Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  A lady he was currently riding to greet. Summer was on her feet once more, her hands clasped against her breast and a miraculous smile on her lips. The multitude of guests and allies screamed and cheered, favors and tokens of esteem raining to the trampled joust field as several squires and servants rushed about to collect the silken veils and copper pences.

  Bose, however, ignored the tokens of esteem as he came to a halt before the beaming young woman. Far removed from the panicked young lass he had left just moments before, his lopsided smile made a weak return as he dipped his head gallantly at the lady’s feet.

  “As I vowed, my lady,” his deep voice was a hoarse rumble. “I have unseated my opponent. Now, I will hold you to your promise; my head is sorely in need of your nurturing aid.”

  Summer smiled. “I would be pleased to t-tend you, my lord,” she replied softly. Near the center of the colorful joust barrier, Breck was being helped to his feet by several green and yellow clad servants as a cluster of grooms attempted to capture his spirited charger. Summer tore her gaze away from Bose’s weary orbs long enough to cock an arrogant eyebrow in Breck’s direction. “As you declared, you were quite efficient in unseating him. Did you, in fact, b-break his arm intentionally?”

  Bose tried to shake his head in a negative gesture, but his ears were ringing and any movement of his head simply amplified the bells. “His shoulder is merely dislodged from the socket. Had I wanted to break his arm, I most certainly could have. He is lucky that I did not take his damn head off for the fear he has caused you this day.”

  Summer’s cheeks flushed a pretty pink, her heart swelling with admiration and appreciation for the bloodied, exhausted knight. It was amazing how a few brief moments and a quick pass along the colorful joust barrier had served to ease her anxieties. She opened her mouth to continue the conversation when she sensed a warm, lingering body behind her, not surprised when she caught sight of Genisa’s lovely blue gown.

  “A brave course, my lord,” Genisa said sincerely. “Much like the course in Chichester last January when you boldly unseated Sir Alwain Parham. Although others said the swift parry with your lance was considered an unfair maneuver, Stephan fully supported your actions. He said that if you had not brought your lance up when you did and clipped Sir Alwain’s shoulder, the man would have taken your head off.”

  Summer managed to spare her sister-in-law a genuine look of surprise; for a woman who could hardly remember the most important of details from one moment to the next, she was certainly knowledgeable when it came to a joust that happened five months ago. However, considering the tournament circuit was her husband’s vocation, it wasn’t particularly surprising that Genisa endeavored to know something of his chosen profession. In faith, it was nearly all she knew and she took great pride in her knowledge.

  “I thank you for your kind recollection and support, my lady,” Bose replied, listening to the cheers of the crowd die down as the heralds prepared for the next bout. As his surge of reprisal and determination wore thin, however, his gripping fatigue began to take firmer hold and he realized he would not be able to remain astride his charger much longer; the sooner he lay down and allow his wound to be tended, the better he would feel. Moving from Genisa’s pretty face to Summer’s beautiful expression, he found the thought of her soft hands grazing his flesh to be most inviting. “If you do not mind, my lady, I shall send one of my men to escort you to my tent. I do believe, at this moment, that it would be wise of me to seek my pallet immediately before I embarrass myself and topple from my horse.”

  Summer’s gentle smile faded. “Are you f-feeling worse, my lord?”

  He drew in a deep breath, gathering his reins. “Nay, my lady, not worse, but it would be inaccurate for me to say that the mere thought of lying flat on my back for the rest of the day was an unpleasant prospect.”

  He appeared drawn and ashen and Summer was once again greatly concerned for his injury. She gathered her skirts and leapt to the trampled field below.

  “I shall escort you, my lord,” she said firmly, looking up to him astride the tall warhorse. “Mayhap you should walk. ’Twould be b-better than falling off your horse and completely humiliating yourself in f-front of your devotees.”

  Bose smiled weakly, already moving to dismount even though riding to the tent would be quicker and far less strenuous. But he could hardly allow the lady to walk alone and found himself moving wearily to complete her bidding. The moment he hit the ground, however, a weak male voice from the lodges abruptly made itself known.

  “Summer,” Edward was on his feet, swaying dangerously from the effects of too much alcohol. “I will not allow you to accompany this… this knight back to his tent, unescorted. I believe Stephan has warned you against him.”

  Summer paused, her gaze lingering on Bose a moment before turning her attention to her unsteady father. “Stephan is wrong about him, Father. Moreover, as Sir Bose’s f-favored lady, ’tis my duty to tend his wound.”

  Edward eyed her angrily, an expression that drew a good deal of surprise from Bose; certainly, a father should not gaze to his daughter as if she were his mortal enemy. Much to Bose’s dismay, that seemed to be the precise gist of the baron’s expression and he felt a tremendous surge of protectiveness toward the beautiful young woman.

  Edward, however, was too far gone with his wine to notice Bose’s dark expression as he focused on his defiant daughter. “Stephan has deemed this man unsuitable, Summer. You will listen to your brother and return to the lodges immediately to view the remainder of today’s bouts.”

  “I will not,” Summer said firmly. “I am Sir Bose’s f-favored lady and it is my duty to tend his wound.”

  With that, she turned her back on her drunken sire and began to move away from the lodges. Furious that his youngest child would disobey him, Edward slammed his chalice to the table beside him, missing the table completely. The gold-encrusted goblet spilled to the wooden floor of the lodges, bleeding red alcohol across the slats as the drunkard baron wobbled to the edge of the platform.

  “Summer du Bonne!” he shouted. “You will return this instant or I shall have my soldiers throw you in the vault for your insolence! Do you comprehend me?”

  Summer kept walking. Bose, unmoving where she had left him standing before the lodges, watched her walk away with a straight, confident back. He wondered just how far she was going to push her father and indeed contemplating the potentiality of her own sire seeking to punish her for her defiance by locking her in the dungeon.

  Should the possibility occur, he realized that he would not allow the execution of such an action and the situation would rapidly deteriorate. Therefore, with the desire to avoid an ugly situation, he endeavored to take the initiative.

  “Summer,” he called softly, pleased when she came to an immediate halt. But the expression on her face was not the soft, sensual expression he had come to appreciate. It was hard and stubborn. Oddly enough, he liked it a great deal; the woman possessed a measureable amount of courage and he found himself smiling at her plucky display. “Come back, my lady, and obey your father. My men are fully capable of tending my wound, even though I shan’t enjoy their attentions nearly as much as yours.”

  She frowned, retracing her steps with a good deal of reluctance. Just as she moved into Bose’s proximity, thundering hooves from the opposite side of the field rumbled toward her and she turned in time to note Stephan’s colorful arrival. Shield slung over his left arm, his visor was raised as he focused curiously on his sister.

  “What are you doing in the lists, Summer?” he demanded, looking to Bose and cocking an eyebrow. “And why are you still here? Your bout is over, de Moray. Get out of here and allow my sister to suture your hard head.”

  The corner of Bose’s lips twitched at the attempted humor, his jaw ticking with the stress of the situation nonetheless. “We seem to have a problem, Stephan. Your father….”

  “He demands that I not tend Sir B-Bose’s wound,” Summer interrupted B
ose’s tactful reply. “H-He says he shall throw me in the vault if I do.”

  “That’s not what I said!” Edward shouted from the platform, oblivious to the audience they were coming to attract. “I will throw you in the vault for your stubborn defiance, not for the fact that you wish to tend Sir Bose’s head. ’Tis your disobedience I would punish!”

  Stephan growled low in his throat, a gesture of disbelief and intolerance. Casting his sister a long, if not somewhat supportive glance, he reined his charger around Bose and toward his weaving, sweating sire.

  “Father, I believe it would be acceptable for Summer to tend Sir Bose,” he said quietly yet forcefully, the tone he always used when dealing with his weak-willed father. “As for her insolence, you must understand she has experienced quite a bit of upheaval since yesterday. I believe we discussed this very same subject this morn and you agreed with me completely.”

  Edward’s angry expression faded as he listened to his son’s statement. Stephan always managed to calm him, convince him all was right within the world. “And… and I did, of course. But the fact that she demands to be a part of world that will not have her does not excuse her foul manners,” wiping at his dripping brow, he began to appear somewhat uncertain. “And Sir Bose… Stephan, did you not tell me that the man is a known murderer? I do not understand your change of heart. This morn you were completely unwilling to….”

  Stephan put up a hand, silencing his father’s prattle. “I know,” he said quickly, quietly. “But I must confess that I was wrong. Please allow Summer to tend the knight and I shall explain the entire situation after my bout.”

  Edward’s face was calm once again, looking somewhat dazed as he diverted his focus from his son’s earnest face to his daughter’s eager expression. Confused and drunk, he was in no position to repudiate his son. If Stephan said he was wrong, then Edward would certainly not dispute him. With a faint nod of his head, he reclaimed his chair without another word.

  Summer let out a faint sigh of relief, looking thankfully to her eldest brother. He smiled weakly.

  “Get him off the field, Summer,” he said quietly. “My bout is next and I’ll surely run the both of you down.”

  The bottom of her persimmon colored gown stained from the damp, dark dirt of the arena, Summer moved toward her brother. “Please, Stephan,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his armor with her soft hand. “Does this mean you have changed your mind? Is it acceptable for Sir B-Bose to carry my favor?”

  Stephan gazed at his sister, finding he was no longer able to keep his attention from Bose. Piercing black eyes glimmered with warmth and appreciation and at the moment, Stephan knew there was no need for further words on the subject; Bose understood the depths of a man’s honor and duty when it came to his family and he realized Stephan had acted in the only manner possible given the circumstances.

  “Tend his head, sweetheart,” he said, touching her honey-gold hair briefly before lowering his visor. “Send for Genisa if you require assistance.”

  With that, he was gone, thundering to the opposite side of the field where the heralds and squires were awaiting his presence. Summer watched him cross the field, deeply thankful at his apparent change of heart. More than any other requirement, Stephan’s approval was a necessity to her future happiness. And that fact that he had come to approve of Bose meant more than she could express.

  Tearing her attention away from her brother, she caught a glimpse of Genisa’s triumphant smile from her seat in the lodges. Edward, drunk and eagerly awaiting his son’s bout, had quickly forgotten about his daughter’s situation and Summer turned away from the scene, her golden gaze coming to rest on the injured, exhausted knight.

  “I have needle and thread in my tent, my lady,” Bose said softly, extending his elbow. When Summer latched to him firmly, his smile broadened and they proceeded toward the edge of the field. “I will be the envy of every man here with your fine stitches embedded in my scalp.”

  “I promise to make them very small,” she said as they approached the edge of the field. Immediately, she noticed several knights appraising her openly, the very same knights she had viewed the day before in Bose’s camp. “However, I will confess that I have never s-sewn a man’s head before.”

  He smiled, experiencing a surge of pride as the men about the field witnessed the Gorgon with a beautiful woman on his arm. “A simple task, truly. You need only remember to take care and not pierce my brain.”

  She turned to him, scowling gently. “If I pierce your b-brain, mayhap it will allow a measure of foolish knightly pride to escape. Never again will I see you riding helmless in a joust.”

  He laughed loudly, startling Tate and causing his other men to look at him with wide eyes. Never in their lives had they known Bose to laugh aloud like a carefree child. In fact, he felt very much like a carefree youth; powerful enough to challenge the angels, fortunate enough to defy God himself.

  “I promise, my lady,” he snickered softly as they cleared the lists. “Never again.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Her name was Margot.

  That was all Summer knew of the elderly woman who had gazed at her with such venom that Summer was certain the lady was hexing her with a curse. Even as she knelt over Bose, sewing the substantial gash bisecting his scalp, she could feel the heated stare of the old woman and her equally vicious lady-in-waiting.

  Bose had tried to convince the finely-dressed woman to leave the tent while Summer stitched his head, but the lady had been openly defiant, soliciting an uncomfortable argument as Summer stood by, respectful and silent and uncertain.

  When it appeared obvious that the old woman had no intention of vacating the tent, Bose had left Summer in the company of an older knight, a distinguished looking man who had introduced himself as Sir Morgan Skye. Disappearing into the privacy of the black and white tent with the older female, Summer could hear their angry dialogue from her position outside the shelter. The fact that the woman’s lady continued to gaze at Summer as if she carried the plague did nothing to alleviate her discomfort.

  The elderly woman’s haughty servant aside, Summer grew increasingly embarrassed as she listened to a good deal of hissing from the old woman, intermingled with Bose’s deep, rumbling replies. She could not make out any definitive words nor did she understand the gist of their disagreement, but several moments later Bose re-emerged from the tent appearing somewhat paler and drawn of expression.

  Ordering his knight away, he gently pulled Summer into the tent with hardly a word spoken. Indicating the supplies lain out on the floor by his pallet of furs, he pulled off his mail hood and lay down in preparation for her healing hands.

  That had been an hour ago. As the elderly lady sat against the wall in grim silence with her arrogant woman hovering by her side, Summer had sewn tiny stitches into Bose’s scalp, not daring to speak a word as she worked. Bose lay completely still, his eyes closed, and Summer seriously wondered if he had fallen asleep, as if a constant prick to his head was nothing to be concerned over.

  But his patience and tolerance had eased Summer’s discomfort and allowed her to complete the job in rapid time. An hour later, Bose had a beautiful row of silk sutures planted on his head and Summer paused after securing the last stitch, gazing down at his pallid, still face. Smiling faintly at her perfect patient, she found herself staring at the sharp angles of his face, the square plane of his jaw. The three scars that ran along his cheekbone were longer than she had originally observed, going well beyond the hairline and into his scalp.

  “Are you finished?” the bird-like woman from the corner croaked, startling Summer from her train of thought. Turning to the woman, she was hardly able to open her mouth before Bose was sitting up, his black eyes blazing.

  “I told you that you could remain in my tent only if you were perfectly quiet,” he very nearly snarled. Turning from the old woman’s challenging features, he called to the nearest servant hovering outside of the tent. When the man appeared,
he waved him in. “The Lady Margot has a desire to seek fresh air. Escort her outside and demand my squire to take her and her woman to the vendor area.”

  “I have no desire to venture to the vendor’s shelters,” Margot growled, looking between Bose and the lady. “Surely you do not expect me to leave the lady alone and unescorted.”

  Bose cocked an eyebrow. “You have remained as proper escort throughout the time she has tended my wound, as you so graciously pointed out to be your proper duty,” rising to his knees, he sighed heavily as the world rocked a bit and his aching head throbbed. “But the time is past and my wound is properly sewn. Your presence is no longer required and I would see you removed.”

  Shocked at the tone in his voice, Summer was disturbed by the air of hostility between him and the older woman. Obviously, there was a good deal of animosity and Summer abruptly rose, setting the needle and other items to a small maplewood table.

  “T-Truly, my lord, her removal is unnecessary,” she said, hoping to ease a strain she did not understand. “Your wound is tended and there is no longer any reason for me to stay.”

  Margot, verging on a wicked rage, was caught off-guard by the stammer. “You stammer,” she said bluntly, focused directly on Summer as if Bose was non-existent. “A terrible defect. I am surprised your family allows you to mingle with normal people, sputtering and gasping as you do.”

  Summer’s cheeks flamed a bright red and she lowered her gaze, a terrible embarrassment filling her. Knowing that her shame only served to accentuate her flaw, she struggled to calm herself as she formed a carefully worded reply. Before she could bring the necessary words forth, however, Bose was leaping madly to her defense.

  “Damn you, Margot,” he hissed. “We all have flaws, although some are more pronounced than others. The fact that you are a bitter, nasty shrew happens to be your particular defect and if I had any wisdom at all, I would not allow you to associate with normal people, either.”