Free The Gorgon by Kathryn Le Veque Page B

horrible an affliction. She oft made a conscious effort not
to stammer her speech, speaking slowly and distinctly. And sometimes, her
efforts worked. But more often than not, she would forget her slowed pace and
return to her natural pattern and stuttering syllables.
    Sir Bose wasn't to blame for his
unwillingness to defy her father's denial. In truth, she did not blame him; she
blamed her father for his sense of pride, unwilling to expose his daughter to a
potential suitor and thereby release the secret of her speech impediment. And
once Sir Bose discovered her imperfection, certainly, he would formulate his
own rejection.
    But, Dear God, somehow she wished
he would be able to overlook her flaw in lieu of her better qualities. As if,
somehow, he would be able to tolerate her stammering in lieu of coming to know
the woman beneath the defect. Dear God... she wished he would be different from
the rest.
    The sun descended the western
sky, turning the colors from blue to orange to gold; still, Summer continued to
sit beneath the old oak tree in gloomy silence. As dusk drew nigh and the damp
sea breeze turned cold and wet, still, she sat and pondered her impending
future. Realizing that, indeed, she appeared not to have one at all.
     
    ***
     
    In spite of the fact that the
evening meal should have been a victory celebration, there was very little
happiness at all. Within the encampment of the House of de Moray, the mood was
oddly sullen and strangely quiet. As the knights in Bose's service commenced
their meal of mutton, onions and sweetened carrots, there was far less
joviality than usual. Little talk, meaningless banter, and at the head of the
silence sat none other than Bose himself.
    A trencher of half-eaten mutton
sat before him, cooling and scarcely touched. On his right, Morgan picked
through his meal in respectful silence, eyeing Tate now and again to make sure
the knight had every intention of keeping his mouth shut on the subject of Lady
Summer. To make sure they all kept their mouths shut. There was not one man
among the morose crowd that wished to broach the truth.
    They had all seen Bose ride to
the dais with the intention of speaking to the beautiful young woman. And they
had all seen the lady escorted from his presence. What could have been a
potentially pleasing situation turned dark and moody the moment the lady left
his company.
    Even after the lady had long
since vanished, still, Bose had remained silent and pensive and isolated,
poised before the lodges that had once been filled with people screaming his
name. There was no one left to congratulate the victor; not even the only woman
from whom he would have gladly accepted the accolades. So he turned away from
the vacant seats and returned to his encampment, empty-handed and closed mouth.
    There was not one man in the tent
that hadn't suspected Bose's purpose when he boldly approached the dais.
Knowing their lord as they did, his reserved nature and disinterest toward life
in general, it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage for him to
initiate the action. And further knowing the man as they did, there wasn't one
man in the tent immune to the sting of rejection their liege was experiencing.
    Beyond Morgan's pensive silence
and Tate's deliberate quiet, Farl McCorkle eyed his liege with a good deal of
sympathy. A massive, burly Irishman, he had served with Bose for several years
within the organization of the household guard. His bushy red eyebrows and
overgrown mustache almost gave him the appearance of an unkempt heathen; in
truth, there was no finer warrior in the heat of battle and Bose considered
himself fortunate to warrant the man's loyalty.
    Seated next to the crusty Irish
knight was a diminutive warrior by the name of Farl Ross. Where his Celtic
counterpart was brawny, loud and curt, Farl by contrast was quiet,
well-manicured and faintly handsome. Nearly as old as Morgan, in spite of his
small stature and meek manner he was a fierce fighter and