“But surely you see that it is with the flail that you should train while you have the chance.” Otto arched a brow and Ramsay nodded reluctant agreement. “Tell me the advantage of the flail,” that man invited, drawing the third line into a flail by adding a spiked ball on a chain to the line that became the haft of the weapon
“It is brutal and effective. It can crush a man’s skull or break his spine, if not more. It can end a match with one blow.”
Otto shook his head, though Ramsay knew he had spoken aright. “You speak from the view of he who wields it,” he chided. “What of he who confronts it?”
“There is no advantage to that man.”
“A quick and painful demise,” Talbot supplied.
“Of course, there is advantage.” The older man’s face creased in a smile, as it oft did when he outwitted his pupils. “Every weapon has its asset and its liability. Understanding the liability can mean perceiving an advantage.”
“I see no liability in a flail,” Talbot protested. “It is crude but effective as a weapon.”
“Then you are less perceptive than we have all believed.” Otto bent to wipe his hand through the lines in the dirt then straightened. “Consider it. A flail’s course is not readily changed.” He moved as if he swung a flail, then as if he battled its inevitable trajectory and Ramsay saw his meaning. “The spiked head will land where it was cast, and once it is in motion, he who wields it can only watch the result.” Otto repeated the swing, confirming Ramsay’s observation. “Yet the flail provides ample opportunity, once it is cast, for a nimble warrior to approach his opponent. There is little that opponent can do before the flail completes its fall—having loosed his weapon, he is virtually defenseless.”
“Save that he still holds the flail,” Talbot noted.
Otto dismissed this with a wave of one hand.
“Nay,” Ramsay said. “He is exposed, like a warrior who was swung a blade. His opponent can step within the blow to strike him in the belly, groin or face, and there will be little he can do in that moment to defend himself.”
“He could loose the flail,” Talbot said.
“But few will do as much,” Otto confirmed. He snapped his fingers and two of the boys came running. “On this day, we learn to anticipate the flail and defend against it.”
The boys carried sticks, each with a bundle of cloth tied to a rope at one end in an approximation of a flail. One was handed to Ramsay and the other to Talbot. Ramsay swung the stick and was impressed by how the feigned weapon mimicked the genuine one. It was lighter and would do no real injury, but he would gain a better understanding of the opportunity created by the flail.
And he would refine his ability to anticipate it.
Ramsay openedhis eyes in the shadowed darkness of the tent. The light was silvery, the shadows soft and the air damp with the promise of the dawn. Others slept around him, their breathing steady, but his thoughts were in Normandy a year before. Ramsay had not forgotten that day’s lesson. On this day, he might be compelled to put it to use.
That challenge had never been delivered, for Alienor’s corpse had been discovered and the tournament cancelled. Rufus had left with haste, apparently summoned home. It had been another day before it was revealed that Alienor’s ring was missing, and by then, many of the competing knights had departed.
There had been only suspicion then, but now, Ramsay had witnessed Rufus’ foul inclinations himself. Still, evidence was scant. There was the word of a lady who did not desire her match, then his own testimony against that of Rufus, a former foe who would surely deny Ramsay’s every allegation.
God would have to judge.
Ramsay rose then with purpose and looked out of the tent. Rufus’ pennant fluttered from the tower, a sign that the lord was returned to Dunhaven, doubtless with his betrothed. Ramsay was vaguely aware of Lady Haynesdale’s comments when she and her husband had returned the night before, but he had slept deeply. It might have been another dream, save for the pennant.
They had returned, and he was glad to have had this reprieve.
As much as Ramsay wished to see Evangeline and assure himself of her welfare, he had an errand to attend first.
This would be the day he delivered his challenge. He would face Rufus alone in mortal combat and only one of them would leave the field alive.
If the better man must win, then Ramsay’s victory was assured, but the sheer size of Rufus—never mind his brutality—made triumph less than inevitable.
But there was no shirking what had to be done.
* * *
Once again,Evangeline could not sleep.
Although Lady Haynesdale’s kindness had been welcome, there had been no opportunity for the ladies to exchange confidences. Rufus had arrived shortly thereafter and waited within earshot for Evangeline to dress. He had accompanied her to the hall for the evening meal, though she had insisted upon descending the stairs after him, with Lady Haynesdale. She had scarce been able to eat a bite, so concerned was she with his plans and so unsettled was she by his vigilance.
But Rufus charmed all at the board, urging Evangeline to eat the best morsels from their shared trencher, his very solicitude likely convincing many that he was smitten with her. Evangeline could not look beyond the chill in his eyes, nor could she forget the weight of that great ring upon her finger. It was loose now, doubtless because she had lost weight during her ordeal, and spun on her finger so that the stone hung down. She felt as if it would warn her of some peril, though truly she had no need of warning with this man so attentive by her side.
She held her breath when he escorted her up the stairs, and noted his amusement. “I will wait,” he whispered when he ushered her through her door. “The hunt is sweeter that way.” She saw his smile before he closed and locked the door, securing her in a lavish prison.
