Hard Day's Knight (15 page)

I smiled, more than a little relieved. I liked fun as much as the next person, but wasn’t sure I had the nerve needed to flip up a strange man’s kilt to see what he wore underneath it. “So you just make sure that they are wearing period garb and stuff? Good. I was worried you had to check to see if they were wearing undies or not.”

The ladies all nodded.

“That’s what we mean,” CJ said. “Undies under a kilt just aren’t proper.”

My eyes bugged out when they explained just how a kilt check was accomplished (and it turned out it was merely a hand run up the outside of the checkee’s leg to the hip in an attempt to feel an underwear line, the Wenches being very big on maintaining a PG-13 level of participation at Faires, although I heard mutterings from a few Wenches who swore by a version of kilt check that involved their hands on bare flesh). By the time they explained the rest of the Wench duties—which included taking a turn as an Ale Wench in the ale tent, and singing bawdy ballads when requested—my head hurt.

“You know what? I think I’m just going to be a Wench Lite for a while.” We were all standing outside, the rest of the LOW meeting having been devoted to more mundane matters like a treasurer’s report, plans for an improved Web site, charitable donations, etc. I adjusted Moth’s devil horns (he’d knocked them askew in his frenzy to eat my chicken sandwich) and snapped his leash on. “I’ll Wench and learn, but I don’t think I’m up to a kilt check or kissing a guy I don’t know.”

“Both are honorable actions within the LOW guidelines,” Fairuza pointed out.

“Yeah, I know, but I feel a bit weird doing them.” I tried not to think of just how willing I’d be to do the more daring activities if Walker were the recipient of my attention.

CJ sighed dramatically. “She’s just got no spirit. Her side of the family has always been that way, except for Pepper’s mom.”

“Yeah, and look where that’s gotten her—stuck in a third-world country up to her armpits in mud and rabies,” I mumbled as CJ made her good-byes. She hustled Moth and me back toward the arena. “So what’s up for us now, more jousting?”

“Of course.” She frowned at me for a couple of seconds. “Pepper, this thing with Walker worries me.”

I patted her on the arm as we strolled through the crowd toward the big arena. There were more people gathering to watch the afternoon runs, although the audience was barely large enough to fill the first couple of rows of benches. “Don’t worry; I won’t hold it against your matchmaking scorecard if it turns out as you’re predicting.”

She stopped, her forehead furrowed. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Pepper. Walker is . . . he needs a different type of woman. He needs someone who will understand his sorrows, someone who can give him solace and comfort him. He’s been through a lot the last few years, and he needs succor, not upheaval in his life.”

I smiled a sad little smile and continued on to the arena. “As it happens, I disagree, but I don’t suppose it will matter much if he doesn’t rise to the challenge I threw him.”

“What challenge?” CJ grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop as we passed through one of the doors into the arena, oblivious to the fact that we were blocking an entrance. “What did you do?”

I gave an insouciant little shrug. “Nothing much. Just threw down the gauntlet. If he’s the sort of man I think he is, he’ll rise to the challenge. If he’s not . . . well, then it’s better I learn that now, before I really fall for the big lug.”

CJ slapped her hand against her forehead, moaning softly to herself. “I try to tell her, but does she listen? Does she believe me? No, she just goes on like nothing I say matters. It’s like talking to a redheaded clump of dirt.”

“I know, I know, you use your superpowers only for good. My cousin the martyr. Oooh, look, there’s Bliss ready to joust against one of Fenice’s boyfriends. My money is on her.”

CJ mumbled more dire warnings, but I didn’t listen to them. There was no sense in worrying about something that was out of my control—although I had more or less decided that Walker was worthwhile investigating, a lot depended on him. There was only so much unrequited interest a girl could express without getting really depressed.

We settled down to watch the afternoon’s qualifying rounds, Moth happily curling up inside a paper bag that someone had used to bring lunch items. The afternoon jousts were pretty much the same as the morning’s courses, only this time the jousters were in armor, with no shields.

It wasn’t until the end that the first inklings of something sinister tickled my brain. Bos was up against one of Farrell’s men, a slight guy with a weedy moustache and ears bristling with very un-medieval earrings.

“That’s . . . um . . . what’s his name . . . Allen. He’s the newest member of Team Joust!, according to Farrell.”

CJ shot me a look that said much, all without words. Fenice and one of her Oregon jousters had joined us, sitting on the row below, offering commentary on all the jousters—all but Farrell’s team members. I felt obliged to fill in the gaps of their knowledge, whether or not they wanted them filled.

“Allen told me his dad used to joust with Farrell, but he’s retired.”

“Ah,” Fenice said.

“Allen has been jousting since he was a kid.”

“Has he?” Gary, Fenice’s friend, said in a very noncommittal voice.

“Yup.” I waited for a count of three, then added, “His favorite color is blue, he wears a size-eleven shoe, and was a virgin until he was nineteen.”

CJ glared at me for a second. I grinned back at her, then directed my attention to the arena as Bos and Allen lined up, both waiting for their respective squires to place the lances in their hands. Walker was squiring Bos, and I spent a few seconds watching him, asking myself what it was about him that interested me so much. I’d just come to the conclusion that it was equally the sense of loneliness and pain I glimpsed in his eyes, and the challenge his dominating, curmudgeonly attitude presented, when Bos gave a shout and the horses jumped forward. Both men waited until they were halfway down the list before leveling their lances.

CJ and Fenice jumped up to cheer Bos on. I made sure Moth was sleeping in his paper bag before I stood up to add my voice to the cheering section. The two men came together directly in front of us, giving us a ringside view as their lance tips slammed into the target piece of metal bolted onto the shoulder plate of the armor. Just as Bos’s lance touched his opponent’s shoulder, Marley stumbled hard, almost going down to his knees. The entire length of Bos’s lance shattered as he was thrown forward and to the side, causing Allen’s lance to catch him not on the special piece of armor meant to take the blow of a lance, but instead tearing across the other side of his chest and down his right arm.

“Oh, dear God,” I breathed as Allen frantically tried to pull his lance away from Bos, but the tip caught in one of the metal lames, the overlapping pieces of armor on his arm. Bos screamed as the force of the lance slammed even harder against him, literally ripping him right out of the saddle.

I was down the stairs even before I realized I had moved, CJ right behind me.

“Take care of the cat,” I yelled back to Fenice, who had her hands over her eyes, her fingers spread to peek through them.

CJ ran down the length of the seating area to the opening onto the arena floor, but being half a foot taller than her, I didn’t bother. I grabbed a handful of my Irish dress and chemise, vaulted the railing, and dropped three feet to the soft dirt-and-sand floor of the arena. Several of the tournament ground crew were running to converge on the downed Bos, who was lying unmoving in the middle of the list. Walker was already at his side as a wild-eyed Marley cantered by me. His neck and flanks were wet, indicating that he was in distress. Quickly squelching the more graphic thoughts of what injuries a horse in pain could inflict on me, I lunged sideways and caught the end of a rein as he passed me.

Marley fought for a few minutes, but finally allowed himself to be calmed. I brought him to a halt, speaking in a low voice, stroking his slick neck until his breathing slowed down. Remembering the stumble in the ring, I slid my hand gently down his near leg, feeling a slight swelling on his cannon bone.

In the middle of the ring, Allen, having dismounted from his big roan mare, stood watching silently as Walker gave way to a pair of paramedics. Butcher collected up bits of the shattered lance, giving them a long, curious look. Walker had peeled part of Bos’s armor off to assess the damage, but the bright smear of red on the dull gray metal was enough to tell me that whatever the injuries were, they weren’t minor. The paramedics bundled Bos onto a stretcher and carried him off to the hushed murmurs of the shocked audience. Walker, still holding a bloody breastplate, consulted with CJ and Butcher for a minute; then he followed the paramedics out of the arena.

“How badly is he hurt?” I asked when CJ walked slowly toward me. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. He was unconscious. Walker thinks he might have broken some ribs, and it looks like his arm is torn up.”

“Oh, how awful. I hope it’s nothing serious. Poor Bos. What bad luck.”

“Luck?” The word was spoken on a sob. “Butcher and Walker say that something was wrong with the lance.”

“Yeah, the whole thing kind of shattered. I thought only the tips were supposed to do that?”

Her face was pale and had a strained quality, as though her flesh were being stretched too thin. “They are. Butcher thinks it was sabotaged. Oh, God, Pepper, who would do such a terrible thing to Bos?”

I shivered despite the heat. The horror in her eyes was contagious, leaving me sick and cold. “No one would be that inhuman; it must have been a faulty lance. Poor, poor Bos. He’ll be horribly disappointed he won’t be able to joust.”

CJ looked at me in disbelieving silence for a moment, her eyes full of tears, her face ravaged. “You don’t understand, do you? It’s not just Bos who won’t be able to joust—the whole team is out of the competition now. It’s all over. Everything is ruined. Everything!” She burst into tears, turning to run from the ring. Butcher met her at the entrance, swinging her up in his arms, holding her close as she sobbed against his chest. I glanced over to where Fenice was sitting. She had one hand across her mouth, her face stark with disbelief. Gary, the American jouster, had his arm around her, trying to console her, but even from where I stood I could see the despair in her eyes.

“Come on, Marley. Let’s get you rubbed down and I’ll take a look at your leg.”

Moth streaked down the stairs as I led Marley slowly by him, jumping up on the railing and watching me with his silly devil horns tipped to the side, his leash trailing down behind him. I led Marley over to him, holding up my arm to scoop the cat off the railing, but before I could, Moth decided to take matters into his own paws. He gathered himself, then sprang down and landed on my shoulder for a moment before jumping over to the deep wood-and-leather saddle on Marley’s back.

“You’re going on a diet, cat,” I said, rubbing the shoulder he had landed on. Marley looked back at Moth, snorted twice, then evidently decided he didn’t mind the cat as long as he remained on the saddle.

“You animals are too strange for me,” I said softly as I led the duo past a sobbing CJ. Butcher had his face buried in her hair, but he lifted his head to nod at me as I walked Marley out of the still-hushed arena.

The despair I’d seen in Fenice’s eyes was evident in the grim line of Butcher’s mouth. I wanted to say something to comfort them, but there was just nothing to say.

I walked Marley back to his stable in silence.

“What are you doing?”

Marley turned his head and nuzzled my fingers as I gently probed the area around the slight swelling. I tensed for a second, relaxing as he did nothing more than snuffle my hand.

“Marley’s been hurt.” I shifted sideways from where I was squatting in front of the big horse’s front legs. “See? Right here.”

Fenice bent over to look at the spot on the left leg. “I don’t see anything.”

“Use your fingers; you’ll feel it.”

Marley blew into my hair. I prayed he was just smelling me, and not using my head as a convenient handkerchief.

“Oh, yes, now I feel it. What is it?”

“Feels like the start of a hematoma on his flexor muscle.” I gently pushed Marley’s muzzle away and stood up, wiping my hands on my skirt. “Who’s the vet around here? You should have him look at Marley’s leg before he runs a course again.”

Fenice looked up from where she was still squatting, her face white with tension. “The vet? Is the injury serious, then?”

“No, not really. It’s just a small swelling, but it needs to be opened and cleaned up before it gets worse. I could almost swear. . . .” I bit my lip, trying to figure out how Marley could hurt himself in that particular spot.

“What could you swear?”

I ran my hand down his leg again, weighing my words. “Look, do you see? Here—it looks almost like he’s had a cut there.”

She bent over to look at what seemed like far too straight a laceration to be natural. “It does look like he’s cut himself.”

I shook my head. “No, that would be more jagged; this looks like a straight slice, almost like . . .” I hated to say it. In the face of Bos’s terrible accident, the last thing I needed to do was to start paranoia running through the Three Dog Knights.

“What?”

On the other hand, if it was what I suspected, then the horses had to be protected. I made my mind up quickly. “It looks like someone took a scalpel and deliberately nicked him in a spot where a hematoma was almost certain to occur.”

Fenice gasped, her eyes huge in the shadows of the stall. “My God!”

“I could be wrong, but it’s something to point out to the vet.”

She stood up slowly, her eyes on Marley, but I had a feeling she wasn’t really looking at him. “If we call the vet over and he sees an injury, he’ll disqualify Marley.”