My Noble Knight

Copyright © 2014 by Laurel O'Donnell

ISBN: 978-1-940118-01-7

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

1363 England

G
riffin Wolfe summed up his
next opponent with a simple indifferent glance. He had seen enough of Rou’s practice to know the knight posed no threat to his victory in the joust. The midday sun was hot and a layer of sweat glistened on Griffin’s skin as he paused at the fence that surrounded the tiltyard to watch Rou ride by on his brown charger. The war horse kicked up a cloud of dust in its wake which stuck to Griffin’s slick skin. He hardly noticed. His thoughts had already moved past Rou.

After Rou’s defeat, only one knight stood between him and the winner’s purse. Some knight who went by the surname Fletcher. Griffin couldn't even remember his first name. He was the only other competitor who had not yet lost in the tournament. But he would. After Griffin unhorsed Rou, this Fletcher would be next.

He turned and headed back to his pavilion where his squire was preparing his armor. Around him, spectators continued to arrive, the wealthier guests heading for the wooden stands, others staking out their spots in the fields for the best view of the joust. He turned the corner of a pavilion that bore the flapping flag crest of lord Crandall and a small whirlwind slammed into his chest. Griffin grunted and scowled, caught by surprise.

He lowered his gaze to see a pile of wild dark hair at his feet. Two hands emerged into his view and separated the hair to reveal two beaming blue eyes staring up at him. “Pardons, sir.” The hands pushed the hair further back to reveal a face and Griffin was shocked to see a woman! If it weren't for her delicate face and full lips, he wasn't sure he would have realized she was a female. She wore brown breeches on her slender legs and a dusty green tunic.

Instinctively, he reached out a hand to her. “Are you hurt?”

Her blue eyes twinkled and a smile spread across her lips as she reached for his hand. “You're strong, but not a rock. I am unhurt.”

When her fingers closed over his palm, a searing jolt raced through Griffin. He almost pulled his hand free of hers, but his upbringing overrode his surprise and he easily lifted her to her feet. There was something instantly intriguing about the woman, even though she was dressed in men’s clothing. He withdrew his hand. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“The joust,” she answered. “It’s already crowded and I have to get a good spot to watch.”

Griffin frowned slightly. Women did not dash around running into men looking for the closest spot to watch a joust. He stepped aside. “Far be it from me to stand in your way.”

She nodded and walked past him, her steps more measured.

He watched her walk away. At least she had slowed her pace. His gaze took in her body. Her bottom was hidden beneath the tunic that fell to her mid thigh. Her legs were covered with knee high black boots. Very inappropriate for a woman, but so very intriguing. Suddenly, she turned and locked gazes with him. A slow smile turned up the corners of her lips into a lovely, knowing smile. It was like the sunrise on a glorious morning. His spirit lifted at the mere sight of her grin. He couldn’t help but smile back at her; her grin was infectious.

“Forgive me for crashing into you.”

Griffin nodded slightly and then she was gone, swallowed up by the sea of villagers and merchants arriving for the joust. With a strange lightheartedness, Griffin headed for his pavilion to prepare.

Layne Fletcher had found a spectacular place to view the joust. In the center of the field, right against the fence. A tree even offered her shade against the hot sun.

She leaned into the fence, looking from one end of the field to the other for the knights. The victor of this joust would face her brother. She hoped it was Rou. He was a buffoon and she knew Frances could easily unhorse him.

A balding man stepped onto the field of honor, drawing scattered applause from the crowd. Tingles of excitement shot up Layne’s spine. It was starting. Her fingers curved over the top plank of wood.

The man held up his arms and the crowd quieted. He turned around to address the mass of onlookers and announced in his booming voice, "On this final day of the joust, all competitors have been eliminated but three skilled knights. By sunset today, we shall have a victor!”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheering.

Layne lifted her hands and shouted approval along with them. It would be Frances. It had to be Frances.

"I give you Lord Rou!” the man called and swept his hand out to the side of the field.

Rou rode onto the field, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd. His visor was raised to receive their adoration and muted praise. He rode to his side of the field where his squire was already waiting.

"I give you Sir Wolfe!”

The crowd stood to their feet, applauding, cheering and calling his name. He was the favored knight.

Layne winced. He was favored because he was better and she knew it.

His visor was down and he did not acknowledge the audience. He rode directly to his side of the field.

The bald man turned and jogged from the field leaving the two competitors.

They each moved to their squires who handed them their lances. A long moment passed and Rou lowered his visor. Wolfe spurred his horse. Rou matched his movement. The two knights charged down the field of honor, their lances poised in their arms, the long blunted tips pointed at each other.

The horses kicked up dust in the field as they rushed forward. The riders sat low in their saddles. Rou’s garish red feather flattened in the rush of wind.

Layne studied Rou’s form. She groaned inwardly, wondering how he had ever managed to make it this far in the tournament. His form was atrocious. He couched the lance with his hand resting on his leg which bounced at every step his horse took. How could he possibly make a solid strike with such terrible technique?

Layne’s gaze shifted to his opponent. Sir Griffin Wolfe. She had crashed into him in her hurry to get to the open spot in the shade. He had been nothing like she expected. After hearing all the grand tales of his glorious victories, she thought he would be snobbish and arrogant. After all, he had never been beaten in tournament. But he wasn't. He had smiled at her. Which was more than most of the other knights had ever done to her.

She watched Griffin ride his steed down the field of honor. His form was impeccable. His armor was spotless and immaculate. He wore no flamboyant colors or feathers. He needed none of those to announce his presence. Everyone knew him. Everyone.

The horses thundered towards each other. Remarkably, at the last moment, Rou lifted his lance and aimed it correctly. The lances struck. Each delivered a solid blow to their opponent. Rou’s lance splintered, the shards flying out over the field.

Griffin’s lance held, lifting Rou up and out of the saddle. He was suspended over the earth for a long moment at the end of Griffin’s lance before he fell heavily to the ground, an explosion of dust erupting all around him.

Layne grimaced. That was going to hurt.

A hush fell over the spectators.

Someone tugged on her arm, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the fallen knight. Moments ticked by and Rou didn’t stand. Layne craned her neck to watch as the dust settled around him. She hoped he wasn't too hurt. She would not wish that on any knight. Defeat, yes. Crippling pain, no.

The tugging persisted at her arm. She finally looked down to see her younger brother, Michael. She swept him with a cursory glance. His moppy brown hair fell into his eyes and over his dirt smudged cheeks. “Better go wash your face or Colin will twist your ears.”

She looked back at the field. Rou still had not stirred. His squire raced onto the field of honor.

“Layne,” Michael called, yanking at her arm.

Layne scowled and looked at him. For the first time, she saw the intent look on Michael’s face and realized something was wrong. She stepped away from the fence, scanning the surrounding crowd behind Michael for her older brother. “Where’s Frances?”

With a wave of his hand, Michael signaled for her to come with him.

Layne glanced about and saw a woman holding a baby watching them. A man leaning over the fence swiveled his head to look at them. Layne followed Michael away from the crowd.

Michael stopped when they were out of earshot. “Laynie,” he whispered. “Frances is unconscious.”

“What?” Layne exclaimed.

Michael shook his head. “He was practicing with the quintain and it spun and hit him in the head. He fell from the horse.”

Layne looked toward their pavilion. She couldn’t see their tent through the trees, but she knew it was there. She took off running. There were many pathways through the trees, but she took the straightest route, cutting through foliage. Branches snagged her tunic, but her boots protected her feet from the rocks. Finally, she broke through the forest and raced to their pavilion.

She threw the flap aside and entered.

Colin, her oldest brother, sat beside Frances who was prone on his mat. He was not moving. Colin didn’t even look up as she entered. He shook his brother’s shoulders, calling, “Frances. Frances, wake up.”

Michael entered the tent behind her.

Colin looked at Layne. There was helplessness in his gaze and he shook his head. “We’re going to have to forfeit.”

“We can’t,” Layne whispered. “We need the winning pouch.”

Colin spread out his hands. “Look at him! He’s out. He’s not jousting anytime soon.”

Layne stood for a long moment, staring at Frances with concern and with anger. How could this happen? How could he be so careless? They needed the winnings! Father needed the winnings. They only needed to win a little more coin. Just a little more and they could go home and buy the land so father could finally rest. But with Frances out cold they had no chance.