Damien thundered through the gates at the call, and the stands erupted in shouts of approval, some of the spectators who remembered him from tournaments years ago calling out, “Archangel! Archangel!” as he rode past. From his lance fluttered the violet-blue ribbon she had gifted him with this morn, and her heart seemed to skip a beat when he looked toward the stands and tipped it in her direction as he rode past.
Damien continued to the end of the list, pausing, as Hugh had done, to make homage to the king and queen before wheeling around his mount and riding back down the lists to take up his position of readiness at the end nearest the entrance gate.
And then, amidst more shouts and cheers, the herald dropped his arm in signal, and it began.
Chapter 17
With the roar of the crowd undulating over the field, Damien slipped the end of his lance into the rest built into his armor, nudged his heels into his steed, and set off at a pounding pace toward Hugh. With naught but an open field before them, it was up to the combatants to aim their mounts at each other and be sure not to veer away, lest a point be taken from the one who faltered.
He would not falter.
The sound of the crowd faded as if in the far distance as he aimed his lance, his concentration focused upon the center of Hugh’s breastplate. Unhorsing Hugh was the goal, but doing so would mean far less if Damien didn’t shatter his lance against Hugh in the process.
They came together with a splintering crash, Damien expertly slowing his steed an instant after the impact and pulling around to judge the damage done to his opponent. Hugh remained seated, but the lance he held in his hand was still whole, having only grazed Damien’s shoulder, while Damien’s lance had shattered down near the grip from the force of collision against Hugh’s chest.
He had won two points with this pass, he realized, feeling a surge of fierce elation as he lifted his hand to the cheering crowd and rode back to his position at the end of the lists. Lifting his visor, he accepted the skin of water Thomas offered, drinking while Bernard took the shattered lance from him and handed him a new one.
“You did well, my lord,” Thomas said, rubbing Damien’s mount with a dampened cloth. “Two more like that and the battle on foot will almost not matter.”
“We shall see,” Damien answered, glad to realize that his ribs did not ache as of yet. “That pass is sure to have enraged him, and Hugh is not accustomed to losing. I doubt he will allow it to go to the full three passes without using some means, be they honest or cunning, to try to sway the contest to his side.”
Thomas looked so stricken at the suggestion that Damien smiled and said before locking his visor down again, “I will keep watch, Thomas, do not fear. Perhaps I can thwart him enough to make him show his true colors before the king and all the witnesses of court, so that none will be deceived longer about the kind of man he is.”
“It is time for the second pass, Sir Damien.”
The reminder came from Reginald, who gestured to the end of the list just beyond them. Far across the way, Hugh was coming into position on his mount, a new lance also clutched in his grip, though he had not broken the one before. Damien squinted, trying to see him more clearly. He thought he’d seen the glint of metal on the tip; knowing Hugh it was more than likely, even considering the tournament rule for using blunted weapons. But it was useless to ruminate on it, as the heat of the sun rippled over the field, obscuring the clarity of his sight.
He would know soon enough, he thought grimly, as he wheeled his horse into position again, setting his own lance in the rest and awaiting the signal.
It came in the space of another heartbeat. Digging his heels into his mount’s sides, Damien found himself hurtling toward Hugh again, felt the crashing impact as his lance shattered once more against Hugh’s shield…
And felt a stabbing sensation in his side before he felt himself suddenly hurtling through the air.
The force of his collision with the ground stole his breath, but he forced himself to roll and stand even through the burning pain flooding him, trained as he had been during countless battles in the Holy Land and Cyprus to continue fighting, lest your enemy use your moment of weakness as the opening needed to take your life.
Still, it took him a moment to regain his bearings. His helm had been knocked away with the fall, and in addition to the ringing in his ears, everything seemed to slow down to a strange, crawling pace. He saw his mount regain its feet and trot down the lists, and he watched Hugh, also helmless, struggling to stand. Damien had managed to unhorse him as well, he realized with a flash of dark pleasure, though by fair means, not foul, as had been done to him. And foul it was, he realized, as he glanced down, aware in that moment that his side armor had been pierced by something sharp, right at the area of ribs he had fortuitously decided to protect this morn.
The bastard had used a sharpened lance against him, in violation of all the rules of apas d’armes.
Another quick look and touch assured him that he’d sustained no real damage. If he had been wounded by the lance, it had been only slightly. In that regard Hugh had made a far graver error than he had in cheating to begin with, because now Damien wasn’t only angry; he wanted blood.
With a growl, Damien strode the fifteen paces between them, deliberately alerting Hugh to his approach and giving the bastard time to draw his own blade before Damien sent his crashing down on Hugh’s upraised shield. He kept the blows raining down on his opponent, hard and steady, knowing it would be all Hugh could do to defend himself from them. Hugh’s expression, determined at first, soon shifted to a look of fear as it became apparent that he would not—that he could not—win against Damien.
Still, to try and cover his weakness, he offered taunts when he could, hoping to distract Damien and allow himself an opening to strike.
“Did you honestly think I would allow you to keep Alissende for yourself?” Hugh breathed heavily between sword strokes. “You aren’t worth the dirt that will soak up your life’s blood when I’m through with you, Ashby.”
The insult needed no response from Damien. It would be far more useful to let his actions speak for him.
He took another three swings at Hugh with his blade, just to keep him off balance, and then circled him, waiting for the best moment to make his final strike. As he did he reminded himself to remain calm and focused, and not to allow his emotions to influence his movements. Discipline was nearly as important as skill in battle, and he could not forget it.
Vaguely, he noted the swirl of color behind Hugh. It was the royal pavilion, and Damien knew the king and queen sat in judgment of this combat. But the clouds of dust kicked up by the fight obscured much else. He heard naught but the pounding of blood in his ears and tasted the grit of the dirt, along with the metallic tang of blood in his mouth…saw naught but the pale and desperate face of his enemy across from him.
And then his opening came.
Hugh lifted his blade out to the side in preparation to throw himself at Damien, and in that instant, Damien stepped forward in a move practiced a thousand times with his Templar brethren but one that was almost unknown in this part of the world; shifting his sword smoothly from his right hand to his left, he jerked upward with it, slicing the underside of Hugh’s forearm at the same time that he threw his weight forward and slammed his elbow with a satisfying crack right across Hugh’s face.
Hugh went down like lead, flat on his back. His sword popped from his grip to thud uselessly onto the dirt. Blood poured from his nose and stained the sleeve of the fine white shirt he wore beneath his armor plates, as Damien shifted in one fluid motion to widen his stance and swing the tip of his blade to within an inch of his rival’s exposed neck.
