Wulfstan backed up a few steps and waved the two fighters closer to each other. “The first match begins,” he called, then turned and hurried over to the awnings and the low stool sitting close by Aethelfreda.
The two soldiers squared off, studying each other. Both of them were smiling and full of confidence.
With a snarl, Gethin brought his sword up in a scything motion, trying to catch Wilheard off guard. Their blades clashed with a ring of metal, loud and shocking. For a moment they stood with blades together, assessing each other.
Then the fight began in earnest.
The crowd was unnaturally subdued. This was all so new to them that it did not occur to them that they could call out encouragement to their champion, or insults to the opponent. Instead, they were watching every move, assessing strengths and weaknesses.
Wilheard tripped Gethin with a two-footed jump forward, swinging his sword in a low, flat arc. Gethin leapt back out of the way before the blade cut him off at the ankles. He was forced to move so swiftly he couldn’t keep his balance. He staggered back, then fell onto his ass, his sword clattering on the stones.
Wilheard lunged forward and brought his weapon up to strike as Gethin scrabbled for his sword. Wilheard’s sword point entered into the back of Gethin’s shoulder as he turned to spot his own sword and he cried out, arching backward.
“Halt!” Wulfstan cried, lurching to his feet. He ducked under the barrier and strode out into the middle of the arena. “Gethin has fallen and cannot rise again. This match is declared for Mercia!”
Several of Gethin’s comrades hurried out to help him get to his feet, while Wilheard held his arms out, welcoming the applause of the crowd, as they cheered and clapped. The Powys side of the arena was quiet.
Llewelyn shifted on his chair, also silent.
Aethelfreda glanced at him. “It was an even match,” she observed. “Until the end,” she added with a small smile.
“Such luck can fall upon either side,” Llewelyn replied stiffly.
“We shall see.”
Wulfstan held up his arms again, calling for silence. “The champions for the second match present themselves now!”
From the Mercian side, a tall, thin man stepped out. He was fully armed and also had a shield on his arm. No one had thought to lay down rules about weapons and he was taking full advantage of it.
Sydney recalled his name from the morning’s discussions. Cola was a fierce fighter. He was not strong the way Wilheard was, but he was canny and smart on his feet. That showed by the way he had thought to bring a shield to his match. While Wilheard could fight all day and still spare air to laugh, Cola could end a fight quickly by measuring a man and exploiting his weaknesses.
There was a murmur of approval from the watching Mercians. Someone from Powys jeered. “He needs a shield to hold him down!”
There was a laugh around him.
“Cola! Cola!” someone cried on the other side.
Then the Powys champion stepped over the barricade and strode into the arena. He was a giant, with close-set eyes and a forehead that jutted over them. He looked mean. And powerful. Sydney recognized him as the Powys fighter who had sliced her arm open, the one from whom Rafe had tried to protect her.
“Tegid! Tegid!” a Powys man cried, imitating the first cheer.
Suddenly, everyone around the arena was shouting insults and encouragement, clapping and cheering. Some of the townsfolk were bouncing on their toes with excitement, waving and clapping as they smiled.
“If nothing else, my people will remember this day as entertaining, at least,” Aethelfreda said, studying the spectators.
“That may be the only happy memory they have of the day,” Llewelyn told her. “Tegid is my best fighter.”
“You did not save him for last?” she replied coolly.
Llewelyn did not reply, although Sydney understood his reasoning without explanation. If Powys had won the first match, then he would want his strongest fighter for the second, to ensure the victory for the day. If they lost, then he would want a strong fighter in the second match to at least even the score.
Which meant he had a strategy for the third match, too, one he had hoped he wouldn’t have to use, if he was gambling everything on this second match. Except that now he would be forced to use that gambit, if Powys won this match.
Wulfstan ordered the two fighters to begin and hurried behind the barrier once more.
Tegid and Cola circled each other, taking their measure. Neither of them smiled.
“You need more than a shield against me,” Tegid said, in heavily accented English.
Cola didn’t answer. He just kept circling, making no move to attack. Sydney knew he was trying to make Tegid commit to attack, so that he could defend and estimate his strength and skill at the same time. If Cola really was a master at spotting weaknesses, then it was the perfect opening move.
Tegid gave a roar and threw himself forward, his sword and knife swinging in big, ungainly but powerful arcs.
Cola stepped aside, actually presenting his bare back for a moment, as he spun. He dropped the shield so that it was horizontal to the ground and kept spinning around. His momentum sent the edge of the shield deep into Tegid’s belly, which the bigger man had exposed by moving into Cola’s circle.
Then Cola was spinning and moving away, light on his feet and the shield back up to protect him.
Tegid bent over, breathing heavily, his hand to his belly.
Llewelyn didn’t move or speak. Sydney suspected he was worried.
Then Tegid straightened again, slowly. He grinned at Cola while the Powys army screamed and clapped each other on the back, celebrating that their champion was still in the game.
“God’s teeth,” Llewelyn muttered, leaning forward to peer at the two warriors facing each other.
Sydney ran her gaze over Tegid, wondering what had alerted Llewelyn. Then she saw the dark patch staining the leather of Tegid’s mail jerkin, down by the belly, around where Cola had hit him with the shield.
The shield was blunt and while it might have bruised Tegid’s belly, it could not have bitten into the flesh and torn it, not through the mail. The memory of her confrontation with the giant flashed through her mind. The hot slice across her arm. The feel of her own sword being snagged on something as she tried to turn and run as Rafe had advised her to.
She must have wounded Tegid, too. Low down on his belly like that would be about where she had swung her sword in a blind and futile attempt to fend off his attack as she turned to escape.
Cola must have seen something in the way Tegid has been moving that hinted at a previous injury and he had gone straight for it, hoping to cripple Tegid or at least weaken him.
However, Tegid was smiling despite the blood spreading across his mail. Perhaps Cola hadn’t weakened him as much as he’d hoped.
The spectators were going crazy now, screaming encouragement to their respective champions.
The fight continued, with Cola attacking in quick flurries and feints, his feet moving swiftly. He stayed out of Tegid’s reach and kept up the pressure, making him defend and fall back, only to defend again. Tegid was being pressed close to the barriers. If he was caught with one at his back he would be forced to attack.
Cola must have sensed that he could end the match quickly that way, because he came closer, his sword slashing, driving Tegid back another two staggering steps. The crowd ‘ooohed’ as Tegid held his sword up as a shield as Cola hacked at it over and over.
When his back touched one of the barrels, Tegid gave a mighty roar and lurched forward. His footwork was nowhere as neat as Cola’s. He used his body as a battering ram, put his head down and ran at Cola, his sword up high for a downward stroke.
Cola was surprised by the spirited comeback. He stepped back, bringing his own sword up to block the high guard blow that Tegid was clearly planning to deliver.
That was when Tegid dropped the knife in his left hand and punched Cola in the jaw,
in a hard uppercut that connected solidly with the underside of his chin and lifted him right off his feet.
Cola landed heavily on the flat on his back and lay still. His shield rolled on its rim in a lazy half circle, then clattered to the ground, too.
For a few heart beats, the crowd held a shocked silence.
Then they went mad. The noise was deafening as they screamed themselves hoarse, expressing their amazement and their excitement. Sydney watched them pound each other on the back and the arms, venting their enthusiasm.
Powys and Mercia were one for one. The next and final match would decide the outcome.
As a dozen or more Powys fighters raced into the arena to help their champion limp away, Wulfstan moved to the middle of the arena and held up his arms for silence so that he could speak.
And still the crowd cheered and taunted and yelled.
Wulfstan stood with his arms raised, waiting for them to contain themselves. The noise was so ferocious there was no point in him trying to shout over the top of them. He would not be heard.
After a long minute, the volume slackened. Slowly, silence gripped the square. It was tense with anticipation, the air thrumming with it.
Sydney remembered to breathe. It was hard not to get caught up in the drama of it all. Alex’s idea really was going to work. If even she, who had experienced more vicarious blood and violence via Hollywood than any of these simple folk, could also be held in thrall by the spectacle then it was working far better than even Alex had hoped for.
When the noise had abated to a tense murmur, Wulfstan said simply, “The champions for the third and last match will now present themselves.”
The silence held while the crowd waited anxiously to see who the two contestants would be in the third match.
Someone was making their way through the tightly gathered Powys fighters on the other side of the arena, coming not from the left but from the top of the square where the road to the main gates started.
The soldiers separated, making way for the third champion.
It was Alex.
Sydney’s heart squeezed and her belly crawled as she watched him duck under the raised barrier and walk into the arena. He was wearing a knee length mail jerkin just like the other Powys fighters and there was a sword strapped to his hip. His knife was thrust into the belt on the other side. Long gloves protected his hands and wrists.
The warrior garb looked completely natural on him, as if he’d had lots of practice putting it on and wearing it.
And he had. Sydney remembered that he had fought his way through two crusades, not counting the one where he met Brody and Veris. He had been a warrior even before he had become a doctor.
Yet no one here knew that.
“The physician?” Aethelfreda asked, sounding as confused as Sydney did. “What foolery is this?” she demanded of Llewelyn as Alex walked into the center of the arena and bowed low toward them both.
Llewelyn just smiled. “Your champion, my Lady?” he asked politely.
Aethelfreda looked down at her knees, a deep frown marring her forehead.. Then she turned on her chair and looked at Sydney. “Go and deal with this…this warrior!” Her tone was withering.
Sydney could feel her heart thudding in her throat and hear it in her ears. The beating drowned normal sounds. She could barely breathe. “Eadric…” She struggled to speak above a whisper. Eadric was supposed to be the third champion and he was Wulfstan’s most able soldier.
Aethelfreda shook her head almost violently. “They laugh at us by fielding a man of letters, who can barely hold a sword. We will show them our might by having a mere girl crush him. You. Get out there and finish this off!”
Chapter Nineteen
Sydney couldn’t remember making her way across the arena to stand in front of Alex. Her heart was running too hard, her thoughts a haze of panic. Someone plucked her veil and filet from her head as she stepped out, leaving her bare headed and her hair in the long braid down her back.
The sounds the crowd were making washed over her, adding to her disorientation. They were delighted. Both sides were equally as thrilled at the coming match. They were eager for it. She couldn’t make out individual words, although the frantic roaring excitement was unmistakable.
Alex watched her approach with a calm expression. He had not withdrawn his sword yet. He stood with his hand resting on the hilt.
Sydney was breathing hard by the time she reached him.
He gave her a very small smile, one that wouldn’t be seen from afar. “They want a show, Sydney. We have to give them that if we are to survive this.”
She swallowed. “I can’t kill you. Even if you were human, I couldn’t.”
“Mercia must win,” he said. “Do your best.” He stepped back, pulling out his sword in a vision-defeating blur of speed.
Sydney just barely pulled her sword and threw it up in time. Their blades clashed, the sound ringing in her ears. Fright tore through her. Was he really trying to kill her? That was imp—
He swung again, this time a cutting sideways motion that would come under her guard.
She parried with a chopping stroke, throwing his blade aside, then lunged forward, driving the point of her own sword in toward his torso. The movement was automatic, a product of hours and hours of fencing training that Rafe had insisted she take and many more hours spent with Alex and Rafe as they took her through more ancient forms of sword fighting than the modern and elegant sport of fencing could teach her.
Alex jumped out of the way easily and fell back a step, measuring her, his sword swinging in an easy circle. It was the doodling of a man used to swords and from the sounds the townsfolk were making, they had recognized his ease and skill, too.
Sydney found she could breathe once more. The initial panic had abated. Now, even though her heart was a runaway express train, trying to tear itself from her chest, she could at least think.
The moves, the strategies she had painfully learned came flooding back. The mental mode where she could think of nothing but winning the fight clicked into place in her mind.
She brought the sword up into the high guard position and attacked, moving as fast as she could.
Alex stepped into her rush and their swords locked. For a moment, they were body-to-body, eye to eye. “You’re being predictable,” he told her, his tone withering. Then he grabbed the back of her head and kissed her.
Fury erupted inside her, white hot and explosive, made worse by the laughter that erupted from the audience.
She shoved him away. He had been expecting the shove and merely walked away, his balance unaffected by the push.
Then he came at her again and she suddenly had no time to think. His attack was blindingly fast and she could barely parry his thrusts and cuts. She fell back and back again as he kept up the pressure. Her fighting brain told her he was trying to corner her against the barrier.
With a turn and parry, she dodged underneath his arm and moved away from the barrels and bars back toward the center of the arena. She pulled out her long knife and hefted it in her left hand.
Alex smiled. It was a feral expression, one that delighted the crowd. He came at her again, only this time she could see by the shift of his shoulders that he was going to feint to her left. He was telegraphing, telling her what he was going to do.
He feinted and she dodged easily, then threw both sword and knife up in a high arc to block his sword as it swung up and came down again.
There was a squeal of metal on metal, as the three blades came together and locked.
Sydney tilted her head to look at him. “A show, huh?” She jerked her knee up and rammed it into his crotch and spun away, her sword squealing as it was pulled out of the lock.
With both knife and sword held up in front of her, she backed away from Alex where he stood bent over from the waist, recovering. She knew she had not really harmed him. Her knee had connected solidly with his inner thigh, yet he was pretending she had driven her knee deep into
his genitals.
People were pounding on the barrels, screaming their delight. For them, this was much better than cowering behind palisades while armies fought each other to bloody pulp, waiting to find out if their homes would be plundered and their women raped, or if they would survive the day at all.
Alex turned to find her. He straightened up with the help of his sword, then walked slowly over to where she was waiting. His eyes were narrowed.
They came together with another clash of metal and fought each other off, circling and returning to re-engage, over and over again. Sydney’s heart settled into steady rhythm as she worked the fight, anticipating what Alex would do next and maximizing the impact.
Then, when they were close enough to speak, Alex said shortly, “Time to end it.”
“How?”
They separated and paused, eyeing each other.
“Now,” Alex said and came at her with the same frightening speed that he had used with his first sally. He chopped and slashed, driving her steadily backward as she tried to think how a woman, even a strong and skilled one, could overcome a man who was as skilled as Alex clearly was. They had to make it look realistic.
That was when her feet went out from under her. It was as if she had stepped on black ice. There was no grip for her boot at all and she fell backward and landed on her butt and her back, just barely holding her head up so that she didn’t knock herself out on the stones.
Alex raised the sword, point down, as if he intended to drive it into her and lunged forward.
His foot slid, spilling him sideways.
Sydney rolled herself out of the way with a Herculean effort. She had dropped her sword, but she still had her knife. She pushed herself to her feet as Alex propped himself up on the ground with one hand, recovering his balance. Moving as fast as she could, she stamped on the flat of his blade, trapping it under her foot. She grabbed his hair in her fist and yanked his head back and rested the knife against his throat.
Alex grew still.
Sydney looked up and around her. Everyone watching the arena was on their feet, except for Llewelyn and Aethelfreda and Alfwynn, whose face was even whiter, her eyes enormous.
Kiss Across Kingdoms Page 17