Desired (21 page)

The royal stewards made their way into the loges with refreshments for the queen and her ladies. The king departed for his own pavilion. He was on the afternoon program and eager to join the lists.

Paddy and John Chandos ate heartily, sharing their food with Randal and the Gnasher. Christian and Edward, however, did not eat. So they would not become dehydrated, they drank water brewed with rosemary and agrimony to keep them alert. Ali massaged the muscles of both men with almond oil and myrrh. The prince was most impressed by the Arabian squire’s talents.

“Would you consider becoming my personal leech?” Edward asked.

Ali shook his head. “Alas, Your Highness, I was there when Drakkar was born and I shall be there when he dies, Allah be willing.”

Edward and Christian exchanged an amused glance, yet beneath the surface, both men were moved at such selfless devotion.

An infirmary tent had been set up with Master John Bray, the king’s physician, in charge. It was rapidly filling with casualties suffering cracked ribs, broken collarbones, dislocated shoulders, and concussions. Minor wounds, cuts, and abrasions were attended by squires in the jousters’ own tents.

Prince Edward began to pace in anticipation of the afternoon’s challenges. Christian stretched himself on the pavilion floor and appeared to doze. “How is he able to do that?” Edward asked Ali.

“Long years of discipline. First you must separate the three states of being: the mental, the physical, and the emotional, then it is simply a matter of deep breathing.”

But the moment the heralds sounded their trumpets, Hawksblood was on his feet ready to have Paddy don his hauberk. This time, both wore silver, for Edward was jousting as Hawksblood, riding against Warrick, then Christian and Robert de Beauchamp would do battle.

Brianna clasped her hands tightly as Warrick’s name and that of Hawksblood were announced.
Don’t let either of them get hurt
, she prayed.

Prince Edward knew he would have to unseat Warrick with his lance if he hoped to win, for if the seasoned warrior had him on the ground, then came at him with his powerful sword arm, he doubted the outcome.

Brianna surged to her feet as the pair collided with an ear-splitting crash that splintered both lances and sent the combatants flying from their saddles. Fortunately for Edward, he had not landed as heavily as Warrick and he was able to gain his feet first. Warrick, however, was able to swing his great broadsword from a kneeling position. When it struck Edward’s shield, however, the protective guard flew from the tip of the sword and Warrick stopped fighting
immediately. It was a thing that happened often, usually resulting in a bloody accident, but Warrick was well discipined in swordplay. When Prince Edward saw Warrick put up his sword, he did likewise and the contest was considered a draw. Christian couldn’t have been more pleased with the outcome.

In the next joust, Prince Lionel challenged Lord Stanley, Earl of Cheshire. They were easy to tell apart, for Cheshire’s lance boasted a blue and white banner with three stags’ heads. Lionel missed his opponent’s shield by a mile and embedded his lance point in Stanley’s dappled gray charger. As the horse went down, the crowd gasped then groaned as they watched it thrash in agony. Stanley, concerned only for his mount, went down in defeat to Lionel, who totally ignored the frenzied animal. The crowd began to boo.

King Edward threw off his leg guards and sprinted onto the field. Without concern for his own safety, he quickly assessed the horse at close range. He withdrew his dagger and severed the horse’s main neck artery. It gave only one more kick, heaved a shuddering sigh, then lay in red ruin.

The crowd’s boos changed to cheers. They knew their king’s deeds were invariably brave as well as honorable. The animal was covered with the glorious flag of England and dragged from the field.

Prince John of Gaunt’s voice carried to Joan and Brianna. “By the Cross, that was clumsily done! Lionel has covered us with shame!”

His sister Isabel turned upon him. “A little blood and gore enliven a tournament. Stanley can well afford the loss of a charger.”

Prince John gave her a look that would have withered someone more sensitive.

In his tent, pitched next to Prince Lionel’s, Robert de Beauchamp inwardly seethed. The great clumsy Ox had not only been easily defeated by his older brother this morning, but had also gone down to defeat in the joust with the Earl of Kent. Now, for Christ’s sake, he had killed a bloody horse! Robert ground his teeth in chagrin. How the hell could Lionel aspire to kingship? The brainless swine would
ruin all Robert’s fine plans for the future if he didn’t have a care.

Robert tried to focus on his own impending joust with his foreign bastard of a brother. He had been waiting for this moment all day. He knew he needed to vent his spleen, and what better target than the Arabian? The two jousters presently in the lists had removed their thigh guards in emulation of the king. As Robert’s squire held his horse so that he could mount, he saw that none of the men had kept them on. In a vainglorious gesture, he ordered his squire to unstrap his guards. It would give him considerably more freedom, especially on the ground, so his main objective was to separate Hawksblood from his charger.

Robert couched his lance, moved his shield across his body, and allowed his hatred full rein.

Brianna wanted to leave. The last thing she wanted to witness was this encounter between the dissimilar brothers. But of course she could not; she was rooted to the spot. Turf flew from their chargers’ hooves as they began their inevitable head-on clash. In a blur she saw the yellow streaming from Robert’s helm and the crimson ribbon fluttering from Christian’s scabbard ring. It sounded as if the thud of the hooves beat upon her eardrums. She had no idea that it was her own heart that pounded.

Joan shouted encouragement. Brianna heard not the words, but knew which De Beauchamp Joan championed. The question was, which De Beauchamp did Brianna champion? She wanted neither to lose; she wanted both to win. She sucked in a breath, trying to distance herself from this contest. It was up to them; it had nothing to do with her!
It had everything to do with her
.

Christian Hawksblood’s arm became one with his lance. Through the slitted helm he saw every detail with crystal clarity, every movement in slow, fluid motion. Man and horse merged into one powerful entity. Hawksblood was a big man, but his half brother was both taller and heavier. Robert relied upon his brawn in all encounters. Hawksblood knew if he lured him off-balance, the sheer force of his weight would take him down. Christian shifted to his left so that Robert must overreach. ’Twas so subtly done, Robert expected his hated opponent to go down with
the impact of the lance. Instead it slid harmlessly to the right, dragging him with it, while his brother’s lance hit him such a true and solid blow, it smote him from his saddle.

Hawksblood had couched, charged, and recovered as he had done thousands upon thousands of times. Robert was on his feet instantly, unable to check his fury. He did not expect Hawksblood to dismount; chivalry was the last thing he anticipated. Robert felt a surge of glee, for Hawksblood wore protective leg guards that would hamper him. Christian’s armor, however, was so well articulated, he could turn a somersault if the need arose. He unsheathed his broadsword, deftly blocking every slash and thrust Robert executed.

In Hawksblood’s experience it was the coolest head that prevailed, and he knew Robert was hotly mad. Christian saw the guard had come off the tip of Robert’s sword, if it had ever been there in the first place, and he knew his half brother was gripped by bloodlust. Robert plunged the sword with a mighty downward thrust. Hawksblood lowered his shield to protect his loins. Robert’s wide blade slid down the length of the teardrop shield and pierced his own ungirded thigh! He rolled to the ground, biting his lips so he would not cry out at the searing pain. Robert’s squires as well as Warrick’s rushed onto the field.

Randal, wanting to view the last two jousts of the day in which both Hawksblood and the Black Prince were scheduled to ride, stood at the barriers with the little ferret curled upon his shoulder. Since they were now the best of friends, he judged the silver leash unnecessary.

The crowd was in such an uproar, Gnasher decided to attack. He streaked across the lists, scented Christian, scented his enemy’s blood, flashed up De Beauchamp’s leg, and tried to sink in his teeth. Only the fact that Robert wore a protective codpiece saved his manhood. Gnasher, tenacious as a terrier, found the wound and bit down to the bone. Robert screamed in agony, the startled squires laughed in spite of themselves, and the Gnasher fled back to an abashed Randal.

Christian Hawksblood could not linger on the field. He had agreed to joust against the King of England in Edward’s place, and had to immediately change into sable
armor. Amusement tugged at the corners of Christian’s mouth for the brother who had intended to draw blood and had succeeded, albeit his own.

Back in the pavilion, when he was ready, the two friends faced each other in their black helms and hauberks. “Don’t humiliate him too sorely,” Edward appealed.

“God’s teeth, I’ll be lucky if I can hold him to a draw. Your father has a passion for tournaments because his long arms and legs make him a champion!”

As he had expected to, Hawksblood hit the ground. In fifteen jousts it was the first time he had been unseated. However, King Edward had not been able to stay in the saddle either, and now the two men were enjoying the contest of wits and broadswords. The king was both thrilled and confounded that his son’s skills equaled his own.

Hawksblood was impressed by the king’s stamina as the fight went on and on. Finally the royal foot slipped on a patch of blood and he went down in defeat. Hawksblood wanted to protest that he had not won fairly, but speaking would have revealed his identity.

The crowd went wild. The Black Prince was their champion. More, he was their god at this moment. The throng along the palisades, the ladies in the loges, and the crowds who could not even get close enough for a glimpse, chanted his name in unison.

“Edward! Edward! Edward!”

The prince hurried to his pavilion to get Christian so they could share the glory, but Hawksblood had disappeared along with his squires. Edward took off his helm to run a frustrated hand through his flaxen hair. John Chandos handed him a note.

The Black Prince stepped out onto the field to acknowledge the tumult.

B
rianna was in a quandary. She made her way toward the pavilions to find out how Robert fared. Would it be unseemly for a lady to enter the infirmary tent? She heard a familiar laugh behind her and turned to find the king. “Your Majesty, I came to inquire about Robert’s wound, but I can see I’ll only be in the way.”

“Rubbish!” He took her arm. He could never resist charming a beautiful woman. “If you are with me, none will dare deny you. I’ve come to visit all the tournament casualties.”

The king’s physician, Master John Bray, was busy setting broken limbs. Warrick and Hawksblood stood beside Robert, who lay upon planks supported by sawhorses.

The king boomed, “Here’s a poor maiden fearing your demise.”

Brianna inwardly shrank as all eyes turned upon her. She could clearly see that Robert was seething, and the look he gave her would have consigned her to the devil, if he had his way.

“Have no fear,
my
lady, I myself will stitch him back together.” Hawksblood’s glance locked with hers for a moment. She knew he read her thoughts. The Arabian knew she was there for duty’s sake, not love’s.

The last thing Robert de Beauchamp wanted was his foreign bastard of a brother’s hands on him, yet he did not have the guts to protest for fear of seeming a coward. “Get her out of here,” he said through stiff lips.

King Edward was enjoying himself. “You’re in no condition to travel to Bedford tomorrow. Hawksblood, will you go in your brother’s stead to fetch my stone for the tower?”

“It will be my pleasure, Sire.”

Brianna flushed. The bold devil was looking at her when he spoke of his pleasure. “I shan’t go now,” she said, swallowing her disappointment.

“Nonsense!” the king contradicted. “You’ve been looking forward to it. My tournament won’t be responsible for
disappointing you. You’ll be safe enough in Sir Christian’s hands.”

Holy Mother, can he put thoughts into the king’s head, words into the king’s mouth?
She flashed Hawksblood an accusing look, but he was busy scrubbing his hands while Ali threaded a needle. He was completely aware of her, however. “Perhaps Lady Bedford will feel more comfortable if Lady Joan of Kent accompanies her,” he suggested smoothly.

“Splendid idea,” concluded the king.

Mary and Joseph, did the dark devil have designs on both of them?

Her glance sought out Robert’s. “You won’t be attending the banquet—”

“I’ll be there!” Robert cut in, unable to hide his fury.