The Gorgon (10 page)

... then why
was
he so
troubled?

“I am not troubled by the
lady," his reply filled the drawn-out pause. "'Twould seem that my
collection of knights is intent to exaggerate the situation and for that, I am
indeed distressed. Now hurry and finish your meals and be out of my
sight."

The order was taken literally.
Those with food remaining on their trenchers began to shove huge bites into
their mouths. But Artur continued to stare at the dark warrior and knowing that
there was far more supporting the refusals of his interest in the lady than he
was willing to voice.

"It's Margot, isn't
it?" the old man's voice was quiet. "She is managed to convince you that
any normal interest you should experience for a woman is a direct insult to
Lora's memory."

Bose looked to his grand-uncle,
the onyx-black eyes smoldering with restrained emotion. "She is not
convinced me of anything. And you will not bring Lora into this."

"The old bitch has you
chained to her daughter's memory as if you are an eternal prisoner," Artur
was unafraid of his hulking nephew's wrath; when speaking of Margot or Lora,
the calm persona that was the epitome of Bose's character saw a rapid collapse.
Artur was genuinely distressed over the peculiar power Margot seemed to wield
against her son-in-law, a strength Bose oddly refused to acknowledge.

 "Do you not see what she is
doing to you, Bose?" the old man hissed pleadingly. "She is
controlling you through her dead daughter and you are allowing her to do
so."

Bose's cheek ticked faintly as he
eyed his uncle a long moment. "I will not discuss this with you, uncle.
Not tonight."

"So you are not. 'Tis I who
am discussing it with
you
. Margot has persuaded you to live only for
Lora's memory and not for the future that lies ahead. What if this Lady Summer
is someone with whom you could arrange a satisfactory contract? Will you give
it all up for the ramblings of a bitter old woman and the memory of her dead
daughter?"

Bose's face mottled a dull red.
Had he not forced himself to turn away, he most likely would have said or done
something unreasonable.

“Good knights, if your meal is
concluded, then be gone with you,” he said quietly. “The joust is on the morrow
and I will insist my men retire early."

Tate needed no further
encouragement. He had already provoked his liege well beyond the limits this
day and from his liege's currently mood after Artur's pestering, suspected it
would be wise to make himself scarce. Farl and Adgar abruptly lifted themselves
from their chairs, determined to finish their food elsewhere.  This was not a
place they wanted to be.

Only Morgan and Artur were left,
alternately staring at each other and the massive man frozen near the shelter
opening. Seeing that it would be of no use to press the topics of Margot or the
obscure Lady Summer, Artur wisely concluded to rest both subjects. All thoughts
of Bose's manipulative mother-in-law aside, he would again press the focus of
the mysterious woman with the next opportunity.

"Where's Antony?" Bose
shifted the focus.

Artur looked around,
disinterestedly at first, but with more conviction when Morgan leapt from his
chair and joined the search.

"He was here when we
commenced with our meal," Morgan replied, sifting through the bedding at
the opposite side of the tent. "I fed him a piece of bread."

Bose's brow furrowed as he began
to search, looking under the table and chairs, rummaging through the boxes and
satchels. But as the search progressed and still no ferret, Bose realized that
his clever friend must have escaped the tent.

"God's Beard," he
hissed, more frightened that Antony would come to harm than he was for the fact
that his secretive pet would be discovered. "I have got to find him. Come
along, Morgan, and help me search. He knows you."

Without hesitation, Morgan quit
the tent in pursuit of his liege, leaving Artur to finish combing the far
reaches of the tent. But the old man realized that the black-eyed animal was
not within the boundaries of the black and white shelter. If he did not end up
as mashed guts beneath the hooves of a charger or the main course of a peasant’s
meal, it would be a miracle.

But Artur believed in miracles.
Slowing his search, he lowered his weary body to Bose's comfortable chair and
sighed deeply, listening to the cries of the nightbird. Even as his thoughts
were focused on his nephew's attachment to the pet, somewhere in the midst of
gray and white fuzz again came thoughts of a certain young lady. He wondered if
the lady liked ferrets, too.

CHAPTER
FIVE

"Damnation!" came the
foul roar. "You did that on purpose!"

"Quit your bellowing and
allow me to finish."

Small, piercing blue eyes glared
daggers at the aged physic as the man finished the last of the stitches. When
he was finished, the injured man with the unruly mass of bright red hair
snatched the pewter hand mirror from the table beside him and peered intently
at his reflection.

"Damnation," he spewed
again with far less volume. "It will leave a scar. Just inside my
hairline."

"With all of your hair, who
will notice?" A younger man with a lighter shade of the same color hair
lounged against the furs on the floor, staring up at his older brother.
"Be thankful the gash was not across your cheek."

The man bearing the stitches
tossed the mirror aside in disgust, ordering the physic away with a curt
command. When the aged healer quit the tent with his usual slow pace, the
injured man poured himself a healthy draught of ale.

"Easy on the drink, Breck,"
the younger man said. "You know your head will be aching come the morning
if you consume too much. And you must be clear-headed for the joust."

"Aye," Breck mumbled
into his cup. "Clear-headed to return de Moray's favor."

The man on the floor snickered softly.
"Your own helm gashed your scalp."

"With de Moray's
assistance," Breck turned to face his far less serious younger brother.
The man simply would not realize a grave situation if it walked up and slapped
him in the face. "Think, you idiot. I would not have slashed my scalp had
de Moray not shoved me to the ground. I was lucky I wasn't trampled."

Duncan Kerry laughed again, much
to his brother's annoyance. "Had he wanted you to be trampled, you would
have been."

Breck stared at his brother a
moment before turning away, pondering the world outside of the lavishly
furnished tent. Beyond were a sea of vibrantly hued tarpaulins, of various
houses and provinces. Men he had fought against before, a number of times, and
men he had beaten on more than one occasion. A plethora of losers prepared to
bow at his mighty feet. Except for de Moray.

It was always the same with him.
A brutal fight, a decisive defeat - Breck's defeat. Aye, he'd come close to
beating de Moray on occasion, but never close enough. Never close enough to
inflict enough damage that would send the powerful knight to the ground.
Whether it be in the melee or joust, the story was consistently similar - Bose's
victory and Breck's rout.

Today was no exception. Breck had
fought admirably until the end, finally put down by none other than de Moray
himself before the man moved on to do final battle with Stephan du Bonne. More
angry than injured, Breck had left the field in disgrace, watching the final
duel as the crowd roared wildly with approval. Approval that should have been
meant for him.

It had been a bitter defeat to
concede. Breck and Duncan were considered powerful contenders on the circuit,
following in the legacy of their recently departed father. Breck knew that his
tactics were looked upon by some of the other knights as brutal and
unscrupulous. It was a mere difference of opinion, of course. Breck saw nothing
inequitable in striking a fallen man in the melee, provided he wasn't seen by a
herald and disqualified, or using quick, sudden movements in the joust to
unseat or injure his opponent.

"I do not suppose the
heralds would allow me to use my spear-tipped joust pole as opposed to the
Crows-foot point," he muttered casually, far calmer than he had been
moments earlier. Turning to cast a devilish, glance to his brother, he raised
his red eyebrows quizzically. "Nay? Well, then, I must think of another
way to defeat de Moray."

"God's Toes, Breck, what
were you going to do with the spear-tip? Gore him?" Duncan sat up from his
pile of furs, shaking his head. "Even for you, that is a rather barbaric
maneuver. Moreover, the very second you planted the spear, his knights would be
all over you. You would never have a chance against them."

Breck shrugged, listening to a
dog bay somewhere in the distance as the moon rose. "As I said, I'll have
to think of another way to best him," he began to pick at his big, crooked
teeth. "Did you see him ride toward the lodges today after his victory? He
appeared to speak with Lord du Bonne."

"Or gawk at the Lady Genisa,"
Duncan licked his lips lewdly. "I pray every night that Stephan du Bonne
will meet his end so that I may claim his lovely leftovers."

Breck snorted, still picking at
his teeth.  "I suspect you'd have to fight Ian and Lance for the
privilege. In fact, I have oft wondered if she services all three brothers as
well as they treat her," shaking his head, he examined the contents of his
teeth in the tips of his dirty fingernails. "Nay, I doubt Bose was gawking
over Genisa. And I doubt even the baron's summons could have coerced his
reluctant nature to move toward the lodges. I suspect, dear brother, that the
unknown lady seated between Genisa and the baron was the reason for his
interest."

Duncan cocked an eyebrow.
"Why would you say that?"

"For the reasons I have
already given. Mayhap there is something between the two."

Duncan shrugged carelessly.
"And if there is?"

The dusk deepened as Breck
explored his unclear, if not somewhat evil, line of thought. "I do not
know. Mayhap... mayhap we should discover who the lady is."

"Why?"

"Simple curiosity, I
suppose. I wonder if she is aware of de Moray's darker reputation."

Duncan pursed his lips.
"There is not one man among us without some sort of sinister, darker
reputation. Moreover, any gossip regarding de Moray is just that - gossip. In
four years no one has been able to discover much about him."

Breck appeared particularly
pensive. "I'll bet the lady knows something about him. Mayhap she could
prove to be useful."

His brother snorted. "How?
To divulge more damaging information regarding the truth behind de Moray's
shady reputation? Or do you plan to use her against the man in a literal sense,
mayhap?"

Breck did not reply for a moment.
Then, he turned from the open portal and focused on his brother. "As I
said, I do not know at the moment. But certainly, we should explore all of our
options."

Duncan stared at his brother a
moment before pursing his lips wryly, rising from his pallet with a grunt.
"You are mad. There are dozens of knights we compete against with wives and
ladies and you've never once made mention of using a particular woman to subdue
her knight. And now you speak of the most powerful knight of all. Just how in
the hell are we supposed to accomplish such a task?"

Breck moved for the half-empty
ale pitcher, pondering the possibilities. "Who can say? Mayhap an
opportunity will present itself. Or mayhap not. However, I am willing to weaken
de Moray any way I can. He has been a thorn in my side long enough."

Duncan wandered to the leaning
table to pick at the remaining mutton, thinking his brother to be foolish and
reckless with his thoughts of betrayal against de Moray.

"The only reason Sir Bose
hasn't speared you through the gut is because he and father were friends once,”
he said. “He tolerates you and nothing more. Were you to push him, there's no
knowing how the man would react. And you seem to forget that he employs four
very powerful knights, men willing to kill for him without hesitation. Have you
considered that?"

Breck pretended that he hadn’t
heard him. "She was certainly beautiful," he muttered, taking a swig
of ale directly from the pitcher. "I have never seen her before. I wonder
who she is?"

Duncan rolled his eyes in
frustration, commandeering a small stool and sitting before the cold meat.
Chewing on a slab of fat, he eyed his foolish brother. "If she belongs to
de Moray, I say leave her alone. To make an attack on a knight on the field of
competition is one matter, but to molest his lady is quite another. Forget
whatever it is you are thinking."

Breck heard him. He did not hear
him. Even so, he knew very well he should listen to his younger, more
level-headed brother. But he could not seem to.

***

The hoot owl was directly over
head. Although Summer could not see the bird, she could certainly hear him.
Asking the constant question;
Who, Who, Who?
Who indeed, Summer mused
bitterly. Who would be foolish enough to remain alone, unescorted, in the midst
of the knights' camp well after dark? And who was content to wallow in the
self-pity and confusion that had refused to abate for well over an hour? Who,
indeed.