Chapter Five
“Damnation!” came the foul roar. “You did that on purpose!”
“Quit your bellowing and allow me to finish.”
Small, piercing blue eyes glared daggers at the aged physic as the man finished the last of the stitches. When he was finished, the injured man with the unruly mass of bright red hair snatched the pewter hand mirror from the table beside him and peered intently at his reflection.
“Damnation,” he spewed again with far less volume. “It will leave a scar. Just inside my hairline.”
“With all of your hair, who will notice?” A younger man with a lighter shade of the same color hair lounged against the furs on the floor, staring up at his older brother. “Be thankful the gash was not across your cheek.”
The man bearing the stitches tossed the mirror aside in disgust, ordering the physic away with a curt command. When the aged healer quit the tent with his usual slow pace, the injured man poured himself a healthy draught of ale.
“Easy on the drink, Breck,” the younger man said. “You know your head will be aching come the morning if you consume too much. And you must be clear-headed for the joust.”
“Aye,” Breck mumbled into his cup. “Clear-headed to return de Moray’s favor.”
The man on the floor snickered softly. “Your own helm gashed your scalp.”
“With de Moray’s assistance,” Breck turned to face his far less serious younger brother.
The man simply would not realize a grave situation if it walked up and slapped him in the face.
“Think, you idiot. I would not have slashed my scalp had de Moray not shoved me to the ground. I was lucky I wasn’t trampled. ”
Duncan Kerry laughed again, much to his brother’s annoyance. “Had he wanted you to be trampled, you would have been.”
Breck stared at his brother a moment before turning away, pondering the world outside of the lavishly furnished tent.
Beyond were a sea of vibrantly hued tarpaulins of various houses and provinces.
Men he had fought against before, a number of times, and men he had beaten on more than one occasion.
A plethora of losers prepared to bow at his mighty feet. Except for de Moray.
It was always the same with him. A brutal fight, a decisive defeat – Breck’s defeat.
Aye, he’d come close to beating de Moray on occasion, but never close enough.
Never close enough to inflict enough damage that would send the powerful knight to the ground.
Whether it be in the melee or joust, the story was consistently similar – Bose’s victory and Breck’s rout.
Today was no exception. Breck had fought admirably until the end, finally put down by none other than de Moray himself before the man moved on to do final battle with Stephan du Bonne.
More angry than injured, Breck had left the field in disgrace, watching the final duel as the crowd roared wildly with approval.
Approval that should have been meant for him.
It had been a bitter defeat to concede. Breck and Duncan were considered powerful contenders on the circuit, following in the legacy of their recently departed father.
Breck knew that his tactics were looked upon by some of the other knights as brutal and unscrupulous.
It was a mere difference of opinion, of course.
Breck saw nothing inequitable in striking a fallen man in the melee, provided he wasn’t seen by a herald and disqualified, or using quick, sudden movements in the joust to unseat or injure his opponent.
“I do not suppose the heralds would allow me to use my spear-tipped joust pole as opposed to the crows-foot point,” he muttered casually, far calmer than he had been moments earlier.
Turning to cast a devilish, glance to his brother, he raised his red eyebrows quizzically.
“Nay? Well, then, I must think of another way to defeat de Moray.”
“God’s Toes, Breck, what were you going to do with the spear-tip?
Gore him?” Duncan sat up from his pile of furs, shaking his head.
“Even for you, that is a rather barbaric maneuver. Moreover, the very second you planted the spear, his knights would be all over you. You would never have a chance against them.”
Breck shrugged, listening to a dog bay somewhere in the distance as the moon rose. “As I said, I’ll have to think of another way to best him,” he began to pick at his big, crooked teeth. “Did you see him ride toward the lodges today after his victory? He appeared to speak with Lord du Bonne.”
“Or gawk at the Lady Genisa,” Duncan licked his lips lewdly. “I pray every night that Stephan du Bonne will meet his end so that I may claim his lovely leftovers.”
Breck snorted, still picking at his teeth.
“I suspect you’d have to fight Ian and Lance for the privilege.
In fact, I have oft wondered if she services all three brothers as well as they treat her,” shaking his head, he examined the contents of his teeth in the tips of his dirty fingernails.
“Nay, I doubt Bose was gawking over Genisa. And I doubt even the baron’s summons could have coerced his reluctant nature to move toward the lodges.
I suspect, dear brother, that the unknown lady seated between Genisa and the baron was the reason for his interest.”
Duncan cocked an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”
“For the reasons I have already given. Mayhap there is something between the two.”
Duncan shrugged carelessly. “And if there is?”
The dusk deepened as Breck explored his unclear, if not somewhat evil, line of thought. “I do not know. Mayhap… mayhap we should discover who the lady is.”
“Why?”
“Simple curiosity, I suppose. I wonder if she is aware of de Moray’s darker reputation.”
Duncan pursed his lips. “There is not one man among us without some sort of sinister, darker reputation. Moreover, any gossip regarding de Moray is just that – gossip. In four years no one has been able to discover much about him.”
Breck appeared particularly thoughtful. “I’ll bet the lady knows something about him. Mayhap she could prove to be useful.”
His brother snorted. “How? To divulge more damaging information regarding the truth behind de Moray’s shady reputation? Or do you plan to use her against the man in a literal sense, mayhap?”
Breck did not reply for a moment. Then, he turned from the open portal and focused on his brother. “As I said, I do not know at the moment. But certainly, we should explore all of our options.”
Duncan stared at his brother a moment before pursing his lips wryly, rising from his pallet with a grunt.
“You are mad. There are dozens of knights we compete against with wives and ladies and you’ve never once made mention of using a particular woman to subdue her knight.
And now you speak of the most powerful knight of all.
Just how in the hell are we supposed to accomplish such a task? ”
Breck moved for the half-empty ale pitcher, pondering the possibilities. “Who can say? Mayhap an opportunity will present itself. Or mayhap not. However, I am willing to weaken de Moray any way I can. He has been a thorn in my side long enough.”
Duncan wandered to the leaning table to pick at the remaining mutton, thinking his brother to be foolish and reckless with his thoughts of betrayal against de Moray.
“The only reason Sir Bose hasn’t speared you through the gut is because he and father were friends once,” he said.
“He tolerates you and nothing more. Were you to push him, there’s no knowing how the man would react.
And you seem to forget that he employs four very powerful knights, men willing to kill for him without hesitation. Have you considered that?”
Breck pretended that he hadn’t heard him. “She was certainly beautiful,” he muttered, taking a swig of ale directly from the pitcher. “I have never seen her before. I wonder who she is?”
Duncan rolled his eyes in frustration, commandeering a small stool and sitting before the cold meat.
Chewing on a slab of fat, he eyed his foolish brother.
“If she belongs to de Moray, I say leave her alone. To make an attack on a knight on the field of competition is one matter, but to molest his lady is quite another. Forget whatever it is you are thinking.”
Breck heard him. He did not want to hear him. Even so, he knew very well he should listen to his younger, more level-headed brother. But he could not seem to.
*
The hoot owl was directly overhead. Although Summer could not see the bird, she could certainly hear him.
Asking the constant question; Who, Who, Who?
Who indeed, Summer mused bitterly. Who would be foolish enough to remain alone, unescorted, in the midst of the knights’ camp well after dark?
And who was content to wallow in the self-pity and confusion that had refused to abate for well over an hour? Who, indeed.
Summer continued to recline against the ancient oak, ignoring the pesky owl and listening to the faint rumble of the surrounding camp.
The sea breeze had increased in intensity, casting a chill in the air and Summer rubbed her arms to keep warm, the golden silk providing little protection against the damp wind.
Even so, she had little intention of leaving her quiet haven beneath the great tree. Although her thoughts had calmed somewhat since fleeing the field, there still remained a distinct measure of anger toward her selfish, proud family.
Clearly, she had struck home with her accusations. Genisa had most likely returned to the keep to inform the rest of the family that Lady Summer was aware of their “alleged” protective actions. Her thoughts darkened as she pondered her relationship with her family from now on.