Mary Gillgannon (4 page)

Will groaned. “You’re hopeless, Reivers. The next thing I know you’ll be asking for a skin of wine to kill the pain. Get some rest. You have a tournament tomorrow.”

* * *

Richard frowned as he rolled out of the sagging bed. His hand was sore and throbbing. He pulled off the ragged bandage and stared at the wound. It was clean, no festering. Still, it hurt. The thought of clutching a heavy lance made him wince.

He shrugged his shoulders to ease his morning stiffness and tried to banish his doubts as well. He needed to win this tournament, and he had no intention of letting a sore hand interfere with his plan. He’d fought with much worse injuries before, and this time he was competing for something he’d dreamed of all his life. Land of his very own.

A thrill went through him as he considered the rich hill country around Tudbury. Already he could envision it: his own small but formidable fortress and surrounding it, ripening fields gleaming golden in the sun, sheep grazing peacefully in the meadows, with cattle down by the river. In the fall, the produce of his prosperous lands would fill up a dozen sturdy carts and be taken to market. There it would be changed into gold, and the gold used to buy exquisite things to fill his hall.

Richard sighed. He had dreamed of possessing his own demesne for so long. It would make up for everything: the danger and wretchedness of soldiering, the galling years of deferring to vain, stupid noblemen who considered themselves superior to him, even his lonely, fatherless youth.

He clenched his hand tightly and ignored the burning pain of the knife wound. He would not fail now—not when he was so very close.

The tournament ground was already busy when Richard arrived. Peddlers and farmers were setting up carts and booths. In a few hours they would be offering joints of beef, meat pasties, sausages, and pails of ale, milk and water to the hordes of spectators. At one end of the long oval field, knights, squires and horses gathered near the brightly-colored pavilions, while along one side, workers put the final touches on the canopied enclosure where the nobility would sit. Richard glanced scornfully at the rows of wooden seats covered in gold and purple cloth. Faucomberg would likely watch the tournament from there, a velvet cushion under his bony, worthless arse. And he had the nerve to call Will a coward!

Richard made his way to a pavilion marked by a banner of deep crimson embroidered with a gold dragon. He would fight under the banner of Deaumont as he always had. It seemed the least he could do for the family who had given him a chance at knighthood.

Inside the pavilion, his squire was rubbing down his huge warhorse, Sultan. The youth smiled at him, showing the slight gap between his front teeth.

“Splendid day for a tournament, sire.”

Richard nodded. Absurd as it seemed, he was nervous. He was never nervous in battle, and he could not fathom why he felt so skittish now. Perhaps it was because this tournament meant so much to him.

He approached a pile of armor and weaponry near the tent entrance and pulled out the huge lance he would begin the joust with. It was much longer than he was tall and formidably heavy. He hefted it in his right hand, ignoring the pain the motion caused. It would be better with gloves. Besides, it didn’t matter; pain or no pain, he would win.

W
ill stood by the edge of the field, a few paces from the covered seating area. He wanted to be close to the combatants—to feel the dust, to smell the sweat and blood. He wanted to be right there when Richard won. He used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow. It was hot out under the merciless sun. For now, it was peaceful too. He could hear plovers and blackbirds calling from the edge of the fields. Flies buzzed around the piles of horse dung near the pavilions.

The harsh blast of trumpets sounded, and Will’s tranquil mood evaporated. As the nobility took their seats in the stands, gaily-decked pages marched onto the field carrying huge canvases depicting biblical scenes: Samson bringing down the temple, Daniel in the lions’ den, the serpent entering the Garden of Eden. The knights followed, resplendent on their massive warhorses. Beside them, squires carried the banners of the royal houses: lions, dragons, serpents and stags cavorting on streaming pennants of green, gold and scarlet silk.

The procession circled the field and slowed as they reached the royal seats. Will caught a glimpse of Richard. His face wore a calm, almost languorous expression, and he looked as if he were going for a ride in the woods instead of preparing for deadly combat. Will could not help marveling how Richard always managed that carefree, nonchalant look, no matter what horrors lay ahead of him. Richard’s hair shimmered blue black, and his armor winked and glimmered in the sunlight. On the brilliantly caparisoned black charger, he looked like an anointed prince. He easily outshone all the wealthy nobles who were gathered to watch him.

As Richard passed the stands, a young woman in a brilliant gown of gold cloth called out to him. Smiling, he guided his horse close to the wooden rail and reached out for the glittering veil she offered. He tied the piece of gold cloth around his upper arm, and a titter went through the crowd. Richard’s armor was already adorned with the favors of half a dozen other ladies who had made him their champion. The thought of Richard seeking kisses and other boons from all those women brought a grin to Will’s face. It would be just like his friend to survive the tournament and get himself murdered by a jealous husband afterwards!

The knights circled around to the end of the field, and another bray of the trumpets announced the first match.

Hours later, Will shifted his weight from one leg to the other and rubbed his bleary, dust-sore eyes. The tournament field was now rough and offal strewn, and in places the ground was stained black with blood. The earlier matches had been brief, lackluster affairs. The crowd had been roused to excitement only when blood was spilled or an injured combatant was carried from the field. Now they were impatiently waiting for the final contest: the Black Leopard facing William Fitz Geoffrey, whose symbol was a silver griffin.

Will stiffened as the two men entered the field. Fitz Geoffrey rode an enormous bay stallion bedecked in blue satin trimmed with silver. Even from a distance, it was obvious he was larger than Richard, his reach much greater. Will felt a cramp of fear deep in his belly. Richard was a formidable warrior, a superb fighter, but against this giant of a man, what chance would he have?

The two men met solemnly in the center of the field, then moved to the ends. The tension of the crowd mounted. Will glanced to the stands and saw that many of the ladies were on their feet, calling out encouragement to their favorite. The crowd was all for Richard, shouting “the Leopard, the Leopard” and waving blood-colored cloths.

Will shook his head. Leave it to Richard to capture the people’s hearts. For all that he was a penniless, untitled knight, he charmed them all, noble and commoner alike.

Darley, Earl of Wickingham, leaned out of the stands and dropped a purple cloth. The two knights spurred their warhorses and the immense creatures took off, gaining terrifying speed as they neared the center of the field. Will felt his body go rigid as he waited for the impact. At the last moment, both knights shifted their weight, and their horses passed within inches of each other. Again the knights retreated to the ends of the field. Again they charged. This time, Richard struck a glancing blow at Fitz Geoffrey as they passed. The huge knight faltered but managed to keep his seat.

The two warriors retreated and caught their breaths, then charged a third time. The tournament field grew eerily silent as the knights approached each other, the only sound the pounding of the horses’ hooves. Their lances struck with a thunderous clash that tore both men from their horses. They landed cleanly, free of their horses and the flying lances.

Encased in their heavy armor, neither of the men was able to rise very quickly. They appeared stunned, and both swayed slightly as they found their legs. It looked to Will as if Fitz Geoffrey was limping. He prayed it was true.

The two men took their swords and shields from their squires and then moved slowly towards each other. Their movements were sluggish, ungraceful. They circled each other with a cumbersome, awkward rhythm, while Will clenched his fists in anxiety. On foot, the towering Fitz Geoffrey had the advantage. His reach was longer, and he was likely stronger as well. Richard’s success on the battlefield and tournament field had always depended upon his blazing quickness and unerring instinct for guessing his opponent’s next move. If he was as winded and befuddled as he looked, he would be easy prey for the bigger man.

The crowd grew restless as the two men circled and slashed. They managed to do little more than dent each other’s mail. The mob wanted blood and battle fury, and they began to shout insults at the two beleaguered champions. Richard responded first. He shook off his muddle-headedness and went after Fitz Geoffrey with the ferocity that had earned him his battle epithet. Fitz Geoffrey parried Richard’s sword thrust with his shield. The crowd erupted with catcalls and hisses.

Richard lunged, and again Fitz Geoffrey met his blow, this time with his sword. The impact seemed to jar Richard, and his sword wobbled in his hand. His opponent reacted quickly, bringing his weapon down on Richard’s shoulder while he was off balance. Richard staggered and slipped to his knees; his sword crashed to the ground. Fitz Geoffrey dropped his own sword and pulled his misericord from his belt. He moved warily towards Richard.

Richard was not ready to concede defeat. He struggled to rise, his hand on his own dagger. The crowd held its breath. Richard made it to his feet and drove forward, his dagger aimed for the lower part of Fitz Geoffrey’s face, the few inches his helmet didn’t cover. The blow fell short, deflected by the heavy mail protecting his neck. Richard faltered backwards, and only then did the crowd see that Fitz Geoffrey’s dagger had caught him in the leg. Bright blood spurted from the wound.

Fitz Geoffrey turned to the stands where the nobility sat and raised his dagger triumphantly. Silence reigned over the tourney field for a moment, then cheers of “Fitz Geoffrey, Fitz Geoffrey, the Griffin, the Griffin,” rang out.

Richard had fallen backwards on the grass. He lay there, apparently unconscious, while Fitz Geoffrey mounted his warhorse and rode toward the stands. Will hesitated a moment and then rushed onto the tourney field, hurrying toward the prone body of his friend.

Richard’s squire reached his master first, and by the time Will arrived, Richard had wrenched himself to a sitting position and pulled off his helmet. He was cursing and threatening the boy with his dagger.

“Get away from me, Nicholas. I’m not hurt so badly I cannot run you through!”

“Sir Richard, please! If only you will let me help you to the tent.”

“Have I not made myself clear!” Richard snarled. “Get away!”

Reluctantly, his shoulders slumping and his eyes morose, the squire left. Will took a step forward.

For a second the two men’s eyes met, then Will turned away. There was such bitterness in his friend’s eyes. It made his blood run chill to see it. He feared Richard blamed him for the loss of the tournament. Indeed, he blamed himself. If Richard’s hand had not been wounded, he might have fared better. As it was, it had been very close. Richard had fought the more valiant fight, although Fitz Geoffrey had been declared the winner.

Will walked from the field, feeling leaden, miserable. He would give Richard time to let his temper cool and then make sure his wounds were properly treated.

On the way out of the tournament grounds, he chanced to see Guy Faucomberg. Will gave the man such a menacing, murderous look, Faucomberg stepped backwards and, for once, said nothing.

* * *

Will searched first one tavern and then another, his eyes rapidly scanning the crowded, filthy tables. Sodden men with dull, bloodshot-eyes looked up at him and regarded him with curiosity. He paid them no heed, intent on finding Richard. The Leopard had left the tournament field bleeding and furious, and Will guessed he now drowned his sorrows in some sordid aleshop. Recalling the blood he had seen seeping through Richard’s mail, he shuddered. His friend might be bleeding to death and not seek help before it was too late.

Almost empty of hope, he returned to the inn where they had their lodging. Relief flooded him when he saw the familiar dark head and massive shoulders slumped over a table in the corner. He rushed to his friend and shook him. Richard’s head hung forward limply. His face was startlingly pale in the dim rushlight. Will gasped as he saw a puddle of congealed blood on the table. A few inches away, Richard’s purse lay open and half-empty.

The serving wench approached. Will grabbed her and shook her until her teeth rattled.

“What the hell did you do to him?” he snarled. “Rob him and then leave him to bleed to death?”

“Oh, no, my lord,” the girl whimpered, her brown eyes huge in her pale face. “I tried to help him, truly I did, but he was having none of it.” She swallowed hard, her slender white throat quivering. “After I brought him the wine, he threw the money on the table and began to rage like a madman. He called me vile names—’whore’ and ‘witch’ were the least of them. After that, I left him alone. I was just now going to see if he be all right.”

“What about the money? Where’s the rest of it?”

Trembling, the woman pointed toward the floor where Will could see silver pennies glittering in the filthy sawdust.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He lifted her small, pointed chin with his fingers. “Will you help me?” he asked softly. “He needs a bath and some stitching up.”

The girl looked up at Will’s fine, aristocratic features and smiled nervously. “Of course, my lord,” she whispered. “Anything you ask, my lord.”

Will and two other men dragged Richard up the stairs, leaving a sickening trail of blood behind them. As they heaved Richard onto the bed, Will got a good glimpse of his friend’s gray and drawn-looking face. His heart went cold with dread. Richard couldn’t die now—not after all they had been through. He couldn’t be killed in some damn tournament!

The serving wench ordered an old battered wooden tub brought up and placed before the fire, then filled with heated water. The two of them wrestled Richard’s clothes and armor off—the heavy boots and greaves, the massive hauberk, then his hose and the padded gambeson. They dragged him over to the tub and heaved him in. Richard stirred and mumbled but didn’t rouse.

“Wash him,” Will said harshly. The girl began to bathe Richard hesitantly. Will heard her intake of breath as she reached the ragged wound on his upper arm.

“It’s deep,” she gasped. “And it still bleeds.”

“Can you wield a needle?”

The wench’s eyes widened. “You mean me to sew him up?”

“If you can. I know no surgeons in these parts, and I’ve heard a good seamstress does almost as well.”

The girl bit her lip. “It may scar.”

“I don’t give a damn if it scars, as long as his arm works when you’re done.”

The girl sighed. “He’s so handsome, his skin so smooth.”

Will glared at her. It might be a good thing if she was besotted with Richard’s looks and had a care in mending him. Still, right now it irritated him.

“There’s another wound on his thigh,” she murmured.

“That one, too. Can you do it?”

“Aye,” she whispered. “Let me finish washing him, and I’ll get my needle.”

She seemed to take a long time bathing him. Will turned away, gritting his teeth in aggravation. It would be a fine thing if Richard bled to death because the wench enjoyed stroking his smooth skin!

Finally she was done. They managed to drag him out of the tub—spilling at least half the water on the floor—then get him on the bed. While the girl went for her needle and some silk, Will covered Richard with blankets and sat staring at his friend’s still, ashen face. He couldn’t help wondering again if the wound on his hand had been a factor in Richard losing the tournament. The thought filled him with anguish.

The girl was back. As soon as she approached Richard, Will got up and took the needle from her. While she watched him with surprise, he took one of the rushes from the floor, lit it and waved the needle through the flame.

“Why did you do that?”

Will shrugged. “I’ve heard it helps keep the wound from festering.”

The girl nodded and then pulled the covers back. Blood still seeped from the two wounds, and Richard’s normally tan skin was bleached and grayish. The girl took a seat on the bed and began to sew. Her pink tongue peeked out of her mouth as she concentrated. Will went to the table and took a gulp of wine from the wineskin Richard had purchased before he collapsed. It was thin, sour stuff; he poured the rest of it into the fire and went back to the girl.

She seemed to be doing a good job. The stitches were straight and neat. He thought again that it might be fortunate she admired Richard’s body. She would not mar him if she could help it.

When she was done, Will stood up. “I have to see to some business for my friend, or all this will be even more of a waste. Will you stay with him?”

The girl hesitated. He tossed her the rest of the coins. “Watch him. If he wakes, get him more wine—some decent stuff this time.”