Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Ransom

“Did I tell you we will enter with Etienne de Vigne’s party, not the English?” Gervase asked as Philippe lifted her into the saddle of her palfrey.

“Nay, but ‘tis not a problem. I am half-French myself and feel none too affectionate toward the English at the moment.”

Gervase blinked. “You are?”

“Aye to both. My mother is French, and I would cheerfully skewer Archie if ladies were allowed to ride in the melee.” Grinning, Cat took the silver chain Oscar had procured for her and handed one end to Gervase just as a second blast of the trumpets summoned the combatants to line up for the processional. “Is aught wrong?” she asked Gervase.

“Nay. I had not realized you were half-French.”

Cat wondered why that disturbed him, but there was no time to reflect on that, for they began to march into the field. There was a good deal of jostling and nervous laughter. ‘Twas unusual for the women to lead the knights in on chains like war trophies, but the crowd roared its approval. She looked back at Gervase, who walked behind her, chain in hand. Their gazes locked.

Fire flared in his. ‘Tis us against the rest of the court, his eyes seemed to say.

Aye, Cat silently replied, smiling. We are in this together. Deeply touched by the intimate bit of communication, reminiscent of the sort she’d seen her parents share, Cat’s spirits soared. They didn’t falter until the spectacle was over and it came time to part from Gervase and take her place in the canopied galleries. As she mounted the steps to the seats reserved for the nobles, she passed by Clarice and her cronies.

“See, I told you she had no shame,” Clarice hissed. “First a horse trainer, now a French knight so poor he had to barter for his horse.”

Cat’s cheeks flamed, but she kept her head high all the way to her chair. As she sat, she was conscious of the curious stares and ugly whispers rustling through the assembly.

“Someone should cut out that woman’s tongue,” Oscar said.

“Aye.” Cat was stunned by how quick people were to believe the worst. She and Gervase had not been alone with each other, yet they were accounted lovers. She was relieved when the appearance of the herald drew attention from herself.

Potbellied and pompous, he unfurled his scroll and, accompanied by many trumpet flourishes, announced the pairings for the jousts. On the previous day, any knight who wished to compete had made the rounds of the various lodgings and touched his sword to the shield of one with whom he desired combat. Most matches were expected. Lord Henri Gaston, the leader of the French, was to fight the duke’s champion and so on down through the ranks of the two countries who had fought for so many years.

Exhausted by the events of the past few days, Cat drowsed in her seat and tried not to fall asleep. A gasp from Oscar jerked her wide-awake. “What? Has one of our men drawn a bad opponent?”

“Archibald de Percy has challenged Gervase…winner to get the other’s armor, sword and horse.”

“Nay.” Despite his soft looks, Archie was accounted a skilled jouster. One of the best who’d come to Bordeaux. “Have you seen Gervase practice? Does he stand a chance, do you think?”

“Philippe said Sir Gervase acquitted himself well,” Oscar replied. “Considering he rides an unfamiliar mount.”

The lump spread to her belly. This was her fault. If she hadn’t given Archie such a cruel set-down, he never would have made such an outrageous proposition and Gervase would not now be jousting for his life on an unfamiliar mount.

“God be with you,” she murmured.

Gervase and Archie were the fifth pair to fight. By the time they approached the tilt barrier, Cat’s nerves were as brittle as parchment. “Tell me what is happening, Oscar, for I do not think I can bear to watch.” Eyes closed, she mouthed a fervent prayer for the horse she loved and the man she…she

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