The Warrior's Wife (14 page)

Rafe’s confidence roared back to life, fully reborn. Aye, it was Kate’s ribbon he needed. One glimpse of it, and Sir Warin was sure to be incensed. An angry man made for a careless jouster. That’s all the edge Rafe needed right now, the chance to take advantage of a simple mistake on Sir Warin’s part.

Needing a few extra moments in which to recover, Rafe let Gateschales walk all the way to the temporary fencing before he turned the horse. His confidence took another leap as he again faced the alley on the way back to his starting point. Sir Warin was only now turning his own horse and starting back. That meant but one thing: Sir Warin was in the same star-spinning, ear-ringing state as he.

Rafe grinned as he studied his opponent. Better and better! The smug assurance that had infected the set Sir Warin’s shoulders--indeed, the whole line of his body--was gone. In its place was a new and uncomfortable tension. So the steward now doubted his easy victory, did he? Aye, the time was nigh to show Sir Warin the ribbon.

Fishing a good foot’s length of the thing from his glove, Rafe let the wide strip dangle from his cuff. Just before he and Sir Warin crossed paths at the center of the field, Rafe pulled Gateschales to a halt and smiled at the worm-eater.

“I vow, Sir Warin,” he called, “you’d have had me if your lance hadn’t broken.” It was the sort of nonsense a man was expected to spew to his competitor.

Sir Warin didn’t even glance in his direction. Instead, he kept his narrowed eyes aimed into the distance as his horse walked on. Rafe swallowed a foul curse then tried, “Better luck with your next run.”

As he spoke, he held up his hand in a friendly gesture, all the while praying Sir Warin’s eyes would follow the motion. God was good. In that instant the breeze lifted, the moving air sending the ribbon fluttering in Sir Warin’s direction.

The knight’s gaze shifted as he caught the motion, then his whole head snapped toward Rafe. Sir Warin’s eyes flew wide. His jaw dropped, but surprise swiftly gave way to a snarl. Nearly lunging out of his saddle, the knight snatched for the rippling ribbon. Rafe yanked back his arm as Gateschales danced to the side, taking him out of the steward’s reach.

Sir Warin’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Bitch’s son, if you value your life you’ll tell me how you come to have that,” he commanded, his hand dropping to his side where his sword would have hung if this hadn’t been a friendly match.

Anger surged in Rafe at his insult. He strove to quell his reaction. It was Warin he wanted careless, not himself.

“What, this?” he asked, nonchalantly stuffing the ribbon back into the body of his glove. “Why, it came from a lady at court. I use it as a talisman when I joust. It’s worked so far. I’ve never been defeated whilst I carry it.” That was true enough. He hadn’t been defeated yet today.

“Liar!” Warin shouted, his word so vehement that spittle flew from his lips. His eyes were wild as he wrenched himself around in his saddle to stare at Kate. “Aye, and you’re not the only one telling falsehoods. She didn’t lose that ribbon, she gave it to you. That little whore’s playing me for the fool!”

Rage tore through Rafe. No worm-eater was going to call his Kate a whore! Harsh words formed on his tongue, but before he could spill them Warin dug his heels into his mount’s side and sent his big horse cantering off to the Daubney end of the field.

The need to split the steward’s skull, not just bash wood against the man’s shield, exploded in Rafe. He kicked Gateschales into motion, reaching his end of the field a little ahead of Sir Warin. As he turned his horse, he thrust out a hand for a lance without a word. Priest laid a new spear into his palm as Stephen stared up at Rafe, astonished.

“What on God’s earth did you say to him?” Stephen demanded. “I couldn’t believe it when yon ice man burst into flame out there!”

Rafe only shook his head and drew his shield into position. His blood boiled. By God, he’d lift the rat-kisser from his saddle this time.

At the other end of the field, Sir Warin rode his horse in a circle around the page and Lord Bagot. Instead of stopping to take the lance, he but leaned down in his saddle and snatched his new weapon from the arms of the page.

Rage ate up all Rafe’s other concerns. The worm-eater was cheating! It was the speed of the horse that determined a jouster’s power. From a standing start a horse needed half the length of the field to reach its fastest stride. If he didn’t go now Sir Warin would have the advantage.

He dug his heels into Gateschales. His horse was ready. Even after so long a day, the gelding threw himself into his long stride.

At the center of the field the herald called out the foul, commanding the two men to stop. No such complaints bothered the crowd. They cheered over this unorthodox turn.

Rafe’s world narrowed until all he saw was Sir Warin’s shield. Again the impact was tooth-jarring. This time Rafe’s blow hit true.

Not so Sir Warin’s. The steward’s weapon slid across the face of Rafe’s shield with an ear-shattering shriek. Sir Warin followed his lance, twisting in his saddle. Triumph shot through Rafe. The point for this run was his.

His world didn’t expand again until he’d reached the end of the field. The crowd roared in approval over the trick. Some of the gentlemen had migrated to the ends of the field. All of those at Rafe’s end shouted out their congratulations over his point.

Rafe ignored them. Tossing aside his used lance, he pulled Gateschales into a tight turn. All the accolades in the world meant nothing if Sir Warin tried the same trick twice and started ahead of time.

Sure enough, as Rafe turned he could see Sir Warin pulling his own horse around to return to the run’s starting point. Back to their respective ends of the alley they rode almost as swiftly as they’d made their way down it.

The herald sat upon his horse in the alley’s center, his face dark with disapproval over their breach of etiquette. As they neared him he lifted his arm in a demand that they halt. Neither Rafe nor Sir Warin slowed their horses a whit as they passed the old man. Approval exploded from the audience for such a drama.

This time, Rafe did as Sir Warin had done in the previous run, guiding Gateschales in a circle at his end of the alley. Priest and Stephen were ready for him. Together they held up a lance so Rafe could take it without slowing or leaning too far from his saddle when he reached them.

As he came about Rafe threw a glance at his opponent. Sir Warin was well into his own circle, but unlike Rafe’s friends, the page serving him hadn’t expected his temporary master to ignore the herald. The lad’s hands were empty. Warin screamed for a lance. Lord Bagot shoved the page aside and raised the lance he carried to his steward.

New outrage tore through Rafe. The lance’s blunting cap was gone. That God-bedamned Daubney snake-eater was trying to kill him! Even across the width of the field, Rafe could see the grin that stretched across Sir Warin’s face as he snatched the lethal weapon from his master’s hands. Screaming like a wild man, the steward started down the alley.

It was too late to stop, not that Rafe would have done so anyway. No man threatened his life and walked away unscathed. He leveled his new weapon and touched his heels to Gateschales’s sides.

From some hidden reserve Gateschales found new strength and flew into a gallop. The crowd screamed, some in excitement, others in protest as they noticed the uncapped lance. Defiance and exhilaration took fire in Rafe. Let them scream. He’d pluck the bitch’s son from his horse and ride about the field with the man hanging from his lance in punishment for his perfidy. When he was done there’d be no one in the world brave enough to challenge him, not even Lord Bagot after Rafe had taken that shit-licking Daubney’s daughter from him.

* * *

Kate stood frozen in horror as she watched Warin race toward Rafe. The herald howled his command that they stop. Lord Haydon, already halfway across the field after Rafe’s and Warin’s first breach of etiquette, now lifted his heels into a run.

Chaos erupted around her. Every Godsol in the crowd rose to his feet, cursing the Daubneys for their treachery. Screaming charges of attempted murder, Sir Simon crashed through the flimsy willow fencing that stood between him and his comrade. Sir Hugh followed, his mouth grim, while Sir Josce, yet too shaken from his fall to run with them, set himself to kicking an even larger hole in the fence standing between him and his friend.

Unable to watch Rafe for fear that she’d see him die Kate locked her gaze onto Warin. With all her heart, she willed her former love to stop. Warin didn’t slow, not even a whit. Then just before they met his lance tip lifted, just a little.

It was enough. With the lance off center the weapon’s sharp tip slipped away from Rafe on the slight curve of his shield, gouging a deep crevice in the metal as it went.

Not so Rafe’s lance. His met Warin’s shield dead center. Warin tumbled backward out of his saddle, just as Sir Josce had done.

Cheers, jeers, bellows of rage and whistles of appreciation rang from all across the field. Kate’s senses swam. Rafe lived.

Her knees weakened, and she collapsed to sit upon the ground, heedless of the damage she did to her new gown. She gulped in a great breath of air. Out on the field the herald and Lord Haydon, as well as a good number of other knightly guests, all converged on the fallen Warin. Every one of them screamed accusations at him when Kate knew the uncapped lance wasn’t his fault.

Someone else had removed its cap and Kate’s wayward glance had caught the villain at it. Tears stung at her eyes. Her father, horse thief and murderer that he was, had just used Warin and his weapon to try and kill the man she loved.

 

Lord Humphrey leaned back on the bench he shared with his daughter in Haydon’s hall. Beside him, Kate toyed with what remained of the day’s feast on her bread trencher.

“My steward is an honorable man,” her father said to Sir Ronald of Witton, one of his liege men, who stood behind them. He had to raise his voice a little to be heard. With the day’s champion decided, everyone had retired to the hall for a mid-afternoon meal. Now, as the last course was finished and the conversations were beginning to flow, the noise level rose.

“So he has always been in his dealings with me,” agreed Sir Ronald. Kate made a face at her meal. Sir Ronald’s voice held all the sincerity of a man whose livelihood depended upon the good will of his better; the knight held his lands from Bagot’s lord.

“Of course he has,” Lord Humphrey said. “I tell you, those who blame Sir Warin for what happened on the field this day are full wrong. I’ll say it again. That cap must have fallen off when I transferred the lance to my steward. So swift were our movements that I doubt he could have noticed what happened. God knows I didn’t.”

Kate shot her sire a scathing sidelong glance. Neither man noticed. It shamed her that her father could so easily and boldly lie. The deeper shame was in how little honor he had, allowing another man to suffer for what he’d done.

Poor Warin. Although she knew she didn’t love him Kate’s heart ached over the wrong being done him. A near mob of onlookers had accosted him after he fell from his horse, every man calling him scoundrel or villain. Warin’s protests that he hadn’t noticed the lance’s state fell on deaf ears. In the end he’d been banished from the wedding. Why, at this very moment he was in their tent packing his meager belongings. The bishop had arranged for him to stay at the priory for the remainder of the celebration so he needn’t ride the full way back to Bagot on his own.

Outrage grew. Why didn’t someone else cry out that he’d seen her father removing that cap? Hypocrite, a small voice within her chided. Why should it be someone else when she’d seen what happened?

Another wave of shame surged through her. Coward. It was fear that held her tongue. Were she to admit what she knew everyone here would spurn her as a traitor to her own blood. No honest knight would ever offer for her hand against the possibility that she might one day betray him as she had her sire. That might well leave her sire no choice but Sir Gilbert for her mate. The very idea was enough to keep Kate’s tongue from wagging.

There was but one flicker of grim satisfaction in all this. Although no one else admitted to seeing what her father had done, neither did his usual supporters rally to him this time. Only those men like Sir Ronald, who owed their living and their allegiance to him, had joined in his demand that Warin not be censured. Why, not even Sir Gilbert had said a word in his favor.

“Well spoken, my lord,” Sir Ronald replied. “Every man should recognize Sir Warin de Dapifer for the good knight he is. I ask you now, what of the Godsol? Where does his responsibility in this lie? He too, must have noticed the missing cap. Why didn’t he call the fault when he saw Sir Warin hadn’t noticed and pull out of the run?”

Her sire grinned broadly at this attack on a Godsol. Righteous indignation tore through Kate. Of course her sire would enjoy hearing Rafe blamed for what was truly none of his fault.

“Aye,” Lord Humphrey said. “If the Godsol had felt himself in any danger, he could have withdrawn from the run. Since he didn’t and he took the purse, we can all assume he saw the uncapped lance as no threat. Another reason Sir Warin shouldn’t be blamed.”

“Indeed.” Sir Ronald, every inch the lackey, nodded. The movement of his head was a shade too vigorous. “Know you my lord, that I’ll miss Sir Warin in the morrow’s melee. Your steward is a stout-hearted warrior, and battling won’t be the same without him at your side.”

“My thanks for that,” her father replied. For the first time a hint of regret showed in his voice. “I shall miss him as well.”

With his required show of loyalty at an end, the knight offered his lord a small bow then turned and strode back down the hall’s length to his own seat. As he went every man along the opposing line of tables across the room watched, their expressions black with disapproval. So many men all glowering in her direction was enough to dampen even Kate’s indignation.

No doubt to prevent a riot in his house, Lord Haydon had rearranged the mealtime seating for this day. Rank no longer determined where his guests sat. Instead, the Godsols and their defenders were on one side of the room; the Daubneys and those connected to them peopled the other. That hadn’t stopped the enemies from biting their thumbs at each other throughout the meal. A shiver shot down Kate’s spine. So much animosity promised a vicious melee on the morrow.

Beside her, her father turned his attention to the last of his meal, wholly unconcerned by the looks aimed at him. Her appetite gone, Kate’s gaze shifted until she looked at the high table. There, seated between the bridegroom and the just now departing bishop, was the day’s champion.

As if he felt her gaze Rafe’s head turned toward her. When he saw her watching him his lips lifted. That was all it took for need to etch a channel through Kate. Forbidden or not, she wanted to feel his mouth on hers once more.

In the next instant his smile ebbed until only longing touched his fine features and filled his dark eyes. Kate’s heart tore in twain. The truth she already knew was written on his face for her to read. Never again would she feel his touch or the glorious press of his lips to hers. Any chance of ever again being close to him was gone, killed by her father’s misdeed. Godsol and Daubney would mingle no more at this event.

Someone touched Kate’s shoulder. Startled, she jerked around on the bench to look behind her. It was Sir Gilbert.

Her skin crawled. Unable to bear that her vulnerable back was to him, she eased around on the seat, all the while slipping as far from him as possible on the bench. A tiny smile flickered to life on his mouth at her retreat. Something in his expression said he knew she found his touch repulsive and that her reaction amused rather than upset him.

Alerted by her movement, her father shot a glance over his shoulder. The narrowing of Lord Humphrey’s eyes was enough to convey that he hadn’t forgiven his neighbor either for his lack of support this afternoon or for his offer of a handfast with Kate. He afforded Sir Gilbert a mere grunt of acknowledgment.

Unperturbed by his lordly neighbor’s rudeness, Sir Gilbert offered Kate a courtly bend of his head in greeting. “My lady.”

“Sir Gilbert,” she replied, the words slipping from between clenched teeth as she willed him gone and swiftly so.

“It was another fine meal, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Fine enough.” Kate shrank back against the table. God preserve her! He intended to make small talk when her heart was broken and her life in ruins. She shot a frantic glance around the room, seeking some avenue of escape.

Just as she had done before Lady Haydon again came to her rescue. At the head of the room, both Emma and her mother were on their feet. Lady Haydon came around the high table’s corner and raised her hands to catch her guests’ attention.

“My ladies, the bride has decided to retire to my garden and enjoy the remainder of the afternoon in the presence of the musicians. What say you all? Shall we leave the men to their talk of battles and their dicing while we make merry on our own?” That she was excluding the menfolk from her invitation along with the chiding tone of her voice left no doubt that Lady Haydon was unhappy with the sour turn her festivities had taken.

Kate fair bounded to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Gilbert, my lord sire.”

Her father shot her a harsh look. “You’ve not asked my permission to go, nor have I given it,” he told her.

The amusement in Sir Gilbert’s gaze redoubled. “What a pity, my lady. It seems you won’t escape me so easily after all.”

He reached out as if to take her hand. Kate snatched her arm behind her and tried to take a backward step, only to find herself trapped between the table and the bench.

“She stays with me, not you,” her father said, once more eyeing Sir Gilbert. There was no mask for his hostility this time. “You’ve made your offer and been refused. I’ll warn you to keep your hands to yourself where my daughter is concerned.”

Sir Gilbert only shrugged off his neighbor’s bluntness. “My, but the two of you are out of sorts this afternoon.”

Out of sorts! Aye, Kate wanted to scream, she was out of sorts. She’d just discovered she was daughter to a lying cheat.

All around the room women left their male companions and came to join their hostess. Ami stopped abreast of Kate’s table, waiting for Kate to join her. Kate sent her sire a pleading look. Her father ignored her.

“She stays,” Lord Humphrey said, waving the young widow on her way.

With a regretful shrug and a worried look Ami moved on to join the other women as they filed out of the hall. Kate’s longing to go with them rose to desperation. She twisted her face into the expression that had ever won Lady Adele’s pity. “My lord, might I please join the ladies? I cannot bear another moment in this room, what with so many men angry at us.”

Her words were out before her good sense had a chance to catch them. Kate’s heart sank. She gave up any hope of escape. Surely her father would interpret her words as chiding for his wrongdoing.

Rather than rage her sire only grunted again. “It’s only the Godsols who glare, and what care we Daubneys for that?” he asked. His tone was even, as if he discussed the vagaries of the weather, not a whole family’s hatred for his kin.

From his stance beside Kate Sir Gilbert’s sly little smile widened into a full grin. “I’d say it’s more than just the Godsols who disapprove of your steward’s behavior, my lord.” New shrewdness lurked in the depths of his eyes. “Indeed, even now there are some among your closest supporters saying you should release Sir Warin from your employ. These same men suggest keeping one who stooped to such a trick only blackens your good name. I wonder if these men might also rethink their connection to Bagot should you refuse to rid yourself of this supposed loathsome individual.”

“What?” Kate cried, this new and unfair attack on Warin stinging all the deeper because it was Sir Gilbert who mouthed it. Her own sense of shame grew. Coward, coward! She should speak the truth and save Warin, even if it meant destroying her own life.

Kate expected outrage of her sire. Instead, the hostility drained from his face. He leaned back a little on their bench and scratched idly at his bearded chin. In silence, Sir Gilbert and her father considered each other, their moment of quiet stretching as Haydon’s ewerer stopped to refill Lord Humphrey’s cup. Once the servant had departed, taking Lord Bagot’s nod for his thanks, Kate’s father once more looked at Sir Gilbert.

“Does any man in particular say this?” he asked, his words careful and slow.

Sir Gilbert’s brows gave a pleased upward jerk. “Sir William of Ramswood is one man of that opinion.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed to slits. Shifting on the bench to face the table, he leaned forward to see around his still-standing daughter. His glance flew down the room’s length to where Kate’s likeliest suitor sat. Kate’s look followed his.

Sir William watched them in return, his round face creased. When his gaze met that of Bagot’s lord he flushed bright red. In the next instant he turned on his bench as if to speak to his seatmate, effectively showing his potential bride and her father his back. Even Kate recognized the rejection for what it was. There’d be no marriage contract with Sir William.

“Damn me,” her father muttered as he shrank into himself. In the next breath, he added, “It seems I must needs begin my search again after the wedding is finished.”

Shame’s shackles shattered as Kate’s heart nearly danced from her chest. Could it be that no man who’d seen that joust would have her to wife? If that was so, then it was naught but God’s miracle. Nay, it was better than a miracle. Here was how God would punish her sire for the wrong he’d done, even if all mankind blamed Warin for the doing of it. As wrong as it was to take pleasure from Warin’s unfair treatment, Kate couldn’t stop her grin.

Surprise flashed across her father’s face as he watched her, then his expression darkened. “Do you dare to look at me so?” he demanded.

Sir Gilbert loosed a quick harsh laugh. “By God, but she’s a bold thing.” Reaching out, he caught Kate by the chin and forced her to look at him. “Bold and beautiful.”

Loosing a harsh breath, Kate jerked her face from his grasp. “My lord sire told you to leave me be.”

Again Sir Gilbert laughed, this time the sound naught but amused. “Lord, but what sons we’ll have between us, sweet Kate,” he crooned.

At the suggestion of a future between them in the knight’s words, the pique left her father’s face. In its place came new eagerness. “If you’re so enamored of her, then ask for her. But no handfast. You’ll take her before a church, speaking vows of wedlock for all to hear.”

Something akin to triumph took fire deep in Sir Gilbert’s eyes then his face flattened, all emotion draining from his expression as he made his offer. “Remember, my lord, that she was five years wed to de Fraisney with nary a flicker of life in her womb. If I must risk her potential barrenness then I want more in return than just Glevering. I want Bagot and the title.”