“Did the earlsee you?” Justus wanted to know. “God’s Bones, the man is not a fool. He will know you on sight, Mathias. You cannot deceive him.”
Back behind the smithy stall in a small corral used for horses waiting to be shod, Mathias held fast to the big bay stallion he had just confiscated from de Lara’s encampment. The horse was excitable and beautiful, and as he held the beast still while Sebastian adjusted the saddle, he wondered what had become of his own lovely charger he had surrendered along with his weapons and armor. The horse had been with him for seven years, a beautiful animal the color of silver, and he knew the horse had been coveted by many. He was sure the animal was part of some nobleman’s collection, possibly even the king’s collection, and was very well treated. Still, he missed the horse.
“I spoke with de Lara at length this morning,” Mathias replied. “You know this. You saw him when he was here.”
“I saw him,” Justus said impatiently. “Sebastian and I purposely hid away when he came. We knew he had much to say to you.”
“He had much to say to us all,” Mathias said, somewhat quietly. “I told you that he apologized again for what occurred. It was all things we have heard before, words of anguish and hope. He still feels very guilty for what happened.”
“He should not,” Sebastian said as he swung the saddle onto the charger’s back. “We made our choice and accepted the consequences.”
Mathias struggled with the charger that didn’t want to stand still. “Even so, the man has a conscience.”
“Conscience or no, he will arrest us if he discovers what you’ve done,” Justus said, agitated. “I did not raise you to be foolish, Mathias.”
Mathias was helping his brother with the leather straps that secured the saddle to the horse’s body.
“Nay, you did not,” he said, grunting when the twitching horse bumped into him. “But you did raise me to be bold, brave, and determined, and that is exactly what I shall be.”
Justus knew there was no discouraging him. Mathias was stubborn in every sense of the word. It was a character flaw or strength depending on the situation, so the old man sighed heavily and stood back as his sons prepared the enormous charger with pieces of tack they’d accumulated over the past year. The equipment wasn’t nearly as elaborate as some of the knights in the competition, but it was adequate. It would have to do.
Mathias was going to go through with this charade regardless of what Justus said. Therefore, rather than fight his son, he stepped in to assist. The three of them had soared to the top of the power echelon together and had fallen back down again together, and if Mathias was to be arrested for doing something he very much wanted to do, then Justus would be by his side for that also. As always, the de Reynes would serve together, following a tradition set forth by Justus’ great-great-grandfather, Creed de Reyne. He, too, served with his brothers. The de Reynes were a loyal bunch.
As Justus moved to the back of the horse to fuss with the plain yellow banner on his haunches, Sebastian moved up to the bridle where his brother was.
“Where did you get that favor,” he asked, pointing to the balled-up shawl on the pommel of the saddle.
Mathias glanced at it. “From a certain young lady.”
“Lady Cathlina?”
“Aye.”
“The same lady you warned me against because she is, in fact, a de Lara?”
“The same.”
Sebastian was the last one to judge his brother, but even he shook his head after a moment. “From a man who sees reason in all things, I am impressed with your willingness to be reckless. I sincerely hope she is worth it.”
Mathias looked at his brother, depth of sincerity in his expression. “I would not be doing this if she was not. She is worth all this and more.”
Sebastian believed him.
*
There were twenty-sevenknights competing in the Brampton tournament, and most of those were from the north. There were a few that made a profession out of tournaments rather than battles, and those men were gaily bedecked with banners and followed by countless women begging for a lock of hair or a glimpse of their smile.
One knight in particular had big plumage feathers sticking up out of helm, quite full of himself until St. Héver cut the plumes in half with his sword. Kenneth said it was an accident but most knew it wasn’t. He had been annoyed by the prideful knight’s boasting just as the other competitors had been. When Kenneth had hacked off the plumes, the knights within eyeshot had roared with laughter.
Including Tate. It had been a bit of comic relief in the midst of serious tournament preparation. He and Kenneth had been preparing their chargers for the coming bouts. Kennethhad drawn the second bout against a big bald knight named Quinton de Gare while Tate wasn’t going until the seventh round against a knight named Chanson de Lovern. After the mutilated plumage incident, they returned to their equipment as Kenneth prepared to shortly compete.
“What do we know of de Gare?” Tate asked him as he fixed a leather strap that had broken. “The name sounds familiar but I cannot place him.”
Kenneth grunted. “You are not going to like the answer.”
Tate’s head came up. “Why not?”
Kenneth glanced at him as he finished adjusting his stirrup. “He was sworn to Hugh Despenser the Younger,” he said. “I remember seeing him years ago when the Despensers wrought their havoc. Do you not recall him as a younger man? He had hair then.”
