The proud Gorgon banner flapped sharply in the brisk sea wind, silently saluting the onset of a mild evening. Summer ripped up clods of grass, venting her turmoil and wondering why God had saddled her with so horrible an affliction. She oft made a conscious effort not to stammer her speech, speaking slowly and distinctly. And sometimes, her efforts worked. But more often than not, she would forget her slowed pace and return to her natural pattern and stuttering syllables.
Sir Bose wasn’t to blame for his unwillingness to defy her father’s denial. In truth, she did not blame him; she blamed her father for his sense of pride, unwilling to expose his daughter to a potential suitor and thereby release the secret of her speech impediment. And once Sir Bose discovered her imperfection, certainly, he would formulate his own rejection.
But, Dear God, somehow she wished he would be able to overlook her flaw in lieu of her better qualities. As if, somehow, he would be able to tolerate her stammering in lieu of coming to know the woman beneath the defect. Dear God… she wished he would be different from the rest.
The sun descended in the western sky, turning the colors from blue to orange to gold; still, Summer continued to sit beneath the old oak tree in gloomy silence. As dusk drew nigh and the damp sea breeze turned cold and wet, still, she sat and pondered her impending future. Realizing that, indeed, she appeared not to have one at all.
*
In spite of the fact that the evening meal should have been a victory celebration, there was very little happiness at all. Within the encampment of the House of de Moray, the mood was oddly sullen and strangely quiet. As the knights in Bose’s service commenced their meal of mutton, onions and sweetened carrots, there was far less joviality than usual. Little talk, meaningless banter, and at the head of the silence sat none other than Bose himself.
A trencher of half-eaten mutton sat before him, cooling and scarcely touched. On his right, Morgan picked through his meal in respectful silence, eyeing Tate now and again to make sure the knight had every intention of keeping his mouth shut on the subject of Lady Summer. To make sure they all kept their mouths shut. There was not one man among the morose crowd that wished to broach the truth.
They had all seen Bose ride to the dais with the intention of speaking to the beautiful young woman. And they had all seen the lady escorted from his presence. What could have been a potentially pleasing situation turned dark and moody the moment the lady left his company.
Even after the lady had long since vanished, Bose had remained silent and pensive and isolated, poised before the lodges that had once been filled with people screaming his name. There was no one left to congratulate the victor; not even the only woman from whom he would have gladly accepted the accolades. So he turned away from the vacant seats and returned to his encampment, empty-handed and closed mouth.
There was not one man in the tent that hadn’t suspected Bose’s purpose when he boldly approached the dais. Knowing their lord as they did, his reserved nature and disinterest toward life in general, it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage for him to initiate the action. And further knowing the man as they did, there wasn’t one man in the tent immune to the sting of rejection their liege was experiencing.
Beyond Morgan’s pensive silence and Tate’s deliberate quiet, Farl McCorkle eyed his liege with a good deal of sympathy. A massive, burly Irishman, he had served with Bose for several years within the Household Guard. His bushy red eyebrows and overgrown mustache almost gave him the appearance of an unkempt heathen; in truth, there was no finer warrior in the heat of battle and Bose considered himself fortunate to warrant the man’s loyalty.
Seated next to the crusty Irish knight was a diminutive warrior by the name of Adgar Ross. Where his Celtic counterpart was brawny, loud and curt, Adgar by contrast was quiet, well-manicured and faintly handsome. Nearly as old as Morgan, in spite of his small stature and meek manner he was a fierce fighter and an intelligent tactician. Bose and Adgar had carried on many a conversation regarding battle methods and maneuvers before competition, establishing a winning pattern that carried through to this very day.
Aye, Farl and Adgar were worth their weight in gold as far as Bose was concerned. As in the melee today, they had been powerful contenders who had lasted admirably. But this night, their usual advice and commentary regarding the day’s match was unwanted by their brooding liege. Having been advised of the circumstances regarding a certain young lady, the two knights maintained their respectful silence just like the others.
That is, all except for Artur. Bose’s great-uncle wasn’t a knight, nor had he ever been. He was a tiny old man born with a crippled arm that had prevented him from training as a proper knight. In spite of his defect, Artur possessed the extreme de Moray trait of determination. He had fostered in a fine household and although unable to participate in actual knightly training, he nonetheless learned all he was able and soon took to training knights himself, working in apprenticeship with a collection of powerful warriors.
Artur had helped train Bose’s father, and Bose himself when he had come of age. Throughout his grand-nephew’s years of service as Captain of the Guard, Artur had been at the forefront of organizing and instructed the captain’s men. Bose refused to be without the little man – he may have been stubborn, private and independent, but he was extremely loyal to those closest to him. ’Twas a tightly knit group encompassing the House of de Moray, protective and strong, and if Bose never accomplished another feat of glory in his life, he would have gone to his grave extremely proud of the life and relationships he had nurtured.
“Why would not the baron let you speak with his daughter, Bose?” Artur finally asked the fateful question they had all been pondering for the better part of an hour. “Did you offend him somehow?”
Morgan and Tate looked to each other, waiting for their liege to explode. Although Bose wasn’t a naturally violent man, he had been known to break furniture on occasion when pushed beyond his limits. Farl simply pretended he hadn’t heard the question while Adgar focused on his half-finished meal. When his grand-nephew did not answer right away, the old man pushed.
“What did you do, Bose?”
On his fourth cup of ale, Bose contemplated his pewter chalice in silence. After a lengthy pause, during which Artur grunted an additional measure of encouragement, he grasped the cup and drained the contents. Morgan refilled it immediately.
“In faith, I do not know,” his baritone voice was hoarse with fatigue and alcohol. “I suppose I am not considered a fine enough prospect for the baron’s lovely daughter.”
“Posh,” Artur spat, shuffling across the floor and shoving Tate from his chair. Taking the man’s seat, he focused intently on his brooding nephew. “You are as fine a knight as has ever lived, Bose, and certainly a suitable match for a baron’s daughter.”
Faintly, Bose shook his head. “It’s not the fact that she is a mere baron’s daughter. She is so damn beautiful that surely they are awaiting a more… attractive prospect.”
“Rubbish!” Artur crowed, jabbing a gnarled finger into the man’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong with your appearance. So you have a few scars; so what? There’s not one perfect individual upon the face of the earth, including Lord du Bonne’s daughter, I’d wager. Surely the girl has a flaw.”
“Not this girl.”
Artur shook his head in exasperation. “You are too quick to praise and too quick to concede defeat. The Bose I know would not have given up as easily as this. Are you so lacking in confidence that you will not fight for what you want?”
Bose’s brow furrowed with confusion and he took another hearty draw of ale. After a lengthy hesitation, he emitted a loud sigh. “God’s Beard, Artur, I never said I wanted the girl. I merely wished to ask for her favor and suddenly, everyone is acting as if my marriage proposal was rejected.”
“’Tis because you are acting in the same manner. I would tend to believe that you want more than a favor from the girl.”
Looking into
Artur’s face for the first time, it was an effort for Bose to scowl convincingly. “You are mad,” he hissed, draining his cup and rising from the table. Still clad in his mail tunic and plate armor, he wandered away from the table. “How would you know what I am feeling? You’ve never even seen the woman; you are basing your observations on what these fools are telling you. They insist I am somehow in love with a woman I do not even know, and you believe them.”
“I believe my eyes and ears and instincts. And they are confirming what I have been told.”
Bose grunted with frustration, turning away from the collection of men huddled about the small cherrywood table. “You are all mad. The woman means absolutely nothing to me.”
“Then why are you so troubled?”
Bose stared at the half-open tent flap, his frustration fading as he pondered Artur’s softly-uttered question. God’s Beard, why was he so troubled? He’d never spoken to the Lady Summer; he’d seen her barely twice and the relationship they shared was purely one of smiles and glances and nothing more. There was no physical contact involved, no stolen kisses, nothing whatsoever to warrant a strong emotional attachment.
… then why was he so troubled?
“I am not troubled by the lady,” his reply filled the drawn-out pause. “’Twould seem that my collection of knights is intent to exaggerate the situation and for that, I am indeed distressed. Now hurry and finish your meals and be out of my sight.”
The order was taken literally. Those with food remaining on their trenchers began to shove huge bites into their mouths. But Artur continued to stare at the dark warrior and knowing that there was far more supporting the refusals of his interest in the lady than he was willing to voice.
“It’s Margot, isn’t it?” the old man’s voice was quiet. “She has managed to convince you that any normal interest you should experience for a woman is a direct insult to Lora’s memory.”
Bose looked to his grand-uncle, the onyx-black eyes smoldering with restrained emotion. “She has not convinced me of anything. And you will not bring Lora into this.”
“The old bitch has you chained to her daughter’s memory as if you were an eternal prisoner.” Artur was unafraid of his hulking nephew’s wrath; when speaking of Margot or Lora, the calm persona that was the epitome of Bose’s character saw a rapid collapse. Artur was genuinely distressed over the peculiar power Margot seemed to wield against her son-in-law, a strength Bose oddly refused to acknowledge.
“Do you not see what she is doing to you, Bose?” the old man hissed pleadingly. “She is controlling you through her dead daughter and you are allowing her to do so.”
Bose’s cheek ticked faintly as he eyed his uncle a long moment. “I will not discuss this with you, uncle. Not tonight.”
“So you are not. ’Tis I who am discussing it with you. Margot has persuaded you to live only for Lora’s memory and not for the future that lies ahead. What if this Lady Summer is someone with whom you could arrange a satisfactory contract? Will you give it all up for the ramblings of a bitter old woman and the memory of her dead daughter?”
Bose’s face mottled a dull red. Had he not forced himself to turn away, he most likely would have said or done something unreasonable.
“Good knights, if your meal is concluded, then be gone with you,” he said quietly. “The joust is on the morrow and I will insist my men retire early.”
Tate needed no further encouragement. He had already provoked his liege well beyond the limits this day and from his liege’s current mood after Artur’s pestering, suspected it would be wise to make himself scarce. Farl and Adgar abruptly lifted themselves from their chairs, determined to finish their food elsewhere. This was not a place they wanted to be.
Only Morgan and Artur were left, alternately staring at each other and the massive man frozen near the shelter opening. Seeing that it would be of no use to press the topics of Margot or the obscure Lady Summer, Artur wisely concluded to rest both subjects. All thoughts of Bose’s manipulative mother-in-law aside, he would again press the focus of the mysterious woman with the next opportunity.
“Where’s Antony?” Bose shifted the focus.
Artur looked around, disinterestedly at first, but with more conviction when Morgan leapt from his chair and joined the search.
“He was here when we commenced with our meal,” Morgan replied, sifting through the bedding at the opposite side of the tent. “I fed him a piece of bread.”
Bose’s brow furrowed as he began to search, looking under the table and chairs, rummaging through the boxes and satchels. But as the search progressed and still no ferret, Bose realized that his clever friend must have escaped the tent.
“God’s Beard,” he hissed, more frightened that Antony would come to harm than he was for the fact that his secretive pet would be discovered. “I have got to find him. Come along, Morgan, and help me search. He knows you.”
Without hesitation, Morgan quit the tent in pursuit of his liege, leaving Artur to finish combing the far reaches of the tent. But the old man realized that the black-eyed animal was not within the boundaries of the black and white shelter. If he did not end up as mashed guts beneath the hooves of a charger or the main course of a peasant’s meal, it would be a miracle.
But Artur believed in miracles. Slowing his search, he lowered his weary body to Bose’s comfortable chair and sighed deeply, listening to the cries of the nightbird. Even as his thoughts were focused on his nephew’s attachment to the pet, somewhere in the midst of gray and white fuzz again came thoughts of a certain young lady. He wondered if the lady liked ferrets, too.
Chapter Five
“Damnation!” came the foul roar. “You did that on purpose!”
“Quit your bellowing and allow me to finish.”
Small, piercing blue eyes glared daggers at the aged physic as the man finished the last of the stitches. When he was finished, the injured man with the unruly mass of bright red hair snatched the pewter hand mirror from the table beside him and peered intently at his reflection.
“Damnation,” he spewed again with far less volume. “It will leave a scar. Just inside my hairline.”
“With all of your hair, who will notice?” A younger man with a lighter shade of the same color hair lounged against the furs on the floor, staring up at his older brother. “Be thankful the gash was not across your cheek.”
The man bearing the stitches tossed the mirror aside in disgust, ordering the physic away with a curt command. When the aged healer quit the tent with his usual slow pace, the injured man poured himself a healthy draught of ale.
“Easy on the drink, Breck,” the younger man said. “You know your head will be aching come the morning if you consume too much. And you must be clear-headed for the joust.”
“Aye,” Breck mumbled into his cup. “Clear-headed to return de Moray’s favor.”
The man on the floor snickered softly. “Your own helm gashed your scalp.”
“With de Moray’s assistance,” Breck turned to face his far less serious younger brother. The man simply would not realize a grave situation if it walked up and slapped him in the face. “Think, you idiot. I would not have slashed my scalp had de Moray not shoved me to the ground. I was lucky I wasn’t trampled.”
Duncan Kerry laughed again, much to his brother’s annoyance. “Had he wanted you to be trampled, you would have been.”
Breck stared at his brother a moment before turning away, pondering the world outside of the lavishly furnished tent. Beyond were a sea of vibrantly hued tarpaulins of various houses and provinces. Men he had fought against before, a number of times, and men he had beaten on more than one occasion. A plethora of losers prepared to bow at his mighty feet. Except for de Moray.
It was always the same with him. A brutal fight, a decisive defeat – Breck’s defeat. Aye, he’d come close to beating de Moray on occasion, but never close enough. Never close enough to inflict enough damage that would send the powerful knight to the ground. Whether it be i
n the melee or joust, the story was consistently similar – Bose’s victory and Breck’s rout.
Today was no exception. Breck had fought admirably until the end, finally put down by none other than de Moray himself before the man moved on to do final battle with Stephan du Bonne. More angry than injured, Breck had left the field in disgrace, watching the final duel as the crowd roared wildly with approval. Approval that should have been meant for him.
It had been a bitter defeat to concede. Breck and Duncan were considered powerful contenders on the circuit, following in the legacy of their recently departed father. Breck knew that his tactics were looked upon by some of the other knights as brutal and unscrupulous. It was a mere difference of opinion, of course. Breck saw nothing inequitable in striking a fallen man in the melee, provided he wasn’t seen by a herald and disqualified, or using quick, sudden movements in the joust to unseat or injure his opponent.
“I do not suppose the heralds would allow me to use my spear-tipped joust pole as opposed to the crows-foot point,” he muttered casually, far calmer than he had been moments earlier. Turning to cast a devilish, glance to his brother, he raised his red eyebrows quizzically. “Nay? Well, then, I must think of another way to defeat de Moray.”
“God’s Toes, Breck, what were you going to do with the spear-tip? Gore him?” Duncan sat up from his pile of furs, shaking his head. “Even for you, that is a rather barbaric maneuver. Moreover, the very second you planted the spear, his knights would be all over you. You would never have a chance against them.”
Breck shrugged, listening to a dog bay somewhere in the distance as the moon rose. “As I said, I’ll have to think of another way to best him,” he began to pick at his big, crooked teeth. “Did you see him ride toward the lodges today after his victory? He appeared to speak with Lord du Bonne.”
Medieval Romantic Legends Page 7