Gray looked at the array of swords on the table before him, alternately lifting and swinging one and then another as he tested their weight and balance in his hand. The selection of practice blades should have been sufficient, but he found himself dissatisfied with every weapon. ’Twas an annoyance and not like him to allow himself to be so distracted. Yet the image of his wife kept coming to him, taking his thoughts away from his work.
He’d avoided her successfully so far this day. But in his mind’s eye he saw her as she’d been last night, pressed against his chamber door, her eyes beseeching, her skin golden honey in the firelight. She’d begged him not to hunt down her brother then, and he’d agreed. But no such constraints bound him today.
Pacing to a window of the nearly barren chamber, he glanced out of the open shutter. It was not yet midday and already the heat oppressed, undulating over the fields in waves. In less than an hour theméléewould commence; he could see preparations taking place at the edge of the grounds, saw patches of brightly colored silks shining in the sun, pitched by traveling knights who’d come to try their luck at winning the tournament ransoms this day. His reputation as the best of King Henry’s champions always seemed to attract droves of young men eager to try their mettle against him.
Gray frowned, wondering how many of those same men would be carried from the field of battle on pallets. Turning on his heel, he strode back to the table and stripped off his shirt. He hefted one of the swords, swinging it in wide arcs, then lunging and jabbing in a few practice passes. But as he warmed to the task, his movements became more intense; soon he was repeating the series of motions over and over, driving himself with relentless focus until he ran with sweat. Yet it wasn’t enough. The familiar beast grew inside him, thirsting for the feel of his blade hacking through flesh, for the slippery heat of blood spilling over his hand.
Gray pushed himself harder, moving faster, as he swung his sword with greater precision and violence against his invisible foe, the adversary who’d made every battle he’d fought in the last seventeen years a struggle for life or death. He struck at the guilt and anger that had been eating him from the inside out since that horrible day…since the moment he’d lost Gillian forever.
Gillian. His mind breathed her name as he swung and sliced with his blade. The images flooded back, assaulting him, pummeling him with fury. He’d choked on her name then, unable to speak it aloud after he’d found her, his twin, his second self, knowing that it was his fault. His unimaginable error.
Gray. Oh, Gray, it hurts…make it stop hurting. Her whispering voice haunted him, sharpening his rage and twisting his gut until he felt sure that he too must bleed from the pain. But he’d never escape the guilt, never be absolved of the sin or the memory. He’d left Gillian alone, and the son of a bitch had gotten her. Thornby had broken her with his fists, leaving nothing but a bloodied, bruised shell. And as he’d held his beautiful sister—his equal—in his arms that day, she’d opened her eyes one last time, looked into the depths of his soul…and stopped breathing.
The red haze of agony and rage swelled, bubbling and building to a wordless roar that filled Gray’s chest and burst free in a sound to rival the howling of the damned.
With one, swift movement, he swung his sword into the air and slammed it point first into the table. Then he sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His breath rasped painfully, straining his sides. His body felt numb, and he fought against the flood of emotions, even as he ached for the cleansing relief of tears that wouldn’t come.
After a moment he became aware of sight and sound and touch again; he heard the heavy hilt of his sword rocking back and forth atop the blade he’d embedded in the table. His hands fell limp to his sides as he pushed back the darkness and the fury. But it was there anyway, always lurking close to the surface and waiting to spread bloody destruction.
Pushing himself to his feet, he moved slowly to the door. His time was up. Theméléewas about to begin, and yet he dreaded its start almost as much as he despised waking each day. It wasn’t the danger he feared. Clashing swords, grinding bones, pain, injury, even death—none of it held any power over him. Nay, ’twas just the opposite. He was bound by an understanding of the dark forces that drove him; somehow he needed to find control, to rein in the raging beast that clawed for release whenever he was on the field of battle…
Because he knew that if he didn’t, Eduard was going to need the protection of God Himself to walk away from the tournament this day with his life.
Catherine felt sick as she climbed the raised pavilion that had been set up at a safe distance from the field where theméléewas being assembled. Several ladies and the few older lords who sat as spectators viewed her surreptitiously as she passed. Because of her husband’s position, she knew that none would use outward ill manners, but it was clear that they were curious about the woman who’d wed the powerful Baron Grayson de Camville.
She recognized a few guests from the brief introductions she’d received during the wedding feast yesterday. Lady Mandeville sat at one end of the pavilion. She was surrounded by her ladies, all in varying hues of pink, while she herself was swathed in what seemed to be yards of heavy crimson fabric. Only the force of a breeze that had developed in the past half-hour seemed to prevent the lady, draped in excessive silk, from succumbing to a swoon.
The Countess avoided Catherine’s gaze, but a younger woman nearby smiled shyly. Nodding in return, Catherine tried to remember her name. Lady Margaret of Haverford, that was it. She murmured some pleasantries to her as she edged past toward her seat in the front of the spectators.
Catherine settled onto the padded bench, uncertain what to do next. She’d never witnessed a tournament before; both her father and Geoffrey had been too ashamed of her to allow her attendance at them. As she glanced discreetly to her right, she saw Eleanor de Valianne waving a silken cloth at a knight riding past. Fascinated, Catherine watched as the gallant stopped to acknowledge the gesture. With a flourish, he tipped his spear, accepting the bit of silk from Eleanor, before riding off to join the ranks gathering on the northern side of the field.
The chivalric display made a pit open in Catherine’s stomach. Quickly, she sat up straighter, scolding herself for a fool. ’Twas futile to wish for what could never be. She’d learned long ago that she’d never be first in any man’s heart.
Someone nudged her arm, sparing her further self-disparagement. “Have you a token for Lord Camville, lady? He will undoubtedly take the field soon.”
Turning, she looked into the wrinkled, kind face of William de Bergh, one of the king’s assistant justiciars. He’d taken the seat next to her, and for some reason, seeing him made her feel more at ease. As with all of Ravenslock’s guests, she’d met him briefly during the wedding feast, and she’d noticed that Grayson had seemed fond of the old man. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “What did you say?”
He smiled and patted her hand. “You should prepare a token, Lady Camville. Ready a favor to present to your lord husband when he comes onto the field.”
Catherine’s throat felt like it was going to close. “Me, offer him a token?” she croaked. “But what shall I give? I brought nothing—”
The sound of trumpets broke into her speech, followed by a rumbling so fierce, she thought the pavilion must fall with the reverberation of it. Three score knights thundered onto the far end of the field, led by a magnificent figure atop a steel gray stallion. The squire riding next to him held high an azure banner that flapped in the wind.
As the pennant unfurled and snapped, Catherine squinted and caught sight of an emblazoned gold eagle with wings outstretched, a thunderbolt clasped in its hooked beak. The same design decorated the blue samite tunic the powerful knight wore over his hauberk, as well as the shield strapped onto his left forearm.
A thrill of shock went through her. ’Twas her husband’s device—and it was Grayson himself who led these warriors across the green. He was still too distant for her to see his expression clearly, though Catherine could now identify his form. His powerful stature and dark hair gave him away. Many of the men who rode behind him wore mail coifs and helms that left only their faces visible, but Grayson’s head was bare, allowing his hair to flow free to his shoulders and whip in the wind.
“Lord of the Storm,” William murmured next to her. “That’s what they call your husband. ’Tis a tribute to both his device and his reputation. On the field he’s as fierce and unpredictable as the furies themselves, and often as deadly.” William cackled softly. “If these old bones allowed me to engage in the sport as I used to, I’d not want to be opposite him. Nay, not if the gates of heaven beckoned me from the other side.”
“He—he’s coming this way,” Catherine said, the words catching in her throat.
“Aye,” the old man laughed again. “Your favor, my lady. Prepare your favor!”
Frantically, Catherine looked down at her clothing. She’d not known enough of tournaments to bring a scrap of silk with her, and her mulberry kirtle bore none of the fripperies that decorated the necks and sleeves of the other women here. Desperation gripped her; Grayson would reach the pavilion in a few moments, and she’d shame him if she had nothing to offer in tribute.
The edge of her smock.The thought burst upon her, startling her to action. The undergarment had been a cast-off of Elise’s, and when one of the maids had lengthened it for Catherine’s greater height, she’d sewn a bit of scarlet ribbon to the hem.
Leaning over without thought of propriety, Catherine flipped up the end of her skirt. Her fingers felt clumsy as she fumbled with the stitching, tugging and twisting to yank the ribbon free. It finally came loose with a ripping sound, but the force of her pulling made her hand slam into the pavilion’s waist-high enclosure wall. She almost toppled from the bench, managing to right herself just in time for her husband to rein his steed to a stop in front of her.
