“This way, Highness.” Renwick tugged on her arm. “The championship round will be in the center piste. They’re lighting the torches. The crowd can’t wait.”
“They have to wait.” Dizziness overtook her as she tried to walk. She stopped and shook her head, gasping for breath after a battle she’d honestly expected to lose. If her opponent hadn’t made a few costly mistakes, Gisela would have met her second elimination and been out of the running. Perhaps she’d been wrong to think she could fight so soon after her illness. “Who am I fighting?”
“I don’t know yet. The other fight just started—Tertulio versus King John.”
Gisela balked at her choices. Tertulio had already delivered her lone defeat of the day. She’d hate to be eliminated by a second defeat from the same man. And yet, she knew King John would dispatch her easily, especially since she was almost too weak to stand. “If they’ve just started, I can rest.”
“But don’t you want to study them while you have the chance?”
“Right, then. Lead the way.” Gisela leaned on Renwick’s arm as he weaved through the milling throngs of people. He found them seats on the top tier of a set of bleachers that had been facing another piste until some men had tugged it nearer the action. Gisela slumped down, her arms too weak to lift her heavy helmet and peel the leather mask from her face.
It didn’t matter. No one was paying her any attention. The crowd was riveted on the battle before them. Tertulio was a giant of a man, as tall as the king but far heavier. As he had when he’d defeated Gisela, Tertulio leveraged his weight against his opponent, beating him back with his sword, his barbaric hack-and-slash method only effective because of his imposing size. The brute was graceless, especially in comparison to the king, who held Gisela’s attention now as he had before, twisting her heart with concern for his safety.
Gisela whispered a prayer that King John wouldn’t be injured by his opponent’s aggressive tactics. Though most of his face was hidden by the protective shield of his thick leather mask, he occasionally turned at such an angle that Gisela could see the glint of his eyes. They sparkled with intensity.
If he made it past Tertulio, he’d defeat her easily. Temptation whispered to her, to withdraw her name rather than submit herself to the rigors of a battle she knew she couldn’t win. She’d underestimated the skill of the Lydian swordsmen, who had spent her strength with their long-lived battles. And she’d overestimated her degree of recovery. It wouldn’t be wise to fight on. She should withdraw.
But then, assuming King John vanquished his current rival, that would leave him to win by forfeit. It didn’t seem right, not when such a large part of her motivation for hosting the tournament was to rally the men—to prepare them to follow their king, should the Illyrians strike.
How much more would they trust and respect their king if he won the tournament on skill alone, and not because she’d withdrawn out of weakness? It could be a great boost to their morale and their pride in their leader.
Watching King John parry, she knew he deserved their respect.
She couldn’t take that from him, no matter how exhausted she felt.
Her mind made up, she determined to fight as best she could if King John went on to meet her in the final match. But if Tertulio bested him now, she’d withdraw.
* * *
John raised his sword, pumping it victoriously into the air as the crowd chanted for him.
“This way, Your Majesty.” Renwick led him to the neighboring piste where the licking flames of torches cast alternating light and shadows across the faces of the waiting crowd.
John scanned their faces impatiently, hoping to see Princess Gisela. He’d spotted his little sister at a balcony above, but the Frankish princess hadn’t been with her. Knowing Gisela, she’d want to be at the heart of the action.
He could only trust she was well. He hadn’t realized until her absence wore at him that he’d been looking forward to their reunion with expectancy. The day was nearly over, and his longing had only grown.
“Ready, Your Majesty?” The trumpeter raised his instrument to call the start of the round.
John spun to see his opponent already in place, sword raised in a pristinely executed opening stance. The flames cast deep shadows over the figure’s masked face, but John figured it didn’t matter who his opponent was. All that mattered was how he fought.
“Ready.”
* * *
Gisela focused on holding her stance. Helmut, her fencing instructor from Aachen, had reminded her countless times of the importance of proper form.
“You cannot control what the other man will do, but you can be prepared to meet him.”
She’d taken the words to heart and been surprised many times before by what a difference a good stance could make even when she’d been overmatched or underprepared.
And she was both tonight. The gleam in King John’s eye spoke of limitless energy. She had no such gleam in her eye. It was all she could do to keep her sword from trembling.
The trumpet blared. The round had begun. Still, Gisela stood frozen, waiting. She’d do her best to respond to any move King John made. If she sensed an opening, she might even try to strike. As much as it was up to her, she’d make it look like he earned the round, assuming she didn’t faint from exhaustion before it was over.
* * *
John stared at the tip of the sword, alert for the slightest flicker of movement. He’d played this game before. Two men could stand at an impasse for many long minutes, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
He could sense the rising impatience of the crowd. They wanted to see action. Yet John welcomed a moment to collect his thoughts, which had wandered to wondering where Gisela might be, and stayed focused on her still. Was it his imagination, or did he catch a whiff of her soft rose scent over the reek of humanity that filled the air?
Surely he’d imagined it. Given the odoriferous emanations all around him, Princess Gisela would have to be quite close for him to pick up the presence of her perfume. She knew to stay well back from the action. Didn’t she?
* * *
Her shoulders ached, and heat coursed through her, more than the rising heat of effort. Had her fever returned? A tremble rippled up from her legs, and fearing it would quickly work its way to her steady sword, Gisela realized she’d have to make her move.
With a flick of her wrist, she brought her sword slicing lightly in an arc below John’s blade.
He blocked the move and pushed her back.
Her response was delayed a split second too long by the mind-dulling ache of fever.
She blocked him but nearly stumbled forward. The crowd gasped and roared.
Their response seemed to spur King John to action, or perhaps he’d sensed her weakness and intended to seize the moment before it slipped by. Whatever the case, his blade darted forward, seeking an opening. All he needed was to tap her leather armor to make a point. If he made five points before she did, he’d win.
Her reflexes took over, blocking each shot. Her conscience whispered to her that she ought to let him win a few easy points before exhaustion overtook her, but she’d never willingly given away points before. They had three agile-eyed judges for the final round, unlike the lone judge who’d overseen the lesser matches.
If she made it look too obvious, the judges might wonder. John might wonder. He hadn’t yet looked any farther than her sword, and clearly didn’t realize who he sparred with.
She preferred it that way.
Best not to make him suspicious, then. Caught up in the action, she found her strength returning, if not in substance then in ephemeral determination. Perhaps, just to make a strong showing, she should win the first point.
Dancing backward, she replaced her right foot forward with her left, moving from a defensive to an offensi
ve stance.
King John didn’t change stance but moved in as though he’d been offered an opening.
His first point fell high on her arm.
She winced against the kiss of his blade and lowered her chin.
She could score a point before the crowd finished cheering. Or had they finished cheering? The roar in her ears only grew as John’s blade sprouted mirror images on each side. There were three swords now, and three arms holding them.
Which sword was she fighting? Which man was she fighting? He seemed to have grown three heads and ten legs.
Or twelve. Or eight.
She charged at the middle man, taking the cheap thrust, only to find her opponent had evaporated. She swung back just in time to catch him on the elbow.
Her point.
The crowd roared.
Gisela gulped a breath and tried not to faint.
* * *
Stinging needles speared through John’s fingers from the blow to his elbow, loosening his grip on the sword. His fingers ached and tingled. How had his opponent landed such an effective blow on that peculiarly sensitive part of his arm? There wasn’t time to sort it out. He spun to face the man, hoping only to recover before he was bested again.
But the man before him staggered. Was it a strategic move, meant to distract him and land another point? For the first time, he tried to look the man in the eye, to guess what his opponent was playing at.
Torch light flickered, casting deep shadows over his adversary’s masked face. John noted the very fine armor and expensive chain mail his rival wore. How very odd. It gave the man an almost feminine silhouette.
Rather than be distracted, John kept his sword up, jabbing forward. His rival seemed to be growing tired. Each block landed a fraction of a second later. Detecting a weakness, John increased the frequency of his jabs.
He landed a point on his opponent’s hip, surprising the man, who emitted a sudden cry.
A decidedly feminine cry.
His earlier doubts renewed, John looked afresh at the man who faced him, whose upturned head now caught the light. Through the narrow eye slits in the armor, John caught sight of stitches.
And the blue eyes of the emperor’s daughter.
Fear and fury surged through him.
“No!” He lunged his sword, point down, into the hardened courtyard soil.
The walls shook with the cries of the crowd, but John ignored them and turned away.
That was why he’d smelled roses! That was why he hadn’t seen Gisela in the windows.
He started to stomp away when the crowd changed its tune to one of frightful alarm. Bits of exclamations penetrated his anger, and he spun around.
Gisela had fallen.
Chapter Nine
John pushed his way through the crowd that had surged forward on Gisela the moment she’d gone down.
“What happened?” he demanded, furious about everything. He’d fought her. She was on the ground. Everything was wrong, and she looked so pale under her mask.
“Was she injured earlier? Did someone strike her?”
“I think she fainted,” Renwick answered.
John scooped her up from the ground and plowed through the parting crowd toward the great hall. He burst through the double doors with one kick and sent the heavy wooden doors swinging open. A roaring fire burned at one end, ready to host a banquet when the tournament was ended. He lowered Gisela onto the soft animal-skin rugs near the light of the leaping flames.
His fingers fumbled as he lifted off her helmet and untied her leather mask.
“Gisela? Can you hear me?” He cradled her head in one hand as he peeled away her mask to reveal a face of ill pallor.
Her chest rose and fell.
She lived. But why had she fallen?
Footsteps sounded on the stone floor behind him. “Keep the crowds out,” he barked to whatever guards might be among them. His eyes didn’t leave Gisela’s face.
Her cheeks felt warm. Feverish?
Knowing full well the risk he was taking, John nonetheless pressed his lips to her forehead, reading far more accurately than his sweaty palms could the degree of her fever.
Warm. Far too warm.
“What happened to Gisela?” Bette shrieked as she entered from the back way.
“You knew she was fighting? You knew I was fighting her? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Didn’t you recognize her?”
“I looked only at her blade. Fetch her a drink. That might revive her.”
Bette hurried over with the nearest cup from the laid table.
The liquid sloshed against Gisela’s leather pants as John hastily took the cup from his sister. He scooped the princess up to almost sitting and held the cup to her lips. “Here. Drink.”
Pouring mere drops between her lips, he waited for a reaction.
Nothing.
Fearful for her condition, he tipped the cup back again, pouring more this time, letting her head tilt backward as though to slosh the reviving liquid down her throat.
She sputtered and coughed, but her eyes didn’t open.
Relief welled inside him along with a desperate prayer that she’d pull through. He’d saved her life once to prevent a war. But her survival had begun to mean more to him than its political repercussions. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not after waiting two days longing to see her smile again.
“Come on, Gisela. Wake up.”
* * *
She could smell his calming woodsy scent. He was near. Had she only imagined it, or had he held her again?
“Wake up, Your Highness. Please. Are you injured?”
That was King John’s voice. So she hadn’t imagined that he was near. And yet, he sounded so far away.
“The crowds want in. There’s to be a banquet.” Elisabette’s voice. “I see no sign of blood.”
“If she’s not injured, then why did she faint?” John’s hands smoothed the hair away from her face. “I’ll take her to her room. Host the banquet without me.”
“Won’t you come down?”
“We’ll see. I’ll not leave the princess’s side until I’m certain she’ll pull through.”
He cradled her against him, and Gisela sank against the hard wall of chain mail. With a flurrying activity, her memory of her duel with the king returned.
How had she stayed on her feet so long? She’d even won a point.
Then he’d recognized her. She’d seen it in his eyes the moment he did and the absolute fury that followed. He’d been so angry. But why?
Tears leaked from her eyes. She’d planned the tournament to please him. His furious reaction had snapped the last thread of determination that had kept her upright, and she’d fallen.
He lowered her onto a couch.
She gripped his arms. If he left, she might not have a chance to apologize, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for.
He cupped her hands in his. “Your Highness, can you speak? Are you injured?”
Was she? She wasn’t sure. “I’ve angered you.” She tried to think what had done it. The king had given his blessing to the tournament. John’s reaction befuddled her. His demeanor had changed so completely the moment he’d recognized her.
She reached for his face. “I apologize for whatever I’ve done. Is it because I fainted? You would have rather triumphed over a more worthy opponent?” The rough stubble on his cheek prickled against her hand. “Please, explain it to me. I wanted only to please you.”
* * *
John felt his fury subside in waves like the ebbing tide. Gisela’s soft, pleading words wore away at his hardened heart. As much as he wanted to be upset with her, he couldn’t possibly.
“I fought you,”
he explained. “I raised my sword at you. I could have injured you.”
“I’m not injured.” She’d assessed her condition as she’d lain there and determined as much. “Just tired and feverish. I tried to do too much too soon after my infection. It’s a horrible weakness of mine. Hilda might have warned you.”
“She didn’t. Nor was I warned that you’d try something so unbecoming as to pick up a sword—”
“Boden told you I fence, didn’t he? That’s how I hurt my eye, saving the ship from the Saracens.”
“But in a tournament?”
“Much safer than fighting pirates, actually.”
John tried not to smile as she looked up at him, her wide eyes begging him not to be angry. Regret squeezed his heart. Had he overreacted? “I hit you with my sword. You cried out in pain, and then I recognized you. What would you have had me do? Keep fighting?”
“Yes! You would have won. I was too tired to go much longer. If Tertulio had advanced instead of you, I’d have withdrawn.”
“I should hope so!”
“Why?”
“The man was an animal. He’d have chopped you to bits.”
“He only beat me by two points when I met him earlier.”
“You fought Tertulio?” John couldn’t keep the possessive note from his voice. “You could have been killed.” He’d had his arms on her shoulders since delivering her onto the couch, and now he pulled her tighter against him as though he could shield her from the barbaric swordsman or anyone else who might have fought her.
A groan of regret escaped his lips, coupled with visions of what could have happened. “I would never knowingly raise my sword against a woman. I would never threaten violence against you in any way.”
“In many corners of the world, men use violence to subdue their women.”
“They are barbarians. No real man would ever threaten a woman, let alone strike her. God created man to shield and protect women, to defend and cherish them. It is not in my nature to fight a woman, least of all a princess like you. But I fear I have insulted you by ending the fight.”
A Royal Marriage Page 12