She had never seen anything like it.
Juliette had been allowed to attend one mock tournament years ago, before they were as heavily regulated. But that event could not be compared with this grand affair. Even mass that morn had been an event to remember. Lords, ladies, knights, and their squires and grooms had stood outside Condren’s chapel with heads bowed as the priest blessed all in attendance. Though the church officially forbade these events, no priest would pass up the opportunity to bless so many potentially damned souls.
She’d needed to tell someone what had happened on her way back from the privy last night, so she’d spilled the truth as soon as she and Christina were alone together. It was an openness she’d had reason to regret. Christina would not stop lecturing her about the recklessness that could have seen her “raped or killed.” Granted, it had been foolish. Not to mention quite brazen.
Juliette had tried to explain her reasoning. Most ladies her age had stolen kisses before, and since she had never done so, how was she supposed to distinguish between a normal kiss and true love’s kiss?
And for some inexplicable reason, she trusted the Scot. Knew he would not harm her. When the request had flown from her lips, they had both been taken aback—she hadn’t intended to make such a request.
For the briefest moment, Juliette had panicked. What madness had made her say those words? But then he led her out onto the bastion and leaned down to kiss her, and Juliette found she was quite glad for her temporary lapse in judgment. It was the most glorious feeling in the world. For such a large man, he was surprisingly gentle. His lips were warm and soft, although she had expected it to last a bit longer. . .
In truth, she’d wanted it to last longer.
“Christina, look!” She attempted to avoid more of her friend’s whispered lecture by pointing out that the first match was about to begin.
After days of jousts, one man would be deemed the individual champion while the melee on the final day would determine which country was this year’s winner, the “armed defenders of Scotland or England’s honor.” Last night, all the guests had been whispering about Sir Bryce Waryn. Apparently he had been proclaimed jousting champion so many years in a row that there had been talk of banning him from the event. Sir Bryce would not be in attendance this year—rumor had it that his hands were full with a new wife and his reclaimed lands—and without him present, it was an open playing field.
She said as much to Christina, hoping it would be enough of a prompt to end this talk about the kiss.
“Aye, ’tis said that only the youngest Waryn brother still competes in the tournaments. But apparently he is building quite a reputation for himself in the south. One to rival his elder brothers. I’m unsure if he is in attendance.”
“Where do you get your information?” Juliette was glad her friend was more exposed to the outside world, but it was another poignant reminder of just how sheltered she was at Chauncy Manor.
Christina tilted her head to the side. “Surely you’ve heard whispers of Neill Waryn. They say the youngest Waryn hasn’t lost a single match yet.”
“Nay, I hear nothing of importance at Chauncy.”
Her friend offered a conciliatory glance before turning her attention to the field.
As the herald introduced each knight by their coats of arms, Juliette searched the field below. Spectators sat on the ground surrounding the wooden fence, marking the lists as the participants walked the length of the area, each flanked by his horse and squire. Or squires, in some cases, though a recent law forbade any knight from bringing more than three.
Christina adjusted her pale yellow gown, a pretty contrast to Juliette’s own deep blue one, and pointed to the men still waiting to be announced. “If you’re looking for the Waryn brothers, perhaps you should turn your attention toward the English knights.”
A flush crept up Juliette’s cheeks. She had indeed been watching the Scots. They were being introduced first as a courtesy from the host country. Great care was taken to ensure the Tournament of the North was a peaceful event. And while injuries and sometimes deaths could not be avoided, most who were present wanted a peaceful gathering between the two countries. For ten days, at least.
“I’m curious is all.”
“Curious. Is that why you’re leaning so far forward Lady Hemsworth can feel your breath on her neck?”
Juliette laughed, eliciting a glance from Lord Hedford.
“I’m pleased you ladies are enjoying yourselves,” he said. Though he seemed sincere, Juliette was nevertheless suspicious. He was too kind. Too thoughtful. No man was so perfect. She overheard him silence his squire on their journey to Condren, and though she attempted to listen to more of the conversation, only the word “France” had been discernible.
Or perhaps. . . could he truly be that nice? “Your wife has always had the ability to make me laugh,” she responded. “She’s the kindest and most amusing woman of my acquaintance. And she has a beautiful singing voice too.”
Christina reached over to squeeze her hand.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was low but insistent.
“Ensuring your husband knows what a fine woman you are.”
Hedford looked fondly at his wife. “Aye, I’m learning as much and shall not disagree with you, Lady Juliette.”
Christina’s cheeks colored, and she squeezed Juliette’s hand again before releasing it.
As if she had no control over them, Juliette’s eyes shifted back to the field. Every color one could imagine was on display. She jumped as the horn sounded again, louder than it had been for the previous contestants.
There he was.
He was taller than every other man. Held his head higher. Was easily the most handsome.
“That’s him, is it not?”
Juliette tried to sound unconcerned. “Him?”
Christina tsked as the man’s name was announced.
“You said he was a brute,” her friend reminded her in an undertone.
Juliette shrugged. “Mayhap I was quick to judge.”
As the Chief of Clan Kerr of Brockburg walked across the lists, he looked up at the galleries. Could he be looking for her? She snapped her head away.
“Is he looking here?” she whispered to Christina.
“For heaven’s sake, see for yourself.”
Juliette forced herself to turn back toward him. The Scot had circled around to join his countrymen behind the galleries where Juliette and the others sat. But before he disappeared from view, he stopped. . .
And looked right at her.
Juliette’s heart pounded as their gazes met and held. A small squire accompanied him, she noticed, and her Scot, the chief, held the reins of a black charger that resembled the stag on his coat of arms. The silver lining of his surcoat glistened in the sunlight, but otherwise there was no pageantry, no excess about him. Just pure, unbridled. . . manhood.
He finally looked away.
“Oh my. Juliette, did you—”
“Aye.”
She attempted to steady her breathing. What was happening to her? Juliette felt as if she’d run across the lists herself, only she had not moved at all. Shock wore off as reality set in.
“My father will not like this.”
“You can’t be thinking—”
“In fact, he will likely forbid it.”
“Juliette, please tell me—”
“And I’m not even sure such a man is capable of falling in love.”
Christina grabbed her hand.
“Aren’t you being hasty, my dear? ’Tis only the first day of the tourney. Look. . . there are so many handsome, well-placed Englishmen in attendance, and every unmarried man here has made their interest in you known. Why, even this morn Lord—”
“And I intend to find out.”
“Find out what?”
Juliette had turned to look at her dear friend, so she saw Christina’s face crease into a frown the moment she interpreted her meaning.
“Juliette, no.”
She smiled in response.
Toren had not competed in a tournament since his father died. His brother Alex had been grievously injured in the melee during the last one he’d entered. It had served as a lesson: why risk his life in a mock battle when he could, at any moment, be called to participate in a real one? His family and clan needed him alive, and it wasn’t worth the risk.
When his name and title were announced, Toren walked quickly across the muddy field. He pulled his horse’s reins, understanding the beast’s apprehension. They belonged back in Brockburg, not in the midst of this elaborate ceremony, on display alongside these English border lords and knights.
Where the hell is Hallington?
The warden was nowhere to be seen in the galleries, and he’d been looking—was looking even now. Douglas had insisted the warden would be in attendance, but he hadn’t seen. . .
The Englishwoman. His Englishwoman.
He stopped, about to walk behind the pavilions to hang his shield alongside the others and await his turn for the individual joust. He’d been looking for Hallington, aye, but for her too. By God, the girl was comely. Was that her chaperone next to her? The other woman was married, or so he assumed from the way the Englishman sitting next to her was leaning in—it was closer than would be proper for an unwed couple. Toren didn’t recognize him.
Forgetting the girl, or pretending to, he finally handed his horse off to his squire, who was out of breath and clearly in a panic.
“Did you not see?”
He had seen quite well. The serene expression on her face. The slight lift to her chin proclaiming her a noblewoman in truth. Her golden blonde hair, which was pulled away from her face, revealing an extraordinarily—
“You’re to compete straightaway,” his squire interrupted. “You aren’t likely to. . . well. . . maybe your size. . .”
Toren tore his gaze away from the Englishwoman.
“Who is it?” The poor boy wrung his hands so tightly he was likely to injure himself. He was obviously concerned about his competition.
“Lord Blackburn,” he replied.
Blackburn was one of the men involved in the fight that had seen two dead and more injured at last month’s truce.
Interesting. He looked forward to besting the bastard.
“I’ve asked Ferguson’s groom to prepare your mount,” the squire said.
“And that cranky old goat allowed it?
Though Toren’s senior by only a few years, Ferguson MacDuff had not aged well. He’d not yet seen the other man, even though his tent was the only one near his own. Toren had purposefully chosen a spot away from the others. If his purpose were ever discovered, he’d not see any of his countrymen implicated.
He looked at the lad, who seemed to always keep his head down. “Alfred, is it?”
The boy’s hand stayed, and Toren’s chain hauberk dangled in mid-air.
“You know my name?”
Toren’s mouth lifted at the corner. “You’ve had such poor masters they haven’t even bothered to learn your name?”
He nodded toward the mail, and Alfred resumed his ministrations.
“Aye,” he answered. The lad’s honesty took Toren aback.
“How do you come to be here?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“My master, a knight errant, was killed when I was ten and six. Since then, I’ve no true master but follow the tourney. . . ”
Attempting to feed himself. Toren understood better than he wanted to. But it was too soon to make any decisions about the lad. The boy seemed competent enough. . . and yet there was something odd about him, something Toren couldn’t yet place. It could be the unusual cap he wore. The worn and dirty cloth that covered his entire head was unlike anything Toren had ever seen.
He’d get to know the lad a bit more first, although he seemed reluctant to answer questions about his past. And though Alex always welcomed opportunities to train new men, it was too soon to offer him a position just yet.
Alfred helped him arrange his well-worn mail over the padded gambeson that had protected him in more than one tournament. If his opponent fought cleanly, it would be an easy match. However, most of the men who were present likely knew Toren’s reputation. . . even though this squire clearly did not. And even though the weapons had been inspected this morning, and everyone had been reminded of the rules, some men were not willing to go up against a seasoned fighter without some advantage. Even so, he was more worried about his target’s absence than he was about the joust.
With two hundred knights, this would likely be his only contest today, which would leave the remainder of his afternoon free for inquiries regarding the man’s whereabouts. He couldn’t kill the man if he failed to make an appearance. The thought of hunting him down in this godforsaken country did not sit well.
“You’re all ready then,” the lad said.
Indeed, he was. Best get this finished quickly.
As he and his squire made their way toward the front of the list, Toren put thoughts of the English warden from his mind. The woman he’d kissed, if it could be called as such. . . she was harder to forget.
“Over there, if you please.”
They were ordered to wait alongside a makeshift wooden fence as two armed combatants circled each other near the center of the lists. Toren didn’t plan to let it come to hand-to-hand combat. He would fell his opponent quickly and be done with it.
Finally, one of the men fell, the signal sounded—the wail of a trumpet, and Toren mounted his horse and took his helmet from his squire. It had been specifically made for this tournament by Brockburg’s armorer, an Englishman who’d found his way north thirty years ago, after reivers from his own country had burned his village. Even at the man’s advanced age, Toren would match his skills with anyone’s.
Before he put it on, he stole a quick glance at the galleries. It was something he’d avoided doing earlier, but he had to know if she was still watching.
And she was.
An unexpected and unwelcome warmth that had nothing to do with his armor forced him to tear his gaze away and concentrate on the task at hand.
He swept his gaze across the lists to his opponent and moved his mount into position. Determined to end it on the first pass, he readjusted his wooden lance, painted bright red to match the Kerr coat of arms, and relaxed every other muscle in his body save his inner thighs and lance arm. Only avoiding a hit and delivering a direct one to the center of his opponent’s shield would fell the other man with enough force to keep him on the ground. He had one chance to end this quickly.
As he waited for the sound of the horn, Toren attempted to slow his rapidly beating heart. He breathed deeply, ignoring the heat, and focused on the mounted Englishman preparing to charge at him.
The trumpet blared, and Toren spurred his mount forward and lowered his lance. He ignored the shouts and concentrated on the pounding of his destrier’s hooves, waiting for the perfect moment to thrust his lance at his opponent. The charging knight and his horse loomed closer. Every time he met such a force, Toren marveled at the power behind the two acting as one for this brief, violent moment.
Now!
Splintered wood shattered everywhere, and before he could slow to look back at Blackburn, he already knew the outcome. There would be no need to dismount. His squire’s incredulous face confirmed as much. He did turn then, to be sure, and took off his helmet.
“Here,” he said to Alfred. “Tell him I have no need of his money or his armor.” These were the usual gifts made to the victor, but he had no wish for them. He was here for one purpose, and this wasn’t it, despite the man’s involvement at the last Day of Truce. Vengeance led down a dangerous path, one he had no interest in exploring.
Alfred reached up—the boy was quite small—and took the steel helmet from him.
“You. . . you felled him with one pass.”
If Toren had been the type of man to brag, he’d have quite enjoyed the look on his
hired squire’s face.
But he was not.
Toren dismounted and handed the reins to the squire. “Aye, laddie. Now go. The poor man is likely preparing his forfeit already. Get him fed and meet me at the tent.”
Alfred looked as if he wanted to say something, but he must have decided otherwise, for he closed his gaping mouth instead and began to walk away.
When he turned back, the boy who so reluctantly looked into his face did so now. Before he could speak, Toren realized his error. As his squire, the boy would have benefited from the other man’s forfeit. Alfred needed the coin. Desperately.
As was his custom, Toren made a quick decision relying on his instinct.
“You’ve no need of the spoils, lad, if you’ll come to Brockburg with me.”
His reaction was not what Toren expected. If he was right, the first look that ran across his features was one of fear. But just as quickly, it was replaced by another. Alfred swallowed noticeably and finally spoke.
He bowed. “I would be honored.”
It was not the bow of a low-born servant, but one of a well-trained noble. Toren nearly commented on it but held his tongue.
Alfred turned and ran as if afraid he would call him back.
Toren made his way to the wall of shields behind the pavilion. The makeshift wooden wall served as a notice to spectators who wished to view the field of participants. It was a true spectacle, with nearly two hundred shields of every shape and size hanging on it. A tournament official indicated where he should place his shield, and Toren did so without glancing at any of the others. It hardly mattered who he would be matched against next. What mattered was finding Hallington.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The voice that had spoken the soft words was already familiar to him. He turned and watched her eyes widen as he resisted the impulse to reach out and touch the woman he’d too briefly encountered the night before.
“How did you come to be here so quickly?” he asked.
“How do you know from whence I came to be here?”
Bloody hell.
“You sat there,” he pointed to the back of the stands, where he’d spied her before the joust. “Just moments ago.”
The Chief's Maiden (Border Series Book 3) Page 23