Chivalrous (22 page)

The duchess was pouring her performance out thick now.
Gwen hoped her father would not see through it, but he appeared entirely perplexed.

“Your own daughter, the famed Lady Gwendolyn the fair, shall be the prize. Can you believe it?” The duchess clapped again and bounced on her toes for good measure. “She shall wed the winner.”

“I . . . oh . . . but what of the Ethelbaums? I would not wish to offend them.” Father looked as though he might be sick.

The duchess swept away his concern with a delicate flick of her wrist. “Never fear, I shall speak with Lord Ethelbaum. Besides which, we all know Gawain is likely to win. So the conclusion of the matter shall be the same either way, but the process ever more fun.”

Father scratched his head, causing his wiry greying hair to stand to attention. “I suppose you are right. I can hardly say no.”

“No, you cannot.” The duchess's simpering tone turned more firm.

“Right, then. I shall let you ladies return to your planning.” Father slipped through the door and down the hall, mumbling under his breath the entire way.

“I do not understand.” Rosalind spoke the words they must all have been thinking. “How will this help if Gawain is the reigning champion?”

“It was all I could come up with on short notice.” The duchess sank to the dry edge of the bed. “Either this or a nunnery. The church has always provided sanctuary for young women such as yourself.”

“Please, not a nunnery,” Gwen begged.

“Then at least this plan gives us a chance,” the duchess said. “It buys us some time and opens the door for more options.”

“I do not wish to hope again.” Gwen squeezed her eyes closed against the gnawing pang in her belly. “It hurts too much.”

“You must not give up, darling.” Mother pulled her close. “All is not lost.”

“Without hope the heart will shrivel and die,” the duchess said, “as your recent behavior attests. Gawain is a fool, and there must be a way to defeat him.”

Mother leaned forward. “You know, we should not discount Sir Randel. He performed quite well in the last tournament, and this time he will have a stronger motive.”

“Perhaps, but it would take a miracle.” Gwen rested her cheek upon her knees and looped her arms about her shins, locking herself into that infantile position.

“Our God is a God of miracles,” the duchess said. “We must not despair.”

While the three ladies around her contemplated the issue, Gwen felt herself being pulled toward that other place. She pictured a little cottage deep in the woods. As she tended her babes, Allen entered the door with a huge poached deer across his shoulder.

“Hugh!” Rosalind shouted, pulling Gwen from her reverie once again. “We must get Sir Hugh back. He can fight on Lady Gwendolyn's behalf and choose a husband for her. He will choose Sir Randel for certain. 'Twas his idea to pair them in the first place.”

“Hugh is with the king.” Mother sighed, sounding defeated once again. “We have already discussed this.”

“But I could request that he return for my wedding,” the duchess said. “It is my right to request whomever I wish, is it not? I shall send Reginald in his stead for a time, for he seems to side with your father ever since the man returned. We would not want your eldest brother interfering.”

“Excellent plan.” Mother clutched her hands together.

“And how convenient that the tournament will be just one day prior to the wedding.” The duchess wiggled her brow.

Then Gwen finally let herself feel it. That warmth burgeoning from deep within her chest. She could no longer hold it at bay. Hope washed over her. She would not retreat into her fantasy world again. No, she would do what Lady Gwendolyn Barnes did best.

She would fight.

Allen riffled through the pages of the giant tome yet again. Fulton had given him until tomorrow to learn the extensive legal codes of North Britannia. Yet he had still been forced to spend the morning poring over castle accounts with the chief scribe.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Able to endure no more of that book, he allowed himself to take in the lovely scene surrounding him instead. The duchess and Rosalind stitched quietly in the corner of the solar, while Gwendolyn, who had no patience for needlework, stood playing a melancholy—albeit mesmerizing—tune on her pipe.

If only she might play something more cheerful, perhaps he could pull himself out of this gloom. Since Gwendolyn had arrived a week ago, he had not been able to rouse himself from his thunderous mood. The girl drove him near to daft with her very presence.

He tried to focus on the documents before him, but he had
stared at them so long that the words merely swayed in front of his eyes. Was it only weeks ago that he had been so fascinated by the procedures of North Britannia?

But he had had no idea that the dukedom had devised such a cumbersome legal code.

Such tedium made him long for the simple life he had enjoyed in Ellsworth.

“Here are my favorite people!” Sir Randel entered the room like a fresh breeze to chase away the thunderclouds.

“Greetings, Sir Randel,” the duchess called with a smile.

Gwendolyn paused from her piping to wave at Randel.

“Do not stop on my account,” Randel said. “I love to hear you play.”

He pulled a chair backward before Allen's table and straddled it like a horse. “Good grief, Sir Allen, you look as though you will be hanged at sunrise. Whatever could be so bad?”

Allen would not mention his growing love for Gwendolyn, nor his heart sickness at being denied his dreams of battle. Instead he settled on the problem close at hand. “I am required to learn this entire code by tomorrow.”

“Ridiculous! That load of bunk that Fulton has contrived? That man is far too generous with his words.”

Allen smiled at that, for he had been thinking the same thing. “Then what do you suggest?”

“Most of it is common sense and Christian principles. If he asks you a question, base your answers upon those, and you shall do fine.”

Allen flipped a page. “But is it not my duty as future duke to learn them by heart?”

Randel slammed the mammoth book closed and shoved it to the end of the table. “'Tis your duty to let me thrash you at chess.” He slid the neglected board in front of them.

The duchess giggled from her corner. “Do take a break, Sir Allen. The council pushes you too hard. You shall go cross-eyed.”

“You see.” Randel began arranging the pieces. “Even your betrothed agrees.”

“Fine.” Allen set up his own side of the board. “I could use a change of pace.”

As Randel studied the pieces and strategized his first move, Allen did some studying of his own. This congenial fellow would make the perfect husband for Gwendolyn. Much as it pained Allen to admit it, he had no doubt. Somehow, he must help Randel to win the upcoming tournament and secure Gwendolyn's hand, so that she might stay safe for good.

When Gwendolyn first arrived at Edendale Castle in her injured state, it had wounded Allen like a stake to his heart. She had assured him that her father looked no better and that she had provoked the man, yet he had noted a haunted glint in her eye. He must protect her—from both her father and that abusive Gawain—no matter the cost to his heart.

Randel made his first move, and Allen followed with his own.

He studied Randel's slender shoulders. Randel's only chance for beating the brute Gawain was to unseat him in the joust. Allen thought back over the last tournament. If he remembered correctly, Randel had unseated two opponents, but made a tragic error in his third run, which Allen had seized.

Allen paused with his piece in the air. “Sir Randel, have you had much training in the joust?”

Randel grimaced. “Is it so obvious that I have not? My parents wished me to enter the church, but I never desired such a life. Most of the training I received was in secret with Lady Gwendolyn and her brothers.”

Allen nodded. “In that case, you manage quite well. But I
think with a few tips and a bit of practice, you could do even better. What say you to forgetting about chess and heading out to the field?”

The duchess cleared her throat and raised her brows.

Allen pushed away from the table. “I know. The council will not like it. I am sick near to death of the council.”

“They might lock you up in the dungeon for safekeeping.” She smiled.

“Let them try.” Allen put a hand to his hilt.

“Yes, let them try.” Sir Randel mirrored his stance with a wink. “Allen is going to teach me to win my ladylove. Let no man stand in our way.”

Gwendolyn stuttered upon her pipe. She dropped it from her mouth and blushed prettily. “Thank you, Sir Allen. That is very kind of you.”

Allen's heartbeat sped in that annoying way it always did at the sound of her voice. Her smile seemed to reach across the room and stroke his cheek, sending tingles through him that he must again ignore. Allen turned his gaze to the floor before he lost his wits entirely. “I wish only to see you happy, my lady.”

“You have been fairly warned,” the duchess said. “Do not expect me to deliver victuals to the dungeon.”

Allen smiled wryly her way. “They might lock me up, but never fear—they will see their prize bull well fed.” The expectations of the council wrapped around his neck like a noose. He must escape this solar and make his way outdoors at once.

Just as he and Randel turned to leave, a servant appeared in the doorway.

“Sir Allen, an important missive has come for you.”

“For me?” Allen asked. Although he would be a duke soon, he was no one of any real consequence yet and had never before received a missive in his life.

“Yes, sir, it is addressed directly to you, and requires an immediate response.”

Allen took the curious piece of paper from the servant. He did not recognize the seal, so he broke it and scanned down the page looking for a name. The letter was signed by Timothy Grey.

Only then did he realize that he had not even thought to thank the servant. Had he truly grown so entitled already? Wonderful! Just what he needed to make this day perfect.

Although, as he summoned his memories of Timothy Grey—dragging in their wake the surrounding ones of Merry Ellison—he realized that all vestiges of her hold over him had finally been broken. Now if he could only reach such a stage with Gwendolyn.

Although his eyes ached from so much reading this day, he forced himself to give the missive due attention.

My Dear Friend Sir Allen of Ellsworth,

It is my sad duty to inform you that Merry Ellison has been kidnapped by a brute to the north named Sir Warner DeMontfort. But allow me to go back for the sake of explanation.

Merry's title and lands were recently returned to her, thus significantly changing her status. She is now the wealthiest heiress in the land. Despite my new favor at court, the regent deemed me an unfit mate for her and promised her to the powerful Earl of Weathersby instead. While I understood his reasoning in not giving her to a lesser son of a baron such as myself, I am sure you will realize how heartbroken this left both of us.

Then matters changed yet again. This DeMontfort fellow, who is said to be after the dukedom in your own
North Britannia, sent a contingency of troops who kidnapped Merry. We believe he intends to force a marriage, and thereby claim Merry's title and lands for himself.

I assumed William Marshall would be livid, but he is acquainted with this DeMontfort. While a bit disgruntled at having his hand forced in the matter, he did not deem the situation worthy of sending troops for a rescue.

Thankfully, the young king spoke up on my behalf, and here is where the matter now stands: if I can muster my own troops and rescue Merry, she shall be mine. I realize it must pain you to read this, but I know you would want to help her.

I, together with the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest and some of my uncle's men, are rushing to DeMontfort's holdings with all the speed we can manage. Time will not allow me to stop by my father's home for more support, and even if I sent word, they would never arrive in time. In fact, I can only hope this missive will reach you before it is too late. We must save her before any marriage is official, or matters will become far more complicated.

And so, my friend, I must implore you. Gather whatever troops you can and meet me for this rescue. I hope to arrive in the village of Bixby on the 29th day of this month October.

Please, if you cannot bring yourself to do this for me, then do it for Merry. Her future and her happiness depend upon it. And I daresay the future of North Britannia might as well.

Your servant and friend,
Timothy Grey

Allen gripped tight to the missive with both hands. Realizing he had not taken a breath in several paragraphs, he drew a sharp one into his lungs. But the air did little to steady him nor to dull the ache in his stomach.

He stumbled backward into his chair.

“Sir Allen, what is it? Please tell us,” Sir Randel said.

But Allen was still attempting to sort the words out in his own head. Merry kidnapped. In the clutches of that villain Warner DeMontfort. She had meant the world to him during their time in the forest. He yet loved her as a sister. Such could not be her fate.

The occupants of the room all looked as confused as Gwen felt. The Duchess Adela should have been the natural person to comfort her espoused husband over this clearly tragic news, but she only shrugged her shoulders as if the moment were too private to interfere.

Gwen took the initiative, for she could not bear to watch him suffer alone. She placed her wooden pipe on the table beside the abandoned chessboard and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Please, allow me to read it, Sir Allen.”

He nodded dumbly and handed the letter to her.

She scanned through the missive, and her heart clutched. “His good friend, Merry Ellison, has been kidnapped. He has told me of her on many occasions.”

“I have heard his stories as well,” the duchess said. “How horrible.”

“It gets worse.” Gwen swallowed down a thick lump in her throat. How she hated to continue. “She has been kidnapped by Warner DeMontfort.” She went on to explain Merry's new status and Warner's evil plot. “This affects all of us. We must send troops at once.”

“I will go with you!” Randel clapped a hand over Allen's forearm.

How Gwen's heart bled for this woman. How she commiserated with her horrible plight. She wished to jump on a horse and go save Merry herself.

The duchess stood and moved to the window. She stared out it a moment before speaking. “We cannot make this decision alone. As you said, Lady Gwendolyn, it affects all of us. The council will meet on the morrow. They must decide what course we will take.”

That seemed to wake Allen from his stupor. He leapt to his feet. “But they will not permit me to fight for my dear friend. I must leave, now! If the council wishes to send reinforcements, they are welcome.”

The duchess turned to Allen with a regal stare that would put even the fiercest warrior in his place. “We still have a day to make this decision. You will do nothing rash. You are soon to be a duke, and it is time for you to start thinking like a duke.”

Allen deflated like an empty wineskin. Gwen ached for him. She understood his plight—to be denied one's dreams and passions. Why not just bury him in the grave? Yet she suspected Allen would do the honorable thing, even if it killed him. Just as he had chosen to deny his heart concerning her.

“Please, Sir Allen, do not be so dejected.” The duchess gazed at something a far way in the distance. “You will survive this, just as I have survived years of being denied the opportunity to lead a campaign to the Holy Land. Someday, they say, when I have produced an heir.”

The duchess's words caught Gwen's attention, despite the gravity of the moment. “A campaign? Like that of Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

“Yes, only more successful, I hope. My cousin Honoria and I have dreamed of taking a troop of women on crusade our whole lives. We could inspire and support the soldiers. Work as healers. Serve as an added line of defense during warfare. Though it might surprise some, I have quite a mind for battle plans. Perhaps I could even find my long-lost brother. But alas, it shall never be. Not with our current council.” The duchess lowered her head.

“But
this
injustice is right in our own backyard.” Randel stood firm behind Allen in a show of support. “We must save Merry Ellison. And Allen must be involved. Allow me to speak to the council on his behalf. They cannot deny him such a basic right, such a fundamental drive. A man must fight for those he loves.”