Chivalrous (31 page)

Since the castle lay so nearby the tournament grounds, Allen had returned to his own chamber to collect himself. He splashed cool water upon his face and stared into the mirror as the liquid dripped into the basin. Studying his reflection, he was not at all certain he liked what he saw.

A man of duty. A man of honor. Yet a man who too often refused to follow the guidance of his own heart. A man who for this past month had chosen to drown out the whispers of that still, small voice of the Holy Spirit deep within.

Was it more courageous, more true, more just to protect the dukedom—or would exhibiting true courage mean following his own convictions? And would his marriage to the duchess even protect the people of North Britannia? The entire supposition was built upon a suspect prophecy. Shaky ground compared to the solid rock of God's Word.

But the Bible contained no instruction concerning whom Allen should marry. And what did God himself have to say on
this matter? Allen heard Him shouting now, no longer whispering but bellowing His warning loud and clear.
Gwendolyn belongs with
you! Do not wed her to another! Marry her yourself!

So why did Allen yet doubt?

Checking himself in the mirror again, he noted that his North Britannian crimson and black surcoat remained pristine. He had barely broken into a sweat during today's tourney. Yet this daunting decision might cause him to perspire agonizing drops of blood. And so he headed to the one place where he might find an answer.

The castle chapel.

Not surprisingly, Father Marcus meandered through the place, chanting his prayers. “There you are, my boy! Whatever took you so long?”

Allen rushed to him and clutched his hands. “I desperately need your guidance. Tell me of the prophecy. Do you believe it is true?”

The old priest clucked his tongue. “I do not. Not that I do not believe that God can and will speak to His people. But this supposed prophet dabbled in the black arts as well. I remember. I was there.”

Allen's mind spun with confusion. He wanted to believe the old man, but even if what he said were true, that did not diminish the fact that the people of this dukedom were relying upon Allen. They needed this wedding for encouragement and morale.

“However,” the priest said, “I do not believe that is the most pressing issue here.”

He gave Allen's hands a shake. “Although your respect for the ruling authorities is admirable, you must let no man dictate your path. You alone must endure the consequences of your choices. You alone must answer for them on the Day of Judgment. And you alone must decide what course you will take this day.”

Most excellent advice. In his own odd but wise way, Father Marcus had shed new light on this subject. Allen should not cave to the whims of the council. He must make his own decision in this matter.

Only Allen was still not fully convinced what decision that should be. The people needed him—Sir Allen of Ellsworth, heir to Arthur, savior of North Britannia.

“Remember that haze of pride, my son. Do not let it cloud your vision.”

Allen's jaw gaped as the priest's words pierced through him.

The crowd grew raucous as they awaited Sir Allen's decree, yet no one seemed willing to leave the stands.

Gwen, still dressed in her chain mail, emitted a rhythmic clink as she paced back and forth across the front of the duchess's box, and no one bothered to chide her for her unladylike behavior. She wrung her hands together. Wherever was Rosalind? How she needed her maid's strength and clear thinking.

The duchess took Gwen's hand and offered a quick squeeze as Gwen marched past. “Do not despair, Sir Geoffrey,” she whispered with a wink.

Gwen responded with a wry grin, glad the duchess finally knew the truth.

Meanwhile, Randel stood to one side, nervously tapping his foot.

Of course Allen would choose Randel. The path had been decided weeks ago. He was the only sound option. Randel would treat Gwen well, and out of her gratitude, she would grow to love him.

So why did Allen delay?

As she pivoted and strode away from Randel, she wondered just how settled this matter was in her own heart. She yet loved Allen. Yet longed for him. Yet relived the wonder of his kiss with every moment she did not keep her mind under tightest rein.

She still dreamed of him at night while she slept. Still turned her thoughts to him even as she knelt and prayed.

How could she in all fairness marry Sir Randel? But what choice was left?

In that moment her gaze scraped the sky and landed on the cross atop the spire of the cathedral.

Gwen stopped to stare at it as an idea struck her. She need not marry Randel, for she could yet be wed to Christ. Only God had ever loved her with a love that overshadowed her feelings for Allen, and she would gladly spend her life in devotion to Him. Her father would not relish the idea, but what professing Christian parent would publicly refuse his daughter the right to offer her life to Christ?

Her mind reeled at the thought. Gwendolyn Barnes, a nun. She chuckled. A mere month ago it had not seemed possible, and now it was the only course that made one whit of sense.

She must speak to Allen. She must let him know.

The mood of the crowd shifted. A number of people stood to their feet and pointed. They began to chant. “Sir Al-len. Sir Al-len.”

And most assuredly, he marched directly toward them from the castle.

He entered the tournament ground, crossed the field, and stood before the duchess and the council with a new confidence—a greater authority than Gwendolyn had ever seen him wield. The crowd fell silent.

“Sir Allen,” the duchess said, rising to her feet. “Have you made your choice?”

“Nearly. Would Lady Gwendolyn Barnes please join me on the field?”

Thank the good Lord. She would have her chance to speak with him. Though she longed to leap over the rail—as had become everyone's habit this day—she exited through the back of the duchess's box as a lady should. A guard escorted her around the perimeter of the tourney field and through the gate. In short order, she stood at Allen's side. Precisely as she'd always wished.

He turned and captured her hands in his. Energy pulsed and snapped between them.

She drank from the depths of his eyes.

Bending close, he whispered, “I need to know, Gwendolyn. What is your choice?”

Even as her mind prepared to speak the words she had planned, prepared to tell him that she would be wed to Christ, completely different ones rushed from her heart and poured from her lips. “You, Allen,” she whispered. “I choose you. There is no one else for me.”

Appalled by her own lack of self-control, she ripped a hand from his grip and slapped it over her mouth. Through her fingers she said, “I am so sorry. Forgive me. I did not intend to speak the words. Please instruct the council that I will enter a convent.”

But Allen just smiled down at her, eternal love shining from his gentle hazel eyes.

He turned to the duchess, to the council, and swept his chin from side to side to include the entire audience in his announcement. “My wish is that the Duchess Adela be allowed to rule alone, as I know she desires. As we all know she can.”

Gasps went up around the place.

“My wish is that a new law be decreed to allow her to do so
and to choose her own husband in her own time. And my wish is that I might marry Lady Gwendolyn myself.”

“Treason!”

“Dishonor!”

“Travesty!” the cries rang forth.

Gwen could not so much as breathe. She dared not think. Dared not plan. All thoughts drained from her mind. All she could do was watch and wait and hope. Randel smiled his approval. She spied her father standing with arms folded across his broad chest and a smirk pasted across his face, as if he knew this would not turn out well.

“Halt!” the duchess hollered with that authority that never faltered. “Do not cry out on my account. I yet love and mourn my husband. I agree with Sir Allen, and I wish that the council would make it so. Place your trust in God, not in some superstitious prophecy. God alone is our deliverer. We do not need this wedding to defeat DeMontfort.”

Fulton and Hemsley surrounded her on either side, and Fulton addressed the riotous crowd. “The duchess speaks from grief. But we will exert reason in her place. As the entire region knows, this marriage must occur to fulfill the prophecy and save us all from sure destruction. Take Sir Allen into custody! The wedding will take place upon the morrow.”

Guards shoving Gwen away from Allen's side woke her from her trance-like state. She gasped for breath. But as they prepared to lead him away, four horsemen galloped onto the field.

“'Tis Warner DeMontfort!” one of them shouted. “He is on his way! Just a few miles from here! With a hundred mounted men at the least!”

“You see,” the bishop yelled, his voice shaking. “We have tested the wrath of God. Destruction has come upon us. We must hold the wedding immediately!”

Allen searched for Gwendolyn through the screaming mob that jostled him toward the cathedral steps. He found her just behind him, secured between two guards. To his greater surprise, he saw the duchess also held captive and swept along with the tide.

He stumbled up the stairs as a number of armed men dragged him along. Someone thrust the duchess to face him. Then both he and the gracious Duchess Adela, most beloved lady of North Britannia, stood held fast with their arms pinned behind their backs before the desperate crowd.

Needing every advantage he might find, Allen scanned the area. Gwendolyn was being held behind him, likewise on the portico of the cathedral, but she retained her weapons. Nearby he spotted Sir Randel along with Durand and the other knights who had helped on his mission. All were dressed in armor, along with North Britannian surcoats, and must have been guarding the arena nearby.

Randel caught his gaze and nodded. They would support Allen if needed. Though Randel's right arm remained in the sling, he drew his sword with his left hand and stood at the ready.

A pathway parted, and the bishop passed through like Moses crossing the Red Sea. He glared at Allen and the duchess as he made his way up the steps and stood before them.

“Do you, Allen of Ellsworth take Duchess Adela to be your wife?”

“I will not!” he hollered.

“Would you leave our city to be ransacked? Our people to be raped and looted? Our dukedom to be overcome by this usurper?” The bishop shook his hands high over his head.

The man was being ridiculous now, but Allen's mind yet knew
reason. “I would most assuredly not. I would send out our own troops against DeMontfort. I would call for reinforcements from the countryside. I would alert the king in England. Do not hole up in this city like a bunch of cowards. Go out and fight him!”

“The prophecy!”

“Destiny!”

“Marry her now!” came the cries of the panicked mob. Hands reached toward them, fists pounded in their direction.

Allen feared they might be trampled completely. But he did not intend to back down. Gwendolyn, the duchess, Randel, all the people he cared about the most—and far more importantly, the God of the very universe—were on his side. Nothing else mattered. He must hold firm in his resolve.

The bishop turned to the duchess. “Duchess Adela, think clearly. Do what you must! Will you take Sir Allen as your husband?”

“I will not. Send out the troops. I am yet your leader!”

At that the people went completely insane. Screaming and thrashing.

“Just call them wed and be done with it!” Hemsley said.

“I cannot.” The bishop lifted his palms in defeat. “They must agree. They must speak the words.”

“We will swear that they did,” called a man from the crowd. “We will be your witnesses.”

The bishop dropped both his arms and his head. “I will not be party to perjury.”

“Then seize them!” Lord Fulton shouted. “In the name of the council. Perhaps a night in prison shall change their minds.”

“Wait.” Allen pulled away from his guards. “If you will not hear reason, I have no choice but to concede. I cannot leave the dukedom to be destroyed.”

The duchess shot a wild-eyed look his way.

He raised his brows and sent her a pointed gaze in return. “We must do this. For the people.”

Catching the silent message that belied his words, the duchess took a step toward him. “We must, and we will.”

Allen let out the low call of the barn owl, which sounded to any untrained ear like a dramatic sigh. Then he began the backward count.

Ten, nine
. He took the duchess's hand.

Six, five
. They knelt before the bishop.

Three, two
. He put his hand to the hilt of his
sword.

On the appointed count, Gwen kicked her feet high, sending her full weight crashing to her back upon the stone floor and the unsuspecting guards slamming into one another. Once they lost their grips on her, she swung around, slicing her foot their way, and knocking them both to the ground. With a bound, she sprang to standing and drew her sword.

Allen had already knocked his captors unconscious, while Randel and his men fended off the crowd. The remaining guards protected Duchess Adela from the fray.

With the element of surprise still in their favor, Allen shouted, “To the horses. Come with us if you would defend our dukedom.”

As they surged forward, the people scrambled out of their way. Only a small contingent of knights followed.

“Stop them. Close the gates! Line the walls!” Fulton shouted behind Gwen, but already his voice grew faint.

Slashing their swords toward the crowd to create yet more space, Allen, Gwen, and their comrades dashed toward the nearby clearing to the rear of the tournament grounds, where horses and weapons stood unprotected. Theirs for the taking.

They grabbed up sharp lances and steeds in a matter of seconds. Gwen found her own Andromache with ease and leapt upon her back.

“To the gates!” Allen called, pointing that way. A troop of about fifteen mounted horsemen followed.

Though the crowd now surged toward them again, those blocking their path ran away screaming as the armed knights thundered toward them.

While Gwen and the others approached the city walls, the gate slowly descended. The valiant knights pounded through the opening nonetheless. The spikes fell closer and closer. Gwen and Allen, bringing up the rear, ducked low to avoid being crushed.

They were through!

Allen led the charge up the hill. Only then did Gwen's thoughts clear enough for her to fully digest the hopelessness of their cause. Fifteen knights against a hundred men. What had Allen been thinking? But she would not turn back. She must remain strong and stand for right.

Near the top of the rise, Allen called for their troop to form a line. Before them spread a narrow passage through rocky cliffs. No one would enter the city from the west without passing this way. Gwendolyn fearlessly took her place between Allen and Randel in the row of horses and lifted her lance.