Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The last few words were muffled as he dug his spurs into his charger’s heaving sides, the crescendo of the crowd and the thunder of hooves all but drowning out the bass-toned voice. Stephan watched with an odd mixture of envy and understanding as the multitude of spectators welcomed the previous day’s melee champion.

  Bose assumed a prepared stance, his lance in the customary upright position and his shield poised as the chief herald moved to the edge of the lodges with Lord Edward’s sword. Since Bose had delayed the match by several minutes, they were eager to commence the bout immediately. As the squires vacated the field and hovered about the edges, the crowd quieted dramatically in great anticipation.

  Fortunately, the wait had ended. As the sun traversed the sky-blue field above in its hunt toward the nooning hour, the chief herald raised the sword high into the crisp sea air of Dorset.

  “For honor and glory, charge!”

  *

  Summer could hardly stand it. The herald’s shout to commence startled her and the thunder from the chargers was more than she could bear. In spite of her unease, however, she was unable to look away from the spectacle before her.

  The green and yellow lance splintered on Bose’s shield, sending daggers of wood exploding in all directions. A piece of coated pole landed a foot or so away from Summer and she stared at it a moment, forcing herself to breathe as she realized Bose had made it through the first pass unscathed.

  Even though the recoil motion with the contact sent the chargers reeling onto their hind legs, both knights remained seated and finished the first pass. Summer turned her relieved gaze in the direction of her champion as the lodges around her were literally mad with delight.

  “Nobly done!” Edward shouted from his elaborate chair, cushioned with a fine satin pillow. “A fair break, indeed.”

  Summer was distracted from Bose’s undamaged vision by her father’s cries of pleasure. She cast the man an intolerant glance, suggesting she did not agree with his assessment. He caught her expression, his fair face folding into a smile.

  “What is the matter now?” he asked jovially. “You do not like the joust, either? It does not possess the violence of the melee and for that, I should think you would be appreciative.”

  Summer’s gaze lingered on her father a moment and she shrugged. “I do not believe appreciative would be the word I would choose to describe my opinion,” she passed a glance at Genisa, who was completely unruffled by the spectacle. “How can you be so entirely c-calm throughout this savagery?”

  Genisa patted her arm. “’Tis easy, truly. Stephan is not competing at this moment, therefore, I am calm. My demeanor will change considerably when he takes the field, I assure you.”

  Summer shook her head, not particularly surprised when her father turned away to involve himself in the food his servant delivered. The man was barely beyond a word of comfort and she was accustomed to his indifferent manner in all aspects. Therefore, she returned her attention to the field as Breck was handed a fresh lance.

  “Do not worry so, Summer,” Genisa’s voice was soft, nearly humorous. “Sir Bose is the very best. Even Stephan says so.”

  Summer cast her sister-in-law a dubious glance. “I do not think I like the tournament, Genisa. I b-believe this shall be my last spectacle.”

  Genisa smiled slyly. “But what if you marry Sir Bose? He is a member of the tournament circuit and you, as his wife, should travel with him.”

  Summer’s doubtful expression softened as a faint flush mottled her cheeks. “Good Lord, Genisa, what would lead you to believe that B-Bose would want to marry me? We’ve only just met.”

  “And he hasn’t left you alone for a minute. I’d say his attention has been a distinct sign of serious interest.”

  Averting her eyes uncertainly, Summer fixed on the field before her. “I cannot b-believe his attention toward me is anything other than normal chivalry. Why would he want a wife who stammers?”

  Genisa’s reply was cleaved as the chief herald shouted another start. Summer’s apprehension returned full-bore as Bose and Breck charged each other on opposite sides of the joust barrier. The rumble of destriers filled the air as the opposing knights rapidly closed the distance, lances leveling and shields fixing as they drew closer and closer still.

  The crowd in the lodges was taut with anticipation as the competitors swiftly shortened the gap. An expectant hush settled as the second run appeared to be going smoothly. But the illusion dashed when Bose suddenly jerked off-center in the saddle, a last minute move with no apparent reasoning until deafening sounds of metal against wood filled air.

  It was not a normal sound to be associated with a joust. As a horrified crowd looked on, Bose’s helm went spinning from his head, flying through the air in a violent burst of twisted steel. The dented piece of protection that had once been on Bose’s head smashed into a supporting post near the center of the lodges, sending people scurrying with screams.

  But no one screamed louder than Summer. Convinced she had just witnessed Bose’s beheading, she screamed in horror and covered her eyes. She could feel Genisa grasp at her, a faint trembling voice of comfort in her ear, but she was unable to comprehend the meaning of the words. Somewhere above the hysteria, she thought she heard her father’s voice, demanding she cease her screaming and look to the field. But she kept her hands over her eyes, sobbing. She couldn’t bear to look.

  “Look, Summer!” Genisa’s voice was in her ear, stronger than before. “Sir Bose is at the end of the field; he’s still mounted!”

  As if by magic, Summer’s hands came away from her face and she bolted to unsteady feet, her golden gaze coming to bear on the near side of the field. Indeed, Bose was still seated astride his warhorse, his black hair spiky with sweat beneath his askew mail hood and his face pale. But he was alive and Summer was so swept with relief that she was weak with it.

  But her relief was cut short when Bose turned in her direction. Blood streamed down the right side of his face, coating his mail and disappearing beneath his plate armor. The chief herald stood alongside him as well as several of his knights, concern and fury evident in their expressions as they evaluated his ability to continue the event.

  Bose’s unnaturally tight expression listened intently to the herald’s words and he nodded now and again, eventually shaking his head as if to disagree with what was being said. Summer watched with her breath caught in her throat as he conversed with the distressed men about him. When it became apparent that he planned to continue in spite of his wound, Summer could not help her reaction. With all of the volatile emotions she had sampled over the past few moments, there was truthfully no other outlet for her tension and strain. The tears returned with a vengeance.

  In spite of his spinning head and ringing ears, Bose was acutely aware of Summer’s hovering presence by the edge of the platform. Although he had convinced the heralds and his men that he was indeed capable of finishing his bout, he was truthfully having a good deal of trouble focusing his eyes and could scarcely remain balanced atop the saddle. But the fact remained that Breck Kerry’s vicious tactics could not go unanswered.

  Bose was well aware that Breck was retaliating for the earlier justice dispensed on Summer’s behalf and he was equally aware that Breck had fully intended to do more than unseat him. There was no doubt the lance had been aimed at his head in a last-minute maneuver that left Bose hardly able to compensate. Even though he had been able to dodge the full effect of the blow, he had still been caught on the side of the helm.

  Unfortunately, his head protection was smashed and distorted and there was no possibility of wearing the damaged equipment until it could be properly repaired. Better the helm destroyed than his skull. He ignored Morgan’s and Tate’s protests as he prepared to take his third run without his head armor.

  Even as he disregarded the pleas of his loyal knights that he at least borrow another helm, he found he could no longer disregard Summer’s distant form. Her hands were to her mouth and although
he tried not to look directly at her as he struggled to straighten his mail hood, he could only imagine that she must be terrified. If the melee had served to jade her opinion against the civility of tournaments, then he could only assume that his near-beheading had only further served to increase her distress.

  When he righted his hauberk as best he could in spite of the stinging gash to his scalp, he could not help but look to his favored lady to make sure she was calm enough to witness his third run. Even though his eyes were hazy and out of focus, he could nonetheless see her reddened face and terrified eyes.

  Bose’s heart sank as he viewed her expression; he realized he could not continue until he eased her distress. Even though his primary concern should have been the imminent unseating of Breck Kerry, still, he found he could not focus on the coming run until his lady was adequately calm. He did not like to see her so terribly, though understandably, upset.

  Morgan and Tate continued to prattle about their lord’s foolishness should he decide to finish his bout without adequate protection; they might as well have been speaking to the birds for all Bose heard them. Asking the anxious heralds to return to their positions, he ignored his troubled men and reined his charger in the direction of the lodges.

  Summer saw him coming towards her, sobbing softly into her hand and unconcerned with the fact that she was making a spectacle of herself with her emotional display. Bloodied, dizzy and all, Bose directed his charger next to the lady’s feet and smiled wanly into her frightened face.

  “Do not weep so, my lady,” he said softly. “As you can see, I am well enough to finish this bout for your glory. I promised to win the joust, did I not?”

  She sobbed pitifully. “I d-do not w-want you to compete any longer,” she gasped. “I-I…I-I w-want you t-to l-let me tend your wound.”

  Genisa rose from her chair, lingering behind Summer with a comforting hand to the woman’s shoulder. Her bright blue eyes were laced with concern as she focused on the scarred, bloodied knight.

  “I must agree with her, Sir Bose,” she said timidly, knowing her opinion had not been solicited. “Your head is bleeding and must be tended. Moreover, you surely must be feeling ill as a result of your brutal blow.”

  Bose sighed faintly, his gaze moving from Stephan’s lovely wife to Summer’s pitiful expression. He could feel himself weakening, willing to overlook a matter of honor purely for the fact that his pride was causing Summer a great deal of distress. And with the added plea of another concerned lady, he was not immune to the feminine pressure.

  “I appreciate your concern, Lady Genisa,” his bass voice was soft. “’Tis true that I have felt better, but I am fully capable of doing away with my opponent. If you would ask your sister-in-law to sit, I shall be but a moment and then I will happily submit to her nursing.”

  “Nay!” Summer’s hand came away from her mouth and she moved forward, the same hand touching his great mailed head before she could control herself. “You are injured, Bose. P-P-Please do not do this. P-Please!”

  Gazing into her pained golden eyes, Bose realized he was willing to relent. She was distraught and he felt a tremendous sense of pleasure and satisfaction with her concern for his welfare. But the fact remained that Breck was waiting impatiently at the end of the field for the conclusion of their bout and the heralds were expecting him to take immediate position. Hating himself for his determined sense of knightly honor, he took her hand and kissed it gently.

  “My lady, I promise this will only take a moment and I swear to you that when I have finished, I will submit to your healing hands completely,” when she shook her head again, he smiled bravely and kissed her hand again. “I promise that I will unseat him on this pass. For the fact that he has frightened you so terribly, I will do this and take great pleasure in his humiliation.”

  He was smiling encouragingly at her, attempting to offer a measure of comfort and ease when he, in fact, was the injured party and in dire need of the same comfort. Genisa whispered in Summer’s ear, telling her to let the man finish his bout. Genisa understood the pride of a knight, knowing that honor and dignity meant everything in a world of battles and glory and death, and where vengeance was a part of that honor.

  Summer simply did not understand all of the elements composing the soul of a true knight, but she was somewhat aware of the fact that Bose felt a need to unseat his unscrupulous opponent for the very reason that he would not allow the man to dishonor him with his unethical tactics. To concede the round, even with a gashed head and reeling senses, would be to admit that his adversary had managed to weaken him.

  Summer’s weeping faded as she allowed Genisa to gently pull her from Bose’s grip. The knight was grateful for the married woman’s assistance and, with a confident wink to his quivering lady, drove his charger to his assigned position.

  “Come and sit, Summer,” Genisa gently directed her back to her cushioned chair. “He shall be finished in a moment and then you will be able to tend his head.”

  Touching the hand he had so tenderly kissed, Summer plopped limply into her chair, silently cursing herself for not being firm enough in her demand that he abandon his bout, yet knowing in the same breath that knightly honor was a rigid, consuming thing.

  “You are far too emotional, Summer,” Edward looked up from the last of his food, licking the fruit juice off his fingers. “Blood and injury is simply part of the sport. The element of harm makes it far more exciting.”

  Summer cast her father a long glance, accustomed to his insensitive perspective and not particularly affected by his words. He was an odd man, truly, and although she tolerated him for the mere fact that he was her sire, their relationship lacked any true measure of affection. Old Kermit the tutor had been more of a father to her than her own and she had felt his death with the same intensity of sorrow. The man seated across from her slurping the last remnants of food from his flesh had always been more a stranger than a relative. And he liked it that way.

  “Forgive me if I embarrassed you, Father,” she said quietly, feeling herself calming as the knights on the field prepared for the last run. “But I cannot help my d-disgust for this tournament.”

  Edward eyed her as his manservant poured a third chalice of fine Bordeaux. “Mayhap that is true, but you are still intent to watch de Moray as he attempts to level Breck Kerry,” wiping his hands on his sleeves, he accepted a goblet from the submissive servant. “Stephan told me of him, Summer. I am not sure if I approve.”

  Summer cocked an eyebrow at her father as Genisa visibly shrank; given her sister-in-law’s conversation with Stephan earlier, Edward’s disapproval would not be well met. “He is a kind, chivalrous man and I am greatly honored b-by his attentions,” Summer said evenly. “B-Before you approve or disapprove, speak with the man yourself and draw your own conclusions. That is, if you can m-manage the effort.”

  Edward’s brow rose dramatically. “What’s this? Insolence from the daughter I have protected throughout her life from the cruelties of a vicious world?” feeling the fine alcohol coursing through his veins, his outrage gained speed. “Be glad I did not leave you to the elements on the day of your birth for causing your mother’s death. You would do well to bank your defective tongue, wench, and be grateful for my mercy.”

  Genisa closed her eyes as if to ward off the harshness of Edward’s words; wine always affected his tongue, turning the normally even-tempered man into a vicious brute. Considering how rare his contact with his children, it was unfortunate that whatever encounters occurred when he was drunk were cruel and mean-spirited. Edward emerged from his private little world so infrequently that it was truly tragic for the rare occurrences to be marred by hateful words.

  Summer, however, was unaffected by his statement. She was more interested in the chief herald preparing to signal the third pass and she found her attention focused on the gaily-colored lists. She refused to allow her father to distract her from the situation at hand.

  The herald dropped his flag and in tha
t instant, her heart leapt into her throat as Bose and Breck commenced their run, charging toward one another with blinding speed. Closer and closer, thundering knights drew near and Summer was riveted to the massive warrior jousting without a helm, his face half-hidden behind the Gorgon shield.

  In an act of self-defense as well as an act of retaliation, Bose made sure his lance remained level and straight as if he were unaware of Breck’s discreet high-aim. Then, as the horses thundered within contact proximity of one another, Bose abruptly lowered his lance, aiming to the right of Breck’s body and parallel with the green and yellow lance still pointed at his head. Thrusting the tip forward, he braced it against the armor protecting Breck’s upper arm and, using their forward momentum to his advantage, shoved his weight into the butt of his lance enough to dislodge Breck’s aim. Using his might, he continued to propel the lance forward, even as the two destriers shimmied and reeled from the recoil of contact.

  With Bose’s strength and weight behind his thrusting lance, Breck’s arm was dislodged from its socket before he realized what had happened. Dazed and in a good deal of pain with a useless limb, Breck hit the soft dirt of the lists as the crowd in the lodges went mad with approval.

  Even on the outskirts of the joust field, opposing knights praised the tactics of de Moray as the man turned at the end of the joust barrier, reining his charger in the opposite direction for an uncharacteristic pass before the delirious throng of admirers. Tate and Farl whooped like a pair of wild men, shouting accolades of Bose’s skill as their powerful liege thundered a wide sweeping arc in the direction of the lodges. As Adgar and Artur congratulated each other with less boisterous means, Morgan simply stood by the wooden barrier surrounding the field and smiled.

  He knew why the man had emerged victorious, the matter of honor and knightly skill a secondary motivation as much as he would profess to pretend otherwise. For the comfort and assurance of a certain young lady, Bose had been willing to chance a great deal on his skill and talents.