Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Morgan nodded, consuming the last of his meal as the faint rumble of commotion of the tournament field grew louder. “One fool with a misaimed blow and my charger would be ruined for good.”

  Bose digested the statement, bobbing his head in agreement. “I shall miss you, then. But we will be unbeatable in the melee.”

  Morgan drained the remaining ale from his cup. “Against Breck Kerry?”

  “Against them all. We will be invincible this day.”

  “Even against Lance du Bonne? It is, after all, his day of celebration. Mayhap you should allow the lad to win, just this once.”

  Bose stared at Morgan a moment; the mere mention of the du Bonne name had been enough to remind him of the elusive du Bonne maiden and, once again, he found himself recollecting her radiant visage.

  “Did you know the du Bonne brothers have a sister?” he asked casually, stroking Antony’s fur when the animal scampered down his arm.

  Rising from the collapsible chair, Morgan grunted as he stretched his tautly-muscled body. “Nay, I had no such knowledge,” he cast a glance as he twisted from side to side. “What about her?”

  Bose shrugged, laboring to appear blasé in manner. “Nothing, I suppose,” he said. “I met her today when we entered the gates. Lance and Ian were chasing her about with pig-masks over their faces, creating a deplorable spectacle. Were I Edward du Bonne, I would lock the lads in the vault for a week or so. That would do enough to age their juvenile spirits.”

  Morgan snorted at the mental vision of Lance and Ian du Bonne with pig-masks over their faces. “Good Lord, what an exhibition. Were those two not such excellent fighters, I would consider them most useless.”

  “Useless indeed.”

  Since Morgan had no helpful knowledge regarding the enigmatic Summer du Bonne, Bose let the subject rest for the moment. Moreover, the melee was rapidly approaching and he needed his focus to prepare for the rough and glorious event. Not strangely, however, it was difficult to force her from his mind as he went about the necessary tasks. It seemed that with every subsequent recollection, it became more and more difficult to rid himself of her consuming memory. God’s Beard, he had scarcely met the woman and already he was unable to forget her. But forget he must if he was going to be of any use in the melee and subsequent joust… until he remembered she would be in attendance.

  Oddly enough, his words to Stephan came back to haunt him. The only chance you will have against me at the tourney is if your sister attends the games. Surely her beauty will distract me so terribly that a mere knave will be able to best me.

  He realized it was the truth.

  Chapter Three

  “Come along, Summer,” Genisa’s squeaky voice was crisp. “The du Bonne men will not wait for us. If we are late, they shall simply leave us behind.”

  Hovering before a long mirror made of rare polished glass, Summer stroked her honey-blond hair with a heavy horse-bristle brush. Using her hands, she curved the lengthy ends into fat curls, knowing the waves would not remain so entirely tame throughout the day’s activities and wondering why she was attempting to make the well-groomed effort.

  But it was a joyful effort nonetheless, considering the event of her very first tournament was less than an hour away. Her excitement was thrilling and debilitating at the same time, and she fought to contain both nerves and nausea.

  “Summer, what are you staring at? We are going to be late!” Frustrated that her pleas were going ignored, Genisa endeavored to relay the seriousness of the situation. Clad in a gown of ice-blue with her pale blond hair properly secured in a bejeweled net, she looked ravishing. “Certainly, if you brush your hair any more, you are going to pull yourself bald. Put the brush aside. We are expected.”

  The brush stopped in mid-stroke as Summer continued to gaze at herself, half-listening to Genisa’s demands and half-ignoring them. Tardy or no, what mattered most at the moment was her outward appearance and she would not proceed before properly and precisely prepared. As Genisa prodded and pleaded, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.

  “You see?” Genisa raised her hands in the air in a beseeching gesture as she moved for the oak panel. “That is Stephan and he shall blister our hides for this delay.”

  True to her prediction, Stephan was indeed lodged in the open doorway. Although his handsome features were somewhat perturbed, he nonetheless tapped his wife affectionately on the chin as he entered the feminine chamber.

  “We are waiting to escort you to the field, ladies,” he said, eyeing his sister still poised before the mirror. “Are you ready?”

  Genisa looked to Summer, a golden goddess from head to toe. When the woman refused to answer, she sighed delicately. “Aye, darling, we are ready. Aren’t we, Summer?”

  After a moment’s reluctance, Summer nodded and set the brush to a table beside her. Clutching a delicately embroidered handkerchief to stave off the unseasonable warmth, she smiled bravely.

  “Aye Stephan. We are ready.”

  He smiled faintly, offering one elbow to his sister and the other to his wife. Escorting the ladies down the smoke-stenched corridor, they descended the wide stairs into the stone-walled entry. Just as they dismounted the last stair, a rotund, cumbersome figure emerged from the shadows in a harried burst of fine silks and wool.

  “Great Gods, ladies,” he exclaimed. “The games are nearly ready to begin.”

  Summer forced a smile at the ruddy man, his sparse hair the color of hers. Releasing her brother’s elbow, she claimed the man’s fleshy arm in a reassuring gesture. “Calm yourself, Father,” she said. “The games cannot b-begin without you.”

  In spite of his agitation, Edward du Bonne could not help but smile at his youngest child. The beautiful girl his wife had perished giving life to, a child so delicate and lovely that he had stared at her for three straight days after her birth in awe and wonder. A female child completely unexpected after three healthy boys, so unanticipated that no feminine names for such an occurrence had been discussed.

  Edward’s wife had been positive that her fourth child was male. After all, there was little doubt since the three preceding pregnancies had resulted in a herd of strong du Bonne sons. Therefore, on a warm summer’s eve eighteen years ago, Edward had been faced with a most pressing decision. Beyond the grief of losing his wife, he was forced to select a name for the unexpected female offspring who had claimed her mother’s existence.

  The baron, unfortunately, was not a clever or particularly attentive man and he lacked the concern to name his new daughter. Giving the child over to a female servant and her spinster daughter, he delegated them the task of naming and caring for his newest, if not particularly wanted, child. The two aging women, unable to think of a properly suitable name and fearful of displeasing the temperamental baron with a less than appropriate selection, made the most convenient, if not logical, selection; Summer Evening du Bonne.

  A name, in fact, that was perfect for her. She was as warm and beautiful as the summer months, soft and fresh and radiant. Even now as the earl gazed into dark golden orbs, he could scarcely recall ever seeing a finer creature. It was a cruel twist of fate that her beauty was marred by a disturbing speech impediment, for she would have made a very fine marriage match for the du Bonne family. Edward had resigned himself to the fact that his beautiful daughter would never know the experience of a decent marriage, and for that he was truly sorry.

  The day was warming as the damp sea breeze caressed the dusty grounds of Chaldon as Edward, Summer, Stephan and Genisa quit the dark-stoned bastion and made their way outside. Summer’s hair whipped about her and she struggled to keep it at bay, knowing the over-brushed curls were vanished and wishing she was married if only so she would have been able to net the unruly mass as Genisa did. As a maiden, however, it was customary to keep one’s head uncovered to show the beauty of a maiden’s hair.

  As the small party neared the edge of the bailey, the tournament field came into focus and Summer forgot all about h
er misbehaving hair. Her focus was completely on the distant cluster of colorful tents, the faint hum of the crowd, and the thunder of the chargers as knights took in a few bouts of last-minute practice.

  Somewhere in the distance, a lute and lyre could be heard entertaining the throng and Summer was about to comment on the beauty of the song when a great black banner caught her attention. It was the same black banner that had saved her from a pig-masked fate. She turned to Stephan.

  “Is that de Moray’s b-banner?” she asked.

  Distracted from a game of slap-and-tickle with his wife, Stephan passed a glance at the towering standard. “Aye,” he replied, casting his sister a curious glance. “How did you know his name?”

  Summer pursed her lips wryly. “Good Heavens, Stephan, you spoke the man’s name and it was only obvious that I should hear you,” turning from her brother, she once again eyed the flapping colors. “Who is he?”

  Stephan took a contemplative breath, adjusting his pinching helm. “God’s Beard, where to begin? What is it you wish to know?”

  She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Everything. For example, do you know how he acquired his unusual name?”

  Stephan shrugged. “Mayhap it is an old, well-used family name.”

  “B-Bose,” Summer repeated softly, drawing out the long “o” until the name sounded like “Bow-z”. “Where does he come from?”

  “He has a keep outside of Salisbury called Ravendark, and he’s been on the tournament circuit for four years,” finding a comfortable position for his helm, Stephan once again glanced to the foreboding standard. “Until he joined our ranks, my competition was limited. Now I am lucky if I run a close second to de Moray’s talents.”

  Strangely, Summer felt a good deal of pleasure at that statement. Her brother was praising the man who had saved her from certain torment and she smiled faintly, feeling oddly attached to the fearsome black banner. “What is that on his standard? I do not recognize the s-symbol.”

  Stephan, disinterested in speaking of a man he would very shortly be competing against, kissed his wife’s hand fondly before lowering his visor. “’Tis a Gorgon.”

  “A Gorgon?”

  “Aye,” Stephan’s voice was muffled behind the steel protection. “They call de Moray the Gorgon because he is massive and dark and ugly. Therefore, the term has become his crest.”

  Summer’s brow furrowed. “I b-believe I have heard of a Gorgon. Isn’t that a demon?”

  Stephan nodded. “Greek demons. Oddly enough, however, they are female, but the very name means ‘dreadful’, which describes de Moray perfectly.”

  Summer’s smile faded as she looked to her brother. Somehow, in calling de Moray ugly, it was inferring that he was imperfect. Flawed. Just like she was, in a sense – her imperfect speech against his imperfect looks. But having never seen the man’s face through his lowered visor, she had no way of disputing Stephan’s claim. After a moment, she turned away and refocused her attention on the field before her.

  “How cruel,” she murmured. “You should not taunt him for his lack of b-beauty.”

  Stephan snorted, catching a glimpse of his charger near the small tent bearing the red and white du Bonne colors. “You have yet to see the man, Summer. Just because he saved you from Ian and Lance’s foolery, do not permit yourself to have any romantic notions regarding his magnificent knightly appearance. In spite of that fact and other nasty rumors regarding his reputation, he has no shortage of admirers.”

  Feeling somewhat defensive on the knight’s behalf, Summer frowned at her arrogant brother. “Rumors that are lies, I am sure. Sir B-bose is noble and chivalrous, unlike several other knights I know who shall remain nameless. Women are able to sense good within a man regardless of his physical appearance.”

  “That is not the reason, my ingenuous little sister,” Stephan said patronizingly, waving to his squire to let the boy know he was on the approach. “The women who pursue de Moray are simply interested in his wealth and nothing more. With all the winnings he has acquired over the four years of tournament play, he is amply loaded with the stuff and the wealth alone is enough to outweigh the darker implications of his name.”

  Bidding his family a distracted farewell, Summer watched her brother stroll across the trampled grass, pondering his words. As Genisa moved to Edward’s free arm, Summer obeyed her father’s insistence that they proceed to the tournament field. After all, the games could not begin without the attendance of the illustrious castle Constable and already they were a half-hour truant.

  Let the games begin.

  *

  “Very well, Bose. Ask me any question about the Lady Summer. I can tell you anything you wish to know.”

  Bose did not look up as he assisted his squire in latching the last of his chest protection. And he furthermore did not look to his confident friend as the young squire finished the final fastens about his massive neck, straightening the mailed hood underneath the plate steel. Only when the lad moved away to collect his master’s gauntlets did Bose fix his onyx-black eyes upon the smug, entirely annoying knight.

  “I told you that I did not want to know anything else about her. There is no need.”

  By the corner of the tent, Morgan looked up from repairing his well-used scabbard. The end of the aged leather was fraying and he was distraught with worry; however, his fret did not prevent him from overhearing Tate’s thoroughly self-satisfied statement.

  “Who is Lady Summer?”

  “No one,” Bose grumbled.

  “A certain lady who seems to have captured our illustrious leader’s attention,” Tate supplied with restrained humor as Bose looked away, fumbling with the gloves offered by the squire. “Although he refuses to admit anything, I am quite confident that he has a moderate interest in her. Am I incorrect, my lord?”

  Bose maintained his silence as Morgan rose from his corner seat, his brown eyes wide with genuine surprise. “God’s Blood, Bose. Is this true? Have you finally found interest in a woman?”

  Yanking on a glove in a distinct exhibition of annoyance, Bose’s black eyes blazed with threat and hazard. “Not in the least. And if Tate isn’t careful, he shall find himself impaled in the melee by my very own weapon. Do I make myself clear, Farnum?”

  Much to Bose’s aggravation, Tate merely snorted humorously to the deadly threat and turned his attention to a still-surprised Morgan. “You should see her, old man. As beautiful as when the world was new,” spacing his hands a foot or so apart, he outlined an obvious female figure. “And her form is in fine shape. Fine, fine shape. My God, I do believe I would have her myself had our liege not expressed interest first.”

  Morgan stared at the snickering young knight, hardly believing what he had heard. To declare that the omnipotent, focused Bose de Moray was interested in a woman was beyond his scope of comprehension. A smile of hope creased his lips. “Who is she?”

  Casting Bose a long glance from the corner of his eye to make sure the man was paying attention, Tate crossed his arms smugly. “She is the Lady Summer du Bonne, a mere eighteen years old one week ago today. She is unmarried, unpledged, and unattached. And from what I have been able to discover, something of a hermit. Her father keeps her under constant isolation for reasons I have been unable to ascertain.”

  Although his manner indicated a lack of interest, Bose was nonetheless listening carefully to Tate’s information. As his squire secured his remaining gauntlet, he struggled between the instinct to demand more of Tate’s knowledge on the woman and the urge to deny the situation. Bewildered and confused, for the moment, denying his interest was the only manner of self-preservation he could think of…at least, until he could come to better understand the chaos for himself.

  “I am not surprised to discover you been wasting your time in pursuit of useless knowledge when there is a tournament to be had.” Determined to move from the subject, he gestured sharply to Morgan. “Did you finish repairing your scabbard? And what about your horse? Have you checked on th
e animal since Artur wrapped his leg?”

  Morgan’s gaze was even at his brusque lord; since it was rare that Bose display any emotion whatsoever, he was able to deduce by his sharp mannerisms that Tate’s ramblings held a measure of truth. But how much truth? If for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity, Morgan was determined to find out.

  “Whether I tend the beast now or at tournament time will be of little difference in how correctly the leg has healed. Clearly, I have done all I can,” turning to Tate, he met the man’s twinkling eyes. “Is that all you discovered about the Lady Summer? What of her schooling, her beau?”

  Tate shook his head, struggling not to look at Bose as he spoke. “Apparently, she did not leave home to foster and from what I have been told, she has not entertained a single suitor. Most strange, considering the woman is lovelier than any female I have yet to witness.”

  Morgan cocked an eyebrow. “Lavish praise coming from a man who had known his share of feminine companionship,” he said. “But I do believe your clues are obvious – there must be something wrong with the woman. Mayhap beneath the beauty and grace, she harbors the temperament of a shrew.”

  Tate sensed the game, taking the lead. “God be merciful, I should have realized. ’Tis the only explanation. Mayhap… mayhap she harbors a hideous defect. Like a third leg hidden beneath her gown, or a chest carpeted with hair.”

  Morgan made a distasteful face. “Good Lord, I can hardly imagine running my lips over breasts as hairy as mine,” suddenly, his unpleasant expression turned to one of overstated dismay, his eyes bulging with mock horror. “What… what if she is not a woman at all? What if she is truly a man, merely dressing as a woman?”

  “An incubus!”

  “A demon!”

  “A sorceress! Good Lord, a sorcerer!”

  “A…!”

  “Enough!” Bose finally roared, out of character for his normally restrained disposition. Turning away from the sword he had been fumbling with, his dark face was lined with irritation. “I have heard enough from the two of you. No more talk of hairy chests or men wearing women’s clothing. And I do not want to hear another word regarding Summer du Bonne. Do you comprehend?”