Sir Blaidd frowned darkly. “I amuse you, do I?”
She wasn’t going to admit that the notion he might be jealous had ever crossed her mind, or he’d be the one laughing. Still, the slightest chance that it might be so gave her a certain measure of confidence.
“I find it delightful that you have no qualms about getting angry with me,” she confessed evenly. “A lot of men treat me as some sort of delicate child.”
“I’m very aware you’re not a child, my lady,” he growled in his velvety, deep voice.
Although she was sure seduction was not his intention, her body nevertheless responded as it had in the chapel. Desire, sly and overpowering, began to stir within her.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, attempting to subdue that wayward feeling. “Therefore, sir knight, if I choose to do a thing, you ought to let me do it.”
“As tempting as that may be, given your lack of gratitude, I remind you that my sworn oath forbids it. If you insist upon risking your neck, I’ll do all I can to protect you. Now, unless you’re planning another ride, I bid you good day, my lady.”
As she watched him stride away, Becca wondered if Laelia appreciated the sort of man who was courting her. Sir Blaidd was easily worth twenty of the fools who had come wooing before him.
Chapter Seven
Blaidd wiped the perspiration from his face with the back of his hand and bent again, swaying, preparing to strike with the broadsword clutched in both his hands. Blood oozed from the cut on his naked chest, made by Dobbin when he was a bit too slow to respond. He should have known better. Like his father and Sir Urien, Dobbin was still a strong and vigorous man, despite his age, and obviously skilled. He also possessed the wisdom of experience, and sure enough, none of Blaidd’s usual tricks and feints had worked against the older man.
His breath visible in the chilly morning air, Dobbin circled Blaidd warily. Blaidd slowly swiveled, keeping his gaze firmly on his opponent. He watched the man’s sword, waiting to see if it dipped, indicating fatigue. He noted Dobbin’s shoulders, low and relaxed, not tensed up near his ears. This man had fought many, many times, and had confidence in his abilities. He moved with slow deliberation, too, not the jerky steps of a nervous fighter. All in all, Dobbin was an opponent to be reckoned with.
“What are you waiting for?” Blaidd heard Trev mutter from the group of foot soldiers surrounding them in the inner ward, watching.
Blaidd’s temper flared, but he quickly got it under control. He wasn’t going to get angry and behave like an apoplectic ogre again, as he had four days ago when he’d confronted Lady Rebecca in the courtyard.
Trev was still sulking over what had happened that day. Blaidd understood why; he’d wounded the boy’s pride with his public reprimand, especially because Lady Rebecca had been right—Trev had only been following his orders. Blaidd had apologized later, saying there was no excuse for him to lose his temper like that. He’d also pointed out that Lady Rebecca had reprimanded him in public, too, although in her case, she was quite justified. Trev had shrugged and tried to act as if nothing was wrong, but things hadn’t been the same between them since.
Another error since arriving here.
At least Lady Rebecca seemed to forgive him, after she’d so soundly chastised him. Her attitude since had been exactly as it was before, neither better nor worse. Because of that, Blaidd hadn’t told her he was sorry, especially considering what had happened the last time he’d done that.
The tip of Dobbin’s sword moved slightly lower, but not with fatigue. Blaidd recognized the preparation to strike, and waited a necessary split second before raising his own sword to meet Dobbin’s. Then, with a twist of the wrist that could be agonizing if not done properly, he finally managed to unsword Dobbin, catching the man’s blade and sending it skittering along the grass to come to rest at…Lady Rebecca’s feet.
“Well done, sir knight,” she coolly said above the excited babble of the men. She bent down and effortlessly picked up the heavy weapon, then handed it to him.
She wore her usual gown of simple brown wool, and her thick, beautiful hair was covered by the sort of equally plain scarf servants wore.
Blaidd preferred such garments to fancy silks and velvets that limited their wearer’s movements. She looked ready to meet any challenge or solve any problem, domestic or otherwise.
Sheathing his sword, he tried to speak without any obvious emotion. “Thank you, my lady.”
“You’re bleeding. It’s not a serious wound, I hope?”
He glanced down at his chest, acutely aware that she was looking at him and that he was half-naked. “No. I’ve had worse.”
“Lady Laelia sends her regrets, but she is unwell today and will not be able to join you in the hall.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Averting her eyes from his sweat-slicked torso, Becca studied Sir Blaidd’s face. He appeared concerned that Laelia wasn’t feeling well, as anyone might, but not overly so.
All this time, and she still couldn’t tell how he really felt about Laelia, or anything else. “It’s a headache, nothing more. She gets them sometimes, and a day of rest should see her quite recovered.”
Becca moved toward Dobbin, who was wiping his flushed, perspiring face with his tunic.
What Sir Blaidd was doing at that moment, she didn’t know, because she didn’t look. It had been enough to see him stripped to the waist, his lean, tautly muscled chest gleaming in the morning sunlight, while he wielded his heavy sword as if it weighed no more than a ball of wool. She’d been shocked by the cut, just as she had been to see who the combatants were, until she recalled Sir Blaidd’s request to train with Dobbin and his men.
“God’s wounds, I was sure I had him there at the end,” Dobbin complained to the men gathered around him, their expressions as consoling as if he’d lost a favorite pet. “That Fitzroy must be as fine a trainer of fighting men as they say. I’ve never seen such a move.” He raised his voice. “Can you show us how you did it, Sir Blaidd? Slowly?”
She glanced at the Welshman, to see that he had put on his tunic. Thank God.
Sir Blaidd’s brows rose. “What, now?”
“Or later, if you prefer,” Dobbin replied with deference.
Sir Blaidd grinned. “Now’s as good a time as any,” he said, once again drawing off his tunic, his movement smooth as silken fabric slipping over a merchant’s arm.
Becca turned to go, until Dobbin’s call made her halt. “Stay a moment, my lady. After he shows us that move, maybe you can show him how you shoot.” He smiled at Sir Blaidd. “I taught her, sir,” he bragged, “and I reckon she’s as fine an archer as any of those Welshmen we hear about. She can’t shoot so far, because she’s not got a man’s strength, but she’s dead accurate.”
Although she was as proud of her skill as Dobbin was, Becca didn’t feel the need to demonstrate that particular talent to Sir Blaidd Morgan. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m sure he’ll take your word for it.”
“It so happens, Dobbin, that I’m considered a fine shot myself, my father insisting that all his sons be trained with every weapon, even if bows are considered fitting only for foot soldiers.” Sir Blaidd’s grin widened, but there was an unmistakable gleam of challenge in his eyes. “Perhaps a contest is in order?”
Taking up the bow had been Dobbin’s suggestion, made when she was lying in bed while her leg healed. He would teach her as soon as she was able to get up, he’d promised, and she wouldn’t feel so helpless then.
She’d seen the merit in his idea at once, and had been thankful for something to think about other than what she wouldn’t be able to do anymore. Afraid her father wouldn’t approve, they hadn’t said anything to him about it for a long time, until she was as good as any of the garrison.
She’d harbored a faint hope he’d be pleased, but he’d given them both a skeptical scowl. “If I need her to defend Throckton, I’ll call,” he’d sniffed.
Well, she
was being called upon to defend Dobbin’s skill as a teacher, and that was just as important.
She gave Sir Blaidd a patronizing smile. “How could I resist? I only hope your pride won’t be seriously wounded when I win.”
“I’ll send a couple of the lads for butts and targets and the bows and quivers,” Dobbin said eagerly, before Sir Blaidd could change his mind. “While they’re preparing things, Sir Blaidd can show us that move.”
Several minutes later, after Dobbin had perfected the technique of disarming his opponent with that particular twist of his blade, Blaidd and Becca prepared to shoot. Behind her, Becca heard a low murmur. Wagers were being made and she wondered who was the favorite. Dobbin would bet on her, she was certain, but she had no idea whether the other men might pick her or the Welshman.
Although Sir Blaidd was now properly clad in a tunic belted about the waist, Becca tried not to pay attention to her opponent as he tied the leather guard around his left forearm. One of the soldiers standing beside him held an unslung bow of yew, another a quiver.
Becca already had her guard on, and a soldier handed her a bow. Bracing the weapon against her foot, she quickly slid the string into place at the top and plucked an arrow fletched with goose feathers from the quiver the soldier held in his other hand.
“Best two out of three the winner?” Sir Blaidd suggested as he, too, strung his bow.
“If you wish,” she said.
Now that they were ready, the soldiers who had been holding their accoutrements stepped back out of the way.
As Becca nocked her arrow on the bowstring and raised her bow, she put out of her mind everything except the bull’s-eye painted on a cloth tacked to a butt of straw. She took aim and waited for Dobbin to give the signal to let fly.
He did, and the familiar twang of a bowstring sounded in her ear as it snapped. Her arrow flew through the air, straight and true, to hit the center of the target. Smiling with satisfaction, she looked at Sir Blaidd’s target.
His arrow was likewise sticking out of the center of the bull’s-eye. A roar of both approval and dismay went up from the men as Trev and Dobbin trotted down the ward to see who had made the better shot. Becca waited, her toe tapping, as they conferred for what seemed a very long time.
“We must be close,” Sir Blaidd remarked.
“I suppose,” she answered.
“Dobbin said you were naturally gifted. So you are, in both archery and the harp. You would almost be worshipped in Wales with those skills.”
She wondered if that were really true, and how it would feel to be approved of wholeheartedly, instead of being considered odd.
Dobbin held up his hand. “The lady wins!”
That got another roar of approval, as well as a few mutters, while the judges returned. Trevelyan Fitzroy looked as if he’d just been told the sun wasn’t going to rise tomorrow.
She’d noticed signs of strain between Sir Blaidd and his squire ever since they’d returned from riding that day. She felt a small twinge of remorse for being the cause of any animosity between them, but not much. Sir Blaidd had rebuked the boy unjustly, and if things were not the same between them, it was Sir Blaidd’s fault far more than hers.
At the moment, however, Sir Blaidd seemed to take everything in stride, including making the poorer shot. “I’ll have to do better with the next one,” he said evenly as he reached for another arrow.
Becca also selected another arrow. They raised their bows simultaneously, and again Dobbin’s cry to let fly filled the expectant silence. Her bowstring twanged and her arrow struck the target.
Off center.
With a gasp, she looked at Sir Blaidd’s target, to see his arrow in nearly the same place as the previous one. A curse flew from her lips, while several of the soldiers groaned. This time, no consultation was necessary. A delighted looking Trevelyan retrieved Sir Blaidd’s arrow, while a glum Dobbin plucked hers free.
“Forgive my choice of words,” she said through clenched teeth. “That wasn’t a ladylike thing to say.”
“You don’t like to lose,” Blaidd said, still as cool and calm as a pond on a windless summer day. “Neither do I. And as for being ladylike, many of the ladies at court could make a soldier blush with their language.”
“And you’ve been intimately acquainted with many, no doubt.”
“Quite a few,” he calmly replied. “Certainly enough to know that being a lady isn’t a state conferred by birth alone. Several women of lowly birth of my acquaintance are more ladylike in the best sense of the word—gentle, polite, generous, kind.”
She obviously wouldn’t fit his notion of being a lady. “Best two out of three, wasn’t it?” she said as she grabbed another arrow.
“Aye, my lady.”
He nocked his arrow and drew his bow, as did she. She pressed her lips together, determined to beat him.
“Let fly!” Dobbin cried again, and this time, to Becca’s joy and relief, her arrow hit the very center of her target, an even better shot than her first, while Sir Blaidd’s went wide.
She jumped for joy and nearly cheered, then settled down immediately. She didn’t want to look as if she was gloating.
Trevelyan Fitzroy rushed to the target, looking ready to snarl, while Dobbin was all smiles.
“A clean win for my lady!” he shouted.
“Alas,” Sir Blaidd said after a moment. “A poor shot. Trevelyan’s father would be ashamed of me.”
His lips twitched as if he was stifling a laugh, and another explanation, one that enraged her, came to mind.
“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t!” she called back. She faced Sir Blaidd squarely, so angry she could spit. “Did you shoot wide on purpose?”
He looked taken aback and shook his head. “I assure you, my lady, I never lose on purpose. It was only that alas was not the first word to come to mind.”
So firm was his denial that she believed him, but she needed to be certain he was not acting out of pity for her. “We’ll shoot again, and this time, do the best you can.”
“I did,” he protested. His eyes flashed with warning. “And I did not lie when I told you I’d done so.” After a tense moment, however, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “But very well. If you want, we’ll shoot again.”
“Good,” she snapped, as a mystified Dobbin and a confused Trevelyan reached them.
“What’s this about, my lady?” Dobbin asked.
“I fear Sir Blaidd thought it would be unchivalrous to let me lose. Perhaps you can assure him my pride will not shatter if I do.”
Dobbin tugged at the collar of his tunic. “Well, Sir Blaidd, she don’t like to lose, o’ course, but you’d better do your best.”
Sir Blaidd planted his feet. “I didn’t let her win. I made a bad shot. Trev will confirm that it’s been known to happen before.”
Trev didn’t look pleased. “He’s an excellent shot.”
“Not all the time,” Blaidd insisted, which was the truth, and Trev should just admit it. This wasn’t a tournament, after all. “What about the time I shot your father in the leg?”
Becca’s eyes widened, while Dobbin whistled and the other men listened in stunned silence. “You shot Sir Urien Fitzroy?” Dobbin asked in a whisper.
“Aye. Last year. He was too confident in my aim and stood too close to the target.”
All eyes turned to Trevelyan, who blushed in silent confirmation.
“You should have heard the words he used on that occasion,” Blaidd added. “Colorful, to say the least. Of course, I deserved everything he said.”
“Perhaps you’re a bad shot, after all,” Becca allowed.
“So do you wish to try again or will you accept your victory?”
“Since you are willing to confess that you hit the famous Sir Urien, I am willing to accept that I won fair and square.”
Blaidd relaxed, then their gazes met and held for a moment, until they both blinked and looked away.
Out of the corner of her eye, Becca sa
w Meg hurrying toward her.
She was glad for the interruption, she told herself, as the girl came to a halt. Meg cast a quick glance at young Fitzroy, and a longer one over Sir Blaidd, before addressing Becca. “The wine merchant’s come, my lady.”
“Oh. If you’ll excuse me, Sir Blaidd, Dobbin.” She surveyed the rest of the soldiers. “And you, too, men. I must see to ordering wine. Or I could stay here and try to get another bull’s-eye—”
“No, no, my lady!” various voices called, some loud, some muted. “You won, fair and square.”
“And nobody else gets the wine you do from that old snake!” another voice called from the back.
“Your soldiers have wine, not ale?” Sir Blaidd asked, obviously a bit surprised.
“Both. My father says men with full bellies and good drink are more apt to be grateful, and loyal. Treat them well and they’ll protect you and your land as if they’re family. But wine is served only on Sunday. The rest of the time they have ale.” She raised her voice. “Or my father would be a pauper, the way they drink.”
A chorus of cheerful denials filled the air, and Becca laughed, enjoying the easy camaraderie she shared with the soldiers, even though she knew that what they most appreciated about her was the food and drink she ensured was provided for them.
“Men come from all over England to serve Lord Throckton,” Dobbin confirmed just as proudly. “We’ve got the best soldiers in the land here.”
“Yes, I can tell he’s got an excellent garrison,” Sir Blaidd agreed. “And the wine I’ve enjoyed has been most excellent, too.” He bowed. “I thank you, my lady.” And then the impertinent fellow winked. “And I trust I shall continue to enjoy fine wine, excellent food and good company for the rest of my stay here.”
“How long might that be, Sir Blaidd?” she asked without thinking.
His dark brows rose. “Are you suggesting I’ve overstayed my welcome?” he inquired, causing the men all around them to fall silent.
Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] Page 8