To the Lady Born (29 page)

“Esma!” she cried.  “Esma, come and take Colton!”

The tubby servant had been in one of the smaller tents and came bursting forth at the panicked sound of her mistress.  Amalie was already running towards her, depositing the fussing boy into her arms before turning on her heel and gathering her skirts.  By this time, Paget had emerged from the large tent at the sounds of anxiety, her brown eyes wide with fear.

“Lady Amalie?” she asked, concerned. “What seems to be the…?”

Amalie couldn’t even answer her; she was already off running with Heath behind her.  Paget, not wanting to be left behind, took off running as well.  

Amalie tore across the encampment, her brilliant blue surcoat hiked up around her knees as she raced like the wind towards the east side of the arena. Her heart was in her throat as she approached, terrified that Weston was in trouble. After Weston’s declaration yesterday about killing Sorrell, she had little doubt that he meant what he said.  She only prayed that, in his assault on Sorrell, the result wasn’t a different one than Weston intended. 

As she drew close, she could see that a big brawl was taking place with swords and fists. Men she didn’t know and had never seen were doing battle as she charged into the maelstrom, ignoring the shouts of Heath as he tried to stop her.  All she could think of was finding Weston in this bloody, dusty mess of men and weapons and she slugged through, getting bumped around as she screamed Weston’s name.  

Dust flew up in her face and she began to shove back as men scuffled around her. One man almost bowled her over and she kicked him squarely in the arse, sending him off balance and away from her. But she spied Sutton in a fist-fight with a big knight and she screamed at him, catching his attention and watching as he was clobbered in the mouth.  But Sutton came back strong and brained the man, sending him crashing to the ground.  Swiftly, he went to Amalie.

He put his big arms around her to protect her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, blood trickling from his mouth. “We must remove you from this battle.”

Amalie dug in her heels. “I am not going anywhere until I find my husband,” she declared. “Where is he?”

Sutton truly had no idea; he looked around, a tall man with a good view of the crowd, and spied his brother’s cropped blond head in the midst of clashing men over by the arena entry gates. 

“He is over by the gates,” he told her. “But he will murder me if I do not remove you from this fighting. Please let me …”

She yanked away from him, heading in the direction he had indicated. “If you will not take me to him, I will find him myself.”

Sutton caught up with her and surrounded her with his big arms once more. “Nay, Ammy,” he summoned the courage to deny her. “For your own safety, you must leave this mess. Weston can handle himself.”

Terrified and upset, Amalie thrust a fist into Sutton’s neck, causing him to momentarily release his hold on her.  Grabbing her now-filthy skirts from all of the dust, she bolted in the direction of the west entrance to the field, screaming Weston’s name.  It wasn’t long before she received a bellowed response.

Amalie thrust herself between a pair of knights and ran head-long into her husband.  Weston had been heading in the direction of her cries and nearly ran her down. Horrified, he wrapped his enormous arms around her and held her tightly against him, pulling her away from clashing swords nearby.  Amalie wrapped her arms around his neck tightly and he ended up picking her up, keeping her well off the ground and clutched tight against his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he half-demanded, half-pleaded. “Are you well? You are not hurt, are you?”

She shook her head verging on tears. “Nay,” she breathed, her head against his. “But Lady Paget and Heath came with me. They are over there, somewhere. We must find Paget…”

She trailed off breathlessly, jabbing a finger off towards the encampment.  With his wife still clutched up against his chest, Weston charged off.

“Sutton!” he roared. “To me!”

Sutton was already there; he hadn’t been far behind Amalie. “What is…?” he began.

Weston cut him off. “Your Lady Paget is somewhere in this mess,” he growled. “Find her before someone hurts her.  Find Heath; she may be with him.”

Startled, Sutton began throwing men out of the way in his quest to find Paget.  More than anything, the fact that she was rumored to be with Heath upset him greatly and his anger was roused. Weston closed in behind him, following the path blazed by his brother with the intention of removing his wife from the fighting. 

Because Weston had been one of the original combatants, the field marshals were following him, ordering men to cease fighting in the process.  It was mad and chaotic by the time Weston and Amalie reached the edge of the roiling crowd.

When there were no more combatants within close range, Weston carefully set Amalie on her feet.  Just as he did so, Heath and Paget approached from several yards away.  Paget saw Amalie in her husband’s arms and rushed to her.

“My lady?” she grasped Amalie’s arm. “Are you well?”

Amalie nodded, clutching Paget’s hand.  The two of them held on to each other tightly. “I am well,” she replied. “But, more importantly, my husband is well.”

Paget turned her great brown eyes to Weston and the man could see, in that moment, why she had his brother so smitten. It was the first time he had seen her at close range and she was a beautiful little thing.  But his attention was focused on his wife.

“What madness is this that you would go charging into a group of fighting men?” he was suddenly very angry at his wife now that he had taken her to safety. “Have you lost your mind?”

Instead of bursting into tears, Amalie remained calm in the face of his fury. “I have not lost my mind,” she replied steadily. “Where is Sorrell? Did you kill him?”

Weston’s fury quickly abated.  “He is alive,” he said after a moment. “Why did you not come to the entrance to the field as you said you would? Did Sorrell chase you away? He said he saw you.”

Amalie let go of Paget and pressed her hands into his big glove. He held her hands, tightly.

“He did not chase me away,” she said softly. “But I did see him.  It upset me.”

Weston was sure that was an understatement and he kissed her gently on the forehead, pulling her in to a comforting embrace.  At the moment, he could only feel extreme relief that Amalie was safe and that his vengeance against Sorrell, for the moment, was sated.  But only for the moment.

“Everything will be well, my angel,” he murmured. “Did Colton make it back to camp?”

She nodded, lifting her head to find Heath standing a few feet away. “Heath returned him safely,” her gaze moved to Paget, standing next to her. “And I do not believe you have met the Lady Paget Clifford. She kept me company until Heath and Colton appeared. Lady Paget, this is my husband, Weston.”

Paget smiled her dimpled smile at Weston but her gaze was clearly drawn to Sutton, standing to the right of Weston.

“’Tis an honor to meet you, Baron Cononley,” she said, her eyes riveted to Sutton. “Sir Sutton, you appear as if you have some injury to your mouth.”

Sutton was gazing at her, dreamily, but snapped out of his trance when he realized that something must be amiss on his face.  He swiped a finger over his chin and came away with some blood.   He smiled weakly.

“It is nothing,” he assured her. “But I thank you for your concern.”

Paget’s pretty smile grew. “I should be happy to tend your wound if needed.”

Sutton just stared at her, dumbfounded, as Weston cleared his throat loudly and elbowed his daft brother in the ribs.

“That would be a good idea, Sutton,” he said. “Take Lady Paget back to our encampment and let her tend your lip. You have a bout coming up soon, so do not take too long.”

Sutton abruptly realized the golden opportunity his brother was suggesting and, with a grin, extended his hand to Paget. She took it happily and he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, leading her away towards the competitor’s encampment.  But he made sure to make a snarling face at Heath as he passed by the man, as if to mark his territory, and Heath looked properly contrite.  Pretty though she might be, he knew Lady Paget was out of his league.

Weston and Amalie watched Sutton and Paget walk away with some amusement until two of the field marshals abruptly converged on Weston.

“Baron Cononley,” a man with bad skin and yellow teeth spoke. “Were you attacked, my lord? Surely this trouble was caused when you defended yourself.”

The smile vanished from Weston’s face as he turned to the officials. “I was not attacked,” he replied frankly. “I was seeking vengeance against a man who brutally attacked my wife.  It is my right and my due. You will not interfere.”

The officials looked somewhat taken aback by his response. By now, the brawl was dissipating and men were clearing the area and moving on to the business at hand.  Fights like this were not uncommon in great gatherings such as this, especially since feuding factions often appeared at the same event. 

As the dust settled and men cleared, the marshals whispered to each other before facing Weston again.

“We will not involve ourselves in personal matters of honor, my lord,” the lead marshal said. “But we would like assurance that this will not happen again.”

Weston snorted rudely. “I will give you no such assurance.”

“Then perhaps you will give it to me.”

A big knight in pristine armor approached.  He was taller than anyone there, a towering man with brilliant blue eyes and dark hair.  Amalie was uncertain and apprehensive of the knight until she glanced up at her husband to see that there was warmth in his expression.  Weston, in fact, smiled.

“Le Bec,” he rolled the name off his tongue. “It has been ages since I last saw you.”

Sir Richmond le Bec returned Weston’s smile; he was a very handsome man, rather young, but exuding the agelessness of one with great experience and power. He held out a hand and Weston took it amiably.

“And the last time I saw you, I believe it was in a situation much like this one,” le Bec replied, releasing Weston’s hand. “Do you never stop fighting, de Royans, or is this a favorite past time?”

Weston laughed softly. “It is not,” he assured him, his smile fading. “This was a matter of honor. I had no choice.”

Le Bec held his gaze for a moment before wriggling his eyebrows. “Sorrell is one of my men,” he said. “You have put me in an awkward position.”

Weston hardened. “I am not sure why,” he said quietly. “You do not serve Billingham.”

Le Bec shook his head. “I do not, but Henry has stationed me at with Billingham for the time being. He has asked me to keep an eye on the border barons with the turmoil currently going on right now.”

Weston understood; both he and Le Bec had been commanders for Bolingbroke, serving where Henry sent them as evidenced by Weston going to Hedingham those years ago.  Richmond le Bec was a friend of Weston’s and a fine knight. But Weston would not back down, not in this matter.

“I am well aware of your position, considering I was stationed at Hedingham for the same purpose,” he replied. “However, the business between Sorrell and myself is personal and I ask that you respect that.”

Above their heads, the peal of horns could be heard as the field was prepared for another joust match.  All of the men that had been brawling, for the most part, had returned to their various groups and camps, leaving very few men still standing at the west entrance to the field.  Even the lists had filled up again with eager fans, waiting for the next joust between Sir Simon Wellesbourne of Warwickshire and Sir Nicholas de Wolfe of Northwood Castle. As the noise of the games resuming filled the air, Richmond turned his attention to Weston.

“If you ask it, I shall respect it,” he said. “But try not to involve half of England in your battles, West.”

“Keep Sorrell as far away from me as you can and there will be no more battles.”

Richmond nodded faintly, his blue gaze moving between Weston and Amalie, still clutched against her husband’s torso, before departing in the direction of the arena. 

Amalie and Weston watched him go, realizing he was heading to a group of men clustered near the arena wall by the entrance.  It took Amalie a moment to realize that the men were clustered around a limp body that they were trying to lift off the ground.  She could see as they raised him to his feet that the injured man was Sorrell.

She gasped when she saw his face; he was covered in blood, barely recognizable.  Weston heard her gasp and realized what she was looking at.  As he put himself between the bloody vision of Sorrell and his wife with the intention of returning her to the encampment, guttural and loud shouting could be heard behind them.  Both Weston and Amalie turned to see Sorrell staggering towards them.

“De Royans!” he was weaving unsteadily, beaten senseless by Weston’s big fists. “I will meet you in this arena and gore you with my pole, do you hear me? And when you are rotting in hell, I will send your wife there also. I will take every last pleasure with her first before I….”

Le Bec slapped a hand over Sorrell’s bleeding mouth, grabbing the man and turning him away from Weston and his wife.

“Are you truly so stupid, man?” le Bec snarled. “Shut your mouth and live.”