My Noble Knight (7 page)

She lifted her eyes and locked gazes with him. Her eyes were wide and blue…

“What?” she demanded. She quickly moved her arms from the table. “Are my elbows on the table? My brothers always chastised me for that. I'm sorry, if they were.”

Griffin was pleased that her brothers attempted to guide her in manners. “No,” Griffin said. “You look tired.”

She smiled slightly. “Perhaps I am, a little.”

Griffin lifted a piece of bread to his lips and took a bite. “Women are naturally more delicate than men. If you are tired, you should –”

She leaned forward. “I find it insulting that you continually try to remind me how weak I am. Perhaps men are physically stronger. They were built for heavy lifting and wielding mighty weapons. But it is not always the better weapon that wins the fight. It is the intelligence of the person wielding it.”

Griffin stared. Carlton stared.

She gave a puff of exasperation and shook her head. She pushed herself from the table to stand. “I will retire since I am so weak and frail.”

Griffin watched her walk up the stairs. He had meant no disrespect. And yet, she had taken offense at his comment. He watched her shapely bottom as she moved up the stairs, unable to take his gaze from her.

“Sir Griffin,” Carlton said carefully, “if any other man spoke to ya as she does, ya would have them at the end of your sword.”

Griffin lifted a cup of ale to his lips. He took a long drink. When he lowered the mug, he looked at Carlton. “Layne is a willful young woman, that is certain. But she is still a woman. I would no more draw my sword against her than I would a child.”

Carlton scowled.

“You don’t agree with this?”

Carlton considered his question, quietly staring at his trencher.

He was a young man who could be rash at times. Griffin had seen him get angry when sword fighting. And then make mistakes that in a real battle could cost him his life. Griffin knew when fighting, whether it was in a joust or with sword, one must always maintain a clear head.

“I do,” Carlton said slowly. “The Code of Chivalry says to respect the honor of women, I know this.” He looked up at him. “I must wonder if this woman has honor.”

Griffin scowled. He had been asking himself this exact question over and over, trying to decide what type of woman Layne was. “Has she said something that makes you question her honor?”

“It is what she did that makes me question it. Any woman who disguises herself as a knight and sneaks onto the field of honor to joust with a renowned knight...” Carlton shook his head in disapproval. “That is not a woman with honor.”

Griffin nodded. “And yet, she was willing to give herself up, to go to the dungeon in her brother’s place. That is honorable.”

Carlton dropped his gaze to the piece of bread he held, a thoughtful scowl on his brow.

“We must give her time to reveal the true woman she is.”

“Did someone say woman?”

Griffin glanced up at the dark haired man standing beside the table, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. He recognized the man immediately and a grin spread across his lips. He stood, extending his hand. “Ethan Farindale!”

“Griffin Wolfe.” Ethan grasped his arm in the typical warrior fashion, clasping it just below his elbow. His blue eyes sparkled; his dark hair and complexion gave him that typical rogue appeal all the women seemed to love. “Tell me it’s not true! Tell me mine ears hath deceived me. Tell me you were not unhorsed!”

Griffin groaned inwardly. His friend would never let him live that down. He hoped Ethan didn’t know the entire truth. “Aye. It was a lucky blow.”

Ethan closed his eyes and clutched his chest. “I thought I saw a lightning bolt strike the earth.”

Griffin grinned. Lord, it was good to see his friend! It had been years since he had last seen him. How had they drifted apart?

“I heard it ‘ad nothing ta do with a lightnin’ bolt!” another voice said.

Griffin cringed, suddenly remembering why he and Ethan had drifted apart. He turned to a second man who approached the table. Gill Daunger. The man swaggered, his chest puffed out. The top of his shiny bald head came up to Griffin’s chin. Ethan had taken another path, going off with Daunger to compete in a different sort of tournament. The melees, where dozens of men fought each other in bedlam and pandemonium. Total chaos, as far as Griffin was concerned. He enjoyed a much more civilized show of arms in the jousts.

“More like a couple of tits,” Gill said with a lecherous grin. “Did she flash ya as ya rode by?”

Ethan chuckled. “A woman? A woman unhorsed you? You must be getting soft in your old age.” He circled, looking him over thoughtfully. “I see no sign of laziness around your girth.” He peered at his head, scrutinizing his skull with blatant skepticism. “Perhaps the softness is in there.”

Griffin ignored him. “What are you doing here? I thought the last melee was in Derby.”

Ethan nodded condescendingly; his lips quirked into a grimace of a half chuckle, half displeasure. “We’re heading up to Norfolk for the Pas d’armes.”

A tremor of unease snaked its way through Griffin. “I thought you enjoyed the melees.”

“Didn’t do so well in the last one. So Daunger and I thought we’d check out our competition in Norfolk and then head over to Woodstock Palace to join that one.”

Dread slithered across Griffin’s shoulders and he retook his seat, trying to appear casual even though chills of foreboding shot up his spine. It was exactly what he was doing. While Ethan had once been his friend, Daunger was nothing of the sort. Griffin didn’t like the man. He was crude, lecherous and untrustworthy.

“Huge purse in Woodstock,” Daunger marveled, taking a seat beside Carlton. He reached over and dipped his fingers into Carlton’s stew to pull out a large piece of meat. He shoved it into his mouth.

Griffin ripped a piece of bread from his trencher.

Ethan placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know, don’t you?”

Griffin paused. “Know what?”

“Your brother is hosting the Tourney at Woodstock Palace.”

Griffin stiffened. “With Prince Edward?”

Daunger chuckled softly, his keen eyes locked on Griffin.

A bottomless pit opened up beneath Griffin. His brother hosting. Griffin shoved the piece of bread into his mouth, forcing himself to chew. He hadn’t heard. How had his brother weaseled his way into hosting the tournament with the prince? That could only mean one thing. His father would be there. It suddenly sounded more like a trap than a glorious event.

Griffin couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. What was his brother up to? He waited until Ethan and Daunger retired for the night before heading upstairs with Carlton. He didn’t trust Daunger. Things went missing when Daunger was around. Coin and items, both. He had heard things, but there was never any proof. The man also had a gruff, overbearing demeanor that often put him at odds with others. More than once, Daunger had been the center of brawls.

When Griffin came to his room and opened the door, he scanned the small room for Layne and found her curled up in a blanket on the floor. He crossed the room and scooped her up, ready to reprimand her when she woke. She stirred, nestling against his chest, but did not awaken. Griffin stared down at her. It gave him a moment to truly look at her. Her dark hair was riotous about her face in gentle waves. Her nose was pert. Her lips full and slightly parted revealing a glimpse of white teeth. She was very pleasing to the eye. He was shocked at the sudden tender feelings that arose inside of him. She should be terrified, alone with two men she knew nothing about. But she had not complained. Not about the long, hard ride. Not about the chores. Perhaps she was used to such with her brothers. Either way, he felt a warmth of pride bloom in his chest. Yes, he was proud of her, of the way she carried herself.

He strode over to the bed and eased her into it. He stood looking down at her for a long moment before turning to Carlton. He pointed to the opposite side of the room. Carlton would sleep there.

As he walked to the opposite wall from Carlton, the spot he had chosen to sleep, he couldn’t help wondering what his brother was up to. And what he had gotten himself into saving a woman who didn’t want to be saved.

S
ir Talvace charged down the
field, his body leaning forward over the horse’s neck. He struck the quintain hard enough to make it spin, and ducked beneath the counter weight bag of sand that swung around.

Cheers went up around the yard as other knights encouraged him. They had reached the Norfolk Tournament grounds without further incident and now stood at the field where the Tournament was to be held.

Layne looked across the field to see three women leaning over the fence, waving to Sir Talvace. He rode past them in a show of bravado. Layne grimaced. It was all a game to him. He didn’t care how good he was. Only that he won the attention of the noble women.

She looked at Griffin and Carlton beside her. Griffin had allowed her to come to the field, grudgingly admitting she was safer with him than being left alone in the tent.

Sir Talvace took up another lance.

“Watch,” Griffin told Carlton.

Layne looked at Talvace. He wore only his breastplate armor and Layne guessed it was to impress the ladies more than he needed it for protection. Most of the other knights practiced in a tunic.

Talvace lifted his lance to an upright position in preparation. His horse reared slightly and he spurred it, lowering the lance and beginning his charge down the field. His lance bobbled for a moment before he regained control of it and leaned over the horse. He hit the quintain and it spun. This time he hadn't been quick enough and the bag of sand twirled and knocked him in the arm.

Groans came from the audience.

“What did he do wrong?” Griffin asked.

Carlton leaned forward as if studying Talvace. “He couched the lance too far up. Too much lance was sticking out behind him.”

Griffin nodded.

Layne stared at Talvace as he galloped past the ladies.

“He didn’t punch forward with the lance,” Carlton added.

“Punch forward?” Layne asked.

Carlton leaned forward so he could see her past Griffin. “Ya know…” He jerked his body forward. “Punch forward.”

Layne nodded and looked again at Talvace.

“Very good,” Griffin said. “What else?”

The silence stretched as Carlton watched Talvace.

“His grip on the lance was lazy allowing the lance to fall so it was not perpendicular to the quintain when he struck it,” Layne said, watching Talvace as he greeted some of the knights at the other end of the field. She and her brothers had often made a game of finding the reason for the loss in jousting or the mistake in practice. As the silence stretched, she glanced at Carlton and Griffin. The two men stared at her, Griffin with a thin-looked steely gaze and Carlton with his mouth open slightly in shock. She realized her mistake and looked back at Talvace. She closed her mouth and bit her lower lip. She shouldn't have said anything. Griffin would tell her it wasn't her place.

“His horse was also going too slow,” Griffin added.

Layne swung her head around to meet his gaze in surprise. Yes, it had been. If Talvace had spurred it on, regardless of everything else, he would not have gotten hit with the sand bag.

Griffin stared at her with a calm, cold gaze. She wished he could see how much she enjoyed the joust, how much she enjoyed watching and figuring out what went wrong for the loser, and what was done well by the victor. And nothing was a bigger challenge to her right now than finding out how she had knocked Griffin from the horse.