The Fallen One (9 page)

Abechail looked contrite. “Well,” she said
reluctantly. “Some cannot.”

“That is not true. If they could not see,
they would crash into everything and kill themselves.”

Abechail simply shrugged and averted her
gaze, fussing with the sleeve of her surcoat.
 
As far as she was concerned, Rainey knew much more than anyone else,
even though Cathlina knew him to be a little boy with a big imagination.
 
She stood there a moment, watching her little
sister and thinking there was a good amount of color in her cheeks today.
Usually, Abechail was so pale that to see some color in her face was unusual
indeed.

The truth was that Abechail still wasn’t
recovered from the near-abduction two days before.
 
A sickly child even on the best of days, the
struggle had taken something out of her.
 
Rosalund had been fearful that it might render her weak for days but as
the morning came about, Abechail had been dressed before any of them.
 
She wasn’t going to allow a misadventure to
spoil her fun.
 
Besides, she spent most
of her time in bed or resting due to her terrible health.
 
She wasn’t going to miss today’s tournament
no matter how poorly she felt.

Which wasn’t too terribly, considering.
Abechail eyed her older sister, knowing that the woman was watching her closely
for any signs of collapse, so it was best to put on a strong front.
 
Taking Cathlina by the hand, she pulled her
along after their mother as the woman forged a path across the soft, green
meadow towards the crimson tents in the distance.

As the group of ladies drew close to the
collection of tents, they noticed a fair amount heavily armed soldiers
patrolling the encampment.
 
When one of
then saw the group of women approach, he went to greet them and to discover
their business.
 
No sooner had the women
come to a halt than a scream went up in the largest tent and two small blond
boys suddenly charged out.

The attention shifted from the incoming
visitors to the escaping children. It was evident that the soldiers on patrol
knew what to do, as if fleeing toddlers were the norm in their world.
  
The little boys separated; one ran one way
and one ran the other, but the soldiers in the vicinity were on to their game
and easily corralled them.
 
As angry
screaming fits ensued, a finely dressed and beautiful woman with honey-colored
hair emerged from the largest tent.

“Dylan!” she scolded. “Alex! Oh, good
heavens… you naughty boys!”

The children were fussing as the soldiers
who had captured them took them back towards the woman.
 
She took one toddler from a grinning soldier
and went to collect the second child when she caught sight of the four women at
their camp’s perimeter.
 
After some
serious squinting to try and gain a look at who they were, the woman’s face suddenly
relaxed with recognition.

“Rosalund!” she called, waving a free hand.
“Greetings!”

The soldier, realizing that his mistress
knew the women he had detained, allowed them to proceed into camp.
 
 
In
spite of the fact that the mistress had two young boys screaming unhappily in
her arms, she went quickly to meet them.

“Rosalund!” she greeted happily. “What in
the world are you doing here? Is Saer competing today?”

Rosalund and the girls curtsied to the Lady
Elizabetha Cartingdon de Lara, wife of the Earl of Carlisle. Known by the
childhood nickname of Toby, Lady de Lara was a gorgeous woman with a lush
figure and almond-shaped hazel eyes.
 
She
was also quite brilliant, administering the earl’s lands and making him quite
wealthy.
 
Everyone in the north knew of
Lady de Lara’s business savvy and how the earl depended on her.
 
It was also well known that he was madly,
deeply in love with his wife. They had a very happy marriage, indeed.

“He is not competing , my lady,” Rosalund
said. “We have come to view the spectacle. In fact, my youngest has never seen
the games.”

“Is that so?” Toby turned her attention to
Abechail, so tiny and frail. “Are you excited for your first tournament event,
my lady?”

Abechail was a shy girl, struggling not to
be in the face of Lady de Lara, whom she had met before. “Aye, my lady,” she
said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Toby smiled, a gentle gesture even though
she was still struggling with two three-year-old boys.
 
They were putting up a fierce fight.

“Good,” she said, lowering the boys to the
ground but still hanging on to their arms. “Your cousin, the earl, has chosen
to compete, so it should be very exciting.”

“Where is our lord?” Rosalund wanted to
know.

Toby tossed her head in the direction of
the tournament arena “At the field,” she replied. “You will, of course, join us
for the evening meal, will you not? I am sure my husband would like to visit
with Saer.”

“We would be honored, my lady,” Rosalund
replied. “My husband will be thrilled to see his cousin again.”

Toby opened her mouth to reply but one of
the twins threw himself down on the dirt and began screaming.
 
Toby hauled him up by his arm, smiling wanly
at the collection of women.

“It is time for their naps,” she said.
“They do not like to rest, but they need it desperately. As do I.”

“They are bright and lively boys, my lady.”

“They are devils.”

With that, she excused herself and half-dragged,
half-carried the frustrated twins back towards the large crimson tent.
  
Her departure was rather abrupt but Rosalund
understood the need to deal with unruly children; she watched the countess
carry the boys away before turning to her daughters.

“Now, ladies,” she said as she took
Abechail’s hand. “The tournament will be much more exciting now that the earl
is competing.
 
I would say it shall be a
very eventful day and now we shall have a feast to look forward to tonight.”

“Mama?” Roxane asked, smoothing her frizzy
hair as it began to burst free of the confines of the hat. “Do you suppose
there will be any knights or lords at Cousin Tate’s table?”

Rosalund glanced at her eldest. “There
might be,” she said. “You are not, perchance, thinking on Sir Kenneth again?”

Roxane stuck her nose up in the air and
looked away. “I did not say him.”

Rosalund shook her head, clucking
reproachfully as she did. “Your father has told you that he is not interested.”

Roxane went into pouting mode. “Why not?”
she demanded. “He is a seasoned knight and a favored of the king. He is Cousin
Tate’s closest friend. Why can’t Father approach him on my behalf? I am a
cousin to the Earl of Carlisle, after all. I am an excellent marriage prospect
and even though Sir Kenneth is a mere knight, I would consider him.”

Rosalund sighed heavily. “Sir Kenneth is
not interested in a marriage,” she said. “Your father already approached Cousin
Tate with the suggestion but Tate says Kenneth has many things to accomplish
for young Edward and marriage is not agreeable to him at this time.”

Roxane’s lip stuck out. “Do you think he
will be here today?”

“I do not know,” Rosalund said.
 
“If he is, then you will not follow him
around like a love-sick maid.
 
You will
behave yourself.”

Frustrated that the object of her
affections since meeting him last Christmas, Sir Kenneth St. Hèver , was
seemingly uninterested in a romantic match, Roxane turned away from her mother
and tried to pretend it didn’t bother her.
  

Cathlina watched her sister, feeling rather
sorry for her, especially since Sir Kenneth had seemed to pay much more
attention to Cathlina at the time.
 
It
had been a bitter situation and one of contention between the sisters for the
months that followed.
 
Cathlina had no
desire to repeat that particular circumstance with her sister. For their sake,
she hoped Sir Kenneth was far, far away.

Rosalund encouraged her daughters to get
moving, taking the lead as she traipsed off the way she had come and headed
towards the two smaller tents in the distance that were just starting to
lift.
 
The tents were of a non-descript
color but someone planted a pole and mounted the small crimson and blue axe banner
of Saer de Lara’s house.

As Rosalund moved past the subject of
Kenneth St. Hèver
 
and began to comment
on the feast, what they should wear, and perhaps what gifts they should bring,
Cathlina’s thoughts moved to other things as well. Mostly, she was thinking on
Mathias and hoping she could escape her family for a few minutes to go and see
him.
 
It would have to be a short visit
and she would have to outsmart Roxane in order to get away, but she was sure it
could be done.
 
She simply had to be
clever about it.

Back over their shoulders near the
tournament field, a herald trumpet sounded the first of the alerts that would
draw the competitors and spectators to the arena.
 
As Rosalund hurried her girls back to their
encampment, Cathlina was verging on a plan.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“You cannot compete,” Justus said, his
voice low. “I have just come from the tournament field; the Earl of Carlisle is
here and he is competing. He will know you on sight, Mat.”

Mathias stood on one of the smaller rooms
of their large smithy stall, dressed in heavy battle armor from head to toe. It
was mostly mail with pieces of plate over his shoulders and a fitted
breastplate that was emblazoned with the crest of Banbury.
 
It wasn’t his own beloved armor,
custom-crafted protection that had been taken from him along with his precious
broadsword on that cold January day, but it was acceptable. At least, it would
have to do for his purposes.

Sebastian was with him, fitting the pieces
left behind by de Lovern over his brother’s muscled body, but neither brother
so much as paused when Justus delivered his ominous news.
 
They kept going.

“I
can
compete and I most certainly will,” Mathias said as he fussed with the hauberk
around his face. “With Tate competing, that will make the games far more
interesting.”

Justus was quickly growing distraught.
“Have you lost your mind?” he hissed. “If the earl sees you, he will arrest us
all!”

Mathias shook his head steadily. “He will
not arrest us,” he assured his father as he finished with the hauberk. “You
worry overly.”

Justus could see that his words were
falling on deaf ears and his anxiety grew; he was already in a panic since
hearing about de Lara’s entry. Now, there was no stopping his fear.

“Why?” he pleaded as Mathias began to walk
away to collect his tournament weaponry. “Why must you do this? I do not
understand!”

Mathias picked up the first of three joust
poles that he and Sebastian had worked through the night to forge; this pole
was very well made with a rounded tip.
 
The two other poles had a tip that looked like a fist and one that had a
crow’s foot tip because it literally looked like a bird’s foot.
 

As Mathias pondered his answer, Sebastian
came over to the table with a collection of fabric in different shades of yellow.
 
As he began securing a large piece of fabric to
one of the poles, Justus began pointing furiously.

“And there is another thing,” he said.
“Where did you get the banners?”

Mathias glanced at Sebastian, who was
focused on his work. “We borrowed them.”

Justus’ eyes narrowed. “You
stole
them!”

Mathias shook his head patiently. “We
borrowed them from a few merchants,” he repeated.
 
“We shall either pay them for the goods or
return them, depending on the condition of the fabric when we are finished.”

Justus threw up his hands. “You stole the
fabric during the night because the shops were not open for business,” he said.
“You are thieves!”

Mathias took one of the strips of fabric
from his brother and began fastening it to the top of the pole. “No one ever
saw us,” he said casually. “We were ghosts.”

“Phantoms!” Sebastian piped up.

Mathias grinned at his brother. “They will
never realize it is missing.”

As the brothers jested, Justus turned away
in frustration. They weren’t taking any of this seriously and it was a deadly
serious situation; with the unanticipated addition of the Earl of Carlisle in
the tournament, the stakes were much higher than they could possibly imagine.
 
He knew Mathias was aware; he couldn’t
understand why the man wasn’t treating the situation with more concern.
 
Baffled, and reaching the apex of what he
could emotionally handle, he collapsed onto the nearest stool.

“We will all be arrested,” he muttered,
raking his fingers through his long, gray hair. “It is not fair that I should
live to see my sons perish.
 
I have done
all that I can to protect them but they will not listen.”

Mathias heard the man’s soft utterings,
casting a long glance at Sebastian before turning to his father.
 
They knew their father was worried; the truth
was that they were worried, too, but it did not deter them.

“Da,” he said softly, firmly. “Look at me;
I know you are concerned but there is truly nothing to be concerned over. If I
thought the risk was too great, I would not do it.”

Instead of looking at Mathias as he had
been asked, Justus looked away. “You are taking a terrible and reckless
chance.”

Mathias sighed faintly. “Let me tell you
why I feel this opportunity is neither terrible nor reckless,” he said. “I am
wearing armor that is not identifiable. It is in no way related to or
indicative of Mathias de Reyne.
 
The Patins
we paid handsomely for at Lanercost Abbey is flawless; I made sure of it when
the priest drew it up.
 
For all anyone
will know, I am Sir Chayson de Lovern. No one will ever see my face.
 
I will compete, I will win, and we will have
a tidy sum to do with as we please.”

Justus looked at his son as if he was daft.
“What if there are people at the tournament who know de Lovern? They will know
you are not him.”

Mathias shrugged. “I would wager to say
that he was not very well known or very well liked if no one came looking for
him after his death,” he replied. “I am unconcerned over someone recognizing de
Lovern’s name or armor. He was an obscure knight, and obscure he shall remain.”

“Not after you win this tournament using
his name.”

“Then mayhap that will allow the man some
fame in death that he never achieved in life.
 
It is the least I can do for him since I have stolen his armor and
identity.”

Mathias had an answer for everything.
 
After a moment, Justus sighed heavily and
looked away, shaking his head. “I hope this girl is worth the danger you are
putting yourself in.”

Before Mathias could reply, the young
orphaned boy that they employed to clean up and run errands appeared.
 
Stewart was a skinny child with a crown of
wild red hair that looked more like bristly hay, but he was surprisingly well
spoken and obedient.
 
He focused on
Justus.

“My lord,” he said. “A man is here to see
you.”

Justus looked at the child with
disinterest. “Tell him to go away,” he said grumpily, then quickly
reconsidered. “Who is it, lad?”

“I do not know, my lord,” the child
replied.
 
“Should I ask his name?”

Justus nodded, defeat and frustration in
his manner.
 
Then, he shook his head and
stood up, lumbering over to the doorway.
 
He opened his mouth to say something to Mathias and Sebastian but
thought better of it. They wouldn’t listen to him, anyway.
 
He put his hand on Stewart’s stiff red hair
and turned the child around as they headed out of the room.

“You would not disobey me, would you?” he
asked the boy.

The child was deadly seriously. “Nay, my
lord.”

Justus grunted, throwing one last word out
before he left the room completely. “At least someone listens to me,” he said,
trying to make his sons feel guilty. “Let it be the servant boy, then.”

With that, he was gone.
 
Mathias was in the process of affixing a
standard to the second of the three poles as Sebastian continued to work with
the third pole, the crow’s foot.
 
Sebastian
glanced at his brother as he worked, their father’s mood and words hanging
heavy in the air between them.

“Tate’s entry is a surprise,” he said. “It
is going to make this event a bit trickier.”

Mathias was focused on his work. “I have
not seen him since January last year.”

“He knows we are here, in Brampton.”

“Of course he does. He has been charged by
Edward to keep watch over us to make sure we do not do anything foolish.
 
We stay in Brampton so he can keep a watchful
eye on three dishonored knights.”

Sebastian looked at him. “If that is true,
do you think you should reconsider competing today?” he asked. “If de Lara is
not fooled by your disguise, Father’s predictions might come true – he may have
us all arrested.”

 
Mathias
shook his head. “I cannot imagine the man would arrest us all,” he said. “In
fact, I do believe he will appreciate the level of competition if I am his
opponent.”

Sebastian sighed, setting down the pole.
“We did not discuss the mêlée,” he said quietly.
 
“If you compete in that, then you will indeed
be taking up arms again.”

Mathias looked at his brother. “I will be
taking up arms in the spirit of sport, not for battle,” he said patiently.
“There is a difference.”

Sebastian wasn’t so sure but he didn’t
argue with him.
 
Mathias was always the
level-headed one, the brother with the most common sense and good
judgment.
 
Sebastian would have to assume
he was right even if he disagreed with him.
 
As he went back to work on Mathias’ host of tournament instruments,
Justus reappeared in the room.

“Mathias,” the old man gasped, his face
taut with panic. “De Lara is here. He has asked for you.”

Mathias didn’t react for a moment; he
simply stared at his father as if not quite comprehending the words. But
quickly enough, he realized what the man said and immediately began unstrapping
the plate armor around his shoulders.

“Sebastian,” he hissed. “Help me get this
off. Quickly, now.”

Fortunately, Justus had enough sense to
close the door of the chamber, the one that opened into a store room, and then
beyond the store room was the larger common room with a straw-strewn and uneven
floor where the Earl of Carlisle await.
 
Justus
rushed to help Sebastian remove Mathias’ armor and in little time, the armor
was off and the mail was in a big pile on the ground.
  

Mathias was clad in leather breeches and a
stained, worn linen tunic, which was common enough for him on a daily
basis.
 
Without another word, he pushed
past his brother and father and out into the store room where they kept various
implements related to their business.
 
As
Mathias passed through, he grabbed a leather apron, almost too well worn to be
of any true use, and secured it around his waist.
 
By the time he hit the big common room that
smelled of horses and hay, he was fully dressed as a smithy.
 
He spied de Lara immediately.

“My lord,” he greeted calmly.

Tate de Lara,
Earl of Carlisle
and Lord
Protector of Northern England,
had been inspecting a
half-finished sword tucked into a protective cage near the bellows. Upon
hearing Mathias’ voice, he swung around to face him.
 

Tate was a
very big man, muscular and tall, and
had a
face of classic male beauty with a granite jaw and full lips. His hair was dark
like a raven’s wing, shorn up the back yet long enough in the front so that it
swept across eyes the color of storm clouds.
  
When he spied Mathias, those stormy eyes lightened considerably.
 

“Mat,” he
said, moving towards him with a hand outstretched. “
You have not changed since the last I saw you. You are as big
and ugly as ever.”

Mathias
cracked a grin; he was slightly taller than Tate, with broader shoulders, but
the two of them could have easily been brothers with their dark hair and
masculine features.
 
Seeing Tate for the
first time since he had been stripped of his knighthood was something of a
shock, Mathias soon realized. He hadn’t thought about how much he had missed
the man until this moment.
 
He missed him
greatly.

“If I insult
you in return, it might mean trouble for me,” he said, his eyes glimmering.
“But I will say that I am very happy to see you, my lord. It has been a long
time.”

Tate just
stood there, holding his hand and smiling at him as he reacquainted himself
with the man’s face, when a knight of enormous proportions entered the
stall.
 
Mathias looked over to see
Kenneth St. Hèver enter the chamber.
 

Very blond,
with ice-blue eyes and a square, determined jaw, he may have been slightly shorter
than Tate or Mathias but he was purely hard, bulky muscle with enormous
hands.
 
No man survived long in a fight
against St. Hèver
 
simply because he was
so bloody strong.
 
He was a knight’
knight, a warrior all men aspire to be but seldom are.
 
He also happened to be one of Mathias’
closest friends.
  
Kenneth took one look
at Mathias and headed straight for him.

Even Tate was
surprised by the amount of emotion from the usually-emotionless St. Hèver as
the man threw his arms around Mathias and nearly squeezed him to death.
 
Mathias actually grunted as he squeezed
Kenneth in return, but as quickly as the two came together, they also
separated. St. Hèver was embarrassed by his emotional display.