Chapter 1
Grand Tournament of Henham Moor, England, 1152
A hushed silence fell over the crowd as they waited for the trumpets. Once sounded,
Gareth could finally unleash the power of the warhorse beneath him, finishing what he’d come
here to accomplish.
It was the final joust of the tournament, and he was just one opponent away from being
named champion. That it would be his fifth such victory since the weather had broken and
tourney season began did not diminish his excitement which Gareth attempted to quell.
Celebrating victory before I’ve won is a clear path to defeat.
Shutting out the colored banners, the shouts and cheers and all but he and his horses’
movements, along with those of his opponent, Gareth breathed deeply. . . in and out. Without
warning, the trumpets blared. Spurring his mount forward, he waited longer than usual to lower
his lance. Longer than his opponent anticipated. Almost too long.
Thankfully, as planned, he’d taken his formidable opponent by surprise. The clash of
metal and wood, along with the sound of its splintering, echoed in his ears as Gareth slowed,
eventually turning back to find the German knight precisely where he’d expected him to be after
such an impact.
On the ground.
Scrambling to his feet, the man turned toward Gareth. Though the joust was ended, his
victory complete, for some unconscionable reason, the knight unsheathed his sword. Scrambling
down from his mount, unwilling to allow him to come to harm from what appeared to be a
furious and crazed opponent, Gareth unsheathed his own.
“‘Tis done,” he called out as the crowd returned to its pre-joust silence. “What are you
about?” he asked, hoping to avoid bloodshed.
“You cheated,” the knight yelled for all to hear.
Gareth nearly stumbled as he made his way forward. Cheated? He’d never done as much
in his life, nor would he, and to have such an accusation made against him was Gareth’s worst
nightmare come to pass.
“Never,” he growled as his opponent’s sword first struck Gareth’s. “Why would you say
such a thing?”
“Cheater,” the man yelled again.
There were ways to cheat in a joust, but that he refused to name one, and Gareth knowing
he did no such thing, he again asked for evidence of such a claim.
He was never given such evidence, and it was only when their noble host called for a stop
to the swordplay did Gareth have an opportunity to look more closely at his opponent.
Something, though he could not name what precisely, was amiss.
“Drop your weapons,” their host called from his place among the stands.
Both men did so, the tourney rules requiring it.
“What evidence do you have for this claim?” he asked the German, a man whose name
Gareth could not even remember. He’d fought so many men, in so many places, one began to
look like the next.
When his opponent did not answer, their host turned his attention toward Gareth.
“You’ve been accused of cheating, though no evidence has been provided, nor do I see any to
support such a claim. As such, you are not only crowned champion of the Grand Tournament of
Henham Moor, but you’ve the right to claim all possessions of your opponent for his false
claim.”
Ignoring the cheers that erupted around him, Gareth turned toward the man who’d
attempted to dishonor him. Jaw locked, expressionless, he gave nothing away. Again Gareth had
a suspicion of something. . . amiss. . . he could not quite place.
No matter. He had won. ‘Twas all that mattered. Securing another victory. Restoring his
family’s name. Nothing—not this knight’s false claim or the mystery surrounding the reason for
it—would occupy Gareth’s mind.
“He may keep them,” Gareth called up to his host. “I’ve the only horse I need.”
Of all the man’s possessions that could have been forfeit to Gareth, ‘twas his mount that
was the most valuable. But that was not the kind of valuables Gareth sought at this tourney.
More than one gasp greeted his words. Aware most would not have made the same
decision, he attempted to yell loud enough for his host to hear. “Permission to regain my
weapon, my lord.”
“Granted.”
More cheers. But Gareth cared as little for those as he did any other spoils of his victory
beyond the coin owed him and recognition that the Claymore name was not one of treason but of
honor.
Leaving the field with his horse’s reigns in his hand and Gareth’ squire’s excited
recounting of the even in his ear, he was not halfway to his tent when two hooded men stopped
him.
“This way,” one of the men said, as if Gareth would simply go with him.
“I will not—”
“Sir Gareth Claymore of Fenwall Manor,” the second man added. “We wish only a
private word.”
He was about to tell them no, again, when the first man whose beard covered most of his
face, said, “I squired alongside your father, a man well-respected despite the false claims against
him. He and your mother accepted me into your home this winter’s past and know me well. We
simply wish for a brief word.”
He lied.
Not about squiring alongside his father or visiting his home, one Gareth had not been to
for too long. He lied about wishing for only a brief word. That same premonition that told him
something was amiss with the German’s claim also told him that his man wanted more than just
a word. Perhaps it was the way his gaze held Gareth’s, even beneath the hood.
However, he was not a threat. Of that, Gareth was certain.
Handing off reigns of his mount to a squire, Gareth wordlessly followed the two
mysterious men toward the edge of the tents where they could presumably not be overheard.
Gareth had no way of knowing for certain, but he guessed that their arrival and the odd
accusation of cheating was related and told the men as much when they’d reached their apparent
destination.
“You had something to do with the German’s cheating claims.”
He did not ask it as a question, but stated as much as a fact. By both men’s reactions,
Gareth realized he been right.
“And intelligent,” the bearded men said to the other, as if they were appraising him.
“Indeed,” his companion replied. “He will do well for us. Very well indeed.” ...
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