back for her through the throng.

  She glanced around frantically. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. A man with a missing tooth passed her. A woman with wide, determined eyes hurried by. Another merchant clutched a basket of his wares. Someone knocked into her shoulder.

  Through the mass of strangers, a hand suddenly engulfed hers. She almost pulled away until she realized it was the man who had been helping her. Her rescuer. He pulled her in close and put an arm about her shoulders, protecting her. “Are you all right?”

  She managed to nod, clinging tightly to his hand. He glanced about and then led her into a smaller, less crowded street.

  On the side street, the shouts seemed to come from the distance. Here, at least, she could breathe for a moment.

  He faced her and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  Her heart pounded madly in her chest, but somehow, she managed to take stock of herself. “No. No. I am not hurt.” She swallowed, looking back toward the fight. Good Lord, she thought, what had gotten into them? Why were they acting like savages? And then, suddenly, her mind turned to Sarah. Her friend had been swept away in that madness. She put a hand to her throat. “I don’t know where Sarah is.”

  Villagers rushed past the entrance to the road, and then one man stumbled. He recovered and lunged out of view.

  “We’ll find her. Do not worry,” he reassured her.

  “What’s happening?”

  He scowled as more men blocked the entrance to the road they were on. One man with long, brown hair threw a punch at a smaller male, landing against his cheek. “A brawl. A rather large one by the looks of it.”

  Stunned, Elora stared at the smaller male who had fallen to the ground and was now being pummeled by the one with brown hair. She turned away, disgusted. “They are acting like savages.”

  Her rescuer grinned apologetically. “They’re acting like men.”

  Her gaze swept his face from his
furrowed brow to his square jaw. “How are we going to get away from this?”

  Her rescuer looked down the street they were on. “We can continue down this road and see where it leads, or wait and hope…”

  Another fighter with a bloodied nose shoved a squire with short black hair into the wall of the building near the road’s entrance. The black-haired squire swung him down the side street they were on, moving close to where they stood.

  Elora’s rescuer stepped before her protectively. “Break up! No need for this.”

  The black-haired squire whirled to face them, instinctively punching her rescuer in the jaw. Her protector recoiled from the blow and fell to his knee. The black-haired squire turned back to the fighter with the bloodied nose.

  Elora jerked forward to help her rescuer up, eyeing the line of blood on his lip.

  “We have to go,” he said sternly as he stood, wiping the blood from his lip with his sleeve. He took her hand into his and led her down the road, away from the main street where the brawl had begun. They came to the intersection of the side street and another road, only to find the fighting worse here. More men crowded the street, shoving each other and kicking men on the ground.

  Her rescuer hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the direction they had come.

  “Here!” a voice called. A woman waved at them from an open door in one cottage.

  The man quickly guided Elora to the woman. She opened the door wider, allowing them entrance and closing it behind them.

  Two children, a boy and a girl, sat huddled in the corner with round, frightened eyes. Elora’s gaze anxiously swept the simple home. A table with some trenchers on it, a pot simmering over the fire in the hearth. Breathing hard, Elora swiveled to the woman. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, and she wore a cotton dress, her brow creased with worry. “Thank you,” Elora said sincerely.

  “Are ya hurt?” the woman asked.

  “No,” her rescuer answered. “Thank you for allowing us shelter.”