Mary Reed McCall (7 page)

“’Tis the moment of truth, my lady,” William shouted above the din. “The battle has begun.”

U
ntil the numbness began to invade her wrists, Catherine didn’t realize how tightly she was clasping her hands. Releasing the grip, she winced at the burning, prickling sensation flooding her fingers. But for the past quarter-hour she couldn’t drag her gaze from the sight in front of her. Couldn’t pull her thoughts from the worry that gnawed with increasing ferocity at her heart.

The tournament field was a scene of pure bedlam. Great gouts of dirt lay scattered across the green, kicked up by hooves of war mounts that careened and reared at their masters’ commands. Colors flashed, men shouted, and weapons clashed against shields and armor in a metallic clamor that Catherine thought must harrow the soul of the most stalwart in the crowd.

Yet taking a swift glance in either direction, she realized that the people around her seemed to be enjoying themselves. It startled her almost as much as the action on the field. She looked at William. He was leaning forward, cheering what she assumed must be acts of valor or prowess by the small packs of knights, some on horseback and some not, who occasionally broke away from the large group to fight on the edges of the green.

“’Tis difficult to see what’s happening,” she called to him, trying to be heard over the crowd. “Can you find Lord Camville anywhere?”

“Aye, my lady,” he answered, tilting his head to her, though his gaze remained fixed to the field. “There he is, directly in the center.” William pointed. “The eagle on his device catches the sun. ’Tis the golden flash you see now and again.”

Catherine struggled to find what he described. To her, the field looked like a writhing mass of animals and men, the horror of it compounded by the din of battle. But what William said was true. If she focused on the center group, she could see an occasional glint of gold backed by sapphire. Yet she couldn’t tell how her husband fared, or if he’d dealt Eduard any blows.

Of a sudden the crowd surged to their feet, a collective shout marking some momentous happening. Catherine shot from her bench as well, straining to interpret the sight; she tugged on William’s sleeve. “What is it? Why is everyone so excited?”

“’Tis almost over, my lady,” he shouted. Then he began to stamp and cheer as loudly as the rest of the spectators. She saw that many of the knights
seemed to be turning their steeds and charging off the green, hotly pursued by opposing warriors. Even the smaller clusters seemed to dissipate as the combatants ceased their struggles and headed toward either end of the field.

“Some of the men are giving over, fleeing to the safety of their side. They will be captured by their opposites, then forced to pay a ransom in order to regain their freedom,” William explained.

“But how will we know who was injured—or which side won the tournament?”

“The wounded will be counted and aided after the battle, while the side that captured the most men and obtained the greatest amount in ransom will have the right to claim victory.” William nodded toward the green in approval. “From the looks of it, though, I’d say that your husband’s forces won the day. See? There is Lord Camville even now. He’s chasing that group of knights to catch them before they reach the safety of their own side. And ’tis very likely he will succeed, I’d say!”

As she watched, Catherine saw the knights William described. There were three of them, riding their mounts so hard that, as they neared, she could see foam flying from the horses’ mouths. Gray rode close behind them. He was hunched over his steed’s neck, his face a mask of chill concentration as he pursued his quarry. His expression sent a shiver up Catherine’s spine, and she suddenly understood William’s comment about not wishing to be opposite her husband in a battle.

The cheering crowd grew louder as Gray charged after the men, coming closer and closer to pass in front of the pavilion. Yet he seemed not to notice the reaction of the spectators, keeping his gaze fixed with deadly purpose on the backs of the knights who fled him.

Suddenly, from the corner of her vision, Catherine noticed another knight hurtling across the green; but rather than heading for one of the positions of safety, this man cut an angled path across the field that would lead him to sure collision with either the escaping knights, or with Gray.

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she shifted forward, her fingers clutching the edge of the enclosure wall until her knuckles turned white. Others in the crowd saw, too, she realized, as a tense silence settled over the area. When the charging knight howled a battle cry, the crowd gasped, and Catherine gripped the wall tighter to prevent herself from crumpling back onto the bench.

God preserve her, it was Eduard
.

The hairs prickled up on the back of Gray’s neck an instant before he heard the blood-curdling roar. Whipping his head toward the noise, he saw a flash of red and white and felt the bone-jarring impact as the knight’s steed slammed into his mount at almost full tilt. His stallion gave a shrieking whinny, and then the sky and the earth tumbled together in a sickening whirl. When it stopped, he found himself flat on his back on the field; the fall had knocked the
wind from him, but he knew he couldn’t wait to recover. Struggling to stand, he cursed at the shooting pain that went through his right thigh, even as he raised his sword to ward off the blow that swung in hard from his opponent.

It only took an instant to recognize Eduard’s device—and even less for raw hatred to spill through his veins to mix dangerously with the battle lust he already felt. He’d done everything he could to avoid confronting his rival directly on the field today, trying to protect the fool’s life. Now he couldn’t hold back, even if he wanted to.

Gray spun around to fend off another blow and was knocked off balance by the pass of Eduard’s steed. But as he started to pitch backward, he reached up and dragged Eduard from his mount. They landed together in a crashing heap, and Gray bit back a growl as the impact jarred his injured leg again.

“Damn you, Camville,” Eduard snarled, pushing and grappling with him as he righted himself. “Give over and agree to ransom!”

“Never!” Gray took deep breaths, trying to keep rage from gripping him too tightly, from blinding his vision with the red heat that made his mind shut down for the kill. “’Tis you who’ll be damned,” Gray muttered, “if you don’t cease now, while you still can.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Eduard lunged forward, and their swords clashed. Neither would give ground, but when Eduard stumbled back, it seemed as if he’d had enough; then with a bellow he at
tacked again, using his knee as a battering ram. He slammed into Gray’s wounded leg with a sickening thump, and Gray’s vision erupted in flashes of light as pain engulfed him.

Everything seemed to slow. Gray felt every breath of air rasp into his lungs, heard the grinding screech of his armor as he crashed to his knees. Still Eduard came at him, yelling like a madman, swinging his blade down in a stroke meant to kill. At the last second, Gray raised his weapon to deflect the blow, and Eduard’s blade sliced sideways, gouging into his shoulder rather than his head. Burning warmth cut through him, hot blood seeping into his sleeve even as the strength drained from his arm.

All was quiet for a moment, as Gray absorbed the shock of his wound. He looked up slowly, feeling dark, dangerous emotions swelling, coming to life. He gripped his sword tighter, willing power to return to his muscles. And then the beast inside him thundered out of control.

Shooting to his feet, he hurtled at Eduard, heedless of anything but the need for answering blood. Through the haze of red he saw Eduard’s eyes widen, saw him trip over himself as he floundered back, trying to avoid the powerful sword thrusts. But Gray was relentless, driving and slashing. A long, drawn out roar burst from his lungs, and he pushed his enemy back and still back.

It was all Eduard could do to block the blows raining down on him, each one seeking to spill his life’s blood. But then he tripped, arms wheeling as
he crashed to the field; his sword popped from his grip with the impact, and he lay there, helpless as a fly on its back.

Battle lust coursed hot and thick through Gray as he stood over his adversary and raised his weapon in both hands, point down. He heard nothing but the rush of his own blood in his ears, felt nothing but the gnawing hunger for vengeance, saw nothing but the faceless enemy he needed to crush.

With a battle cry, he prepared to drive his blade home into Eduard’s chest—when a woman’s voice pierced the well of his rage like an icicle plunged into his heart.

“Gray, please don’t! In God’s name, I beg you, please don’t kill him!”

It took a few seconds for the plea to penetrate his mind and a few moments more for awareness to come back and shake him from the throes of his battle trance. He felt as if all the pieces of his body were disjointed as he turned his head stiffly to the side to see who had spoken to him.

The blurring in his vision began to fade, and he recognized his wife. She stood less than ten paces away, tears streaming down her face. His gaze locked with hers. Dimly, he realized that she must have climbed from the pavilion, exposing herself to grave danger by running onto the field. Now her hand reached out to him, and she sobbed softly. All else was silent.

Almost against his will, the warmth of life began to seep back into his limbs, into his mind and his
heart. He glanced back to Eduard, who lay still and helpless at the point of his sword. He struggled internally, thirsting to drive his blade home and finish the barbaric deed, while at the same time finding himself unable to ignore Elise; her entreaties pulled him away from the violence, tugging at the last vestiges of his compassion.

“Please, Gray, no more. Let him go, I beg you.”

The last was whispered, yet it resounded through his soul as if pealed on all the bells of heaven. Of a sudden his rage ebbed away. He closed his eyes for one, brief moment. Then he looked back at his wife.

“Christ,” he muttered, throwing his sword onto the field. He tilted his head back, took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Without another glance at anyone, he turned and began to walk away from the scene of battle.

But in that instant, Eduard sprang up and rushed at him, dagger drawn.

Even as Gray whirled around to face him, Eduard’s cool blade pierced below his ribs and withdrew with stinging force. Surprise mingled with shock. Vaguely, Gray realized that it was his own blood spilling hot and slick over his tunic and hands. It splashed onto his legs, and he looked down at the gushing wound in his side as if he was apart from it, viewing it from a distance.

When he glanced back up, his head felt light from loss of blood. He took a few steps back, but his vision whirled, and he thought he might fall to the field. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stumble forward again. He grasped the front of Eduard’s
tunic, yanking the bastard closer, even as he cocked his arm back for the blow.

And as the darkness closed in on him, Gray tensed every muscle with whatever strength was left in him and slammed his fist right into the middle of Eduard’s sneering face.

Catherine bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself to stay calm and in control as the men laid Gray on a pallet in a chamber off of the great hall. But from the moment that Eduard had attacked her husband, all she’d wanted to do was scream until she went hoarse.

“Bring me some water, hot wine, clean cloths, and my needles,” she managed to command.

Some of the servants departed to do her bidding, and she began the task of loosening Grayson’s clothing.
Hurry
. Her mind raged in frustration as she fumbled with the unfamiliar knots and clasps of his armor.

“Here, my lady, allow me,” said the knight who’d helped to carry Gray from the field. Grateful, she took over holding the cloth he’d kept pressed hard against Gray’s wounded side, while he made quick work of removing Gray’s bloodied surcoat, hauberk, and tunic. Then he stood and carried the ruined garments from the chamber. Everyone else had already rushed out in search of a priest and Sir Alban.

She was left alone with her husband for the moment. Shock and fear made every second seem like an hour, heightening her senses. Catherine looked
down at Gray, her heart wrenching at the sight of him lying so still, eyes closed, his handsome face drawn and pale. The powerful muscles of his chest and arms were smeared with blood. Even with the pressure she exerted against it, the dagger wound still seeped. She knew that they needed to stop the flow or risk his dying from it.

A sob began to build in her throat, and she pressed harder against the puncture. Gray groaned and turned his head, though his eyes remained closed. His massive chest rose and fell in barely perceptible movement.

“Quickly!” she shouted as two squires came running in with the hot wine and linens she’d requested.

“How bad is it?” Alban asked when he burst into the chamber a moment later, followed by another squire who carried her needles. Blood covered Alban’s face, and she saw that his right hand was wrapped in bandages. He rushed to kneel next to the pallet. “Holy Mother Mary, he’s unconscious.”

“Take this,” Catherine commanded, and Alban pressed his weight into the cloth at Gray’s side so that she could more easily dip the linen in hot wine. “You,” she nodded to the third squire, “Heat the metal rod near the hearth. Then hold this needle to a flame until it’s blackened. Let it cool, and thread it with that silk there. I need someone else to fetch herb pots. Marjoram and fennel will do. And bring some nettle juice as well.”

Everyone scrambled to obey. One of the servants put more wood on the fire, making the room heat to an almost unbearable temperature. Catherine used
her shoulder to wipe the sweat from her eyes as she waited for the iron to be prepared. She knew that there’d be no time to dally once the pressure was removed from Gray’s side.

Finally, all was ready. At her signal, Alban released the cloth, and she used the wine-soaked linen to catch the flow of blood and swab it away, revealing the extent of the wound. When it was clear enough to see, she poured hot wine over and into the two-inch wide puncture. Gray came awake then, cursing and thrashing. Alban held his friend still as Catherine murmured a prayer and then an apology; she hefted the wool-wrapped handle of the iron rod, glowing red-hot now, and pressed it into the bleeding gash.