Chapter Twenty #3
Kicking and fighting furiously, Breck was wrestled across the floor by several armed men as the audience in the hall gasped and whispered. “I did not threaten the king!” he shouted. “I swear to you… de Moray, do you hear me? You will stop this or I swear I will…!”
His words were cleaved when someone slapped an armored gauntlet over his mouth; clearly, Henry and Bose weren’t the only men weary of the pimpled knight’s blather.
Bose continued to watch as Breck was carried from the hall by a host of warriors intent on doing their former captain a favor.
Bose could hardly bring himself to comprehend the extraordinary turn of events.
The room went sharply silent as the sounds of struggle faded.
Bose remained frozen to the spot, in awe of the events and endeavoring to bring forth the words of thanks.
In the midst of his shock, he caught sight of Duncan from the corner of his eye, appearing somewhat morose in spite of the justifiable circumstances.
When Duncan noticed de Moray staring at him, he labored to mask his remorse. Weakly, he shrugged.
“He deserves the king’s judgment and more,” he offered, his voice faint with sentiment. “Still, he is my brother and for the sake of our family relations, I am nonetheless saddened to see him meet with an unpleasant ending.”
Bose’s expression was steady. “I understand your dilemma, Duncan. But your actions on my behalf were brave and commendable, and I thank you deeply. I owe you a great deal.”
Again, Duncan shrugged, his cheeks mottling a faint pink when he met Summer’s golden gaze.
“’Twas the least I could do, considering my brother was the cause of your misery,” glancing to the three appreciative du Bonne brothers, it was obvious his purpose had been served and the time had come to take his leave.
Bowing a brisk farewell to the collective group, his charming smile made a weak return.
“I shall return to Crestwood with a clear conscience, good lords and ladies. And with somewhat astonishing memories of Lance du Bonne’s tournament. ”
“Do not be a stranger, Duncan,” Stephan said. “You will always be welcome at Chaldon.”
“And at Ravendark,” Bose said firmly. “We shall see you at the next tournament, I hope.”
Duncan’s smiled broadened. “In Banbury, I believe, come October,” he suddenly cast Bose a long glance. “Does your appreciation encompass allowing me the opportunity to win the joust for a change?”
Bose cocked an eyebrow. “I fear my days as tournament champion are at an end. You must take your place in line of all the men I plan to allow victory in display of my thanks.”
Relieved laughter followed Duncan as he quit the hall, lighter of spirit than the young knight had been in many years. Summer watched the warrior fade into the foyer beyond the grand hall, emitting a sigh of relief for the timely appearance of her husband’s angel of grace.
“B-Breck can never hurt us again,” she murmured. “How wonderful of Henry to do this for you.”
Bose touched her cheek, exhilaration taking hold where there had once been astonishment. Then he turned to the king.
“Your Grace,” his tone was strained with emotion. “I cannot adequately express my gratitude for what you have done this day. To simply declare my thanks seems terribly deficient.”
Henry’s pale eyes were warm. “There is no need, Bose. Consider this small intervention my own payment of gratitude for years of devoted service on your behalf.”
Bose smiled faintly, his gaze locked onto the young king he had known very well, once.
In fact, his attention was so diverted that he failed to notice Margot’s movements on the outskirts of the crowd; pale-faced and maddened with the turn of events, Bose’s former mother-in-law began fumbling in her skirts as if searching for something.
For her, the situation was not over. She had one final trick up her sleeve.
Bose was speaking quietly with the king as Margot skulked through the crowd of advisors and knights just outside of his peripheral vision, her focus lingering on the beautiful woman by his side.
Bose’s own knights were speaking between themselves or listening to the conversation between Bose and Henry.
Even Stephan’s wife, the silly whore, was listening politely to Morgan’s conversation.
But all sounds, all commotion, seemed to fade as Margot drew close, the rustling of her skirts coming to a disarrayed halt as she drew forth the object of her quest.
Margot carefully, politely, pushed between two of the king’s men-at-arms, a path suddenly clear between herself and the new Lady de Moray.
As Bose continued to chat with the king, Margot gripped the hilt of the small bejeweled dirk as she made her way toward the golden-eyed lady. And then, there was only madness.
Bose hardly remembered how it happened. First he heard a shout, and then a scream as Summer fell against him.
Suddenly Margot was gripping his wife by the hair, a bloodied dagger raised high in her wrinkled palm.
With a surge of panic, Bose reached out, blocking the dagger Margot had aimed for Summer’s neck.
His own hand impaled by the small jeweled blade, Bose lashed out with his uninjured hand and grasped Margot around the throat, feeling the frail bones snap within his iron grip.
As if the elderly woman was no more than a rag doll, the silk-clad figure was hurled across the room, crashing to the floor in a heap of blood and bone and dead, ancient flesh.
Bose stared at the twisted body, hardly grasping what he had been forced to do.
As difficult as it was for him to comprehend, Margot was dead and he himself had killed her.
But even more pressing than his mother-in-law’s lifeless body, Summer was weeping hysterically against him and ignoring his own pain and shock, he turned to her with an uncharacteristic display of panic.
“Where did she hurt you, love?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. “Show me.”
Coughing and sputtering, Summer gestured weakly at her arm. “H-H-Here,” she swallowed hard, struggling to control her hysteria. “S-She stabbed my arm!”
Morgan and Tate were beside her, each man fighting the other for the opportunity to see the wound. Morgan finally peeled the material away, gently, a smile appearing on his face as he inspected the injury.
“’Tis a scratch, Lady de Moray,” he said calmly, motioning Tate to locate a measure of linen to halt the bleeding. “See? She scarcely touched you.”
Pale-faced, Summer looked to the wound with its stream of blood and thought it looked to be far more than a scratch.
It certainly hurt worse than a scratch. But she resisted the desire to complain as she realized that her husband had been injured much worse.
His face was equally pale as Stephan and Farl inspected his punctured hand closely.
“Y-Your hand, Bose,” she murmured; even though he was injured and bleeding, still he managed to keep his right arm wrapped tightly about her. “She injured your hand.”
He glanced at the clean puncture as Stephan accepted a strip of linen from a servant, wrapping the injury tightly.
“Indeed,” his voice was faint. Summer continued to observe him, wide-eyed and shaken, as his gaze found the distorted body several feet away.
“God’s Beard, I never… she forced me to do this.
For Lora’s sake, I never wanted to harm her no matter what she had done, although at times my restraint was difficult. ”
“You were protecting Summer,” Stephan’s voice was steady as he wrapped the bloodied appendage. “You reacted instinctively to a mortal threat by destroying it. You cannot condemn your natural actions.”
Bose sighed heavily; the occurrences of the day were so staggering that all he wanted to do was leave this place of agony and betrayal and death. Even if the circumstance had ended in his favor, still, it had been a costly day both emotionally and physically, and he was eager to be done with it.
“I realize that,” he exhaled slowly. “But still… it happened so fast. I simply cannot understand why she would do this; Margot was vicious and mad, but she was never suicidal. Did she truly believe I would not defend my wife against her attack?”
Tate returned with the linen for Summer’s arm, confiscated from a jittery house servant. “Mayhap she had hoped you would not. You’ve always allowed her to physically demonstrate her rage without fear of discipline.”
Morgan accepted the bandages. “She has always abused you, Bose, and you’ve let her simply because you accepted the abuse as your punishment for Lora’s death. Margot was accustomed to your acceptance of her brutality. God’s Blood, had it been me, I would have done away with the bitch long ago.”
“And my acceptance of her violence led to her own death,” Bose’s bass voice was hardly audible. “She accused me of being a murderer. I suppose she was right. I murdered her.”
Summer winced as Morgan tended her arm, drawing a sympathetic kiss from her husband. “You did not murder her, Bose,” she whispered, closing her eyes to his lips against her forehead. “She was trying to k-kill me and you were merely defending your wife. It was an act of self-defense.”
He kissed her again, emitting a quaking sigh. “God’s Beard, I cannot fathom the twists and turns this day has brought. First Henry’s arrival, then Breck’s imprisonment, and finally Margot’s attack… I can scarcely believe all of it.”
“Believe it,” Henry entered the conversation, having stood by in stunned silence since the event of Margot’s violent endeavor. Looking from the crumpled body of the old woman to the injured Lord and Lady de Moray, he simply shook his head.
“Had someone relayed this story to me, I would have accused them of fabrication,” he said what they were all thinking. “The events are too shocking to comprehend, Bose.”
Bose nodded his head faintly. “Entirely, Your Grace.”