Chapter Five
At least, this evening’s meal was limited only to the knights who’d participated in today’s events and, unfortunately, the ladies from the canopy, as well. Isobel didn’t think her nerves could handle the stress tonight of the huge Boar’s Head banquet that would take place once the tournament was over.
Isobel glanced at William sitting beside her on the dais. He had been awarded the seat of honor because he’d scored the most points in the events today. It was a miracle he hadn’t been killed at the last one.
She still shuddered at the venomous look in Sir Guy’s eyes when he’d held the lethal sword point at William’s throat. His expression still bore ill-will as he stared at them with narrow eyes from the first trestle table. William must have noticed too, or else he read her thoughts which probably were plain as written word on her face.
“I will not let him best me again.”
“He did not best you, Sir William. Sir Guy took advantage, something an honourable knight would not do.”
“A knight would do so on the battlefield.”
“Sir Guy should have allowed you to regain your balance.” Isobel felt her mouth tighten. “Instead, he pushed you.”
“He claims he simply did a hard press which, according to the rules, is permissible.”
“He all but charged at you.” She grimaced. “Besides, you were not on a battlefield.”
William looked thoughtful. “I suspect Gisborne thought we were.”
Isobel frowned. “Why do you say that?”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “The man does not like the amount of time we spend together.”
“It is not like…like…” Isobel paused, not sure how to finish.
“Like what?”
“Like…” She took a deep breath. “Like we have shared privacy.”
The quirk turned into a smile. “I seem to recall waking up to you in my bedchamber.”
Isobel blinked. “You were injured!”
“I remember the first thing I heard was the voice of an angel.”
She looked at him, startled. “Your head wound must have been worse than we thought if you heard angels.”
“Not angels. Just one.” William’s eyes darkened to deep blue. “You.”
Isobel felt her cheeks warm. “No one has ever called my voice angelic.”
“Well, it was.”
Isobel shook her head. “My dogs in Wales would not agree with you. They heard me try to sing once.”
William laughed, a sound warm and full that made her think of cozier, safer times. She found herself laughing too. “They actually howled.”
Sir Guy glared at them, and Isobel shuddered again, the warmth of the moment gone. If William’s lightning reflexes had not caused him to immediately roll this afternoon, the deadly sword tip nicking his shoulder rather than his throat… Dear Bridgid. They might be preparing a funeral pyre.
Evidently, her thoughts were written on her face again because William touched her hand briefly. “Do not think on today. It is over.”
But was it? It was a question she was still asking herself several hours later when she closed the door to her bedchamber and slipped the bolt in place before she walked to the wardrobe. Reaching behind her gowns, Isobel pulled out a man’s tunic, leggings and a side-rimmed, pointed hat with visor such as any bowman might wear.
Lifting several pairs of shoes, she carefully withdrew her unstrung bow and quiver of arrows, checking the fletching to make sure the feathers had not been bent. She examined her disguise once more and then put the items back in the wardrobe and closed the door.
The archery event in the morning was open to the common folk, and her cousin had told her many of the villagers and surrounding farmers would be sending their sons to compete for the coin prize.
Isobel needed that coin if she were going to get away, so she would be one of them.
• ♥ •
William looked around the field the next morning for Isobel, but didn’t see her. The stands beneath the canopy was empty, as well. That didn’t particularly surprise him since the archery event was held mid-morning and the ladies attending yesterday afternoon’s events probably were not even stirring. But he had hoped Isobel would be there so he could prove his worth after the fencing disaster.
It was bad enough that he had actually stumbled, but he had totally disgraced himself by allowing Gisborne to knock him down. Isobel had been right. The bastard had pushed him, something he hadn’t anticipated in what he thought was an honourable match. He should have known better and anticipated such devilry from a man of Gisborne’s reputation, but William had foolishly been thinking of Isobel watching from the stands. Uncle Robert would chastise him to eternity for such a stupid blunder…right after he’d pummeled him black and blue.
The knights who had pitched tents in the neighboring field were already assembling when Gisborne joined the group. His slot in the order of competition was five, which put well ahead of William’s twelfth spot and meant he would be through shooting and William would not have to wonder about an armed man at his back waiting for his turn. Still, he kept a wary eye on the man.
The knights competed for points, and by the time they had finished, the boys from the surrounding area had congregated in a group waiting to compete for coin. William thought it an excellent idea that de Lacy had thought to offer something practical to the common folk. From what he understood, anyone who didn’t miss the target on each of three tries would be given two pence. That money would be most appreciated by their parents. The lad who earned the most points, however, would receive a silver florin—practically a small fortune for most of the peasants. The village fletcher had accompanied them and would be the one to hand out the awards.
William watched with interest as the boys lined up, the smaller ones first. He liked how the older lads helped the younger ones brace their small bows and even, a time or two, guided their fingers into the correct position on the bowstring. Whatever competition these lads might feel, it didn’t lend itself to not helping the little ones. A few of the young children even earned their two pence. Their faces beamed as they walked away, clutching their coins.
More interest stirred as the older lads then lined up. William sensed that many of the knights were watching, as he was, for talent that might be employed. While knights on destriers served their purpose, good bowmen were still the staple of any army in England. William made note of several lads whose skills his uncle might be interested in procuring.
One lad in particular caught his eye. He was slightly built and had the visor on his cap pulled so low that William wondered how he could see the target, but his first shot hit the bull’s eye dead center. When the second one did, too, William noticed several other knights snap to attention. He sidled closer to the line.
The longbow the boy used looked to be made of yew and a bit shorter than the usual length. For a moment, William wondered if had been custom-designed, but dismissed the thought. Villagers would not spend money on expensive yew. More than likely, it had been ‘purloined’ from a passing traveler. Still, the lad had obviously practiced with it many times.
William studied the boy’s form. He stood with his left side to the target, feet shoulder length apart. Nocking the arrow, he drew the bowstring slowly and steadily back in alignment with his right ear as he sighted the target. Then he canted the bow, just like William did, and released the arrow which spiraled upward in an arch before beginning its descent to hit dead center once more.
There was widespread applause from the knights as it was obvious that the lad had won the grand prize. They started to surge forward, probably with offers to sponsor the boy, but he turned shy, ducking his head and refusing to answer anyone. When the village fletcher handed him the silver florin, he simply palmed it and ran from the field.
“The lad has skill,” William told the fletcher. “Perhaps you could convince him to overcome his shyness and come up to the castle later? I would like to talk with him.”
“I canna do it.”
William gave him a surprised look. “Why not? The lad could earn considerable coin for his family.”
“Aye.” The other man shrugged. “But I don’t know who he be.”
William frowned. “What do you mean, you do not know him? He cannot be from that far away.”
“Don’t know. I never seen him before.”
William watched the man leave with the rest of the village lads, wishing the fletcher had been more help. He looked toward the target once more and realized the youth, in his hurry to leave, had left his last arrow embedded in the straw. Walking over, William twisted it gently out and examined the crest. A dark red stripe with two white bands. Not one he recognized from the area. He looked at the cockfeather. Black was a common color, but this was actually a deep burgundy that looked almost black—until closer examination. He didn’t recognize that, either.
He put the arrow in his own quiver. The shooter dressed as a peasant, but if he was not local, then who was he, and where had he come from?
• ♥ •
Isobel felt a bit giddy as she took her seat under the canopy on the field that afternoon. She had not only won the silver florin that would enable her to travel from Barnsdale to a larger city where she might blend in, but she had also escaped discovery after the contest. She’d felt a moment of panic when the knights had started coming toward her. She hadn’t anticipated that anyone would be interested in a village boy. She’d had another moment of panic when she reached her room and remembered she hadn’t removed her last arrow, but it was too late to do anything about that. No one would know it was hers since her quiver was safely hidden once more in the wardrobe.
The midday meal had been quick since the final event, jousting, was about to take place. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice her rather disheveled appearance. She’d had little time to change back into a gown. The ladies around her were spouting nonsense, as usual.
The herald announced the beginning of the event by bugling. Everyone quieted, even the chattering ladies, as the knights rode onto the field from opposite directions of the lists. Although their visors were up, they were dressed in full body armor, their horses barded, as well. They held the poles of their colored banners instead of the long, heavy lances they would soon carry as they galloped by. The colorful pomp and pageantry belied the brutal sport that would soon begin.
“Which one is he?” one of the girls asked.
“I do not know. Are we sure he is taking part?” another asked.
Isobel didn’t have to think about who “he” was. It wasn’t only Sir Guy who had stared at the dais at last night’s meal. A dozen of the ladies had their eyes glued to William, as well.
She scanned the lists for him, not sure which horse her cousin had lent him to ride. She knew he would have had to borrow armor also, but luckily Roger was of the same size. Finally, she spotted a white horse at the end of the line that she recognized as her cousin’s prized stallion. She was a bit surprised, but pleased, that Roger had let William use one of his finest mounts.
“Ooh! Here he comes!” It was the blonde girl who pointed.
“Wear my favor!” her brunette nemesis called, and tossed a garter over the rail as William approached.
“No! Wear mine”
“Take mine instead!”
“Here is mine!”
Isobel ducked as five different garters flew past her head and onto the field.
She really, really, really disliked the foolish women. Worse, she would have to accompany them to the Yuletide Faire the next day while the men hunted boar.
William thundered by, dipping his head to them, but not acknowledging any of the strewn favors. Isobel felt a small sense of illogical triumph at that.
Isobel was relieved to see that William had not drawn Sir Guy as his opponent. After the debacle with the swords, she hoped they wouldn’t have to face each other again.
But that hope died an hour later. One by one, the knights had been felled until only Sir William and Sir Guy remained. As they cantered to opposite ends of the lists, Isobel caught a glimpse of the grim expression on Sir Guy’s face before he pulled his face guard down. She had an unsettling feeling of déjà vu.
On the first pass, each of them gave the other a resounding strike on the shoulder, but neither was unseated. On the second pass, William managed to get the tip of his lance under Sir Guy’s mail gorget long enough to push the man back, but not out of his saddle. The crowd roared their approval.
Isobel could tell from the way Sir Guy jerked his horse’s head around when he reached the end of the run that he was furious. The animal backed, fighting the tight pull of the bit, but Sir Guy only jerked harder. Isobel winced and then breathed a small sigh of relief when he loosened the reins. He seemed to be fiddling with something, but perhaps was just adjusting the shoulder mail that William had managed to poke.
She looked to the other end of the lists. William sat waiting for Guy to make his move, but she could see the stallion was impatient, snorting, stomping and trying to rear. William reached under the crinet to pat the animal’s neck and it quieted, blowing heavily.
William suddenly urged the horse forward as Isobel heard galloping hooves from Sir Guy’s mount. They were near mid-center when the white stallion suddenly shied, pitching William forward and then reared, front hooves slashing. Before William had time to recover, Sir Guy’s lance came crashing down knocking him from the saddle.
He landed on the ground with a heavy thud, and lay still.