A Warrior's Lady. Margaret Moore
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the dagger ran along a rib, so no serious harm done. All you need is rest and time to heal. Don’t give the tournament another thought. There’ll be others.”
Reece stifled another groan, this time of disappointment and dismay. He had planned to distinguish himself at the king’s tournament. No chance of that now, thanks to the Delasaines.
“What about you?” he asked Gervais, who was also to be a competitor.
His brother shrugged. “As I said, there will be plenty of tournaments to come. I wanted to stay with you.”
So both of their chances for honor and glory had been taken away.
“And it was a good thing he did, to stave off the rumors those Delasaines started to spread this morning,” Trev declared. “You won’t believe what they’re saying, those no-good, disgusting—”
“Leave it, Trev, until he’s more himself,” Gervais ordered.
Reece wasn’t in so much pain that he didn’t see the concern flit across Gervais’s face.
“What?” he demanded, once more trying to sit up. “What are they saying?”
“Don’t worry yourself about anything except healing,” Gervais commanded, again pushing him down, although not so gently this time. “We’ll deal with those blackguards.”
The Delasaines were his problem, not Gervais’s and certainly not young Trevelyan’s. “Leave them alone.”
“But Reece—”
“Until I am better.”
A look of understanding appeared in Gervais’s worried eyes. “Ah. You’ll have your own vengeance, is that it?”
Reece nodded, although vengeance was not precisely the term he would use for what he intended. A lesson was more like. The Delasaines’ anger might have been justifiable, but not the attack, or its savagery. He would instruct them on the concept of a punishment appropriate to the crime, one at a time. And if they had harmed one hair on Lady Anne’s head, they would learn another lesson.
Trev gasped. “By the saints, I should fetch the infirmerer!”
He didn’t wait for his older brothers to concur; he dashed from the room like a startled rabbit.
Regardless of Gervais’s attempts to hold him down, and despite the throbbing in his head, Reece finally managed to sit up. “Now, what exactly are the Delasaines saying?”
Gervais frowned, reminding Reece of their father when he was displeased. “I would rather we didn’t talk about this until you’re more yourself.”
“Tell me.”
“They’re saying you were…threatening…their sister.”
“Threatening?” That was bad enough. Unfortunately, he was certain, by Gervais’s tone, that there was more—or worse.
Gervais shrugged, as if the exact wording wasn’t important. “Attacking.”
“Attacking?”
Reece’s heart began to pound. That was a very serious charge indeed, yet one that would justify their “punishment,” and so the safest one for them. No one could assault a knight and not have to give a good reason. A simple breech of propriety was not nearly good enough.
Gervais’s expression held resignation, and a confirmation Reece did not really want to see. “Aye, that’s what they’re saying, to excuse what they did. Nobody believes—”
“The king?” Reece interjected, naming the one man whose opinion in this business truly mattered, the one man who had the power to reward or punish or accuse as he saw fit. “Surely Henry doesn’t believe it.”
“We haven’t heard what Henry thinks.” Gervais cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the Delasaines are related to Eleanor. Distantly, but related.”
That was not good news. She might back them simply for the sake of a family tie.
Reece leaned against the wall behind the cot and closed his eyes again. This was bad. Terrible. With one impulsive act he may have put his whole future in jeopardy.
All his life Reece had had one dream: to be in the king’s retinue, his inner circle, one of his trusted advisors. He could represent the minor lords whose ancestors did not come from the noble families of Normandy but whose forebears had more humble origins, winning their titles by skill and intelligence rather than solely by their birth. Now, by making enemies of relatives of the queen, he might have destroyed his chances.
Worst of all, if he had troubled himself to find out who the beauty was beforehand, he would have known to steer very clear of her, and her vicious brutes of brothers.
“The French make no protest about the Delasaines’ accusation, of course, because of their relationship to Eleanor. Everyone else refuses to believe them. There have been several arguments already, and I think Blaidd Morgan’s been in three fist-fights.”
“Oh, God.”
“Aye, Reece, it’s not good—but they started it.”
“I started it,” Reece muttered. “I shouldn’t have followed her.”
“Harmless, that was.”
“Obviously, it was not.”
Gervais studied him closely, as if trying to read his thoughts. “It’s, um, not like you to talk to a woman you haven’t been introduced to, or even one you have, Reece.” He ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair. “God’s wounds, brother, it’s not like you to talk to a woman at all, especially one as beautiful as that. What got into you?”
“I wish I could say it was the king’s wine,” Reece muttered, feeling the heat of a blush and recalling Blaidd’s teasing comments that made him want to squirm.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. He shrugged, then winced.
“You should have at least told us where you were going.”
Reece quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, and you and the others would not have joked and teased and made sport of me all the more?”
Gervais wisely did not even try to disagree.
“I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.”
“Aye, but you cannot change it now. Still, Father isn’t going to be happy, and Mother will have a fit when she sees your face and hears you’ve been stabbed.”
Gervais always was a master of understatement. His father was going to think he had taken leave of his senses and acted like a fool. As for his wounds, his mother would want to examine him and fuss over him and generally make him feel about six years old.
He gingerly touched his swollen cheek, wondering how he looked. “Is it bad?”
“It’ll take a while for the swelling to go down, and you’ve bled in your eye, so it’s as red as a demon’s. The infirmerer says you should regain your strength soon enough, since you are—” Gervais assumed a learned, pompous air “—a healthy young man in the prime of life.” He resumed his normal manner. “Mother and Father will both be glad you’re not dead, of course, but I think maybe we should leave Anne Delasaine out of it when we tell them what happened.”
“How can we?”
“The important thing is that you were viciously attacked on a poor pretext.”
Reece shook his head. “I made a mistake, and there’s no point lying about it.”
“I’m not saying we should lie,” Gervais retorted, mightily affronted. “I’m simply suggesting that we leave the lady out of it.”
“What reason would you have me give for my beating? And unless you plan to muzzle everyone at court or swear them to secrecy,