A wave of dizziness overcame her, weakening her knees and threatening to make her collapse. Her head swam in murky waters, and black spots flickered at the edge of her vision.
“Ballocks.”
She swayed, fighting to stay upright. Ultimately, pride forced her to sink back onto the bed before she could swoon to the floor.
In a moment, she told herself. In a moment, it would pass. Then she’d go after that wee old maidservant with the big mouth.
“I’m busy.” Colin stabbed forward again at the straw target, half-burying his blade.
“This is important,” the old woman insisted.
He gave Sung Li a sideways glare. She seemed incredibly undaunted by his violence, considering he could thrust a blade through her scrawny body as easily as the target. He wrenched his sword free and prepared to stab again.
But just as he drove the weapon forward, she somehow snapped him on the wrist with lightning speed, then dug her tiny fingertips between the sinews of his forearm. To his shock, the sword fell from his numb fingers.
“What the bloody hell..?”
She released his arm, and he shook his wrist, trying to get the feeling back.
“Very,” she said, “important.”
He stared at her. How had she done that? Perhaps it was an old woman’s trick, like the way his grandmother could bring him to his knees with a tweak of his ear when he was a lad. “Maybe we should enlist you to fight in the tourney,” he grumbled.
She gave him one of her inscrutable smiles. “It would bring shame to the knights if the tournament champion was a maidservant.”
Colin shook his head. Sung Li had no lack of self-worth, that was certain. He wondered how she had come to be a servant at all. “What do you want?”
Her answer was as swift and direct as her blow had been. And equally stunning. “Helena is with child.”
His heart stood still. For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe. But thoughts rushed through his head like a flurry of leaves in a rough wind.
Was he going to be a father? Would she marry him now? When was the babe due? Was she excited? Worried? Upset? Why hadn’t she told him herself?
And then a thought intruded that engulfed all the others, a thought so loathsome and repugnant that he could almost taste its bitterness at the back of his throat.
“Indeed?” he croaked. “And does she know who the father is?”
Sung Li frowned. “You are the only one—”
He interrupted with a humorless chuckle. “Don’t be so certain.”
She narrowed her already narrow eyes. “You are a fool if you believe there is anyone else.”
Colin was too dispirited to reprimand Sung Li for her insolence. Aye, he was a fool, not because he believed there was another, but because for so long he’d not believed it. He was a masochistic fool for watching from his window every morn as they slipped into the forest for their rendezvous. And he was a cursed fool for still loving Helena, in spite of everything.
“The babe is yours,” Sung Li decreed with a decisive nod of her head before she scurried off.
Colin wished he could be as sure. He retrieved his sword and wiped the blur from his eyes. It was only sweat, he assured himself. After all, his heart was long dead.
Chapter 21
Helena had never seen a more glorious tournament, nor had Rivenloch. The air was filled with the sounds of clashing swords and strumming lutes, thundering hooves and shivering timbrels. Refreshments of Scots ale and Norman pasties were proffered. Servants stood ready with herbs and bandages, needles and thread for the wounded, and the scarves of many a coy maiden fluttered upon the arms of brave young knights.
Dozens of pavilions dotted the adjoining field like giant flowers sprung up on the grassy knoll, their pennons fluttering proudly in shades of or and azure, argent and sable, declaring the names of the knights from far and wide who fought for honor in the lists of Rivenloch.
At the top of the stands, seated in a box decked with flowers, Deirdre and Miriel flanked Lord Gellir, while Helena’s place stood empty, for she’d left their company early, pleading an aching head. Surrounding them were the ladies from the local clans, squirming children, and lords too old to fight. And below the reserved noble assemblage was a huge host of peasants from all over the Borders, cheering and jeering, hoisting ale and wolfing down meat pies with disorderly enthusiasm.
Of course, the best part for Helena was the combat itself. Everyone seemed to be in top form. Sir Adric le Gris took down five opponents in a row in the joust. Young Kenneth distinguished himself with his swordplay against a more seasoned adversary. There were acts of noteworthy chivalry—one victorious Norman knight refused to take any further compensation from his vanquished opponents than a loaf of bread—and acts of memorable romance—Sir Malcolm bade all those he conquered leave an offering of flowers on his wife’s grave. Two red-haired Lachanburns fought in a melee for the first time. And Mochrie’s four sons fought for the glory of their father, killed so recently by the English. Even Colin, to Helena’s satisfaction, dispatched his first two opponents almost immediately, though he seemed to take little joy in the victory.
But Helena’s greatest thrill was that she had competed twice already and won her bouts, with no one suspecting who she was or even that she was a maid. Her first rival, one of the Lachanburn lads, proved too bumbling and slow for her swift slashes and spins. She used his sluggish weight against him, drawing his attack, then dodging so he plowed himself into the ground. The second knight, a Norman of exceptional height, proved a greater challenge, but once she slipped within the circle of his gangly arms, she managed to trip him over his own lanky legs, and he ended up helpless on his back with her sword at his throat.
She had some trepidation, however, about her next foe. It wasn’t that she doubted her skills. Her first two battles had assured her she was a worthy opponent. And to her immense relief, her sickness had subsided in the last few days, restoring her to the peak of health. But she was moving higher now in the ranks, and the competition was growing fierce.
She watched from the narrow slit in her helm as Boniface strode to the middle of the lists to announce the bout.
“Sir Rauve d’Honore fighting for Lord Pagan of Rivenloch,” Boniface announced, “against the knight in the blue tabard.”
Mumbles of speculation coursed through the crowd. But Helena was too busy thinking about the battle to come to pay them much heed. She blew out a hard, bracing breath. It would be a difficult bout. Sir Rauve was a challenging opponent, twice her size, bold, and slow to tire. But she mustn’t let fear get the best of her. As Pagan was fond of saying, David slew Goliath without three feet of good Spanish steel.
So she paraded brazenly onto the field, cutting a menacing X into the air before her. She would win this match. For herself. For her father. For the glory of Rivenloch.
From the first blow, she knew it would not be an easy victory. Rauve’s blade collided with hers with a bone-jarring impact. Helena’s arm dropped, all the strength drained from it as she stumbled back from the shock.
Fortunately, she was able to skirt away before he drew back for another strike. Shaking the numbness out of her arm, she sized him up. If she could get inside the reach of his arms where he couldn’t strike her…
She dodged quickly forward, slicing at his shoulder. But though he retreated a step, her blade seemed to recoil off his epaulet like hail bouncing off a helm. His next blow, delivered across her chest, knocked her to the ground, jarring the wind from her.
He chivalrously waited for her to rise. After a moment, she caught her breath, and then scrambled to her feet. Ducking under his arm, she managed to solidly clip the back of his head. But the great knight shook off the impact like a horse shaking off flies.
She skittered out of the way of his next strike to her side. Then he returned with a violent slash that had all his power behind it. At first all she felt was the bruising blow to her thigh, hard enough to break the links of her chain
mail. Then the blade swiftly slid along her chausses, slicing through cloth and skin and muscle. She staggered forward, wincing at the searing agony. She bit her lip, stifling her cries. The pain was so intense that she thought she might be sick.
From outside the lists, Colin glanced up briefly at the contestants, then sniffed, slapping his dusty gauntlets against his knee. It would be a short match—Rauve’s opponent was half his size. Then Colin would be up again. He was to be matched against a Highlander, some wild brute of a man with more brawn than grace, he’d heard.
A loud cheer arose from the stands, and he looked up again. As he expected, Sir Rauve had drawn blood and was pounding his opponent into the dust.
Then, amid the cacophony, he thought he heard his name. He scanned the crowd.
“Colin!” came a distant cry. He couldn’t see her, but he recognized Deirdre’s voice.
Another cheer exploded, and Colin’s eyes were drawn to the center of the lists. There was something chillingly familiar about that knight in the blue tabard—the turn of the blade, the shifting of balance, the way the shield dipped and…
The blood congealed in his veins. God’s wounds, nay!
He tossed aside his gauntlets and unsheathed, bolting forward to stop the bout. But Sir Rauve’s sword had already begun a powerful downward arc.
“Helena!” he bellowed.
Time slowed horribly. The air grew strangely silent. At the edge of the lists, Colin saw her now—Deirdre, her mouth open in a soundless plea. Pagan slogged forward from the opposite end of the field. Colin lifted his heavy sword as if he could ward off the blow from where he stood. But it was too late. Rauve’s sword landed on Helena’s helm with an awful metallic thud that Colin would remember for the rest of his life.
“Nay!” He vaulted over the fence, his legs pounding to close the distance.
Half-blind with dread, he was upon them before he realized that Pagan had already reached Helena and was easing off her dented helm with quivering hands. Her face was as pale as milk, and when her long hair spilled free across the sod, a low rumble of shock rolled through the crowd like thunder.
Grief twisted in Colin’s belly like a knife.
Sir Rauve drew off his own helm and gasped, leaning heavily on the pommel of his sword. “My God!” he sobbed. “Nay!”
Pagan knelt beside Helena. He stroked her forehead, lifted her limp hand, searched her wan face for signs of life. “Come on, Helena, come on, breathe, don’t give up,” he begged.
Colin couldn’t move. Anguish paralyzed him. His lips were compressed so tightly together they were numb. He felt as if he’d aged ten years in an instant.
“Wake up,” Pagan hissed, squeezing her hand. “Do you hear me? Wake up.”
Blood from Helena’s thigh dripped slowly, soundlessly onto the earth. No bird, no breeze, no whisper from the crowd intruded upon Pagan’s prodding murmurs. The torture of waiting grew until Colin thought he would go mad with dread.
Finally, Helena’s eyelids fluttered—once, twice. Then she gasped. The sound was like a stone tossed into a still pond, traveling outward into the crowd. It grew as it joined sighs of relief and finally culminated in a loud cheer.
Colin, his eyes filling with tears, his chin trembling despite the iron clench of his jaw, bowed his head and mouthed something that was half prayer, half curse.
And yet when he gazed down at Helena, who was shaking the cobwebs from her brain and blinking to clear her vision, she seemed not to realize how close she’d come to death. The foolhardy wench was already struggling to rise.
She pushed up to her elbows, glanced at Colin, who was too stunned to move, and took Pagan’s offered arm. With his aid, she wrenched herself up, biting her lip as she put weight on her injured leg. Sweat popped out upon her brow, but she refused to cry out.
Instead, once she glimpsed Rauve, bent despondently over his sword, looking as if he might faint at any moment, she called out with forced levity, “Sir Rauve! I’ve never felt such buffets as yours! ’Tis glad I am to have you as an ally.”
Pagan, seething with anger, but eager to avoid a spectacle, assumed her flippant manner as well. “He is indeed formidable, my lady,” he announced, “and it attests to your own skills that you’ve met him admirably.”
The crowd cheered at the chivalrous exchange, and Rauve and Helena shook hands. Then, while Colin stood dumbfounded, she gave him a tremulous smile and limped off the field.
What was the little fool doing? She’d fallen hard. That slash on her thigh must be agonizing. Yet she behaved as if it were a flea’s bite, as if she hadn’t stood at death’s door just moments before. Her levity made anger rise in him now.
Damn her! He’d nearly choked on his heart to see her fall. How dared she make light of her injuries? And how dared she enter the tournament in the first place? It was just like the impulsive wench to ignore her own safety and the safety of her child for the fleeting pleasure of crossing swords with a Norman. It seemed that carrying a babe in her belly had done nothing to curb her recklessness.
He bit out a foul oath under his breath. Helena would do no more fighting, if he had anything to say about it. Ever. He’d be damned if he’d let her endanger their baby again.
Her baby, he amended.
“Here, Colin,” Pagan said softly. He scooped up Helena’s forgotten helm and shoved it into Colin’s hands. “Go to her. She’s in great pain, though she denies it. Look after her.”
Colin studied Pagan, standing there with lines of concern etched across his face, and felt ill. Now that Helena was out of danger, there was room for other, darker emotions—jealousy, anger, hurt—and they all warred within him as he tried to block out the painfully vivid image of his friend and his mistress locked in passionate embrace.
“Perhaps you should see to her,” he finally growled, pushing the helm away. “From what I hear, she prefers your company.” He wheeled and walked away, afraid of what he might do to Pagan if he stayed, afraid of the vulnerability he might reveal to him.
Every step was sheer torture, but Helena knew she had to hold her head high as she walked from the field, both to salvage her pride and to assuage Rauve’s guilt. So she forced her limbs to as even a gait as she could manage until she found refuge behind the walls of Pagan’s pavilion.
When Pagan arrived, she was leaning heavily upon the inner brace, her hands clenched in pain, but she turned to meet him with a brittle smile. “Rauve is very good,” she said faintly.
“My God, Helena,” he breathed, glancing at her blood-soaked tabard. He dropped her helm to the ground. “Lie down.”
She glanced longingly at the pallet, but pride made her hesitate.
“You’re sore wounded,” he insisted. “Lie down.”
“I’m fine. I need no…” was all she managed before her eyelids fluttered and she careened sideways.
The next thing she knew, Pagan was lifting her onto a straw pallet on the ground, tucking a bolster beneath her head. Then he opened the flap of the pavilion and called out, “You, lad! Go fetch Colin du Lac! Now!”
She closed her eyes and smiled weakly when he returned to her side. “We shall have matching scars, Colin and I.”
“And I suppose you think that’s admirable?” He drew his dagger to slash her bloody tabard out of the way. “You’re a fool wench, Helena of Rivenloch,” he muttered, “almost as pigheaded as your sister. And I’m a bigger fool. I should never have—”
“Don’t blame yourself. You’re right. I am pigheaded.” She lifted her head to peer down at the injury. Where the mail at her thigh had been cut through, blood welled from the slash. It dizzied her to look at it.
Pagan unbuckled the wide belt holding up her chausses and gently pushed the mail down past the injury. Then he tore through the delicate linen of her undergarments, exposing her thigh.
“’Tis all right, isn’t it?” she asked tentatively.
“The cut is deep, but ’tis clean. ’Twill heal.”
“Then I’ll be able t
o fight again?”
He scowled and wadded a piece of linen to stanch the flow of blood. “Unfortunately, aye.” Then he added, “But not in this tournament, mark my words.”
But despite his dire warning and the throbbing pain in her thigh, already she was planning for the next event. No Norman was going to tell a Warrior Maid of Rivenloch that she couldn’t participate in Rivenloch’s tournament.
Colin paced along the sidelines, punching his fist into his palm, tensing his jaw. God—the waiting was tearing him apart.
But he’d be damned if he’d let anyone know it. He continued with his bouts as if his heart wasn’t knifing at his ribs, making it hard to breathe.
The distraction of worry made his swordplay suffer. He’d actually dropped his shield in the last battle. If he wasn’t more attentive, he might end up dead.
Dead…
What if Helena died?
Unreasonable fear clutched at his gut. He smothered it with a curse. God’s bones! She’d walked off the field. She wasn’t going to die, he reasoned.
At least not immediately. As long as there was no iron left in the wound. And as long as the bandages were changed frequently. And as long as…
He began pacing again.
The page who came barreling toward him from the direction of the pavilions made him stop in his tracks. Even before the lad spoke, panic seized Colin. Something was wrong. Helena was in trouble. He had to go to her.
“Where is she?”
“Lord Pagan’s pavilion, my lord.”
Colin fled the field, snaking through the maze of tents until he found Pagan’s. The flap of the pavilion snapped open beneath his hand like the giant wing of a startled bird.
“Helena!” he cried hoarsely.
Thank God, she was there. Alive, whole, and flinching from the harsh slap of sunlight that fell across her face. But so was Pagan. And as he stared down at them, Colin’s greatest fears crystallized. They were lovers. There was no question about it. Helena lay half-naked across the pallet, her chausses lowered to reveal one silky hip and a blood-smudged length of thigh.
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