Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Summer and Genisa watched Stephan depart in proud silence, their smiles fading as Breck Kerry gruffly rode past, rubbing at his shoulder and adjusting his helm. As Genisa sighed dreamily and returned to her cushioned seat, Summer turned her gaze to the last of the trio that had yet to depart.

  Bose sat atop his charger, fumbling with the neck of his helm. Summer continued to stand at the edge of the platform, her heart beating wildly against her ribs as she watched him. His visor was up and he was looking at her, his face emotionless, until he finally appeared satisfied with whatever his thick fingers had been toying with.

  Summer’s breathing quickened as the charcoal gray charger moved slowly to the edge of the lodge, the beast amazingly calm and showing little of the agitation it had displayed earlier. Bose’s thigh grazed the edge of the platform, by Summer’s feet, as his rugged features gazed up at her intently.

  “Are you certain he did not insult you?” he asked quietly, with genuine concern. “Breck Kerry is not one of the more chivalrous knights on the circuit.”

  She shook her head. “’Tis sweet of you to ask, b-but again I say he did not,” her gentle expression faded somewhat. “However, he said some terrible things about you. I was going to punish him myself before you rode to my aid.”

  Bose cracked a smile, a charming lopsided gesture. “Your vengeance on my behalf will be unnecessary, my lady. Beating him in the joust will be punishment enough.”

  She matched his smile, lifting an arrogant eyebrow. “You promised to b-beat them all, my lord. I will hold you to that vow.”

  “And I shall,” again, the piercing notes of the silver trumpet filled the brisk sea air and Bose turned in the direction of the heralds, obviously impatient to get on with the game. With a faint nod, as if acknowledging the silent gazes fixed upon him, he returned his attention to Summer one last time. “I am afraid my time has come. I do hope you enjoy the joust far more than the melee.”

  Summer tore her eyes away from him long enough to note that Breck had taken up station on the opposite side of the field, retrieving his lance and shield from a young squire. “So do I,” she replied, once again fixing him with her golden gaze. “Take great care, my lord. I should not like it if my favor b-brought bad fortune upon you.”

  Bose suddenly dug into the fold between his breastplate and armor, drawing forth a familiar small white kerchief. Bringing it to his nostrils, he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes at the blissful evocations of the rose scent. With a smile, he opened his gaze to Summer’s beautiful face. Kissing the white linen, he returned it to its safe, armored haven.

  “Although I should like to have the final encouragement Stephan obtained, I will refrain from asking,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Your brother did not want to me to speak with you before the joust and were I to steal a kiss as well, I would undoubtedly incur his wrath. Ian’s and Lance’s, too, I suspect.”

  A faint pink mottled Summer’s cheeks as her gaze lingered on her strong champion for a moment. Averting her eyes, for she knew he was required at the far side of the field to obtain his lance, she turned for her cushioned chair.

  “B-But you would not incur mine,” she said softly.

  Bose watched, his entire body flooded with a surge of excitement and encouragement, as she elegantly took her seat. Her cheeks were flaming madly and she refused to look at him, and he slammed his visor closed, digging his spurs into the smooth black sides of his charger. Reliving her words the entire jaunt back to his starting position, there was no doubt in his mind that he would win this tourney.

  Chapter Eight

  Artur and the knights were waiting for him when he returned to the starting post. They had all seen the confrontation between Bose and Stephan, and the subsequent encounter between Bose and Breck. Therefore, it stood to reason that they were also well aware of the ensuing conversation between their liege and the lovely lady after the scuffling had subsided. There wasn’t a man among them not extremely curious to know what had transpired; Bose de Moray in the middle of a contest for a lady’s affection was an unknown event.

  But the moment Bose joined the ranks of his men, the group was wise enough to bank their curiosity in lieu of preparing their liege for the coming bout. If Bose suspected the wild interest, which of course he did, it was apparent he was unwilling to elaborate on the subject. Retrieving his pole from Tate, Farl handed the man his shield as Artur fussed over the destrier’s impeccable armor.

  “This beast’s chamfrom is off-center,” the old man grumbled, struggling with the face armor of the horse. “And your caparison is nearly disheveled. How did this happen?”

  Bose adjusted his lance, balancing the pole under his arm as he tightened his gauntlets. Tate and Morgan straightened the banner across the horse’s body that Artur had accused of being disheveled, although the wide standard was in exceptional shape. To their liege’s aged uncle, however, nothing within their midst was ever perfect. His biggest delight in life was to find fault with every matter. It made him feel more useful.

  “Tate,” Bose caught his knight’s attention as he continued to adjust his glove. “Fetch Stephan du Bonne to me immediately. I have something I must say to him before I attend the field.”

  Tate nodded briefly and was gone, momentarily deterred from pestering his lord as to the current status with the lady in the lodges. But Morgan was not so encumbered; without Tate to take the offensive, he was left on his own and his curiosity was nearly killing him.

  When Bose finished with his gauntlets, the older knight handed him his sword. “She is a beautiful woman, Bose. I’d kill Breck Kerry, too, if the bastard attempted to steal her from me.”

  Through his lowered visor, Bose found Summer’s persimmon colored gown on the lodges and the pounding of his heart flooded his eardrums. It was a moment before he was able to reply. “Have you ever been in love, Morgan?”

  Morgan stared at him, his dark brown eyes soft with deliberation. After a moment, he smiled weakly. “Once, when I was young. Her name was Lily and she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  “Wise woman,” Bose muttered. He continued to gaze at Summer’s distant form. “Do… do you remember the thoughts and sensations, Morgan? Do you recall the feelings you experienced? Like nothing you’ve experienced before?”

  “Or since,” Morgan eyed the normally-reserved man. “Why do you ask? Are you thinking that mayhap you are feeling more than simple attraction for the lady?”

  Bose’s gaze never left the remote figure on the lodges. After a brief silence, he slowly shook his head. “I do not know,” his voice was nearly a whisper. “The only measure of wisdom I possess in the matter is the fact that I believed all my emotions pertaining to the opposite sex to have died in childbirth four years ago. Since yesterday, however, they seemed to be resurrecting themselves whether or not I am willing to accept them.”

  Morgan listened to the confession with a faint glimmer to his eye; for Bose to be conversing on a matter of personal conviction was an event of the enormous significance. It was one Morgan did not take lightly; he clapped his liege on his thickly armored leg in a gesture of commiseration.

  “If she brings about sentiment you thought to have perished, most certainly I would not oppose the obvious,” he said, eyeing Artur as the old man fussed with the caparison over the horse’s rear quarters. “You’ve known her less than a day, Bose. What you are experiencing could be nothing more than infatuation. Give yourself time before you decide whether or not to run from your feelings.”

  He meant it in half-jest, half-not. Beneath the lowered visor, Bose smiled thinly. “My feelings for Lora were gradual, Morgan. A slow, steady pace of discovery,” turning his armored head in the direction of the lodges, the helmed head slowly wagged back and forth. “What I feel for Lady Summer is something I have never before experienced. In fact, I believe it to be more powerful than I am at times.”

  “And this frightens you?”

  “It scares me to death.”

&
nbsp; Artur, finished with the banner across the charger’s haunches, moved forward in his complete inspection of Bose’s armor. The heralds were impatient to begin the bout and Breck Kerry had already taken the field in full regalia. The crowd in the lodges grew restless and Morgan knew the private conversation between him and his lord was ended for the moment.

  “Remember, Bose,” Artur fixed on his mighty nephew, oblivious to the fact that he had all but shoved Morgan out of the way in his haste to make conversation with the armored warrior. “Breck breaks low and to the left at mid-point. You’ll have to compensate if you do not want to be unseated on the first run.”

  Forcing himself from the conversation with Morgan, Bose listened to his uncle’s sound words. “I know, Uncle Artur. I have fought the man before, many a time,” his helmed head suddenly bobbed about as if he was eagerly searching for something. “Where’s Tate? I want to speak with Stephan before the round commences.”

  Farl and Adgar, standing ahead of their liege by the edge of the field, were attempting to explain to the heralds why their lord was delaying. He could see that the heralds were eager to begin the bout and he knew he would be unable to delay any further. Stephan or no, the crowd was expecting his appearance.

  The massive charger moved forward, sensing the excitement from the rumbling crowd. Artur scampered alongside the dancing beast to impart his last few gems of wisdom.

  “If he doesn’t unseat you on the first pass, the second run will be aimed at your head,” the old man huffed and panted. “Well you remember what he did to Sir Rolf at last year’s tourney in Wrexham?”

  “Broke his neck,” Bose answered unemotionally. “The man has no use of his arms and legs and can scarcely breathe.”

  Artur’s black eyes were intense. “Mind he doesn’t break your neck as well.”

  Bose did not reply as they reached the edge of the lists. The crowd, noting the circuit champion was preparing to take the field, began to roar with anticipation. The heralds moved to their respective positions along the joust course as the lead herald moved to the center of the barrier, raising his hands to quiet the unruly, eager throng.

  When the commotion died to a muted roar, the chief herald lowered his quieting hands and drew forth Lord Edward’s sword.

  “Let Sir Bose and Sir Breck come forward!”

  The crowd began to stir again as Breck, who had been prancing about at the far end of the field, took position beyond the end of the joust barrier and raised his lance to a full upright position. Bose watched the man’s arrogant stance from his location at the opposite edge of the field, experiencing the resurgence of the jealously and anger. He was going to enjoy unseating the idiot. And the man would be fortunate if he did not find a lance aimed at his head.

  Farl and Adgar were beside him, watching their liege’s opponent with a good deal of loathing. They had all competed against the man, innumerable times, and there was not one among them who had not been subjected to the knight’s unscrupulous tricks.

  “If you cut him high on the first run, he shall miss the move because he shall be expecting you to counter his low maneuver,” Farl’s Irish accent was heavy with disgust. “You’ll be able to take his damn head off.”

  Bose was silent, as was usual before a bout as he utilized his concentration for the upcoming strategy. Adgar and Morgan, standing on the opposite side of Farl, exhibited varied expressions of loathing.

  “Pimple-faced idiot,” normally mild-manner Adgar was grim. “I drew Duncan in the third round. Best the eldest, Bose, and be done with it. I have a penchant to do the same to his whelp brother and we can defeat the Kerry lads in one mighty blow.”

  Bose listened, digested, stored for future reference. The chief herald, however, was expecting the presence of his second competitor and Bose’s grip tightened on the reins as he prepared to spur his charger forward. But the moment he moved to do so, a shout in the distance halted his progression.

  His head turned stiffly in the direction of the shout, a feat made difficult within the confines of his helm. Moving toward him across the trampled green earth was Stephan du Bonne astride his chestnut charger. Tate ran alongside in his mail and portions of leg protection, his fair face glistening with sweat.

  Stephan reined his horse to within several feet of Bose, his handsome features inquisitive. Considering Bose was required upon the field this very moment, it was surprising that he should delay in any manner. But the man was determined to have his say and Stephan had a suspicion as to the subject. He would oblige the man by listening. Mayhap, in a sense, he would be making amends for his lack of faith in the truth of Bose’s reputation.

  “My lord?” there were a dozen men between them, mostly de Moray’s men in colors of black and white. But Stephan ignored them as he focused on their mighty liege. “You wished to speak with me?”

  “Indeed,” Bose directed his horse a few feet in Stephan’s direction, knowing the heralds must be nearing seizures of anger by his lack of readiness. “I am afraid I must make this brief and I apologize for taking you away from any pressing business. I… I simply wanted to thank you.”

  Stephan’s visor was raised, a blond eyebrow lifting slowly. “For what?”

  Bose was apparently unconcerned with the dozens of ears witnessing their conversation. “For allowing me to speak with the lady. Although you had originally denied me, still, I thank you for relenting your stance. Your generosity is commendable.”

  Stephan stared at him a moment, listening to the increasingly agitated roar of the congregation as their champion delayed his arrival to his joust position. “’Twas your right, I suppose, after you subdued Kerry,” his bright green eyes sought the impatient knight in yellow and green standards at the far sight of the field. “I suppose you must subdue him again.”

  Bose had said what he had intended, feeling satisfied that he had made his thanks known. Somehow, it was important to him. Knowing that without Stephan’s approval, the chances of courting the man’s lovely sister were slim and he was determined to earn his support. After a moment, he dipped his head again in a gesture of gratitude.

  “I suppose I must,” he said, gathering his reins. “And if I do not arrive shortly, I fear the crowd will rip Kerry’s pole from his grasp and gore me in a fit of impatience.”

  The last few words were muffled as he dug his spurs into his charger’s heaving sides, the crescendo of the crowd and the thunder of hooves all but drowning out the bass-toned voice. Stephan watched with an odd mixture of envy and understanding as the multitude of spectators welcomed the previous day’s melee champion.

  Bose assumed a prepared stance, his lance in the customary upright position and his shield poised as the chief herald moved to the edge of the lodges with Lord Edward’s sword. Since Bose had delayed the match by several minutes, they were eager to commence the bout immediately. As the squires vacated the field and hovered about the edges, the crowd quieted dramatically in great anticipation.

  Fortunately, the wait had ended. As the sun traversed the sky-blue field above in its hunt toward the nooning hour, the chief herald raised the sword high into the crisp sea air of Dorset.

  “For honor and glory, charge!”

  *

  Summer could hardly stand it. The herald’s shout to commence startled her and the thunder from the chargers was more than she could bear. In spite of her unease, however, she was unable to look away from the spectacle before her.

  The green and yellow lance splintered on Bose’s shield, sending daggers of wood exploding in all directions. A piece of coated pole landed a foot or so away from Summer and she stared at it a moment, forcing herself to breathe as she realized Bose had made it through the first pass unscathed.

  Even though the recoil motion with the contact sent the chargers reeling onto their hind legs, both knights remained seated and finished the first pass. Summer turned her relieved gaze in the direction of her champion as the lodges around her were literally mad with delight.

  “Nobly
done!” Edward shouted from his elaborate chair, cushioned with a fine satin pillow. “A fair break, indeed.”

  Summer was distracted from Bose’s undamaged vision by her father’s cries of pleasure. She cast the man an intolerant glance, suggesting she did not agree with his assessment. He caught her expression, his fair face folding into a smile.

  “What is the matter now?” he asked jovially. “You do not like the joust, either? It does not possess the violence of the melee and for that, I should think you would be appreciative.”

  Summer’s gaze lingered on her father a moment and she shrugged. “I do not believe appreciative would be the word I would choose to describe my opinion,” she passed a glance at Genisa, who was completely unruffled by the spectacle. “How can you be so entirely c-calm throughout this savagery?”

  Genisa patted her arm. “’Tis easy, truly. Stephan is not competing at this moment, therefore, I am calm. My demeanor will change considerably when he takes the field, I assure you.”

  Summer shook her head, not particularly surprised when her father turned away to involve himself in the food his servant delivered. The man was barely beyond a word of comfort and she was accustomed to his indifferent manner in all aspects. Therefore, she returned her attention to the field as Breck was handed a fresh lance.

  “Do not worry so, Summer,” Genisa’s voice was soft, nearly humorous. “Sir Bose is the very best. Even Stephan says so.”

  Summer cast her sister-in-law a dubious glance. “I do not think I like the tournament, Genisa. I b-believe this shall be my last spectacle.”

  Genisa smiled slyly. “But what if you marry Sir Bose? He is a member of the tournament circuit and you, as his wife, should travel with him.”