Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Her mother never told her of the ruthlessness of men. Bedtime stories had been all about the brave lord or knight she might marry. A man who would protect her, a man she would be loyal to, the children she'd bear and raise. Never once had her mother warned of being the brunt of her husband's anger. Never once had her mother told her all of her dreams would be crushed like a blade of grass beneath her husband's heavy boots. Had her father been so cruel to her mother? He'd certainly had harsh words with her on occasion—but she never saw him raise a hand, nor did she see any bruises on her mother. Was it only Elena's bad luck to be tied to such a man? Were there any chivalrous knights left in the world?

  Looks could be deceiving, as Michael had just proven to her when he'd mistreated the poor knight.

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath. Shattered dreams and false hopes. Weren't they served to her on a silver platter morning, noon and night? Perhaps she was being too judgmental, jaded in her thoughts…

  The battle was on.

  Covered head to toe in sweat, the knights warring on the field had long since removed their tunics and chainmail, protected now only by the thickness of their quilted doublets. Even that was too much—the heat was intense, and sweat soaked the fabric. If it weren't a tournament, Michael would fight in just his chausses.

  Only four men remained on the field. But the battle was really between Michael and Thomas Devlin of Warwick. They'd paired up to defeat the other six men, and now each of them would easily take down the two they parried with.

  Then it would be Devlin versus Devereux.

  Michael wasn't as confident as he'd been in the joust. Thomas proved to be a formidable opponent. Even still, he'd not let the man win, not when he was this close.

  Dispatching of the other two, they faced one another. There feet shuffled, arms held steady with their swords.

  "I'm going to let you win," Thomas said quietly, his face steady. He wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm.

  The man teased him, no doubt. "The hell you are. I'll win because I'm better." Michael laughed.

  Thomas' lip curled at the corner and he winked. "I could cut you down with one thrust, my friend. Swordsmanship is my great talent." He bowed mockingly.

  "Ah, but it is also mine."

  Thomas lowered his voice. "I'll leave you with your pride intact. But know this, I only came to the tournament to see that you win. So let us see that you do."

  Michael frowned, puzzled, but before he could think more on it, Thomas thrust forward. He raised his arm to block the shot, remembering too late that he no longer wore armor. Had the man purposefully goaded him to get him off his guard? Pain seared up his arm as the metal connected with his flesh. A ribbon of red ran down his arm.

  He'd been cut.

  The field, spectators and fallen knights faded away. Fury took over and he attacked with a vengeance.

  "That's the spirit," Thomas shouted as he dodged, blocked and parried.

  What was wrong with the man? Didn't he realize how serious this sword fight was? He seemed to make a game of it, teasing and taunting him. His puzzling words still rang out in Michael's mind. I only came to the tournament to see that you win.

  What in Hades did that mean?

  Michael was tired of whatever ruse Devlin was playing. Time to take the man down. He thrust with more vigor, and then hooked his leg around Thomas' ankle, sending him crashing to the ground.

  The point of his sword touched the hollow of Thomas' neck. The man had the audacity to smile like a milk-drunk calf.

  "Well done, Devereux, well done."

  Michael nodded, still stunned by the man's odd behavior.

  "Now, see to it you complete your mission." With that he hopped to his feet and raised Michael's arm in the air. "Huzzah! Huzzah! Black Knight! Huzzah!"

  "Think you I don't know what you're about? I remember how you fawned over the lady nigh on a dozen years, saw the two of you handfasted in the wood, and then lay witness to the way you've brooded your loss the last few." Fletch paced the inside of Michael's tent, cracked his knuckles. "I may well be your man, but surely I'm not the only one noticing how you're behaving now."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Michael sat on his cot wrapping his forearm from where the blade of Warwick's broadsword had sliced his skin. The cut was not too deep, didn't warrant any stitching, but it stung like the devil. He still had no idea what Thomas meant, only now he was worried. Was it possible Thomas was the one who sent the missive? Just how many were aware of Elena's petition?

  None of it made any sense.

  "Devereux!" Fletch snapped.

  Michael narrowed his gaze. The man might be his friend, but it didn't bode well for him to shout. The thin thread holding Michael's temper in placed unraveled another bit.

  "My apologies, sir, but the trick with Jon… Last night… I fear someone may take notice."

  "Last night?"

  "Aye, I saw the lady come to your tent. I stayed outside to make sure no one else did."

  "And?"

  "No one saw you."

  Michael sighed. "Thomas knows something."

  "Warwick?"

  "Aye." Michael told him about what happened on the field.

  "Would you like me to find out more?"

  "Nay. I'll talk to the man. No need to worry yourself. I'll not allow yours or anyone else's head to touch the block."

  Fletch nodded. "Just be careful, 'tis all. These are dangerous times we live in, sir."

  Michael's gaze came up to meet with Fletch's. The man knew him better than anyone. Never steered him in the wrong direction before. Best he heed his man's words. It was time to take control of the situation.

  "Noted."

  "Please, my lady, drink this. It'll calm your nerves."

  Elena stopped her pacing long enough for Raelyn to thrust a cup of spiced wine into her hands.

  Her other ladies sat about the tent, pretending to read or sew, but every few minutes, one of them had their eyes on her, studying her. They tried to erect a calm space, a feeling of normalcy, but nothing was normal. Nothing would ever be the same again. Michael had won—but he'd also suffered an injury, and it was all her fault. Although part of her felt he deserved a little pain after the way he'd treated his squire, he didn't deserve bodily harm.

  She gulped the contents of the cup, feeling the warmth of the wine soothe her nerves somewhat. Was Michael all right? Had the cut been deep? Would Kent still honor the agreement now that the knight had been injured?

  "He won, my lady. Sir Devereux won." Mary's Irish lilt caressed her ears.

  She'd feigned a headache when the first stream of blood had seeped from his arm. Her husband immediately approved of her removal, muttering of her insipid idiocy.

  "The injury was none too bad, my lady. Just a scratch," Beth offered.

  "Aye, he's a fine, strong, powerful, handsome man." Her maid Nicole sent the other ladies into a fit of titters over this and began discussing his other fine attributes.

  She knew just how strong he was, just how muscular and handsome he was, too. And he'd won. He was the new Captain of the Guard. There would be a huge feast in his honor tonight, and on the morrow they would head back to Kent Castle where he would begin his new position.

  "What did my lord husband say?" She turned nervous eyes on Raelyn.

  Her maid led her to her cot and sat her down. She began to unbraid Elena's hair and comb it through with her fingers, gently massaging her temples as she went. Elena leaned into her maid's gentle ministrations, closed her eyes and let the tension ease away.

  "He pronounced him the winner. The new Captain of the Guard. It was all very spectacular." She leaned down and whispered in Elena's ear, "Sir Devereux had eyes only for your empty seat."

  "No!" she gasped. "Did Kent notice?"

  "Oh no, he mumbled his congratulations and was off with his men before Black Knight" —she giggled at using his nickname— "could even say his than
ks. If you don't mind me being too bold to say so, my lady, I do believe the man—your husband—favors cock."

  Elena gasped in shock, and whirled to face her maid, wincing when one of her maid's rings caught in her hair. "Raelyn!"

  Raelyn laughed. "Well, I daren't say it to anyone else but you, my lady."

  The maid had a point. How many times had he forced himself on her with his valet, Larry in the room… The two did spend a lot of time together.

  "He would kill you for less, do be careful," Elena pleaded. "If it weren't for you, I'd have thrown myself into the moat by now."

  Raelyn twisted Elena's hair up and pinned it into place, letting a few loose curls fall around her face and shoulders. A peaceful silence hung about the room.

  "I know. 'Tis the only reason I haven't yet accepted a proposal."

  "Proposal? Has one been asked?" Elena turned around, grasped Raelyn's hands. Her eyes were wide and she smiled with joy for her dear friend.

  A gleeful smile filled her maid's heart shaped face. The slight blush covering her cheeks brought out the red in her chestnut hair. "Aye, my lady."

  "Is it who I think? Why didn't you tell me?"

  Raelyn sat down beside her. "I didn't want to say anything. I won't accept it, not until I know you're no longer in harm's way. You've been like a sister to me these past years, I could never leave you."

  Guilt clouded over Elena. She'd been so selfish, keeping these women with her. She would see to it that Raelyn had a happy life. She'd once wondered what she could do to thank her ladies for seeing to her safety and sanity and now she knew. She would see them married to men who loved them, cared for them.

  "Tell me, please Raelyn."

  "It was none other than the man your Devereux fought against at the very end. Sir Thomas Devlin." The wistful sigh from her lady's lips said it all. Raelyn was in love.

  "'Tis as I suspected." Elena smiled. "We shall see to it that you accept his proposal."

  Raelyn bowed her head. "I haven't been altogether truthful with you, my lady."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Thomas knows of your past with Devereux."

  Fear penetrated Elena's soul like an icy spike. Her death warrant was surely being signed at that very moment.

  "Why?"

  "When I asked him to deliver the missive for you, I wanted to be sure he knew what was at stake."

  Elena swallowed hard, the color draining from her face. "Can he be trusted?"

  Raelyn nodded emphatically. "Aye, my lady. And, I told Thomas I wouldn't marry him until you were safe." Raelyn's voice turned desperate. "Please don't be angry, my lady."

  Elena felt light-headed, dizzy. Too many people knew of her cry for help. Should Raelyn and Thomas get into a lover's quarrel, she was done for. And Michael, too. If Kent knew there was a traitor in his mist, he'd bring Hell upon them all.

  Her hands shook. Sweat trickled from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. She shivered.

  "What have you done, Raelyn? What have you done?"

  The crisp cool waters of the nearby lake had done Michael good. His arm still throbbed a little, but at least he was no longer sweating and could think a little clearer. He was glad to have another hour or so before he needed to prepare for the evening's festivities. Fletch, Colin and Jon had all gone off to do whatever it was squires did in their free time.

  He drew back the flap on his tent, and stiffened, his guard immediately up. Someone was inside.

  He sniffed once, and recoiled. No lofty feminine scent enveloped him, instead it was the odor of an unwashed, filth-coated body. Something smelled of rotten flesh, and dead fish.

  "Who goes there?"

  A rail-thin boy stepped from the shadows.

  "Black Knight." His voice was a high-pitched, nervous squeak.

  Small brown eyes stared at him, wide and unblinking. They reminded him of a mouse's eyes, timid, sneaky. A smirk covered the boy's lips like he'd evaded the trap and stolen the cheese. As if on cue the boy picked up an orange from the bowl on the table. He bit into the fruit, skin and all.

  "What the hell are you doing in my tent?" Michael crossed his arms over his chest. He narrowed his eyes, his gaze bearing down on the boy. He didn't trust the weasel, not an ounce. "Did you come to steal from me? I could have your hand cut off for taking that orange."

  The boy laughed. Michael was surprised at how sinister it sounded in a body so thin, and someone so obviously lacking.

  "Think you, that I need to steal?" His words were forced, like he was trying too hard.

  "You just did. Now tell me what you want before I whip you myself."

  "I'm your new kipper."

  "I don't need a kipper." Arrogant son-of-a—

  "Servant then."

  "I have enough servants." Michael grew tired of the lad.

  "I think ye—" The boy took a deep breath, the hand holding the orange shook. "You can do with one more."

  "Why would I hire a sneaky thief like you? I might turn my back and find my tent has disappeared."

  "Because I saw you."

  "Saw me?"

  "I saw you with the lady."

  A chill raced up Michael's spine. The boy need say no more. He thought he'd been careful the night before, but now he knew. There had been one person who'd seen them, would exploit them. But he wasn't going down that easily. How much could the little rat have seen? The boy could easily twist any situation to his own fortune. Michael took a step closer and cracked his neck, hoping to intimidate the lad.

  "There are many ladies about, boy. This is a tourney. Plenty of skirts to be played with."

  "I don't think his lordship would take kindly to you calling his wife a skirt to be played with."

  Damn! So the boy knew it was Elena.

  "You don't know what you're talking about. Best mind your tongue before I cut it out."

  "You won't be cuttin' out my tongue, Black Knight. And your secret will be safe with me. Alls you have to do is give me some work. I'm hungry and I need a soft bed."

  Michael took a deep breath, grimaced and tried not to put his fist through the skelp's face. Extorted. And by a whelp of a boy, too.

  "What is your name?" Michael uncrossed his arms and lit a candle.

  "Arthur."

  "How old are you?" He set the candle down and turned his gaze on the boy.

  "Eighteen, sir."

  "Where are you from?" He pulled the dirk from his sleeve and began cleaning his nails, hoping to put fear in the boy's mind.

  "York—Yorksmith… Uh, I mean Yorkshire, sir."

  Liar. Probably one of Kent's own peasants. The boy couldn't keep the lies from his eyes. He looked desperate. Michael walked toward him slowly, letting his sheer size intimidate Arthur, then he locked gazes, sending the boy a message. Liquid pooled at his feet and the pungent smell of urine rose like a cloud. He actually felt a little sorry for the scamp. He must be mighty hungry, then most peasants were. Kent's laborers probably had it worse off than any others. Even still, he didn't feel bad enough to lose the upper hand. He couldn't have this young man attempting to intimidate him.

  "Are you threatening me, Arthur of Yorkshire?"

  Arthur dropped the orange. His eyes were wide as saucers. Tears collected in their depths.

  "N-No sir," he stuttered.

  "Sounds like you are."

  Arthur glanced from side to side, as if trying to assess an escape route.

  "You aren't leaving this tent," Michael growled. "You don't know what kind of game you're playing here." He pointed his blade at Arthur's throat. "I could dispatch you with the flick of my wrist. Want to die tonight?"

  Arthur burst into tears. His whole life story fell from his lips in a torrent to rival the river falling from his eyes. His shoulders shook and the smell of him and urine made Michael want to vomit, but his heart did soften slightly for the lad.

  "I'll hire you on as a water boy, Arthur, but if I ever hear one more word of what you came here tonight to say, I will gut y
ou like the coward you are."

  Arthur nodded.

  "Go clean your sorry arse up."

  Arthur hurried from the tent. Michael would have to keep a close eye on the boy. What better way than to immerse him in his household. A hungry, desperate lad with no connections could be dangerous. He took a bowl of wash water and dumped it on the spot where Arthur had been standing. The tent still reeked.

  What had his father always told him? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Perhaps now was as good a time as any to go and speak with Thomas Devlin.

  Kent entered her tent without warning. Elena stood, half dressed in only her chemise as Beth tied up her stays. The maid's fingers stilled, her laces only halfway done, leaving Elena feeling vulnerable and exposed.

  "Leave," Kent ordered. His black eyes were menacing. Her ladies faltered for a moment and then left.

  Elena pulled her arms to her chest attempting to cover herself, her fear escalating. She clamped her jaw tight when her teeth started to chatter. She wouldn't show him weakness, even if she dreaded the sting of his hand.

  "You need not worry about me taking you now, woman." He came around behind her, his rough fingers trailing over her bare shoulders.

  She shuddered with disgust, his words little consolation.

  "You want me, do you?" He took her shudder for one of desire. His rotten breath wafted over her face and she forced herself to keep from gagging. His hands moved to grip her rear, rubbing her buttocks crudely. "Well, perhaps—"

  "Nay!" The word came out more forcefully than she intended.

  "Dare you deny me?" he growled. He gripped her hips and thrust his flaccid member against her backside.

  "Nay, my lord. 'Tis only—'tis only I am not clean. My monthly..." She said a silent prayer to the Lord for lying, but it was for her own good. A mauling by her husband was the last thing she needed.

  Her words worked like magic. He recoiled in disgust, pushing her away from him.