Secret Of The Manor (24 page)

Their clothing was similar to what they’d worn before, but less ornate. The lord’s floppy beret was gone, showing his full head of dark hair, and his thick coat was replaced by a simpler cape. His peacocking was shown off by the way his cloak draped over his exposed shoulder and the golden embroidery on his tunic beneath.

Keeping to protocol, Warren bowed to the lord. “Good eventide, my lord.” His use and knowledge of the older English hadn’t improved, though his words came out in a more confident tone.

“I pray thee better fortune than thy last encounter with a lance.”

Warren reeled a touch at the lord’s words, regardless of how true they were. The man seemed off to Warren. He couldn’t put his finger on the cause, but the man had an air of discomfort about him.

“Gramercy. I pray the same, my lord.”

The lord gave a curt nod and passed Warren off with a flick of his wrist to his wife, who had a much more welcoming demeanour about her.

“Pay no heed to my lord, his is a nose of wax.” Her offhandedness towards her husband suggested a change in the waters somewhere.

“Pardon, Milady?” Warren had never heard that term before.

Milady laughed. “Fickle, Sir Warren, fickle.”

Whereas previously Milady kept to an older style of speech, her words now had a touch of more modern teaching. Her smaller stature and less flamboyant style in no way detracted from the confidence of her voice. “I see you bear witness to differences in our gathering this eventide.”

Warren glanced towards the new couple. “Indeed, my lady.”

“All that is altered may not yet be seen. Given my confines, I protected thee as best I was able.”

“Was it my lady who sent Ebony Air to assist me?” The night was full of revelations. Hopefully, the good ones would not stop.

“Yea. I bared my heart to protect those within my reach. Thine actions helped. Removal from my confines, too, was of great assistance. I was able to reunite with Nicholas outside of the joust.” Nicholas moved from behind the throne to stand beside his mother and held her hand.

“If my lady pleases, may I ask a question?” Milady indicated Warren should continue. “If my lady is versed in the dark arts, why did you not stop the curse in earlier years?”

“I did not possess then, that which I do now. I sought out knowledge of the arts after my Nicholas was taken from me. Sadly, one more barrier remains before my family and its offspring can be at peace.”

Warren hoped that meant what he hoped it meant: that Alex could be saved, too. “Aye, my lady. If necessary, I will shed blood to rid us of the Black Knight.”

“He is not the barrier of which I speak. Though he must be defeated. Look for the rose, and you will find the answer.”

Milady held out a hand to her husband. Into it he placed a large blue-and-silver ring, which Warren couldn’t clearly see. Nicholas did the same, giving her another in purple, before the lady of the manor added her own opal ring to the trio. She closed her eyes, muttered a few words, kissed the rings, and then slid them onto a long silk scarf and tied it around Warren’s wrist. “From my line of heritage, my husband’s, and my son’s. I wish thee well, Sir Knight. Sir Warren of Blake, Champion to my Nicholas and thine Alexander.”

As before, the lord ordered, “Begin, good Knight. We shall see if thou wilt survive.”

Warren bowed to the lord and repeated the action to Milady and Nicholas, then headed back to the end of the arena, where he found his mediaeval-clad friends. At that moment, it was plain that the veil was more than the entrance gate to the joust; it was a transformation gateway. Carl held a sobbing James in his arms, rubbing his back. Carl indicated the other end of the arena where Oliver stood shoulder to shoulder with the enemy. “Had to hold him back from killing the bastard. Was tempted to let him, when he broke down.”

Again, Warren felt for James. All he could hear was the stuttered breathing of a man in anguish, unable to hide his betrayed, broken heart. As much as Warren wanted to give him comfort, Carl had matters well in hand, and Warren had a Black Knight to think about. “Keep him safe and out of trouble,” Warren instructed.

He received a curt nod from Carl. “Aye. Don’t you worry none about him. I’ve got him. Here for you, too, me lad. Now go kick some arse.”

Warren was distracted by someone at his side. He looked down and saw his shield being handed to him—by Nicholas.

“Be careful; he favours the left.” The fact that Nicholas was speaking shocked Warren. But he had little time to dwell on how. Nicholas’ voice sounded as though it hadn’t long broken. It was beautiful, young and full of hope. At that moment, Warren heard the buzz of Alex above him, circling the darkened sky.

Warren accepted the shield and lance. With a thundering heart he whispered to himself as much as Argo, “We can do this.”

Nicholas led Argo into position, where he stood regally silent. From the other end of the field, Warren could feel his opponent’s eyes on him. Warren tucked the lance into his hip and held it high. Fourteen feet in the air, the metal tip glistened. The moment he had it balanced, he spurred Argo on to the elated roar of the crowd.

Argo leaped into action, and his hooves thundered beneath him. The one-two-three rhythm upon the parched earth sent wave after wave of adrenaline through Warren.

Warren kept his focus on the Black Knight, who was quickly approaching. Warren could feel the wood of the grip scrape his knuckles. It was weightier than those he’d practised with. It seemed as heavy as several windsurfing booms.

The champion angled his shield, lowered his lance like a drawbridge, and lunged forward. Both lances connected at the same time. The jolt to Warren’s body was expected. His arm jerked to the side, and the lance slid past. Both were successfully deflected.

The men opted to keep the ash spears they had and efficiently turned around to go again. Another roar went up as the riders headed for each other at full speed. The one-two-three stride of canter morphed into the one-two-three-four beat of gallop. Warren tightened his grip on the pole and controlled its descent. At the last second, he thrust. Wood shattered, and a cheer went up as Warren’s lance connected with the middle of the Black Knight’s shield. The man shot backward in his saddle. It wasn’t until Warren reached the other end that he saw his opponent had remained secure in his seat.

As Warren was handed another lance, he needed every muscle in his arm to lift the hard, dense wood. Nicholas spoke hurriedly. His months of listening to Warren talk had obviously changed the young man’s style of English. “He’s never been to three with any other mortal champion. Be careful. Your love watches, but his presence will not break the spell this night.”

“Why?”

“At the last joust, when Alexander was in animal form, Mother was able to use him as a conduit to save you. They did the same with Ebony Air and Argo at the church.”

The crowd chanted for Sir Warren of Blake to get a move on.

“Why won’t it happen this time?” Warren puffed hard.

“Because you changed things by moving the bones of the dead. You moved them out of the circle the witch created with the roses that cover the church. That gave my mother more control, but not enough. Once she achieves her full power, she has the knowledge to undo what has been done. Both sides sense victory. This joust will not finish until one of you is defeated, and you cannot win unless the last amulet is destroyed. It is the final source of the witch’s power.” Nicholas turned Warren to face his foe.

Warren gulped. The Black Knight looked murderous.

He spurred Argo on. His brave Andalusian gelding reared up and forged forward. The Black Knight’s approach was much faster than before. It was as if something or someone was giving him extra speed. The ground beneath them thundered. Warren lined up his lance. His muscles protested under the strain, and he lunged. He felt it hit.

At the same time, Warren’s shield caught the full force of the Black Knight’s lance. Warren toppled to the side and gripped with his legs to gain some balance. It was no use. He dropped his shield and grasped at the saddle, but the cumbersome gloves hampered his grip. His armour was too heavy and, with the change in weight, Argo swerved. Warren slid to the ground in a heap.

In some competitions, a rider falling would have been the end. After what Nicholas said, Warren knew that would not be the case for him. He was winded, and it took a few tries before he could breathe again. The moment air entered his lungs he moved. He rolled to his knees and stood. The Black Knight had dismounted and, instead of heading to the armaments halfway down the arena, he was taking long strides towards Warren, sword and shield already in hand.

Around him, people screamed. Yet Warren could hear Carol’s laugh above it all. With a growl, he ran to the rack of weapons and grabbed a sword. He turned just in time to stop the Black Knight’s blade with his shield. Bang, thud, bang, thud, and Warren staggered back to the fence. He pushed himself free of his confines, and the men exchanged more blows. They circled each other, and the Black Knight lunged. Warren dodged and parried the death-seeking metal.

The Black Knight followed and, once again, Warren heard the cheering encouragement of his supporters. It spurred him on. Clash after clash of iron on steel echoed through the night, and Warren could feel his chest tightening, needing air. A small stumble made him lose concentration, and he felt the full force of the Black Knight’s shield on his face. Warren rolled to the ground, and his helmet flew through the air in a different direction. The metal had undoubtedly saved him from losing half his face. As it was, he spat the pooling blood from his mouth.

Carl’s bellow reached his ears. “Move!”

At the last minute, Warren saw flames reflect off the Black Knight’s sword as it descended towards his neck. He lurched under the central jousting bar. Instead of his neck, the sword landed on timber with a dull thud. Scrambling to his feet, Warren locked swords with the Black Knight as both men used the central barrier as extra protection.

A duck, a block, and a parry later, the Black Knight was upon him. Up close and personal, they locked together. Warren took a much-needed lungful of air, and that’s when he saw it: the jewelled rose on the guard of the sword. The last amulet. He pushed the Black Knight back and ran for the rack of arms. He needed something to remove the item from Sir Camrin’s hands—something more evil. He abandoned his shield and grabbed the flail. It had a sturdy handle, long chains, and three spiked balls on the end.

Sword in one hand, flail in the other, Warren didn’t stay to what was proper in a fight. He wanted to finish the Black Knight. He aimed for his feet, his legs, and his torso. He aimed at anything that would wrong-foot the man. He’d committed to agility over protection. Using left then right, flail and sword, Warren deflected every attack.

Suddenly Warren was on his back with the Black Knight atop him, his sword on the ground at his side. “You forget, Sir Warren, between us, you are the mortal one. Strike me down and I shall rise again, for I am better than you in every way possible.”

“I don’t need to kill you,” Warren ground through his teeth, “just defeat you.”

Warren was enraged. Nicholas had faith in him. Alex loved him. His friends had confidence in him. That was all he needed to believe in himself. A surge of energy shuddered from his toes to his head. This Sir Camrin and his horde assumed lordship over him and those he loved based on sexuality. Their arrogance represented what Warren hated about the world. With a massive heave and a scream of wrath, he pushed the man off him and aimed solely at the guard. He could hear shouts of encouragement from Milady and his crew farther down the field. With renewed vigour, Warren swung and parried. He dodged attack after attack and countered in style. The flail wrapped around the sword, but the Black Knight ripped it from his grip. It flew through the air and hit the rack of armaments, where one of the spiked ball-ends rolled away.

In its place, Warren grabbed an axe. The Black Knight seemed calm, hardly out of breath. His earlier words proved him to be overconfident. It showed in the fact he hadn’t moved to use any other weapons. The man was content with his sword. Close to other forms of defence, Warren weighed his options.

He drew the axe above his head and hurled it at the Black Knight. A scream from the crowd rang out as the axe struck and lodged in the Black Knight’s leg. The sword dropped from Sir Camrin’s hand as he grasped the end of the axe. He struggled to remove it, not even seeming to feel it wedged in his limb.

Warren saw his chance.

He grabbed the flail’s spiked ball and ran to the knight’s abandoned sword. Dust scattered as he slid on his knees and came to rest beside it. With both hands, he raised the ball in the air. He took a breath that reached his toes and brought the metal down with a roar of rage, on behalf of justice for everyone who had been harmed.

The ball hit the amulet with an impact so strong Warren felt the spikes pierce the leather of his glove. The pain between his fingers and in the centre of his palm was excruciating. But the chink of a thousand shattered pieces of amulet reached his ears, along with a piercing scream from Carol. Warren ground the spikes into the rose and followed up with several more blows. He was intent on turning the shards to dust.

The Black Knight stood still as the axe in his hand dropped to the grass.

Everything went silent.

Milady held her hands up—not to the skies, but towards the fields of the north. Her voice echoed around the arena.

“The bones of the innocent were jailed.

“The bones of the innocent were freed.

“I call upon the souls of my ancestors to come forth and rid us of the wicked.

“Undo the evil that was done. Free those of my blood.”

For several long moments, nothing happened. Then a beat was heard in the trees. With each passing second, the rhythmic thunder drew nearer until it drowned the night air. Leaves shivered and fell to the ground. The sound stopped at the clearing edge. Men and women cloaked in red surrounded the area. A long row edged the northern tree line. A hundred or more in silver tunics, bearing axes and round shields, surveyed their prey. Step by synchronous step they closed in. Axe beat upon shield as helmeted figures from the trees strode towards the arena, leaving guards behind to bar evil escaping.