Chapter One
Tournament sponsored by the Earl of Hereford and Worcester
Lioncross Abbey Castle, the Welsh Marches
He saw the lance lower a split second before it hit his shield. That gave him enough time to slightly move his own lance, hitting the knight in the left arm, which, in turn, jammed it into his chest, knocking him clean off his horse.
Crash!
The crowd went mad.
Essien heard the cheers of the crowd and would have liked to acknowledge them, but the problem was that he was covered with splinters from Paris de Norville’s shattered lance and at least two of the splinters were big enough to pierce him.
He could feel them rammed into the skin of his shoulder and had at least one that came through his visor.
It hadn’t hit his eye, thank God, but it was on his face.
He could feel the blood.
He was also going to beat de Norville silly because of it.
But first, he had a moment of victory to savor, and he did.
He raised his arm, acknowledging the crowd, and they loved him for it.
They particularly loved the God of Vengeance, as Essien was known on the tournament circuit, because he’d been known to throw coins into the crowd when he won.
That always made him a favorite. But more than that, he was very handsome, with his bright smile and pale brown eyes, and women seemed to naturally be drawn to him.
He was, as his friends so kindly put it, the flame that attracted the moths.
You attract bugs, his brother once teased him.
But there were no bugs on this day, only beautiful women, stiff competition, and food and gaiety all around. As he reined his blond stallion back to the staging area beyond the lists, he could see a host of knights and squires waiting for him.
“Well done, Es,” his brother said, grasping the horse’s bridle so Essien could dismount. “You showed de Norville how it’s done.”
Essien was helped from the horse by his dearest friend other than his brother, Cassian de Velt, a knight who also happened to be competing in the tournament.
But, at the moment, Cassian was simply concerned with all the wood splinters in Essien, and he carefully turned the man around to examine him.
But he wasn’t the only one. Addax handed the horse to a pair of squires, and as they took the animal and equipment away, Addax joined Cassian in inspecting Essien’s condition.
The man looked like a pincushion with all of the wood sticking out of him.
In fact, he held his arms out, away from his sides, and grunted unhappily.
“Pick out what you can,” he said. “I have it everywhere.”
As Cassian and another knight by the name of Ashton de Royans began carefully pulling wood out of his mail and tunic, Addax went to his brother’s head and unlatched the helm.
“Careful,” Essien said. “It came through my visor. I can feel it on my face.”
Addax proceeded cautiously. He had the helm halfway off when another knight, older and seasoned, joined them. Christopher de Lohr, Earl of Hereford and Worcester, and the host of the tournament, peered closely at Essien’s head.
“God’s Bones,” he muttered, helping Addax at that point. “Where do you feel it on your face, Es?”
“Near my left eye,” Essien said, closing his eyes to protect them. “If you give the helm a shake, the shards might fall out.”
Addax did just that. With a quick shake, three pieces of wood fell onto Essien’s shoulders.
Addax popped the helm all the way off at that point, giving him and Christopher a full view of Essien’s face.
There was a small stream of blood from a cut near his eye, trailing down his left cheek, but that seemed to be it.
For the most part, he was intact and unscathed.
Luckily.
“Turn around,” Addax said, pushing his brother gently to get the man to turn a circle for him so he could look him over. “I do not see any other damage. I think you were fortunate.”
Essien ran a finger over his cheek, looking at the blood he’d scraped away. “I thought it was worse,” he said honestly. “I knew he could not unseat me, but that lance exploded in a way I’ve not seen before.”
“That is because it was made from Crack Willow.”
The voice came from behind, and they all turned to see a young knight walking up.
Sir William de Wolfe had spoken those words—a knight who had seen around twenty-seven years, but a man who had already earned himself an astonishing reputation in the north against the Scots.
He was big, powerful, cunning, and the most brilliant man at any gathering.
His intelligence was legendary. He also happened to be Paris’ best friend, and when he saw that he had Essien’s attention, he grinned.
“Crack Willow is supposed to be more flexible,” he continued, clarifying his statement. “It can bend a great deal and then snap back, and that snap can push a man off his horse. Unfortunately, in your case, it simply shattered. I came to see if you were well, Es. Were you hurt?”
Instead of being touched by the inquiry, Essien went in the opposite direction. He flared, charging at de Wolfe. “So that idiot of a man you call your friend was testing something new on me?” he said angrily. “It could have killed me!”
William wasn’t backing up. Essien was big and he was strong, but William was bigger and stronger.
“I’ve been using the same wood myself,” he said steadily, holding up his hands in surrender.
“If it works as it should, it’s lighter for a man to hold.
It makes a joust easier when one has more control over the lance. But I am very sorry it broke on you.”
Essien was on him by that point, his angry face a few inches from William’s. He didn’t swing at him or try to touch him—it seemed he mostly wanted to stare him down to get his point across.
“It shattered and a splinter flew in through my visor,” he said, pointing to the smeared stream of blood. “What if it had hit me in the eye? I would be blind right now.”
William looked at the blood, seeing the wound just along his hairline. “I’m sorry, Es, truly,” he said sincerely. “I’ve never seen a willow lance explode like that one did. Paris wasn’t deliberately trying to hurt you. You know that.”
Essien did, but he was still frustrated. With a scowl, he turned away, back to Cassian and Addax, who began helping him remove his armor and protection. William’s gaze was lingering on them when he felt a warm, strong hand on his shoulder.
“William,” Christopher said. He’d been listening to the entire conversation. “Are the marshals aware that you are using a different wood?”
William looked at the man. His father, Edward, had been a close friend and ally of Christopher de Lohr during his lifetime, so William had been raised on the stories of the valor of Christopher, the right hand of King Richard, in his younger years.
The man was like a god to him, a legend without equal.
William drew every inspiration from Christopher, from the way he had trained to the manner in which he dealt with his men.
He well remembered his father speaking about Christopher’s “quiet authority.” That was something that had left an imprint on a young boy who would grow up to be a great knight with skill and wisdom beyond his years.
And he owed everything to Christopher.
“Nay, my lord, they are not aware,” William answered honestly. “We have used the lances in practice and wanted to test one out in competition. If it was a success, we would petition to use it regularly.”
Christopher’s blue eyes glimmered with some mirth. “You could be disqualified for using a lance with an unsanctioned material,” he said. “Do you plan to use other lances like it?”
William nodded. “Aye, my lord.”
“Then tell the marshals or I will.”
The roar of the crowd suddenly caught their attention, and they turned to see that another bout was about to go off.
It was one of the semifinal rounds, the same round that Essien had just competed in against de Norville.
The start of a new game had them all momentarily distracted as they strained to catch a glimpse of who was about to compete.
“My lord, that is your son, Curtis,” William pointed out. “He’s riding against Kieran Hage.”
Christopher frowned, taking a few steps toward the lists and spying his heir’s standards on the body of a silver charger. “I thought he was going this afternoon,” he said. “And when we last spoke, he did not tell me he was going against Hage.”
There was some concern in that statement because Sir Kieran Hage was, perhaps, the strongest man in all of England.
He wasn’t the fastest, or even the most cunning, but he was as powerful as a bull and hell with a sword.
He had no equal in battle. He also happened to be William’s closest friend, along with Paris.
The three of them were sometimes called the Terrible Trio, or the Troublesome Trio, depending on what they’d done and just how badly they had behaved.
Stories of their gambling exploits were legendary, even at their young age.
But Christopher wasn’t thinking about that. Three spirited knights didn’t concern him. But his son going up against the knight known as Goliath on the tournament circuit did.
No wonder Curtis hadn’t told him.
“Christ,” he muttered. “De Wolfe, is Hage using that exploding wood for his lance, also?”
William hesitated for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “We all have them.”
Christopher whirled on him. “Then you had better stop this bout immediately and tell Hage to switch out his lance for one that is legal,” he said.
“If he makes a pass at Curtis and that thing breaks and drives wood into him, I will have you and your friends banished from every tournament from Kent to the Shetlands, and then I will take pleasure in beating each and every one of you until your backs are raw and my hands are broken. Do you hear me?”