Florida Knight

by Blair Bancroft

  Something odd, decidedly odd, interrupted his daydreams.

  It was . . . well, hell, it was a catapult! A genuine twenty-first century version of a wooden catapult, drawn forward by two stout warriors pulling on ropes. When it was in place at the edge of the lyst field, a third warrior dumped the contents of a large cloth bag onto the ground. Out rolled a bunch of shiny silver-gray objects about eight inches in diameter. Children’s balls wrapped in duct tape, Raven guessed, appreciating the ingenuity. Constructing the catapult had not been an easy task, let alone transporting it from wherever it was built. They were creative, these Lords and Ladies of Chivalry, he had to give them that.

  Raven glanced around the field. The fighter jocks were clustered around the Earl Marshal, obviously pleading their case for a melee. Close by was a new group of combatants, not as heavily armored as the knights. Archers. Raven’s eyes narrowed as he watched. They seemed to be doing a careful safety check of some kind of rounded blunts fixed over the tips of their arrows. Kate had mentioned Combat Archery once, but he’d never seen it. Definitely not good. Raven turned toward Corwyn, poised to demand the archers stay off the field.

  But he couldn’t. They were all so intent, so serious, so eager for this rare treat of having enough room for a real war. And a warning, any deviation from the unexpected, would alert the the nutter, sending him high-tailing into the never-never—most likely with enough common sense never to return. With a silent groan, Raven turned back to the lyst field.

  Like football players breaking from the huddle, the fighters suddenly trotted onto the field, dividing into two groups of about twenty-five or thirty on each side. The combat archers, also dividing into two groups, jogged into place behind them. The three warriors at the catapult stood ready. Were they loyal to one side, Raven wondered, or did they plan to pepper the field indiscriminately with their eight-inch duct tape “rocks”? Suddenly, unaccountably, he wished he were out there. It all began to make sense. Though some took it too seriously, mostly it was just plain fun. Something almost anyone could participate in if they didn’t mind a knock or two.

  The catapult was loaded, the archers nocked their arrows, the Marshal’s voice roared. The air filled with a hail of flying objects. Most fell harmlessly in the grass between the enemy armies but, here and there, a body dotted the ground, sprawled dramatically on the lyst field after taking a direct hit from a blunted arrow or a duct-taped ball. Raven straightened to attention, eyes sharpened. What an opportunity for their perp! Was one of those bodies for real? Injured by an arrow that lost its blunt in flight? No wonder melees were frowned upon by the LALOC hierarchy. It was too easy for someone to get hurt. But, one by one, the three “dead” fighters got up and walked off the field, several shaking their heads in chagrin. Knocked out in the first volley. Raven breathed a sigh of relief. He tried to find Cat, but couldn’t. She was lost in a sea of colorful surcoats, heavy shields, full-metal helms, a forest of up-lifted swords, pikes and battle-axes (made of foam and wrapped in duct tape).

  The catapult was re-loaded, more arrows nocked. A second round, this time with only one “death.” Shouted commands. Slowly, the ragged lines of fighters began to move inexorably forward, stepping on arrows, over the duct-taped catapult balls. Raven jumped to his feet as the lines came together. Thwacks, whacks, thunks and shouts filled the air.

  “Hey, man, don’t worry,” Max said in his ear. “Cat’s tough. She comes out of these things okay every time.”

  “He’s right,” Alys assured him, “Cat’s very good at this. She likes melees. Gives her a chance to whack guys in every direction. Oops, sorry,” she added. “I didn’t mean she doesn’t like—”

  “Leave it,” Raven snapped. “I get the idea.” He still couldn’t find her. Where the hell was she?

  The Marshal called a halt. The immediate chorus of groans turned to cheers as Drakon announced another round. After the archers scrambled to find their arrows and the catapulters retrieved their balls, they did the whole thing again. By this time Raven had found Kate.

  One of the king’s minions—the twerp who met him at the cabin door his first night in LALOC—suddenly towered between Raven and the lyst field. “My lord, King Corwyn wishes to speak with you.” The young man, slight in body, was decked out in a white ruffled shirt, some kind of green velvet beret, a short sleeveless tunic with Corwyn’s coat of arms. Tights, of course, and hand-made leather shoes with pointy toes. His eyes were fixed on some vague spot over Raven’s left shoulder.

  “Thanks,” said Raven in broadest twenty-first century American. Little prick.

  Corwyn, ensconced on his regal wooden throne under the fancy canopy of his personal pavilion, ignored Raven’s scowl. Crooking a finger, the king forced him to bend his stiff back so they could keep their words private. “So far, so good.” Corwyn nearly chortled. “I told Drakon he’d better conduct the Weapons’ Inspection of his life. And no archer could let his arrows out of his hands for so much as a second or go onto the field without checking his blunts three times.”

  “It seems to be working.” Raven sucked in air, adding lamely, “Your majesty.”

  Corwyn hid the twinkle in his brown eyes by looking past Raven to the lyst field. God, how he loved having a stiff-necked cop pay him homage. “Uh-oh,” he murmured, “your lady just got killed.” As Raven turned on his heel and charged the field, Corwyn called after him: “She’s fine. You go on the field, and I’ll declare the other side the winner!”

  Raven stalked back to the king’s throne, bent down until his mouth was only inches from Corwyn’s face. “You, sir, are a bastard,” he declared.

  The king grinned. “You can go to your lady now. She just came off the field.”

  It was all Raven could do not to grab Cat by the arm, tell her she was never, ever, going on a lyst field again. Horrifying visions filled his head. Cat lying on the field, Cat with an arrow through her chest, an arm limp and bloody from a blow with a battle axe that turned out to be real. Cat felled by a catapult ball that wasn’t a child’s rubber ball wrapped in duct tape. Shit! He was letting his emotions get in his way, and that wasn’t how a good cop worked. Raven stood in front of Cat, eyes blazing, mouth clamped shut, silently ticking off the worst profanities he could dredge up.

  Cat re-checked her armor while scowling right back, daring him to say something. Raven fought his inner battle until the nightmare visions were suddenly wiped away by a thought more terrifying than all the rest. Cat on the lyst field, pregnant. He could see Brocc kneeling, his sword stabbing upward, viciously upward, into cat’s belly.

  That’s it! When we’re married, she goes on the lyst field over my dead body! At the time Raven was so incensed he didn’t even recognize he’d just passed the point of no return.

  “Listen up!” The voice of Earl Marshal Drakon Fitzwalter boomed over the field. “This is the last round, what you all wanted. We’re doing it ‘movie-style.’” Cheers went up from both sides. “Everybody’s resurrected,” the Marshal continued. “Take the field!”

  War cries split the air. The living, the dead, the wounded charged onto the field. As Cat trotted off, as eager as the rest, Raven decided this might be a good time to pray.

  At the Marshal’s command, instead of steadily marching toward each other, the opposing sides rushed forward, screaming defiance. Bowmen and catapulters gleefully lobbed their missiles indiscriminately toward the mass of fighters now locked in combat in the center of the field. Madness! Raven groaned, then had to admit everyone seemed to be having a whale of a time. If it weren’t for the secret saboteur, no one would have to worry about anything beyond a pulled muscle or a scrape or two. But until every last one of the bodies which were beginning to litter the field stood up and walked off, he was going to worry. Damn! He’d lost track of Cat again. Little wretch. How could she do this to him?

  Raven glanced along the sidelines, had an unaccustomed moment of feeling like a fool. Max looked as if he were almost as gleeful about the battle as the fighter
jocks. Alys, too, seemed fascinated by the action, and not the least bit fearful. The same rapt expression was on the faces of the wives, girlfriends, and LALOC members lining the field. Except for one wife whose attention was focused on her nursing infant. Satisfied smiles played over the faces of the remainder of the crowd as well. Male, female, old or young, everyone was enjoying the tournament finale. Except Raven. FHP Lieutenant Michael Turco. Who wanted to get his hands on the person who had turned everything sour . . . and slowly, painfully, wring his blasted neck.

  Which wouldn’t solve the problem of Cat fighting in tournaments. But it’d make him feel a damn sight better.

  Raven didn’t hide his sigh of relief when Drakon finally called a halt to the mayhem on the field. But by the time he saw Cat walking toward him, his scowl had escalated from fierce to ferocious. By God, she wasn’t going to live long enough to fight another tournament.

  And then, because he was Michael Turco, he remembered that reason was what separated man from beasts. “Nice going, Lady Knight,” he said, and began to help Cat remove her armor.

  As Cat took in the picnic table littered with pine cones, sticks, globs of peanut butter and spilled bird seed, she didn’t know whether to wince or laugh. Thank goodness she’d changed into her oldest, most easily washable gown. But the intent faces of the eight children who were making bird feeders to hang in trees and bushes around the campground were so appealing, she was forced to admit the mess didn’t matter. Working with children hurt. But maybe not so much today when there was faint stirring hope. A hope she’d thrust far down under her layers of fear so it couldn’t blossom into something wonderful that could rise up and bite her. Perhaps . . . just perhaps there were children in her future after all.

  “Cat, Cat, look at mine!” Sean shouted. “Can we go hang it up?”

  Since many of the trees with branches low enough to hang the bird treats on were down by the lake, Alys had designated Cat as guard. “Sure,” she said, waving a group of four in front of her. She smiled as Sean turned away from the trees, choosing to hang his creation on the chain link fence around the swimming pool. Another child scrambled up on a wooden bench swing at the playground and hung her bird treat from the suspension bar. Cat wasn’t at all sure what the campground’s resident ranger was going to think of that, but as a believer in creative thinking, she wasn’t about to scold.

  When the mess on the picnic table was finally cleaned up, Alys announced they were now going to have fighter practice. Every eye gleamed, even those of Karen, the one superior, semi-bored preteen who had deigned to join the children’s activities. Fighter practice was genuine excitement, a rare event in the annals of LALOC children’s events. A half hour from now, they were scheduled to be “attacked” by barbarians. They had to be prepared.

  Cat ducked into a nearby cabin, brought out a cardboard box overflowing with weapons. Each sword was so padded with foam cushioning that the broad end was three or four times the width of a LALOC fighter’s weapon. Each and every one was, of course, heavily wrapped in duct tape. Since she, Alys, and Max had made them, and Cat had kept the box locked in her van until an hour earlier, she was fairly confident the weapons were innocuous. Nonetheless, ignoring outstretched hands and eager faces, Cat carefully squeezed the full length of each sword before handing it over. No mistakes here. No metal masquerading as innocent rattan or foam.

  The children paired up, and practice began with all the proper ceremony. “For honor and glory, lay on!” Cat shouted at the beginning of each match. Inevitably, the boys whose fathers were fighter jocks, were remarkably expert, knowing all the rules. If you get hit in the leg, you have to fall to your knees, but you’re not dead.

  One little girl, her sword stroke similar to a fairy waving a wand, naturally lost every bout. “You gotta put some muscle into it,” Sean coached with more than a dash of disgust. Although not her partner, he’d won all his battles against the boys and paused for a scornful look at the girls’ matches. Suddenly, Sean stepped forward, holding his sword out in front of him. “Come on, Megan, hit me, I dare you! Come on, come get me!” he taunted. “Hey, Megan. I’m the bad guy, I’m gonna hurt you. Hit me!”

  Megan, no higher than Sean’s shoulder, swung with all her might. They moved into a flurry of blows, each of Megan’s stronger than the last. Not that Sean couldn’t have taken her at any moment, but the change in the girl was a marvel to behold. No longer hanging back, too polite to stand up for herself, she was swinging away with glee. An effective lesson, Cat decided. On more levels than one. And to think it was Sean, difficult independent Sean, who had delivered the message.

  Grinning, Sean lowered his sword, allowing Megan to whack him a good one on the shoulder. Amazed, Cat could only shake her head. A boy of no more than ten practicing chivalry with an seven-year-old.

  “Okay,” Alys announced on a note of barely repressed excitement, “I think”—she peered toward the woods on their left—“yes, I think they’re coming. Everybody get ready now. Swords up!”

  Three monsters burst out of the woods, fearsome beast masks concealing their faces. All were armed with the same foam-padded swords as the children. Not a single child shrieked from anything other than glee. Cat, abandoning her role as marshal, stepped back and let it all happen. Although the attackers were hidden behind truly hideous masks, Cat had no trouble distinguishing Max, Raven and Thor by their respective size. One giant, one as lean and solid as a telephone pole, the third half a head shorter and boasting the shoulders of an ox.

  Oh-oh. Thor’s enthusiasm was getting the better of him. His sword, padded though it was, was swinging too high, too hard. Cat shouted to him to cool it. The warning came too late. Karen, the twelve-year-old going on twenty, shrieked, stumbled backwards, crumpled onto the sidewalk, burst into tears. Not surprisingly, Raven reached her first, dragging off his mask as he covered the distance to the girl’s side, Max right behind him. Thor stood like a statue, mask in place, his right hand limp at his side, still clutching the foam-padded sword.

  Cat stared at him. If only she could see beneath the mask. Surely this was a genuine accident. It had to be. The man they were looking for wouldn’t do anything this obvious. This stupid. Thor just forgot he was fighting children. Slowly, the LALOC knight dragged off his mask. He looked, Cat thought, as if he’d already been banished for life. Stricken blue eyes met hers.

  “I-I didn’t . . . I never . . . I wouldn’t . . .” Thor stuttered.

  “It’s okay,” Cat assured him. “I don’t think it’s serious.” No, not Thor.

  Not unless he was particularly clever . . .

  While Raven examined Karen, Max patted the girl on the shoulder, murmured soothing words. Soon, he’d coaxed a shy peek in his direction, a gulp, a sniff . . . a smile. “It’s just her fingers,” Raven announced to the sea of faces around them. “Nothing’s broken as far as I can tell, but she should see a doctor just in case. Anybody know where her parents are?”

  “I’ll find ’em,” Sean volunteered. And he was off and running.

  Max lifted Karen to her feet as if she weighed no more than a bag of chips. Cat noted that Raven stood back and let him do it. A smart man with a subtle mind, just a couple of more reasons why she liked him. Though like was perhaps no longer the operative word. As Max sat down beside Karen on the picnic bench, coaxing more smiles from her while they waited for her parents, Cat watched Raven out of the corner of her eye. He, in turn, never took his eyes off Max and the girl. He was seeing something more than she was, Cat was sure of it. Surely by now he should realize that Max, in spite of his size, was kind and gentle, and loved children. But maybe not. That still didn’t explain why he was staring at Max as if he were trying to see right through him. Odd. She’d have to ask him about it later. With a sigh, Cat moved forward to speak to Karen’s parents who were rushing toward them with Sean loping along in front of them.

  Chapter 23

  Fortunately for Thor, LALOC members tended to be stoic about injuries. He had bee
n forgiven. Karen was smiling as her parents headed for their car and a long Saturday afternoon wait at the local ER. Raven and Cat, on their way back to their tent, stopped by the royal cabin to see if there was any news. “Nothing!” King Corwyn stormed. “Kiri waited half the day for a reply, Marius missed the tournament, and not a damn thing! Kiri’s still waiting to hear from Michigan, but she told me what she’s found so far.” Cautiously, the king checked the large open room, making sure no one else was within hearing distance. “Only two of our local vendors have been at the out-of-state fairs we’ve heard from so far. One is Rebecca . . . Well, right,” the king conceded when Cat snorted, “a ninety-pound wonder who sells tarot cards and pendulums isn’t my idea of a villain either. The other”—Corwyn paused for effect—“is Alfric.”

  “Alfric? The guy who sells armor?” Raven sounded more thoughtful than triumphant over having a name at last.

  Cat frowned. It was possible. Alfric wasn’t the most likable person she’d ever met. “But he wasn’t at the fair in Manatee Bay,” she pointed out.

  “He wasn’t vending,” Corwyn countered. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He lives near Tampa. Not much of a drive to Manatee Bay.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe he was turned down,” Cat suggested thoughtfully. “Being refused a vending spot at the Manatee Bay fair would be a blow.”

  “I still like Brocc,” Raven declared, chin set in a stubborn line. “Or maybe Thor.”