He should pack up his things and depart at once, to let his arm heal…somewhere else. Not home. Never home, until he came laden with silver and gold to show Caradoc that his time in the Holy Land had had some benefit, after all.
Thinking of his heated words to his brother before he had left Wales two years ago reminded him of the thin state of his own purse at present. He would have to be careful with what money he had, and he had to buy another lance.
Ignoring the persistent images of Lady Allis, naked and willing, lingering in his mind, he thought about the way his lance had splintered. His weapon might have had some damage he had missed and it was old, but he had examined it the day before and seen nothing amiss. He should have checked it again the morning of the tournament, though—a mistake he would never make again.
These things would explain a broken lance, not one shattering into pieces. There was one way that could happen, and it would mean his weapon had been tampered with.
Every instinct told him the man who had sat beside the Lady Allis at the feast was the culprit. Given the attention the baron paid to Lady Allis, it was clear he was more than a mere friend, or hoped he was. It could well be he knew or suspected that the lady did not share his affections.
Jealousy could make a man do evil things. The baron had ridden straight for him, although he had probably not fought in years. A man determined to prove something, or to rid himself of a rival might do that, especially if he knew his opponent posed no real threat.
Yet if somebody had seen him and Lady Allis in the garden, what exactly would they have observed? Some banter, a kiss on her wrist. Nothing so very impertinent or intimate. The impertinence and the intimacy were all in his mind, and the passion, too, perhaps. Even if she seemed to share it, there had been no words to that effect, and no actions on her part.
There was Sir Auberan, too. They had exchanged angry words, and that might be enough to make him want revenge. Yet even if Auberan had the knowledge, he doubted that young man possessed the resolve and the skill.
Whoever did the deed, when could it have been done? While he slept? While he joined the others in the hall to break the fast before the melee? His weapons had been unattended then.
The first thing he must do was discover if there had indeed been foul play, and to do that he should study the pieces of his lance and look for signs of tampering.
Before he did anything else, though, he should find Demetrius. Demetrius was like a friend, a comrade-in-arms who had been his companion through some of the worst moments of his life.
Moving slowly and more cautiously, Connor again got to his feet. He was less dizzy this time, thank the Lord, and his aching head was getting better, too.
Now, to dress himself. That proved no easy task, but he managed it and with only a minimum of cursing. Once attired in a clean shirt and tunic, his belt around his waist, his scabbard against his thigh and his arm again in the sling, he went outside. The cool air of early morning greeted him, and the grass was damp with dew. Beyond, the massed tents of the other knights, their squires, pages and servants stretched toward the castle wall. Pennants flapped in the breeze, and in the sky above, thin white clouds moved swiftly past. Several servants were already up and about, scurrying about the tents like so many busy bees.
With a grin he spotted Demetrius tethered a few yards away, quietly munching on the grass. The destrier lifted his head, stamped his foreleg and whinnied a greeting.
“Good day to you, too.” He ran his right hand over his horse’s back and examined his body and legs for any wounds. “A better day than mine, at any rate. Not a scratch on you, my friend.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. Alert for danger, he whirled around, biting back a Welsh obscenity at the jolt of pain as he reached across his body with his right hand to draw his sword.
A blond-haired, well-dressed lad of about twelve years old stared back at him. Judging by his hair and features, he was a relative of Lady Allis, a brother or cousin.
His left shoulder throbbing, Connor sheathed his sword. “Who might you be?”
“I am…” The boy took a deep breath and drew himself up. “I am Edmond, the son of the earl of Montclair.”
And a proud young Norman lord in the making, as evidenced by the bravado in his green eyes. Connor smiled, for he had been full of bravado, too, when he was that age.
“That is a very fine horse,” the boy said, hurling the words as if he half expected Connor to disagree.
“Demetrius is indeed a fine horse. What makes you say so?”
“He’s…he’s big.”
“Yes.”
“He’s strong. You can tell by his haunches.”
Connor nodded. “Very strong.”
The boy chewed his lip and looked worried.
“Come closer and look at his eyes.”
Edmond did and Demetrius raised his head to study him.
“See how bright and shrewd they are? Plenty of big, strong horses there are, my lordling, but rare indeed is one as clever as mine, or as patient.”
“What can he do?”
“Tricks, you mean?”
Edmond nodded.
“Not a one.”
The boy’s face fell with disappointment.
“Tricks are not going to do you much good in a battle.”
“How do you know he’s clever, then?” the lad demanded.
“He learns fast. But cleverness is not as important as patience.”
Edmond looked skeptical.
“He will not move until he’s told.” Unless his master is having lustful thoughts about a woman and shifts unexpectedly. “And when he does move, he’s steady.”
“Steady?”
“Aye, like a rock beneath me. And trust me, young sir, when you are wearing eighty pounds of armor and rushing at your enemy, you want to feel as if you are sitting on something as strong and steady as a rock.”
Edmond regarded Demetrius with new respect. “Was he with you on the Crusade?”
“Yes, and I would have died more than once but for him. Smarter than me, he is sometimes, moving to avoid a blow.”
“What battles were you in? Did you kill any Saracens? Are they as fierce as they say?”
Ah, so here it was—the reason this boy had ventured forth in the chill of dawn to see him. The reason many young men and boys sought him out, aye, and women, too. They wanted to hear about the Crusade and, inevitably, Richard.
He didn’t want to talk about either one. “Does your family know you are in the ward?”
“They won’t miss me until mass.” He pointed at Connor’s sling. “My sister told us what happened to you. Yours is the worst injury,” he noted, as if that should be a great comfort.
Connor bowed in acknowledgment of his superior harm.
“All the wounded must stay here until they are well again.”
“Until we are well?”
Edmond nodded. “It’s our duty as hosts, and Allis says you must always do your duty. Without complaint,” he added as a grudging afterthought.
Connor suppressed a sympathetic grin.
“Edmond?”
They both turned to see Lady Allis marching toward them, her plain, pale blue gown whipping about her ankles with her brisk pace. A simple leather girdle around her slender waist was her only ornament, and she wore no scarf or wimple; her bountiful hair was drawn back in a single, long braid. Despite her simple attire, she still looked astonishingly lovely and very regal, as if she were a princess masquerading as a commoner.
His chest tightened. Had he spoken aloud his praise of her hair? Was that why she had not covered it—and if so, what did that mean? Or was this a mere coincidence?
“Is it time for mass?” Edmond asked as his sister came to a halt.
Allis kept her attention on Edmond and not on the tall, handsome man beside him. “Not yet. You should have told Merva or one of the other servants where you had gone.”
When she had discovered that Edm
ond was not in his chamber, she had guessed that speaking with a man who had been on Crusade had been too tempting to resist.
Edmond slid his toe back and forth over the dew-damp ground. “I’m sorry, Allis.”
“He wants to know about the Crusades, like a good many other people,” Sir Connor said. He turned to Edmond. “I have an apple in my tent for my horse, his usual reward after a melee whether I win or not. Would you like to feed it to him before you go?”
Edmond nodded eagerly and went to fetch it.
She told herself that there was no reason she should be afraid to look at Sir Connor. She had seen him half naked, after all, and she had pledged herself to another. That should strengthen her against Sir Connor’s potent fascination, which should not be so strong when he was simply standing in the ward waiting for her brother—to whom he spoke with such genial good humor, although she could tell he was still in pain. “How is your shoulder this morning?”
“It aches, but not so bad as yesterday.”
And surely it was only right that she examine him. By touch. “May I?” Without waiting for his answer, she put her fingertips on the wrist of his left hand. His blood pulsed beneath her fingertips and his flesh was warm and strong. Like him.
She must control these wayward thoughts and concentrate on her task.
Despite her inward admonitions, she envisioned his naked chest. The small scars, the muscles, the dark hairs circling his taut nipples.
She then took his right hand and pressed her fingers to that wrist. The pulse beat beneath her fingertips as vibrantly as the other. How tempted she was to let her fingers linger there, feeling the life force within his virile body.
“My lady?” he queried softly.
So would his deep voice sound if they were alone in the same bed, whispering after a night of passionate intimacy.
God help her restrain these wicked thoughts, these sinful longings! She belonged to Rennick DeFrouchette by her own decree, and to have such thoughts about another man was wrong.
She let go of his hand as if it burned hot with the flames of hell itself. “They are both the same still. That is good.”
“My head aches a little, from that medicine, I think.”
“Yes, it can do that.”
“I had some very strange dreams,” he continued, and his brown eyes, as deep and intriguing as his voice, studied her intently.
She warmed beneath his steadfast regard, for there was more gentleness and kind concern than had ever been in Rennick’s hard blue eyes. “That is not unusual.”
“They were very…vivid.”
She took a step back. “The potion can have that effect.”
Edmond came out of the tent holding an apple. He went toward the huge horse, which lifted its head and whinnied.
She had been alone with Sir Connor only a few moments, but she felt as if she had experienced a lifetime of emotions, both thrilling and sad.
“Demetrius will be his friend for life now.”
If Sir Connor sensed her mood, he did not show it. He stood and spoke as if they had merely exchanged meaningless pleasantries while Edmond was gone. Perhaps, in his mind, that had been all they had done.
That realization added to her sorrow, until he turned to her. Then she saw, in the brown depths of his eyes, a spark of true respect and even affection that lifted her from the depths of her despair. Yes, it was wrong of her to feel as she did when she looked at him thus, but oh, how good it was! And yet because of that look, she had to tell him that she was not free. Because of that look, he deserved nothing less.
She settled her features into the familiar mask of calm dignity that was so easy to assume with Rennick.
Gesturing for Sir Connor to follow, she walked away from her brother and the horse. When they were far enough from Edmond that he couldn’t hear, she said, “I believe you may be under the mistaken impression that I do not care for Baron DeFrouchette, the man to whom I became betrothed yesterday and will soon marry. At times he does annoy me a little, but what couple does not have their little spats?”
She watched Sir Connor’s face, seeking some sign of the effect of her words, but if she had assumed a public mask, so had he, and she found no answers there.
“I wonder why you did not tell me this before.”
“I am not in the habit of telling everyone my business. I would have, if I had known you were going to kiss me.”
“On the wrist only.”
“Yes, but you shouldn’t have done that.”
He made a little bow. “Forgive me.”
How cold and aloof he sounded, and so very proper. And how she silently mourned the change, which was necessary and inevitable, yet agonizing all the same. She was tempted to leave, but she had another reason for coming here. He had made a serious accusation yesterday when he was under the influence of Brother Jonathan’s draft, and she had to know if he still had the same suspicions. “Yesterday you implied that you suspected someone of foul play.”
Standing as stiffly as a solder, he inclined his head in affirmation. “That is true. My lance should not have split and shattered that way.”
“It was made of wood, Sir Connor.”
“Oak, my lady. Hard and strong. To split along its length is unusual, but not unheard of, if a chisel is driven into the shaft at the base just above the hand guard and along the grain. Then the gouge is filled with colored clay to hide it.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Perhaps, if I have the pieces.”
“They were all gathered up and taken to the armory in the keep. You may examine them later.”
“I shall.”
“You believe the baron did this?”
“I think he might have reason.”
“What reason?”
“Can you not guess, my lady?”
She looked away from his accusing eyes and enticing lips toward her young brother, so happy and innocent of the ways of the world. So few things he did could have serious consequences, while she…“The baron has no cause to be jealous.”
“Then I am wrong and I shall have to try to discover who else might cheat.”
She glanced at Sir Connor once more, and this time their gazes met and held, as they had that first night. She saw no harsh accusation, but a longing that seemed to meet and touch her own lonely soul, as if his hands reached out to save her as she teetered on the brink of a dark and bottomless chasm.
“Don’t accuse Baron DeFrouchette even if you have proof.”
Chapter 8
Connor drew backed abruptly, as if she had hit him. Her words had been as sharp and firm as if they had been a blow, another shock in a morning of confusion. No woman had ever raised such a tumult inside him, of joy and anguish, hope and despair. One moment, he was sure she shared his desire, the next she was calmly telling him she was betrothed to another.
“He has powerful friends and allies. He will not hesitate to destroy you if you become his enemy.”
She spoke quietly, presumably so that her brother wouldn’t hear, but to him she sounded as she would nestled against him, sharing his bed.
He had guessed she was unhappy, but this hinted at something far worse. “He is the sort of man who threatens people who oppose him?”
“Just believe me.”
So he would—and there was the reason she would look with loathing at the man, yet become his wife. Lady Allis was the sort of woman who would do whatever she must to protect her family. She would never ask a man like him for help or protection, and he was in no position to offer it unasked, but as she had no call to warn him about DeFrouchette, he would let her know that she had an ally, if she so desired. “You do not have to explain to me. I have met his sort before.”
She faced him squarely, as one warrior to another, although they fought different battles, with different weapons. “Let the matter rest. You will heal and live to fight in other tournaments, against other wealthy men. As a knight, I’m sure you understand duty and know how to accept
it—as do I.”
“Yes, I understand duty and sacrifice very well, as I know you do, my lady,” he said softly, but not with pity. Pity would be an insult to her, as it would be to him.
Then he saw her sister standing awkwardly by the tents, a large basket in her hand. She looked very young and fresh as the dew in her pretty lavender gown, as Lady Allis must have when she was that age, before the years and responsibility had brought out her womanly beauty.
“Isabelle, what are you doing here?” Allis demanded, caught off guard again.
Since meeting Sir Connor in the garden, it seemed as if the very ground beneath her feet had become as unstable and unsteady as sand, and the most disconcerting thing of all was not the desire he aroused in her, powerful and undeniable though it was. It was his sympathetic understanding, offered not with pity, but with respect, as he might a comrade-in-arms.
“I thought Sir Connor might need some refreshment,” Isabelle murmured, blushing and looking at the ground.
Isabelle was right, and Allis wished she had thought of that.
“How kind of you to remember me, my lady,” Sir Connor said, giving Isabelle a warm smile. “However, I feel capable of walking to the hall, if I may have the pleasure of your company.”
His good-natured, deep voice stirred the embers of desire Allis hadn’t been able to extinguish. Excitement, hot and turbulent, simmered anew.
And she was not the only one affected, for Isabelle beamed and blushed even more. “You will join us for mass, too?”
“Thank you, but I prefer to sit near the door of the chapel. The scent of incense…” He paused, then began again. “The scent of incense can be a little overpowering.”
Thank God for small mercies, Allis thought, telling herself she was glad. She didn’t need the complication of Sir Connor near them in the chapel. “Edmond, it is time to go to mass.”
He reluctantly left the horse and came to stand beside her. “You don’t have a squire, do you?” he asked Sir Connor.
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