This couldn't be happening. Elena looked around for anyone who might come to her aid, but all she had sought comfort from once, kept their gazes averted.
"Say, aye," her father gritted out, squeezing her arm.
"Do not embarrass me," Kent threatened under his breath. He, too, gripped her arm in a painful pinch.
"I cannot," she whispered. "I am—"
"She will," her father said to the priest, cutting her off.
"Or it will be your head," Kent added.
The priest nodded, fear making his knees shake. He left off the rest of the ceremony, pronouncing them man and wife, right then and there.
"No! I did not consent!" she shouted. But she was ignored by all, especially Kent.
He snapped his fingers again and a man who looked like he ate children for breakfast, stepped forward, picked her up, hauled her over his shoulder and started to exit the great hall.
"We ride to the shore tonight. I cannot stand the stench of Irish soil," the evil lord—her husband!—grated out.
Elena screamed, beat her fists against the monster's back. The last thing she saw before someone hit her on the temple, knocking her mercifully from consciousness, was the anguished face of her father as he slumped to the floor.
Michael took the offered hand of an old knight, Sir Roger, who pulled him to standing. He shifted his jaw from side to side, pain searing from his chin to his temple. The old earl had a hell of a fist. He shook his head and took a determined step toward the keep. A hand on his chest stopped him.
"I wouldn't, Michael." Roger fiddled with the sword at his side. "The earl asked me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you took your leave of Enniscorthy. Alone."
Michael glanced into the eyes of the man who'd once shown him how to parry and block with a sword.
"What is happening?"
"Naught that you can do about it. 'Tis the way of things." Roger's brow drew together as if even he didn't like the words coming out of his mouth.
Michael frowned, anger burning a path through his veins. "Where is Elena?"
"Inside. With her husband."
"Her husband? But I'm—"
"Don't say it, lad. Go see about gathering your things from the barracks. His lordship ordered you to return to your father. And I aim to see it done." The knight's voice was calm, deadly serious.
Michael swallowed, his pride wounded, but most of all his heart ached for Elena. What happened? They'd not even had a chance to beseech the earl for mercy. They had such promises for their future, and within minutes those blissful moments had been ripped from their arms—and she from him.
A terrible scream rent the air, coming from inside the keep. Michael shoved Roger aside and charged the castle. Orders to leave be damned! He would protect her from whatever evil sought to wound her!
Loud shouts came from all around him, and suddenly he found himself in the air, pain searing up his back and radiating throughout his torso. He swung his fists, kicked out, seeking to connect with whomever or whatever, without reward. He landed with a hard thud, his head cracking on the solid earth. He rolled from side to side, the wind knocked from him, his thoughts racing.
"You left me little choice. I have my orders." Roger stood over him, shaking his head. A few other knights had started to gather.
"What did you do?" Michael felt with numb fingers along his body—but that was the thing about numb fingers, he felt nothing. Had he been hit with an arrow? A knight? An axe? Was he dying?
"Merely tackled your stubborn arse. Come now, I'll escort you home."
"I cannot…" he trailed off, the wind still gone from his lungs. The man had only tackled him to the ground? Roger was as solid as an ox and it felt as if he'd been trampled by a herd. But he feared it was more of an emotional beating he'd taken. He'd lost all today. 'Haps he'd just lay here forever.
"You've no choice, lad. Best put your heart elsewhere. She was never yours to begin with. Lay claim to your sword, cherish your skills with the lance, embrace the control of a well-honed mind. Your service to the crown is your marriage. You are a knight. Now prove it."
Michael closed his eyes, the pain in his head more than a mere cracking on the ground. Even still, he heard all old Roger said, and it weighed heavy on his mind. 'Twould have been better had his heart been pierced with an arrow.
England, 1415
The distant clang of metal on metal hung in the sky like music. Michael's blood surged with power and lust for a good fight. He'd traveled nearly a month to reach this location. Shouts of pain and triumph floated in the air. He smiled.
England—home, from now on.
How long had he yearned to return to the place of his birth? Nearly fifteen years. He couldn't believe it had been that long and yet at the same time the wait was unbearable. Although he'd called Ireland home for over a decade, he'd dreamt of returning. His goal since childhood had been to set foot permanently on English soil. Excitement filled his veins, his leg and arm muscles flexed with his need to work them. He took a deep breath. The air was different, dryer. There always seemed to be a mist in Wexford.
Michael sighed, and gazed up at the sky. It was early in the morning. Few clouds hovered above; it appeared the sun would shine for him today.
"Sir?" one of his squires, Colin, inquired.
"Prepare the tent," he ordered. He turned toward the fields. "I'm going to the lists. Fletch, come with me."
Blood pumping and his heart beating a battle tune, Michael urged his mount forward, his lead squire following. Nothing sent a thrill spiraling through him like a tournament. Although the real tourney games had yet to commence, the list fields were abuzz with knights training, squires running here and there. Roars of laughter could be heard from the crowds that watched all manners of entertainment. Bear-baiting, cock-fighting and boxing had all begun.
They reached the main field and dismounted. Michael and Fletch approached the men who were checking armorial bearings and pairing knights for the competition.
"My master, Sir Michael Devereux, wishes to join the list," Fletch said.
"Devereux, eh? Son of Sir Lucas Devereux?" the balding older man asked. Grease stained the front of his tunic. His beard held the remainders of what looked like more than one meal. Was that a hunk of moldy cheese woven between the snarls? Red rimmed the man's eyes, and his cheeks were ruddier than pig's flesh. Dark crescent shaped shadows were smeared beneath his eyes. His sidekick, just as old, but not bald, didn't fare much better, in fact he looked ready to roll into his grave.
Michael suppressed the urge to disparage their disheveled appearances. Apparently the men were enjoying this tourney quite a bit already if the scent of whiskey wafting from their mouths was any indication. Normally, Michael would cheer them on, but his mood was soured as the reason for his being here came to the forefront of his mind.
"Aye."
The men nodded. "You'll be jousting at mid-day. If you do not arrive at the list fields on time, you will be disqualified."
He bit back a retort. He was no fledgling. Michael twisted his neck from side to side, trying to ease the tension that made his muscles stiffen. "I understand."
"Today is the joust, tomorrow—" The man actually swayed in his chair and had to grip the table to catch his bearings. His partner laughed aloud, causing himself to nearly topple over.
This time Michael did sneer and roll his eyes. Good Lord, couldn't they find a couple of attendants who weren't inebriated? Anyone could join the list at this rate. "I know how a tourney operates, good sir."
"This is no ordinary tournament, the prize—"
"I'm aware," Michael cut him off, handed his heraldry back to Fletch and stalked away. He needed no more reminders of why he was here. Fate had dealt him the wrong hand.
He walked to the fields, cracking his knuckles as he went. What he wouldn't give right now for a cup of heady ale or a swig of whiskey to take the edge off. He was wound up tighter than a virgin on her wedding night. Leaning his back against Black, his war
horse, he folded his arms over his chest and analyzed the men he'd fight at some point over the next several days. The knights' swords swung in wide arcs cutting down, thrusting up, clashing together—the most beautiful sound to Michael, the whistle in the wind as a knight's weapon was discharged from his hand and flung through the air.
Sword fighting was perhaps his favorite part of combat, besides hand-to-hand. He certainly did love the thrill of the chase, the feeling of power when you fooled your opponent into charging, and the utter sense of accomplishment when you took him down.
"Sir, if you'll allow me to speak freely?"
Michael slanted Fletch a glance, his brow raised. He'd always allowed the man to speak his mind. Why the sudden need to ask permission?
As if reading his thoughts, Fletch laughed nervously. "Pardon, sir, I know how much this tourney means to you. I do believe it is making me a little skittish as well."
"I am not skittish."
"Right, sir. I only meant out of sorts."
"I am not out of sorts," Michael growled, his arms coming unfolded. He realized as he stood, battle stance at the ready, that perhaps he was a little out of sorts. Normally he would brush aside Fletch's ramblings, but not today. Realizing this, he refolded his arms and leaned back against Black and tried to clear his face of any thought or feeling.
"Of course, sir." Fletch licked his lips and shuffled from foot to foot. "What I wanted to say was, seeing these knights at practice, I do believe you will easily win this competition."
Michael merely nodded, keeping his gaze on the men at mock combat. What the hell had gotten into Fletch? The squire had been his second, his friend and cohort, now all the sudden he was becoming a little sap. He'd already allowed the man to get under his skin once, he wouldn't do it again.
"Go help Colin and Jon set up camp."
"Aye, sir."
Michael had to stop himself from laughing—only allowing a small smile to curve his lips—at the speed with which Fletch took off.
He was only one year older than Fletch. Having grown up together, they were more like brothers. In fact, they'd fought often enough as squires. Michael had been truly honored to offer Fletch a position as his lead squire when he'd been knighted. He would never have it any other way. The man knew him inside and out, and was damn near the smartest combat choreographer that he knew.
So why the hell was Fletch starting to break down now? Michael ran his hands through his hair and cracked his neck. He was under so much pressure—his winning or losing literally would mean the safety of his lost love, Elena. She was in danger, in need of protection, and he could only protect her by winning.
Michael had been worried for her safety ever since the he'd received an ominous missive from an English knight proclaiming to send the message on the behalf of Elena. But the knight had sent his own letter as well, requesting Michael's participation in the tournament. A part of him wondered if it was a trap. The part that wanted to help Elena didn't care.
His heart had nearly broken as memories of a sweeter, more innocent, time took hold. Since then, he'd been in turmoil about how to rectify the situation. Then he'd heard of the tournament, and all he had to do was bide his time, and plan well. He'd been waiting months for this moment. One agonizing day at a time. There was nothing more he could do. He'd appealed to her father, her brother, but both turned him away, before hearing what he had to say. And now he was finally here. Going to do something for her, the only way he knew how. Finally it was the time could make a major difference in her life. If things didn't work out as planned, he didn't know what he was going to do.
He'd already broken the one promise he'd ever made to her—his promise to stay by her side always, to marry her in truth. Damn, if he was going to break another promise. No, he would succeed this time. Now it was a matter of life and death.
A light sweat broke out on Michael's brow. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out his waterskin. He guzzled the cool liquid, droplets escaping and spilling down his chin. He let the air dry the water from his overheated flesh, taking just a moment to clear his mind.
Tucking the waterskin back on his horse, he tried to still his erratically beating heart. He'd been in tournaments before; he'd been in real battle. Had killed and almost been killed, but this was different. This time someone he cared about more than himself, someone so fragile, was in danger, and if he didn't beat out every other knight here—
Michael couldn't continue the thought. He had no choice other than to win. Mounting Black, he headed toward the tents. He needed to gear up. Within hours he'd be competing and needed to be prepared. His men knew what was at stake.
When he found his tent, Fletch was polishing his already gleaming armor, his reflection shined pristinely in the metal. Some of his servants put the final touches on the camp set up. A few of them sat, eating legs of roasted fowl they must have scored from one of the many merchants. Ah, what he wouldn't do for a nice cold mug of ale, a hunk of meat and slice of sweet bread. That would have to wait.
"Sir?" His newest squire Jon peered at him.
"What is it?" Michael's voice came out harsher than he intended.
"I hear there's a boxing match about to begin, mind if I go and have a look?" His voice was filled with desperation and short of having the poor young man begging on his knees, Michael relented. He remembered his first tournament…what a thrill.
Hoping to appear that he was watching the lad run off, he scanned the crowd of nobles. Already the fields were covered with hundreds of tents. People came near and far to a tournament, and would come from the very farthest parts of the realm for this one. The prize—placement as Captain of the Guard in Elena's castle—was worth more to a knight than a few gold coins or a new set of armor.
He spotted what he was looking for. Tents of all colors dotted the fields, like a giant's chess board. And there flying high and proud amongst them, was the flag of Chauncey de Bourg, Earl of Kent. Its bright red backing with three fierce golden lions waved proudly in the wind. Michael's lip curled involuntarily. He bared his teeth. His fists clenched and unclenched. He swiftly whipped his head from side to side, cracking the tension from his neck, and somehow abating the intense urge to charge toward Kent's retinue.
The earl was sponsoring the tourney. Would he fight? No doubt the man was old, but was his body still in condition for competing?
He hoped to God the bastard was. He'd love to take him down a notch. Michael frowned. Beating the hell out of the earl probably wouldn't bode well for his ultimate goal. But he wouldn't think of bowing out if the man did join the lists.
Michael's head snapped up. He'd known all along that he would see her, but the reality of such a notion hadn't really taken hold until now—she was here. Six long, painful years had passed since Elena had been ripped from his side.
Sweat dripped down his temples and tickled his sensitive earlobes. But it wasn't fear of the joust, or even a sword fight. It was trepidation at the thought of not being able to speak to her, make eye contact. Perhaps, if he were so lucky, even gain her favor for his upcoming competitions. It wasn't uncommon for a married lady to bestow courtly love and tokens upon favored knights.
But what had his blood jolting through his veins the most was, if he were to win the tournament, he would be closer to her.
The prize… Aye, the prize.
He pushed Black toward Fletch and took off on foot to get a better look at the earl's tents. One glance to show him that all he was doing was worth the risk. The sight of her would be forever burned in his memory. He pushed past groups of milling knights and squires, ignoring their remarks. This whole business had really changed him, and he looked forward to the end of the tournament when he could be himself again. Was that even possible? Would he ever truly be himself?
Normally he would stop and rib the other men, taunt them as they would taunt him. But he couldn't—not now. Not with all that was at stake. He had to see her. Even if only for a moment. While he charged his opponents on the field
he would see her face in his mind and know he fought for her honor.
The earl's tents were crowded and the sounds of reverie could be heard within.
"A mug of ale to celebrate, sir?" A half drunken servant tripped, sloshing ale on Michael's sleeve. The servant righted himself, and shoved the mug toward Michael's chest.
So as not to draw attention to himself, Michael gripped the mug and downed the contents.
"Many thanks," he muttered as he continued to scan the area with his eyes, shoving the mug back into the man's groping hands.
Michael's stomach growled at the scents of delectable food items coming from the tent a few feet away. Goose, venison, mutton, pies, puddings and fresh baked bread. He and his men had traveled light, eating jerky, rock hard cheese and oatcakes. Occasionally he'd hunt for fresh game, but even that meat did not compare to the scrumptious spread being presented to the earl.
Was she inside the tent? Would she dine with the earl, taste the foods he offered her? Or would he offer at all?
"His lordship and the lady are not within, Sir Knight." The teetering servant somehow managed to keep his footing.
Michael frowned and gritted his teeth. Perhaps if he walked through the merchant's area on his way back to his tent, he'd see her. He still had so many questions. The cryptic missive had not given him much information at all, and what if he'd been misinformed? What if all his worry was for naught and Elena was happily married? What if returning to England, seeking a new elite position and wholeheartedly changing his entire life had been a mistake?
Something in his gut told him he wouldn't regret it. He knew she would never mislead him. Some women, aye, but her, no. She was the most honest woman he'd ever known. If she had a friend send him the missive, it was the truth.
"Ballocks!" he muttered under his breath. Why was he letting this whole situation eat away at him?
But he knew the answer. He'd let her down first, years ago, and now he intended to make up for it.
Knights of Valor Page 2