Chapter Three
De Whinfell had some friends.
As dawn broke over the tournament field and the first knights lined up against each other to the roar of the enthusiastic crowd, the very first pass was a violent one as a de Whinfell ally ended up nearly breaking the neck of his opponent.
He was disqualified as his opponent was carried off the field and the knight protested, loudly, for a half-hour before the field marshals made him leave.
But that brutal first pass set the tone for the rest of the day.
There were men out for blood and, unfortunately, they found it.
Ronan had seen it all unfold before him like some horrific nightmare.
Dyce had been the third round that morning, after two brutal bouts, and tensions were on the rise.
Ronan and Titus had tried to convince Dyce to withdraw but when he wouldn’t do it, they counseled him on the best way to face his opponent, who was a de la Londe knight.
Everyone knew de la Londe knights were some of the most brutal in England, a house descended from mercenaries and favored by King John those many years ago.
They had wealth and property, but they were a house that men stayed away from.
Yesterday, the de la Londe knight had used an illegal move to brutally unseat his opponent.
He’d been disqualified but lodged a protest that went on well into the night.
The head field marshal finally acquiesced and now Dyce had to face that nightmare.
But no amount of pleading could convince him to withdraw.
Not even the mention of his wife, who was sitting in the stands.
Ronan had used Isabeth as a last resort, but Dyce was convinced he would make her proud.
She had come to see her husband compete and he was going to give her that honor, convinced that Ronan’s concerns were for naught.
After that, there wasn’t much more to say until his very first pass found him impaled on an illegal spear-tipped joust pole that had gone into his chest and out through his back.
The crowd, cheering wildly in excitement, gasped in collective horror at the sight.
Ronan remembered running onto the arena floor along with Titus and several other men as Edward, Axel, and Christian attacked the de La Londe knight.
As they pulled the offending knight off his horse and began to beat him severely, Ronan and Titus dropped to their knees beside Dyce, who was still alive.
Titus pulled off his helm as Ronan steadied him because he was laying awkwardly.
The tip of the joust pole had broken off when he’d fallen, so he had a four-foot piece of wood and steel protruding from his body in both the front and back of his torso.
Ronan would never forget the look of surprise on Dyce’s face when the man’s helm came off.
“Steady, Dyce,” Ronan said evenly. “We’ll get you moved to your tent and the physic can remove this thing, but steady on, lad.”
Dyce looked at him with unnaturally bright eyes within his pale face. “Is it bad?”
“Nay,” Ronan lied, forcing a smile. “It only looks bad. You’ll be as good as new soon.”
Dyce coughed, spraying blood all over himself and onto Ronan, indicative of the fact that the wound was, indeed, bad. The lance had done enormous and irreparable damage and they all knew it.
Even Dyce.
“You never were a good liar,” he said thickly because of all of the blood in his mouth. “You tried to warn me, Ronan. I know you did and I would not listen. You must not blame yourself for this.”
He reached out, grabbing Ronan’s hand and holding it tightly, as if afraid to let go.
Over to their right, Edward and Axel and Christian had beaten the de la Londe knight unconscious but the knight’s men had taken exception to that and a big brawl was going on.
The field marshals were trying to contain the chaos as de Wolfe soldiers emerged onto the field, preparing to side with their knights.
Half went to the brawl, half to Ronan and Titus as they knelt beside Dyce.
They were there to help but also to shield the dying knight from the crowd, who were on their feet.
Women were weeping, men were pale, and through all of it, Ronan held Dyce’s hands tightly.
But his heart was breaking.
“The only person to blame for this is lying in a heap thanks to Eddie and Axel,” Ronan said after a moment, a lump in his throat. “He played one of his dirty tricks on you.”
Dyce nodded, closing his eyes and groaning because his body had shifted and the pain was overwhelming. “Dirty,” he muttered. “Dirty, indeed. It happened so fast.”
“I know.”
“I did not even get my lance into position.”
“He did not give you time.”
“Will he be punished?”
“Aye,” Ronan said simply, watching Dyce’s eyes roll around in his head. He knew time was very limited and the loss, the grief, was eating at him already. “Dyce, is there anything you need? Anything you want? Tell me what you want me to do for you and I shall do it.”
Dyce’s eyes opened again and he flashed his teeth, now bloodied from all of the blood he was coughing up. “There is only one thing you can do for me,” he rasped. “My wife, Ronan. You must promise to take care of Isabeth.”
Ronan’s brow rippled in confusion. “Take care of her?”
“Please, Ronan.”
“But surely she will want to return to her family. I shall afford her a full de Wolfe escort and…”
“Nay,” Dyce said, tugging on his hand and interrupting him. “She has no family. I am her family. When I am gone, she will be all alone and my son… please, Ronan… tell my son about me. Tell him how much I loved him though I’d not yet met him.”
That lump in Ronan’s throat was growing larger. He managed to nod, unable to speak, when he noticed pale blue fabric next to him. He turned to see the very subject of their conversation kneeling in the dirt next to her husband.
Isabeth.
The woman had come out of the stands and Ronan never even heard her. Quiet, composed, but eyes that were strained with grief, she was the model of grace as she bent over and placed a gentle hand against her husband’s forehead.
“Be at ease, Dyce,” she said softly. “I am here. I will not leave you.”
Dyce gazed up at Isabeth, the same loving expression on his face that he’d always had when he looked at her. “My love,” he murmured, blood dripping from his lips. “I do not want to leave you.”
Isabeth forced a smile, her hand stroking his forehead. “Do not speak so,” she said. “Let Ronan’s men take you back to our tent. I will tend you.”
“Nay,” he said shortly, spraying more blood. “You must not exert yourself.”
“Nonsense,” Isabeth said, looking to Ronan. “Take him back to our tent so the pole may be removed.”
Ronan looked at the woman. No hysterics, no tears. Simply quiet determination. Her world was crumbling and she was displaying grace and dignity in the face of such turmoil. It was incredibly impressive at such a difficult time and he admired her greatly for her control.
But her request was unrealistic.
“It is better not to move him, my lady,” he said quietly. “It will cause him great pain.”
Her mouth worked as if she wanted to argue with him, but she thought better of it.
Ronan could see that she knew her husband was as good as dead, just as they all did.
She was simply being positive for Dyce’s sake.
Or perhaps for her own. In any case, Dyce weakly grasped her arm and brought her hand to his lips, leaving bloodied lip prints as he kissed her.
“I love you,” he muttered, visibly weaker. “Ronan has promised to look out for you. Obey him as you would me, Beth. He will take care of you now. He is your master.”
Isabeth looked at Ronan in shock, who gazed back at her with a great deal of reluctance.
It was all over his face as she stared at him, seeing his reluctance but unwilling to verbalize it.
The man had just been given a burden that no man should have to accept, something a lesser man would have denied or passed off to another. But not Ronan.
Like it or not, he was accepting that burden.
A pregnant widow.
“As you wish,” she said, her eyes still riveted to Ronan until she managed to tear them away. “Until you are better, I shall do as he wishes.”
Dyce squeezed her hand, as much as he was able now that the life was nearly out of him. “Forever,” he muttered. “Obey him forever. Listen to him. Our son… Ronan will be good to him. I trust him.. with… your life… I…”
He sagged after that, dropping his hand. His eyes closed and as the others watched in horror and grief, he took two or three unsteady breaths before finally falling still.
Sir Dyce de Brito was no more.
Fighting off tears, Ronan stood up, jaw flexing with emotion as he watched Isabeth fold herself over her husband’s head and weep softly. His blood stained her pale blue dress as she wrapped her arms around his lifeless body, cradling it gently.
It was the saddest thing Ronan had ever witnessed.
And that infuriated him.
A man’s life had just ended and the world was still going on around them. Nothing had come to a halt when Dyce’s life had stopped. Everything was going on, moving on…
It was an insult.
An insult to Dyce.
The brawl was still happening and Ronan saw a release for that rage.
He plunged into the fray, delivering devastating blows with just one punch.
With his maternal grandfather’s powerful size, and Kieran Hage had once been the strongest man in the north, no one wanted what Ronan was dishing out.
It was less than a minute after plowing into the brawl that men began to disengage.
De la Londe men were scattering, leaving the de Wolfe soldiers winded and Edward, Axel, Christian, and Ronan ready to take on half of England.
They’d lost a friend and those responsible were going to pay.