Chapter 3 #3
She recognized a few guests from the brief introductions she’d received during the wedding feast yesterday.
Lady Mandeville sat at one end of the pavilion.
She was surrounded by her ladies, all in varying hues of pink, while she herself was swathed in what seemed to be yards of heavy crimson fabric.
Only the force of a breeze that had developed in the past half-hour seemed to prevent the lady, draped in excessive silk, from succumbing to a swoon.
The Countess avoided Catherine’s gaze, but a younger woman nearby smiled shyly. Nodding in return, Catherine tried to remember her name. Lady Margaret of Haverford, that was it. She murmured some pleasantries to her as she edged past toward her seat in the front of the spectators.
Catherine settled onto the padded bench, uncertain what to do next.
She’d never witnessed a tournament before; both her father and Geoffrey had been too ashamed of her to allow her attendance at them.
As she glanced discreetly to her right, she saw Eleanor de Valianne waving a silken cloth at a knight riding past. Fascinated, Catherine watched as the gallant stopped to acknowledge the gesture.
With a flourish, he tipped his spear, accepting the bit of silk from Eleanor, before riding off to join the ranks gathering on the northern side of the field.
The chivalric display made a pit open in Catherine’s stomach. Quickly, she sat up straighter, scolding herself for a fool. ’Twas futile to wish for what could never be. She’d learned long ago that she’d never be first in any man’s heart.
Someone nudged her arm, sparing her further self-disparagement. “Have you a token for Lord Camville, lady? He will undoubtedly take the field soon.”
Turning, she looked into the wrinkled, kind face of William de Bergh, one of the king’s assistant justiciars.
He’d taken the seat next to her, and for some reason, seeing him made her feel more at ease.
As with all of Ravenslock’s guests, she’d met him briefly during the wedding feast, and she’d noticed that Grayson had seemed fond of the old man.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “What did you say?”
He smiled and patted her hand. “You should prepare a token, Lady Camville. Ready a favor to present to your lord husband when he comes onto the field.”
Catherine’s throat felt like it was going to close. “Me, offer him a token?” she croaked. “But what shall I give? I brought nothing—”
The sound of trumpets broke into her speech, followed by a rumbling so fierce, she thought the pavilion must fall with the reverberation of it.
Three score knights thundered onto the far end of the field, led by a magnificent figure atop a steel gray stallion.
The squire riding next to him held high an azure banner that flapped in the wind.
As the pennant unfurled and snapped, Catherine squinted and caught sight of an emblazoned gold eagle with wings outstretched, a thunderbolt clasped in its hooked beak.
The same design decorated the blue samite tunic the powerful knight wore over his hauberk, as well as the shield strapped onto his left forearm.
A thrill of shock went through her. ’Twas her husband’s device—and it was Grayson himself who led these warriors across the green.
He was still too distant for her to see his expression clearly, though Catherine could now identify his form.
His powerful stature and dark hair gave him away.
Many of the men who rode behind him wore mail coifs and helms that left only their faces visible, but Grayson’s head was bare, allowing his hair to flow free to his shoulders and whip in the wind.
“Lord of the Storm,” William murmured next to her.
“That’s what they call your husband. ’Tis a tribute to both his device and his reputation.
On the field he’s as fierce and unpredictable as the furies themselves, and often as deadly.
” William cackled softly. “If these old bones allowed me to engage in the sport as I used to, I’d not want to be opposite him.
Nay, not if the gates of heaven beckoned me from the other side. ”
“He—he’s coming this way,” Catherine said, the words catching in her throat.
“Aye,” the old man laughed again. “Your favor, my lady. Prepare your favor!”
Frantically, Catherine looked down at her clothing.
She’d not known enough of tournaments to bring a scrap of silk with her, and her mulberry kirtle bore none of the fripperies that decorated the necks and sleeves of the other women here.
Desperation gripped her; Grayson would reach the pavilion in a few moments, and she’d shame him if she had nothing to offer in tribute.
The edge of her smock. The thought burst upon her, startling her to action. The undergarment had been a cast-off of Elise’s, and when one of the maids had lengthened it for Catherine’s greater height, she’d sewn a bit of scarlet ribbon to the hem.
Leaning over without thought of propriety, Catherine flipped up the end of her skirt.
Her fingers felt clumsy as she fumbled with the stitching, tugging and twisting to yank the ribbon free.
It finally came loose with a ripping sound, but the force of her pulling made her hand slam into the pavilion’s waist-high enclosure wall.
She almost toppled from the bench, managing to right herself just in time for her husband to rein his steed to a stop in front of her.
Clutching the ribbon in numb fingers, she stood to face Gray. His expression was inscrutable, but his sea-mist eyes held her gaze. Something about the way he looked at her made her feel as if she stood with him alone, no longer surrounded by the dozens of spectators, hushed now, in the pavilion.
With a soft clicking sound, he nudged his mount forward, all the while keeping his gaze locked to hers. Her lips felt dry; she licked them and swallowed against the tight feeling in her throat, hoping against hope that she’d not also be required to speak as part of this unfamiliar ritual.
Gray seemed to sense her hesitation; with a slight nod, he indicated that she should hold out her token to him.
As if in a dream, she leaned over the edge, arm outstretched to reach him.
Though her hand shook, the stiff breeze made the ribbon flutter, masking her trembling.
Gray lifted the point of his sword to her, and somehow, she managed to fasten the token to its tip.
When he took the scrap of scarlet from his blade and tied it to the emblazoned ailette at his shoulder, Catherine felt a burst of pride the likes of which she’d never known.
Then he raised his gaze to hers again, his eyes glowing with the same passion he’d shown last night when he kissed her in their bedchamber, and she was sure her heart would burst from the force of its thudding in her chest.
“For your honor alone, my lady.”
His oath, murmured in husky cadence, caressed her like the stroke of his hands over her skin. It wrapped her in a tingling cloak of intimacy, its power taking her so by surprise that it knocked the breath from her lungs.
Dimly she recognized that she wasn’t alone in her reaction to his gentle vow. A hum rose from the ladies around her, their envious sighs mingling with soft exclamations as they watched the most powerful knight in the kingdom offering homage to her.
But in the next instant he was gone, nodding to the crowd as he wheeled his stallion about and spurred him to a gallop. His men followed close behind, all of them thundering across the green to position themselves with the other warriors, both on foot and mounted, at the southern end of the field.
“You carried the moment with a fine show of grace, my lady,” William said, patting her hand.
She nodded her thanks, somehow finding her seat again.
The buzzing in her ears began to recede, and she tried to focus on what the old man was saying.
His voice rose and fell as he prattled on about how fine a day it was for a tournament and about how evenly matched both sides seemed to be.
Then he shook his head and smiled, wondering aloud how she would be able to choose sides in the contest, since her brother’s forces held one end of the field while her husband’s defended the other.
William’s last comment cut through the happy fog in her brain; she tried not to gape at the old man. “Lord Montford and Lord Camville are on opposing sides of the green?”
“’Tis customary, my lady. Your husband and his men will hold the field against all comers to the tournament. That includes your brother and his forces.”
Dread circled Catherine’s throat as she considered the possibilities of that scenario.
No one knew better than she of Eduard’s hatred for Gray.
And though she hadn’t really understood what he’d meant when he’d boasted that he planned to collect ransom from her husband today, it hit home now with a vengeance.
Gray held no fondness for Eduard, either, she knew; after witnessing her bruises last night, he’d vowed to seek retribution against him at this tournament.
For your honor alone, my lady.
The squeezing sensation increased in Catherine’s chest. That Eduard would try to kill Gray seemed unlikely; before the wedding, he’d rejected her suggestion of defeating him openly on the field, calling such an action useless as far as obtaining the position and lands he sought by his rival’s demise.
But what if Gray managed to slay Eduard?
Her odious brother by marriage had as much as told her that he’d already ordered his men to murder her children should she be foolish enough to attempt to expose his evil plots.
And regardless of the method, his men might well assume it was her doing if Eduard turned up dead.
Sweet Lord in heaven…
Suddenly William leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Ah, look, lady. ’Tis what we’ve been waiting for.”
Time seemed to stop as she raised her gaze slowly to the field spread out before them, to the dazzling array of knights positioned on either end of it. A horn sounded in the distance, and the great expanse erupted into a deafening chaos of hurtling bodies, charging steeds, and flashing weapons.
“’Tis the moment of truth, my lady,” William shouted above the din. “The battle has begun.”