Chapter Eight
Artur and the knights were waiting for him when he returned to the starting post. They had all seen the confrontation between Bose and Stephan, and the subsequent encounter between Bose and Breck.
Therefore, it stood to reason that they were also well aware of the ensuing conversation between their liege and the lovely lady after the scuffling had subsided.
There wasn’t a man among them not extremely curious to know what had transpired; Bose de Moray in the middle of a contest for a lady’s affection was an unknown event.
But the moment Bose joined the ranks of his men, the group was wise enough to bank their curiosity in lieu of preparing their liege for the coming bout.
If Bose suspected the wild interest, which of course he did, it was apparent he was unwilling to elaborate on the subject.
Retrieving his pole from Tate, Farl handed the man his shield as Artur fussed over the destrier’s impeccable armor.
“This beast’s chamfrom is off-center,” the old man grumbled, struggling with the face armor of the horse. “And your caparison is nearly disheveled. How did this happen?”
Bose adjusted his lance, balancing the pole under his arm as he tightened his gauntlets.
Tate and Morgan straightened the banner across the horse’s body that Artur had accused of being disheveled, although the wide standard was in exceptional shape.
To their liege’s aged uncle, however, nothing within their midst was ever perfect.
His biggest delight in life was to find fault with every matter. It made him feel more useful.
“Tate,” Bose caught his knight’s attention as he continued to adjust his glove. “Fetch Stephan du Bonne to me immediately. I have something I must say to him before I attend the field.”
Tate nodded briefly and was gone, momentarily deterred from pestering his lord as to the current status with the lady in the lodges. But Morgan was not so encumbered; without Tate to take the offensive, he was left on his own and his curiosity was nearly killing him.
When Bose finished with his gauntlets, the older knight handed him his sword. “She is a beautiful woman, Bose. I’d kill Breck Kerry, too, if the bastard attempted to steal her from me.”
Through his lowered visor, Bose found Summer’s persimmon colored gown on the lodges and the pounding of his heart flooded his eardrums. It was a moment before he was able to reply. “Have you ever been in love, Morgan?”
Morgan stared at him, his dark brown eyes soft with deliberation. After a moment, he smiled weakly. “Once, when I was young. Her name was Lily and she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.”
“Wise woman,” Bose muttered. He continued to gaze at Summer’s distant form. “Do… do you remember the thoughts and sensations, Morgan? Do you recall the feelings you experienced? Like nothing you’ve experienced before?”
“Or since,” Morgan eyed the normally-reserved man. “Why do you ask? Are you thinking that mayhap you are feeling more than simple attraction for the lady?”
Bose’s gaze never left the remote figure on the lodges.
After a brief silence, he slowly shook his head.
“I do not know,” his voice was nearly a whisper.
“The only measure of wisdom I possess in the matter is the fact that I believed all my emotions pertaining to the opposite sex to have died in childbirth four years ago. Since yesterday, however, they seemed to be resurrecting themselves whether or not I am willing to accept them.”
Morgan listened to the confession with a faint glimmer to his eye; for Bose to be conversing on a matter of personal conviction was an event of the enormous significance. It was one Morgan did not take lightly; he clapped his liege on his thickly armored leg in a gesture of commiseration.
“If she brings about sentiment you thought to have perished, most certainly I would not oppose the obvious,” he said, eyeing Artur as the old man fussed with the caparison over the horse’s rear quarters.
“You’ve known her less than a day, Bose.
What you are experiencing could be nothing more than infatuation.
Give yourself time before you decide whether or not to run from your feelings. ”
He meant it in half-jest, half-not. Beneath the lowered visor, Bose smiled thinly.
“My feelings for Lora were gradual, Morgan. A slow, steady pace of discovery,” turning his armored head in the direction of the lodges, the helmed head slowly wagged back and forth.
“What I feel for Lady Summer is something I have never before experienced. In fact, I believe it to be more powerful than I am at times.”
“And this frightens you?”
“It scares me to death.”
Artur, finished with the banner across the charger’s haunches, moved forward in his complete inspection of Bose’s armor.
The heralds were impatient to begin the bout and Breck Kerry had already taken the field in full regalia.
The crowd in the lodges grew restless and Morgan knew the private conversation between him and his lord was ended for the moment.
“Remember, Bose,” Artur fixed on his mighty nephew, oblivious to the fact that he had all but shoved Morgan out of the way in his haste to make conversation with the armored warrior.
“Breck breaks low and to the left at mid-point. You’ll have to compensate if you do not want to be unseated on the first run. ”
Forcing himself from the conversation with Morgan, Bose listened to his uncle’s sound words.
“I know, Uncle Artur. I have fought the man before, many a time,” his helmed head suddenly bobbed about as if he was eagerly searching for something.
“Where’s Tate? I want to speak with Stephan before the round commences. ”
Farl and Adgar, standing ahead of their liege by the edge of the field, were attempting to explain to the heralds why their lord was delaying.
He could see that the heralds were eager to begin the bout and he knew he would be unable to delay any further.
Stephan or no, the crowd was expecting his appearance.
The massive charger moved forward, sensing the excitement from the rumbling crowd. Artur scampered alongside the dancing beast to impart his last few gems of wisdom.
“If he doesn’t unseat you on the first pass, the second run will be aimed at your head,” the old man huffed and panted. “Well you remember what he did to Sir Rolf at last year’s tourney in Wrexham?”
“Broke his neck,” Bose answered unemotionally. “The man has no use of his arms and legs and can scarcely breathe.”
Artur’s black eyes were intense. “Mind he doesn’t break your neck as well.”
Bose did not reply as they reached the edge of the lists.
The crowd, noting the circuit champion was preparing to take the field, began to roar with anticipation.
The heralds moved to their respective positions along the joust course as the lead herald moved to the center of the barrier, raising his hands to quiet the unruly, eager throng.
When the commotion died to a muted roar, the chief herald lowered his quieting hands and drew forth Lord Edward’s sword.
“Let Sir Bose and Sir Breck come forward!”
The crowd began to stir again as Breck, who had been prancing about at the far end of the field, took position beyond the end of the joust barrier and raised his lance to a full upright position.
Bose watched the man’s arrogant stance from his location at the opposite edge of the field, experiencing the resurgence of the jealously and anger.
He was going to enjoy unseating the idiot.
And the man would be fortunate if he did not find a lance aimed at his head.
Farl and Adgar were beside him, watching their liege’s opponent with a good deal of loathing. They had all competed against the man, innumerable times, and there was not one among them who had not been subjected to the knight’s unscrupulous tricks.
“If you cut him high on the first run, he shall miss the move because he shall be expecting you to counter his low maneuver,” Farl’s Irish accent was heavy with disgust. “You’ll be able to take his damn head off.”
Bose was silent, as was usual before a bout as he utilized his concentration for the upcoming strategy. Adgar and Morgan, standing on the opposite side of Farl, exhibited varied expressions of loathing.
“Pimple-faced idiot,” normally mild-manner Adgar was grim. “I drew Duncan in the third round. Best the eldest, Bose, and be done with it. I have a penchant to do the same to his whelp brother and we can defeat the Kerry lads in one mighty blow.”
Bose listened, digested, stored for future reference. The chief herald, however, was expecting the presence of his second competitor and Bose’s grip tightened on the reins as he prepared to spur his charger forward. But the moment he moved to do so, a shout in the distance halted his progression.
His head turned stiffly in the direction of the shout, a feat made difficult within the confines of his helm.
Moving toward him across the trampled green earth was Stephan du Bonne astride his chestnut charger.
Tate ran alongside in his mail and portions of leg protection, his fair face glistening with sweat.
Stephan reined his horse to within several feet of Bose, his handsome features inquisitive.
Considering Bose was required upon the field this very moment, it was surprising that he should delay in any manner.
But the man was determined to have his say and Stephan had a suspicion as to the subject.
He would oblige the man by listening. Mayhap, in a sense, he would be making amends for his lack of faith in the truth of Bose’s reputation.
“My lord?” there were a dozen men between them, mostly de Moray’s men in colors of black and white. But Stephan ignored them as he focused on their mighty liege. “You wished to speak with me?”