As he crested the hill in the road the tourney came into view. His heart leapt at the sight, sounds and smells. The surrounding fields of the tilt-yard were filled with knights, squires, horse masters and armorers. Practicing, retrieving, filling, and grooming. Arthur felt a surge of excitement. He'd made it just in time!
He ran down the rest of the hill nearly barreling into people as he dodged through pedestrians. Excitement boiled and brimmed in his limbs making him feel as if his feet weren't even touching the ground.
Finding a nearby bucket of water by some knights' horses he dipped his hands in to wash the grime away from his skin. He wiped the dust from his rough woolen tunic and stockings, using some of the water to scrape away stains. At least seven months had passed since his garments were washed…and he only had the one pair.
Running his wet hands through his hair, he hoped he looked presentable enough when he introduced himself to the winning knight.
Arthur frowned, looking down at his tunic. Would the knight be able to see the lice crawling within its loose weave? Would a flea make the leap from him to the knight? Lord, he hoped not. He raised his brow a notch as an idea began to curve in his mind. Looking from left to right, Arthur snuck quietly into a nearby deserted tent.
Once inside he made quick work of swapping out his tunic for a cleaner one, making sure it didn't have someone's initials embroidered on it. The last thing he needed was to be caught stealing and lose a hand. Then he'd be no help to anyone, and if he didn't die of infection, he'd surely die of starvation before too long.
Just as stealthily as he snuck in, Arthur left the tent. He felt invigorated, almost like this was his first quest on his way to working within man of war's entourage. What else could he do? Better not overshoot his luck too much.
Arthur strolled along the path eyeing the other tourney attendees, the merchants and knights kissing the hands of ladies. Someday he'd be able to bow low and kiss the fair skin of a woman. His body stirred with the thought. He shifted uncomfortably. Why did he have to do that? Disgusting. His mother, if she were still alive, would no doubt rip his ears off for thinking such thoughts.
It would be best to get his mind back on his goal. He needed to find a town he could be from, and work on acting like a free man.
Locating Fletch, Michael returned to his tent. One of his other squires, Colin, was gathering Michael's blunt tipped lances and broad-sword. It had only been recently that the lords, along with the king, had deemed no other weapons could be used. He was now only allowed his three squires to assist him, or he'd risk imprisonment. He didn't fault the lords, as it had become quite commonplace with such large tournaments for massive fights to break out, as well as the raping and pillaging of nearby towns. He shuddered to think that the men he held in as much esteem as himself, who knew to follow the chivalric code, would dare to act so heinously. He was only glad he didn't know any of the men personally who'd been the cause of such atrocious behavior.
Jon assisted his groom in readying Black, making sure his caparison was in place, the heraldry of the Devereux family showing on the fabric draped over the mount's body. Black's chanfron was of superior quality and fit so well, that no cursory glance from the lance would injure his horse's face.
"Jon, make sure Charles puts on the high back saddle and long spurs. Fletch, you'll help me with my armor." His squires nodded and hurried to do his bidding. He was all business now. Everything had to be perfect.
His armorer had done a spectacular job of outfitting him for the tournament. He'd convinced his father to purchase the new suit, as the man had much pride in him that he would indeed win the spot in Kent's army. He'd worn it during training to let his body adjust to its weight and length. Michael had no fear that he would lose the armor and his horse today. Nay, he was confident he would win. The stakes were too high, and he'd trained for this day for over a decade since he'd earned his spurs at the tender age of five and ten.
Inside his tent, Michael began to mentally prepare for what lay ahead. He took deep, even breaths as he undressed, letting his body relax, and gain total control. His anxiety over Elena ebbed somewhat. Jon brought him his usual regiment of cold water to splash on his face. Then he took a bit of orange letting it wet his palette, refreshing his breath and mind.
Colin and Jon, together, helped him to don his hose and gambeson. The quilted doublet was long and fitted, coming to mid-thigh. The slits up the front and back would enable him to sit Black without interference. Next came his hauberk of chainmail, attached to it his mufflers. Michael flexed his hands letting the soothing metal of the mufflers ease into place. He slipped into his tunic that bore his family crest.
Jon attached his cuisses to protect his thighs, while Fletch fitted his chainmail coif over his head, and his shoulder-plates. Colin easily put his vambraces on his lower arms, while lifting his feet for Jon, and slipping them inside his leather boots.
It was like a dance with his three squires. All knew what to do, and moved with rhythm and grace until the task was complete.
"Your helm, sir," Fletch said, handing Michael his helmet.
He hated to wear the darn thing. It enclosed his entire head and face. Its length was so long, it came nearly to his shoulders. Slits were made for his eyes, ears and mouth, but the whole thing threw him off his senses.
Grasping its cool metal in his hand, he mounted Black and headed for the lists. His destiny was almost in his grasp.
Back ramrod straight, knees pressed rigidly together and hands folded in her lap with fingers squeezing so tightly they were going numb, Elena stared straight ahead. She dared not move. Although she kept her face still and clear of emotion, inside she gritted her teeth, sucked her tongue to the top of her mouth. Her stomach rolled, and tilted this way and that.
Oh, Michael.
As she blindly watched the men in the lists, Elena replayed her interlude with Michael years before. Their desperate attempt to handfast, their heated kiss. She was certain that had been him near the merchant's tent. There was something different about him now…taller he seemed, stronger, broader. A combination of all those things, and something inside her awakened.
A chill swept its way through her body—or was it warmth? Somehow it was both, she was hot and cold. Her insides melted, but at the same time her skin prickled with excitement, her breasts swelled, the tips puckering against her bodice. Thank the Lord in Heaven she insisted on wearing whalebone stays to hide her body, else everyone would have seen her shameful reaction.
Even now her face flamed. She made a motion with her hand and one of her ladies immediately began to fan her.
"Are you not well, my lady?" she asked discreetly.
Elena shifted her eyes from the lists, meeting her lady's gaze and then just as quickly averted them. "All is well. Perhaps I am a little overheated from the sun."
The sun was high in the sky, its searing rays reflecting off men and horse's armor, weapons, spurs and jewels that bedecked those around her. She was glad to be under the canopy away from the glaring heat. How did the knights fair? If her husband weren't who he was, she might have asked him, but instead she kept her mouth shut and offered a silent prayer that none of them succumbed to the unforgiving sun.
"Shall I fetch you a cool drink?"
"Aye, thank you." How she desperately wanted to confess that even a cool drink wouldn't quell the heat that kept rising inside her. Her heart pounded, a trickle of sweat slid its way down her spine. Greedily she gulped the cup of cider her maid handed her. Usually a drink she enjoyed on hot summer days, the liquid was tasteless as her mind could only focus on one delicious treat at a time.
Michael. How many years had she dreamed of this moment? How many nights had she lain awake wondering if they would ever see each other again? And Kent… how many times had he roughly taken her that she'd only been able to escape by imagining herself lying in Michael's strong arms?
She suppressed a shudder, noticing the earl had indeed turned to look her way. She tilted
her head in his direction and lowered her lashes as he expected her to do. Even through her lowered gaze she could see the expression on his ruddy face. Brows furrowed, mouth almost snarling, cold dead eyes. He despised her, was annoyed with her presence. Why the man had married, she wasn't sure. Well, actually, she was aware. None of his previous marriages had been fruitful—there were no heirs. The man was desperate to leave a son behind him. She dare not snicker, for even after several years of marriage there had never once been a change in her menses. She'd even sought out the local herbal woman and taken dose after dose of fertility teas to no avail. She wasn't the only one of his wives to have gone to such lengths. Certainly she wouldn't be the one to inform him, it wasn't the vessel he deposited into that was broken, but the well itself.
"Tournaments are no place for a lady. Get yourself together or I shall have one of the men return you to your tent." He turned to a knight who leered in her direction. "Women are such insufferable creatures."
Meekly, she nodded and handed her lady's maid the half-finished cup of cider. Despite how his offhanded comments made her bristle, Kent was right. She did need to get herself together. His attention on her was the last thing she needed, and it certainly wouldn't get her anywhere but stuck in a stuffy tent with no chance of seeing Michael again. And the way her husband's man looked, he likely wanted very much to take her back to the tent and eat her alive. This time, she did shudder, but she attempted to hide it by lifting her hand and swiping an invisible curl from her forehead.
Fear seeped into her bones and mingled with nausea and disgust. She swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in her throat. Happiness was not a word that had ever entered her marriage, nor would it. Abhorrence, despair, pain, revulsion. Those were things she used inside her own head to describe her union, but dared not utter for there were always people watching, listening. She was confident Kent had his men spying on her. At first she'd thought she was crazy for feeling like eyes watched her every move. Then, one night, she'd seen feet beneath a tapestry, and another day she'd seen an eye through one of the stones in the wall.
Kent had spies and they were everywhere. The man was paranoid of everything and everyone. He had to know all that happened each and every moment. As if doing so would save him somehow from an untimely death. And truly, she couldn't blame him. His people rioted. His people threatened his livelihood. Some of his knights lied about her behavior to see her punished for shunning them. Even if he was wise to their game, Kent enjoyed meting out the punishment.
At least here, at the tournament, he couldn't have rigged so many different spots for his spies. She was bound to find some privacy and she certainly wouldn't risk just a few moments out of the year when she felt she could breathe without someone counting the seconds it would take her to exhale.
Aye, privacy… To speak with Michael. That was one of her foremost goals for insisting on attending the tournament. She never insisted on anything, it only garnered her the back of her husband's hand, and an even rougher time in the marriage bed than was usual. But somehow, she'd found the strength this time, and the brutality rained down on her was worth it. Deep in her heart, she'd not thought Michael would come—but there was still a part, albeit small, that wished and wished. Just one glimpse at him…
And then Michael was there. He sat straight and tall on his destrier as he approached. He held his helm in one arm, the other deftly holding the reins. He was a vision of black and silver, deadly, intent. Her breath ceased, for she knew just how soft his lips could be.
Oh, how she'd wanted to melt when his oddly colored seductive eyes locked with hers. She licked her lips nervously willing herself to calm down, lest she give away her excitement.
Fear had gripped her spine as she realized she'd been openly gaping at Michael. She glanced to her husband to make sure he wasn't paying attention, half expecting him to issue a death warrant to her knight and send her to the hole for a week. Thankfully, he was once again engaged with one of his men.
Elena straightened her back and sat as still as death.
Michael boldly approached the covered stand where Lady Elena sat beside her loathsome husband. When he'd first received the missive, Michael was devastated. When Elena's family turned him away, he'd spoken to his own father who tried to convince him most young wives torn from their homes and countries sent such letters. Still, it didn't sit right with Michael and he'd done some investigating of his own regarding her new husband. Sure enough, there were rumors that Kent was an evil man. Even that his previous wives may have died at his hands. From then on, Michael knew he had to come. He had to protect Elena. If nothing else, make good on his promise to her.
She looked much thinner than when he'd been banished from her home. Her skin stretched taught over her cheekbones, and her plush lips which used to smile and laugh so often, looked as though they rarely moved from the thin expressionless state they were in now. Shadows of pain and despair marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. She looked sad, defeated—and yet somehow still devastatingly beautiful.
As he gazed on her, she turned in his direction, emerald eyes raised to his, and a spark lit behind them. Michael's stomach plummeted and then rose high in his throat. The moment was here. He dared not break out into a broad smile. Ballocks! Why hadn't he put his helmet on? He was sure everyone on the list field could see how he felt about Elena. Taking a deep breath, he rearranged his features, hoping they resembled the calm, collected and lethal knight that he was.
Her eyes flickered with excitement turning an even deeper shade of green, as he approached, and she nervously licked her lips. For a fleeting moment their gazes locked, until she broke the spell by glancing quickly at Kent. Fear washed over her face, and then her expression blanked. The old man seemed to be oblivious, until Michael stood in front of them.
"My lord." He bowed his head in Kent's direction, all too aware of the man's furrowed brows and curled lip. Michael swept the sourness of the earl's distaste from his mind and turned to the object of his affection.
"My lady." He reached out and grasped the delicate hand she offered him. So light. Her bones were easily felt, even through her gloves. He wished he could remove the barriers on both of their hands and feel the silky smoothness of her skin against his own sword-wielding rough ones. He pressed his lips fleetingly to the skin of her wrist, breathing in her essence. Honeysuckle, and orange, a fragrance he would cherish. "Sir Michael Devereux of Wexford, at your service."
"Sir Devereux," she whispered. Her face was a mask of serenity but her eyes nearly lit his soul aflame, such was the depth of their emotions.
From the corner of his eye, Michael observed as Kent looked him over, rolled his eyes and turned away, apparently not worried in the slightest for his wife's affections traveling elsewhere.
"I'd be honored for a token, my lady." He held his breath as he pulled away.
Elena smiled at him, not saying a word. She flashed a look in her husband's direction.
"My lord?" Her voice was whisper soft, but Michael could still detect a faint hint of fear.
Kent waved his hand in their direction without bothering to look.
Elena visibly sighed in relief and then took the sheer gold scarf from around her neck and tied it to the tip of his lance. Not wanting to overstay his welcome, or cause a stir with Kent, Michael bowed his head in their direction. With the feminine piece shimmering in the sun, Michael headed for the starting point in the lists, trying to ignore the soaring in his heart.
When Michael had looked at her, his hand held out for hers—it'd been like in the romantic novel she'd kept hidden from Kent and even her parents. Indeed, her husband wasn't even aware she could read. It was a secret she'd kept well hidden from him. No need to add further fuel to the fire of his fury. But Michael—he was proud of her skills and education. Her heart soared, pounding so loud, she was sure it could be heard over the clanging of metal and pummeling of horse hooves. Without thinking, she'd placed her hand on his. Even with his chain link m
ufflers covering, she could feel the warmth emanating through. Elena's face grew hot as she remembered several timid, innocent touches like this they'd shared in the past.
"I'll catch you!"
Elena ran through the fields, the thin soft stalks of wheat tickled her palms as she went, arms outstretched. "Never," she yelled behind her with a laugh. A sense of freedom flowed through her as it always did on days like this.
Her slippers carried her like the wind, and the sound of Michael's pounding feet behind her sent her heart into a whirlwind. How she adored him.
"That's what you think, princess." He laughed as he lunged toward her, pulling her with him to the ground.
They fell into a mixture of the soft padding of the wheat field and the thick fabric of her gown, laughing and tickling each other. Elena's head-veil fell off. Her hair tumbled out around her shoulders.
"I am not a princess," she murmured trying desperately to tuck her hair and veil back into place. Indeed, she wasn't, but she loved that Michael insisted on calling her such. It made her feel all the more special for all her thirteen summers.
"Aye, my lady, however it is fitting." He climbed to his feet and pulled her with him.
"You're my best friend, Michael."
"Aye, and you are mine." Michael turned from her, dusting wheat buds from his breeches. "But you'd better not be telling anyone that, or I'll skin you alive."
Elena tilted her head back and laughed. For a boy of fifteen, it surely would be mortifying for such news to spread, especially coming from a family full of knights. "I shall tell all the court that Master Michael is best friends with a girl of thirteen," she teased, having absolutely no intention of doing so.
Knights of Valor Page 4