Chivalrous

by Dina L. Sleiman

  “Then you must have noticed the way Lachapelle matched me strike for strike. That man brought out the best in me. I have never fought so in my life. Only with an equal was I able to rise to my full potential.”

  Gwendolyn looked for a moment as if she might faint, but then pulled herself up straight and tall again.

  What must be going through her head at his ridiculous rant? “Do not misunderstand, I do not mean to equate marriage with a battle. ’Tis more like a dance. Like the way our well-matched heights allow us to move so comfortably together. Forgive me, I have spent too much time on the training field this year.”

  “Do not dare apologize. Your analogy was perfect.” Wonder shimmered in her expression to match the wonder in his heart.

  Suddenly, she was jerked away from him. He felt cold and alone, and ready to punch whomever had done it. But her father held tight to her arm, and Allen dared not offend the man.

  Without so much as an apologetic word to Allen, her father bellowed, “Gwendolyn, there is someone I would like you to meet.”

  Allen could not unglue himself from his spot, and so was forced to watch the awful scene unfold.

  “Lady Gwendolyn Barnes, meet Sir Gawain Ethelbaum. He was one of my most trusted soldiers when I assisted in the rebellion against King John.”

  Gawain, what sort of pompous and ridiculous name was that? The meaty man who approached Gwendolyn had a ruthless, predatory look in his eye despite his long waving black hair, elegant clothing, and preening walk. He might have been on the right side in the rebellion, but he appeared a villain nonetheless.

  “So this is the young lady. She is rather . . . hearty, is she not?” The man raked her up and down with his gaze. “But overall comely as you described.”

  Lord Barnes nudged his daughter, and Gwendolyn slowly shifted back to her hunched position. She fluttered her lashes to Sir Gawain, who was even larger than Allen and had no need to gripe about the height of this exquisite woman.

  “Do not be mistaken,” Lord Barnes said. “She is a lady through and through.”

  “Indeed, she has some generous attributes.” Sir Gawain leered at the cleavage revealed by Gwendolyn’s low-cut gown, which Allen had noticed only in passing as a part of her overall feminine beauty. She pressed a concealing hand to her chest as her cheeks turned pink to match her dress.

  Gawain laughed, a meanspirited sort of laugh that set Allen on edge. He remembered the oaf from the tournament now. The very fellow who had so callously struck the serving maid. Despite his disdain for the man, Allen had quickly assessed him as a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps the fiercest competitor there. Certainly one of the wealthiest, judging by the fine cut of his surcoat and his huge retinue. But beyond that, Allen had deemed him an unscrupulous villain.

  The man reached out to take Gwendolyn’s arm, and Allen wanted nothing more than to rip it away from him. Instead he attempted to step between the two. “So sorry to interrupt, but the Lady Gwendolyn promised me one more dance.”

  Gwendolyn’s father sneered at him. “I am sure you are mistaken. The lady is finished with you for the evening. Come Gwendolyn, Sir Gawain, let us find some refreshments.”

  And with that he ushered the lovely woman away from Allen.

  He found the bench where Gwendolyn had sought refuge and collapsed upon it, feeling as though he’d shrunk to miniscule proportions and nearly out of sight completely. He was naught but dust beneath their esteemed feet. There were plenty of women in the world, and this noble lady was out of his grasp. At the end of the day, knighted or not, he was a peasant born and bred.

  He must accept that fact, and merely be thankful that his heart had healed to the point that he might develop new attractions. Right now, he did not need a woman anyway. What he needed was to win the tournament and begin carving out a place for himself, for he had nothing to offer any woman yet. Despite his new status as knight, he clearly remained a man of little account. Somehow, he must change that.

  And if along the way he found an opportunity to teach the arrogant Sir Gawain a lesson or two, all the better.

  Chapter 10

  Gwendolyn’s heart fluttered like a bird in flight as she thrilled to the sight of Sir Allen preparing to battle yet another opponent in the joust.

  “Red and gold, red and gold, red and gold,” the spectators shouted over and again in his honor.

  Throughout the long day, he had grown to be a crowd favorite, and she could not have felt more pride in this new and dear friend if he had been a member of her own family. Only one more round and Sir Allen would face that awful Sir Gawain for the championship.

  Ugh! Gawain. With his ridiculous silken black hair. Perhaps it was that girlish hair that had confused him into thinking he could strike his maidservant so heartlessly yesterday. Gwen had no desire to even consider how such a man would treat a wife.

  Surely Father would never expect her to marry the churlish dolt. As much as Allen had won favor through his courage and honor, Gawain had gained the crowd’s disdain through his pompous displays and unchivalrous behavior. ’Twas a wonder the duke suffered the fellow at all, except that Gawain’s father was a powerful nobleman in his own right.

  Allen leveled his lance, and Gwen’s heart thumped as if she were about to joust herself. The horses thundered toward one another. How quick it all happened when she observed rather than participated. In one neat move, Allen thrust his lance and sent his opponent crashing to the ground with a loud thump.

  “He unseated him in just one pass!” she said in wonder. It was true, she had fought well yesterday, merely had the misfortune of being matched with the best man on the field in her first round. Thus far, not a single competitor had survived against Sir Allen as long as she had.

  “Not surprising,” Gwen’s brother Reginald said with a grunt. “He has done so several times now, but I dare say Gawain shall put this upstart in his place.” Tournaments always put Reginald in a foul mood, since Father had never permitted him to participate in one. According to their father, he was the heir and must be protected. Hugh and Gerald were the knights. And Gwen the marriage pawn to be sold to the highest bidder.

  Life was disturbingly simple in the mind of Lord Reimund Barnes.

  Too bad Gawain’s father had not kept his son hidden away at home as the coddled heir—otherwise Father might never have met the oaf.

  Mother fanned herself. “Sir Allen is quite a contender, but he would never stand a chance against either of our boys. The fact that Gawain beat Hugh in their last tournament was naught but a fluke.”

  “Gawain is a beast of a man, and that serves him well.” Admiration tinged her father’s voice. “But I agree. He has not Hugh’s agility.”

  Rosalind looked to Gwen and rolled her eyes. No one but Father would think being a beast was a good thing.

  “Let us be forthright,” Reginald said. “Gawain is a ghastly brute, but at least he is a North Britannian citizen of noble birth. I hear rumors that this Sir Allen is of questionable stock.”

  “As I suspected.” Father glared at Gwen. “I had best not see you wasting more time on that lowly fellow.”

  Gwen inclined her head to acknowledge her father, but she had no intention of obeying the command. Allen had been the only bright spot in her dreary evening, and she would not insult him by ignoring him tonight.

  As the attendants prepared the field for the final battle of the day, Gwen caught sight of a hand waving at them from the center of the grandstand. She leaned out the opening and found the duchess, who was dressed in a lovely gown of fern green, calling to her. “Lady Gwendolyn! Oh, Gwendolyn, there you are. Come and join me for the final round. It shall be so exciting.”

  Gwen turned to her parents to ask permission.

  Mother waved her away before Gwen could utter a word. “Go, and hurry with you. One does not decline an invitation from the duchess.”

  “Of course.” Still a bit flustered by the request, Gwen called out to the duchess. “I am coming. Just one mom
ent please.”

  She gestured to Rosalind, and the two of them ducked through the exit from their box and into the bright sunshine behind the stands.

  “Thanks be to God!” Rosalind caught Gwen back. “I thought we’d never escape them. What happened last night? That Allen fellow has had his eye on you all day. And do not think I missed that kiss you blew to him when you thought no one observed. Why did you not tell me when you came home?”

  Gwen felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Of course she could hide nothing from her handmaiden. “We did spend some time together last night. He is an admirable man, very kind and encouraging. But he is only a friend. As I have told you time and again, I have no need of romance.”

  She nearly said, nor of a husband to hold me under his thumb, yet she knew such would never be the case with a fellow like Sir Allen.

  “Surely you do not expect me to believe that.” Rosalind pressed a hand to Gwen’s forehead. “Fetch the healer—this one has got it bad.”

  “I do not!” But even as she protested, Gwen feared Rosalind might be correct.

  “Of course you must say that.” Sympathy shone in Rosalind’s eyes as she offered Gwen a half smile. “I’m happy that you have found a new friend, Lady Gwendolyn, and I will not mention any obstacles this friendship might present. Only be thankful it has brought you such joy.”

  “Oh hush, you.” Gwen gave her maid a playful shove.

  “Come. We must hurry. The duchess awaits.”

  This was an odd turn of events for certain. Gwen had never expected to win the woman’s favor. They nodded to the guards at the entrance to the duke’s gallery and entered just as the trumpets blasted to announce the final event of the day.

  “Oh good! You made it in time.” The duchess held out a hand to Gwen, and Gwen gave it a squeeze.

  She settled herself in the empty cushioned chair next to her grace, the Duchess DeMontfort, and Rosalind stood attendance behind them.

  “This should be the best match of the tournament,” the duke said.

  “I could not agree more.” Gwen’s tongue felt free in such a welcoming environment. “Sir Allen has fought gallantly all day.”

  The duchess leaned forward as the herald finished the announcements preceding the battle. “Yes, and Sir Gawain has fought to win and for naught else. Let us not pretty up the truth. I know who I shall be cheering for. Red and gold, red and gold, red and gold.”

  The delicate duchess punched the air in rhythm with her chant, and soon Gwen and Rosalind, not to mention much of the crowd, joined in. Gwen had reckoned correctly that the duchess was a feisty sort.

  Allen in his red and gold squared off against the mammoth Gawain bedecked in blue and green. But as they had all expected, this was not an easy win for either competitor. After four passes and at least as many broken lances, the joust continued.

  “Oh, this is just too exciting.” The duchess pressed her kerchief to her mouth. “I can barely stand it.”

  “Imagine how they must feel,” came from Gwendolyn’s mouth before she thought to stop the words.

  The duchess raised a knowing brow her way. “Ah, so you do know a thing or two of battle.”

  Gwen smiled. “Perhaps.”

  As the knights prepared for another pass, an odd sight caught Gwendolyn’s gaze. Just beyond Allen, at the far side of the arena, a young child stood and balanced himself atop the high railing along the side of the stands. He teetered right and left, then straightened himself and quickly sat upon it. Goodness, where were the child’s parents? Although he looked to be no older than six or seven, no one seemed to notice him.

  But all thoughts of the child were swept from Gwen’s mind as the horses rushed toward each other once again. She recognized that determined set to Allen’s shoulders. “Look at his form. Someone is going down.”

  With a resounding clash, both lances splintered as the riders flipped in tandem to the ground at the tremendous impact of their joint blows.

  The duchess squealed in delight. “You are a genius, my girl.” She patted Gwen’s leg. “This is your permanent seat from this day hence.”

  “Five, six, seven . . .” the herald shouted.

  “But will they rise?” asked the duke, as both men yet sprawled upon the ground.

  Gwen had noticed slight twitches from both of them. Neither had been knocked out cold, and both were fiercely determined. “Absolutely. Just give them a moment.”

  A secret part of her struggled along with Allen, gathering air and courage as he hoisted himself from the ground. Gwen let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. “Thank goodness!”

  “Fifteen, sixteen . . .” called the herald, just as Sir Gawain also managed to rise.

  “And let the swordplay begin.”

  But both men paused for a moment before approaching one another.

  “This should be splendid.” The duke propped his elbows upon the waist-high wall of the gallery.

  “Gawain far outranks in size and strength, but Allen is amazingly agile. I could not believe those tumbling maneuvers he performed y . . .” Gwen nearly faltered but caught herself in time, remembering she was supposed to have been ill yesterday. “Against his opponents.”

  “You should have seen him yesterday when he faced Sir Geoffrey,” the duke said. “Now that was magnificent indeed.”

  “Yes, whatever happened to Lachapelle?” asked the duchess. “I did not find him at the feast.”

  “Perhaps he slunk back to France with his tail between his legs at our superior English might.” The duke chuckled.

  “Oh, stop that.” The duchess slapped his arm. “Men! Whatever shall we do with them?”

  “I have no idea, Your Grace.” Gwen could hardly believe she was jesting with the duke and duchess.

  “You shall figure it out soon enough.” The duchess laughed.

  Gwen winced at the reminder, but the two men now approached each other, and the final battle began.

  They were a sight to behold, their swords clashing with a volume to raise the dead. Again and again they slashed at each other. Gwen wondered how their shields survived. Allen spun and ducked and performed several evasive tumbling maneuvers, while Gawain was all aggression and brute force. At last, after several minutes, Gawain took a step back to find his breath, and Allen likewise retreated for a respite.

  “Should you call a winner?” the duchess asked her husband.

  “Not yet. They are still too evenly matched. This round might be decided by stamina alone.”

  Gwen smiled. “Then Sir Allen should win. For he was only recently knighted and is surely at the peak of his training.”

  The duke turned to her. “You seem to know much about this young man. I hope you are right.”

  Gwen looked away before the duke might read anything upon her face.

  In that instant, the odd sight caught her attention again. The child teetered now on one foot, perched precariously upon the rail a good eighteen feet from the ground. If he slipped off to the side, no one would see him. No one would hear. Before she could do a thing, before she could even scream, his foot flew out from beneath him. In the last second before he fell to sure destruction, he caught himself by his fingertips along the ledge.

  “Heavens, no!” Gwen shrieked. “The child!”

  The duchess turned to seek the trouble—the dangling child was barely visible from their angle across the field, but she followed Gwen’s finger and found his form peeking out from the side of the stand.

  “Do something!” yelled the duchess.

  The duke, caught in the throes of battle, did not hear a word. An attentive guard disappeared out the rear door, but he would never make it to the far side of the arena in time. Gwen debated jumping onto the field, but she would never make it either, and would risk being skewered in the process.

  Staring straight at Allen, who was mere yards from the lad, and willing him with all her might to look at her, she pointed and screamed, “The child. Save the child!”

&
nbsp; Allen scanned the grandstands once again. Where had she gone? Her strength and support had gotten him through this day, making him feel a part of something greater than himself, offering him a sense of friendship and belonging that fueled him to fight.

  “Red and gold, red and gold . . .” the crowd bellowed once again. In support of him. He could hardly fathom it. If he had felt miniscule last night, he loomed mammoth today.

  From the far side of the field near the grandstand, Gawain wavered with weariness, but came at Allen nonetheless. Allen saw his chance. His heart soared. He would defeat this foe.

  And that was when Allen noticed her. Standing and shrieking in the center gallery. Pointing beyond his shoulder. What on earth did she shout? Then he understood.

  “Save the child!”

  He swiveled and saw a child hanging by one hand from the rail along the stands, a deadly height above the ground. Even as he watched, a tiny finger slipped away, but the child’s screams were swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

  Gawain rushed directly at Allen now, but Allen could not allow the young lad to perish. With no time to think, Allen tossed his sword to the ground and ran with every ounce of his strength toward the dangling child. He dove over the chest-high enclosure with one neat move, tumbled along the ground, and back to standing. The boy’s fingers lost their grip, and the child began his agonizing descent. Just before he crashed to the hard-packed ground, Allen surged forward and caught the boy in his arms.

  The crowd grew deathly still.

  What had Allen just done? Had he thrown it all away? But as he clutched the warm bundle to his chest, he knew he could never have chosen otherwise.

  “My baby! My baby!” a woman shrieked, clambering down the stairs toward him.

  Allen walked around to meet her, and the crowd finally seemed to put the pieces together and began cheering once again.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you, kind sir. You are truly the most chivalrous knight in the land.” The crying woman kissed Allen’s hand.

  Gawain, grinning his evil, arrogant smile, held Allen’s sword high over his head. “Did you lose something?”