Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "Elena?"

  She ignored his question, whirled around, lifted the tent's side and ducked underneath.

  "Wait," he hissed, but she was already inside the tent.

  He sighed with exasperation, and then she heard the soft squish of his boots on the soggy ground as he walked away. She breathed a little easier knowing he'd left and she'd see him on the morrow when, God willing, he won the tournament.

  Crouching low, Elena took in the dimly lit surroundings of her tent—and attempted to decipher if her husband was within. Regret and skittish nerves made her shaky. She hadn't wanted Michael to escort her back, preferring to go alone and quietly, just as she'd come, but he wouldn't hear of it. There was no use arguing with him, he wouldn't bend.

  Secretly she was relieved, for there had been much drinking going on amongst the people and she wasn't sure she was a match tonight for groping hands. 'Twas nice to have someone to protect her, for once. In fact, she quite liked it. And that fact unnerved her. She'd grown so used to always being on her guard. Always having to defend herself and her ladies. But Michael had completely taken down her defenses—one stone and weapon at a time.

  With their steamy kiss and the emotional onslaught that came with it, her muscles were like dough, and her mind completely without sense. Again she wished she'd been dealt a different hand in life. She'd take being poor, a peasant, if it meant she could be with Michael.

  Even with Michael for escort, they'd nearly been caught by that disparate crew of gamblers. Dear Lord Almighty, if someone had recognized her… She almost fainted at the thought. Her mind had not been her own when she'd begged her women to let her go to Michael. She'd been witless, but she'd do it again in a heartbeat to feel his arms around her—to feel just one shred of the love and protection he'd bestowed on her.

  She'd entered her tent behind the stacks of chests and barrels holding their supplies. There appeared to be no conversations going on within, but truly her senses continued to be in complete uproar. Still crouching, she moved to the end of the pile, her fingers sliding along the wooden chests and barrels for balance. She squelched a cry when a small splinter sliced into her littlest finger. Sticking her finger in her mouth, she wondered how a small injury could afford her such a sharp sting. With a prayer, she peered around the corner, relieved to see her ladies all there, alert, wide eyed—and no one else.

  Raelyn jumped at the sight of her and rushed forward, pulling Elena to her feet.

  "My lady, you gave us a fright! We had no idea who'd snuck in here. You're lucky we did not call the guards."

  She deserved Raelyn's chiding, even if it was not her maid's place. Elena was putting all of them in jeopardy with her behavior.

  Suddenly, they all whirled toward the entrance to the tent. Raelyn held her fingers to her lips.

  Then Elena followed the worried gesture by lifting her own hands to her mouth. Outside the tent she could hear the voices of her guards speaking to someone. Her head began to spin, her stomach tightened into knots. Had they caught Michael?

  The voice grew a little louder. She was relieved it was not Michael, but a new type of fear stole over her. The someone was her husband.

  "How long has he been out there?" she whispered to her maid. Had he tried to come in while she was gone? Dear God, what had she done?

  "Not long," she said softly.

  Knowing he had not been outside the tent long reassured her that her maids were safe, and that she was, too, but all the same, his presence sent a chilling fear down her spine. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. Her eyes glued to the closed opening. What a flimsy barrier to the outside world. Whoever wanted to gain entrance could if they just got past her guards—or they could sneak in the back as she had. Little good the guards did her anyway. They were her husband's men, if he wanted in, they'd let him without a second thought.

  While Elena stared at the opening, praying her husband would just go away, her ladies worked quickly around her. Raelyn slipped Elena's cloak from her body and tossed it to Olivia who tucked it quietly into a trunk. The ladies scurried around her to undo her hair, warm her limbs, and gather her night clothes, as she should have been abed or at least readied for it by now. She prayed to the Lord above, her husband didn't wish admittance tonight. He only visited her on scheduled days, and tonight wasn't one of them. But there had been a lot of drinking, he could have forgotten the day if he was deep in his cups. She shivered, her stomach plummeting. Perhaps he had noticed the way she and Michael reacted to one another.

  The entire day's events passed through her mind. She ticked off moment by moment what happened, what her husband could have misconstrued.

  "Wine," she whispered. An already poured glass was pressed into her hands. Her ladies knew her well. Should her husband ever visit her, she drank a glass of dark, strong wine to steel her nerves. She gulped the tangy liquid, feelings its warmth weave through her bones.

  But then miracle of miracles, his voice faded away, and a motion from one of her other maids' told her he had left. A collective sigh was met around the room, relief obvious in them all. She'd have to be more careful were she to sneak away again…perhaps if at all. Her hands shook. Would probably be best to not ever repeat it. She didn't think she could handle the repercussions, even if Michael's kisses made the world disappear for a moment, giving her hope.

  The way Raelyn and her other maids' hands shook as they finished undressing her and preparing her for bed, showed how they truly felt. She couldn't put them through this again. Not unless she carefully planned it. Nay, even then it was too much of a danger. Risking her maids' safety wasn't part of her plan.

  Her visit to Michael could have meant the lives of her ladies, her own life, and Michael's. Kent would have strung him up, wrenched his limbs from their sockets, emptied his bowels, castrated him and then feed to the wolves.

  As her ladies bathed her hands in warm lemon water she recalled her fleeting moments with Michael. Too much time had passed since last she'd seen him. She closed her eyes for a moment, pretending she wasn't here in this tent, but somewhere else, Ireland perhaps, lying on a bed of heather with Michael reclined beside her.

  Forgive me... he'd said the words and she'd thought he meant for kissing her, but there was so much more lurking behind his words, behind his eyes. She wasn't the only one haunted by demons. Could there have been more to his words? What exactly did he want her to forgive him for? If anything, she should be asking him for forgiveness. He was putting his life and body on the line to protect her. She'd not had the strength to run from her father, from Kent that day so many years ago.

  How would she ever thank him now, for coming to her when she'd not the power to escape? All the kisses in the world would never be enough. She climbed under her fur blankets, pulling them up to her chin. The sounds of her ladies settling in was soothing. She felt protected in their midst. They soon quieted, and the candles were blown out.

  In the darkness, she touched her lips, still sensitive from Michael's kisses. Her hands still held traces of his musky scent…pine, cloves, horseflesh. She breathed deeply.

  As much as she regretted instilling fear in her companions, seeing Michael had been worth it in the end, even if she could never do so again. She would pray fervently for forgiveness during morning mass. Then she'd pray and offer up a lifetime of tithes for his victory.

  She couldn't be sure if he'd win on the morrow, only God knew that. If Michael did not succeed, she would be lost for life, but at least she'd have tonight in her memory forever.

  Arthur stepped from the shadows. A satisfied grin played across his lips.

  Now Black Knight would have to give him a place amongst his servants, for Arthur held his secret in his own dirty little hands.

  Cool night air seeped into his tunic causing him to shiver. He rubbed his sticky hands together to warm them. The night air had certainly turned chilly. What a bit of luck it was he'd decided to sneak between the tents to find a warm place to sleep, else he wouldn't have
happened on the knight and the lady.

  He'd had to blink a hundred times before he believed what he was seeing as the Black Knight kissed the countess. Looked to be more than an impulsive kiss, too. More like the kiss of lovers. How long had they been sneaking around behind the earl's back? And what a lucky chance that the knight, Sir Devereux, might actually win this tournament and end up closer to his lady love.

  Arthur rubbed his hands on his legs, partially in an effort to gain some warmth in the chill night air, and partly with glee. His luck hadn't been this up in, well, ever! He stuffed a fist into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  See, Mother! I am not so worthless! He wanted to shout aloud, but instead settled for the spirit of his mother being able to hear his thoughts.

  Wouldn't Black Knight pay to keep him quiet? Of course he would. No one wanted to incur the wrath of Lord Kent. And the man would certainly want to continue his sinful ways.

  This time, he couldn't keep a shrill laugh from escaping his lips. He'd gone from a simpering whelp of a serf, to thief, and extortion all in one day. Mama would be proud indeed. He was going places.

  By this time tomorrow he'd be snug under a thick fur pelt and lying beside a blazing fire. His stomach would be full of warm seasoned venison. His mouth salivated and his hungry belly growled in answer, the sound accompanied by a painful jab, reminding him it had been hours since his last meal.

  Silently, Arthur slipped back between the tents. Aye, Black Knight and the lady had just paved his path to freedom.

  Michael jumped from foot to foot, shaking out his limbs inside his tent. The sun had risen, and outside people were already milling about, shouting greetings to one another. Did no one ever sleep? Seemed to him they stayed up all night drinking, whoring, eating and betting, sleeping perhaps an hour or two before rising to do it again. He'd hardly slept himself, but not from a night of debauchery. Nay, his sleepless night was from thoughts of Elena, and the memory of her kiss burning his lips.

  Despite little sleep, he was fired up. Blood and excitement pumped through his veins. Today was the day. He thrust his hands into the frigid water his squires provided for him and splashed it onto his face. Crisp, fresh. He was alert and ready. Perhaps, even more so after last night.

  His feelings for Elena had not waned, if anything they'd grown stronger. He could still sense her lips on his, smell her, hear her. He splashed more water on his face. It did nothing—he still burned from the memory of her kiss. His cock hardened with yearning—a deep-seated need to be with her. He glanced down at the bulge in his breeches. Traitor! With a flick of his wrists he sent his men from the tent. The last thing he needed was for his men to raise eyebrows and toss jeers at him for his reaction.

  "Prepare my armor," he called after them.

  Used to his swift moods, they cleared out quickly.

  With his men gone he disrobed and dumped the rest of the cool water all over his body. What he really needed to do was go for a ride on Black to the nearest body of water and submerge himself until he could scourge Elena from his thoughts.

  He was putting them both in danger. He'd savored every moment with her the night before, but saint's above, what had he been thinking? Anyone could have walked into the tent while he kissed her, someone could have found her to be missing, or seen them hiding in the shadows as he walked her back. Thank goodness she'd had the foresight to rush beneath the safety of her tent, for he was beyond the point of control when she'd leaned in to kiss him again. Potent desire had taken over. Such could never happen again. He'd only be risking her life, and hadn't he come here to do precisely the opposite?

  That kiss was the last. From now on he'd start acting like the knight he'd been trained to be. He'd be a gentleman to her, chivalrous in every respect. She was married for God's sake! He'd be party to adultery, hanged, drawn, quartered and she could be burned at the stake for it! Knowing her husband, the man would make sure they both suffered unnecessarily, should they be caught.

  A shiver passed through him, his body no longer overheated. He pulled his clothes back on and walked out into the morning. Dew from the grass soaked into his boots turning the light brown leather darker.

  Fletch placed a hand on his shoulder. "Everything all right, sir?"

  "Perfectly." He gave him a wry grin and then turned to his other squires. "Well, then?"

  Michael didn't miss out on the hidden glances his men gave each other. Fletch raised a brow and then quickly went about his work. He was grateful none asked him any questions. He didn't want to explain himself to them—shouldn't have to, but he felt guilty. These men had bled with him. If they knew why his mood was so foul, they might run into the nearby woods without a backward glance. By his actions, he was also putting their lives at stake. He shook his head. What a fool he was. But could one help what the heart yearned for? Problem was, he needed to remember now that she belonged to someone else. Even if that man was a bastard.

  Lips thinned into a frown, he instead focused on the battle ahead. While there had been fourteen knights he'd bested the day before, today he'd battle nine. Ten of the men total would be thrown together onto the field, last man standing wins. Swords were to be used, hands if necessary. Unlike on the fields of battle and in earlier years, they weren't fighting to the death. Even still, injuries happened and some men did die. He needed all of his wits about him. One split-second thought of Elena, could result in someone severing one of his limbs. Then all would be lost.

  Fletch, Colin and Jon began their dance around him until he was completely dressed in his armor. He flexed his hands inside his metal gauntlets feeling restricted, stiff. He grasped his sword and tossed it from hand to hand, then up in the air. He turned to the right and stepped back, reached into the air and caught the hilt of his sword as it descended. His men clapped, and a smile tugged at his lips.

  He did a few more practice parries, tosses and thrusts. For the moment, lost in his skill, lost in the sheer joy and power his sword brought him. His men shouted their confidence in him and a few passersby cheered him on. Michael bowed.

  But then he was pulled from his elation, black clouds surrounding him, when he remembered why he was here, and how important today was.

  With a brisk tilt of his head, he motioned his men to walk with him. "Jon, grab an extra sword and shield."

  If he were to lose either in the battle from another opponent, if the lord so deigned it, his squires could toss him a replacement. He smirked sardonically. Kent was probably the type of lord who would say no to such a request, preferring to watch the poor knight fight unprotected, using his hands and arms against another who wielded sharp, deadly metal.

  Michael stopped short. They passed by Kent's tents. He watched with suppressed fury as the man berated Elena in front of a crowd. He could barely make out the words.

  "…meant to be neither seen nor heard…"

  Head down, blonde waves draped delicately over her shoulder, the regal countess nodded her head. She looked positively beaten down. His heart shattered at seeing her so trampled by her husband's brutishness.

  "…useful to no one, especially me…cow…"

  When Kent raised his hand as if to strike her, Michael could no longer stand by. Without warning he knocked Jon to the ground, his extra sword and shield went flying, the latter bouncing off someone's hip. His actions caused just the stir he wanted. Kent's hand came to rest at his side as he turned to see what the commotion was. Michael wasted no time in continuing with the farce.

  Under his breath he muttered to Jon, "My apologies I'll explain later." Hands on hips he constructed a fierce glare on his man. "What the devil is the matter with you, boy? Have you no legs? Spend too much time drinking and whoring last eve? Get up!"

  Jon's face turned blotchy red and he looked confused, but when Fletch made a ruse of kicking him in the ribs, the boy clambered to his feet and began gathering the things he'd dropped.

  "My apologies, my lord," Michael said to Kent. "The boy is a new squire of min
e and hasn't yet learned the rules. He'll be punished for his disobedience later, I assure you."

  Kent nodded his approval and suddenly Michael realized that even if he didn't win today, this little ruse of his might give him a place in Kent's personal guard anyway. The man was a bully and he certainly approved of Michael's poor treatment of Jon. His hopes soared. Although his plans to win the tournament had not changed in the slightest, it felt good to know if things didn't come to fruition, he might still stand a chance to save Elena, or at least as much as he could.

  Michael chanced a glance in his love's direction. What he saw gave him a punch to the gut so intense, he felt it clear from his middle to his toes and back. She seethed beneath the surface of her demure façade, and all of her anger was pointed at him.

  Fury surged through Elena's veins. How dare he mistreat the young squire? And in front of so many people. Beneath her lashes she glared daggers at the man she thought she'd known. After all these years she'd sworn she knew him well, but obviously she'd been wrong. His cruel taunting words echoed in the air. Her husband's approval of his abuse on the squire only exacerbated the situation. Here she'd pleaded for a savior only to call in a man with a tendency for violence.

  She raised her eyes only for the briefest of moments to meet Michael's. From the distance between them it looked almost like he beseeched her. Begged her for something. For what? Forgiveness? Hadn't he begged her forgiveness the night before as well? Perhaps now she knew why—he was cruel.

  She wasn't in a forgiving mood.

  Kent swiveled on his heel and with a motion of his hand, he and his men headed for their seats by the list field. His tirade on her over, his hand had not connected with her. She'd been waiting for such a beating from him. Never before had he been angry enough to do so in front of a crowd. Mayhap he'd needed to show his power. She wasn't about to try and understand the man. He'd beaten her for less. She rubbed her bruised hip. Just a sennight ago he'd tossed her to the cold stone floor of the castle.