Authors: Kathryn le Veque
Weston would be competing against Sir Kenneth Pembury of Bayhall, an enormous man with black hair and bright blue eyes that already had a buzz about him. When his name was announced, half of the women in the lists collectively sighed and Amalie had no idea why until she saw the man; he was big and beautiful. When all of the morning bouts were announced, which also happened to include Sutton against a bear of a man named Sir James Burton from Somerhill in Essex, the knights slated to compete began to take up their positions.
With Weston up first, Amalie’s anxiety began to grow. She was excited but she was naturally worried for his safety. When Weston and his big blond charger took position at the west end of the tournament arena, in full armor and colors bearing the blue and white of Baron Cononley, Colton began to squeal because he spotted his father.
Amalie held tight to the little boy as he jumped up and pointed, very excited at the sight. But Amalie was more nervous than excited and her stomach began to churn with nerves. She held tightly to Colton as the kid squirmed, more than once burying her face in his back as she tried to steady her nerves.
To the east of the field, Pembury took up position bearing the family colors of green and black. His was a very big man astride a very big black horse and Colton was thrilled at the sight. As the marshals took the field for the first pass, the knights on the opposing sides accepted their joust poles. Amalie watched Weston get a good grip on his pole as John and Heath handed him his equipment and gave the charger a final check. She found herself murmuring prayers for his safety, her palms sweating with nerves, as the field marshal finally dropped the first flag.
The chargers snorted and leapt forward as the crowd let forth a deafening roar. Amalie’s first reaction was to close her eyes but she found that she couldn’t; her attention was riveted to Weston as he charged towards his opponent at break-neck speed. The twelve foot long joust pole bearing the colors of Baron Cononley leveled out and held steady, pointed right at Pembury as the knights rushed each other.
The crowd screamed and Amalie tensed as the men drew near. Suddenly, there was a loud crash followed by the splinting of wood as the joust poles made contact.
Weston’s shield absorbed the blow from Pembury, but Pembury took a hard hit to the shoulder from Weston’s lance. It was so forceful that the lance shattered and pieces of colored wood went flying, some as far as the lists. The crowd roared their approval as both knights came away virtually unscathed.
Weston made a sweeping run in front of the stands on his way back to his starting position, his helmed head seeking out his wife and children in the lists. He pointed a glove hand at them as he rode past and Colton went wild, clapping and yelling for his father. The baby’s excitement caused those around him to laugh at his youthful exuberance.
Amalie held on to her crazed son, smiling at her husband as he thundered past. She was so incredibly proud of the man, of his strength and skill, and so incredibly glad that he was uninjured. She found jousting to be rather exciting as long as no one was hurt. As Weston assumed his starting position again with a new pole, the crowd quieted down in suspense of another exciting pass.
Weston’s second pass was uneventful and both knights remained seated. But the third pass saw Pembury lift his pole for Weston’s head and Weston had to dodge it at the last moment to avoid having his skull crushed. As he dodged, he had a split-second to bring his own pole up and he did so, catching Pembury on the clavicle. It was enough to topple Pembury over backwards and hit the dirt with a broken collarbone.
The crowd went mad as the bout ended in victory for Baron Cononley. Favors and flowers began to fly out from the lists, littering the dirt of the arena as Weston made another sweeping pass along the stands until he came to his wife. Then, he pulled his charger up and flipped open his visor, his dark blue eyes finding Amalie among the chaos. When their eyes met, he held out an enormous gloved hand to her.
Amalie stood up with Colton in her arms and made her way down a few steps towards him at the edge of the lists. When she finally reached him, he grasped her gently by the wrist and brought her hand to his partially-covered mouth for a kiss. Colton began screaming, wanting to go to his father, so Weston took the boy from her and settled him on the front of the saddle.
“You were brilliant, sweetheart,” Amalie said. “I am so proud of you.”
He grinned. “I am pleased you think so, my lady.”
She returned his grin, watching Colton as the boy joyfully banged on the saddle. “He is going to scream like a banshee if I take him from you now,” she indicated the little boy. “Will you take him to the edge of the field and I will collect him from you there?”
Weston nodded, putting a big hand around his son’s torso and completely swallowing it up with the size of the glove. “He can ride with me and wave to the crowd,” he spurred his charger forward, speaking to Colton as he did so. “Wave to the crowd, lad; they are cheering for you.”
Colton did as he was told, waving happily to the people who were throwing flowers and favors at him. Amalie watched, a smile on her face, as Weston headed off towards the east side of the arena. Gathering her skirts, she turned to follow.
“Keep Aubria here with you,” she told Elizabeth. “I will return shortly.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Of course, Amalie. We shall wait right here and watch the spectacle, won’t we, Aubria?”
Aubria still had the toy bird in her hand, nodding eagerly to her grandmother’s suggestion. Blowing a kiss to her daughter, Amalie lifted her skirts as she took the stairs to the field level below. Owyn and another soldier were at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.
Amalie smiled at Owyn when she reached the bottom of the steps; though she rarely saw him nowadays, he still had a special place in her heart as the man who had saved her life. She knew that Weston had richly rewarded the young man and that he held a place of honor within Weston’s ranks. Gazing into his face was like looking at an old friend.
“Greetings, Owyn,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Lady de Royans,” he greeted. “Where may I escort you?”
She threw a casual finger towards the east. “I am heading to the edge of the field to collect my son from his father,” she replied. “Colton wants to be a knight so badly. He insisted on riding with his father when the bout was over.”
Owyn grinned. “He will make a fine knight, my lady. He already has half of Netherghyll under his submission.”
Amalie laughed. “He does, doesn’t he?” she shrugged. “He is a bright, healthy boy. I fear he may have half of England under submission by the time he is five years old.”
Owyn nodded in agreement. “May I escort you to the edge of the field, my lady?”
She nodded. “You had better. I do not want my husband to become enraged because I walked alone.”
Owyn nodded emphatically as they began to walk out onto the boulevard. “There is no knowing what kinds of deviants lurk about at an event such as this,” he told her. “You could be molested by any number of characters.”
She looked at him, a look of distaste on her features. “What a pleasant thought,” she remarked dryly, then she began to look around and notice their surroundings as they proceeded. “Have you been to many tournaments, Owyn?”
He shook his head, his gaze on the big arena to their right. “Only two,” he replied. “One when I was just a lad and then another about six or seven years ago. Most young men view them as hunting grounds.”
She peered up at him. “Hunting grounds?”
He looked somewhat chagrinned. “Hunting for young ladies, my lady,” he said. “Perhaps I should not have told you that.”
She laughed. “Lest you forget that I have seen Heath and John in action over the past couple of days,” she lifted an eyebrow at him. “I know exactly what they are doing. Speaking of which….”
She trailed off, her focus on something down the avenue, and Owyn turned to see what she was looking at. A small woman with beautiful brown eyes and brown hair was walking towards them in the company of soldiers and servants, her face lighting up when she spied Amalie.
“Lady Amalie!” the woman waved.
Amalie smiled as she went to greet her. “Lady Paget,” she took the woman’s small hands in her own. “I was hoping we would be able to sit together this morning and watch the games. Are you just arriving?”
Paget nodded, smiling her beautiful dimpled smile. “My father had an attack of the gout overnight and has decided not to compete,” she told her. “But we have two knights who will be competing later this morning. Has your husband already competed?”
“Aye,” Amalie responded proudly. “He won against Pembury.”
“Wonderful,” Paget exclaimed. “Where are you going now? May I accompany you, my lady?”
Amalie nodded and was preparing to reply when a group of men passed by off to her right, men on horseback heading for the eastern edge of the tournament field. Owyn politely took her elbow to move her out of the way of the men and squires and Amalie instinctively glanced up as the group moved through the dusty avenue. It was purely a reflexive move on her part.
Her gaze fell on a few of the men, unconcerned, when her focus came to rest on one man in particular. He was in armor but his head was uncovered and his dirty, light brown hair was evident. There was something oddly familiar about him. He was speaking to one of the squires and his head turned slightly, his gaze inadvertently locking with hers.
It was Sorrell. Amalie suddenly couldn’t breathe as their gazes held fast to one another. Sorrell’s weathered features appeared shocked for a moment before gradually relaxing into a lascivious smile. Before Amalie could react in any fashion, Sorrell greeted her with feigned gallantry.
“Lady Amalie de Vere,” he said loudly. “What a surprise to see you here, my lady. You are far from home but I see that Owyn is with you. I was wondering what became of you and now I see; you must have run off with Owyn after I had my fill of you.”
Amalie was so shocked and horrified that she couldn’t form a rational answer. Her face, white with the shock of seeing him, suddenly washed bright red with shame. She was suddenly very hot and very nauseous, and the ground was beginning to sway.
Sorrell’s loud laughter filled the air as he moved off towards the east with his party as Amalie just stood there in terror. As he faded away, Owyn turned to Amalie with serious concern.
“Are you well, my lady?” he could see the expression of abject horror on her face. “Shall I send for your husband?”
Amalie was stunned, but not so senseless that she could not dig down deep for the last shards of decency and control she possessed. She couldn’t fall apart, not yet, though she very much wanted to. Quite calmly, she turned to Lady Paget, who was looking rather confused, and put a soft hand on her wrist.
“My lady,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am looking forward to sharing the day with you, but if you will excuse me right now, I am feeling rather ill. I will go and lie down for awhile before joining you in the lists.”
Paget could see that something had Lady Amalie very rattled. She grasped her with her small, soft hands.
“I will come with you,” she insisted. “Let us return to your encampment and I will sit with you while you rest.”
Amalie forced a smile but it was all for show; the tears were building and she could not stop them.
“That is very kind but not necessary,” she whispered tightly. “Surely you do not want to miss your father’s men compete.”
Paget wouldn’t let go of her hands. “I would rather sit with you,” she insisted softly, her brown eyes studying Amalie’s distraught face. “Will you please indulge me?”
Amalie couldn’t even argue with the woman; she was shattered, desperate to put distance between herself and her horrible nightmare. Owyn knew this; he watched Sorrell ride away, snorting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, while Amalie nearly came apart.
Owyn knew what he had to do; taking charge, he grasped Amalie by the elbow.
“Come along, Lady de Royans,” he said firmly. “Let us return to camp and I shall send for your husband.”
Amalie just closed her eyes, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, as Owyn and Paget led her off for the competitor’s encampment.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
When Amalie didn’t show up at the east end of the arena, Weston wasn’t particular concerned. She could get chatty and forget about time so he assumed she was speaking with someone and simply lost track of the time.
Dismounting his charger with Colton in his arms, he told his men he would return as he went in search of Amalie. Sutton’s bout was eighth on the card later that morning and Weston was sure he would return in plenty of time. In fact, Sutton, bored with standing around, decided to go with him in search of Amalie.
Carrying Colton in one enormous arm, Weston left the west end of the timber and stone arena and skirted the perimeter back towards the box where his family was seated. He found his mother and daughter sitting where he had left them but no sign of his wife. Elizabeth assured Weston that Amalie had left with a guard, so Weston was unconcerned as he set off in search of her. He passed by the man with the toys and the man with the monkey, which set off Colton again, so they had to pause a few minutes while Colton fed the monkey another walnut.
Leaving the monkey behind, Weston searched the shops along the avenue for any sign of his errant wife. He guessed she might be shopping and inwardly groaned when he wondered how much it was going to cost him. He’d already spent a significant sum on the cross and ring, but in reflection, he didn’t much mind spending money on his wife. She was well worth it.
He and Sutton neared the edge of the vendors with still no sign of Amalie. Thinking he might have somehow missed her, he ended back at the east entrance to the arena, watching the crowd of men and animals for her soft blond head. As he stood there and searched, he heard a voice approach from behind.
“De Royans,” the man said. “I thought that was you.”
Weston turned around, coming face to face with Sorrell. At first, he was shocked almost into numbness; he couldn’t seem to speak or move. He thought he might be dreaming but very swiftly realized he wasn’t.
Then, the anger bloomed, rising from his toes and exploding into his chest; his first thought was to wrap his hands around the man’s neck and snap the bones into dust. But he had Colton in his arms and was in no position to make a provocative move. As the fury swirled in his chest, his second thought was of Amalie; if she had come to the east entrance looking for Weston, then there was a real possibility that she had either seen or run into Sorrell. The fury in his veins turned to molten, liquid lead.
“Sorrell,” he greeted, his teeth clenched. “I heard you were here.”
Sir John Sorrell bowed gallantly as if flattered by the comment. A man of average height and broad shoulders, he was shaggy and unkempt, having reached his status due to his father’s political ties. He was a decent knight, but there were better. Anything he had achieved had been through cunning, deceit, or his father’s connections.
“My reputation precedes me,” he said arrogantly, eyeing Weston and Colton in a manner that infuriated Weston. “I heard you took over as garrison commander at Hedingham after I left. Is this so?”
Weston took a deep breath; he could already see where this was going. Straight to the subject of Hedingham. Calmly, he handed Colton over to his brother because he was quite sure that the fists and weapons were going to be flying shortly and he didn’t want his son in the line of fire.
“It is,” he replied evenly.
Sorrell nodded, glancing over at Colton again. The boy seemed to have his attention. “Your son?”
Weston’s big body tensed. “He is.”
Sorrell nodded, inspecting the boy further. “A fine lad,” he looked at Weston. “I had no idea you were married.”
“I am,” Weston replied, barely able to maintain his control.
Sorrell absorbed the information, either not sensing that Weston was coiled or not caring. He began to tighten up his gauntlets.
“I hope you married well,” he commented, his gaze moving off across the arena and the lists. “There are not enough fine women in this country for ambitious men to wed. Look at all of those whores out in the lists, pretending to be fine women yet selling their favors to any man who will look at them.”
He snorted ironically as if amused by his own thoughts. Weston just stood there and worked his fists, his dark blue eyes never leaving Sorrell’s face. It took every ounce of control he had not to kill the man at that moment; he could just see how careless and disgusting he was, and imagining his wife at the mercy of the man nearly drove him out of his mind.
The moment had come; it was here, truth thrust upon him, and he could not back down or look away. He had to face it head-on with as much control as he could possibly muster. For Amalie, he had to do it.
“You remember the Lady Amalie de Vere, do you not?” Weston asked, his voice quivering because he was so tightly wound.
Sorrell looked at him for a moment before breaking down into a lazy smile.
“Of course I do,” he replied. “In fact, it is odd that you should ask me, as I just saw her by the arena entrance not a few minutes ago. I was surprised to see her, in fact, because she disappeared from Hedingham shortly after I arrived. I did not know what became of her but it seems she ran away with one of my soldiers. I saw him here as well.”
Off to Weston’s right, Sutton began to move away with Colton in his arms. He could see where this was leading and was positive there was about to be a blood bath. Looking about frantically, he spied John and Heath several dozen yards away as they supervised some of the squires working on the chargers and Sutton caught John’s attention with the wave of a hand.
John grabbed Heath and soon both of them appeared at Sutton’s side. When they looked at him curiously, all he had to do was point at Weston and Sorrell. No words needed to be spoken, for they all knew the stakes at that moment. Sutton handed Colton off to Heath, who knew the boy better than John did, and Heath took the child away from what would surely be a volatile battle. Only Sutton and John remained, watching, waiting.
Weston, however, wasn’t prepared to strike, not just yet. He had lived this moment over and over in his mind, carefully planning out what he intended to say to the man who had so brutally assaulted his wife. He wanted to make sure Sorrell knew the facts before he was struck down. He wanted to make sure there was no mistake. He digested Sorrell’s casual statement before replying.
“Did you see where she went?” he asked steadily.
Sorrell shook his head, now fussing with the mail coat around his shoulder. “The last I saw her, she was over by the arena entry,” he replied. “Why? Do you know her?”
Weston nodded faintly, taking a step in Sorrell’s direction. “You could say that,” he said, his voice low. “She did not flee Hedingham as you suspected. She hid from you until you left. I found her when I arrived.”
Sorrell looked at him, a bushy eyebrow lifted. “Is that so?” he shrugged, the grin returning to his face. “It is of no matter, I suppose. I had no use for her at the garrison other than to warm my bed. She was a sweet little thing. Delicious.”
Weston’s heart began to pound as he took another step and ended up very close to Sorrell. His palms were sweating with the need for vengeance. He looked the man in the eye as he spoke.
“Listen to me and listen well,” he growled, his voice quaking because he was having so much difficulty reining his anger. “I married Amalie de Vere. She is my wife. She told me what you did to her, you foul bastard, and I have sworn upon my father’s grave every night since that time that when I found you, I would make you pay for every pain and every shame you heaped upon her. You are beyond vile, Sorrell; you are kin and kith to Satan himself and when I wipe you from this earth, every stroke from my blade and every pain you feel will have Amalie’s name on it. Is there anything you do not understand so far?”
By this time, Sorrell was looking at Weston with some astonishment. There was no fear in his expression, at least not yet. But there was disbelief.
“You
married
her?” he repeated, shocked. “Why would you do that? She is sister to a perverted madman. She is nothing but a whore.”
It was the wrong thing to say and Weston’s control snapped. A massive fist lashed out and grabbed Sorrell around the neck while the other fist pounded the man squarely in the face. Sorrell went toppling backwards as Weston pounced on him, using his enormous fists to pummel the man unconscious in a few short blows. But the blows had been so powerful that Sorrell face was destroyed and he was choking on his own blood and broken teeth. It was instantly a bloody, chaotic scene.
Knights and men began jostling to gain a better view of the fight as Weston picked up Sorrell’s limp body and hurled the man into the wall of the arena. He swooped upon the unconscious man and began to beat him about the head and chest with his fists, working out years of anger and anguish with every blow. When a few of Billingham’s knights saw what was happening, they leapt in to intervene and were stopped by Sutton and John. Soon, a full-scale brawl erupted with Weston, Sutton and John in the middle of it.
The field marshals began to run towards the east end of the arena as the lists erupted in cheers and cries. Everyone could see the massive battle escalating and everyone wanted a good view. This was better entertainment than the tame joust. As the entire area deteriorated and the swords began to come out, all was peaceful and still over in the competitor’s encampment as Amalie remained blissfully unaware of the mortal combat being staged in her honor.
***
“Can I get you anything, Lady Amalie?” Paget asked softly. “Some wine perhaps?”
Amalie lay upon the big bed she shared with her husband and children, gazing up at Paget’s lovely brown eyes. She smiled faintly.
“Nothing, thank you,” she sighed. “I am sorry for seeming so silly. I am newly pregnant with my third child and my constitution is not as strong as it normally is. It is very kind of you to sit with me while I rest.”
Paget smiled and pulled up a small stool. “It gives us a chance to become better acquainted,” she cast her a sidelong glance. “It also gives me the chance to learn more about Sir Sutton.”
Amalie’s smile grew. “Of course,” she said. “What would you like to know?”
Paget shrugged, tucking her silky brown hair behind an ear as she thought on her reply.
“He is devilishly handsome,” she admitted, casting Amalie a flirtatious little glance. “Surely he has other women he is interested in. He must have dozens.”
Amalie rolled onto her side, sighing faintly as she thought on Sutton. “None that I am aware of,” she replied honestly. “You would think that he indeed had women following him around, but since I have known the man, I have not seen him with one lady. All he has spoken of is you.”
Paget’s brown eyes glimmered. “All I have thought of is him,” she said softly. “May I beg you to tell me of what you know of him? What kind of man is he?”
Amalie’s green eyes were warm. “He is kind, thoughtful and considerate,” she said. “He loves to laugh. He can be quite happy when he has imbibed too much drink. And he loves my children very much; he spoils them terribly. Like his brother, he will be a wonderful father.”
Paget’s cheeks pinkened as she averted her gaze, looking to her hands and thinking on handsome Sutton de Royans. “That is good to know,” she said shyly. “He… he has led an eventful life in the service of Bolingbroke, has he not?”
Amalie was prepared to reply when the tent flap suddenly slapped back and Heath appeared holding Colton in his arms. The red-headed knight’s expression seemed rather anxious and Amalie sat up on the bed, wondering why the man was holding her son. Last she had seen, Weston had hold of Colton. Apprehension began to well in her chest.
“Heath?” she stood up from the bed and went to retrieve Colton. “Where is Weston?”
Heath didn’t want to tell her the truth, fearful of her reaction.
“He is over at the arena, Lady de Royans,” he said honestly. “He asked me to return his son to camp.”
Amalie’s apprehension was eased as she took sleepy, fussy Colton in her arms. “Thank you,” she replied. “Is it Sutton’s turn to compete yet?”
Heath looked edgy; he kept glancing out of the tent in the direction of the arena. “Nay, my lady.”
Amalie noticed his behavior and instinctively went to see what he was looking at. Heath couldn’t stop her; he couldn’t lay his hands on her to physically prevent her from looking, so all he could do was stand back as she stepped from the tent to peer off towards the arena.
Immediately, she could see great clouds of dust and the sounds of men shouting and horses braying. Her brow furrowed.
“What is happening over at the arena?” she asked.
Heath sighed faintly, so very reluctant to tell her. But he had no choice; moreover, he had to return and he didn’t want her following him out of curiosity. Perhaps if he told her the truth, she would stay away out of simple fear.
“A scuffle, my lady,” he told her hesitantly, then added: “Weston and Sorrell.”
Amalie looked at him so swiftly that her neck nearly snapped. Her green eyes were huge in her porcelain face, knowing that whatever was occurring wasn’t as simple as a scuffle. Men were fighting and more than likely dying, including Weston. She began to scream.