When she saw the company of mounted Welshmen entering the field, her anxieties faded into new ones. She watched, her heart thudding faster as the lead rider made his way around the circumference of the field, cantering toward her upon a massive warhorse cloaked in trappings of red and gold. She knew it was Gareth, for no other man on the field possessed the arrogance to forgo the protective padding beneath his chain mail and tabard of rich scarlet. Rebecca had told her that most Welshmen didn’t fight on horseback, but Tanon remembered Gareth riding so skillfully when he was ten. He wasn’t ten anymore. His posture was arrow straight, his rugged face angled slightly toward the sun. When he tugged his stallion’s reins to slow his pace as he drew near, he moved with a leisure that was almost predatory. Mesmerized by his grace and confidence, Tanon couldn’t turn away when his stunning blue eyes fastened directly on her.
He was going to win, and then he was going to claim her. She knew that with one look.
Tanon licked her lips that had gone dry and then broke her gaze away from his. She wasn’t used to the way her body reacted to him. He tempted her to tear away her mantle of propriety and stoke the flames inside her flaring to the surface. And she wasn’t the only one unaffected, as she could see the flames of his own passion reflected in his eyes when he set them on her. The sensual candor of his smiles teased and promised delights that made her feel reckless. The warmth in his eyes roused desires she thought she had vanquished.
“Sweeting, you’re flushed.” Her mother, sitting beside her, pressed her palm against Tanon’s veiled cheek. “Are you ill?”
“Non.” Tanon forced a smile and returned her gaze to Gareth to watch him ride away.
“I know how hard this is for you,” her mother leaned in close and said in a quiet voice. “I too was forced to marry a man I didn’t know.”
Tanon had known Gareth once. “But you came to love him, and he, you,”
“Look at me, my love,” her mother said hearing the unhappiness deep in her daughter’s voice. “Hereward has assured us that Prince Gareth and his people are not the savages we’ve been told of by the Marcher Lords. We know you don’t want to marry Lord deCourtenay. We were opposed to that union as well. But your father would have you looked after, protected by an army. And the deCourtenays could provide that.” She set her emerald gaze on Gareth on the field. “Right after he returned to Wales with his uncle, he was sent off to war. He’s rumored to be unbeaten in battle. If he proves today that he cannot protect you, your father will go to William, even defy him if he must.” She returned her gaze to her daughter. “But I don’t think he’ll lose. I pray that he doesn’t, for you will never be happy with Lord deCourtenay. You have a chance at happiness with the prince. I saw the way he looked at you a moment ago. I recognize it. Though I wasn’t pleased to find him in your room last eve, ’tis the same place your grandfather, may the Lord keep his beloved soul, found your father the night before our wedding.”
Tanon chewed her lower lip, quirking her brow as a thought occurred to her. “Did father kiss you when he went to your room?”
Brynna smiled, remembering. “Oui,he kissed me.” The blush spreading across her cheeks convinced Tanon that he’d done more than that.
“Gareth didn’t kiss me,” Tanon confirmed, sounding neither pleased, nor disheartened.
“Of course he didn’t. He didn’t want to risk having his lips sliced off.” Brynna smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “There will be trying times ahead for you both. I won’t be there to help you through them—nay, Tanon, you must accept this,” she interrupted when Tanon tried to protest her absence. “When you were younger, you were so much like your father. This will be an adventure for you. Let yourself enjoy it.”
“I will be fine, Mother.” Tanon patted Brynna’s hand and gave her a reassuring smile, not wanting to upset her any further in her condition. “I will miss you, that’s all.”
The heraldic trumpeted the beginning of the festivities, dragging Tanon’s attention back to the field. Soon more jugglers, acrobats, and mummers lined the field. Drawn into the excitement of the day, Tanon’s mood lightened considerably. She smiled when Randalf the bard sang about a beautiful red-haired lady whose smile was like the gossamer wings of a butterfly beating against his heart. Her clear, alabaster skin, he crooned, and eyes as green as a summer glade, tempted him to steal a kiss before his dying day. Alas, the fair lady’s heart belonged to a ruthless rogue with hair as black as his temper. Tanon playfully chided her father when he mumbled about Randalf finding out just how black his heart could be. Her uncle, on the other hand, cheered from his seat where he reclined lazily with his boots propped atop the short wall when the bard sang next about his wife.
Soon the parade of mounted knights began. A majestic assemblage of horses adorned in cloth of gold and silver, in green, red and purple silk moved slowly around the perimeter of the field. The men were led in groups by their captains who carried their banners.
Tanon spotted Gareth carrying the ruby dragon rampant, his men’s magnificent horses keeping a measured gait behind him. Lord deCourtenay was announced and the crowd cheered. Tanon yawned as he rode his destrier around the field.
A few minutes later, Gareth pranced his mount before the king’s raised stall first, then bowed in his saddle when he turned to face her.
After the rest of the knights were announced, the trumpeter sounded the last call and squires raced to their tasks. The jousting competition began first. Two of Roger’s men unseated their opponents without incident, although Madoc nearly impaled his adversary with his blunt tipped pike.
Finally, Gareth and Roger faced off. Both men looked equally sized in the saddle, but Tanon could tell Roger was overly padded by the stiffness of his movements. Gareth’s brawn was pure muscle. He wouldn’t lose. When the earl’s lance shattered above a foot, and Gareth’s only six inches, Blackburn earned two points. The riders repositioned, received new lances, and thundered toward each other again. The crowd rose to their feet as the riders grew closer. The silence was nearly complete but for the pounding of the hooves of the two frothing steeds about to meet head on. At the very last instant before impact, Gareth bent low in the saddle and flipped his pike in his gloved hand for a better grip. Lance met shield. Wood cracked and splintered into hundreds of shards, and Roger deCourtenay catapulted out of his saddle.
Tanon finally remembered to breathe when the crowd erupted into shouts of “Huzzah!” Even William gave Gareth a nod of approval as the Welshman rode passed him.
Gareth tipped his head back and reveled in the afternoon breeze that cooled his damp face.
Tanon couldn’t take her eyes off him. He might be a pagan, but he was the most terrifyingly breathtaking pagan she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many. He possessed a very primal kind of beauty. Regal and menacing, and yet so erotic, she found herself thinking of him in ways that made her muscles quiver.
She watched him slip from his mount. When he pulled his tabard over his head and unhooked his chain mail, stepping over it where it fell to the ground, a collective gasp rang through the stands, followed by utter silence.
Roger threw him a mocking smile and Tanon could only guess that he did so believing that Gareth had just made a very foolish error. Tanon had to agree. This was no practice. Even though his opponent didn’t fight for blood, points were gained by connecting sword to mail. Without the protection of his heavy metal armor, Gareth’s flesh could possibly be torn to shreds with each point Roger earned.
The trumpet sounded. The crowd cheered. Tanon squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t until she heard her father voice his disbelief that she found the courage to peek through her fingers.
Gareth wasn’t bloody at all. In fact, he didn’t sport a single welt on his bare arms, or any other part of exposed flesh that she could see. Roger had yet to touch him, and it was clear why. Gareth moved like a breeze, striking before Roger even saw him coming, and then retreating again. He parried every blow with an ease that made Roger’s clambering movements almost comical. When Roger swung left, Gareth leaped to the right with such perfect grace that even Normans began to cheer for him.
Tanon looked on, awestruck, her blood fired by his energy, his skill that whispered to her someplace too deep to comprehend, that this man was capable of protecting her in the face of any danger. In the space of ten breaths, he delivered seven blows that would have ended Roger’s life had they been inflicted on the battlefield. The clash of his sword echoed throughout the stands as it smashed against Roger’s armor.
But the competition was not ended so easily. One of Roger’s guardsmen, Sir Albert FitzSimmons took offense to his lord’s swift defeat and called out to Gareth to take him on if he was able.
With one final swing, Gareth sent the flat of his blade crashing into the side of Roger’s helmet. An instant later, his weapon pointed at FitzSimmons.
“Points?” Gareth shouted.