A chivalrous knight by anyone’s standards. It must have been his own confusion, his own guilt, that had ever caused him to doubt her.
He nodded his assent to the duchess.
“Absolutely you may fight for your own hand.” The duchess’s gleeful voice echoed throughout the stadium.
Gawain just laughed. “You wish me to fight a girl now?”
“Absolutely not!” came a disgruntled bellow from the grandstands.
For the second time that day, Lord Barnes leapt onto the field. He stormed toward Gwendolyn, yet the brave woman never cowered.
The baron grabbed her by the arm. “This girl is under my complete and utter authority. As both her father and her baron, I say she cannot fight.”
“That seems rather unfair, Lord Barnes. Can you offer any reason why she should not?” The duchess raised her quelling brow his way.
But the man did not waver. “Indeed I can. If she fights in this battle, who is to say that her valuable reproductive organs might not be injured. Is this not why we guard our women so carefully? Keep them in castles and away from . . .” He paused and shot an especially venomous glare the duchess’s way. “Horses! Gwendolyn is an asset to my family and my name. I will not allow her to jeopardize herself nor our futures in such a ludicrous manner.”
He turned in entreaty to the stadium at large now. “The Ethelbaums are a fine, upstanding family. I would be honored to link my line to theirs. Do not rob me of this right!”
A general hum of assent filled the stands, although a few feisty females shouted their disapproval.
Allen turned to the duchess and the handful of council members seated behind her. “Is this horrid fellow correct? We pride ourselves in being so progressive.” But then he recalled his study of the extensive legal code and winced.
“I am afraid so,” Hemsley said. “The duke wished to change the law, but he was never able to gain enough support.”
“A man has the right to rule over his own home,” Fulton added, “including his wife, daughters, and sons who have not reached their majority. It has always been so, both here and throughout Europe. Although, to hear such a just statute twisted in this manner certainly does rankle.”
“It is neither just nor right,” the duchess grumbled for their ears only.
“Perhaps not,” the bishop said, “but I am afraid the time has come to concede defeat. We cannot strip a man—a baron, no less—of his right to rule his own daughter simply because we do not like his attitude.”
The baron, clearly growing impatient, hollered out again. “Your Grace, have I misplaced my trust in you? In the council? Have we all?” He swept a hand across the stadium.
The inherent threat in his words was clear. They could not afford to lose a strong leader like the baron to DeMontfort’s side. Nor could they have him stirring up trouble among the common folks.
Duchess Adela bit her lip and lowered her chin in defeat. “How can I ever bring myself to utter the awful words?”
In that moment, a certainty surged through Allen, the likes of which he could no longer resist. “You shall not!”
Consequences be hanged! Allen would do what he knew in his own heart to be right and deal with the aftermath later. He leapt over the rail and ran to stand at Gwendolyn’s side. “I will battle for her! She does not need to fight for herself. I will be Lady Gwendolyn’s champion and choose her mate.”
Fulton and Hemsley jumped to their feet. The bishop just dropped his head in dismay, his conical hat falling forward to shield his face.
“You shall not!” Fulton hollered. “We cannot risk your safety at such a vulnerable time for our dukedom.”
“Allow me to fight, or I swear I shall get on my horse and storm out of this place. You do not own me. I stay here only of my free accord. Someone must champion the Lady Gwendolyn, and it shall be me!”
At that the people stood and roared their support.
The duchess smirked to the council members. Fulton and Hemsley slowly retook their seats.
Gawain strode Allen’s way with his jaw clenched tight. “I have bested you before, and I shall prove myself the better man once and for all. Let us not waste time. I long to see you lying beneath the tip of my sword.”
“And what of you, Lord Barnes?” the duchess asked.
“I . . .” The man trembled and a pulsing vein protruded from his red face. “If Gawain wishes to fight him, I will not stand in the way.” Although the gleam in his eye said he would gladly murder Allen with his own two hands.
“Sir Allen of Ellsworth, it seems you shall have your way.” The duchess offered her most grateful smile.
Joy burst forth in Allen’s heart. This was right. He knew it. He would be no man’s puppet, and he would finally have his chance to thrash Gawain!
Gwendolyn offered Allen a quick kiss on the cheek, but her father dragged her away just as she began to whisper something in Allen’s ear. She wrenched herself from her father’s rough grip and departed of her own volition.
In a flash, attendants scurried at Allen with the armor that had been readied for the common folk and topped it off with the North Britannian regalia of crimson, ivory, and black. As they strapped the blunted sword about his waist, a groomsman delivered Thunder to Allen. Once astride, he was handed a lance. The announcement was made, and he turned his horse to head to his appointed starting place.
Here he was, again, staring down the point of his lance at Gawain. This time he must win, not only to acquit himself, but to save Gwendolyn as well.
Gawain roared toward him with a new determination, a new ferocity, Allen had not seen before. Allen thrust his own horse into action. They flew at each other. In the blink of an eye, their lances tangled and shattered. Allen held tight, praying with all his might that Gawain had fallen. But as he turned Thunder, he saw the man still sat astride.
With his typical preening swagger, Gawain taunted, “Come, Sir Allen. Enough playing about. Joust me in truth this time.”
Allen’s attendant brought him a new lance, and he tucked it tightly to his side. This time he spurred Thunder first, and sped toward the arrogant knave.
But Gawain was ready. Their lances clashed again. Allen’s flew from his hand and flipped through the air. But Gawain retained his weapon.
“Aw . . . do you not wish to joust at all?” Gawain called.
But Allen would not be roused to anger. No, he must maintain his focus and bring this fool down. He had not remembered just how skilled Sir Gawain was. His confidence wavered, but he could not leave Gwendolyn victim to this fiend.
From the side of his eye, he noticed a splash of lavender kerchief waving in the breeze.
“Wait!” Gwendolyn’s beloved voice called from his previous seat next to the Duchess Adela. “Sir Allen, please wait.”
The duchess held up a hand to pause the proceedings.
He trotted her direction.
Then Gwendolyn, clinking in her chain mail, leaned over the rail to offer it to him.
As he reached to take it, she caught his eye, and he gave her his full attention.
“Gawain always lifts his lance too high just before he strikes,” Gwendolyn whispered. “Lean in low and take him out before he has a chance to right it. And do it on the very next pass. He must not have time to adjust to your correction.”
“Are you certain?” The strategy would not be the wisest in normal circumstances. But he had barely been able to watch throughout the morning as Gawain defeated knight after knight. Gwendolyn might well be correct.
“Yes, I am certain. I have studied him closely, as if my life depended on it.” She shot him a significant glance.
Her life indeed depended on it. And of course he must trust her judgment in this matter.
He saw in her eyes that he could trust her in all matters.
“Enough flirtation! You shall be my wife soon, and I shall tolerate none of it!” Gawain bellowed. “Let this match resume!”
Allen nodded his affirmation to Gwendol
yn. She squeezed her hands together and nodded as well. He spied the trust, the hope, the faith shining in her eyes. He tucked the kerchief into his sleeve, and then he trotted to his spot and prepared to battle Gawain.
As he leveled his lance and lowered his visor, time slowed. The roaring crowds dimmed. The broad expanse about him pulled in to a single target. Until only he, only Gawain, existed.
Spurring his horse, he clamped the lance tight to his side, aiming it straight for Gawain’s stone-hard heart. The horse leapt forward, step by step, in rhythm with the pounding of Allen’s own heart that echoed in his helmet. Forward, always, one hoof and then the other.
As he reached a point only several yards off, Allen noted the precise anomaly Gwen had predicted. Gawain lifted his lance just a touch. Allen crouched low and dug his heels into his horse’s side to command an extra burst of speed.
Before Gawain could right his hold, Allen’s lance pierced straight into the inch of space to the side of his shield, slamming into his chest and splintering upon the impact.
Gawain howled even as he flew backward, flipped through the air, and landed with a clash like cymbals upon the ground.
It was over. Allen had won. And Gwendolyn had showed him the way. They had done it.
Together.
He dragged air into his lungs and circled about pumping the remnants of his lance overhead as the crowd went wild.
Gawain staggered to his feet and drew his sword. He tossed off his helmet and looked about with blood trickling down his cheek. When he spotted Allen safe upon his horse, he howled yet again, fell to his knees, and beat the ground with his gloved fist.
Swept upon the glorious tide of victory, Allen approached the duchess and Gwendolyn, both beaming at him with sheer, unadulterated joy.
“Sir Allen,” the duchess called, “I declare you the victor.”
His chest swelled to twice its normal size and pressed against his hauberk. This was the moment he had dreamed of.
The duchess took Lady Gwendolyn’s hand in her own and raised it over their heads.
“And this is your prize.”
Never such a glorious, perfect, enchanting prize had Allen ever dared imagine. A tall, fair woman dressed in chain mail with a golden braid hanging down her shoulder. His heart sped even more than it had during the joust. His mind flashed to that wondrous kiss in the yew tree outside her castle wall. To the perfect fit of her lips against his.
“Whom shall you choose to wed the Lady Gwendolyn Barnes?” The duchess smiled down sweetly to him.
Of course she expected him to speak Sir Randel Penigree’s name. He had been their agreed-upon choice all along.
But Allen’s heart clutched. His throat went dry. His lips tightened and refused to speak the words.
The duchess awaited, looking at him with anticipation. Sir Randel grinned with excitement. Randel, who admired Gwendolyn but admitted he did not quite love her.
Gwendolyn pressed a hand to her mouth. She alone understood what this next utterance would cost Sir Allen of Ellsworth, who knew himself to be the best possible match in all creation for one Lady Gwendolyn Barnes, yet was being forced by fate to wed another.
He could not bring himself to call Randel’s name. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Allen sighed. “Allow me a moment of respite. This all came about suddenly. I would consider my options first.”
Though he could imagine no option that might provide a balm for his throbbing soul.
Since the castle lay so nearby the tournament grounds, Allen had returned to his own chamber to collect himself. He splashed cool water upon his face and stared into the mirror as the liquid dripped into the basin. Studying his reflection, he was not at all certain he liked what he saw.
A man of duty. A man of honor. Yet a man who too often refused to follow the guidance of his own heart. A man who for this past month had chosen to drown out the whispers of that still, small voice of the Holy Spirit deep within.
Was it more courageous, more true, more just to protect the dukedom—or would exhibiting true courage mean following his own convictions? And would his marriage to the duchess even protect the people of North Britannia? The entire supposition was built upon a suspect prophecy. Shaky ground compared to the solid rock of God’s Word.
But the Bible contained no instruction concerning whom Allen should marry. And what did God himself have to say on this matter? Allen heard Him shouting now, no longer whispering but bellowing His warning loud and clear. Gwendolyn belongs with you! Do not wed her to another! Marry her yourself!
So why did Allen yet doubt?
Checking himself in the mirror again, he noted that his North Britannian crimson and black surcoat remained pristine. He had barely broken into a sweat during today’s tourney. Yet this daunting decision might cause him to perspire agonizing drops of blood. And so he headed to the one place where he might find an answer.
The castle chapel.
Not surprisingly, Father Marcus meandered through the place, chanting his prayers. “There you are, my boy! Whatever took you so long?”
Allen rushed to him and clutched his hands. “I desperately need your guidance. Tell me of the prophecy. Do you believe it is true?”
The old priest clucked his tongue. “I do not. Not that I do not believe that God can and will speak to His people. But this supposed prophet dabbled in the black arts as well. I remember. I was there.”
Allen’s mind spun with confusion. He wanted to believe the old man, but even if what he said were true, that did not diminish the fact that the people of this dukedom were relying upon Allen. They needed this wedding for encouragement and morale.
“However,” the priest said, “I do not believe that is the most pressing issue here.”
He gave Allen’s hands a shake. “Although your respect for the ruling authorities is admirable, you must let no man dictate your path. You alone must endure the consequences of your choices. You alone must answer for them on the Day of Judgment. And you alone must decide what course you will take this day.”
Most excellent advice. In his own odd but wise way, Father Marcus had shed new light on this subject. Allen should not cave to the whims of the council. He must make his own decision in this matter.
Only Allen was still not fully convinced what decision that should be. The people needed him—Sir Allen of Ellsworth, heir to Arthur, savior of North Britannia.
“Remember that haze of pride, my son. Do not let it cloud your vision.”
Allen’s jaw gaped as the priest’s words pierced through him.
Chapter 32
The crowd grew raucous as they awaited Sir Allen’s decree, yet no one seemed willing to leave the stands.
Gwen, still dressed in her chain mail, emitted a rhythmic clink as she paced back and forth across the front of the duchess’s box, and no one bothered to chide her for her unladylike behavior. She wrung her hands together. Wherever was Rosalind? How she needed her maid’s strength and clear thinking.
The duchess took Gwen’s hand and offered a quick squeeze as Gwen marched past. “Do not despair, Sir Geoffrey,” she whispered with a wink.
Gwen responded with a wry grin, glad the duchess finally knew the truth.
Meanwhile, Randel stood to one side, nervously tapping his foot.
Of course Allen would choose Randel. The path had been decided weeks ago. He was the only sound option. Randel would treat Gwen well, and out of her gratitude, she would grow to love him.
So why did Allen delay?
As she pivoted and strode away from Randel, she wondered just how settled this matter was in her own heart. She yet loved Allen. Yet longed for him. Yet relived the wonder of his kiss with every moment she did not keep her mind under tightest rein.
She still dreamed of him at night while she slept. Still turned her thoughts to him even as she knelt and prayed.
How could she in all fairness marry Sir Randel? But what choice was left?
In that moment her gaze scraped th
e sky and landed on the cross atop the spire of the cathedral.
Gwen stopped to stare at it as an idea struck her. She need not marry Randel, for she could yet be wed to Christ. Only God had ever loved her with a love that overshadowed her feelings for Allen, and she would gladly spend her life in devotion to Him. Her father would not relish the idea, but what professing Christian parent would publicly refuse his daughter the right to offer her life to Christ?
Her mind reeled at the thought. Gwendolyn Barnes, a nun. She chuckled. A mere month ago it had not seemed possible, and now it was the only course that made one whit of sense.
She must speak to Allen. She must let him know.
The mood of the crowd shifted. A number of people stood to their feet and pointed. They began to chant. “Sir Al-len. Sir Al-len.”
And most assuredly, he marched directly toward them from the castle.
He entered the tournament ground, crossed the field, and stood before the duchess and the council with a new confidence—a greater authority than Gwendolyn had ever seen him wield. The crowd fell silent.
“Sir Allen,” the duchess said, rising to her feet. “Have you made your choice?”
“Nearly. Would Lady Gwendolyn Barnes please join me on the field?”
Thank the good Lord. She would have her chance to speak with him. Though she longed to leap over the rail—as had become everyone’s habit this day—she exited through the back of the duchess’s box as a lady should. A guard escorted her around the perimeter of the tourney field and through the gate. In short order, she stood at Allen’s side. Precisely as she’d always wished.
He turned and captured her hands in his. Energy pulsed and snapped between them.
She drank from the depths of his eyes.
Bending close, he whispered, “I need to know, Gwendolyn. What is your choice?”
Even as her mind prepared to speak the words she had planned, prepared to tell him that she would be wed to Christ, completely different ones rushed from her heart and poured from her lips. “You, Allen,” she whispered. “I choose you. There is no one else for me.”
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