Chapter 11 #2
Another low murmur swept the crowd, and Catherine took a step forward to see the man better.
If what he said was true, he was aligned with one of the most powerful houses in all of England.
William Marshall had been dead nearly fifteen years, and yet both the country and King Henry still reaped the benefits of his great influence.
Henry had been crowned at the tender age of nine, but in the three years William served as his Regent, he’d guided the boy-king through the intricacies of fair and noble rule.
“Any kin of William Marshall is welcome at Ravenslock. However, you’ll still need to answer to this day’s charges against you, the same as any other,” Gray said, nodding to Stephan to release the young knight’s bonds. “What brought you so far from home, son?”
“I am no green boy to be addressed so,” Gilbert scoffed, shaking his hands and rubbing his wrists to restore the feeling in them. “My travels lead me on the same path as my renowned cousin. I intend to make a name for myself.”
“I met William Marshall several times when I was a young knight, Clare. He used violence when ’twas necessary, not for the kind of lawless brawling that took place in our village this day,” Gray chided.
Gilbert’s face went white in anger. “So you say, Camville—yet what know you of acting within the bounds of law?”
“Enough to ensure that you’ll receive justice here today,” Gray answered sharply. “I’ve handled many disputes as lord of my estates, with results deemed just by those who received them. Fear not. You’ll be judged most fairly.”
“I do fear the kind of justice I’ll receive,” Gilbert muttered, his eyes narrowed on Gray. “And you know why.”
Gray went silent for a beat. “I’ve given you my word, Clare, and that should be enough.” He glanced to the bailiff. “Proceed.”
“Nay! I will not accept your word for my fair treatment. Your word means nothing, for I know what is spoken of you at Court—tales of your lawlessness and crimes of the worst kind, committed when you were even younger than I!”
Several of the villagers gasped, their gazes shifting from Gilbert de Clare to Gray. Catherine felt a flare of outrage. How dared this youth accuse Gray of wrongdoing? His audacity bordered on dangerous, she knew. One look at Gray and she realized that it might well prove fatal.
“Watch your tongue, lad.” Gray’s voice was deceptively quiet. “You know nothing of what you speak.”
“Think you to keep it secret, then?” Gilbert’s face screwed into a mask of derision. “For the love of Christ, man, you slew your own sister! You’ve no right to pass judgment on me, or any of these men who have been brought before you today!”
The entire square fell silent at his horrible accusation.
Catherine felt as if someone had sucked the air from her lungs, and she watched, stunned, as several of Gray’s men leapt forward, obviously intending to throttle the young knight senseless.
But Gray waved them off. Catherine could see the war he waged in himself for control, and she found herself holding her breath, awaiting the outcome.
Finally he cast a sarcastic smile at Gilbert.
“You continue to live right now, boy, thanks only to your tender age. Regardless of what some say, I am not a murderer of children.” His hands fisted at his sides, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.
“You will be tried by this jury and a judgment assessed to you for any damages you caused here this day. After that, ’tis my will that you be gone from here.
Never darken my lands with your shadow again. ”
Gilbert looked ready to explode, yet Catherine thought his silence meant that he would abide the ruling. But then his chin jutted out again.
“I refuse to be judged by you or by any of these fools!” Gilbert growled. “Let God serve as my arbiter. Face me in an ordeal by battle and let us see who will emerge victorious!”
The crowd burst into an uproar, and Alban grabbed Gilbert by the back of his tunic, shaking him. “You insolent whelp. Think that you may command the king’s High Champion to combat and be obeyed? You’ll command nothing but a view from a cell while we await ransom for your worthless hide.”
“Is Camville a coward, then, as well as a murderer?” Gilbert shrieked, struggling and kicking as Alban began to drag him toward the path to the castle.
“Wait.” Gray’s voice cut through the noise in the square, but Alban seemed unable to hear it; he kept going, forcing Gray to yell, “Wait, Alban!”
Giving the youth another shake, Alban ceased his progress and stared dumbfounded at Gray.
“You don’t mean to entertain the thought?
Do battle with this wretch of a…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head in obvious reaction to the look he saw on Gray’s face.
“Oh, nay, this is not good. ’Tis not good at all. ”
Gray walked the distance to Gilbert with rigid, even steps.
Almost methodically, Catherine thought. His movements reminded her of something.
Something unpleasant. The recollection flashed suddenly into her mind.
Aye, that was it. It was the same as the day of the mélée—that horrible moment on the field when he’d seemed so stiff and detached, like an instrument of death…
Oh, sweet heaven, he was acting just as he had in the moments before he almost drove his blade through Eduard’s heart.
Icy cold washed over her, but she had no chance to speak.
Gray had reached Gilbert and a new hush descended over the crowd.
Even in the stillness, Catherine had to strain to hear what he said.
“You wish to fight with me, Clare? Right here and now, in an ordeal by battle?”
“Aye,” Gilbert spat, straightening and glaring up at him. “If you’re man enough to take my challenge.”
Gray looked as if he was going to laugh, but then his face regained its preternatural, rigid lines. “If we fight, you’ll die.”
“’Tis a chance I’m willing to take.”
“Then make your peace with God and arm yourself, boy, because your insults will be answered in blood.”
Without another word, Gray turned and stalked a few paces away.
He drew his sword and the crowd pulled back, leaving space for the fighting to commence.
Catherine pushed to the front of the throng, trying in vain to catch Gray’s gaze.
But he refused to look at her. He just stood there, staring straight ahead as he waited for Gilbert de Clare to enter the fighting space.
Uncontrollable tremors radiated from her stomach, and she laced her fingers tightly together. Her lips moved of their own accord in a soundless prayer, interrupted only when someone came close and touched her elbow. She met Alban’s gaze, seeing her own worry reflected in his eyes.
“Is there nothing you can do?” she whispered. Nausea rode up into her throat, choking her. From the side of her vision, she saw Gilbert walk stiffly into the clearing, his sword held tight in his grip.
“Nay,” Alban answered. “’Tis gone too far to stop. We must trust Gray to do what is right.”
She nodded wordlessly, too overcome with dread to say anything more. In the next instant the fighting began; with a howl, Gilbert raised his sword over his head and lunged, but his blade glanced off of Gray’s as if his blow held no more force than the weight of a gnat.
Gray made no sound as he faced the youth, though his eyes shone like green ice.
He hardly shifted his stance as he delivered two swift strokes in return.
The first hooked Gilbert’s sword and sent it sailing out of his grip; the second sliced down to just above the young knight’s knee, cutting through his chain mail and deep into the tender flesh beneath.
Blood spurted and Gilbert went down screaming, gripping his leg as Gray raised his sword again.
The crowd gasped, women covering their mouths or shielding their children’s eyes as they prepared to watch their lord deliver the death blow he’d promised.
Swinging down in a stroke meant to decapitate his opponent, Gray shifted back at the last instant, slicing into Gilbert’s cheek instead.
The young knight shouted in pain again and reached to his face, staring up with frightened eyes as Gray smoothly lifted his sword to the side and sheathed it, growling, “Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Be thankful that you kept your life this day. Now go, before I change my mind.”
Gilbert gaped like a fish, terror seeming to paralyze his ability to speak. With a whimper he scrambled to his feet and stumbled as best as he could from the clearing to his friends, who helped him mount his horse before all of them rode away down the road as if pursued by devils.
Gray stood silent for a moment more. He breathed deep, fisting his hands at his sides; then without a word to anyone, he stalked away. Catherine watched him stride with a purposeful gait toward the outskirts of the village.
The buzz of the crowd swelled again as she watched him go, uncertain whether or not she should follow him.
People began to disperse, and she realized that Alban would be no help in deciding; he’d already gone to gather some knights to follow Gilbert, to ensure that he and his friends left Gray’s lands after paying their fines.
She was on her own.
Biting her lip, she considered her options. She knew that she played with fire to approach Gray now. And yet she couldn’t be a coward. Setting her gaze ahead, she followed his path, stepping gingerly around piles of animal leavings and debris as she went.
When she finally caught up to him, she found him standing at the limits of the village, gazing out at a clearing where the rye had recently been cut.
Birds lit on the stubble in quest of grain, chirping every now and then and lifting in a graceful mass before settling to earth again.
It was a peaceful scene; the sun shone warm in the late afternoon sky.
And yet even with some of the villagers milling about, Gray looked very alone.