Braxton’s gaze lingered on the young girl for a long, pregnant moment. “Graehm, send a few men back to Erith for my joust equipment,” he spoke to the knight while still looking at Brooke. “Make sure to bring the banners. Dallas, go to the field marshals and see if they have any openings in the match cards.”
“Can we all compete?” Dallas asked him, his blue eyes twinkling. “It has been a long time since we’ve all gone to sport against each other.”
Braxton shrugged. “If you are all willing to be crushed by me, then by all means, enter your names,” he watched Dallas grin and walk away. Braxton refocused on Brooke. “If the field marshals will allow late entries, we may very well have a tournament for you worth watching.”
Brooke clapped her hands in excitement and skipped back over to the merchant stall where she had dropped her sack of candy when she attacked Edgar. Gray, of course, had been listening to the entire conversation; leaving Edgar, she went over to Braxton.
“Braxton,” she said quietly. “You do not need to do this to impress my daughter. A tournament is a serious sport. You cannot simply jump in and compete. It takes training and preparation.”
He blue-green eyes were soft on her. “No worries, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I can joust in my sleep.”
“But…” she gestured towards Edgar. “The lad is injured. We must return him to Erith.”
“We’ll make sure he stays off of the ankle,” he told her. “He’ll be fine. Besides, he likes a good tournament, too. Your daughter seems convinced it will heal his injury.”
She stared at him, realizing he was quite casual about something as serious as a tournament. She furthermore realized that she did not want him to compete. Men in tournaments were often hurt. She did not want him to get hurt.
“Please don’t do this,” she almost whispered.
He reached up, stroking her jaw tenderly before letting his hand fall back down again. “You needn’t worry,” he told her gently. “You’ll be greatly entertained, I promise.”
She did not look at all pleased. He collected her hand, kissed it, and tucked it into the crook of his elbow.
“Shall we go and look at more goods while we are waiting for Dallas?” he asked, attempting to distract her.
She shook her head. “I must tend the boy’s ankle. Is there an apothecary around here?”
“What for?”
“Wraps and healing herbs. His ankle is swelling and he is in pain.”
“Is it that bad? Boys are fairly resilient.”
“It’s bad, Braxton. It needs to be wrapped.”
He looked around, trying to recall if he had seen a shop during his past visits to this place. “I am not sure where an apothecary might be, but we shall find one.”
Leaving Brooke and her candy with Geoff and Norman, Gray and Braxton struck off in search of an apothecary. After asking a few of the merchants where such a place might be, they found their way onto the next avenue where a small medicament shop was wedged in between two larger merchant stalls.
This street was busier than the one they had just left. People bustled all about them, quickly going about their business. Gray almost got run over, twice. The first time was from a busy farmer that crossed her path. The second was a knight on horseback, a big black knight with eyes like obsidian. Though she paid no mind to him, he paid a great mind to her. Fortunately, Braxton did not notice; he was more concerned with getting her out of the traffic.
The apothecary shop was so small that Braxton had to bend over to enter it; once inside, there were odd smells and strange implements all around them. A tiny little man sat behind a cluttered table at the far end of the shop, ignoring them. He either hadn’t heard the pair enter or didn’t care. As Braxton and Gray made their way toward the old man, a fat white cat jumped into their path. It hissed. Gray shoved the beast away with her foot.
Braxton went straight for the old man. “We are need of healing aids for a young boy’s ankle,” he said. “Do you have such things?”
The old man blinked up at Braxton, then at Gray standing behind him. He was a frail old soul, with a long yellowed beard and most of his teeth missing. He blinked again.
“What’s this you say? You want a young boy?”
Braxton shook his head. “Nay. We are in need of pain medicaments for.…”
“Ah!” the old man threw up his hand and turned his back on them, rummaging through a cluttered shelf. “I have something that will help your wife bear a strong young son and crushed root that will take care of her pain in childbirth,” he yanked forth a glass phial with dark powder. He thrust it at Braxton. “Pessaries. Guaranteed to produce a son. You place it into your wife before coupling. It will magnify your seed so that a strong lad is produced.”
Shocked at the bizarre path the conversation had taken, Braxton looked at Gray. “Is that what I really said?” he muttered to her. “I don’t recall asking for pessaries to produce a son.”
Gray was struggling not to laugh. After the initial surprise wore off, she found the senile old man absolutely hilarious. “Perhaps you should,” she whispered. “Perhaps then we will receive pain medicaments to help a swollen ankle.”
He wriggled his eyebrows at her, turning around just as the little man pulled forth another phial containing a clear liquid with dark floaters on the bottom. The old gentleman swirled it around, mesmerized by the drift of the fluid.
“For the pain, my lady,” he said. “Boy infants always produce more pain than girl infants. I do not know why. It has always been thus.”
Gray struggled not to erupt into giggles. “Perhaps you could provide us with medicines to produce twins. Two male children at once would be most… uh, pleasant.”
She had no idea why she asked, only that the entire conversation, and visit, seemed so absurd. She wanted to see if she could somehow steer the old man towards what they were really seeking. True enough, the old man’s face lit up.
“Ah!” he threw up a hand again. “I have just what you need for an aching joint. ’Tis over here, somewhere. It will help with the pain and reduce any swelling.”
Gray and Braxton looked at each other. She bit her lip to fight off the laughter while he simply shook his head. He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her up against him.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, kissing her temple. “It worked.”
The old man sold them a solution of willow and ergot, and a viscous cream that was supposed to dull away any aches. It smelled strongly of mint. He also sold Braxton the pessaries and the clear liquid for childbirth because Braxton was sure he could not explain to the man that he did not need such things. He just paid for them and left. By the time they reached the street, Gray was nearly doubled over with laughter.
He grinned at her. “So you think that funny, do you?”
She tried to catch her breath. “Oh, Braxton, that was hilarious. Do you think the old man was hard of hearing or was he just insane?”
“Probably a little of both,” Braxton reached out and pulled her to him, stealing a passionate kiss as they passed in an alleyway between the avenues. They paused a moment in the shadows between the buildings, gazing into one another’s eyes. “On second thought, I should hang on to these pessaries. I may need them some day.”
He meant with her. Her cheeks flushed again, now for an entirely different reason. “Perhaps,” was all she would say.
He took her hand again, leading her out into the sunshine of the Street of Merchants. To their left, Brooke was now sitting up on the wagon bench beside Edgar, apparently sharing her candy with him. Braxton lifted an eyebrow at the sight.
“Do you think she poisoned the candy?” he asked quietly.
Gray shrieked softly, giving him a little pinch. “How dare you speak so cruelly of my child. And I would not be surprised if she did.”
He winked at her as they came upon the wagon. Edgar had his mouth stuffed with vanilla candy and Brooke was sitting beside him quite innocently. The young boy looked fe
arful as Gray began to lay out the medicaments on the wagon bed.
“I will need a long strip of cloth, preferable linen,” she said to Braxton. “Do you have something that might fit that description?”
He shrugged. “If not, I can find one somewhere.”
A half hour later, Edgar’s ankle was slathered with the smelly cream and bound tightly in a strip of linen that Geoff had provided from his saddlebag. Just as Gray finished the final tug of the ankle wrap, Brooke caught sight of Dallas’ return at the far end of the avenue. She leapt off the wagon and ran to him, dodging customers and merchants as she dashed down the road.
Everyone, including Braxton and Gray, turned to watch as Brooke said something to Dallas and the knight nodded his head. Even though Braxton hadn’t heard the words, he had seen the response and presumed what it meant. He began to feel the familiar excitement swell within him.
There would be a bit of sport that afternoon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Milnthorpe tournament was only about half full. In a field open to 20 knights, there were twelve competing. The addition of Braxton, Dallas, Geoff and Graehm filled up the cards and bulked up the excitement. The matches were schedule through late morning but in an unusual move, because of Braxton’s impressive Patins – or résumé of lineage and bouts – the field marshals had agreed to let Braxton and his men compete against the winners of the morning rounds. There would only be six of them, with four going against Braxton and his knights and the remaining two matched against each other.
Six men at arms and Norman had taken the wagon back to Erith to unload the goods purchased that morning and to collect their knights’ equipment, including shields, additional swords, joust poles, pennants and banners, a list of Patins, and additional armor. Norman knew what Braxton and his men would need and ably directed the men at arms to collect and load it back into the wagon. He even brought along two additional chargers, young animals that were still being trained. Not only would it be good to bring them in case one of the other chargers broke down, but Braxton might decide to ride one of them just to give them the experience. It had been over a year since Braxton had competed in a tournament and the men left behind at Erith were disappointed that they did not get to go.
A swift wagon could make the trip between Erith and Milnthorpe in less than an hour. It had taken them less than an hour to return to Erith, the loading had also taken less than an hour, and soon they were back on their way. One of the young chargers was acting up and Norman ended up riding the horse all the way to Milnthorpe.
They met up with Braxton and the others near the southwest end of the tournament area. Braxton’s men immediately began unloading equipment and pitched two large tents, both well-made shelters in Braxton’s colors of crimson, white, green and gold. The more Gray spent time with the man and saw how he functioned, the more she realized that Braxton de Nerra was no ordinary knight bannerette; he had an entire world that revolved around him, in spite of the fact he was considered a knight without property.
Braxton put Brooke and Edgar up in the wagon to keep them from being run down by the men setting up tents and offloading equipment. Strangely, they had been sitting together eating Brooke’s candy since Gray had wrapped the boy’s ankle with nary a harsh word between them. Gray stayed with Braxton, watching him direct his men coming to understand a little bit more about the man and his personality. She noticed that he never had to say much; more often than not, he merely pointed or directed with a short word and his men leapt to do his bidding. He wasn’t heavy-handed, but he was firm. She liked the way his strong, quiet authority carried. And he always had the right answer for any question.
He caught her staring at him a couple of times, a quizzical look on her face. She would merely smile and he would smile back. As the sun approached its zenith and the little encampment was finally and carefully organized, the knights began to change from the battle armor they had worn for the ride to Milnthorpe into lighter-weight, more pristine protection.
Gray stood in the larger tent, watching curiously as Norman unfastened all of Braxton’s heavy, dented armor and began replacing it with nicer-appearing body armor.
“Why are you changing armor?” she asked the inevitable question.
He glanced up from adjusting the hang of the breastplate. “Because this is armor specifically designed for tournaments. It’s easier to move in, easier to joust in, yet provides some protection from a blow.”
She looked dubious. “I do not understand.”
He smiled faintly at her. “The heavier stuff that I wear all of the time is made for battle. It can be restricting, but the protection it provides is worth the difficulty of movement. When you are in close quarters battling to the death, you want something heavy to protect yourself with. When I am up on a charger with a joust pole in my hand, the only protection I need is against my chest, arms and head. The rest of it is superfluous.” He held up the lighter weight armor pieces. “See this? It is designed for my right arm and shoulder. See how the section of armor here that fastens to the breast plate is large and circular shaped, like a platter? It’s designed to not only protect my right shoulder, which the opposition will be aiming for, but to deflect the blow because it is shaped like bowl. This armor is designed especially for a joust. For the mêlée, I will wear my heavier armor.”
She understood, somewhat, watching Norman strap on his leg armor. Braxton stomped his foot, letting the protection settle comfortably on his leg once Norman was finished. Then the lad went to work on the other leg.
“Usually, both Edgar and Norman assist me,” Braxton watched the dark-haired lad work quickly. “I am normally dressed far more quickly than any of the other men.”
Norman picked up the pace, thinking Braxton was giving him a hint. Gray smiled as she watched the boy’s fingers work swiftly over the leather fastens. “I think he is doing a remarkable job,” she said.
“He usually does.”
When Norman finished with the other leg, Braxton took a couple of good stomps and settled the rest of the armor. He twisted his torso, stretching out and moving his plate protection to a comfortable spot. Norman grabbed Braxton’s broadswords, scabbards, and other necessary equipment and made a dash for the charger outside the tent.
Gray stood in the dimness of the tent, watching Braxton fuss with a shoulder strap that was too tight. He glanced up, noticing that she was staring at him again.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she cocked her head at him. “I simply haven’t seen a man dress for battle in a very long time.”
He continued to fidget with the strap. “Your father?”
She nodded. “I remember him going to battle when I was young, though at that point, the wars with Henry had ended. My father was fifteen years old when Simon was killed at Evesham in twelve hundred and sixty-five, so he never had the chance to fight alongside his father. He was too young. He went to his grave with that regret.”
“What about Garber?”
“Never,” she said, her expression changing. It was apparent that when discussing her late husband, there was not much pleasure in it. “Garber was not a knight in spite of being raised that way. I never saw him in a suit of armor, though his father was quite a warrior. Garber was too concerned with his drink and gambling to bother with the anything else.”
Braxton had never shown much interest in learning about Garber Serroux other than cursory knowledge. But the closer he drew to Gray, the more he wanted to know about this man she had been married to. He was inherently curious.
“I have only heard the darker side of Garber Serroux,” he said, finished adjusting the strap. “Surely the man had some redeeming qualities.”
Gray shrugged. “Not particularly. The moment he married me, he began to sell off my father’s possessions. They were passed down from my grandfather; furniture, fine weaponry, things like that. He took them all and sold them in London, not telling anyone that they were posse
ssions once having belonged to Simon de Montfort. Then he went and gambled all of the money away on dog races. And that was the beginning of our descent into poverty. He was a drunkard, rude, abusive, lazy and dishonest. I can honestly tell you that he had no redeeming qualities that I was aware of, and I was married to him for fifteen years.”
His blue-green eyes were fixed on her. “What do you mean when you say that he was abusive?”
“I mean that he used to like to strike me when he was drunk. Not always, but sometimes. It depended on what he was drinking. If he was drunk on ale, then he was not so mean. But if it was anything else, he turned quite violent.”
Braxton took a step towards her, reaching out to gently stroke her arm. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “You did not deserve that. In fact, you have deserved nothing of what your ties to Garber Serroux brought you.”
“It wasn’t my ties to Garber. It was my ties to Simon.”
He knew that. “You only deserve the greatness of that association, not the unfair shame cast upon it.”
He was gentle and sincere. It almost made her forget every bad deed Garber, or her association with the de Montfort name, had ever executed against her. His manner, and time, had eased her dreadful memories a great deal. But it was the first time she had ever heard anyone apologize for the misfortunes of her fate.
“It is of no matter,” she said. “He is gone and you are here. That is all that matters to me now.”
He didn’t take his eyes off her as he stepped close, gazing down into her exquisite face. He didn’t want to pull her into an embrace against the hard armor he wore, so he took her hands, bringing them to his lips. He kissed the fingers sweetly, turning her hands over to kiss her palms. It was a tender yet exhilarating gesture that brought a smile to them both.
“And I will be here for some time to come, so you had better become used to my presence,” he leaned down and kissed her lips. “Now, I suspect everyone will be waiting for me. Are you ready to be entertained?”
Her gentle, dreamy expression fled. “Braxton, I really wish you would not do this. It frightens me.”