Page 36 of A Dark and Stormy Knight (A Knight’s Tale #3)

T hunder boomed in the distance and dark clouds, heavy with moisture, sat low in the sky.

Wallace stared down the lists to the other side of the field where Sir Rupert had his lance tilted upward, waiting.

Sir Rupert’s horse, feet stamping, relayed the other man’s nerves as clearly as if Sir Rupert spoke them aloud.

In contrast, his own horse was still, muscles bunched with excitement as Wallace, cold inside, awaited the king’s command.

He’d worked toward this for so long, and now that he was to have his chance, he just wanted it over and done.

He wished to return to Wolfsbane, reclaim his inheritance, and clear out any rabble Dinsdale had installed.

A sense of being here before broke his concentration as he remembered feeling much the same way at Stirling.

A sudden chill raced up his spine.

He glanced to where Cara stood, slightly behind the king’s chair, her hand gripping the back.

She looked straight at Wallace, concern and worry upon her face.

Worry for him?

His mount snorted as if in response to her concern.

Did she think him incapable of winning?

No one, not even Cara, would interfere with his victory this time.

Two of his men had watched his mount and equipment throughout the night. And Wallace had neither food, nor drink save for the water from the skin he kept with him when traveling.

He glanced around for Lord Dinsdale, and spotted him standing in the crowd across from Sir Rupert.

He stared at his son, but did not speak to him, which struck Wallace as curious.

If his own father were there, he would offer advice, give instruction, and discuss the best way to defeat his opponent.

Grimness gripped him, his mouth setting. His father was not there, and would never be again, and the wretches responsible would finally pay for that, this day.

He glanced at the crowd, already lining up, and deemed them far enough away that no one should be injured unless they interfered.

That took his attention back to Cara, safely beside the king and queen, with no chance to disrupt the tournament.

The dust in the air, and the smell of roasting meat had his stomach clenching.

Villagers jeered, mostly at him, and he ignored them all.

As the crowd became more restless, it seemed some of them, no doubt full of ale and sweetbread, braved more, and a lout and his companions, jeered from a short distance away.

“Is the king giving ye another chance, then? Do ye suppose ye’ll be able to get yer lance up this time?”

Nearby raucous laughter told of others enjoying the crude joke.

Wallace did not react.

He continued to scan the crowd, as far as he was able, studying the people around him, ever expecting an attack, a cheat, a backstab of some sort.

Two of his own men stood at his back, also watching.

A couple of fools moved into the middle of the field, one falling down and waving a feminine handkerchief in the air, while the other ran at him, rearing up at the last moment in a parody of a horse.

The crowd laughed louder, showing he had few friends in this group.

He spotted his mother, off the side of the dais, looking his way, and knew she could not see his face.

He saw her expression well enough though, and could hear her voice in his head as clearly as if she spoke to him. You know what is at stake here.

He did. They either won, or lost all today. And if Wallace were to fall, his family would be left with a desperate future.

His stomach roiled with sudden emotion, and he willed his certainty back to the fore.

He’d honed his skills over years of fighting. No one could defeat him.

The king stood, obviously in good spirits, smiling, and lifting his hands in the air as a signal for the crowd to quiet.

They slowly did, nudging each other until everyone turned, craning their necks to see.

“Lady Helena, will you and your girls join me?”

His mother moved through the gathered aristocracy, the girls following, and the crowd finally parted to let them through.

“And, Lord Dinsdale, will you not join us as well?”

His mother’s face jerked toward the king.

The monarch apparently wanted to draw blood, wishing all of the players front and center so he could see every nuance of emotion from both winner and loser.

With Cara and his family now on the side of the queen, and Dinsdale stepping up beside the king, all the participants were in place.

“Wallace of Wolfsbane,” King Henry gestured for Wallace to come forward.

“Sir Rupert of Dinsdale.” Everyone quieted as they waited for Sir Rupert to take his place next to Wallace, facing the king.

The king would have his spectacle, but it would be over soon enough.

“What many of you may not realize, is that you are about to witness an historic event. For one thing, I have changed my mind on an issue, something I rarely do.”

After a moment of silence, he laughed, and only then did laughter break out among the audience.

Wallace did not feel so much as a sliver of amusement.

“As you know, this particular fight was to take place at Stirling, and was interrupted in a most unusual manner.”

The two jesters in the crowd ran onto the field again, one pawing the air and neighing, the other waving a handkerchief and playing the damsel. Everyone, including the king, laughed all the harder.

The king raised both hands again gesturing the crowd to silence once more.

“The matter will be decided this day, at this time, and naught will change the outcome. I’ll not reconsider a second time, that I can promise. There will be a winner, there will be a loser, there will be a definitive answer before God,” he lifted his gaze to the sky before looking directly at Wallace. “And king.”

The crowd cheered and when they quieted once more, the king said, “This time, if any person runs, or is pushed onto the field,” he gave Cara a dark look, “then I order you to run them down. I will accept no cries of foul.”

The queen leaned forward in her chair and said something to the king.

The king gave an indulgent smile. “Of course, of course. Lady Cara, will you please come forward.”

The queen said something to Cara in a low undertone as she passed, and Cara nodded and untied the ribbons around her arm.

His heart twisted in his chest as he saw she wore his colors and in another heartbeat’s time, the emotions he’d worked hard to suppress roared to life.

Get control, Wallace. He’d seen tragedies occur on the battlefield after even the briefest loss of attention.

She was not the first lady to gift a favor upon him before a joust. A kerchief, ribbon, or sleeve. But she was the first lady who was his, and his alone.

Her steady gaze met his. Her beautiful hazel eyes, her lashes ridiculously thick against her pale face, the moment seemed to stretch, grow, the very air seeming to weigh heavy.

“Wolfsbane! The lady would like your lance,” the king said, as he, and others laughed.

Wallace, coming to himself, lowered his lance and Cara tied her ribbons at the end of it.

She was nervous, a little clumsy, and it only made him love her all the more.

He swallowed against the sudden thickness in his throat. He did love her. With his whole heart. No one had ever caused this yearning tenderness she so easily unlocked inside him.

Tenderness welled within him, an astonishing emotion in the midst of all this, every eye upon them, but moments before the fight of his life.

He was humbled by the opportunity she’d won for him. He could still be languishing in the dungeon, and instead, was on the cusp of not only getting everything back, but having her as well.

She finished tying the ribbons, and looked up at him once more, her face solemn. “You’ve got this,” she said, her strange way of telling him she had confidence in him.

That tender emotion grew and expanded. She’d never been more beautiful to him than she was in that moment.

She was quickly becoming his everything.

When he won today, he’d have it all. His home, his properties, his lady.

The king laughed aloud once more. “Take thy positions!”

As he turned his mount, he kept his gaze upon Cara’s face for as long as he could.