Fathers and Sons

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Summer felt as if she had been slapped; her chest ached with humiliation. Her first instinct was to run from the tent and sob until she could sob no more, but that would not solve the dilemma. Obviously, the old woman was attempting to belittle her, to unbalance her in front of a man she apparently held little affection for. Bearing that in mind, she struggled not to succumb to her usual reaction of tears.

  “I am sorry you f-feel that way, my lady,” she whispered, feeling Bose’s hand as he attempted to grasp her. “If you will excuse me, I will take my leave.”

  Bose’s warm grip had her firmly by the arm as she endeavored to leave the tent, holding her still. Even if his hand was reassuring and strong, his gaze upon the frail old woman was anything but pleasant.

  “Get out,” he rumbled, his baritone voice quaking the very ground beneath their feet. “Get out before I do something you’ll regret.”

  Margot continued to maintain her even expression, though there was something in Bose’s tone she had never heard before. Defiant as always, however, she refused to be intimidated. Especially when she was rapidly coming to realize that the stammering lady meant more to Bose than mere female attendance.

  “Lora would not allow you to speak with me that way,” she snapped. “How dare you threaten me!”

  Still maintaining his grip on Summer, his onyx orbs flashed. “’Tis no threat, I assure you. Get out and stay out of my sight if you value your life.”

  Margot’s thin eyebrows rose in outrage; she refused to allow the man to gain the upper hand. “Do you think to replace my daughter, Bose?” she demanded. “Do you think to replace my daughter with another woman you can just as easily kill with your massive seed?”

  Bose was losing his composure, so easily provoked by Margot’s guilt-strewn ramblings. He released Summer, unaware that he was frightening her tremendously. He simply wanted the old woman out of his sight and he did not care who he terrified in the process. The moment he moved for the vicious elder lady, however, Summer found her feet and bolted from the tent before he could stop her. His fury diverted by the lady’s flight, he attempted to move after her when Margot was suddenly clinging to his arm, her sharp claws batting at his face.

  “You bastard!” she cried, drawing blood on his chin. “How dare you flaunt your whore in front of me. How dare you think so little of Lora’s memory that you would sate your lust with another woman!”

  His emotions soaring, Bose grasped the elder woman by the arms and thrust her away from him. Margot stumbled back, yelping with surprise that Bose had actually prevented her from demonstrating her rage; usually, he simply stood by while she beat and scratched him until the seizure passed. But not today; today, he had actually stopped her, and she found that prospect terrifying.

  Even as she struggled to sit from her crumpled position, Bose was quitting the tent. Margot sat up, screaming her curses upon his deaf ears as went in search of her daughter’s replacement. Even if he hadn’t indicated as much, already, she knew. She knew the end of her tyranny was near. She was losing him.

  *

  For all of the grunting occurring within the green and yellow tent, one would have believed childbirth to be imminent. To Breck, of course, the pain was similar as the physic popped his shoulder back into the socket and bound the arm. And with every grunt of anguish, the hatred toward de Moray deepened.

  “Christ!” he hissed as the physician completed the last of the bindings. “Do you see what the man has done to me, Duncan?”

  By the edge of the shelter, Duncan gazed at his brother with a mixture of uncertainty and support. “You nearly took off his head, Breck. Surely you expected the man to seek vengeance.”

  Breck curled his lip at his brother, his forehead beaded with sweat as he struggled to find a comfortable position on his pallet. “A completely unfair maneuver,” he grumbled. “Did you see how he literally shoved me from my charger? I had no chance to recover.”

  Duncan sighed faintly; the maneuver would have been considered legitimate had Breck himself executed it. Although he was supportive of his brother as a faithful sibling should be, there were times when his older brother was wrong and selfish. But if Duncan wanted to continue living under the protection and wealth of the House of Kerry, he would keep his opinions to himself.

  “It was because of her, you realize that,” Breck’s voice was considerably calmer as the poppy elixir provided by the physic began to take effect. “I have never seen de Moray even speak to a woman much less accept her favor. She must be terribly important to him.”

  Outside of the humid tent, Duncan could hear the heralds calling an end to the third bout. He was next, competing against Sir Adgar Ross, one of de Moray’s men. Shifting on his muscular legs, he was far more eager to attend his round than listen to his brother’s prattle.

  “She is a lovely woman,” Duncan said evenly.

  “She stutters,” Breck said, his own speech slurred as he turned to look at his brother. “S-S-Stutters. Other than to deflower her, I suspect de Moray has no other interest. Even when he beds the wench, he shall have to put his hand over her mouth in order to fool himself into believing he’s indulging in a woman of perfection.”

  Duncan cocked an eyebrow in mild surprise. “No wonder we’ve never seen her attend the tournaments, supporting her brothers’ cause. They have been keeping her hidden so no one will know of her imperfection.”

  “Exactly. A tragedy, really. She is quite beautiful. But as worthless as a two-headed goat to a marrying man,” suddenly, Breck’s brow furrowed and his expression turned quite serious. “Duncan… do you suppose de Moray intends to marry the woman?”

  Duncan cast him an odd look. “How would I know that?”

  Breck matched his brother’s expression, exceeding it. “You discovered who she was, did you not?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. A pence to a servant and they’ll tell you anything you wish to know.”

  Breck eyed his brother a moment, feeling the root of an idea take hold. A simple idea, truly, but one of the most magnificent consequence; to defeat de Moray on the field was a near impossibility. For four years Breck had tried, and for four years he had failed. De Moray was immovable, powerful, and the wound to Breck’s arm fully proved the fact. There was no way to best the man in the tournament arena.

  But as time and history had proven, when men succumbed to the female sex, their weakness was revealed. Since Breck could not seek revenge for losses dealt by Bose by exhibiting superior strength or talent, logic seemed to indicate that a far more powerful means would be to somehow seek vengeance upon the lady.

  An idea he had nurtured once before. But a concept that had gained a good deal of support and as he gazed to his younger brother, the seed of evil thought took deeper root and began to grow.

  “Find out if de Moray has pledged for her,” he told Duncan. “See if you can determine what his intentions are.”

  Duncan cocked an eyebrow. “And what if he has?”

  “If so, I shall have to alter my plans somewhat. But if he hasn’t….”

  “If he hasn’t pledged? Then what?”

  Breck’s gaze lingered on his brother a moment. “Then I will.”

  It was not the answer Duncan had expected and his eyes widened dramatically. “What are you saying? That you would marry de Moray’s lady? God’s Blood, Breck, you just finished telling me that she is defective. What would you do…?”

  Breck held up a sharp finger, quieting his brother’s babbling query. “De Moray does not believe her to be defective. In fact, I would hazard to guess that he is extremely fond of her,” scratching his chin, he sighed heavily as his train of thought settled deep. “I wonder if Lord du Bonne knows of Bose’s reputation and how he is said to have killed his wife.”

  Duncan eyed his brother, uncomfortable with the plan he was developing. “If he doesn’t, I suspect you will make him aware of the fact.”

  Breck drew in a long breath, feeling his pain ease with the physic’s potion. Sleep,
however, was near the surface and he struggled against it for the moment. “If I only had support for my petition,” he murmured. “His wife’s mother is said to have started the rumors of Bose’s murderous instincts. I wonder if she would support my drive to claim the du Bonne sister before Bose sinks his claws into her.”

  The faint peal of a trumpet pierced the air, calling Duncan to his bout. He should already be there, mounted and weapons in hand and he silently cursed Breck for distracting him. Hastily gathering his helm, he abruptly moved for the partially-open tent flap.

  “I have no idea where his mother-in-law is,” he said, covering his bright red hair with the gleaming helm. “She is probably in London, far away from the man once married to her daughter. Moreover, I doubt very seriously she would rush to your aid in order to support your twisted sense of revenge against de Moray. You’d do well to forget this line of thinking, Breck. You are intending to tread on sacred ground.”

  Breck turned to his younger brother. “Sacred ground? How so?”

  “By interfering between a knight and his lady,” Duncan was as close to scolding as he could come. “You would only pledge for the woman to steal her away from de Moray. What happens if your pleas are successful and you are forced to wed? Then what?”

  Breck sighed, scratching at his dirty scalp. “I’d have no real use for a flawed wife. The only reason I am considering vying for her hand is to damage de Moray far more than any injury I can inflict in the melee or tournaments,” he sighed again, feeling the poppy potion pull at him. “I suppose I’d push her down a flight of stairs and be done with it. A double dose of revenge on de Moray; stealing his lady and killing her once we were married.”

  Duncan stared at his brother a moment, hoping it was the drugs speaking and not his true thoughts. Even for Breck, the deranged ideas were extreme to say the least.

  “Why must you do this?” he demanded softly, baffled by the conversation.

  In a drug induced haze, Breck’s sinister orbs glittered. “De Moray must be made to respect and fear me, brother. He is the only knight on the circuit I cannot seem to conquer. The only knight who can best me in the melee or joust, victories that are meant to be mine. If this is the only way to weaken the man, then so be it. Mayhap if I weaken him enough, he shall simply fade away and once again I shall rein on the circuit.”

  The poppy concoction had nothing to do with this madness; Duncan knew that. The muddle spouting from Breck’s lips was his own. It was frightening, considering he possessed the intelligence to carry out his threat.

  “De Moray was father’s friend, once,” he reminded him quietly. “Father thought a good deal of him.”

  “And father is dead,” Breck’s voice was faint. After a moment, he sighed. “Tend your bout, little brother. Beat Ross in the joust or do not return to my tent; I would see his blood on your lance.”

  Duncan saw blood, all right. But it wasn’t on his lance. It was on de Moray’s sword.

  *

  Once Summer was free of the tent, she took off running. Blinded by tears, she rounded the corner of the tent and plowed straight into a warm, armored body.

  Morgan was shocked. “Good God,” he gasped when her soft body rammed into him. Then he saw her face and the tears in her eyes. “What’s the matter, my lady? What’s happened?”

  Summer tried to speak. She tried to pull away, too, but he was unwilling to release her. Instead, he shifted his grip and put his arm about her shoulders in a protective, comforting gesture.

  “Where’s Bose?” he asked gently, his naturally calm manner comforting. “Did you quarrel with him?”

  She shook her head, sobbing. With a sigh, Morgan glanced in the direction of the tent and, seeing that Bose was not directly on the lady’s heel, suspected that something was indeed wrong between them. Getting a good grip on the lady, he led her away from the tent and toward the gnarled old oak in the distance, a favorite landmark for residents and visitors alike.

  Summer allowed him to lead her away, too disturbed to summon the effort for protest. Moreover, the older knight’s embrace provided a certain measure of reassurance and comfort and, for the moment, she was willing to submit.

  “Now, now, it cannot be all bad,” Morgan’s voice was soothing as they approached the old oak. “Can you tell me what happened? Or must I find Bose and disable him without knowing the reasons behind my chivalrous vengeance?”

  His humor brought a slight amount of relief to her tears, almost a giggle to her lips. As they reached the long branches of the sprawling tree, she struggled to reclaim the power of her speech.

  “I-I-It’s not him,” she managed to sputter. “T-T-The lady was very c-cruel.”

  Morgan stared at her, noting the stammer but attributing it to her weeping. Grimly, he nodded, coming to somewhat understand why Bose had not followed the lady as she ran from the tent. He found himself wondering if he should return to the shelter to pick up the pieces Bose was undoubtedly creating from a frail old woman. It was a punishment dealt that should have come about long ago.

  “So you have met Margot,” he said softly. “What did she say that has you so terribly upset?”

  Summer looked to him, then, and her severe weeping made a return. She tried to answer him but, unable to do so, simply shook her head and turned away. His gaze lingered on her curvaceous back, noting the sweet curve of her torso far more than he should have.

  “S-S-She c-called me i-i-imp….”

  “Impaired,” Bose’s voice came from behind them. Morgan turned as his liege wandered up, his face ashen and his black hair stiff with perspiration and blood. “Morgan, would you kindly leave us?”

  Hesitantly, Morgan nodded, casting Bose a lingering glance. “I do not understand, Bose. Why would she…?”

  “B-Because I stammer,” Summer suddenly turned away from the tree trunk, her face flushed with anger as well as humiliation. “She said I was impaired and said that Sir B-Bose was only interested in me out of p-pity.”

  It had taken a good deal of effort to spit out that lengthy sentence and Morgan grew weary simply listening to her. But he also experienced a measure of shock with the revelation of her affliction; Bose had made no mention of the fact and, naturally, Morgan was surprised.

  “You know that’s not true,” Bose said quietly. “I have absolutely no pity for you whatsoever.”

  Her sobbing slowed as she continued to wipe at her face with the back of her hand. After a moment, she snorted ironically. “Nay, you surely do not. I have never met anyone who p-p-possessed less compassion for my flaw.”

  Bose held up a correcting finger. “Ah, I said I did not pity you. But most certainly I hold a good deal of compassion. You speak of two separate emotions.”

  “They are the same.”

  “They are not by my definition. Pity means charity, and in my opinion you are the last person in the world to warrant charity. But compassion means tenderness and understanding, two qualities which I would hope to possess. Especially where they pertain to you.”

  Sobbing lessened, Summer stared at him with emotion brimming in her golden eyes. Morgan, his gaze lingering on the beautiful young woman, suddenly felt as if he were intruding on a tender moment. As if abruptly remembering he had been asked to leave, he turned on his heel when a soft voice halted him.

  “Sir Morgan,” Summer’s voice was soft, the extreme stuttering fading as she calmed. “Thank you for your kind escort. I am sorry we’ve not had a chance to become b-better acquainted.”

  Morgan turned to the lady, casting Bose a long glance as he replied. “A feat that will be made impossible by my liege’s meddlesome presence, I imagine. But fear not, my lady; I suspect we will have further opportunity in the future.”

  Bose actually managed a weak grin. “Think not to steal her from me, you aging rogue. I shall fight you to the death.”

  Morgan cocked an eyebrow, knowing he was jesting but suspecting it was the truth all the same. “I know,” he said, turning away from the two of them.
“I saw what you did to Breck Kerry.”

  Bose snorted with weak humor, returning his attention to Summer as his knight strolled away. His smile faded as he gazed into her pale face, eyes red-rimmed and a catch in her breathing. Moving closer, he nearly blotted out the sun as he hovered over her.

  “I am terribly sorry about Margot,” he said softly, struggling for words. “She hates me so much that, unfortunately, you have fallen within the scope of her venom. I can never apologize enough for the insults she has dealt to you this day, but know that just the same I will endeavor to try.”

  Summer shook her head, wiping the last of her tears away. Leaning against the tree trunk, Bose’s massive body was disturbingly close as her heart began to race again with excitement. He had that effect on her.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she replied, her voice nearly a whisper. “B-But I must say, you seemed quite willing to tolerate her insolence.”

  His eyebrows briefly drew together. “I would not exactly call my attitude toward Margot tolerant.”

  Summer stared at his mouth when he spoke, enjoying the odd, wonderful shape to his lips. “I gathered from her words that she is your wife’s mother. If you do not tolerate her, then why do you allow her within your p-presence?”

  He lifted a resigned eyebrow. “As much as I am loathe to admit the fact, she is a member of my house. I left her at Ravendark three days ago, but she followed me to Chaldon because…,” he suddenly paused, gazing into her eyes as he broached the forbidden subject of Lora’s death. “Because yesterday was the fourth anniversary of my wife’s death. Margot was angry because I opted not to spend my time bemoaning my loss, instead, choosing to attend Lance’s tournament. Even though I left her at my keep, she nonetheless pursued me and is determined to see that I grieve properly.”

  Summer watched his expression as he spoke, the anguish, and was deeply moved. Reaching up, she gently stroked a stubbled cheek; it was a bold move, but she simply could not help herself. It was as if he needed to be comforted.