If that was all for a “light” supper, the feast at the midday meal today should be lavish indeed. Her stomach made a sharp sound of anticipation.
She frowned, remembering another incongruity. For a culture so obviously consumed by war, the Islanders also had a deep appreciation for music. When the enormous gray-haired warrior sat down to play theclarsach, Christina had been shocked by the sweet sounds that poured from his big, battle-scarred fingers along the harp strings. Indeed, the prestige accorded the poet who composed the verse—the Islanders called him thefilidh—along with theseanachaidhbard who performed it, the piper, and the harpist among the clan was clear from their position at the table near the chief. Only the chief’s henchman took precedence. It made her wonder whether there was something more to these people.
But the thought barely had time to form before it was quickly disproved.
As they approached the Great Hall, she noticed a group of warriors gathered near the entrance. Her pulse spiked. If possible, they appeared even more formidable than those she’d encountered previously.
Two men stood at the center. She couldn’t see their faces, but both were tall and extremely muscular. That, however, was where the similarities ended. Though one had golden hair and the other’s was so dark as to be almost black, it wasn’t the hair color that separated them so sharply, but the way they carried themselves. The golden-haired man stood as proud as a king, with a predatory stillness in his rigid stance. In contrast, the dark-haired man’s stance was lazy—almost taunting—but equally threatening.
Something about the situation set warning bells clamoring, making the hair on Christina’s arms stand on edge. The instinct to fade into the background that she’d learned since her father’s return took hold.
She wrapped her arm around Beatrix’s shoulders, tucking her against her. “Keep your head down and walk faster.” The urgency in her voice must have alerted her sister to the danger.
Beatrix looked at her with wide eyes. “What is it?”
“Something is going on over there and I don’t like the look of it.”
Unfortunately, they had to go past the Great Hall to reach the second causeway that would take them to the castle, but she hoped they could slide by without being noticed.
As they drew closer, the charge in the air intensified. With each step, her heartbeat raced faster. Her sister felt it, too. The quickening of Beatrix’s breath matched her own.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the men not ten paces from her. She fought the urge to shudder, realizing how much larger and more daunting they were up close.
We have to get out of here.
The causeway wasn’t far now. Twenty paces or so and they’d be safe.
All of a sudden, she heard a man let out a vile oath, followed by the bloodcurdling crash of steel on steel. Before she could react, the crowd had tightened around them, cutting off their path.
They were trapped.
At first Christina feared that they would be caught up in the melee, but then she realized only two men were fighting—the same two warriors she’d noticed before.
A sword fight in the middle of the courtyard? Goodness, did these barbarians fight everywhere?
She and Beatrix watched in horror as they attacked each other with a viciousness that could mean only one thing—a fight to the death. It was horrible. Violent. Their wild, brutal fighting style was nothing like the “civilized” practicing she was used to on the lists or the tournaments she’d seen as a child.
Neither man wore mail, only theleineand padded leathercotunstudded with metal—woefully inadequate protection against the penetrating steel blades of their swords. They both wore soft leather boots to just below the knees, leaving a gap of bare leg to the lower thigh.
The golden-haired warrior had his back to her, but she could see the muscles in his back flare as he swung the enormous two-handed longsword in a high arch over his head and brought it down with crushing force. The sword seemed a part of him, as if he’d been born with it in his hand.
The dark-haired warrior blocked it with one of his two short arming swords, resulting in a piercing clatter that shattered the peace of the day, making her ears ring and teeth rattle. He allowed his blade to drop to the ground, pinned beneath the other, but then he spun and whirled the other over his head to return the strike.
The warriors exchanged blow after deadly blow, neither showing signs of tiring, wielding their enormous blades as effortlessly as if they were made of wood and not steel. The ground reverberated with each terrifying stroke.
She should look away. She should attempt to escape. But Christina was as mesmerized as she was horrified by the brutal savageness of the spectacle before her.
Was this what the Romans had felt watching the gladiators?
If the warriors weren’t so obviously trying to kill each other, there would be something almost beautiful about their movements. Despite their powerful builds, they moved with leonine grace. In the back of her mind it occurred to her that if they weren’t so fearsome looking, the men might be considered handsome. Nor could she ignore that there was something blatantly male and attractive about such brute strength. But the thought was fleeting and quickly forgotten in the heat and clamor of the battle. The clang of steel mixed with the grunts of the combatants and the ebbing and flowing murmurs of the crowd.
At first she thought they were well matched, but as the fight drew on she recognized the superior skill of the golden-haired man. His blade fell harder; his reactions were quicker and his movements more precise. He controlled every aspect of the battle.
Her gaze was drawn to him.
When it became clear that she and Beatrix were not in danger, she grew more bold in her observation, noticing the hard lines of his jaw, the wide mouth, and the forbidding brow. The noble bearing that permeated the air around him. As the fight had started without warning, he wore no helm or bascinet to protect his head. His hair was actually more brown than blond as she’d first thought, but the sunlight picked up all the golden strands, making it appear much lighter.
She was fascinated by the way his muscles bunched and flexed with each blow of the sword. Looking at him, the idea of Lancelot bending steel bars didn’t seem so farfetched. Such power would normally terrify her, but detached like this she felt a strange heat shimmering through her.
