Betrothal (Time Enough To Love) Read online

  The next match captured her attention and the pit of her stomach dropped away completely when Geoffrey took his lance and moved his horse, Saracen, into position. She did not want to watch, but her gaze was riveted to the tall armored figure on the huge black destrier. Her breathing sped, her heart pounded in her chest as Geoffrey began his pass.

  The scene before her seemed to recede, much the way Geoffrey himself had the night they met. Accompanying that dizzying sense of rushing backward were images that flashed before her eyes: a knight on horseback, a lance shattering on his helm and knocking the helm free from his head. Shards of the splintered lance piercing his face, his neck.

  Alyse snapped out of her reverie at the dull, deep crash made by the impact of a lance broken on armor. She raised her gaze in time to see a knight topple from his horse. A white horse. Then everyone cheered as Geoffrey and Saracen raced toward the end of the lists. A cry rose from her lips as she could suddenly breathe again. One hit and it was over, thank God. Elation coursed through her, only to stumble to a halt at the realization he would be jousting again shortly. And in the challenge match.

  Alyse stifled a moan and stood abruptly. Unable to sit any longer, she moved out of the gallery, making her way to the brightly colored silk tent set up behind the berfrois. She did not need to use the ladies’ convenience pavilion, but she had to move or scream. With the prayer that no one would stop her, she strode quickly past the tent and out into the open field beyond. Her head spun from a mixture of excitement, fear and wine.

  A great shout went up behind her as another pair of combatants took the field. She fervently wished herself anywhere but here, and began to run toward a stand of trees to her left. By the time she reached the first of the tall oaks, her heart pumped so fast she had to catch hold of the tree and lean against it, panting.

  Cheers from the berfrois signaled the completion of the last match of the first round. She had to go back. Had to watch him in the next round, and the next, and the next.

  Tears of fear and grief trickled down her face as she tried to push the images from her mind. They refused banishment and, tiredly, she let them play out again, hoping that would satisfy the terror.

  Another joust, another time. The blow of a lance on metal. Running onto the field. Blood flowing through his golden hair, seeping into the ground. Holding her beloved as he breathed his last. She clenched her fists, willing those images away.

  Instead, she deliberately filled her mind with memories of Geoffrey. Of their first meeting, that first breakfast, their tryst under the rose bower. Each image precious because it had been shared with her love.

  Alyse’s heart beat faster.

  Her love.

  ‘Tis true.

  A shiver chased through her body. The mere thought of him quickened her pulse, made her long to see him, feel his strong arms around her.

  She had been a fool.

  Geoffrey, not Lord Braeton. No conscious decision, just an awareness she would not be content with anyone except the great knight to whom she was betrothed. With whom she belonged. Like a key turning surely in a lock, her heart clicked into the place meant for it. Slowly her breathing calmed, and she looked toward the tilting field. She would return to cheer him on to victory and pray he lived long enough for her to confess her love.

  As she hurried back to the gallery, with sudden longing she wished she and Geoffrey were already married. Already one in body and soul. That way they might at least have shared themselves…as she had not with—

  Alyse shook her head. I cannot dwell on past regrets.

  She regained her seat as the second round of matches commenced. The field had narrowed to four combatants—the winners of the first round. The first two, Guy and Lord Braeton, readied their mounts.

  Alyse leaned forward, intent on keeping herself distracted from the deadly activity on the field. She set herself instead to gauging each knight’s array of skills. Which one would be easier to defeat in the event Geoffrey advanced to the final round?

  In the first pass, both knights broke lances. Then in the second, Guy managed to land his blow, but Lord Braeton was thrown backward and missed his target. The French knight appeared to have an unnaturally long reach—a true benefit in this game. The third pass saw Braeton miss again and the match awarded to Valere.

  Disappointment tasted bitter on her tongue. Belatedly, she realized she would have preferred Lord Braeton advance to the final match rather than Guy. Such a pairing would have given Geoffrey an advantage, having jousted many times against his friend.

  Now he faced the last winner of the first round, Sir Roger Delaney. Alyse took a deep breath as their match began. All three passes saw Geoffrey’s lance shatter on Sir Roger’s torso, giving him the clear victory. Her shoulders slumped in relief as he rode off the field, having scarcely been touched so far that day.

  A respite was called before the final match between Lord Valere and Geoffrey, during which many of the ladies surrounded Alyse, congratulating her on her betrothed’s victories. She forced herself to smile and mumble her thanks for their good will, but thoughts of the match to come overwhelmed her.

  All too soon, she found herself taking another deep breath and plastering a smile on her face as the combatants roared down the field. She could not take her eyes off Geoffrey, so she saw the full force of the lance as it shattered against his torso, knocking him back in his saddle. Her heart tried to leap from her chest as he fought for control of Saracen. In the end, he managed to stay astride the stallion and land his own blow on Sir Guy. That gentle also reeled, seeking his balance. Alyse watched the man struggle to remain upright, willing him to fall and put an end to this barbarous pastime, but Guy kept his seat as well.

  Both knights rode to the end of the tiltyard and took fresh lances. She could not see Geoffrey’s face, but imagined it drawn in lines of determination. The man she had come to know would fight wholeheartedly to the finish. He paused only long enough to set the lance firmly in the crook of his elbow then spurred Saracen at his opponent once more.

  Guy too started his bay eagerly toward his adversary. Geoffrey seemed to have the advantage of speed, for Saracen propelled him far down the lists. He met Guy almost directly in front of her. He thrust his lance out, aimed upward for the helm, a blow that would count three points, instead of the two for the torso, and almost assure his victory. The crowd in the berfrois gasped as the lance landed toward the top of the helm and skittered up and over the crown, not breaking at all. Guy then easily broke his spar on Geoffrey’s chest, again throwing him backward but not unseating him.

  Alyse breathed a sigh of relief that Geoffrey continued unhurt, but she remained uneasy. Now, to win the match he had to unhorse Guy. Not an easy feat under any circumstances, and Geoffrey would be tiring from the battering of the lances.

  He did not show any sign of weariness, however, as he turned Saracen at the end of the field then held back a moment until Guy rearmed himself. Alyse could imagine his eagerness, his confidence. Not a man to accept defeat lightly, Geoffrey would take any risk to assure victory. That terrified her most of all.

  The combatants thundered down the field, turf flying out from flashing hooves. Time stood still as she held her breath and prayed.

  Chapter 12

  The knights met mid-field, the clash sounding like the deep crack of thunder, making Alyse wince. Geoffrey’s aim for the upper left part of his adversary’s chest was true—until Guy unexpectedly rose in the stirrups. He leaned forward, extending his reach, and landed his lance on Geoffrey’s torso first. The extra seconds it took for Geoffrey to reach his mark cost him, for by that time he had been thrust backward by the force of Guy’s blow. His own hit, while shattering the weapon, no longer had the power to unhorse his foe.

  Alyse breathed again, taking in great gulps of air. She sent a heartfelt prayer of thanks heavenward that the ordeal had ended, though she regretted Geoffrey had not won the match. It would have raised his esteem with all the court. Nevertheless
, her elation that he had received no major wounds this day took precedence.

  She tried to calm her breathing and the tremors that shook her as though with an ague.

  I must stop this unseemly display.

  With an effort, she stilled her trembling hands, lacing them together in her lap.

  People will think I have no confidence in Geoffrey’s skills.

  Certainly not the case, but she couldn’t put her worry aside either.

  I must put my fears behind me and comport myself as becomes a dutiful wife.

  Alyse managed a small smile of satisfaction at that thought then turned as someone tugged at her shoulder. She looked up, startled to find Princess Joanna standing beside her.

  She rose quickly. “You have need of me, Your Highness?”

  The princess smiled cheerily at her. “I congratulate you, Lady Alyse, on Sir Geoffrey’s prowess at the joust.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I am proud of his accomplishments, though sorely worried for his safety. I am happy now ’tis over.”

  The princess continued to smile but shook her head. “’Tis not over yet, Alyse. You must come with me now. We will be awarding the prizes shortly.”

  Alyse stared at the younger woman, dumbfounded. “Why me, Your Highness?”

  Joanna smiled at her dismay. “Because the winners will be awarded their prizes each by his appointed lady. As Sir Guy had no lady, my father asked that I present the first prize. Sir Geoffrey is to receive the second from your hands and Lord Braeton the third from Lady Carlyle. We must go to the field to make ready.”

  Stunned by the princess’s announcement, she jumped when the herald strode out to announce, “Majesties and gentle ladies, the last match of the day is a challenge match between Sir Geoffrey Longford and Thomas Knowlton, Earl of Braeton.”

  A chill swept over her despite the heat. In her relief that Geoffrey had taken no hurt, she had forgotten the challenge. The ordeal continued. She turned to the princess. “Your Highness, I fear I must remain here as witness to this final match, for ’tis done for my honor.”

  Princess Joanna raised an eyebrow. “In that case, of course we will stay, Lady Alyse. However, because you have a stake in this contest, I insist you move closer that you may better see the match.” Joanna started toward the first row of benches, moving a lady seated on her left.

  Alyse sighed, but had no choice but to follow and sit beside the princess, at the very front, with no obstruction to her view.

  Geoffrey and Lord Braeton walked toward the front of the berfrois, helmets under their arms. Side by side, they made their bows before the king and queen. Alyse could not take her eyes off her betrothed, assessing for wounds, drinking in the handsome face, wishing this contest over and done.

  Then Geoffrey spoke, his eyes on the royal family. “King Edward, Queen Phillipa, Princesses Isabelle and Joanna, ladies of the court. I have challenged Lord Braeton to a joust, for there is a matter of honor to be satisfied. We have agreed that the loser will owe a forfeit to the winner, the forfeit already having been agreed upon by all parties. With your sanction, Majesties, we will proceed.”

  King Edward looked amused, but nodded to the pair. “You have my leave for the match to proceed, nobles.”

  They bowed again, and Geoffrey shot a look straight at Alyse, along with a brilliant, confident smile. Despite the rosy flush of heat in his face, he seemed amazingly fresh.

  Pray God his confidence not be misplaced.

  She glanced at Lord Braeton. His golden hair stuck up wildly and a trickle of sweat dripped down the side of his neck. His eyes, squinted against the brightness of the sun, seemed weary.

  Pray God he has tired sufficiently to assure a speedy conclusion to this Godforsaken match.

  When she returned her gaze to Geoffrey, an answering smile for him on her lips, his dark scowl froze her heart.

  He spun on his heel, shouting for his squire to see to the lacing of his helm, and strode to his horse.

  Why is he angry now?

  She closed her eyes against the familiar sensation of her stomach churning. Caught between his unexplainable displeasure and her fears for his safety, Alyse believed she might be wretchedly ill, right in front of everyone. She twisted the veiling of her wimple between fingers that trembled.

  Positioned now in the front row, she could not escape the clear view of the combat. Every detail of the knights and their steeds lay before her like a moving tapestry. Tension showed in Geoffrey’s frame, despite the heavy armor. His breastplate, somewhat more dented than when he began, looked as if it compressed his chest. He had to be weary—what with the heat, the weight of the metal, the battering he had already taken—yet he gave no sign of exhaustion.

  The flag raised, and Geoffrey and Lord Braeton hurtled down the field.

  A stunning, earsplitting rumble of thudding hooves, the screech of metal and sharp crack of wood splintering sounded as lances collided with armor. Splinters flew through the air, raining down around the knights. Both men continued down the field, lurching in their saddles though they remained seated.

  Alyse clutched the railing before her.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  But she couldn’t relax enough to draw a deep breath. If this didn’t end soon, she would surely swoon.

  Geoffrey took another lance and pulled Saracen into position. Horse and rider sped down the lists, and Alyse swayed in her seat, trying not to close her eyes against the horrific sight. She forced her eyes open as the lances crashed again.

  This time, although both spars shattered, Geoffrey’s had almost unseated Lord Braeton. He lay back across the rear of his saddle, arms flailing.

  Mother of God, let him fall that this day may end.

  But Braeton’s horse came to a stop at the end of the field, where his master finally righted himself.

  She glanced toward Geoffrey once more, reassuring herself. He had busied himself rearming and, though Alyse could not see his face, his relaxed posture in the saddle and the slight tilt of his head suggested he was reassessing the situation.

  Both knights had broken two lances on the torso—their scores were even. In order to win, one would need to either break a lance on the helm or unhorse their opponent. Either feat was possible, but highly improbable, given the lateness of the day and the weariness of the jousters. The best outcome would be for one lance to miss, giving the knight to break a lance victory. Another possibility was a draw if both men broke their lances on the torso. A draw would mean no victor; the debt of honor satisfied without a forfeit. That outcome might be best, but she could not help thinking in that case there would have been a great deal of effort wasted for nothing.

  Geoffrey nodded slightly within his helm, as though acknowledging a strategy confirmed. Though the decision was unknown to her, she prayed it would make him the clear winner of the match.

  In an instant, Geoffrey streaked down the lists. Alyse gasped at the ferocity with which Saracen raced toward his adversary. Lord Braeton drove his horse fiercely as well, but did not seem to reach the black steed’s breakneck speed.

  Moments before the collision, Geoffrey angled his weapon upward slightly, aiming again for the helm and its additional points. Her heart flew into her throat. Should his lance glance off, as it had earlier, she would certainly be leading the first dance with Lord Braeton this evening. That prospect no longer held any delight for her, not after the physical pain this match must have cost Geoffrey—and Lord Braeton—and the mental anguish it had cost her. Had she not seemed so enthralled with the earl, mayhap the challenge would never have been issued. Or would not have been so avidly pursued by Geoffrey. If one of them were injured, it could surely be laid at her feet.

  Geoffrey must win. He must.

  The impact devastated both knights. Thomas’s lance splintered dramatically along Geoffrey’s right shoulder, twisting him around in the saddle and almost unseating him.

  Geoffrey’s lance found its mark in the dead center of Thomas’s helm, sn
apping his head back with the force of the blow. An immediate cry of pain erupted from his helmet. Alyse bolted from her seat, raced out of the berfrois and onto the field.

  * * * *

  Thomas managed to pull his horse to a stop, and his squires ran to assist him as he dropped to the ground. Almost as quickly, Geoffrey leaped from his horse, cursing as he ran toward his friend.

  ’Tis my fault if he dies. I was angered at him. Christ, why did I not aim elsewhere and try to unseat him? Geoffrey could barely hold still as his squire removed his helmet. “Thomas! Thomas!”

  Men had lowered his friend to the ground, where he lay motionless.

  Dear God! The splinters—

  He stared in horror at the long wooden slivers poking out of Thomas’s visor.

  Sweet Jesu, have mercy. Holy Mary, mother of God, have mercy.

  He fell to his knees beside him, afraid to touch him lest he drive the fragments deeper.

  “Fetch the surgeon!” Geoffrey threw the command over his shoulder, his attention fixed on the still body. “Thomas.” He couldn’t be dead.

  A groan issued from the helmet. Geoffrey sagged in relief and crossed himself, sending up a prayer of thanks. He nodded to Thomas’s attendants, who raised him to a sitting position. Carefully, they released the catch at the rear and lifted the back half of the bascinet straight up.

  “Easy.” Geoffrey held his breath as the squires slowly drew the helmet forward over the long splinters. Blood dripped onto Thomas’s breastplate and ran down into his lap. A low moan wrenched from him as the visor jostled one of the spikes. Geoffrey steeled himself as the helmet finally came away.

  Sharp fragments of the broken lance peppered Thomas’s face. Geoffrey cringed at the sight of the needle-like shards then a wave of relief washed over him as Thomas blinked. The splinters had lodged in his cheeks and brow, mercifully sparing his eyes. The overall effect, however, was gruesome: he appeared to be crying tears of blood.