DANGER ON THE FIELD
Sean marched, tight lipped, across the field. In his right hand, he held the favor for Camden. In his left, balled up, was his handkerchief.
Why cannot I keep a sensible tongue in my head? Father always said it'd be the death of me. I should just be quiet!
He couldn't believe how frank he'd just been. How he'd almost betrayed his feelings to Lady Marguerite. What had he been thinking? He stalked over the bumpy, hoof-carved soil of the practice field and marched off toward where Camden and his squire waited.
“Camden?” he called.
The pale sunshine struck blinding reflections off of Camden's plate armor. He turned his head and looked down at Sean. He smiled. Throwing a leg over his war-horse, he dismounted, clanking, and grinned. “The day's favorite! There you are.”
Sean raised a brow. “Your wife sent a message for you. What's that you said?” He frowned, as the epithet with which Camden had greeted him caught up.
“You!” Camden chuckled. “As far as I know, you've been named as one of the men most likely to unhorse Sir Geoffrey in the lists today.”
Sean blinked. “Truly?” He glanced down the field toward where a man seemed unashamedly to be gathering in coins for gambles.
“So Alex here said.” He glanced down at his squire, who looked up stolidly.
“What, sir?”
Camden grinned. “Nothing, Alex. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alex seemed a solid, reliable and competent squire. Camden liked him though, and he seemed a good choice as the next knight at Aberleigh. Grounded and loyal.
“Sorry, Sean?” Camden said, grinning up at him, helm off, blond hair blowing in the wind. “You said there was a message?”
“Yes.”
When Sean handed over the silk cloth, he was surprised to see Camden's face tense. His friend blinked rapidly, and then coughed. “Thanks,” he said tightly. “I'll tie it on.” He reached for his lance, fastening the silk about the long tapering column.
Sean turned away. As he did, he remembered what he had in his other hand. He unclenched his fingers, revealing the tear-stained square of cream-pale linen. He sighed. “Oh, why not?” he said under his breath.
It couldn't hurt to use it. After all, now he'd said he would. Moreover, even though he knew it probably didn't make a difference, he still felt that the tear-stained linen scrap would protect him.
“Sir?” His own squire, Peter, frowned.
Sean pointed toward the wall, where his three lances rested. “Let's have one of those, eh, Peter? The big one.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter fetched his tourney lance – the first of the three reserve weapons and the heaviest – and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” Sean said.
“Oh!” His squire smiled as he saw Sean shake out the unbleached linen square. Sean slit his eyes and Peter decided he was suddenly very interested in what Sir Alistair was doing over on the other part of the field.
Sean held in his annoyance with the boy – after all, he'd been fifteen once and likely just as curious and annoying himself – and tied a firm, harsh knot in the fabric. There.
Then, equipped and ready, he stalked off to the side where his horse, Storm-silk, was waiting.
“Ready too, eh, boy?” he asked the horse. A white destrier with dappled sides, he had bought the horse for an exorbitant amount from a local stable. Camden still rode Whisper-swift, his charger, though he could easily afford to buy the finest horses from France. Had done so, in fact, but they were still training the creature to Scots commands.
Storm-silk snorted. Sean fondly stroked his neck. “You're a fine lad,” he said. “You speak Scots better than most folks, eh?”
The horse snorted again and Sean chuckled. It felt good to be standing with Storm-silk. Here on this field, with the other knights and their squires all engaged in getting armored or exercised, there was a subtle sense of hostility that bothered him. He felt isolated and alone. It was, he reflected dryly, each man for himself here, whatever the rule of courtesy in combat.
In addition, he, or so he had just discovered, was a favorite.
“Heck,” he whispered to his horse. “That's odd.”
His horse snorted again and Sean laughed. “Must be you, eh, boy?” He patted his muzzle.
Then he jumped as the pipes and trumpets started up their infernal blasting.
“They're starting,” he said under his breath.
“Sir. Are we...” his squire began, marching up to take his reins from him.
“Yes,” Sean interrupted grimly. “We're off.”
He mounted and let his squire lead him down the field.
At the edge of the tournament field, he joined perhaps ten other knights, all watching with detached interest as the two reigning favorites rode solemnly down the listing ground. The two were both dressed in shining armor, with Sir Geoffrey wearing a helmet topped with plumes, a device that not only marked him out, but had the cunning advantage of making him look taller than he in fact was. Sean nodded, noting it.
Could do with a pair of fancy plumes myself.
He chuckled dryly under his breath, knowing that he'd find it hard to carry it off with the careless panache the older knight managed. Always flamboyant, Sir Geoffrey was both a favorite with the crowd and a favorite with the ladies, as evidenced by the cheering.
Sean chuckled under his breath. He looked down his lance. Lumpy and solid, the handkerchief marked the otherwise unadorned shaft of it.
Well, I have the one favor that outshines all of them.
Despite himself, he felt his eyes wander to the stands. There, in the main box, his eyes lingered. With her gold hair uncovered, her wide, big brown eyes focused on the field, Marguerite was like a lamp-flame in the dark. She shone.
He felt his heart ache and his blood rose. He wanted to make her proud of him.
“Sir Angus will face Sir Geoffrey in the first bout of the lists!” a herald proclaimed.
Sean raised an ironic brow.
Yes, we noticed. The pair of them have been cantering down the field for the last three minutes like hunting-dogs quarreling for a hide. Let's see them starting.
He had his wish.
In a thunder of hoof-beats, the two horses threw themselves down the field, knights holding lances level as they rode full-tilt.
Angus is going to win.
Sean felt the certainty fill him as he glanced down the field at the two knights. They were riding at each other fast, but Sir Angus had his blade upright and squared, firmly-directed at the shield of the man opposite. Sir Geoffrey was riding with his own lance held slightly wide.
Crack!
The clash of the wooden blade on the wooden shield was loud and sickening. Sean felt his eyes close and then open.
Sir Geoffrey was leaning back, his arm hanging at an odd angle. His shoulder's dislocated, Sean thought distantly.
Sir Angus rode forward, his lance held up above his head, resplendent with favors. The crowd cheered.
Poor fellow who lost, Sean thought dryly as the squires ran to help Sir Geoffrey off the field. His pride's dented. And his shield. Not to mention his poor shoulder. He gritted his teeth in sympathy for the man. He must be in agony.
He watched as the men helped Geoffrey down.
The crowd was still yelling. “Angus! Angus!”
Sean sighed. The man was riding about, brandishing his weapon, looking for a challenger. As he cantered down the field, Sean watched him. He saw a lady in the box lean forward, the day's pale light shining off her pale hair.
“Right,” he decided, without really thinking about it.
“Sir?” Peter looked shocked.
“I challenge him,” Sean said tightly to the herald.
The herald frowned. “Sir, I...”
“I challenge him,” Sean said again. His eyes fastened coldly on Sir Angus. If nothing else, then seeing the fellow suitably deflated would be a pleasure. He nodded to him.
Sir Angus nodded coldly back.
“Sir! You...” Whatever Peter had been about to say was lost, then, as the herald coughed.
“Sir Sean will challenge Sir Angus.”
The crowd fell silent. Sean swallowed tightly.
I reckon this was a stupid idea.
In the middle of the field, the hush was an audible thing. The sound of eighty people sitting tense and still, holding their breath, on Sean, making every move he made seem impossibly demanding, too loud.
I can just about hear my shoulder cracking, he thought ironically, straightening his arm.
Every little creak of his elbow, slide of his armor, snort of his horse, seemed to grow, swell, and spill over in the silence. The world slowed. He rode to the edge of the field, lance held upright. The lumpy favor knotted round it did nothing to affect its balance, for which he was grateful.
He heard the expectant hush and, as he rode past the central box, tensed at the thought that Marguerite was looking at him.
When he stopped at the end of the field to face Sir Angus, he glanced there. He could see her golden head bent forward, and had the fleeting impression of hands clasped before her soft face. He chose not to let his eye linger there, but directed a cold gaze to Sir Angus.
The man nodded fractionally. Older than the other challengers by about ten years, the man had a leathery, grim-set face, and cold brown eyes. He had thinning hair and massive shoulders, trained from years tilting at the quintain. He was a formidable opponent.
Sean swallowed. My father did always say my quickness would be the death of me.
He sighed. He had made the decision on the spur of the moment. It was only now that he was here, sizing up the man, that the size of his mistake evidenced itself. He might be a tournament favorite, but no one ever said he was most likely to best Sir Angus.
“And...ready...”
He closed his eyes wearily. Whatever happened now, it was too late to change things. Far too late.
“Charge!”
Roar. Rattle. Shadows, shifting.
Sean hung onto the pommel with his left hand, the lance in his right. His world was narrowed to sound, speed, and shade that shifted as his visor jolted in the race and he passed under the flags and past the grandstand. He held his lance upright and then took aim as his war-horse went from a rough start to a smooth, fluid gallop.
Aim. Hold it level. The worst mistake is to waver at the end.
His teacher's words echoed through his mind. Part of the benefit of being raised by Camden's family had been that he had been taught by the same man Camden had, a renowned knight from France. They had both learned many valuable lessons from the older man.
Steady. Feel the pace of your horse. When he is at his fastest, his smoothest, then strike.
They were almost close enough. Almost.
“And...now!”
Sean yelled as he twisted the blade just slightly to his left, aiming at the central boss of his opponent's shield. He felt the impact smash down his arm, aching in his elbow, pushing back his shoulder. Then he yelled.
The lance smacked into his chest and threw him back. His helmet jerked back, blinding him as the visor slipped. He heard himself yell as his horse lurched sideways.
He knew nothing else then. Only pain. And darkness.