With whom did not matter. Indeed, if she had been with Sir Connor, that should be nothing to her except that it would prove he had come into the garden intending to seduce her, either for sport or gain.
She remembered how he had stepped out of the shadows, as if her lonely heart had conjured him up. How long had it been since she had felt as carefree as she had for those few brief moments when she had asked about his hair? Six years, before her mother’s death had forever changed her world.
Perhaps it was no wonder, then, that she had been so drawn to him. His banter had taken her back to a happy time, and made her feel a girl again.
No, not a girl. Some of the emotions he inspired had nothing of girlish innocence about them.
Why, even now, even here in the stairwell of the castle, tendrils of heat curled and danced through her body as if those passionate thoughts roused by him could never be completely controlled, or forgotten.
He was a dangerous man indeed, and one she suspected she would never forget, because he had let a little light of joy into the deep places of her heart, where she stored her secret pain.
They entered the round room at the top of the south tower. Usually it was used for storage, but during a tournament or feast days when Montclair Castle was full of guests, it was pressed into service as accommodation. Now, a large rope bed stood across from the door, the featherbed covered with fresh clean linen and a satin cover. Beside it was a bronze candlestand holding six beeswax candles. Near the door was a washstand with a basin and jug of fresh water, and several small pieces of linen. In deference to Lord Oswald’s status, they had hung tapestries on the wall to both brighten and keep the room warm against the chill of the early mornings. Two small, narrow windows, intended for archers rather than to let in light, provided some illumination in the daytime, yet it was like being in the dim, silent chapel when no one else was there.
“This is perfect!” Isabelle whispered as she joined Allis at the loophole that overlooked the tournament field. “We can see everything from here.”
Two groups of mounted men faced each other across the field. At the midpoint, to the side and out of their way sat their father, two soldiers flanking him.
In the past, he would have been walking up and down the lines of waiting participants, making jokes and recalling past victories. And disasters, too. When she was Isabelle’s age, she had despaired every time he told the story about the fish his friend had hidden in the padding of his helmet and how it had smelled for weeks afterward; now, she would give almost anything to hear him tell it again.
“Don’t they all look splendid?” Isabelle said with another blissful sigh.
With the sun glinting on their armor, and their colorful surcoats, they did look wonderful—the might and power of Norman England arrayed before them.
Her gaze was drawn to one man wearing a white surcoat embroidered with a red dragon rampant and, above his heart, a cross that marked him as one of those who had traveled to the Holy Land with King Richard. He was seated on a magnificent black war horse that stood so still, it might have been a statue.
So might its master, for he was equally motionless. He did not fidget, or talk to anyone near him. Alone and aloof, he sat upon his horse as if he were there to pass judgment upon them here, too, and she was quite sure that beneath his helmet—padded with his long, dark hair—his penetrating glance had already marked out his prey.
What could she hear against Sir Connor of Llanstephan? Why did he mention that at all, except to create sympathy?
Perhaps it was sympathy he deserved, and not merely a seducer’s tactic.
“Did you hurt yourself? You’re rubbing your wrist.”
“No.” She shoved her hand into her dangling sleeve. “I get a bit nervous waiting for them to charge.”
Fortunately, Isabelle was no longer watching her, but gazing steadily out the window. “There’s the baron and Percival. Percival is going to participate in the squires’ melee tomorrow. He even asked…”
Isabelle’s sudden hesitation caused Allis to give her sister a wary, sidelong glance. “What did he ask?”
Isabelle tossed her blond head. “He asked to wear one of my scarves, but I refused.”
Isabelle was growing up and she was pretty, so it was inevitable that some youth was likely to make such a request, yet her sister’s vain response troubled her. “Had someone else already asked you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because he’s a ninny!” Isabelle’s gaze faltered and the defiant manner deserted her. “Really, Allis, it would have been wrong of me to encourage him, don’t you think? He might believe I cared for him, and I don’t. Not in that way.”
Allis didn’t reply. What could she say, that Isabelle should play the hypocrite like her sister? “I believe they’re about to begin.”
“The baron’s wearing your scarf, I suppose?”
“Yes,” she muttered, hating herself for agreeing to his request made the forenoon before.
And yet, if Rennick DeFrouchette had his way, soon she would be enslaved as his wife.
Chapter 4
Mounted on his destrier, Connor patiently waited for the charge to begin. Demetrius, likewise used to battle, also waited patiently, with only the flicking of his ears to betray any anxiety or excitement.
Despite his seeming unconcern, Connor was aware of many things, not the least of which was the weight of his weapons and armor. His helm alone weighed ten pounds, his chain mail hauberk considerably more. His dull tournament broadsword dragged at the belt about his waist and slapped his thigh. His long, bossed shield covered his left arm and side, and he held the reins in that hand, leaving his right free to control the heavy, unwieldy lance. Made with a blunted tip, it pointed upward, and he rested the arm holding it against his body.
He mentally ran through everything to remember about a charge with a lance. The two most important were grip hard with his knees and maintain his balance. Once Demetrius was galloping toward the opposing line, staying seated and maintaining his equilibrium must be his focus. If he lost his balance by leaning too far forward or back, he could fall from his horse without even touching an opponent.
He scanned the men preparing on the opposite side of the field and spotted the Baron DeFrouchette wearing a scarlet surcoat embroidered with a gold griffin, making him an easy target.
Then he turned his head toward Lord Montclair, for his helmet blocked his peripheral vision, and he wanted to urge Demetrius forward the moment the lord’s arm lowered. He didn’t want to be at the back of the pack with the anxious and excited younger knights in front of him. They would charge at anyone they saw, and he had no desire to be caught in such confusion.
The old man sat in a large, ornately carved oaken chair at the side of the field. The morning promised to be a fine one, and warm for spring, yet the earl was dressed in a heavy cloak with ermine trim, long, blue tunic, thick boots and gloves. He was flanked by two soldiers standing attentively at his side.
But the man’s heart did not seem to be in it. Like last night, he looked downward, as if studying the grass at his feet.
Had his father been like that, not caring about anything, when his mother had died? He had lived but days longer, and Caradoc had said grief had killed him—grief and disappointment over a disgraced son.
He would not think about that, not before a tournament. He would think of something pleasant…like the Lady Allis.
He had thought her lovely in the hall, where she presided with grace and calm smiles, although she was not as serene as one might suppose, not when one caught that flash of spirit in her eyes. In the garden, the sight of her glorious unbound hair had been enough to transfix him. Then, when she sighed, he realized how lonely and sad she seemed. Strange thoughts for him to have about the beautiful daughter of a rich and powerful man, but so it was.
He decided the least he could do was to thank her. Then he had been tempted to make her smile—and been rewarded. She ha
d been unexpectedly warm, amusing, fascinating. She had awakened feelings in him long dulled by hardship and the pain of loss, something youthful and joyous, like the delight he had felt years ago with his first lover, a giddy, silly girl, he realized with the wisdom of age, but pretty and appealing and very, very generous with her favors.
Now, seated on the steadfast Demetrius as he readied himself for battle one more time, it came to him that what he had felt in his youth—the heady excitement, the burning desire, the bliss when a girl let him caress her—paled to insignificance when he remembered how his whole body flushed with yearning at the sight of Lady Allis with her hair unbound. Simply kissing her wrist had inflamed him far more than even making love with other women had.
Despite the feelings Lady Allis inspired, he never should have touched her. He was who he was, and she was the daughter of the earl of Montclair.
For a long time after he had left her, he expected to hear the booted feet of soldiers marching toward his tent, sent by the earl of Montclair to tell him he was no longer welcome and that he must depart at first light.
Surprisingly, they had not come, which told him the lady had kept their meeting a secret. While that thought pleased him, he didn’t dare risk speaking to her alone again. Last night, she might have been attracted to him, or in a mood to play at love, but once she learned about him, that would change.
To think he himself had almost told her what he had done, and why, intending that she hear his side of things. But for what purpose? Even if she sympathized, as she seemed to do last night, there could never be anything serious between a landless knight and the heiress of a great household, not even if her quick pulse throbbing, her glowing eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and her parted lips told him she felt something for him, too. And no matter if she intrigued him as no woman ever had, or possessed the most beautiful, soft hands he had ever seen or touched.
Long, slender, supple fingers. Soft palms. A grace in the wrists that made him want to see her dance almost as much as he wanted to feel those hands on his body.
If she had not gasped and pulled away when his lips brushed her wrist, he would have slid his lips lower and kissed her palm. Then her fingertips one by one. He would have gently tugged her into his arms and taken her mouth with sure purpose until she relaxed against him, weak with yearning. As their bodies touched and heat bloomed between them, he would have tenderly kissed and caressed her, keeping a rein on his passion until hers blossomed beneath his touch.
Aroused by his thoughts, he shifted in the saddle, and Demetrius started to prance. He quickly gripped his horse tighter with his knees and commanded himself to stop thinking about Lady Allis and anything else except what he had to do this morning: capture Baron DeFrouchette and get a large ransom.
The earl of Montclair slowly raised his trembling arm. His arm pressed against his side for stability, Connor lowered his lance. He would loosen his grip during the charge and hold his weapon out slightly from his body. That way, his arm would be better able to absorb the impact. If he were too tense or held the lance too close to his body, he could be pushed off his horse upon contact with an opponent’s shield.
Lord Montclair’s arm fell, and in that moment, Connor dug his heels into Demetrius. His horse leaped forward and broke into a gallop, ahead of the rest of the men on his side.
With a sound like distant thunder, the huge beasts of all the knights in the melee galloped forward across the space between them.
There was the baron, easy to see in his scarlet surcoat, his lance wavering. Likely his arm was too weak to effectively control his weapon. Hunched down, his gaze straight ahead, Connor moved his shield toward the middle of his body and aimed his lance directly at the baron’s shield.
His lance struck the shield—and split, the separate pieces shattering like so much tinder.
He couldn’t believe it. His lance was oak, the hardest wood in England. It shouldn’t have—
The baron’s weapon plowed into his shield, his arm and shoulder taking the full force of the collision. He tumbled off Demetrius and fell hard onto the ground. Stunned, the wind knocked from him, it felt as if his left arm had been torn off at the shoulder.
No, still there…but the pain…
Ignoring the agony and the noise of the horses, men grunting, lances striking shields, as well as the clang of sword on sword, he struggled to get to his feet lest he be trampled by the huge hooves of the baron’s horse and those of other combatants. At the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, he crouched and looked up to see the Baron DeFrouchette looming above him. His left arm numb and useless, his shield fell to the ground—but by then he held his sword in his right.
He heard a different sound and whirled around just as another knight in a royal blue surcoat embroidered with a silver eagle brought his blunted sword down on his injured shoulder. The blow and the pain brought him to his knees.
“Get off the field, you Welsh pauper, and leave it to more worthy men,” Baron DeFrouchette taunted.
His pride fierce, his resolve fiercer, Connor staggered to his feet. “I can still take you,” he growled, his teeth clenched as he blinked back the hot tears of pain that filled his eyes.
“You heard him, Welshman,” the other knight said in the noble drawl of Sir Auberan de Beaumartre. “Get off the field.”
“Damn you! I’ll take you both!”
“Oh, I think not,” the baron sneered. “Here come the nursemaids to tend to the unfortunate wounded. Shall I call them over to you, Welshman? They can carry you from the field.”
Both men laughed as they turned their horses back toward the melee, which had moved off toward higher ground.
Gritting his teeth, he started after them, determined to fight, the blood of battle throbbing in his ears, the desire to beat them pounding through his body. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes, stinging and momentarily blinding him. He went to yank off his helmet with his left hand and again fell to his knees as pain like the curse of hell shot through his left shoulder.
He remembered what he had said to Lady Allis last night, about knowing when to quit the field, and uttered the most profane and colorful Welsh curse he knew, because today, that time was now.
Struggling to his feet, he spied a rotund little man in a black ecclesiastical robe trotting toward him. With him were two men, bareheaded but clad in the padded gambeson of foot soldiers, carrying a litter.
He waved them away. He was not going to add to his humiliation by being carried from the field. He would make it to the tent for the wounded on his own, or swoon trying.
Allis paced impatiently inside the tent set up at the south of the large field. There the sunlight would shine all day, warming the interior and providing illumination. The wounded would be brought here first to be assessed by Brother Jonathan and tended to as necessary. Five cots were ready for those who were unable to walk. A trestle table for Brother Jonathan’s medicines, linens and some basins for washing had been set up, and a large barrel full of fresh water was nearby. The floor beneath them was grass, kept short by the sheep that usually pastured there.
After seeing Sir Connor’s lance shatter against the baron’s shield and his tumble from his horse, she had rushed from the tower room afraid for his life, Isabelle right behind. Her anxiety increasing with every passing moment, she had immediately sent Bob and Harry, two of their strongest, fastest soldiers who had been assigned to help carry the injured, with a litter to find the wounded knight in the white surcoat embroidered with a red dragon rampant and return with him and Brother Jonathan, who had gone to the field to watch the start of the melee.
“Perhaps he wasn’t hurt,” Isabelle suggested hopefully. “Or not much. They do wear chain mail, after all. Bob and Harry haven’t brought him yet, have they? If he were seriously hurt, they would have come back with him on the run.”
She tried to take heart at her sister’s words, but the litter bearers might not hurry if their burden was a dead body
.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flap at the entrance to the tent move. She whirled around, but it wasn’t Bob and Harry or even Brother Jonathan.
Wearing a white surcoat with a red dragon rampant, Sir Connor of Llanstephan stood holding his left arm against his body with his right, his helmet in the crook of his left elbow. Although his long hair was damp from perspiration and his face pale, relief poured through her. “You’re not dead!”
“Not yet,” he replied with the merest hint of a smile as he entered. He wore his chain mail as if it weighed almost nothing and moved as if he had been born in it. Only a strong man who had worn it daily for a long time carried it so easily. “But needing some help, I am.”
Of course he was, and she had just sounded like a fool. “Your arm has been hurt?”
“Yes.”
Trying to recover her dignity, she walked briskly toward him. “I’m glad it is only an injury. My father and I would be very distraught had one of our guests been killed.”
“Your father, too, is it?” His eyes flicked up and down her body, while her heart…fluttered. That was the only word to describe the sensation.
She couldn’t allow her heart to flutter. She couldn’t be near a man who could smile when he was in pain, who could make her body warm as if in an oven when he took her hand, who had insolently kissed her wrist and robbed her of sleep. She knew her future, and it didn’t involve such sensations. Her future was a marriage she didn’t want to a man she didn’t love because she had no other choice.
“I would have been upset, too,” Isabelle added eagerly, staring at Sir Connor with unabashed interest. “Is your arm broken?”
He smiled at Isabelle, too. “It’s not my arm. It’s my shoulder. Would you be so kind as to ask someone to find my horse? I don’t know where he went after I fell.”
Isabelle nodded and hurried out of the tent, obviously keen to be of assistance.
The Maiden and Her Knight Page 4