Both contestants headed for Ethelred, who stood by the roped-off lists with his cowl pulled over his head. The good abbot sent Christian an imploring look as he and Ferguson approached from either side.
Ignoring Ethelred’s silent disapproval, Christian focused on Ferguson. To beat up his bloodlust, he recalled the nineteen peasants cut down at Glenmyre, the ravaging fire, Clarisse’s mother begging to be let inside the gate. He gave a thought to Clarisse’s father, brought to an early demise by the Scot’s artifice. Lastly, he thought of the pink scars on Clarisse’s beautiful back, put there, as she had related late on their wedding night, by the Scot in a fit of rage.
As Ethelred shrived the combatants, Christian commended his soul to God, asking forgiveness in advance of spilling the usurper’s blood.
“Choose your weapon, Ferguson,” Sir Roger charged, acting as intermediary.
The Scot gripped the handle of his axe and grinned like a cunning fox. Christian reached over his shoulder, grasping his familiar sword by its solid grip and pulling it from its sheath.
“You will begin at the sound of the horn. May the first to be unseated defend himself as best he can. Any violation of the code of honor shall end the tournament.” Sir Roger’s tone became threatening. He made it clear to everyone gathered that a breach of the rules would result in war. Behind them, men-at-arms watched each other warily.
“Mount your horses.” Sir Roger’s final words saw Ferguson spinning away toward his chestnut-colored horse.
Christian returned to his mount and tightened the girth on its saddle. With nothing left to delay him, he heaved himself onto the animal’s back and spurred his horse to the far side of the field.
Turning by a copse of beech trees, he waited for the horn that would hurl him into combat.
Time stood still. Only the rapid beating of his heart assured him that the seconds ticked by. He found himself wishing once more that Clarisse were in attendance after all. With the light of her eyes on him, he would feel himself cloaked in her protection. He imagined her standing at the edge of the field, a faint smile of encouragement on her lips. She’d believed in him last night.
’Twill be all right, she’d assured him. He repeated the words to himself. ’Twill be all right.
He had to win. There was no room for defeat.
If he did not emerge the victor, he would have failed at the single most important battle of his life. Not only would he disappoint his bride in saving her family, he would never know if his plot to win her heart bore fruit—or withered like an unharvested grape.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At the blast of a war horn, Clarisse bolted upright, her gaze flying to the window where morning sunlight framed the closed shutters. Memories of her wedding night washed over her in a pleasant tide, and she sank back against the sheets with a sated smile. Her body ached in unusual places, but her heart flitted as if a butterfly freshly burst from its chrysalis.
How foolish she was to have ever feared Christian de la Croix! He’d been gentle, considerate, and unbelievably giving. She dragged a hand over her sensitive breasts. No longer did she worry that their marriage had been born of convenience. A world of possibilities lay before them. With Christian’s sword arm to defend them, her new home would never be besieged the way Heathersgill had been. They would raise a family behind its impenetrable walls and never know the terror of being overcome, displaced, or violated.
Her palm smoothed the sheets where her husband had previously lain. Finding them cool to the touch, she frowned. He had been gone longer than she’d supposed, yet the tourney wasn’t due to start until terce, around three hours after sunrise.
She sat up again, suddenly concerned. Had the tourney begun already? The horn! It signified the tournament’s start. Being the host, Christian had had no choice but to rouse himself early to attend it. It had been thoughtful of him to let her sleep, but she had no desire to miss any of the action.
Kicking off the coverlet, she crossed the room and threw the shutters wide, heedless of her naked state. She could sense a stirring of activity on the eastern side of the castle, but the window only provided her a view of the tops of the tents in the field, their pennants wagging.
The telltale thunder of two combatants coming together signaled the start of a joust. The repercussion of the collision carried clearly to her window. A roar went up from the crowd, stirring in her a sense of urgency.
She had planned to bathe leisurely, especially given the activities of the night before, and then dress in a gown suited to the new Lady of Helmsley Castle, but a nameless agitation urged her to hurry.
Pulling one of her hand-me-down gowns from the chest brought to the solar, she tunneled into it, tugging the laces tight as best she could. Unable to locate any slippers but the fine ones she had paired with her wedding gown, she slipped them on and dashed out of the room, peering over the balustrade as she hurried down the stairs. The great hall stood deserted. Was she the only one missing the event?
Across the great hall and out the forebuilding, she flew. The courtyard stood quiet and still. She crossed it quickly, braving the cobbles that gouged the soft soles of her slippers. Feeling that something momentous was underway, she lengthened her stride.
Rushing through the inner gate into the outer ward, she faltered at the sight of the empty lists. The noises on the other side of the outer wall informed her that the tourney had been moved outside the castle. The urgency in her blood congealed into apprehension. Why would the tourney have been moved outside?
Hurrying to the gatehouse, she came across two guards standing at the head of the drawbridge.
“My lady,” one called as she marched past him. “You mustn’t go out there.”
She sent him a look so indignant that he snapped his mouth shut and stared straight ahead.
She ran across the drawbridge, amazed by the size of the throng in attendance. Everyone from Abingdon must have come to witness the jousting. More amazing still was the daunting display of weaponry on the men-at-arms who stood around jostling for a better view. She peered past them and caught just a glimpse of the combatants.
They had to have been well-known knights to have garnered so much attention. Their horses stood presently on opposite sides of the field, their riders preparing for another pass.
She stood on tiptoe, hoping to catch a glimpse of each knight's insignia. The sight of a double-edged axe resting on the thigh of one combatant informed her that Ferguson was one of them.
She peered between the heads of other onlookers to identify the second combatant. Seated on the back of a familiar destrier, the knight’s proportions betrayed his identity well before he tilted his shield in her direction, displaying the white cross on a black field. Her brain refused to believe what her eyes were seeing. A chill touched her cheeks as the blood drained slowly from her head.
He’d never warned her that he intended to battle with Ferguson one-on-one. As they snapped shut their helmets to signal their readiness, the truth slowly penetrated.
This was how he meant to kill her stepfather—in hand-to-hand combat. That was the reason the tourney had been moved outside the castle, to more neutral ground. She smothered her cry of denial.
Didn’t he realize it couldn’t be done? Ferguson knew dozens of deceitful ways to fell his opponent, and Christian would suspect none of them!
That awful realization kept her rooted to the dew-laden grass, toes curling in her damp slippers as she weaved on her feet. With the sound of thunder, the combatants converged in the center of the field, colliding in a screaming tangle of steel. She told herself to rouse from what surely was a nightmare.
However, this was not a dream.
The crowd roared with dismay as the horses parted with no advantage to either man.
Determined to put an end to the skirmish, Clarisse plunged into the throng, pushing her way to the rope that kept them out of the arena. A second clash of metal had her peering over a child’s head just in time to see the head
of the Scot’s dreaded axe thrust her husband from his horse by. It happened so fast—one moment he was astride and the next, on the ground.
“Nay!” Clarisse screamed. Christian rolled to his feet as quickly as his armor allowed, but his helmet had fallen off, leaving his head vulnerable to attack.
Mercifully, the blow had unhorsed Ferguson, as well. The Scot was slower to rise, but his double-edged axe rose with him, singing a song of death as he arced it in a figure-eight through the fragrant air.
With a distracted glance, Clarisse recognized the child in front of her as her own sister Katherine, gripping the rope in excitement. Merry and Jeanette stood not far from her, watching the fight with both hope and horror etched on their faces.
Clarisse reached for Merry’s arm. “Sister,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with fear.
Merry glanced in her direction. “Your husband is brave,” she stated, “I’ll give him that.”
Clarisse could not wrest her gaze from the struggle now ensuing on foot. Why was this happening? Ferguson was to die in an accident, not in a blatant challenge. Not in a scenario where he could easily cheat to meet his ends!
“Ferguson will thwart him,” Merry added, compounding Clarisse’s fears. “The Slayer is a fool to think he will fight honorably.”
Clarisse whirled on her. “Hush!” she ordered, though she knew her sister wanted Christian to win. My God, what would become of them all if he were defeated? Had he not considered their well-being before making his challenge? Had he been so certain of victory?
The combatants circled each other like wolves. Ferguson was the first to strike, his blade slamming into steel as Christian brought up his shield. Clarisse winced as she imagined the impact shuddering down his arm.
Stepping suddenly to one side, her husband brought his sword down swiftly. The thick blade made sharp contact with Ferguson’s arm, and the Scotsman drew back, roaring in pain as he clutched the wound that instantly stained his hauberk scarlet. A grim smile curled Clarisse’s upper lip. Her confidence returned.
Of course Christian would win. Was he not touted as the mightiest warrior in the borderlands? Hadn’t he earned the position of master-at-arms at Helmsley and then overlord for his skill with a sword?
But then Ferguson calmly moved his axe into his left hand to resume his swinging. The weapon whipped through the air as he closed in on his opponent.
Christian bided his time, evading attack after attack with quick footwork and masterful use of his shield. His tactic was clearly to tire the Scot. Clarisse’s hope edged upward as Ferguson’s attack slowed, his axe growing heavy. The instant he hesitated, Christian took advantage. His sword caught and held the sun’s fire as it arced through the air, seeking weakness in the older man’s defense.
Though not as quick on his feet, Ferguson held his ground. A blow from the broadside of Christian’s sword sent him staggering backward. He stepped into a low area where he lost his balance. A roar went up in the crowd as he flailed a moment then toppled into a thatch of carrot weed.
A joyous cry escaped Clarisse. Here was Christian’s chance to win the contest. He sauntered toward the fallen man, hefting his sword more securely. Glimpsing movement out the corner of her eye, Clarisse realized her mother had just ducked under the woven rope.
“Mother, stop!”
But Jeanette was already sprinting toward the combatants. Deaf to her daughter’s cries, she raced straight at them, forcing Clarisse to chase after her.
Raising his arm to deliver the deathblow, Christian caught sight of them both and hesitated. At his feet, Ferguson groped inside his boot. Suspicion brought a warning to Clarisse’s throat. She screamed it to her husband, but the shouts of the crowd drowned her cry.
Ferguson surged suddenly to his feet, his hand springing open as if tossing some substance at his opponent’s face. Christian staggered back, clapped a gauntlet-covered hand to his eyes, and doubled over. A fine powder shimmered in the air above his head.
With a leer, Ferguson hefted his axe to deliver the winning blow. At that very moment, Jeanette lunged onto his back. In wide-eyed shock, Clarisse froze in mid-run, watching her mother sink her dinner knife into Ferguson’s thick neck.
The Scot roared in surprise and shook her off. As she fell onto the grass, he pawed at the haft sticking from his throat and gurgled words impossible to understand. Jeanette sat back and watched his contortions with indifferent calm. Ferguson spat blood. His face drained of all color, and then he fell face-first into the carrot weed.
A hush of amazement fell over the crowd. Clarisse transferred her attention to her crouched husband. He had sunk to his knees, dropping his sword to press both hands to his eyes. Beneath his gauntlets, she could see him grimacing with pain. She continued toward him, skirting her mother, who had yet to rise.
“Christian!” Dropping to her knees on the clods of earth kicked up by the horses, she grabbed his wrists to pull his hands away. “Look at me!”
He groaned in agony. “I cannot. My eyes are on fire.”
She twisted around to seek help. What she saw made her blood run cold. Ferguson's men and the Slayer’s knights had all drawn their weapons. They paired off, posturing their willingness to fight.
“Nay!” she cried.
A shrill war cry broke the feeble thread of peace. With roars in their throats, men flew at each other with intent to kill. Women screamed and ran. Peasants and villagers broke for cover.
“We have to leave now,” she told her mother and her husband in the same breath.
He gave a cry of helpless rage. “I cannot see!”
“Hush, no one knows that but us,” she breathed in his ear. “You must stand up. Stand up!” she ordered, tugging at his elbow. He came obediently to his feet, still covering his eyes. “Take your sword,” she said, heaving the heavy blade from the grass and holding it out to him.
He put a hand out, and she thrust the hilt into his gauntlet. She glanced with near panic at the wet bubbles seeping from beneath his eyelids, but she fought to quell it. She had to get them to safety.
“Take my hand,” she instructed, darting a look at the men hacking at one another just a few yards away. “Mother, stay close!” She grabbed her mother’s arm and tugged her two companions toward her sisters who stood by the rope, staring transfixed at Ferguson’s still form.
“The drawbridge will rise,” Christian advised them. “We must hurry.”
“Merry, Katherine,” Clarisse called, her voice calm but firm. “Come with us. Now.”
Merry still gawked, first at her dead stepfather, then toward the ensuing battle. It was Katherine who pulled her sister in Clarisse’s direction.
“Hold your sword before you, my lord,” Clarisse ordered her husband. “Do not let go of my hand. Mother, hold fast to Katherine and Merry. Run,” she added. “The drawbridge is about to rise.”
All five of them charged for the moat, along with all of Helmsley’s servants. Sounds of conflict and roars of agony pursued them. Blades bit into bone. She slipped on a puddle of blood slicking the thick grass. Nevertheless, no one challenged their passing.
They were but feet away from the drawbridge when the chains began to rattle over the cogs. “Hurry!”
Reluctance to flee the battle made Christian hesitate.
“You will come with us!” Clarisse insisted, propelling him forward. “You are useless to your men right now. Jump!” she added, urging them all to leap over the widening gap as the drawbridge began to rumble upward.
They leapt in one accord, and the partly raised bridge shuddered under their collective weight, spilling Katherine to her knees. Merry dragged her up and they continued down the incline and under the lowering portcullis, until the shadows of the barbican swallowed them into safety.
Clarisse glanced back at the skirmish. From what she could see over the closing drawbridge, Sir Roger led his men-at-arms in pushing Kendal and his followers away from the field and off into the woods. Several were breaking away already, f
leeing into the vegetation for cover.
“’Tis almost over,” she added, mostly to encourage her husband. “Sir Roger has it well in hand. Come,” she encouraged, leading him through the outer ward toward the next gate.
Concern for his well-being kept her from raging at him. Her lecture could wait. But how dare he risk his own life while honoring his promise to kill her stepfather? For the first time in a year, she had felt secure in the knowledge that her husband could protect her. To think that he had nearly widowed her within a day of her wedding! Did their union mean so little to him?
“We will settle you in the great hall, Christian, and see to your comfort there.”
After Clarisse had escorted him to one of the chairs by the fire pit, she turned to her sister. “Merry, have you any idea what Ferguson might have tossed into his eyes?”
Christian tensed at the question, cocking his head to the sound of Merry’s answer. He likely hadn’t known that she was present.
“I have a notion,” her sister replied.
“Keep her away from me,” Christian ordered, standing up once more and taking a step.
Clarisse planted herself so swiftly in his path that he nearly knocked her down. Gripping the neck hole of his leathern hauberk, she shook him like a recalcitrant child. “My sister is the only soul versed in healing in these parts,” she railed with so much fury in her voice that he swallowed further protests. “She is your best hope if you ever mean to see again!”
“As you wish,” he mumbled contritely.
Sympathy overwhelmed her fury. She rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in his ear. “I won’t let her near your ballocks.”
She was pleased to see his wan smile as she eased him back onto the chair.
Christian scarcely dared to breathe as Merry du Boise unwound the linen strip that had covered his eyes for three days. He would soon know whether Ferguson’s trickery had left him blinded for life—or whether the drops Merry had placed in his eyes afterward had done more than relieve the burning sensation. The girl who’d cursed him at the wedding feast had a remarkably deft touch. She’d wrapped linens around his head and ordered him to keep them on for three days, rendering him as useless as a babe.
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