Chivalrous (10 page)

Gwendolyn glanced about, her gaze settling on the burly fellow she had indicated was her father. She tilted her head awkwardly to the side and stared at the bench between them. “Well, thank you for rescuing me, Sir Allen, but I suppose I should let you go now.”

Let
him
go
?
Allen could not lose her so soon. He knew not a single soul in this place, and had yet to solve the mystery of Lady Gwendolyn Barnes. “Perhaps I could convince you to dance.”

Gwendolyn's aqua blue eyes, which contrasted so stunningly with her tan skin, set to sparkling, and her soft rosy lips lifted into that breathtaking smile once again. “Yes, a dance would be perfect.”

He offered his hand, and her smaller one fit nicely in it. Unfortunately, that surge of warm energy he had experienced when they first touched pulsed through him again, but he attempted to ignore it. She continued smiling up at him for the duration of several heartbeats but then dropped her eyes and crouched into that strange position he had seen earlier.

Had someone bid her to disguise her height? Why on earth? She was Venus. She was Aphrodite. A goddess in all her statuesque glory. But as they completed their bow and curtsey and took their first patterned steps, she remained in her awkward position.

How could he right this travesty? He took her fingers lightly in his as they began their stilted progression across the floor. “You seem . . . rather uncomfortable, Lady Gwendolyn. I confess to being rather new to courtly dancing, but my teacher always insisted I stand straight and tall for ease of movement.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks turned pink. “'Tis . . . only . . . just that.” She dared to glance up at him. “Well, it is just that I am so very tall.”

“Not next to me.” He chuckled.

“True.” She appeared to relax. “How kind of you to mention it rather than avoid the subject. Although I have been told it is not a maidenly virtue, I appreciate directness.”

He wrapped his arm around her slender but firm waist and turned her in the other direction. “As do I. Clear communication saves so much time and energy. Do you not think?” It had been a trait he had always admired in Merry.

“Absolutely.” She laughed and stood to her full elegant height, still a good bit shorter than him. They moved well together, and she danced with surprising grace once she was freed from her bizarre crouch.

“Ah, much better. Now I can look into your eyes.” And look he did, attempting to unlock the secrets of her soul. He had never been able to gaze at Merry like this whilst standing, as her eye level hit somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. He rather liked Gwendolyn's height. It made her seem somehow an equal with him, as he believed a woman should be. Especially a woman one might consider as a wife.

Dangerous territory, that! He steered his mind away from it.

“So tell me something about yourself,” Allen said as they continued through the genteel shapes and patterns of a dance he had learned at Linden Castle.

“I have never been an outlaw, although I have wished to be.
And I wish I could say I have gone on a crusade or a pilgrimage, something grand and exciting, but I have not.”

“Something else, then. Something simple and everyday.” He yet needed clues to decipher this enigmatic lady.

She pondered for a moment as she twirled beneath his raised arm. “I play the pipe. There is something quite magical about turning one's breath into such enchanting tones.”

“Do you now? How wonderful.” Music, dancing, beauty, honesty, a sharp wit, a daring spirit—what other fine qualities might this young lady possess?

“Alas, I feel I owe you the full truth,” she said.

As they moved in unison, her lips turned into a mischievous smile. They joined hands overhead, and she stood a mere whisper away from him. “And what is the full truth?” he asked.

“I play my pipe in the highest boughs of the yew tree beyond our castle walls.”

He chuckled again. “Perfect. I can think of no better place. You must promise to play for me there someday.”

Her step stuttered momentarily, and her eyes grew wide. “Truly?”

“Truly.” But the thought of Gwendolyn upon a bough brought to mind the kiss he had shared with Merry in a tree.
Foolish man!
If he could not rein his thoughts, perhaps he should get away from this entrancing noblewoman. . . . Except that he had no real desire to leave her.

They found their stride and proceeded with the dance.

“And I ride and shoot a bow as well. What think you of that?”

“I love it.” She was so like Merry. Little wonder he felt drawn to her.

She shook her head in disbelief. “Forgive me for being so forthright,” she said, “but I have spent the last weeks being inundated with instruction to play the addlebrained coquette. I
have been told again and again that I must suppress my boisterous nature. That men desire weak, demure women. Is this not so? Please tell me your opinion, Sir Allen, for I am desperate to hear it.”

Ah, so finally, the mystery unraveled! This was but an act she'd been bid to play.

They joined the line of dancers and tunneled their hands as other couples rushed through. Caught up in the tide of movement, they took their turn running through as well, and he tucked her close to his side. This poor girl, no wonder the contradictions in her behavior. Yet he was pleased he had noticed her true nature longing to break free.

Once they could converse again he said, “I have always admired a strong and courageous woman. A woman with spirit and conviction. Even one with ability to lead. Perhaps I am the exception, but I appreciate a woman I can respect.”

“Ability to lead?” The dance sent them spinning away from each other for a moment and then back again. “Is not such a woman an abomination to God and nature? Does God not wish for women to be subservient to their husbands and masters?” Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her she was wrong once again.

He caught her taut torso within his grip and tugged her close as all breath whooshed from his body. Allen fought off a wave of dizziness as he held her near. Surely the young lady could not affect him so much upon their very first meeting. Yet now that he was beginning to understand her, his determination to resist her draw was wavering.

He did, however, manage to focus his thoughts upon her question about a woman's role. “I am not the expert on the holy Scriptures that I wish to be. I know there are passages about wives submitting, but I also recall a section about all believers
submitting one to another, as well as one about the husband treating the wife with care.”

Her mouth formed a pretty little O shape. “Would you show these to me?”

“I will try. My Latin is not the best.”

“Nor is mine. Still, I long to learn more about this. You seem such a purehearted sort, yet what you say is opposed to all I have been told.”

The music stopped, and his eyes locked to hers as they stood still before each other. This was the true Gwendolyn Barnes. Her soul naked before him and desperate for truth. Though he must somehow resist her pull, he longed to help her, to shield her tender heart. “You mentioned you watched my battle this day.”

She nodded.

“Then you must have noticed the way Lachapelle matched me strike for strike. That man brought out the best in me. I have never fought so in my life. Only with an equal was I able to rise to my full potential.”

Gwendolyn looked for a moment as if she might faint, but then pulled herself up straight and tall again.

What must be going through her head at his ridiculous rant? “Do not misunderstand, I do not mean to equate marriage with a battle. 'Tis more like a dance. Like the way our well-matched heights allow us to move so comfortably together. Forgive me, I have spent too much time on the training field this year.”

“Do not dare apologize. Your analogy was perfect.” Wonder shimmered in her expression to match the wonder in his heart.

Suddenly, she was jerked away from him. He felt cold and alone, and ready to punch whomever had done it. But her father held tight to her arm, and Allen dared not offend the man.

Without so much as an apologetic word to Allen, her father bellowed, “Gwendolyn, there is someone I would like you to meet.”

Allen could not unglue himself from his spot, and so was forced to watch the awful scene unfold.

“Lady Gwendolyn Barnes, meet Sir Gawain Ethelbaum. He was one of my most trusted soldiers when I assisted in the rebellion against King John.”

Gawain, what sort of pompous and ridiculous name was that? The meaty man who approached Gwendolyn had a ruthless, predatory look in his eye despite his long waving black hair, elegant clothing, and preening walk. He might have been on the right side in the rebellion, but he appeared a villain nonetheless.

“So this is the young lady. She is rather . . . hearty, is she not?” The man raked her up and down with his gaze. “But overall comely as you described.”

Lord Barnes nudged his daughter, and Gwendolyn slowly shifted back to her hunched position. She fluttered her lashes to Sir Gawain, who was even larger than Allen and had no need to gripe about the height of this exquisite woman.

“Do not be mistaken,” Lord Barnes said. “She is a lady through and through.”

“Indeed, she has some generous attributes.” Sir Gawain leered at the cleavage revealed by Gwendolyn's low-cut gown, which Allen had noticed only in passing as a part of her overall feminine beauty. She pressed a concealing hand to her chest as her cheeks turned pink to match her dress.

Gawain laughed, a meanspirited sort of laugh that set Allen on edge. He remembered the oaf from the tournament now. The very fellow who had so callously struck the serving maid. Despite his disdain for the man, Allen had quickly assessed him as a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps the fiercest competitor there. Certainly one of the wealthiest, judging by the fine cut of his surcoat and his huge retinue. But beyond that, Allen had deemed him an unscrupulous villain.

The man reached out to take Gwendolyn's arm, and Allen wanted nothing more than to rip it away from him. Instead he attempted to step between the two. “So sorry to interrupt, but the Lady Gwendolyn promised me one more dance.”

Gwendolyn's father sneered at him. “I am sure you are mistaken. The lady is finished with you for the evening. Come Gwendolyn, Sir Gawain, let us find some refreshments.”

And with that he ushered the lovely woman away from Allen.

He found the bench where Gwendolyn had sought refuge and collapsed upon it, feeling as though he'd shrunk to miniscule proportions and nearly out of sight completely. He was naught but dust beneath their esteemed feet. There were plenty of women in the world, and this noble lady was out of his grasp. At the end of the day, knighted or not, he was a peasant born and bred.

He must accept that fact, and merely be thankful that his heart had healed to the point that he might develop new attractions. Right now, he did not need a woman anyway. What he needed was to win the tournament and begin carving out a place for himself, for he had nothing to offer any woman yet. Despite his new status as knight, he clearly remained a man of little account. Somehow, he must change that.

And if along the way he found an opportunity to teach the arrogant Sir Gawain a lesson or two, all the better.

Gwendolyn's heart fluttered like a bird in flight as she thrilled to the sight of Sir Allen preparing to battle yet another opponent in the joust.

“Red and gold, red and gold, red and gold,” the spectators shouted over and again in his honor.

Throughout the long day, he had grown to be a crowd favorite, and she could not have felt more pride in this new and dear friend if he had been a member of her own family. Only one more round and Sir Allen would face that awful Sir Gawain for the championship.

Ugh! Gawain.
With his ridiculous silken black hair. Perhaps it was that girlish hair that had confused him into thinking he could strike his maidservant so heartlessly yesterday. Gwen had no desire to even consider how such a man would treat a wife.

Surely Father would never expect her to marry the churlish dolt. As much as Allen had won favor through his courage and honor, Gawain had gained the crowd's disdain through his pompous displays and unchivalrous behavior. 'Twas a wonder
the duke suffered the fellow at all, except that Gawain's father was a powerful nobleman in his own right.

Allen leveled his lance, and Gwen's heart thumped as if she were about to joust herself. The horses thundered toward one another. How quick it all happened when she observed rather than participated. In one neat move, Allen thrust his lance and sent his opponent crashing to the ground with a loud
thump
.

“He unseated him in just one pass!” she said in wonder. It was true, she had fought well yesterday, merely had the misfortune of being matched with the best man on the field in her first round. Thus far, not a single competitor had survived against Sir Allen as long as she had.

“Not surprising,” Gwen's brother Reginald said with a grunt. “He has done so several times now, but I dare say Gawain shall put this upstart in his place.” Tournaments always put Reginald in a foul mood, since Father had never permitted him to participate in one. According to their father, he was the heir and must be protected. Hugh and Gerald were the knights. And Gwen the marriage pawn to be sold to the highest bidder.

Life was disturbingly simple in the mind of Lord Reimund Barnes.

Too bad Gawain's father had not kept his son hidden away at home as the coddled heir—otherwise Father might never have met the oaf.

Mother fanned herself. “Sir Allen is quite a contender, but he would never stand a chance against either of our boys. The fact that Gawain beat Hugh in their last tournament was naught but a fluke.”

“Gawain is a beast of a man, and that serves him well.” Admiration tinged her father's voice. “But I agree. He has not Hugh's agility.”

Rosalind looked to Gwen and rolled her eyes. No one but Father would think being a beast was a good thing.

“Let us be forthright,” Reginald said. “Gawain is a ghastly brute, but at least he is a North Britannian citizen of noble birth. I hear rumors that this Sir Allen is of questionable stock.”

“As I suspected.” Father glared at Gwen. “I had best not see you wasting more time on that lowly fellow.”

Gwen inclined her head to acknowledge her father, but she had no intention of obeying the command. Allen had been the only bright spot in her dreary evening, and she would not insult him by ignoring him tonight.

As the attendants prepared the field for the final battle of the day, Gwen caught sight of a hand waving at them from the center of the grandstand. She leaned out the opening and found the duchess, who was dressed in a lovely gown of fern green, calling to her. “Lady Gwendolyn! Oh, Gwendolyn, there you are. Come and join me for the final round. It shall be so exciting.”

Gwen turned to her parents to ask permission.

Mother waved her away before Gwen could utter a word. “Go, and hurry with you. One does not decline an invitation from the duchess.”

“Of course.” Still a bit flustered by the request, Gwen called out to the duchess. “I am coming. Just one moment please.”

She gestured to Rosalind, and the two of them ducked through the exit from their box and into the bright sunshine behind the stands.

“Thanks be to God!” Rosalind caught Gwen back. “I thought we'd never escape them. What happened last night? That Allen fellow has had his eye on you all day. And do not think I missed that kiss you blew to him when you thought no one observed. Why did you not tell me when you came home?”

Gwen felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Of course she could
hide nothing from her handmaiden. “We did spend some time together last night. He is an admirable man, very kind and encouraging. But he is only a friend. As I have told you time and again, I have no need of romance.”

She nearly said,
nor of a husband to hold me under his thumb
, yet she knew such would never be the case with a fellow like Sir Allen.

“Surely you do not expect me to believe that.” Rosalind pressed a hand to Gwen's forehead. “Fetch the healer—this one has got it bad.”

“I do not!” But even as she protested, Gwen feared Rosalind might be correct.

“Of course you must say that.” Sympathy shone in Rosalind's eyes as she offered Gwen a half smile. “I'm happy that you have found a new
friend
, Lady Gwendolyn, and I will not mention any obstacles this
friendship
might present. Only be thankful it has brought you such joy.”

“Oh hush, you.” Gwen gave her maid a playful shove.

“Come. We must hurry. The duchess awaits.”

This was an odd turn of events for certain. Gwen had never expected to win the woman's favor. They nodded to the guards at the entrance to the duke's gallery and entered just as the trumpets blasted to announce the final event of the day.

“Oh good! You made it in time.” The duchess held out a hand to Gwen, and Gwen gave it a squeeze.

She settled herself in the empty cushioned chair next to her grace, the Duchess DeMontfort, and Rosalind stood attendance behind them.

“This should be the best match of the tournament,” the duke said.

“I could not agree more.” Gwen's tongue felt free in such a welcoming environment. “Sir Allen has fought gallantly all day.”

The duchess leaned forward as the herald finished the announcements preceding the battle. “Yes, and Sir Gawain has fought to win and for naught else. Let us not pretty up the truth. I know who I shall be cheering for. Red and gold, red and gold, red and gold.”

The delicate duchess punched the air in rhythm with her chant, and soon Gwen and Rosalind, not to mention much of the crowd, joined in. Gwen had reckoned correctly that the duchess was a feisty sort.

Allen in his red and gold squared off against the mammoth Gawain bedecked in blue and green. But as they had all expected, this was not an easy win for either competitor. After four passes and at least as many broken lances, the joust continued.

“Oh, this is just too exciting.” The duchess pressed her kerchief to her mouth. “I can barely stand it.”

“Imagine how they must feel,” came from Gwendolyn's mouth before she thought to stop the words.

The duchess raised a knowing brow her way. “Ah, so you do know a thing or two of battle.”

Gwen smiled. “Perhaps.”

As the knights prepared for another pass, an odd sight caught Gwendolyn's gaze. Just beyond Allen, at the far side of the arena, a young child stood and balanced himself atop the high railing along the side of the stands. He teetered right and left, then straightened himself and quickly sat upon it. Goodness, where were the child's parents? Although he looked to be no older than six or seven, no one seemed to notice him.

But all thoughts of the child were swept from Gwen's mind as the horses rushed toward each other once again. She recognized that determined set to Allen's shoulders. “Look at his form. Someone is going down.”

With a resounding clash, both lances splintered as the riders flipped in tandem to the ground at the tremendous impact of their joint blows.

The duchess squealed in delight. “You are a genius, my girl.” She patted Gwen's leg. “This is your permanent seat from this day hence.”

“Five, six, seven . . .” the herald shouted.

“But will they rise?” asked the duke, as both men yet sprawled upon the ground.

Gwen had noticed slight twitches from both of them. Neither had been knocked out cold, and both were fiercely determined. “Absolutely. Just give them a moment.”

A secret part of her struggled along with Allen, gathering air and courage as he hoisted himself from the ground. Gwen let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. “Thank goodness!”

“Fifteen, sixteen . . .” called the herald, just as Sir Gawain also managed to rise.

“And let the swordplay begin.”

But both men paused for a moment before approaching one another.

“This should be splendid.” The duke propped his elbows upon the waist-high wall of the gallery.

“Gawain far outranks in size and strength, but Allen is amazingly agile. I could not believe those tumbling maneuvers he performed y . . .” Gwen nearly faltered but caught herself in time, remembering she was supposed to have been ill yesterday. “Against his opponents.”

“You should have seen him yesterday when he faced Sir Geoffrey,” the duke said. “Now that was magnificent indeed.”

“Yes, whatever happened to Lachapelle?” asked the duchess. “I did not find him at the feast.”

“Perhaps he slunk back to France with his tail between his legs at our superior English might.” The duke chuckled.

“Oh, stop that.” The duchess slapped his arm. “Men! Whatever shall we do with them?”

“I have no idea, Your Grace.” Gwen could hardly believe she was jesting with the duke and duchess.

“You shall figure it out soon enough.” The duchess laughed.

Gwen winced at the reminder, but the two men now approached each other, and the final battle began.

They were a sight to behold, their swords clashing with a volume to raise the dead. Again and again they slashed at each other. Gwen wondered how their shields survived. Allen spun and ducked and performed several evasive tumbling maneuvers, while Gawain was all aggression and brute force. At last, after several minutes, Gawain took a step back to find his breath, and Allen likewise retreated for a respite.

“Should you call a winner?” the duchess asked her husband.

“Not yet. They are still too evenly matched. This round might be decided by stamina alone.”

Gwen smiled. “Then Sir Allen should win. For he was only recently knighted and is surely at the peak of his training.”

The duke turned to her. “You seem to know much about this young man. I hope you are right.”

Gwen looked away before the duke might read anything upon her face.

In that instant, the odd sight caught her attention again. The child teetered now on one foot, perched precariously upon the rail a good eighteen feet from the ground. If he slipped off to the side, no one would see him. No one would hear. Before she could do a thing, before she could even scream, his foot flew out from beneath him. In the last second before he fell to sure destruction, he caught himself by his fingertips along the ledge.

“Heavens, no!” Gwen shrieked. “The child!”

The duchess turned to seek the trouble—the dangling child was barely visible from their angle across the field, but she followed Gwen's finger and found his form peeking out from the side of the stand.

“Do something!” yelled the duchess.

The duke, caught in the throes of battle, did not hear a word. An attentive guard disappeared out the rear door, but he would never make it to the far side of the arena in time. Gwen debated jumping onto the field, but she would never make it either, and would risk being skewered in the process.

Staring straight at Allen, who was mere yards from the lad, and willing him with all her might to look at her, she pointed and screamed, “The child. Save the child!”

Allen scanned the grandstands once again. Where had she gone? Her strength and support had gotten him through this day, making him feel a part of something greater than himself, offering him a sense of friendship and belonging that fueled him to fight.

“Red and gold, red and gold . . .” the crowd bellowed once again. In support of him. He could hardly fathom it. If he had felt miniscule last night, he loomed mammoth today.

From the far side of the field near the grandstand, Gawain wavered with weariness, but came at Allen nonetheless. Allen saw his chance. His heart soared. He would defeat this foe.

And that was when Allen noticed her. Standing and shrieking in the center gallery. Pointing beyond his shoulder. What on earth did she shout? Then he understood.

“Save the child!”

He swiveled and saw a child hanging by one hand from the rail along the stands, a deadly height above the ground. Even as
he watched, a tiny finger slipped away, but the child's screams were swallowed by the roar of the crowd.