And that sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him.
With a growl of pure rage, Damien curled upward and swung out with his fists, catching one of his assailants in the chest and knocking him back at the same time that he drove his heel into a second one’s knee. He heard the man’s strangled-sounding scream as the joint broke. The man fell back, but before Damien could do aught else but suck in another much-needed breath, the other two dimly outlined attackers converged upon him.
With battle-honed instinct, he struck out at them, catching the lance and yanking it free just before it could find its mark against his body again.
Ah—a weapon at last.
They did not know it yet, but even three to one, the wretches had just evened the field. He used the lance against them with relish, jabbing and cracking it into the shadowy targets with the precision borne of countless training sessions and numerous skirmishes over the past decade.
But then, almost as suddenly as he had turned the tide of the brawl to his own favor, it was over.
He heard a muffled grunt, followed by a low call to retreat uttered by one of the men he fought. The one whose knee he’d broken earlier seemed to have vanished, but both of the remaining assailants suddenly left off their attack. He caught the edge of one of the men’s tunics as they turned to flee, wanting some answers about why they had set upon him. But the cur broke free, leaving Damien with naught but a fistful of cloth and empty air for his efforts.
As if from afar, Damien heard the thud of a door and some scrambling sounds, as if someone was climbing over a wall or gate. And then all fell silent.
His breath rasped and his chest felt tight; in the aftermath of the fight, the wrath that had helped him keep going ebbed away, leaving naught but throbbing pain and the deep aching of the injuries he’d sustained.
He hurt, by God. In too many places to count.
Sinking to his knees with a stifled groan, Damien tried to pull together his muddled thoughts. He didn’t need a clear head to know that there was more to this attack than being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Hell, none of his assailants had even made the show of demanding his purse.
Just then, he looked down at the piece of cloth he still clutched in his hand; the clouds shifted again, letting the moonlight spill down and illuminating the edge of the garment he’d ripped when his assailant had first been attempting to flee. It was of gold-hued fabric, slashed with red.
Hugh’s colors.
Christ, the bastard was more underhanded, even, than Damien had thought. He closed his eyes, taking even, panting breaths and reminding himself that any rage he allowed himself to feel now would be wasted. Better to save it for when he could put it to useful purpose. Against Hugh, for example, on the morrow.
Lifting one hand to his head, Damien winced when his fingertips encountered a gash above his brow. That explained why he’d had to keep blinking in order to see what little he had during the brawl, though at the time he’d thought it was sweat that was obscuring his vision. Spitting, he realized that the second cur’s blow to his jaw had filled his mouth with blood as well.
He bit off a curse. Yet as much as his head hurt, the rest of his body felt worse. He’d need to wait an hour or so before he’d be able to assess the full extent of his injuries, but he knew with sickening certainty that he had at least one cracked rib. That much was clear, based upon the jagged pain he felt trying to take in a breath deep enough to yell for one of his men to come out from the stables, which still loomed a hundred or more paces away—too far for any of them to have heard the scuffle.
He attempted to breathe in fully again, only to feel a nauseating, piercing sensation that stopped the effort short and made him see stars. Obviously, summoning help that way wasn’t going to work.
Nay, he would have to push himself to his feet again and walk the distance.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, letting his own anger drive him on. He wrapped one arm around his aching ribs and headed toward the stables. Perhaps the attack against him had been in retaliation for the insults he had dealt Hugh in the hallway near the herb garden. Or perhaps it was simply Hugh’s attempt to intimidate or disable him for the contest to come between them in the tournament tomorrow.
But he could not discount the possibility that this three-on-one beating had been a nasty ploy to keep him separated from Alissende long enough for Hugh to get to her, and it was that fear which gave him strength to go more quickly.
Aye, he would make it to the stables all right. He would find his men and send several of them ahead to his pavilion, knowing that they could reach it and Alissende far more swiftly than he could in his condition.
And then he would make Hugh pay.
By God, injured or not, on the morrow he would make Hugh de Valles, Lord Harwick, pay for the cowardly ambush he’d ordered this night.
And he would take pleasure in every moment of it.
Chapter 15
Alissende paced the limited confines of the silk pavilion, breathing in the comforting scent of the beeswax candles she’d brought from home and attempting to distract herself by watching the shadows that twisted and stretched against the tent’s silken walls as a result of the carefully placed, flickering tapers.
She glanced every now and again to Edmee, who seemed to be trying her best to remain busy with some needlework, though it was clear she was distracted as well. It had been more than a half hour with no word since Alissende had returned to the tent; she’d been delivered there by Simon, who had touched his fingertips to his brow and tipped his head in acknowledgment before racing off back toward the castle, looking as if the hounds of Hades might emerge from the darkness to pursue him.
It was unlike Damien to be so long without sending word. The stables were less than a ten-minute walk from the training grounds and adjacent pavilion field, and she had thought he would at least dispatch a message with one of his men if what he’d found was so serious that he himself could not leave.
It did not bode well.
Edmee suddenly stiffened, letting her needlework fall to her lap. “Do you hear that, Lady Alissende?”
