Famine's Feast (The Templar Book 4)

by Debra Dunbar

Wide open. I struck, hoping that the marshal had checked the sturdiness of the armor over William’s kidneys.

  “Good,” he gasped, dropping to his knees.

  Crap. Hope I didn’t just ruin the guy’s day. I was trying not to hit like I was battling an army of Templars.

  The marshal pronounced me the winner. I easily won the next two rounds and found myself facing Wolfram. He was still hot, even though he’d exchanged his Thor-look for something a bit sturdier. Like me, he had a sword and shield. He also sported a faded black tabard with what looked like a white, eight-point Maltese cross, which he shed before striding onto the field like a god in plate mail. Huh. This guy took his reenactment persona seriously.

  The marshal gave us permission to engage. I barely had time to take a breath before Wolfram was upon me. He was lightning fast with his sword and I found myself immediately on the defensive, backing across the field as I blocked the blows.

  Blocked. Because he was moving too fast, with too much economy of motion for me to plan anything beyond not dying. By sheer chance I saw an opening and went for it, smacking his armored waist with the rattan sword.

  He swung twice more before I realized he wasn’t going to acknowledge the blow. I hated to call anyone a cheat. Maybe he truly didn’t feel it through the armor. It didn’t matter because I didn’t get another opening. My shield arm was starting to feel numb from the onslaught, and with the next swing, his sword slid off the shield and hit with a glancing blow against my leg.

  It was glancing, but I did feel it. In full plate, it would take a whole lot more than a blow—glancing or otherwise, to get through my armor and disable me, but rules were rules, and here this was supposed to count as a hit.

  “Good.” I announced, backing up. Yes, it burned me that he hadn’t called the far more substantial blow I’d laid on him, but I was a Templar. I played by the rules. Most of the time, anyway.

  Rather than bleed out on the ground, I had a choice. I could continue to fight while hopping around on one leg, or I could try to fight while kneeling on the ground. I hated the thought of Wolfram towering over me, bashing down on top of me. I was short enough without giving him even more of a height advantage, so I decided to hop.

  It was a bad idea. I wasn’t sure it was any worse of an idea than kneeling on the ground holding my shield over my head like a giant leather-coated wooden umbrella, but it was still a bad idea. I hopped around after Wolfram, not quite believing my luck when I scored a blow on his shoulder.

  Evidently my balance wasn’t as good as I’d thought, because the impact of my sword on his shoulder knocked me sideways, where I waved my sword in time with my hops in an attempt to remain upright. Wolfram’s sword slammed into my hip, throwing me to the ground and knocking the air right out of my lungs.

  Owww. Owww. Like, I think I might have broken bones ow. I glared up at Wolfram, knowing full well that with our helms neither could see the other’s expression. Didn’t matter. I was positive the jerk was smirking.

  By the time I made it back to Zac, I was able to take small, shallow breaths and walk without excruciating pain in my hip.

  “Some charity tournament,” I snapped. “If this wasn’t benefitting dogs and cats, I’d be tempted to pull out my real sword and start stabbing.”

  “Dogs and cats?” Zac handed me a tankard, which I was depressed to find held only water.

  “Yeah. You said this was an SPCA thing.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Was that a guilty look on Zac’s face as he turned away? “Yep. SPCA. Dogs and cats. Charity.”

  I tugged at my breastplate and swore as the bottom edge hit what I imagined was an ever-expanding bruise on my hip. “What is that Wolfram guy’s problem?”

  Zac reached over to help me unstrap the armor. I eased down the waistband of my pants to check my injury. The skin was red with a lovely purple tinge. It looked like there was a golf-ball sized knot developing there too. I had no doubt that by evening it would be more colorful and even more swollen and painful.

  “Wolfram always hits hard,” Zac admitted, taping some gauze over my injury. It wouldn’t help me feel any better, but at least it would give me some additional padding.

  Was the guy so devoid of nerve endings that he couldn’t feel my blows? If so, then maybe he assumed his opponents were all the same. Maybe this was one guy I did need to go all out on.

  “He rhino-hides too. Everyone knows it. Drives me nuts that the marshals don’t call him out on it.”

  Rhino-hides? “So he doesn’t acknowledge blows on purpose?”

  “Yep. He wants to win. And I think he actually enjoys hurting others.”

  At a charity event, no less. I shook my head in amazement, hiding a wince as Zac tugged the bandage tight and re-laced my armor.

  After that painful loss I observed carefully in between my own fights, working my way up the lists. Wolfram was a total douche—both on and off the field. The unfortunate reality was he was also eight inches taller than me and a good seventy pounds heavier at a minimum. His height and added body strength gave him the advantage in the rules of this particular tourney. I was used to fighting guys with greater muscle mass, but there was only so much my superior speed and endurance could do when the only hit that counted was a very forceful one to the head, torso, thighs or arms. And that hit had to be with the sword. In a Templar tourney, I’d close in where my smaller size wouldn’t matter as much and trip, push, and grapple my way to victory. I’d also mastered the art of using a shield as a weapon, but in this fight, the sole acceptable purpose of the shield was to block blows.

  It sucked. And I wasn’t sure how I could beat Wolfram while still following the rules. Not that he seemed to be following the rules, I noted as he once again shrugged off a blow and whacked his opponent hard enough that the helm flew from the poor guy’s head.

  This was a tourney for charity. It was also a massacre, and Wolfram was a bully.

  Screw the rules.

  The marshal called my name and I took the field, rotating my shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles. My hip was killing me, and even with the helm I could swear I saw Wolfram eye that spot, like he was marking it for special attention. All I knew was another hit there would do more than knock me out of the tourney, it would most likely put me on crutches for a week.

  We engaged, and sure enough Wolfram swung for my injured hip. I danced out of the way, giving his shield a quick poke with my sword just to get his attention. He responded with a quick diagonal slash, left to right, then another right to left. I stepped back and tried to hit him with a low lunge, guarding my upper body with the shield. He looped the sword around with the twist of his wrist, knocking my shield aside with an upward motion.

  The guy was good—far too good to be the casual weekend warrior. I eyed him, wondering where he’d trained. He didn’t fight like someone studying weapons in Asian martial arts, nor did he have the body type to fit that kind of discipline. Were there groups other than us that taught European-style fighting beyond fencing foils?

  I didn’t have time to contemplate it at any length, because Wolfram was on the attack. I stepped backward again and again, shying left, then right, turning and twisting—anything to reduce the number of times I’d need to absorb a blow either on my shield or sword. He sensed this as a weakness and doubled the strength of his attack. The guy was a darned bull. And he was wearing me out.

  Time to end this. I might be disqualified from the tourney, but Wolfram needed to be taught a lesson, and I was eager to be his teacher. He made his signature diagonal slash and I parried. Our swords clashed, locked together as I stepped forward and slid his rattan “blade” to my hilt to hold it in place.

  Then I bashed him in the face with my shield as hard as I could. His head rocked back. I felt his weight shift, the pressure of his sword lessening on mine as he tried to balance himself. I edged my foot behind his and leaned forward, smacking him twice more in the face with my shield.

  Off balance he began to topple. I knew it would
be against the rules to take a killing blow while he was down. The weird chivalry of this tourney required me to step back and allow my opponent to rise. I’d broken enough rules so far, but just in case the marshal was as blind to my transgressions as he’d been to Wolfram’s I stepped back to give myself room, and sliced toward his chest.

  He danced out of the way, swinging his arms and impossibly managing to regain his balance. I’d compared him to a bull, but now I was thinking a dancing bull. Did bulls dance? How could a dude with that much muscle manage such a feat of balance and agility?

  We continued to fight with a combination of dodge and parry. Wolfram had learned his lesson and wasn’t shy about stepping backward when I tried to close in. I wouldn’t be able to try the shield trick again, or the tripping maneuver. The methodical heavy strikes were making my arms numb, and my hip was screaming in agony. Three times I tried to whack him with the shield, using my sword to deflect his blow, and each time he twisted out of the way. Finally, he swung the sword downward from an overhead position, easily transitioning it to an underhand strike. I deflected, feinted with the shield, then reversed my grip, knocking him in the side with my sword.

  I gave it everything I had. And I made sure I hit above his hip, where only a thin strip of leather joined the parts of his armor. He staggered, and just to ensure he went down I hit him in the same spot again.

  This time he dropped. As soon as Wolfram’s knee hit the ground, the audience roared. I barely heard the marshal declaring me the winner. Wolfram dropped his sword and shield, pushing his armor aside to touch his side. “Yield.”

  Damn straight, he’d yield. I pulled off my helm just so he could see my smirk, then bowed, thanking him for a challenging fight before spinning around to leave the field.

  Chapter 3

  Zac was exuberant. I wasn’t. Yeah, I’d beaten Wolfram, but I was worn out, and could hardly walk without passing out from pain. I managed to get the majority of my armor off without assistance, then went into a tent to take a quick wet-wipe of the essential parts before struggling into a giant cotton slip with a drawstring neck and a fake velvet gown that must have weighed twenty pounds.

  I wondered if anyone had a bag of ice? How would this fancy dress look with a bag of ice duct-taped to my hip?

  Zac was nowhere to be found, but another woman dressed in an Elizabethan gown came into the tent, bowing and calling me her princess. She helped me lace up the back portion of my dress that would have been impossible without assistance, and began to style my hair, admiring the long dark locks.

  “Got any ice?” I winced as I sat, angling my weight sideways.

  “It will leave a wet spot on your gown,” she told me. I didn’t care about the wet spot, but her next words convinced me to suck it up and just live through the pain. “You don’t want Wolfram to think he actually hurt you.”

  No. I didn’t. “Think he’ll actually show up in a dress? We had a side bet going on.”

  She tittered. Tittered, I tell you. Like someone from a Regency Romance novel. “Is that why he was borrowing clothing from Helga? Oh, how funny. I’ll need to grab my cell phone and take pictures. Now skootch down a bit so I can pin your crown on. You don’t want it to fall off during dinner.”

  Weird. But I wasn’t one to refuse any offer of help given that I could barely walk without wincing. Another two women joined her and by the time all three were done, I was reasonably presentable. I wouldn’t have passed muster at one of my parents’ formal dinners, but for a charity event in the middle of a cow pasture, I’d do.

  The ladies escorted me past a series of tables where people were drinking what I assumed were alcoholic beverages and eating bits of cheese and bread. At least they were until they noticed me. As soon as I came into view, they all leapt to their feet, bowing and scraping as I walked by. One of them shoved a pewter tankard full of something into my hand, proclaiming his desire to have an audience with me later.

  A girl could get used to this. Tasting the contents of the tankard, I handed it back with an approving nod. This guy could visit me anytime as long as he brought some of whatever beer he’d just let me try.

  Zac was waiting for me at a head table, two people beside him wearing crowns a shade larger than mine. They all rose, Zac also bowing as I approached. Well, he kind of bowed. It was more like a nod. And from the smug look on his face, you would have thought he was the one with a bruised hip from fighting Wolfram. So if I was the Princess, did that make him the Prince? That hardly seemed fair, given that I was the one with the injury.

  I had no idea how to address my populace or the other two crowned people, but I was pretty good at winging it and it was clear they all expected me to make a speech. Grabbing a full wineglass, I raised it and was gratified to see the attendees do the same.

  “Thank you everyone for coming today. Those who battled me put up a great fight, and should be proud of their performance in the tourney. I look forward to fighting alongside you in the future. Thanks to our marshals, the minister of the list, and those who prepared our feast today. And special thanks to the three ladies who helped me get into this dress. Oh, and you should all be pleased at the money we raised today for the homeless cats and dogs in our area. Here’s to them.”

  There were a lot of puzzled looks, but everyone shouted something that sounded like “huzzah” and drained their goblets and tankards. The bowing and curtsying servers put a bowl of soup in front of me, and I picked up a spoon to eat while some other guy pounded out Bach on a hammered dulcimer. It was a thin, milky-white soup with chunks in it. Almonds? Apples? I had no idea, but it was tasty and I was starving, so I ate it, supplementing the first course with a handful of cheese that looked like it might have been sitting in the sun a wee bit too long.

  Next I received some chicken with a side of carrots and potatoes. No, not potatoes. They were mashed parsnips which were actually a favorite of mine. These were heavily accented with garlic, which made me glad I wasn’t going to be kissing anyone later, or that vampires truly didn’t have a problem with the stuff. It would have been a bummer to meet Dario later only to have him recoil from me in horror.

  Actually, he still might recoil from me in horror when I saw him tomorrow night. Yeah, that’s how much garlic was in these things. Just as I was about to try the chicken, a commotion caught my attention. Everyone had turned to watch and laugh as a man approached—a man in a dress. It didn’t fit him very well, probably due to the fact that he lacked the bosom that would normally have filled out the extra-large outfit. What he lacked in cleavage, he made up for in his long, flowing blond locks, which were left down across his shoulders. Striding purposefully toward the head table, he grabbed a tankard from an attendee, and downed the contents, wiping the foam from his mouth with his sleeve.

  Wolfram. He bowed as he reached the table, then tossed the tankard onto the ground behind him.

  “Did you just steal some man’s beer?” I demanded.

  “Richard the Thin,” he told me. “He owes me one anyway.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Well, I don’t like that.”

  “I don’t either,” Zac announced.

  A slow grin creased Wolfram’s face as he looked over toward Zac. “Is he going to be your queen? Crappy choice, my Liege. I just want to throw it out that there are men who’d be a far better consort than Zachary will ever be.”

  Zac sputtered, and I put a hand on his arm. “Well, too bad. Zac is my queen and that’s all there is to it. Now if you want to honor our bet, sit here at my feet while I eat.”

  He did, the servers bringing him a plate of food and some utensils. I was just trying to figure out if there was more than ginger and parsley in the carrots when I felt a tug on my dress. Yes, Wolfram was trying to look up my skirt. He could try all he wanted, but with eighty yards of fabric and a cotton slip underneath, he wasn’t going to see anything important.

  “Do I need to bash you in the face with my shield again?” I twitched the fabric from his hand, glaring at
him. I really didn’t care, but figured it wasn’t in keeping with my pretend royal persona to let a cross-dressing guy peek up my gown.

  He grinned, stuffing his mouth with parsnips before running his fingers over my ankle. “You won’t get the opportunity to do that again. Next time I fight you, I’ll win. And it will be you in your underwear sitting at my feet.”

  How often did they have these things? I assumed this was a once-only event. Was I now obligated to defend my crown every weekend? I hoped not. My coffee shop schedule often included weekends, and when it didn’t, my family insisted I come down to visit them. I doubted they’d let me out of visits so I could whack an arrogant muscle-bound man with a rattan sword.

  Or maybe they would. Wolfram’s fingers were massaging my ankle, slowly creeping their way upward. The guy was a jerk, and a sexual predator. Color me surprised.

  I debated kicking him, or stabbing him with my dinner fork, but it actually felt kind of good to have someone rubbing my ankle. I think I might have twisted it during the tourney. With all the other injuries, I hadn’t even noticed it before. So instead I cut into a slice of mystery pie, lamenting that the servers had taken my chicken away, and let him continue. As long as he kept his hands below the knee, I wasn’t going to protest. It’s not like anyone could see what he was doing anyway with the long table cloths and my huge skirts practically hiding him.

  “Who taught you to fight?” he asked.

  Was the guy a professional masseuse? A physical therapist? Wow, he sure knew how to rub an ankle. A tiny part of me wondered what else he was good at rubbing, but I quickly dismissed the thought. As arrogant as this guy was, there was no way I was going to let him do more than rub my ankle. Or possibly my lower back.

  “My mother taught me to fight. At least at first. From the age of five I had a weapons tutor for additional instruction, and then there were the seminars and week-long camps.”

  “Archery? Firearms? Do you joust?” His hands were getting a bit more friendly. I looked down and noticed that he had the beginnings of a black eye as well as a darkening bruise on his cheekbone. Seems the helm hadn’t been quite enough to protect him from my shield work.