The Gorgon (4 page)

"So I noticed. Did not you
see their colors as we rode in?"

Bose shook his head. "Nay,
but I certainly should have," he sighed heavily, raising his visor to
release the steam heat saturating his heavily-lined helm. "Tate, I demand
you burn their tent to the ground and all occupants within. I have no desire to
go against Breck Kerry this day."

Tate Farnum, young and arrogant
with a beautiful crown of auburn hair and milky skin that would have made a
woman proud, snorted humorously. "What you mean to say is that you do not
wish to compete against Asa Kerry's son."

"Asa and I served together
under Hubert de Burgh,” Bose said. “Of course I do not want to compete against
his spoiled, pimple-faced son. The boy is a menace to the honorable knights
competing in the tournament circuit with his unscrupulous tactics and barbaric
methods."

Tate nodded faintly, gazing at
the bright yellow and white tent. "He broke Stephan du Bonne's wrist last
year. Truthfully, I am surprised to see him here at all."

Bose's onyx-black eyes studied
the elaborate shelter and waving banners, announcing to the world that the
illustrious House of Kerry was present for the week's competition. From the
subject of Breck Kerry one moment to Stephan du Bonne the next, Bose was
reminded again of the delicious Lady Summer. Since it was apparently futile to
forget the woman, he struggled to appear casual as he spoke of her.

"What do you know of
Stephan's sister?" he asked nonchalantly. "I did not even know the du
Bonne brothers had a sister."

Tate liked to believe himself
well informed about everything; sometimes, in fact, his hunger for gossip
exceeded that of the most curious woman and Bose was constantly chiding him for
the fact. But in a situation such as this, it might actually prove useful if he
had heard anything about the fair Lady Summer.

"This is the first I have
seen of the girl,” Tate replied. “But a beauty, to be sure; no wonder the du
Bonnes have been hiding her."

Moving into the cluster of tents
with their du Bonne servant in tow, the area was alive with squires and
soldiers, milling about in orderly chaos as they went about in anticipation for
the approaching tournament. Bose ignored the rabble for the most part, his mind
still focused on the subject of conversation as he and Tate made their way
toward the half-pitched black and white tent well removed from the common
cluster of shelters.

"How old do you suppose she
is?" Bose asked, realizing with dismay that he sounded eager to know.

Tate sensed the curiosity and
cast his liege a long glance. "God's Blood, Bose. Do I detect a hint of
genuine interest in the woman?"

Immediately on-guard with Tate's
knowing query, Bose averted his gaze stubbornly. "Answer the damn
question. How old is she?"

Tate grinned; he had served the
mighty Bose de Moray for six years, becoming acquainted with a man of little
emotion and even less sentiment. He had found service with the dark knight
during Bose’s years as Captain of the King's Household Guard and had
subsequently chosen to follow his superior officer when the man resigned his
post shortly after the death of his beloved wife.

The Bose de Moray he had come to
know before the passing of the Lady Lora had been a hard man to please, fair
and intelligent and incredibly skilled. And even though the man had a face of
stone, revealing little of the thoughts and earning the reputation of a man who
had not yet learned to smile, still, there was compassion behind the coal-black
eyes. But Tate, and others, believed that compassion had disappeared the very
moment Bose’s wife had perished in childbirth.

Tate had seen the last of his
liege's compassion four years ago. From that moment on, it was as if Lora's
death had stolen something away from him. The resulting individual spared
little time for rest or humor, seemingly possessed to keep on the constant
move. Tournaments, competitions, any sort of games that entitled skill and
money, Bose would find himself a part of. It was as if he had to keep moving,
fearful that if he stopped the grief that was following him would catch up.

So he kept running. Tate ran with
him, too, as did three other knights who had served Bose when he was Captain of
the King's Guard. Men who were more loyal to de Moray than to young King Henry
considered it an honor to continue to serve a knight who seemed determined to
forget about his past.

Bose continued to exist in an odd
limbo where all that seemed to exist was a day to day continuance. Which was
why Tate was surprised to hear Bose's question in regard to Stephan du Bonne's
sister.

"Who is to say?” Tate
finally replied. “I would wager to guess that she is no more than twenty years
at the most. Far too young for you, of course."

Bose did not reply as they neared
his tent. Just as they closed in on the structure, a large knight with a bushy
red mustache raised a massive standard of black, white and silver, announcing
that the House of de Moray had arrived. As Tate continued to eye Bose in
anticipation of a reply to his taunting statement, his liege seemed intent to
ignore him.

"Farl," Bose boomed.
"Make sure my charger’s shoes are checked. He was moving strangely, as if
a shoe was loose."

The burly knight nodded faintly.
"Your squire has taken the beast to Artur, who is examining him as we
speak,” he replied. “They are under the large gnarled oak near in the small
ravine to the west."

Bose glanced over his shoulder in
the indicated direction, noting the aged oak in the near distance and several
forms clustered beneath its heavy branches. With a faint nod, he shifted his
attention and moved away from Tate to inspect the lashings of his large tent.
But the auburn-haired knight followed on his heels like an eager puppy; Bose
could feel the man behind him, his smirking grin igniting a blaze of annoyance.
After testing one of the iron stakes himself, he turned to his smug
subordinate.

"Do not you have tasks
requiring your attention?" he growled.

Tate shrugged lazily. "A few
that can be taken care of in a matter of minutes. I'd much rather talk about
the Lady Summer."

Jaw ticking, Bose turned away
from his knight and focused on the tent once more. "If you value your
life, you will vacate my presence."

Snorting, Tate took a step back
but did not depart as ordered. "Come now, Bose,” he clucked softly. “If
you wish me to find out something about the woman, then all you need do is ask.
There is no one better at discerning information than I."

A ticking jaw was now joined by
grinding teeth as Bose moved along the tent, inspecting the tarp as Tate lingered
several feet away.

"There is nothing more I
wish to know," he said as steadily as he could manage. “Go and see to my
charger. And send Artur to me when he is finished."

Corners of his mouth still
twitching faintly, Tate did as he was told. He knew that Bose's patience was
not limitless. Any more lingering on the part of the young knight and he would
surely find himself bruised. But he knew, even as he moved away from the black
and white tent, that he would seek Bose's answers even if the man was too stubborn
to ask his assistance.

Listening to Tate's fading
footfalls, Bose knew all too well that the young knight would seek answers to
his master's query. He would have been a fool to believe otherwise, and a part
of him was glad for the inquisitive nature of Tate Farnum. But another part of
him was embarrassed for wanting to know about Lady Summer at all.

With a grunt of frustration, Bose
began to unpack several of the satchels lining the tent. A small cherrywood
table emerged from a large box, as did two collapsible chairs. The more he
worked, the clearer his mind became as thoughts of his lovely acquaintance
faded from focus and soon he was joined by three male servants who had been
procuring food for the nooning meal.

 The smell of roast beef was enough
to make him forget his troubles entirely as he delved into a trencher of the
succulent meat. As the servants unpacked the remainder of the boxes, Bose
devoured a huge plate of beef and carrots. He had barely finished mopping up
the gravy with a thick slab of bread when the tent flap was abruptly ruffled by
a familiar figure.

"I see you waited for
me," came the droll salutation. "Good Lord, man, you ate everything
but the table."

Bose nodded, his mouth full.
"And that is in jeopardy as well."

The familiar knight chuckled
softly as he entered the tent, depositing a satchel of personal items against
the wall.  As the man fumbled about in the leather sack, Bose wiped his mouth
against a linen square and eyed his crouched companion.

"He's in there, somewhere. I
put him in there myself."

The knight nodded, almost
irritably. "Good Lord, that rat has nested in here. I'll never get him
out."

Swallowing the last of his meal,
Bose quaffed deeply from his wooden cup. "Antony is
not
a rat. He
is a ferret. And far more valuable to me that you are, my aged friend."

The knight shook his head;
although Bose had meant the words in jest, they were true. Nothing meant more
to the man than his dead wife's spoiled little pet. The small beast was the
sole focus of his liege's guarded affection, having kept the fuzzy creature
close to his heart since the day of Lora's passing. Certainly, the warrior
could hardly fault his lord the lone sentimental attachment.

"His droppings are all over
my bag," the knight moaned, his searching hand finally coming to rest on
the article of search. With a squeak, Antony revealed himself from the warm
hovel of the older warrior's bag and found himself deposited on his master's
lap.

In a rare flash of gentleness,
Bose stroked the gray and white ferret. "Greetings, my pooping
friend." As the little animal snaked its way up Bose's torso, perching
comfortably on his shoulder, Bose held out a small green apple for the beast's
approval. "Your dinner, Antony. And eat neatly, if you would. I'll not
have apple peel all over my mail."

Having shaken out his satchel of
animal waste, the older knight once again pushed the satchel against the
shelter wall and made his way to the table. As he drew himself the other
collapsible chair, a servant entered the tarp with a full trencher of food.
Placing it before the knight, the servant moved to the opposite end of the
large shelter and began setting out the furs and bedding.

"Give Antony a piece of
bread, Morgan," Bose said as he listened to the hearty crunch of apple in
his ear. "I have none to give him."

Morgan Skye cocked a graying
eyebrow, dutifully handing over a thick crust. Nearing the ripe age of forty
years, he had seen nearly twenty years of service within the crown's ranks. As
athletic and spry as men half his years, he continued to compete in tournaments
and games when other men his age were well removed from the physical strains of
life. When he should have been anticipating the winter of his life, Morgan
served as an inspiration to others who considered retiring because of their
advancing years.

"Good Lord," he hissed
as Bose stole a carrot off his plate. "Get that hairy rat his own trencher
and leave mine alone."

Bose repressed a smile as his
furry friend devoured the carrot. "Antony loves you, Morgan. How can you
be so selfish?"

"Easily. I do not take
kindly to an alleged friend defecating all over my baggage."

"What did you expect? He's
been sealed within your satchel for hours."

Morgan swallowed his substantial
bite, eyeing Bose as he drank deeply of the medium-bodied ale. "Next time,
the rat can ride in your possessions. I refuse to carry him any longer."

Bose cocked an eyebrow, the
glimmer of mirth in his eyes fading. "My bags are always too full."

Morgan shook his head. "That
is a lie and you know it. You insist that the rat ride within my possessions
because you are terrified someone will discover your weakness for this hairy
beast. It is much easier to explain my attachment to such a pet due to my age
or some other sort of nonsense. Who would ever believe the great Bose de Moray
capable of fondness for a ferret?"

Bose scratched Antony's nose with
massive fingers, his black eyes glittering across the dim tent. "I am not
ashamed of Antony."

Again, Morgan shook his head. How
many times had they shared this conversation? "Nay, you are not ashamed of
the bearded rat. But you are ashamed that a mighty warrior of your station
should be firmly committed to a foolish little animal. Why not admit the truth,
Bose? No one would fault you for your attachment to your deceased wife's
pet."

Bose looked away, his black eyes
pondering the dim surrounding of the black and white tent. In the far corner,
the servant raised a small flap for ventilation and illumination, but Bose
ordered the man to seal the breach. He had a difficult enough time keeping his
ferret protected from the world without the additional exposure of an open
window.

"What about your
charger?" Bose's voice was subdued as he changed the subject. He did not
want to argue about the only bit of tenderness within his dark life. "Is
the beast lame?"