CHAPTER ONE
The month of May
Year of Our Lord 1312
Middlesbrough Tournament
The snap of a broken lance reverberated throughout the lists and shards of wood, like little knives, went flying.
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Ronan was reeling from a very hard hit by his opponent, who was an old knight who didn’t much care for things like manners or rules. He was an old salt who simply wanted to win any possible way he could, and that included using an illegal move that nearly sent his lance through Ronan’s neck. Had Ronan been any slower, it would have. Instead, he was able to lift his left arm, which raised the ecranche, or strapped-on shield, at the last moment and deflect the blow.
But the concussion nearly blew the top of his head off.
It was difficult to know where the roaring of the crowd began and the ringing in his ears ended. It all seemed to blend together. He could hear the crowd mingled with the voices of his own men, who were now steadying his horse and pushing him back up into a seated position. He didn’t even realize that he’d been listing dangerously to the left.
But someone shoved him right back into an upright position on the saddle.
“You’re going to have to destroy him or he will destroy you first,” the man next to him was saying. “Ronan, do you hear me?”
Someone grabbed him by the arm and gave him a shake. Ronan blinked away the stars that were still dancing before his eyes. He could see his cousins all around him; Edward Hage, his brothers Axel and Christian, plus Titus de Wolfe and Gareth de Wolfe. All seasoned men, all competing in the Middlesbrough games like a bunch of bloodthirsty knaves on their first kill. Now that Ronan had been knocked silly by the old knight, there was fire in their eyes.
“I hear you, Eddie,” Ronan muttered, shaking off the bells and rubbing his eyes. “You lot smell the blood, but it will not be mine. I will do what needs to be done now that my opponent has shown me his true colors.”
“Ronan?” A shout came from behind and they all turned to see a knight riding up on horseback. “Did he hurt you, lad?”
Ronan grinned weakly at the heavy-set knight dressed in expensive armor. “I am afraid he did not knock me out of the competition, Dyce,” he said. “You’ll have to do that yourself if you want your path to the prize made clear.”
Sir Dyce de Brito grinned at the man who had been his best friend for the past several years. Big, white teeth parted his dark beard. “If we end up going against each other later today, that can be arranged,” he said. “Meanwhile, stop behaving like a weak woman. De Whinfell tried to take your head off. Answer the man and show him what you’re made of.”
Ronan shook his head one last time to rid himself of his buzzing head and took a deep breath. Grasping the reins with one hand, he held out the other.
“Lance!” he bellowed.
Someone slapped a lance into his gloved hand and he shifted his grip, taking hold. He could feel the weight of the perfectly balanced joust pole, one that was twelve feet long with a great wolf’s head on the tip, and put it into the “sling”, which was in a tucked position on his right side. The field marshals, seeing that he was upright and armed, dropped the flag.
The opposing knights dug their spurs into the barrel-round flanks of their steeds and the crowd roared. The thunder that filled the arena as the horses charged towards each other was deafening, mingling with the screams of the crowd, building to a piercing proportion as the knights finally came within range of one another. Ronan, a man of considerable power and control, maintained the position of his lance even as his opponent tried to unseat him again. As he dodged the lance aiming for his head, he brought his around and caught his opponent in the throat.
De Whinfell toppled.
The crowd was on their feet, screaming and cheering for the knight who wore the de Wolfe tunic and flew de Wolfe standards over his encampment. Ronan de Wolfe, grandson of the great Wolfe of the Border, William de Wolfe, was a tournament favorite in the north. Muscular, blond, and brilliantly handsome, women threw favors and flowers at him as he made a sweeping pass in front of the stands. Maidens standing down by the barriers wept at the sight of him. One even fainted. Ronan brought all manner of reaction from eager women of all ages, but he ignored them all.
He had a wife.
Unfortunately.
“Well done, Roe,” Edward said, grabbing hold of Ronan’s horse as the man came out of the arena. “You showed the man your worth. He’ll not doubt it again, nor will anyone else.”
Ronan pulled his helm off, handing it to his squire, as he dismounted his horse with a good deal of effort. Truth be told, his ears were still ringing a little.
“If de Whinfell survives his fall and I see him anywhere around the encampment, I shall beat the man within an inch of his life,” he muttered, loosening his heavy gauntlets. “The man tried to seriously disable me or worse. I intend to express my displeasure.”
“Knocking him from his horse isn’t enough?”
“It is not.”
Edward smirked as Ronan cocked an eyebrow to prove how serious he was. His silent squire was in front of him, taking off his gauntlets and other pieces efficiently. Ronan handed over a few other things he could manage to remove, sending the big, blond young man off towards the encampment as his cousins gathered around to express their mutual opinions about de Whinfell’s behavior and Ronan’s reaction to it.
“De Whinfell came with some soldiers,” Titus de Wolfe said. He was exceedingly tall, with a crown of dark hair and his grandfather’s golden eyes. “If we are going to do it, I suggest we do it now while he’s walking off your victory.”
Ronan glanced at him. “He walked from the field? I hadn’t noticed.”
Titus smirked. “Aye, he walked from the field,” he said. “He only has a couple of men with him. If we intend to send him a message, now would be the time.”
Ronan scratched his damp head, looking at the men around him. Men he’d grown up with, men who were like brothers to him. Titus was the son of his Uncle Patrick, the Earl of Berwick, while Edward, Axel, and Christian were the sons of his Aunt Katheryn, twin of his own father, James. He knew, just by looking at that motley gang, that de Whinfell was in for a heaping of punishment.
He grinned.
“Ah,” he murmured with satisfaction. “The de Wolfe Pack is determined to help me punish a fool. Well and good, I say. Let’s do it now while my temper is still hot.”
But Titus stopped him. “You’d better let us go alone,” he said. “If you are identified as having roughed the man up, you could lose your place in the lists.”
That was very true and Ronan didn’t want to be eliminated, not when he was performing well and the purse was substantial. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I shall remain behind while you take care of business.”
Titus turned him in the direction of the encampment. “Go back to camp and let St. Hever strip you out of your protection,” he said. “The little squire will be your alibi.”
They were starting to walk away in a group and Ronan snorted. “That little squire is as good a knight as I’ve ever seen and he’s only twelve years of age,” he said pointedly. “Mark my words, lads – Kenneth St. Hever will be a great knight someday. Better than all of us, I am certain.”
“Not better than me,” Edward said, frowning. “Get out of here, Roe. Go back to the encampment and we shall tend to the vermin. When we are finished with him, he’ll not do to another man what he tried to do to you.”
Ronan just stood there and chuckled, watching his cousins head back towards the arena, fanning out through the crowd as they went in search of their target. It was a large crowd and a large tournament, full of people milling about around the stands, the food vendors, and any number of other vendors that tended to follow the tournament circuit. This tournament was part of the usual northern circuit, but it was also sponsored by the Earl of Teesside because he fancied himself an avid tournament competitor.
Nothing like sponsoring one’s own tournament to nearly guarantee a victory.
At least, that’s what the old earl thought. That’s what his son thought, also, but the son received a rude awakening that morning when he went up against a le Bec knight who promptly knocked him on his arse. After that debacle, the earl himself withdrew, pleading illness. The field was already narrowing down to the serious and skilled competitors, Ronan included.
His friend, Dyce, was competing next.
As the de Wolfe Pack went on the hunt, Ronan remained at the arena in spite of Titus’ recommendation that he return to the encampment to the west. It was a sunny day, with a brisk breeze blowing in off the sea, whistling along the River Tees and snapping the standards that were flying over the tournament field, and he wanted to see the rest of the bouts. It was nearing the end of the day’s competition and, tomorrow, the winners from today’s rounds would compete against each other.
He wanted to see who he would be up against.
As Ronan watched, Dyce managed to do away with his opponent in three passes, barely eking by, in truth. Dyce was a great man, wise and intelligent, but he didn’t have the physical prowess or skill that Ronan had. In fact, the truth was that Dyce didn’t have much of anything other than a big heart and a big smile. But as he came off the field, Ronan congratulated him as if the man had just won the Olympic games. It was a very good day.
And a night that was about to get better.
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