Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Ian, suddenly finding his voice, ripped off the pig mask and moved quickly to his sister, tearing the woman free of de Moray’s grip.

  “This is our sister, the Lady Summer du Bonne,” he said, feeling humiliated for the chaos he and his brother had caused. “And the other lady is Stephan’s wife, Lady Genisa.”

  Bose de Moray hardly heard a word beyond the mention of Summer’s name; for the first time, he was able to catch a clear glimpse at the face of the woman he had saved and to say that the angels had granted her the essence of supreme beauty would have been a gross understatement. In truth, he hadn’t seen her coming at first; he had been focused on other tasks and had not the time to allow something as common as a scream to attract his valuable attention.

  But he regretted his decision not to pay attention. Only when she slammed against his chest had he been aware of her presence and even then, he was only able to sense her panic and his warrior instincts kicked in. The two pig-masked fiends had not been difficult to isolate and his sword was drawn even as he grasped the frenzied woman to steady her. Only now, as the situation became clear, was he able to comprehend her unearthly beauty.

  For a moment, he was actually speechless. Her glorious radiance had managed to rob him of his tongue and he swallowed, attempting to regain the power of speech. Gazing upon the woman of porcelain cheeks and unusual golden eyes, he swore the longer he stared at her, the more his language skills threatened to dissolve completely.

  “My lady,” he sounded remarkably composed. “’Tis indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I had no idea my foolish comrades even had a sister.”

  Her flawless cheeks mottled with a lovely blush. As a faint smile creased her lips, Bose was absolutely enchanted. But his haze of fascination was disturbed as Ian grasped Summer by the arm, forcibly escorting her away.

  “If you will excuse us, my lord, my sister is feeling… fatigued,” he said, casting Summer an expression that indicate she dare not disagree. “I will apologize for her clumsy manners, however. I do hope your armor was not scratched.”

  “She would not have been clumsy had you not been chasing her with your usual tact,” Bose returned quietly, not at all pleased that Ian was removing her. “I will forgive her completely. But you are another matter.”

  With Summer clutched in his grip, Ian paused uncertainly and was preparing a calm, mayhap more placating reply, when Stephan laughed softly and interrupted the exchange.

  “Ian fears you already, my lord,” he said. “If you threaten him any further, he shall surely hide for the rest of the day and I need him on my team if I am to have a fighting chance against you in the tourney.”

  Bose continued to stare at Ian and his beautiful sister, gazing at the lady far more than her flushed brother. After a moment, he bobbed his head vaguely.

  “The only chance you will have against me at the tourney is if your sister attends the games,” his voice was calm. “Surely her beauty will distract me so that a mere knave will be able to best me.”

  Stephan chuckled again, passing a glance at his pink-cheeked sister. “She shall be there, my lord. I doubt all of the armies in England could keep her from attending her first tournament.”

  Before Bose could reply, Ian whisked Summer through the crowd and into the keep. Bose watched her mount the ramp into the fore building of the massive keep with a good deal of confusion, wondering why Ian had refused to allow her to respond to his greeting.

  For whatever the reason, Bose found himself unexpectedly preoccupied by the brief vision of the lovely Lady Summer. Even when his men began dismantling the troops in preparation for erecting their encampment near the tournament field, Bose was distracted. Stephan, having other duties to attend to, excused himself and his wife with an additional apology on his family’s behalf.

  But Bose was barely aware of the departure of his host. His mind was still fixated on the image of the golden-eyed maiden, so much so that he hardly heard the familiar voice at his side.

  “Farl and Adgar have proceeded to the field to establish our perimeter,” the armor-clad knight informed his lord. “Artur went with them and took the horses.”

  “And Morgan?”

  The warrior shook his head. “He’s still having trouble with his charger. He’s taken the horse directly to the field in an attempt to lessen the swelling of his fetlock.”

  Bose sighed heavily, forcing himself to abandon thoughts of the du Bonne sister. “No wonder the steed is lame,” he mumbled. “He is as old as Morgan is.”

  Turning for the portal that led from the bailey, they headed toward the gaily decorated field below. A du Bonne servant clad in red and white escorted them from the courtyard, a man assigned to the de Moray party to answer any questions or service any needs. But Bose ignored the hovering servant as he and his companion strolled down the embankment toward the tournament arena.

  “God’s Beard,” Bose muttered as he neared the cluster of bright tents. “The Kerrys are here.”

  “So I noticed. Did not you see their colors as we rode in?”

  Bose shook his head. “Nay, but I certainly should have,” he sighed heavily, raising his visor to release the steaming heat saturating his heavily-lined helm. “Tate, I demand you burn their tent to the ground and all occupants within it. I have no desire to go against Breck Kerry this day.”

  Tate Farnum, young and arrogant with a beautiful crown of auburn hair and milky skin that would have made a woman proud, snorted humorously. “What you mean to say is that you do not wish to compete against Asa Kerry’s son.”

  “Asa and I served together under Hubert de Burgh,” Bose said. “Of course I do not want to compete against his spoiled, pimple-faced son. The boy is a menace to the honorable knights competing on the tournament circuit with his unscrupulous tactics and barbaric methods.”

  Tate nodded faintly, gazing at the bright yellow and white tent. “He broke Stephan du Bonne’s wrist last year. Truthfully, I am surprised to see him here at all.”

  Bose’s onyx-black eyes studied the elaborate shelter and waving banners, announcing to the world that the House of Kerry was present. From the subject of Breck Kerry one moment to Stephan du Bonne the next, Bose was reminded again of the delicious Lady Summer. Since it was apparently futile to forget the woman, he struggled to appear casual as he spoke of her.

  “What do you know of Stephan’s sister?” he asked nonchalantly. “I did not even know the du Bonne brothers had a sister.”

  Tate liked to believe himself well informed about everything; sometimes, in fact, his hunger for gossip exceeded that of the most curious woman and Bose was constantly chiding him for the fact. But in a situation such as this, it might actually prove useful if he had heard anything about the fair Lady Summer.

  “This is the first I have seen of the girl,” Tate replied. “But a beauty, to be sure; no wonder the du Bonnes have been hiding her.”

  Moving into the cluster of tents with their du Bonne servant in tow, the area was alive with squires and soldiers, milling about in orderly chaos as they went about their duties in anticipation for the approaching tournament. Bose ignored the rabble for the most part, his mind still focused on the subject of conversation as he and Tate made their way toward the half-pitched black and white tent well removed from the cluster of shelters.

  “How old do you suppose she is?” Bose asked, realizing with dismay that he sounded eager to know.

  Tate sensed the curiosity and cast his liege a long glance. “God’s Blood, Bose. Do I detect a hint of genuine interest in the woman?”

  Immediately on-guard with Tate’s knowing query, Bose averted his gaze stubbornly. “Answer the damn question. How old is she?”

  Tate grinned; he had served the mighty Bose de Moray for six years, becoming acquainted with a man of little emotion and even less sentiment. He had found service with the dark knight during Bose’s years as Captain of the King’s Household Guard and had subsequently chosen to follow his superior officer when the man res
igned his post shortly after the death of his beloved wife.

  The Bose de Moray he had come to know before the passing of the Lady Lora had been a hard man to please, fair and intelligent and incredibly skilled. And even though the man had a face of stone, revealing little of his thoughts and earning the reputation as a man who had not yet learned to smile, still, there was compassion behind the coal-black eyes. But Tate, and others, believed that compassion had disappeared the very moment Bose’s wife had perished in childbirth.

  Tate had seen the last of his liege’s compassion four years ago. From that moment on, it was as if Lora’s death had stolen something away from him. The resulting individual spared little time for rest or humor, seemingly possessed to keep on the constant move. Tournaments, competitions, any sort of game that required skill and rewarded money, Bose would find himself a part of. It was as if he had to keep moving, fearful that if he stopped the grief that was following him would catch up.

  So he kept running. Tate ran with him, too, as did three other knights who had served Bose when he was Captain of the King’s Guard. Men who were more loyal to de Moray than to young King Henry considered it an honor to continue to serve a knight who seemed determined to forget about his past.

  “Who is to say?” Tate finally replied. “I would wager to guess that she is no more than twenty years at the most. Far too young for you.”

  Bose didn’t reply as they neared his tent. Just as they closed in on the structure, a large knight with a bushy red mustache raised a massive standard of black, white and silver, announcing that the House of de Moray had arrived. As Tate continued to eye Bose in anticipation of a reply to his taunting statement, his liege seemed intent to ignore him.

  “Farl,” Bose boomed. “Make sure my charger’s shoes are checked. He was moving strangely, as if a shoe was loose.”

  The burly knight nodded faintly. “Your squire has taken the beast to Artur, who is examining him as we speak,” he replied. “They are under the large gnarled oak near the small ravine to the west.”

  Bose glanced over his shoulder in the indicated direction, noting the aged oak in the distance and several forms clustered beneath its heavy branches. With a faint nod, he shifted his attention and moved away from Tate to inspect the lashings of his large tent. But the auburn-haired knight followed on his heels; Bose could feel the man behind him, his smirking grin igniting a blaze of annoyance. After testing one of the iron stakes himself, he turned to his smug subordinate.

  “Do not you have tasks requiring your attention?” he growled.

  Tate shrugged lazily. “A few that can be taken care of in a matter of minutes. I’d much rather talk about the Lady Summer.”

  Jaw ticking, Bose turned away from his knight and focused on the tent once more. “If you value your life, you will vacate my presence.”

  Snorting, Tate took a step back but did not depart as ordered. “Come now, Bose,” he clucked softly. “If you wish me to find out something about the woman, then all you need do is ask. There is no one better at discerning information than I.”

  A ticking jaw was now joined by grinding teeth as Bose moved along the tent, inspecting the tarp as Tate lingered several feet away.

  “There is nothing more I wish to know,” he said as steadily as he could manage. “Go and see to my charger. And send Artur to me when he is finished.”

  Corners of his mouth still twitching, Tate did as he was told. He knew that Bose’s patience was not limitless. Any more lingering on the part of the young knight and he would surely find himself bruised. But he knew, even as he moved away from the black and white tent, that he would seek Bose’s answers even if the man was too stubborn to ask his assistance.

  Listening to Tate’s fading footfalls, Bose knew all too well that the young knight would seek answers to his questions. He would have been a fool to believe otherwise, and a part of him was glad for the inquisitive nature of Tate Farnum. But another part of him was embarrassed for wanting to know about Lady Summer at all.

  With a grunt of frustration, Bose began to unpack several of the satchels lining the tent. A small cherrywood table emerged from a large box, as did two collapsible chairs. The more he worked, the clearer his mind became as thoughts of his lovely acquaintance faded from focus and soon he was joined by three male servants who had been procuring food for the nooning meal.

  The smell of roast beef was enough to make him forget his troubles entirely as he delved into a trencher of the succulent meat. As the servants unpacked the remainder of the boxes, Bose devoured a huge plate of beef and carrots. He had barely finished mopping up the gravy with a thick slab of bread when the tent flap was abruptly ruffled by a familiar figure.

  “I see you waited for me,” came the droll salutation. “Good Lord, man, you ate everything but the table.”

  Bose nodded, his mouth full. “And that is in jeopardy as well.”

  The knight chuckled softly as he entered the tent, depositing a satchel of personal items against the wall. As the man fumbled about in the leather sack, Bose wiped his mouth against a linen square and eyed his crouched companion.

  “He’s in there, somewhere. I put him in there myself.”

  The knight nodded, almost irritably. “Good Lord, that rat has nested in here. I will never get him out.”

  Swallowing the last of his meal, Bose quaffed deeply from his wooden cup. “Antony is not a rat. He is a ferret and far more valuable to me than you are, my aged friend.”

  The knight shook his head; although Bose had meant the words in jest, they were true. Nothing meant more to the man than his dead wife’s spoiled little pet. The small beast was the sole focus of his liege’s guarded affection, having kept the fuzzy creature close to his heart since the day of Lora’s passing. Certainly, the warrior could hardly fault his lord the lone sentimental attachment.

  “His droppings are all over my bag,” the knight moaned, his searching hand finally coming to rest on the article of his search. With a squeak, Antony revealed himself from the warm hovel of the older warrior’s bag and found himself deposited on his master’s lap.

  In a rare flash of gentleness, Bose stroked the gray and white ferret. “Greetings, my pooping friend.” As the little animal snaked its way up Bose’s torso, perching comfortably on his shoulder, Bose held out a small green apple for the beast’s approval. “Your dinner, Antony. And eat neatly, if you would. I’ll not have apple peel all over my mail.”

  Having shaken out his satchel of animal waste, the older knight once again pushed the satchel against the shelter wall and made his way to the table. As he drew himself the other collapsible chair, a servant entered the tarp with a full trencher of food. Placing it before the knight, the servant moved to the opposite end of the large shelter and began setting out the furs and bedding.

  “Give Antony a piece of bread, Morgan,” Bose said as he listened to the hearty crunch of apple in his ear. “I have none to give him.”

  Morgan Skye cocked a graying eyebrow, dutifully handing over a thick crust. Nearing the ripe age of forty years, he had seen nearly twenty years of service within the crown’s ranks. As athletic and spry as men half his years, he continued to compete in tournaments and games when other men his age were well removed from the physical strains of life. When he should have been anticipating the winter of his life, Morgan served as an inspiration to others who considered retiring because of their advancing years.

  “Good Lord,” he hissed as Bose stole a carrot off his plate. “Get that hairy rat his own trencher and leave mine alone.”

  Bose repressed a smile as his furry friend devoured the carrot. “Antony loves you, Morgan. How can you be so selfish?”

  “Easily. I do not take kindly to an alleged friend defecating all over my baggage.”

  “What did you expect? He’s been sealed within your satchel for hours.”

  Morgan swallowed his substantial bite, eyeing Bose as he drank deeply of the medium-bodied ale. “Next time, the rat can ride in your possessi
ons. I refuse to carry him any longer.”

  Bose cocked an eyebrow, the glimmer of mirth in his eyes fading. “My bags are always too full.”

  Morgan shook his head. “That is a lie and you know it. You insist that the rat ride within my possessions because you are terrified someone will discover your weakness for this hairy beast. It is much easier to explain my attachment to such a pet due to my age or some other sort of nonsense. Who would ever believe the great Bose de Moray capable of fondness for a ferret?”

  Bose scratched Antony’s nose with massive fingers, his black eyes glittering across the dim tent. “I am not ashamed of Antony.”

  Again, Morgan shook his head. How many times had they shared this conversation? “Nay, you are not ashamed of the bearded rat. But you are ashamed that a mighty warrior of your station should be firmly committed to a foolish little animal. Why not admit the truth, Bose? No one would fault you for your attachment to your deceased wife’s pet.”

  Bose looked away, his black eyes pondering the dim surrounding of the black and white tent. In the far corner, the servant raised a small flap for ventilation and illumination, but Bose ordered the man to seal the breach. He had a difficult enough time keeping his ferret protected from the world without the additional exposure of an open window.

  “What about your charger?” Bose’s voice was subdued as he changed the subject. He did not want to argue about the only bit of tenderness within his dark life. “Is the beast lame?”

  Morgan mopped his trencher with a piece of bread. “He’s got a genuine strain, but I would not go so far as to say that he is lame. Artur has made a healing mash and has the leg securely wrapped. I suppose time will tell.”

  As Antony crawled about his master’s neck, his beady eyes glittering in the faint illumination, Bose poured himself more ale. “Will you avoid the joust altogether and simply concentrate on the melee?”