by Shari Anton
“Richard,” she choked out. “The earl of Warwick said Percival was Gerard’s equal in arms. Is he?”
“’Twas Percival who gave Gerard the scar he wears on his neck. Not deliberately, of course, but aye, they are well matched.”
The hour until midafternoon seemed to Ardith the longest of her life. After only a few minutes the tension caused her feet to move, and with her moved Corwin and Richard and the guards. She gave up her pacing.
Shortly before the appointed hour, the combatants came out of the palace, both fully armored in chain mail, coif and helm. Both carried broadswords. Neither man paid heed to the crowd as they made their way to the center of the yard.
Still as statues they stood, facing each other, the tips of the broadswords pointed downward. Ardith jumped when the abbey bell pealed, calling the monks to prayer. Gerard shifted his grip on the pommel of his sword. The last note of the bell’s call had not yet faded when the first clang of sword on sword pierced the air.
Ardith forgot to breathe. Mantle crushed in her hands, she watched the contest with rising dread. She’d observed Gerard practice his skills many times. She’d seen him instruct his men. She’d even become accustomed to the hard-fought contests between Richard and Gerard. Unlike those friendly battles, these men fought in earnest.
His face set in grim determination, Gerard circled Percival, who only turned his body to keep Gerard in sight. Swords clashed once, twice, each man testing the other for arm length and strength. At times Gerard met Percival’s slicing blows with an upraised blocking sword, at other times he danced out of reach.
Then Percival turned once more, his face coming within clear sight. Though slightly obscured by the surrounding mail coif and the nose guard of his helm, his expression made Ardith gasp. His eyes shone with the wildness of a trapped beast, whose only chance for survival was to tear apart whoever stood in the way of escape.
The sword strikes came faster, heavier, louder, Gerard taking the offensive, pressing Percival back. Both hands wrapped around the pommel, Percival hauled back and swung around up over his head, then down, as though to slice Gerard down the middle from head to toe. Gerard sidestepped, ducked under and rammed Percival’s midsection with his shoulder. Percival landed on his rump in a cloud of dust. Gerard stepped back several paces, his chest heaving.
“Damn you, Gerard,” Richard harshly muttered his thoughts aloud. “Not now, you fool. It won’t work.”
Ardith tore her attention from the field to look up at Richard. Anger glinted from his eyes, anger at Gerard.
“Richard?”
Without taking his focus from his brother, Richard said, “Gerard will lose if he persists.”
She grabbed Richard’s sleeve. “How so?”
Richard flung a hand toward where Gerard stood, still panting, waiting for Percival to gain his feet “He thinks to spare Percival a wounding blow. He purposely gave quarter when he should have used the opening Percival allowed. Should Gerard make such a mistake, Percival will not hesitate to take advantage.”
The sound of steel striking steel snapped Ardith’s attention back to the field of combat. Percival had not only regained his footing, but pressed Gerard hard with a chain of sweeping, punishing strokes.
Gerard retreated under the onslaught, blocking each blow but not regaining the upper hand. Then blade scraped along blade, a flash of sparks running the edges until hilt met hilt. Chest to chest, swords pressed between chain mail-covered bodies, they pushed and shoved until, with a twist and bend, Gerard spun away.
Again, Percival swept his great broadsword over his head. But this time Gerard met the downward blow, deflecting the stroke with an answering force of power. Then, with the finesse and grace Ardith had seen so many times before, he attacked with a flurry of quick, powerful blows so typical of his style.
Percival lost his grip, his sword flying from his hand toward the onlookers. The crowd roared. Was it over? Had Gerard won? The hope vanished as Percival charged like a man obsessed, slamming into Gerard like a battering ram.
Gerard dropped his sword, stumbling backward. The men tumbled to the ground and rolled in the dirt, each trying to pin the other to the earth without success, each keeping the other from within fingertip’s reach of the swords. Percival lost his helm. Gerard lost a gauntlet. Both dripped with sweat from the exertion.
Again, Richard muttered instructions to a man who couldn’t possibly hear. “Get off, man, get off.”
Percival seemingly took the advice, and as he swayed on his feet he reached toward his girdle—and withdrew a dagger.
Horrified, Ardith said aloud, “Percival has a dagger.”
“Of course he has a dagger,” Richard said sarcastically. “So does Gerard. He has but to draw it, which he had best do right quickly.”
Ardith bit her bottom lip, watching Percival advance on Gerard, who didn’t reach for his dagger because he didn’t have his dagger. His Lion’s Tooth rested against her ankle, sitting useless to Gerard within the pocket of her boot.
She quickly scanned the crowd. All watched Percival take step after menacing step toward Gerard, dagger poised for a downward jab. With her mantle concealing her actions, Ardith bent and withdrew the blade. She must, somehow, return the weapon to its rightful owner.
But how? Dare she call Gerard’s name and toss the weapon onto the field? Or would the distraction herald his doom?
Percival lunged. Gerard grabbed Percival’s upraised wrist with both hands, twisting and bending, flinging Percival around and down. But he didn’t stay down.
Then Ardith spotted the rock, a mere arm’s span away from Gerard’s foot Of all the silly visions to have, the rock suddenly looked like a turnip, resting on a mound of hay, ready for slicing. Ardith shifted her grip, prayed for a true aim, and quickly brought the weapon from under her mantle to over her shoulder and let fly. It flew true. To the astonished gasp of the crowd, to Corwin’s spat profanity—and quite to her own amazement—the dagger landed point down within inches of her target, closer to Gerard than aimed.
The dagger’s sudden appearance didn’t seem to surprise Gerard. He never looked away from Percival as he reached down and snatched up the weapon.
Gerard moved like lightning, catching Percival off guard. Within moments, Percival lay on his back, dazed, the point of Gerard’s dagger indenting the vulnerable underside of an up-tilted chin. The crowd erupted into cheers.
In a voice strong enough to be heard above the throng, Gerard commanded, “Yield or die.”
Though Ardith didn’t hear it, Percival must have yielded, for those nearest the combatants cheered louder as Gerard rose and shoved the dagger into its rightful sheath.
It was over. Gerard had won. No one, not even the king, dared question the outcome.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Gerard turned to where he now knew Ardith must be standing. And there she stood, between Richard and Corwin, her fingertips touching her mouth as she stared at him. Apprehensive. Vulnerable. The lady who’d just thrown a dagger halfway across a yard, at the precise moment he’d needed it, in the most convenient spot imaginable, had the temerity to look vulnerable.
Hellfire, he didn’t know whether to give her a tongue thrashing for her mere presence in Westminster, beat her soundly for interfering in the contest or get down on bent knee to thank her for, just possibly, saving his life.
Gerard shook his head. He’d already scolded, would cut off his own hand before touching her harshly, and as for getting down on bent knee, he’d be a fool to do such a thing. Already she could bend his will to her own. To let her know she held that power would invite disaster. He’d have no peace.
Peace. He could have it now. He was free. Free of Basil and the murder charge. Free to marry Ardith. Free to go home and spend his days listening to her laughter and spend his nights in her loving embrace.
He started toward her, but only made three steps before King Henry called his name. Gerard turned to look at Henry, who stared pointedly at Ardith.
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br /> “As we recall, Gerard, you have not as yet done us knight’s service this year. Our sheriff informs us of poachers in New Forest. Forty days should be plenty of time in which to clear them out, should it not?”
Clearly, Henry had guessed who’d wounded Basil. Hellfire, anyone who’d seen Ardith throw the dagger had guessed.
Gerard decided not to contest Henry’s last effort to extract a measure of punishment. “Are you requesting all of Wilmont’s duty, sire, or just mine?”
“Only your services are required. You will leave within the hour, will you not?”
Gerard nodded his agreement, then resumed his course toward Ardith. She inspected him from head to toe, and only when she’d determined nothing broken or bleeding or askew did she hold out her hands.
“You are unharmed?” she asked with deceptive calm.
“Nary a scratch,” he lied, resisting the urge to rub his hip where Percival’s knee had driven chain mail into skin. There would be a nasty bruise, but Ardith needn’t know.
“’Tis my fault the king sends you away.”
“His pettiness sends me away.” Gerard brought her right hand to his lips. “That was quite a throw, Ardith.”
“I saw Percival draw his dagger…and I had yours…I was not sure if I could, or if I should…”
“I am very glad you did.”
She finally smiled.
He tasted that smile, briefly. A longer kiss would lead to more and he couldn’t afford the time. He would not give Henry any excuse to extend the service.
“Richard, take her to Wilmont. I will return as soon as I dare.”
Her head snapped up. “Gerard, first we must go back to the abbey. I left Daymon with the queen and your mother.”
Gerard shook his head, emphatically. “You may send someone to fetch Daymon, but you are not to go yourself.”
“Gerard, I…oh, very well, if you insist.”
“I do.” He looked pointedly at Richard, then Corwin, then back to Richard. “You are to take her straight to Wilmont. And damn it, Richard, she had best be there when I arrive.”
Forty days.
Forty days of chasing a poacher who would soon be replaced by another peasant who couldn’t understand why he couldn’t hunt in the king’s forest. Forty long days of mud, and bad food, and a sheriff who was either incompetent or had been ordered by Henry to assure Gerard served the full service. Forty endless days and nights of missing Ardith—and wondering what mischief she’d been up to.
On a hunch, he’d stopped at Lenvil. According to Corwin, who now rode at Gerard’s side, Ardith had left Wilmont only once, to visit Harold during a particularly bad spell. Richard had accompanied her along with half the castle guard.
She’d sent for Daymon. Lady Ursula had returned with the boy and Ardith hadn’t sent her back. Gerard had trouble believing his mother had become protective of Daymon, but he would wait to see for himself before passing judgment.
As the castle came into view, Gerard caught sight of a flash of yellow on the battlements. Ardith.
“Care to race?” Corwin asked as they passed over the bridge that marked the starting point of many such races.
The spark of yellow moved to the corner stairway, then disappeared from sight. Knowing what was bound to happen, having witnessed Ardith’s greeting for Corwin too many times for comfort, Gerard slowed to nearly stopped.
“Nay, not today.”
As soon as the heavy gates began to open, Ardith squeezed through, and as he knew she would, she started to run.
Corwin chuckled. “My God, look how she has swollen! You had best marry her soon, Gerard.”
She tore off the veil that insisted on flying into her face, sending fabric and circlet to the ground. Her heavy braid bounced, coming apart. She had most definitely swelled, leaving no doubt that she was well and truly with child.
And still she ran.
Gerard growled, “Get up there, man. Slow her down before she falls. That is my heir she is leading with.”
Corwin gave him a puzzled look, then sped off. Gerard pulled to a halt and dismounted. He would let Ardith have her greeting with Corwin, but this time he wouldn’t watch. He turned to inspect a perfectly good girth strap.
He heard Corwin’s horse slow, heard the twins’ voices, then the sound of hoofbeats again. Confused, he looked up to see Corwin galloping toward the castle, leaving Ardith standing in the road.
A brilliant smile spread across her lovely face. She took a step forward, and then another, before breaking into a run.
For me. My God, for me.
Every wish he’d ever hoped to have granted paled to insignificance when compared to the sight of Ardith scampering up the road. To him.
She runs to me!
Love and tears glistened in her azure eyes. Awed beyond imagining, Gerard dropped the reins and opened his arms. She hit him hard, throwing her arms around his neck, covering his face with wet, warm kisses.
“Welcome home, my lord. What took you so long? I have watched for you for days and days. Are you well? Have you—”
He swept her off her feet and silenced her with a kiss. He’d come home, as he’d never come home before, and might never come home again.
eISBN 978-14592-6106-8
BY KING’S DECREE
Copyright © 1998 by Sharon Antoniewicz
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