The Tenth Suitor

by Laura Strickland

  Ah, and he looked even worse close up, the skin on one cheekbone darkened and split, a lip swollen, one eye puffed. The ruined suit, like his hair, bore streaks of mud.

  “What happened to you?” she breathed.

  “An attack by a group of men, my lady, last night after you retired.”

  “Did you see them?” If he could identify Julian, she might then take the matter to her father.

  He did not immediately answer and she searched his eyes, wondering what she saw there. Anger, surely, along with a glint that made him look suddenly dangerous. “I saw no one clearly, but I did hear a voice I will know again.”

  “Listen closely,” she bade him, “the next time Lord Julian speaks.”

  Thorstan’s gaze quickened. “What do you know, my lady?”

  “He has made an implied threat, even while pressing his suit. What can I do for you?” she asked, in longing.

  “Naught. We should not be seen together. Quite clearly he watches.”

  “Aye.”

  “And I would not have any harm befall you, my lady.”

  “What could happen to me in the safety of my father’s hall?”

  His eyes narrowed further. “Any man whose greed is frustrated may become dangerous.”

  Impulsively, she said, “We will take this to my father, tell him what has occurred.”

  His gaze held hers with a hint of irony. “And how explain your interest in the fate of a mere fool whilst all these lords are busy leaping through hoops for your attention?”

  “I do not care,” Edwina said stubbornly. “I will tell my father I have made my choice—that is, if there is a choice to be made that may join you and me.” For she did not wish to overstep herself on the strength of dreams conjured during a dance in moonlight and kisses stolen in the dark.

  Heat kindled in his eyes. “By my very soul, lady, I would lay down my life for the chance of a future with you. But, what to tell Master Cedric? That his daughter, and sole heir, has chosen an untitled commoner? For as you said, ’tis all he will see.”

  Edwina lifted her head. “He will not deny me if I tell him my heart.”

  Her fool smiled. “You may have been much indulged all your life, love, but this is about a man seeing his legacy safe into the future. I doubt much you will prevail.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Be canny and careful, and wait. Go now—far too many eyes watch.”

  Edwina went, but she carried that precious word—love—in her heart.

  Chapter Seven

  “Father, might we please speak together?”

  It had taken hours for Edwina to catch her father alone. He seemed to be always on the move, everywhere at once and in the company of guests or servants, engaged in conversation or giving instruction. Now at last, when most of the guests had withdrawn to dress for the masque, she saw him pause at the head table and take up a mug of ale.

  He looked at Edwina with an affectionate smile. “Daughter, come sit with me and tell me how you like this great effort staged on your behalf. Has there ever been a more wondrous way for a bride to choose her groom? All these lords,” he waved an arm at the now-empty room, “here just for you.”

  Edwina slipped onto the bench beside him and covered his hand with her own. “I am well aware, Father, of the honor you do me in allowing me a say in my future.”

  He looked amused. “Well, and Edwina, I think you are too much like me—stubborn and strong-willed—to be denied. I want you happy in your marriage, as I have been in mine.”

  Edwina drew a breath that tasted of relief. “Your union with Mother serves as an example to me,” she said, and tightened her fingers on his. Mayhap this would not be as difficult as she feared.

  He drank deep from his mug before he asked, “And so have you a preference?”

  “I may indeed, yet I am still endeavoring to get to know them all better. I hoped you would share what you know of them, and why you chose these particular men.”

  Cedric’s expression sobered. “We live in a difficult world, daughter—an oft-times rigid one. I have told you I came from humble beginnings. I knew the fathers of all these men in one capacity or another during my early struggles and victories. One or two, as you are aware, are neighbors, others acquaintances—some for whom I did service.” He hesitated. “Tides have turned, and all in one way or another now need what you and I can offer—a bride who brings a rich endowment.”

  He frowned. “I am no fool. I know why they are here, but this kingdom of ours offers very few ways to raise oneself up from a peasant—sixth son of a blacksmith—to where I wish my descendants to be.” He reached out and touched her hair with a loving hand. “You, Edwina, will get us there.”

  Edwina swallowed a lump that suddenly formed in her throat. She knew her father for a kind man, but fierce—almost single minded—in his intentions. For all the affection between them, how was she to turn his mind?

  “What can you tell me of Lord Julian?”

  He shot her a sharp look. “Is it young Julian you favor? His is a proud and quite elevated family that has fallen upon hard times. Lord Damian—Julian’s father—backed those who opposed Queen Mary, and though he has managed to worm his way back into her favor and return to court, it is at the cost of high levees that have more or less drained his estate.” He concluded almost heavily, “Lord Damian will be very much in favor of this marriage.”

  “I see.” Edwina searched her father’s face. “Lord Julian is handsome enough but, Father, he makes me uneasy. I am not entirely sure I trust him.”

  Cedric gave her a tight smile. “Those are your instincts speaking to you. Lord Damian—and Julian, for all I know—can be ruthless. But I have no reason to believe they would ever do aught but cherish you, should you decide in favor of that union.”

  “I believe Lord Julian caused harm to the jester.”

  “Eh, what?” Cedric cocked an ear.

  “The fool. Did you not see him when we returned this noontide? Someone pummeled him right well.”

  “I do not recall noticing the fool at all, save in passing. What is it to you, Edwina?”

  “You have taught me consideration of others, always. The man has been treated right shabbily under our roof, beneath the shelter of our hospitality.”

  “No doubt he played the clown to someone’s annoyance. ’Tis part and parcel of his place in the world. Why should you suspect Lord Julian of this?”

  Edwina shivered. “I just think he wishes the fool out of the way.”

  “And why should he give thought to the creature any more than I do? Than you do, for all that? Do not waste your care on such things, daughter.” He leaned closer and said earnestly, “Not when you have such an important decision to make.”

  ****

  Thorstan stood in the doorway of the great hall and observed all the motion, gaiety, and brightness within. The place had been well decked with the greenery hauled in earlier that day. Great swags of pine boughs hung from the archways and woven chains of holly from the roof beams. Twin fires roared in the hearths at either end of the room, and the scents of spiced mead and cider perfumed the air. Dancers moved everywhere, all of them masked and difficult to identify.

  Thorstan himself stood in disguise. He had traded his tattered jester’s costume for an elegant one borrowed from the amiable Alfred’s stores. From head to toe he glittered in black and silver, his hair well covered by a close-fitting cap, and his face—and most of its bruises—obscured by a large black mask.

  He scanned the room in search of the man he now knew to be his enemy—he whom Edwina assured him had done him harm—and felt a rush of frustration. He would not be certain, for himself, until he heard the villain’s voice. But everyone attended masked; he would need to circle the room, listen in on conversations, and locate the voice he remembered from the dark. His gaze snagged on a form that froze him where he stood and knocked all the breath from his body.

  Edwina. He would know her in any guise she chose to ass
ume—his heart would, he believed, even were he struck blind. No other woman here had her height, nor her proud bearing. She moved through the hall like a queen.

  But the costume she wore had come straight out of some old tale—an ancient saga, perhaps. A cloak of bright gold, all worked with an edging of knotwork, flowed from her shoulders to the floor, allowing only a glimpse of deep blue garments beneath. Her glorious hair hung loose and made a second golden curtain atop the first. Her mask—but it was a work of art surrounding her eyes and framing her face with gold wings that curved up to her brow.

  Thorstan’s loins tightened in response to her beauty.

  She might be easy to recognize; he knew he was not. He moved toward her in helpless attraction and, when he reached her, executed a deep bow.

  “My lady.”

  Would she know him, even as he knew her? When he straightened, he saw that her eyes gleamed through the slits in the golden mask with glad recognition.

  “My good sir. Are you the tenth suitor, come late to join the festivities?”

  “Would that I were.”

  “If I declare you are, will you dance with me?”

  Without awaiting an answer, she moved into his arms, and they swung away together, smooth as flowing water. It felt like dancing with her outside in the snowflakes, only a score of times better here among all the company. For here she belonged, in his arms.

  “You look very handsome tonight, my lord.”

  “And you are alluring beyond words. What goddess do you claim to be?”

  “No goddess, but a Valkyrie maiden, such as escorted the souls of brave warriors to their eternal reward.”

  Thorstan leaned closer. “You are the only reward for which I might ever hope.”

  “And I, you.” She slid her hands up around his neck, and he spun her in a circle in time to the music. The troubadours surpassed themselves tonight; he felt as if he danced some distance above the floor. He had nearly forgotten his mission, and the voice in the dark.

  He drew her closer. “Be mine forever, Edwina.”

  Her gaze, suddenly sober, regarded him seriously through the golden mask. “I am already yours, my lord Thorstan. But a number of things stand in our way—nine, to be exact.”

  Ten, Thorstan thought ruefully, if the misguided Kenweth were to turn up.

  She whispered, “I tried to speak with my father. You are right; he focuses on the future to the exclusion of all else. It has made him blind. What are we to do?”

  “I must find a way to expose my attacker, this night.”

  “Even if you do, what then? You cannot stand and accuse him. My father will not listen to your word against that of a lord.”

  “Would he see you pass into that blackguard’s keeping?”

  “He believes Lord Julian would treat me well for the sake of the wealth I bring.”

  “Mayhap so.” His arms tightened about her. “But tell me that will not happen.”

  “It will not. Yet, love, my parents will insist I choose one of them in time for a Christmas wedding.”

  “Choose me.”

  “You know I already have,” she breathed. “Yet how will that serve?”

  “I think I may have a plan.” He swung her in a great sweep. “Listen to me. When do we unmask, this night?”

  “Not until midnight.”

  “And you say I am not recognizable as the fool, in this rig?”

  “You are not. But—”

  He bent close to her ear. “Then trust me. This is what you must do.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Father, the tenth lord has arrived. Only look—it is Lord Kenweth.”

  Cedric spun about with a look of amazement on his face. Clad in a physician’s robes, he made a curious sight with his great yellow mane swathed in a purple turban. His eyes raked Thorstan, and Edwina sucked in a breath. Would her father, a canny man, recognize the jester?

  But Cedric—already half drunk on the festivities—had also imbibed from the goblet of mead at his elbow. He gave a great laugh and extended his hand to Thorstan.

  “Aye, so, my lord, you were a long time coming.”

  “I was delayed on the road, Master Cedric. But I am here now and ready to vie for your beautiful daughter’s hand. Indeed, sir, I would not miss this on my life.”

  “Well, well!” Cedric cried, clearly pleased. “Another player.”

  All too true, Edwina thought. She shot a look at her fool and wondered just what lay in that brown head of his. Would this ever come right?

  “You have done your daughter proud, Master Cedric.” Thorstan turned at Cedric’s side as if to survey the crowd. “Dancing, music, feasting, and this charming masque—all most entertaining. Yet, all other considerations aside, would you not want your daughter placed safe in the care of a man at ease with a sword in his hands?”

  Cedric gave him a close look. “To be sure. And had you been here all week, my lord, you would have known right well my guests have been keeping busy sparring with one another.”

  “Sparring?” Thorstan tossed his head. “What is that, when it comes to it? I am a man who is not afraid to fight for what he wants, and in earnest.”

  Cedric appeared taken aback. “I confess, Lord Kenweth, I never took you for a dedicated warrior.”

  True enough of the Kenweth she remembered, Edwina thought.

  “Yet,” Thorstan said with a half bow, “your daughter is a jewel of inestimable value. I propose we ten lords show of what we are made, here and now, for her benefit.”

  “Show of what you are made—how?” Cedric wondered aloud.

  “In combat, one on one, before this stout company.”

  Cedric’s eyebrows flew up. Edwina’s mother, seeing that look on his face, swiftly joined them and leaned close. “Cedric, what—?”

  “List, Marta. Young Lord Kenweth here has a proposal. Do you say, my lord, you want to battle for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  “I do, Master Cedric. ’Tis the only reason I am here.”

  “Oh, my!” Marta breathed.

  “And you, daughter—how do you feel about this? Lord Kenweth has only just arrived. You are scarcely acquainted with him.”

  “I like the idea of a competition at arms, Father.” Edwina fought to stay calm. In truth, what she began to glean of Thorstan’s intent terrified her. He had come here as a fool—could he fight? All these lords, pitiful specimens as they might be, had perforce trained at arms since boyhood. She gushed, for her mother’s benefit more than otherwise, “Is it not so very romantic? Just like something from a story.” And so it was. She turned her gaze on the man at her side, measuring him.

  As did Cedric. “I will say this, my lord Kenweth—you show more bal—er, backbone than anyone who has come before. My other guests shall have to agree, of course.”

  Thorstan inclined his head. “Agree or be shamed, Master Cedric.”

  Edwina’s father gave a great laugh. “I must declare, Lord Kenweth, I like your way of thinking.”

  “As do I,” Edwina put in quickly. “Should he win, I mean to give him my hand in marriage.”

  ****

  Edwina leaned close enough to speak into her fool’s ear. “All well and good—my father has given his consent to your competition.”

  “How could he do otherwise? He is a man to his marrow, unlike most of these misbegotten fops. Edwina, you will have to secure for me the lend of a sword. I have none.”

  “That is naught to the question: can you use it?”

  He met her gaze, brown eyes gleaming through the black mask in a look firm as iron. “I can.”

  “But, how well?” Edwina’s heart fluttered in her breast.

  “No need for you to worry about that now. Anyway, your father will declare a contest to first touch—there will be no murder done here this night.”

  Edwina’s pulse settled, but not much.

  “Only find me a sword—a good one, mind. And another thing—you cannot allow your father to unmask us until ’tis d
one.”

  Edwina hesitated and then said reluctantly, “You expect my father to accept you then? He still may not, once he learns the truth.”

  “Perhaps not.” Covered by the confusion around them, Thorstan leaned down and gave Edwina a quick, hard kiss that rocked her back on her heels. “But it may be enough to show him of just what these fine lords he’s selected are made. And that, in turn, may persuade him to give me a proper chance to court you.”

  Edwina nodded. Courting would be well enough, but in that moment she wanted her Christmas wedding—desired it to her very heart. Yet only if she wed this man.

  ****

  “’Tis my father’s. In this rush, he will not notice.” Edwina slid the pommel of the sword into Thorstan’s hand. He gripped, hefted, and weighed it with the instinctive ability earned over years of serving as a mercenary. He had fought many battles since leaving home, but none so important as this.

  Aye, he thought as he gazed into the eyes of the woman beside him, he wanted her hand, but he cared little for the estate and whatever wealth she might bring. He was a man who made his own way. Yet this prize of his heart he must earn for all to see.

  The sword she had brought him proved a fine one, bless her, and he trusted old abilities would now serve him well.

  He raised his head as Cedric announced the combat for Edwina’s hand.

  “She is having a difficult time choosing among you, my lords! She thought a display of the manly arts, here before all the company, should decide the matter.” He directed a look at his daughter. “But she insists the contest be fought masked so she may judge you not on what she already knows of you, but by your skill alone.”

  “We have to fight dressed like this?” one of the lords cried—Cormac it was, judging by his voice. Clad as a purple bird, he wore plumes that sagged across his brow.

  Thorstan sneered to himself. He would have the fellow disarmed at the first pass.

  He felt far more worried by Lord Angus. At Cedric’s announcement, the man—clearly identifiable despite his bear costume—threw back his head and chortled in glee. How could Thorstan have overlooked the fact that he would have to face that brute?