“But I fear that you are weakened from your illness and—”
Galen pressed a silencing finger to her lips. “Fear not, Laoghaire. If I win, we will live out the rest of our days with one another. And if I lose, we will soon be together for all eternity.”
Laoghaire nodded forlornly, unable to fault what she knew to be true.
“I dreamt of you last night, and we were locked in a lovers’ embrace,” she told him in a hushed whisper. “In that dream, our hearts beat as one.”
Galen tenderly cupped one side of her face with his hand. At feeling the warmth that radiated from him, overcome with longing, she impetuously turned her head and pressed her lips against his palm.
He feels it, too,she realized in the next instant when she saw Galen’s chest expand with a hard, indrawn breath.
“Let the combat begin!”
At hearing that harsh command, she bit back a sob, events unfolding much too rapidly.
As Galen removed his hand from her cheek and made a move to descend the ladder, she frantically shook her head to forestall his departure. “Wait!”
Although he dutifully came to a halt, Galen raised a quizzical brow, clearly perplexed by the unexpected command.
“Do ye remember the vision that I had of yer death?” When he wordlessly nodded, Laoghaire continued and said, “Under no circumstance are ye to look at me while ye are engaged in combat. If ye do so, Blàrach will seize that moment to strike the fatal blow.”
The warning met with a disapproving frown. “I thought the point of this contest is to prove youaren’ta sorceress,” Galen muttered before he descended the ladder.
Seconds later, Laoghaire’s heart began to pound with a palpable, almost painful force while she watched Galen don his helm before he snatched his shield from where he’d left it propped against the pyre. He then grasped his sword by the hilt and yanked it out of the scabbard. The scrape of steel made a distinctive sound, one that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Her prophetic vision was playing out as she watched, and there was nothing she could do to stop the deadly, calamitous tide from sweeping over them.
By now, a large area had been cleared, and though the deputies used their spears to hold back the teeming crowd, there were more than a few men elbowing roughly as they struggled to get closer to the front of the pack.
Armed for battle, Galen took his place beside his adversary, both men going down on bended knee in front of the abbot. They were armed similarly with shield, sword, helm and dagger. Both outfitted in chain mail.
As Abbot Theodore made the sign of the cross over their bowed heads, he uttered a prayer in Latin. Once the benediction was concluded, Galen and the sheriff simultaneously rose to their feet. Neither spoke a word to the other as they strode toward their designated starting positions on opposite sides of the arena.
All of a sudden, Laoghaire’s heart thumped in horror as she watched Blàrach turn on Galen and savagely charge his backside, proving in that instant that he had no intention of abiding by the rules of fair combat.
“Galen! Lunge to the right!” she cried out in warning.
Not only did Galen lunge, but he dropped to one knee and, turning toward his adversary, he raised his shield just in time to deflect what might have proved a lethal blow. Blàrach gave an angry grunt, but before he could land a second swing, Galen had already sprung upright. He then came at his foe with a decisive thrust of his sword, his attack coming fast and hard.
Unprepared, the sheriff raised his shield with his left hand while he feebly attempted to block the swing. But Galen’s blade struck with such force that the upper half of Blàrach’s shield was severed in one mighty slice, the carved piece hurtling through the air.
En masse, the crowd shouted in fury—not at the sheriff for his ignoble actions, but at Galen for his successful counterattack.
Cursing aloud, Blàrach flung aside the hacked shield. “Had it not been for your bitch from hell, you would now be a dead man.”
“For insulting my wife, I intend to run you through like a hare on a turnspit.” To emphasize the avowal, Galen rotated his sword with a deft twist of the wrist, the blade making a deadlyswishingsound as it cleaved the air.
Even though Blàrach responded with a contemptuous snort, Laoghaire was able to detect a momentary flash of fear in his muddy brown eyes.
If he has the wits God gave him, he will quit the field while he’s still among the living.It was not without reason that Galen was once known as the Dark Knight, the most feared warrior in all of Christendom.
Grasping hold of his sword pommel with both hands, Blàrach came at Galen, his charge accompanied with a bellow of rage. While he clearly intended to overpower with brute force, by the time his blade thrust downward, Galen had already pivoted to a new position, from which he executed a series of flawlessly executed swings. The sheriff gracelessly fended him off; although it was obvious that he was quickly tiring, his breathing having become as loud as an oliphant’s blare.
As the court’s champion began to falter under the relentless pummeling, the crowd fell noticeably silent. No one moved, no one cheered, no one so much as fidgeted.
All of a sudden, Blàrach backed away from Galen. Wondering if he meant to surrender, Laoghaire watched as he rushed over to the nearest deputy, who stood afore the crowd with a spear held horizontally at waist height to keep the bystanders at bay. The sheriff ripped the spear from the other man’s hand. Grasping it in his left fist, he charged back toward Galen.
At that moment, Laoghaire experienced a horrible premonition. Like a bitter brew that she’d been forced to imbibe, she could taste the fear in her mouth.
Proving to be more agile than she had originally credited him, Blàrach swung his sword toward Galen’s head, while at the same time he swiped at his legs with the spear. Although Galen managed to use his shield to protect himself against the blade, there was nothing he could do to parry the spear, the wooden shaft catching him behind the knees.
