Chivalrous (6 page)

“Oh, Allen. I shall miss you!” She looped her hand through his elbow and gave him a squeeze in a motherly manner.

He did not wish to be pacified like a child, but he managed not to bristle. “I shall miss you too.”

“Allen.” The word was so soft he could barely hear it.

“Yes,” he whispered in return.

“In a different . . . ” She paused. “If matters had turned out . . . You will make someone the finest husband in the world. I want you to know that.”

His heart twisted in his chest.

This was not helping. To think that he might have escaped to France, started a new life there, been the one engaged to Merry. He jerked himself away and stood. “I will be back to train the children tomorrow. I will tell them then.”

“As you wish.” Merry sounded wistful as she wrapped her arms about her legs and tucked her chin to her knees.

“Good-bye, then,” he said.

“Good-bye.”

Allen grabbed up his sword and stray pieces of armor. He headed through the village circle and down the lane. Though he would miss his dear friends, he was ready for a new start. Ready to leave his peasant upbringing and the tragedy and heartache it had brought upon him far behind. Pain seared through him at the memory of all he had lost in Ellsworth, but he turned his thoughts to his heavenly Father, always a whispered prayer away, entreating with all his heart that God might lead him to a bright future in North Britannia.

Though in the stories of King Arthur, he and his esteemed knights never failed to encounter adventure after adventure upon their journeys, Allen's trip north had proven sadly uneventful. Not a single highwayman, nor even a grumpy boar, to thwart his path. Weeks passed idly by as he and his destrier, a gift from Lord Linden along with his armor, made their way across the unending countryside and through the craggy mountain passes.

At last the vast city of Edendale, North Britannia's prize jewel, spread across the valley before him, its pale stone walls glistening against a backdrop of green trees and blue sky in the early fall sunshine. Tall buildings stood at alert all around the soaring castle in the center. A colorful profusion of tents surrounded the city like lesser gems spilling across the verdant lawn.

The road had grown more congested as he approached, and now he understood why. The city teemed with life. From this distance the press of bodies melted into a single writhing serpent flowing through the streets. Although he always enjoyed
the company of others, the sight of such crowds pulled him up short not a furlong from his destination.

As he gazed down over the city, a retinue galloped past with banners waving in the breeze. They wound their way down the ribbon of road toward his goal. The Jerusalem to his pilgrimage.

But at this very last moment, he himself paused and knelt. Closing his eyes, he offered up a silent prayer.
Father
God, I have done my best to follow your plans
in coming to this place. Help me to serve the
duke well and to use my skills to protect the
weak and the needy. Allow me to find a place
here where I truly belong, and—

“Whatever are you doing?” A high-pitched young voice jolted him from his petition.

Allen turned just as a peasant woman in rough, grimy garb boxed a little boy along the ear and tugged him in her wake. “Now what 'ave I told ye about children keepin' their mouths shut. Botherin' a fine knight, of all people. Lord 'ave mercy upon your soul. Pray, forgive us, good sir.”

Allen chuckled. He moved to rumple the lad's blond hair. “No offense taken. But perhaps, if you would be so kind, you might answer a few questions for me.”

“Of course.” She pulled up from her slumped position and straightened her tunic with a gap-toothed grin. “I'd be 'appy to serve ye.”

“Is it always so crowded in the city?” he asked with a bit of trepidation, waving his hand in the direction of Edendale. How could he make a place for himself in such a vast throng of humanity?

“No sir, 'tis the tournament tomorrow that draws so many.”

He brightened at that. “A tournament, you say?”

“Indeed. The duke and duchess are fond of tournaments. This one is to celebrate the new peace in England. I 'ear tell
before long the young king shall tour in this direction, and no doubt we shall celebrate again.”

Tingles washed through Allen. He could not believe his good fortune. “And is this tournament open to all?”

She scratched her head at that. “As far as I know. Though not many 'ave the armor and trainin' to fight.”

He sighed. “But alas, I shall never find a team to join on such short notice.” Allen's newfound excitement fled him.

Eyeing him up and down, she said, “You're not from around these parts, are ye?”

“No, mistress, I am not.”

“The tournaments in North Britannia are fought by single knights. Joustin' mostly.”

So not the melee style used throughout the rest of England. Likely he would face many new traditions in this new place. And just that quickly, excitement filled him again. “I am so glad we spoke. Could you offer me any advice if I wish to participate?”

“Ye shan't find accommodations in the city on a day like this, but all are welcome to camp in the valley and make use of the stream to the north, and ye can go through the gates durin' the day to purchase provisions. Ye must enter the tournament right and proper as well. 'Tis why yon knights thundered past in such an ungodly 'urry, I'd wager.”

“So it is not too late?”

“Not if ye 'urry as well. Although, do me a favor and don't be scarin' any wee ones out of their wits along the way.”

“I wasn't scared!” the child said. “Only surprised.”

Allen smiled to him. “I can see you are a strong and brave young man. Perhaps someday you shall be a knight as well.”

“Don't be silly.” The boy held his belly as he laughed. “Only noblemen are knights. I shall be a farmer like my da. There are
those who work, those who fight, and those who pray. Did I get that right, Mum?” He lifted his head to his mother for approval.

“Indeed ye did, my clever boy.” She smiled down to him.

It seemed even in North Britannia some things stayed the same. Allen's own father had drilled that mantra into his head. Had taught him again and again of divine order and his lowly place in it.

Yet Allen had defied that place. Perhaps that explained why he felt always adrift of late. He had thought he sensed the good Lord smiling down on this plan. But had it been his own wishful dreaming? Worse yet, his pride?

He did not wish to dwell further on the matter. “I have heard tell that in North Britannia any man of good character might find a place for himself.”

“A place, for certain,” the woman said. “As a knight . . . not likely. Duke Justus says 'e seeks nobility of 'eart, not of birth. But I've yet to see 'im prove this true.”

“Oh.” Allen resisted sagging at this news and held himself regally, as befit his new position as a knight. He felt confident that he possessed a noble heart—a heart always after God, one that sought the welfare of others over his own—yet he could not stop that heart from crumpling just a bit in his chest.

“Ye'll do fine,” the woman said. “Don't worry yourself. Why, never 'ave I seen such a noble knight as ye.”

At that he rallied and lifted his chest. “Thank you. You are so kind.”

“I wish ye Godspeed,” the woman called as she departed.

Godspeed. Yes, that was precisely what he needed. If God had indeed led him to this place, then it was high time to stop lagging about and speed onward to his destiny and his new home.

“Name,” the scribe behind the table barked.

“Al . . . That is, Sir Allen of Ellsworth.” He had somehow managed to squeeze his way through the crowded streets, find the tournament grounds, and endure the long wait to the front of the line.

The man placed his quill upon the splintering tabletop and peered at him with a snarl. “Never heard of you.”

Why was this so much harder than staring down a pointed lance or the razor-sharp blade of a sword? “I am new to North Britannia.”

“Have you any papers?”

He fumbled through his sack for the only paper he possessed. “I have this letter of recommendation from Lord Linden near Bristol.” Perhaps he should have presented himself to the duke at the castle first. But he could not bring himself to take such a presumptuous step. Besides which, he had been itching to fight in a tourney for years.

The man snatched the document from him and examined the official seal. “Humph.” He surveyed Allen with a sharp eye. “Says here you are a ward of Lord Linden. I suppose that will do. Newly knighted, though highly recommended.” He set down the scroll and turned his full attention to Allen.

As a peasant Allen had been taught subservience to his superiors, but there was no reason for him to cower before this scribe. As the man had just confirmed, he was a knight now, and evidently ward of a nobleman. Dressed in a fine surcoat of that nobleman's red-and-gold colors with a rearing stallion upon his chest.

He held back a grin as the full realization of what Lord Linden had done washed over him. Ward to a nobleman! The unexpected gesture of kindness bolstered his spirits. Yes, he could do this. And well he deserved this opportunity.

“Most of the men you'll be competing against are seasoned knights. Are you certain you don't wish to wait a bit? You wouldn't want to make a fool of yourself.” The scribe stared straight into his eyes with a devilish grin.

Allen rankled and stared back, unwilling to waver. “Indeed, I do not. I wish to prove myself worthy to be a knight in the realm of Duke Justus DeMontfort.”

The man's wary gaze shifted to one of admiration. He tipped his quill pen to Allen before adding his name to the growing list. “Sir Allen of Ellsworth, in that case, welcome to North Britannia. Return tomorrow morning just as soon as the city gates open.” The man offered the letter back to Allen.

Sir Allen of Ellsworth. It was the first time a stranger had spoken his new title aloud. Taking the precious piece of parchment, Allen turned and let the smile that had been itching at his lips for the last few minutes fully emerge. Tomorrow would be his big chance. If all went well, soon he would be a knight of North Britannia.

As the tall, broad-shouldered knight before Gwen turned, his brilliant smile nearly swept the breath right from her lungs. Joy spilled from his handsome face like sunbeams through the clouds. It surged through her in warm waves. She felt somehow buoyed upon it. For the briefest moment, weakness overtook her knees.

She turned to watch his strong profile and the waving sandy brown hair that grazed his surcoat as he sauntered past. How had she failed to notice him during her long wait? Perhaps she had been too nervous that she might be detected. That some gesture, some tenor of her voice might give her away.

A tug at her sleeve caught her attention. Rosalind, dressed
like a male squire with a hood hiding her hair, shot Gwen a warning look and gestured to the table.

“I said, name.” The scribe glowered at her.

Remembering to lower her voice and infuse it with a French lilt so she would sound like a foreign knight, Gwen answered, “Sir Geoffrey Lachapelle.”

She had sold a family heirloom and put both herself and Rosalind at considerable risk to acquire her forged patent of nobility. She could not ruin things now. Her blue-and-white nobleman attire was perfect, her long braid well-hidden beneath her cap, and her stance and speech must remain perfect as well.

Rosalind handed the required document to the man.

“Sir Geoffrey. Your reputation precedes you.”

Cold fear froze Gwen to her spot. She dared not shoot a glance to Rosalind, but the girl stepped closer in a show of support.

“I'm so glad you finally made your way across the channel to grace us with your presence.”

Whew!
So the man had never met the knight she impersonated. She managed to shift her stance and lift her chin in acknowledgment of his statement.

“You shall find excellent competition here. Although, for the first round I must warn that you shall be paired by entry position alone. So you'll either be facing the fellow who just left or”—he twisted his face in disdain—“that one behind you.”

The man added her purchased name to the bottom of the list.

Gwen studied the entry preceding hers and managed to make out the upside-down script. Sir Allen of Ellsworth. She must remember that title. Although he appeared rather formidable as a potential foe, he seemed a pleasant sort. Perhaps she might look for him at the feast after the tournament.

Shoving aside memories of Allen's heavenly smile, she turned
to assess the man behind her—shorter than her by an inch or two, with a slight build for a man and a rather dim-witted look to his dull brown eyes. Yes, that fellow she could take. She nudged Rosalind, who raised her brow in agreement.

Being careful of her voice again, Gwen merely grunted, “My thanks.” Maintaining a masculine stride, she hurried from the man who held her fate in his ink-stained hands.

Once she and Rosalind made their way around the corner, she ducked into an alleyway and collapsed against the wall. “We did it.” She sighed. “I cannot believe we actually did it.”