My Noble Knight

by Laurel O'Donnell

  MY NOBLE KNIGHT

  Laurel O'Donnell

  Copyright © 2014 by Laurel O'Donnell

  ISBN: 978-1-940118-01-7

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter One

  1363 England

  Griffin Wolfe summed up his next opponent with a simple indifferent glance. He had seen enough of Rou’s practice to know the knight posed no threat to his victory in the joust. The midday sun was hot and a layer of sweat glistened on Griffin’s skin as he paused at the fence that surrounded the tiltyard to watch Rou ride by on his brown charger. The war horse kicked up a cloud of dust in its wake which stuck to Griffin’s slick skin. He hardly noticed. His thoughts had already moved past Rou.

  After Rou’s defeat, only one knight stood between him and the winner’s purse. Some knight who went by the surname Fletcher. Griffin couldn't even remember his first name. He was the only other competitor who had not yet lost in the tournament. But he would. After Griffin unhorsed Rou, this Fletcher would be next.

  He turned and headed back to his pavilion where his squire was preparing his armor. Around him, spectators continued to arrive, the wealthier guests heading for the wooden stands, others staking out their spots in the fields for the best view of the joust. He turned the corner of a pavilion that bore the flapping flag crest of lord Crandall and a small whirlwind slammed into his chest. Griffin grunted and scowled, caught by surprise.

  He lowered his gaze to see a pile of wild dark hair at his feet. Two hands emerged into his view and separated the hair to reveal two beaming blue eyes staring up at him. “Pardons, sir.” The hands pushed the hair further back to reveal a face and Griffin was shocked to see a woman! If it weren't for her delicate face and full lips, he wasn't sure he would have realized she was a female. She wore brown breeches on her slender legs and a dusty green tunic.

  Instinctively, he reached out a hand to her. “Are you hurt?”

  Her blue eyes twinkled and a smile spread across her lips as she reached for his hand. “You're strong, but not a rock. I am unhurt.”

  When her fingers closed over his palm, a searing jolt raced through Griffin. He almost pulled his hand free of hers, but his upbringing overrode his surprise and he easily lifted her to her feet. There was something instantly intriguing about the woman, even though she was dressed in men’s clothing. He withdrew his hand. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “The joust,” she answered. “It’s already crowded and I have to get a good spot to watch.”

  Griffin frowned slightly. Women did not dash around running into men looking for the closest spot to watch a joust. He stepped aside. “Far be it from me to stand in your way.”

  She nodded and walked past him, her steps more measured.

  He watched her walk away. At least she had slowed her pace. His gaze took in her body. Her bottom was hidden beneath the tunic that fell to her mid thigh. Her legs were covered with knee high black boots. Very inappropriate for a woman, but so very intriguing. Suddenly, she turned and locked gazes with him. A slow smile turned up the corners of her lips into a lovely, knowing smile. It was like the sunrise on a glorious morning. His spirit lifted at the mere sight of her grin. He couldn’t help but smile back at her; her grin was infectious.

  “Forgive me for crashing into you.”

  Griffin nodded slightly and then she was gone, swallowed up by the sea of villagers and merchants arriving for the joust. With a strange lightheartedness, Griffin headed for his pavilion to prepare.

  Layne Fletcher had found a spectacular place to view the joust. In the center of the field, right against the fence. A tree even offered her shade against the hot sun.

  She leaned into the fence, looking from one end of the field to the other for the knights. The victor of this joust would face her brother. She hoped it was Rou. He was a buffoon and she knew Frances could easily unhorse him.

  A balding man stepped onto the field of honor, drawing scattered applause from the crowd. Tingles of excitement shot up Layne’s spine. It was starting. Her fingers curved over the top plank of wood.

  The man held up his arms and the crowd quieted. He turned around to address the mass of onlookers and announced in his booming voice, "On this final day of the joust, all competitors have been eliminated but three skilled knights. By sunset today, we shall have a victor!”

  The crowd erupted in applause and cheering.

  Layne lifted her hands and shouted approval along with them. It would be Frances. It had to be Frances.

  "I give you Lord Rou!” the man called and swept his hand out to the side of the field.

  Rou rode onto the field, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd. His visor was raised to receive their adoration and muted praise. He rode to his side of the field where his squire was already waiting.

  "I give you Sir Wolfe!”

  The crowd stood to their feet, applauding, cheering and calling his name. He was the favored knight.

  Layne winced. He was favored because he was better and she knew it.

  His visor was down and he did not acknowledge the audience. He rode directly to his side of the field.

  The bald man turned and jogged from the field leaving the two competitors.

  They each moved to their squires who handed them their lances. A long moment passed and Rou lowered his visor. Wolfe spurred his horse. Rou matched his movement. The two knights charged down the field of honor, their lances poised in their arms, the long blunted tips pointed at each other.

  The horses kicked up dust in the field as they rushed forward. The riders sat low in their saddles. Rou’s garish red feather flattened in the rush of wind.

  Layne studied Rou’s form. She groaned inwardly, wondering how he had ever managed to make it this far in the tournament. His form was atrocious. He couched the lance with his hand resting on his leg which bounced at every step his horse took. How could he possibly make a solid strike with such terrible technique?

  Layne’s gaze shifted to his opponent. Sir Griffin Wolfe. She had crashed into him in her hurry to get to the open spot in the shade. He had been nothing like she expected. After hearing all the grand tales of his glorious victories, she thought he would be snobbish and arrogant. After all, he had never been beaten in tournament. But he wasn't. He had smiled at her. Which was more than most of the other knights had ever done to her.

  She watched Griffin ride his steed down the field of honor. His form was impeccable. His armor was spotless and immaculate. He wore no flamboyant colors or feathers. He needed none of those to announce his presence. Everyone knew him. Everyone.

  The horses thundered towards each other. Remarkably, at the last moment, Rou lifted his lance and aimed it correctly. The lances struck. Each delivered a solid blow to their opponent. Rou’s lance splintered, the shards flying out over the field.

  Griffin’s lance held, lifting Rou up and out of the saddle. He was suspended over the earth for a long moment at the end of Griffin’s lance before he fell heavily to the ground, an explosion of dust erupting all around him.

  Layne grimaced. That was going to hurt.

  A hush fell over the spectators.

  Someone tugged on her arm, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the fallen knight. Moments ticked by and Rou didn’t stand. Layne craned her neck to watch as the dust settled around him. She
hoped he wasn't too hurt. She would not wish that on any knight. Defeat, yes. Crippling pain, no.

  The tugging persisted at her arm. She finally looked down to see her younger brother, Michael. She swept him with a cursory glance. His moppy brown hair fell into his eyes and over his dirt smudged cheeks. “Better go wash your face or Colin will twist your ears.”

  She looked back at the field. Rou still had not stirred. His squire raced onto the field of honor.

  “Layne,” Michael called, yanking at her arm.

  Layne scowled and looked at him. For the first time, she saw the intent look on Michael’s face and realized something was wrong. She stepped away from the fence, scanning the surrounding crowd behind Michael for her older brother. “Where’s Frances?”

  With a wave of his hand, Michael signaled for her to come with him.

  Layne glanced about and saw a woman holding a baby watching them. A man leaning over the fence swiveled his head to look at them. Layne followed Michael away from the crowd.

  Michael stopped when they were out of earshot. “Laynie,” he whispered. “Frances is unconscious.”

  “What?” Layne exclaimed.

  Michael shook his head. “He was practicing with the quintain and it spun and hit him in the head. He fell from the horse.”

  Layne looked toward their pavilion. She couldn’t see their tent through the trees, but she knew it was there. She took off running. There were many pathways through the trees, but she took the straightest route, cutting through foliage. Branches snagged her tunic, but her boots protected her feet from the rocks. Finally, she broke through the forest and raced to their pavilion.

  She threw the flap aside and entered.

  Colin, her oldest brother, sat beside Frances who was prone on his mat. He was not moving. Colin didn’t even look up as she entered. He shook his brother’s shoulders, calling, “Frances. Frances, wake up.”

  Michael entered the tent behind her.

  Colin looked at Layne. There was helplessness in his gaze and he shook his head. “We’re going to have to forfeit.”

  “We can’t,” Layne whispered. “We need the winning pouch.”

  Colin spread out his hands. “Look at him! He’s out. He’s not jousting anytime soon.”

  Layne stood for a long moment, staring at Frances with concern and with anger. How could this happen? How could he be so careless? They needed the winnings! Father needed the winnings. They only needed to win a little more coin. Just a little more and they could go home and buy the land so father could finally rest. But with Frances out cold they had no chance.

  Or did they? A tingle of excitement shot up her spine. She grabbed Michael’s arm and backed out of the tent, pulling the young boy with her. “Help me.”

  “Help you do what?”

  “Help me get into the armor.”

  Michael stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh no!” He shook his head and held out his hands in front of him to ward her off. “Colin would quarter me!”

  Layne spun on him. “I can’t do it alone. It’s our only chance!”

  Michael shook his head and crossed his arms, glaring at her.

  She grabbed his tunic front and shoved her face close to his. “If you don’t do it, I’ll tell Colin who broke his bow.”

  Michael’s mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Yes I would. Help me, Michael. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  By the time they had gotten her into Frances’s armor, appropriately padding it so it fit, the call was going out the second time for Sir Frances Fletcher. She would have been quicker, but she had to bind her breasts. It was lucky Frances was the same height she was. She had tried his armor on before, secretly many times, so she knew all the places where it was loose. Michael helped her stuff padding into those areas so she should move efficiently in the metal shell that now encased her.

  She didn’t know if it was just desperation fueling her strength or forbidden excitement over what she was about to do raising her energy, but the armor felt lighter than she remembered. She raised her arm up and down, re-acquainting herself with the feel of the steel.

  She chose to use her own horse rather than his. She had never been able to fully control Frances’s destrier. The beast was just too big. Her own stallion, Angel, was used to her movements and her direction. She thought it was a better choice. She and Michael had quickly pulled the caparison off of Frances’s horse and laid the cloth over Angel’s back. The thick fabric would offer good protection to Angel’s body during the joust. It was a bit too large for her horse, but it would have to do.

  She entered the field to sporadic applause and a few jeering shouts. Michael jogged behind her, acting as her squire. The crowd of people gathered around the field clearly didn’t like that she was late. And she could tell by the way Griffin’s horse paced impatiently at the other end of the field he was not pleased either.

  That’s all right. She’d give them a show they wouldn’t forget. True, she had never been a participant in a real joust before, anyone who was not a knight was not allowed to participate, but she was confident enough in her abilities. She had practiced dozens of times on her own against quintains and straw dummies when no one else was around. She lifted her chin in defiance, even though she knew no one could see the movement behind the closed visor that covered her face.

  As she maneuvered Angel to her side of the field, she passed Griffin. Griffin Wolfe. He had unhorsed all he stood against. This was no man of straw. Far from it. He looked like a massive mountain of glistening metal as he sat tall in his saddle. Her brothers had always told her jousting was dangerous. They would only practice their swordplay with her. And now, as she sat on her horse in the field of honor, her heart beating madly in her chest, sweat running from her brow, she had to concur with them. This could turn out to be dangerous indeed.

  Griffin’s horse pranced up to his squire at the other end of the yard.

  All she needed to do was find his weak spot. Just one flaw. She knew she couldn’t beat him with strength. She would have to beat him with speed and angles. Layne licked her lips beneath the helmet. The helmet was slightly too big for her, but she had stuck cloth into the top so it fit better. It barely jostled at all when she moved her head.

  There was no going back now. She urged Angel forward with a slight kick. Luckily, Frances had used Angel before to joust in other tournaments when his horse had taken ill so the noise and ruckus from the spectators didn’t spook Angel.

  Michael handed her the lance with a slight shake of his head. She narrowed her eyes at him, repeating the silent threat that she would tell Colin about the bow, if it came to that. But she knew Michael would do his part. It was too late for him to turn back.

  She whirled Angel about and spurred him hard. The sound of the crowd died about her, muffled by the helmet and the thunder of Angel’s hooves. Her breathing was loud in her ears. She concentrated on Wolfe. Through the thin slit in her visor, she saw him closing on her, the lance held firm in his arm, the tip pointed directly at her. She lowered her own lance.

  At the last moment, Angel balked and the lances missed completely.

  They rounded the ends of the field and cantered back to their sides. Wolfe passed within two feet of her. He really was an excellent rider. His control of his steed was excellent. But she was better.

  What was wrong with Angel? Layne patted his neck reassuringly. Angel snorted and tossed his head. “Don’t you start,” Layne whispered to him. “I can do this. No one need know.”

  Michael handed her the lance, still shaking his head.

  Layne grimaced. It wasn’t enough she was facing the best knight she had ever seen in her very first joust, but no one had faith in her. Not Michael. Not even her horse. Well, she would show them. She would show them all!

  She rounded Angel, the lance held up. It was easier to control Angel with the lance out of the way. Once Angel fell into rhythm, Layne lowered the lance, tucking it beneath her arm. She leaned forward, racing
down the list.

  Wolfe rounded the tilt barrier and charged forward.

  At the last moment, Layne leaned away from his lance, making him miss completely. She held her lance firm, aimed directly at him. It struck his shoulder. The impact jarred her arm, sending sharp tingles through her limb, and she dropped the lance.

  The two horses sped past each other.

  She opened and closed her hand again and again to get the blood flowing into her limb and force the numb feeling to fade. She had struck him! Jubilant, she turned to look at him down the field. He had thrown up his faceplate to stare at her.

  The crowd around them was silent in shock.

  She cantered Angel down the field, passing Wolfe. His startling blue eyes were locked on her, his jaw tight. Maybe hitting him wasn’t such a good idea.

  As she reached the end of the field where Michael stood, she glanced into the audience and almost fell off Angel. Standing at the fence with his arms crossed was Colin. His gaze bore into her with the promise of punishment. Severe punishment.

  Even with trepidation snaking its way up her spine, Layne couldn’t stop. She wanted this opportunity. She had always wanted to joust, but it had been forbidden to her. This was her only time to try it. The opportunity had presented itself to her and she had seized it. And her family needed her to win! She couldn’t back out now.

  She turned to look at Wolfe. He had reached the other side and stretched out his hand for his lance.

  Layne held out her hand and Michael handed her the lance, whispering, “You are in so much trouble.”

  Layne glared at him, but said nothing as she cradled the lance. She turned away from her younger brother and yanked the reins. Angel reared slightly before starting off down the field. Layne lowered her lance, focusing on Wolfe. He was angry now. She had seen it in his face. He would make a mistake. Or he would knock her silly. Either way, she had to be alert. As they closed, she saw an opening. He had taken off his gloves. She could hit him in the hand! She aimed the lance at his unprotected hand.