The Virgin Proxy(34)

He glanced sideways at Deorwynn. She was smiling for Thierry, coy and flirtatious. Ignoring him.

Very well. If that was how his naughty little kitten wished to play it.

He held out his hand toward Sybilia. Without a word, she gave him her own blue ribbon and when his squire hurried over with a lance, he tied the fluttering strip of cloth to the end of it. Thierry, he noted from the corner of his eye, tied the other woman’s ribbon to his tunic, making an extravagant show of it. Placing it over his heart.

Fool. With a scornful smirk, Guy turned his horse and galloped down to the far end of the lists.





* * * *





The harsh winter sun beat down in her eyes, making her squint. She was glad of the excuse to keep her eyes shaded with one hand. No one would tell that she couldn’t bear to look. She didn’t want to see these men riding hard at one another, lances clashing. It made her sick, but she stayed on her bench beside Sybilia and said nothing. The crowd around them cheered merrily and the feeling in the air was almost festive. But Deorwynn took no pleasure in watching men fight for entertainment. Why must they do this to one another?

The Norman had made a scene by trying to steal her ribbon. As if that was not enough, now he showed off like a hot-headed pubescent.

Ah but Guy Devaux was a boy. Had she not already concluded that? What else could she expect from him?



Now this display.



He wanted her notice. He did not know how else to get it.



Her fingers clenched tight, gathering up fistfuls of her gown. Suddenly her heart swelled until she thought it might burst.



And she knew what this meant.



The men turned at the end of the lists and clattered down again, lances poised. She flinched, then closed her eyes. As the horses thundered by it shook her seat. She heard their snorting breath and smelled the dust and sweat. It choked in her throat. She did not know who to cheer for. She’d given Thierry her favor to wear and yet if Devaux was hurt…

She put her head down, bending at the waist, overwrought suddenly with a multitude of emotions.

A gasp shot out of the crowd. Wood splintered and cracked. Horses whinnied.

She sat up quickly, opening her eyes to see Guy falling sideways from his horse, his lance snapped and hanging. In the next moment Thierry was out of his saddle, ripping off his helmet. All around her people were up off the benches, crying out. There was blood.

She couldn’t look. She must look. Dear God. Don’t let him be badly hurt.

Hands to her face, she ran down from the stands, feet flying as if they had wings, completely forgetting everything else. Forgetting he was not hers to worry about.

She loved him for heaven’s sake. He’d treated her abominably, clumsily. Yet her feelings for him could not be choked down and denied.

Her heart was mistaken of course. One could not forge love from deceit and he had deceived her.



As she had sought to deceive him.



Did that not make them equal?



Thierry reached him at the same time. She dropped to her knees and helped remove his dented helmet. There was blood on his chausses under the chain-mail that hung almost to his knees. The massive hooves of his warhorse clomped in the dirt around her, until Thierry yelled for the startled squire to take the reins and calm the animal.

The Norman’s eyes were closed and a long scratch ran down his face, the fall having scraped the helmet against his head.

He looked unusually pale. She wanted to sob his name and hold his head in her lap, but slowly she regained her senses, remembering where she was. And what he was. A Norman and another woman’s husband.

A cluster formed around the fallen warrior and they prepared to lift his great bulk, shoving her aside impatiently. Amid the clamor his hand moved, catching hold of hers. Inside his large gauntlet, his hand was strong, holding her much smaller one so tightly he almost cut the blood from her fingers.

“I couldn’t see where you’d gone,” he murmured, eyes still closed, black lashes trembling against his sweat and grime stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Then they carried him away and her hand slipped from his.

As the crowd thinned, she saw Sybilia, still in the stands, watching her. There was no emotion on that face, nothing to show she feared for her husband’s life or cared even that he fell. She was more concerned about Deorwynn’s actions than the near tragedy that could have left her a widow so soon.





Chapter Ten





He lay on the bed, his wounded leg stretched out, wearing only his under-tunic and padded gambeson. His head hurt, but on the whole he knew he’d escaped far worse injury.

Cursing yet again, he stared at the roof beams and recalled the moment when it happened. Glancing over to find the Saxon wench in the stands, he’d panicked when he couldn’t see her. For just a split second he let down his guard and Thierry’s lance caught him off balance. His friend stood at the foot of his bed now, apologizing for something that wasn’t his fault at all.