The Tenth Suitor

by Laura Strickland

  No matter, he told himself firmly, he had hired his sword even north of the borders, tasted Angus’s ilk before, and survived.

  Alfred sidled up to him, a shocked look in his eyes. “Do they know who you are, man?”

  Thorstan shook his head. “Nay and I pray you will not tell them, my friend.”

  “No fear there.” Alfred grinned. “I would much like to see you settle this batch of gits. And you handle that sword like a man who knows what he is about. Who are you?”

  “The missing Lord Kenweth, clearly.”

  “Then why did Master Cedric fail to recognize you earlier?”

  “You need not concern yourself with that.”

  “Aye, well, try not to ruin my suit.”

  “I shall do my best.”

  Cedric raised his voice again. He stood near the center of the space that had been cleared by pushing benches and tables aside and looked at Edwina, who had returned to her place on the dais.

  “Here are the rules, my good sirs. You have each been given a number, in the order of your arrival. My daughter has drawn lots to see who among you will meet in the first pairings. The survivors will go on to meet one another. The match ends when you either touch or disarm your opponent. First pairings will be?” He looked to Edwina.

  “Lord Number One and Lord Number Seven,” Edwina supplied in a clear, steady voice.

  Thorstan rested his gaze on her. There she sat beside her cousin who, for her part, looked rather appalled at the turn things had taken. Could Edwina be as calm as she seemed as she settled her chin on her hand?

  He only hoped she had paired someone else with Angus in the first rounds. He would still have to meet the man later, if no one else took him out. And he could not imagine anyone else taking him out.

  Lords One and Seven took their places at the center of the cleared floor, looking understandably nervous: a courtier all dressed in green and a man of the broad highway—Thorstan could not tell who was which.

  Cedric bellowed, “And begin!”

  How many times had such a combat been staged in such a hall, Thorstan wondered, since the days when men first took up weapons? An insult fancied, a prize portion of meat contested—or a woman. Like stags at the rut they were, only these two proved pitiful examples, swiping at each other with half-hearted self-consciousness.

  The costumed bear roared in protest. “’Tis no decent fight, this! Ha’e at it, men.”

  The green courtier, perhaps emboldened by the cry, raised his sword and rushed the bandit, who made a feeble defense before being clearly touched on the shoulder.

  “Match!” Master Cedric cried immediately. “Winner is—”

  “One,” said the green courtier in a muffled voice.

  “Lord Seven is out of the contest. Next pairing will be—”

  Thorstan heard Edwina’s voice call out, “Lord Two and Lord Nine.”

  So it went, for pairing after pairing. Thorstan stood waiting to be called, while his tension, and that of the room, grew.

  Lord Nine dismissed Lord Two, who Thorstan suspected of being the redoubtable Edelbert. Lord Five took out Lord Six, and the bear, with another roar and far too much enthusiasm, immediately disarmed Lord Eight.

  Then it was Thorstan’s turn.

  He felt rather than saw Edwina turn her eyes on him as she announced, “Lord Three to meet Lord Ten.”

  “Lord Ten?” One of the already-defeated lords questioned. Everyone knew very well the identity of the man who had failed to answer Cedric’s invitation. “My lord, when did you arrive?”

  “Not long since.” Thorstan stepped forward and raised his borrowed sword. “Forgive me, my good sirs, I was delayed by an unfortunate circumstance. But I would not miss this on my life.”

  Cedric raised a hand, and Thorstan waded in to face his opponent, who was clad all in red from head to toe. Fortunately, the bright color did nothing to augment his valor. Thorstan disarmed him at the third pass.

  A curious silence then filled the great hall. Master Cedric spoke into it. “You are a bold swordsman, Lord Ten. Now let us see how you fare in the second round.”

  Chapter Nine

  Edwina shifted in her place at the high table and struggled to maintain her air of bland indifference. Gertrude shot her a curious look, but Edwina barely noticed. Sweat trickled down between her breasts, and her stomach roiled with uncertainty.

  She had her doubts about this scheme of Thorstan’s. Oh, she no longer doubted his ability to fight. He had already taken out two of her suitors and now only three competitors remained—the clearly identifiable Angus, Thorstan, and Lord Number Five, a man dressed in amber and dark blue, no mean hand with the sword. And Edwina did not know whom to pair next.

  If she put her Thorstan up against Angus, could he win? If she put Lord Five against Angus and Angus took out Lord Five, Thorstan would then still find himself facing the bear.

  Everyone in the room looked to her. She had to say something.

  Lord Five against Lord Ten,” she pronounced clearly.

  Thorstan straightened. She had been impressed with his sword play so far, but she did not want to see him face Angus, who drove in with sweeping blows clearly meant to decapitate his opponents. Better her love be the loser, she reasoned, and alive. For she no longer doubted him to be her love, the lord of her life and her soul.

  He squared off against Lord Five, his borrowed sword at the ready, and Edwina wondered who Lord Five might be. Some of the competitors had already been identified—Lord Six, Cormac, was clearly recognizable, and Lord Nine’s hat had fallen off at a critical moment, proving him to be Lord Percival, both now out of the running. But no one seemed to mind, everyone in the hall drawn quite surely into the contest.

  “Have at it!” Edwina’s father cried.

  And they did, with a furious flash and clang of their swords, far less play and more intent this time, while Angus danced with visible impatience to face the victor.

  For her hand. Would she be forced to accept one of these three men—even if he was not her Thorstan? Oh, to what had she agreed?

  But her beloved jester looked to take this match as well, for whatever else he might be, it was far more swordsman than fool. Ah, he could fight. Well enough to overthrow Angus?

  Even as she wondered, he turned in a wicked, brilliant move that hooked Lord Five’s weapon from his hands and flung it in a screech of metal across the flagged floor.

  A cheer went up in the room. The dashing man in black had the onlookers behind him, and no mistake.

  In a furious gesture, Lord Five tore the mask from his own face and flung it down, revealing him to be none other than Lord Julian.

  “I protest!” he cried. “Unfair. How do we know the identity of this man?”

  “We knew none of your identities, at the outset,” Cedric put in.

  Lord Julian’s eyes narrowed, and an ugly sneer distorted his handsome face. “But this man, appearing at the eleventh hour—how can we be sure he is who he claims, this missing tenth lord? Where, Sir Ten, is your invitation? Show it to us, if you are who you claim. For this, Master Cedric, might be some trickster, some master swordsman determined to humiliate us.”

  Thorstan froze where he stood, and Edwina’s heart sank sickeningly. They were surely undone now, Thorstan’s plan in flames.

  But she underestimated her fool. He jerked to life suddenly, and she realized it had been the sound of Lord Julian’s voice that shocked him—he knew it for that of his attacker.

  “You, my lord, may be the sort of man to cheat in fair contest or waylay another in the dark. That takes far less courage than facing him fairly at arms and accepting defeat, does it not? You ask to see the invitation? Here it is.”

  He dug in the pouch he wore at his waist and produced a missive, much folded, which he passed into the hands of Edwina’s father.

  Cedric unfolded and examined the sheet. “This is, indeed, the letter I sent.”

  A miracle! Edwina’s heart rebounded within her.
But how? Could her fool actually be Lord Kenweth in disguise? But nay, for she had met that bumbling gentleman some time ago and remembered him as having a weedy build, a weak chin, and eyes set far too close together.

  “Aye, well, enough of all this!” Angus declared. “My turn!”

  He leaped into the center of the arena, not caring who he faced so long as he faced someone, and not a soul in the room doubted his identity. The breath caught in Edwina’s throat, and she reminded herself Angus did not mean to decapitate her love, merely disarm him.

  Unless one of Angus’s wild blows goes awry, Thorstan ducks too slowly, or whirls too late.

  Nay, but Thorstan would merely be discovered and then—and then—

  Then what? Should she run to him now, stand fast, and declare to her father—to all assembled—she chose him? It was what she wanted to do. In fact, it was what she should do immediately before this madness went any further and he got hurt.

  She drew in a hard breath and started to rise. Too late—the combat below had already begun.

  Ah, and it might have been ludicrous—even amusing—were it not so terrible; the two men moving step for step in an ancient dance they both clearly embraced. So mismatched—Angus’s bulk, augmented by the shaggy, brown costume of the bear, and Thorstan moving as quickly as light within the blur of Angus’s whirling blade.

  The room held its collective breath. Once around in a deadly turn, twice, thrice, Thorstan’s blade somehow meeting Angus’s every crashing blow, and Angus tore off his mask with an authentic growl and shook his wild red head. Thorstan, still in disguise, fought on, the set of his shoulders now grim and determined, his seemingly tireless feet moving with precision.

  Angus whirled with a bellow, and his sword scribed a brilliant arc that brushed the top of Thorstan’s head. Edwina stifled a cry. Surely they remembered they were just playing?

  If not, she would remind them, go down there and put herself physically between them if necessary.

  She surged to her feet, Gertrude screamed, and she felt something icily cold press against her throat.

  ****

  Everything in the room froze when a woman’s scream rent the air from the direction of the dais. Angus stilled his blade—thank God!—and Thorstan looked up, his head turning along with the others in the room. He saw Edwina caught hard in the clutches of none other than Lord Julian.

  Rage rose instantly—flaming—to Thorstan’s head. Master Cedric apparently had the same reaction, for he bellowed, “What do you think you are about, Lord Julian? Unhand my daughter!”

  “I think not,” Julian grated. His uneven breathing heaved his chest and jostled the blade pressed against Edwina’s white throat. Beside Thorstan, Angus gave a roar like the enraged bear he so resembled.

  “Do not move,” Julian ordered, “or she dies.”

  “You are mad!” declared Cormac from his place with the other defeated suitors.

  “Nay,” Julian declared, “I am only bending the rules as they have already been bent.” He glared at Thorstan. “This entire undertaking has been fixed. I will not be made a fool!”

  “You are worse than a fool.” Surprisingly, the words came from Edwina—no cowardice in the lass. Her bosom rose and fell, but her eyes gleamed like those of the Valkyrie she played. “What good will it do your suit to threaten me?”

  “She is right, son,” Julian’s father pushed forward, his severe expression dissolved into one of alarm. “What are you about?”

  The blade at Edwina’s throat did not waver, but Julian’s eyes bulged with his overweening emotions. “You bade me, Father, to succeed at any cost, and that I shall do. There is more than one way to press a suit—you taught me that.” He jerked his gaze to Master Cedric. “Have my horse brought to the gate. Your daughter and I ride this night. And perhaps in exchange for her safety, and her virtue, you will give me her hand.”

  Cedric stiffened further; Thorstan could feel his outrage, but his eyes remained homed on Julian’s glittering blade.

  “That, sir,” his voice rang out, “is a threat of rape.”

  “Nay, for I know a priest, and ’tis there we ride this night. Once we are wed, it goes by another name.”

  Edwina spoke again, her voice still bold, “I am already promised—to him.” Her eyes reached for Thorstan’s across the intervening distance, burning with insistence—and love. He met that gaze, a question asked and a pledge given.

  All heads in the room swiveled to Thorstan, still in his disguise. But he spoke only to Lord Julian. “If you take her from here, I will hunt you down, no matter it be to the end of your life.”

  Julian’s only response was to tighten his hold on Edwina. She went rigid, and a thin line of red appeared on her white skin.

  “Be careful, Lord Swordsman—it may, instead, be her death you choose.”

  Chapter Ten

  Thorstan moved to the doorway with Master Cedric, Angus, and the other lords on his heels, the borrowed sword still in his hand. He stepped out into cold darkness where torches flared amid a blizzard of driving snow. Like the mood inside, the congenial Christmas weather had turned.

  Master Cedric called to his stable hands, who swiftly brought Lord Julian’s horse. “Do as he asks. Do not obstruct him!”

  The stable hands stepped away; everyone else hung back. Thorstan heard Cedric say, low, to the men beside him, “Have our lads bring more horses. We will away after them as soon as he rides out.”

  Thorstan, aching with rage, watched as Julian muscled himself and Edwina onto the back of his mount, every movement a threat. She must feel the bite of the blade, because she had gone still, only her gaze turning toward Thorstan.

  Even as Lord Julian gathered the reins, Master Cedric seized Thorstan’s arm.

  “Kenweth, can you catch them?” he pleaded.

  “I am not Kenweth.” Thorstan tore off his mask and cap, and looked the older man full in the eyes.

  Cedric stared. “I know you! You are the fool. But you—”

  “Father!” Edwina cried, and then she and Lord Julian were away into the curtain of snow.

  Thorstan could feel Cedric’s emotions through the grip on his arm. The man’s eyes burned with blue fire. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “An imposter in your hall—a small landholder and a former mercenary,” Thorstan said tersely. “I am also the man who loves your daughter, as she loves me, and who will catch her with the lend of your best horse.”

  Cedric’s fingers tightened painfully. “Bring my lass back safe, young man, and I will hear your suit.”

  The stable hands led out a stocky pony, deep in the chest. Thorstan ran forward and vaulted onto it, bareheaded to the night. The guests milled about in confusion; a number of them held Lord Julian’s father captive.

  Thorstan’s last glimpse through the falling snow was of Edwina’s mother clinging to her husband, desperate hope in her eyes.

  They would bring more horses and follow after, but he could travel far faster on his own. Indeed, he should be faster than a mount hampered by two riders—if only he could see his way through this storm.

  He pounded off into the whirling snow, the torchlight soon lost, and heard Angus roar behind him. The cold bit deep as the wind assaulted him in icy gusts. He tried to think clearly, to separate his intent from his emotions as he used to do on campaign, but he found it difficult. Edwina would be cold, clad only in her thin, gold cape and blue gown. She would be frightened, no matter her courage. And he could not afford to fail her.

  The irony of it did not escape him: a hall filled with lords, and a fool sent to rescue her. But this fool owned her heart. And he could almost feel her love drawing him on through the night.

  If the filthy weather hindered him, it must hamper Lord Julian as much. Where did he mean to take Edwina? Where suppose to hold her until she was ruined in truth or just in reputation?

  Thorstan’s anger burned anew at the thought. How did Lord Julian suppose he might bring her back and Cedric not s
lay him rather than grant him Edwina’s hand? A light went on in his mind. Ah, but Julian had mentioned a priest; he meant to see the deed done this very night.

  And the nearest priest, Thorstan knew, resided not far off at Guisborough. As a mercenary, he had needed often to follow his instincts. Pray God that served him well now. He pressed his knees into his mount’s flanks and urged the sturdy beast on into the raging darkness.

  Yet the pair ahead of him had been swallowed by the storm into which they rode. He might have been alone in this world of snow and gusting wind, the weather his only companion.

  Only let me reach her, he prayed to the god of the darkness, and I swear I will ask nothing more.

  Yet not so much as a few hoof prints guided him; the wind scoured them away as soon as they were made. He followed the old road that passed his own holding, southeastward in the direction of Scarborough and the sea. He told himself there would yet be time to catch them in town, when Julian paused to hunt out the priest. But if he missed a turning in this darkness…

  On he pressed, with the snow driving into his face and the road a ribbon turning white, enticing him into the unknown. Many times these last years had he lived with uncertainty: would he survive a raid, a skirmish, or a combat in some lord’s pay? Would he ever have the home for which he longed, a place to settle where he could stop his roving? Not until he saw Edwina ride by with her father had he imagined he desired anything more.

  Not until he looked into her eyes did he know he had found his one home.

  His pony faltered abruptly. He caught the beast up, and tried to urge it on, but it slowed to a walk and Thorstan’s heart sank. If the pony fell lame, his pursuit failed here and now.

  Then, through the gusts of wind, his ears caught what the pony must have heard before him, a disturbance in the darkness just ahead, a woman’s voice raised in fear or anger.

  Edwina’s voice.

  Thorstan dismounted and, sword in hand, pushed forward into the maelstrom.

  ****

  Edwina did not know when she had been so enraged or, were she honest, so frightened. Displaying unexpected strength and ruthlessness, Lord Julian had forced her up onto the horse, every movement jostling the blade against her skin.