A Kingdom of Dreams

  It was a salute! her heart screamed. He was saluting her, and Jenny knew a moment of pain and panic that surpassed everything, even William's death. She half rose out of her chair, not certain what she meant to do, and then the moment was past. Wheeling Zeus around, Royce galloped to his end of the field past the Frenchman, who was adjusting the visor on his helmet, settling it more firmly on his neck, and flexing his arm as if testing the weight of his lance.

  Royce spun his horse to face his opponent, lowered his visor, couched his lance… and was still. Perfectly still—violence, cold and emotionless; leashed for the moment, but waiting…

  At the first note from the trumpet, Royce crouched low, dug his spurs into Zeus, and sent him hurtling down the course straight at his opponent. His lance struck the Frenchman's shield with so much force the shield flew off to the side and the knight toppled backward over his horse, landing on his bent right leg in a way that left no chance the leg was unbroken. Finished, Royce galloped to the opposite end of the field and waited, facing the entrance. Unmoving again.

  Jenny had seen Ian MacPherson joust before and thought him magnificent. He came onto the field looking as lethal as Royce in the MacPherson colors of dark green and gold, his horse at a ground-eating trot.

  Royce, she noted from the corner of her eye, did not move his gaze from Ian MacPherson, and something about the way Royce watched him convinced Jenny that he was judging the future chieftan of Clan MacPherson, and that he was not underestimating Ian's threat. It dawned on Jenny that Royce and Ian were the only two knights in German armor, its starkly angular lines emulating the human body. In fact, the only ornamentation on Royce's armor were two small, concave brass plates the size of a fist, one at each shoulder.

  She lifted her sideways gaze to Royce's face and could almost feel the relentless thrust of his narrowed gaze pilloring Ian. So absorbed was she that Jenny had no idea Ian MacPherson had reined to a halt in front of her and was at that moment extending his lance tip to her…

  "Jenny!" Becky's father grabbed her shoulder, drawing her attention to Ian. Jenny glanced up and let out an anguished moan, paralyzed with disbelief, but Aunt Elinor let out a cry of exaggerated delight: "Ian MacPherson!" she crowed, snatching off her veil, "You always were the most gallant man," and leaning slightly sideways she tied her yellow veil on the frowning knight's spear.

  When Ian took his place down the field from Royce, Jenny noticed at once the subtle difference in Royce's stance: he was as motionless as before—but now he was leaning slightly forward, crouched, menacing—eager to be unleashed on the foe who'd dared seek a favor from his wife. The trumpet blasted, warhorses plunged, gaining momentum, hurtling forward; spears leveled, adjusted, deadly points glinting—and just as Royce was about to strike, Ian MacPherson let out a blood-chilling war bellow and hit. A lance exploded against a shield and an instant later Ian and his magnificent gray horse were toppling to the ground together, crashing, then rolling sideways amidst a cloud of dust.

  An ear-rending roar went up from the crowd, but Royce didn't remain to enjoy the hysterical accolades. With cold disregard for his worthy, fallen foe, whose squire was helping him to his feet, Royce wheeled Zeus around and sent him galloping off the field.

  The tournament was next, and it was what Jenny had been dreading most, for even at home, they were little less than full-fledged battles with two groups of opposing forces charging each other from opposite ends of the field. The only thing that prevented them from turning into full-scale massacres were a few rules, but as the herald finished announcing the rules that would cover this tournament, her dread multiplied tenfold. As usual, there was the ban against any weapons with sharp points being brought into the lists. Striking a man whose back was turned or striking a horse was prohibited. It was also forbidden to strike a man who took off his helmet for a period of rest—however, only two such periods would be permitted to any knight, unless his horse had failed him. The winning side was whichever one had the most men still mounted or uninjured.

  Beyond that, there were to be no rules, no ropes nor fences dividing the forces once the fighting began. Nothing. Jenny held her breath, knowing there was one more decision to be announced, and when it was, her heart sank: today, the herald cried out, because of the skill and worthiness of the knights, broadswords would be allowed as well as spears, if bated.

  Two cavalcades of one hundred knights each—one headed by Royce, the other by DuMont—rode onto the field from opposite ends, followed by squires carrying spare lances and broadswords.

  Jenny's whole body began to tremble as she looked over the knights on DuMont's side: her father was there, as were Malcolm and MacPherson and a dozen other clans whose badges she recognized. The field was split between the English on one end and the French and Scots on the opposite. Just as in life, these men were divided into the same sides on the tourney field that they took in battle. But it was not supposed to be this way, her heart screamed; a tournament was fought for individual glory and for exhibition, it was not for the triumph of one enemy over another. Tournaments fought between enemies—and there had been some—had been blood baths! Jenny tried to calm her wild foreboding, but without a trace of success; every instinct she possessed was already screaming that something unspeakable was going to happen.

  Trumpets sounded three warning blasts, and Jennifer began to pray mindlessly for the safety of everyone she knew. The rope, which had temporarily divided the field in half, tautened; the fourth blast split the air, and the rope was jerked away. Two hundred horses thundered down the field, the earth trembling beneath them as broadswords and lances were raised—and then it happened: twenty of Jenny's kinsmen, led by her father and brother, split off from the charge and headed straight at Royce, wielding broadswords with a vengeance.

  Jenny's scream was drowned by the roars of enraged disapproval from the English as the Scots converged on Royce like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. In the moments that followed, Jenny witnessed the most breathtaking show of swordsmanship and strength she had ever beheld: Royce fought like a man possessed, his reflexes so quick, his swing so powerful, that he took six men off their horses with him when they finally brought him down. And still the nightmare worsened; unaware that she was standing along with everyone else in the galleries, she tried to see into the pile of men and metal, her ears bursting with the clanging, clashing, and clanking of sword on steel. Royce's knights saw what had happened and began hacking a path to him, and then—from Jenny's vantage point—it looked as if the entire outlook of the battle changed. Royce lunged up and out of the heap of men like an avenging demon, his broadsword grasped in both hands as he raised it over his head and swung it with all his might—at her father.

  Jenny never saw the twist of Royce's wrists that brought his sword down on a highlander instead of her father, because she had covered her face and screamed into her hands. She didn't see the blood running down beneath Royce's armor from the savage gashes her brother had dug when he rammed his concealed dagger into the vulnerable spot at the neck between Royce's helmet and breastplate; she didn't see that they'd hacked through the light armor at his thigh, or that when they'd had him out of sight they'd hammered at his back and shoulders and head.

  All she saw when she uncovered her face was that, somehow, her father was still on his feet, and Royce was attacking MacPherson and two others like a coldly enraged madman, swinging and hacking… and that wherever he struck, men fell like savaged metal sheep.

  Jenny bolted from her chair, and almost fell over Brenna, who had clamped her eyes closed. "Jenny!" Aunt Elinor cried, "I don't think you ought—" but Jenny didn't pay attention; bile was rising up in her throat in a bitter stream. Half blinded by tears, she ran to her horse and snatched the mare's reins from the startled serf's hands…

  "Look, my lady!" he burst out enthusiastically, helping her into the saddle and pointing at Royce out on the field, "did you ever see aught like him in yer life?" Jenny glanced up once more and saw Royce's broadsword expl
ode against a Scotsman's shoulder. She saw that her father, her brother, Becky's father, and a dozen other Scots were getting up off the ground, which was already running with blood.

  She saw impending death.

  The vision tormented her as she stood at the open window of her bedchamber, her pale face tipped against the frame, her arms wrapped around her middle, trying somehow to hold all the pain and terror inside of her. An hour had passed since she left the tourney, and the jousting had been under way for at least half that time. Royce had said he accepted eleven matches, and he'd already fought two before the tournament. Based on the herald's announcement that jousts following the tournament would begin with the most skilled jousters first, Jenny had little doubt all of Royce's matches had followed the tournament in succession. How much more impressive, she thought with vague misery, it was for King Henry to demonstrate to one and all that even exhausted, his famous champion could defeat any Scot foolish enough to challenge him.

  She had already counted five completed matches—she could tell by the awful jeering roar from the crowd when each loser left the field. After four more matches, Royce would be off the field; by then someone would surely have brought her word of how many of her people he'd maimed or killed. It did not occur to her as she reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek that anything might have happened to Royce; he was invincible. She'd seen that during his jousts at the beginning of the tournament. And… God forgive her… she'd been proud. Even when he was confronting Ian MacPherson, she'd been so proud…

  Her heart and mind ravaged by divided loyalty, she stood where she was, unable to see the field but able to hear what was happening. Based on the prolonged, ugly jeering coming from the crowd—a sound that was becoming more pronounced at the end of each match—they weren't getting much of a show from the loser of each match. Evidently her Scots weren't even worth a bit of polite applause…

  She jumped as the door to her bedchamber was flung open and crashed into the wall. "Get your cloak," Stefan Westmoreland snapped ominously, "you're coming back to that field with me if I have to drag you there!"

  "I'm not going back," Jenny countered, turning to the window again. "I have no stomach for cheering while my husband batters my family to pieces, or—"

  Stefan grabbed her shoulders and spun her around, his voice like a savage whiplash: "I'll tell you what's happening! My brother is out there on that field, dying! He swore he'd not raise his hand against your kinsmen and, the moment they realized that during the tournament, your precious kinsmen massacred him!" he said between his teeth, shaking her. "They tore him to pieces in the tournament! And now he's jousting—Do you hear that crowd jeering? They're jeering him. He's so badly injured, I don't think he knows any more when he's been unhorsed. He thought he'd be able to outmaneuver them in the jousts, but he can't, and fourteen more Scots have challenged him."

  Jenny stared at him, her pulse beginning to race like a maddened thing, but her body was rooted to the floor, as if she was trying to run in a nightmare.

  "Jennifer!" he said hoarsely, "Royce is letting them kill him." His hands bit painfully into her arms, but his voice broke with anguish. "He is out there on that field, dying for you. He killed your brother and he's paying—" He broke off as Jennifer tore free from his grip and started running…

  Garrick Carmichael spat on the ground near Royce as he rode off the field, victorious, but Royce was oblivious to such subtle insults. He staggered to his knees, vaguely aware that the roar of the crowd was slowly and unaccountably rising to deafening proportions. Swaying, he reached up and pulled off his helmet; he tried to transfer it to his left arm, but his arm was hanging uselessly by his side, and the helmet fell to the ground. Gawin was running toward him—no not Gawin—someone in a blue cloak, and he squinted, trying to focus, wondering if it was his next opponent.

  Through the haze of sweat and blood and pain that blurred his vision and fogged his mind, Royce thought for a moment he saw the figure of a woman running—running toward him, her uncovered hair tossing about her, glinting in the sun with red and gold. Jennifer! In disbelief, he squinted, staring, while the earsplitting thunder of the crowd rose higher and higher.

  Royce groaned inwardly, trying to push himself to his feet with his unbroken right arm. Jennifer had come back—now, to witness his defeat. Or his death. Even so, he didn't want her to see him die groveling, and with the last ounce of strength he possessed, he managed to stagger to his feet. Reaching up, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, his vision cleared, and he realized he was not imagining it. Jennifer was moving toward him, and an eerie silence was descending over the crowd.

  Jenny stifled a scream when she was close enough to see his arm dangling brokenly at his side. She stopped in front of him, and her father's bellow from the sidelines made her head jerk toward the lance lying at Royce's feet. "Use it!" he thundered. "Use the lance, Jennifer."

  Royce understood then why she had come: she had come to finish the task her relatives had begun; to do to him what he had done to her brother. Unmoving, he watched her, noting that tears were pouring down her beautiful face as she slowly bent down. But instead of reaching for his lance or her dagger, she took his hand between both of hers and pressed her lips to it. Through his daze of pain and confusion, Royce finally understood that she was kneeling to him, and a groan tore from his chest: "Darling," he said brokenly, tightening his hand, trying to make her stand, "don't do this…"

  But his wife wouldn't listen. In front of seven thousand onlookers, Jennifer Merrick Westmoreland, countess of Rockbourn, knelt before her husband in a public act of humble obeisance, her face pressed to his hand, her shoulders wrenched with violent sobs. By the time she finally arose, there could not have been many among the spectators who had not seen what she had done. Standing up, she stepped back, lifted her tear-streaked face to his, and squared her shoulders.

  Pride exploded in Royce's battered being—because, somehow, she was managing to stand as proudly—as defiantly—as if she had just been knighted by a king.

  Gawin, who had been immobilized by Stefan's hand clamped on his shoulder, rushed forward as soon as the hand released him. Royce put his arm across his squire's shoulder and limped off the field.

  He left to the accompaniment of cheering that was nearly as loud as it had been when he unhorsed DuMont and MacPherson.

  In his tent on the jousting field, Royce slowly, reluctantly opened his eyes, bracing himself for the blast of pain he knew would come with consciousness. But there was no pain.

  He could tell from the noise outside that the lists were still underway, and he was wondering dazedly where Gawin was, when it dawned on him that his right hand was being held. Turning his head, he looked in that direction, and for a moment he thought he was dreaming: Jennifer was hovering over him, surrounded by a blindingly bright halo of sunlight that spilled in from the open tent flap behind her. She was smiling down at him with so much tenderness in her beautiful eyes that it was shattering to behold. As if from far away, he heard her softly say, "Welcome back, love."

  Suddenly he understood the reason he was seeing her surrounded by shimmering light, the reason for his lack of pain, and for the incredibly tender way she was speaking and looking at him. He said it aloud, his voice flat, dispassionate: "I've died."

  But the vision hovering over him shook her head and sat down carefully beside him on the bed. Leaning forward, she smoothed a lock of black hair off his forehead and smiled, but her thick lashes were spiky with tears. "If you've died," she teased in an aching voice, "then I guess 'twill be up to me to go out onto that field and vanquish my stepbrother."

  Her fingertips were cool on his forehead, and there was something decidedly human about the press of her hip against his side. Perhaps she was not an angelic vision after all; perhaps he had not died, Royce decided. "How would you do that?" he asked —it was a test, to see if her methods would be spiritual or mortal.

  "Well," the vision said, bending over him and gently
brushing her soft lips against his, "the last time I did it… I threw up my visor… and I did this—" Royce gasped as her tongue darted sweetly into his mouth. He was not dead. Angels surely did not kiss like that. His free arm came up around her shoulders pulling her down, but just when he would have kissed her, another thought occurred to him and he frowned: "If I'm not dead, why don't I hurt?"

  "Aunt Elinor," she whispered. "She mixed a special potion, and we forced you to drink it."

  The last cobwebs in his mind cleared, and with a sigh of bliss, he drew her down, kissing her, his spirits soaring as her lips parted and she kissed him back with all her heart. When he finally let her go, they were both breathless, longing to say words that deserved to be spoken in a better place than here in a tent that shook with the bellows from a crowd.

  After a minute Royce asked calmly, "How badly am I injured?"

  Jenny swallowed and bit her lip, her eyes shadowed with pain for the wounds he'd suffered on her account.

  "As bad as that?" he teased huskily.

  "Yes," she whispered. "Your left arm is broken, and three fingers. The wounds at your neck and collarbone, which Stefan and Gawin said are Malcolm's work, are long and deep but no longer bleeding. The gash on your leg is monstrous. But we've stopped all the bleeding. Your head took an awful blow—obviously when your helmet was off—and undoubtedly," she added vengefully, "when another one of my butcherous kinsmen attacked you. Beyond that you're bruised horribly everywhere."

  His brow arched in amusement. "Doesn't sound too bad."

  Jenny started to smile at that outrageous conclusion, but then he added in a quiet, meaningful voice: "What happens after this?"

  She understood at once what he was asking her, and she rapidly considered the extent of additional physical damage he'd be likely to suffer if he returned for one more joust, and then weighed that against the awful damage to his pride if he didn't. "That's up to you," she answered after a moment, unable to keep the animosity she felt for her father and brother out of her voice as she added, "However, out there on the 'field of honor' which my family has disgraced today, there is a knight named Malcolm Merrick, who issued a public challenge to you an hour ago."