“Some of the men are giving over, fleeing to the safety of their side. They will be captured by their opposites, then forced to pay a ransom in order to regain their freedom,” William explained.
“But how will we know who was injured—or which side won the tournament?”
“The wounded will be counted and aided after the battle, while the side that captured the most men and obtained the greatest amount in ransom will have the right to claim victory.” William nodded toward the green in approval. “From the looks of it, though, I’d say that your husband’s forces won the day. See? There is Lord Camville even now. He’s chasing that group of knights to catch them before they reach the safety of their own side. And ’tis very likely he will succeed, I’d say!”
As she watched, Catherine saw the knights William described. There were three of them, riding their mounts so hard that, as they neared, she could see foam flying from the horses’ mouths. Gray rode close behind them. He was hunched over his steed’s neck, his face a mask of chill concentration as he pursued his quarry. His expression sent a shiver up Catherine’s spine, and she suddenly understood William’s comment about not wishing to be opposite her husband in a battle.
The cheering crowd grew louder as Gray charged after the men, coming closer and closer to pass in front of the pavilion. Yet he seemed not to notice the reaction of the spectators, keeping his gaze fixed with deadly purpose on the backs of the knights who fled him.
Suddenly, from the corner of her vision, Catherine noticed another knight hurtling across the green; but rather than heading for one of the positions of safety, this man cut an angled path across the field that would lead him to sure collision with either the escaping knights, or with Gray.
Her heart leaped into her throat, and she shifted forward, her fingers clutching the edge of the enclosure wall until her knuckles turned white. Others in the crowd saw, too, she realized, as a tense silence settled over the area. When the charging knight howled a battle cry, the crowd gasped, and Catherine gripped the wall tighter to prevent herself from crumpling back onto the bench.
God preserve her, it was Eduard.
The hairs prickled up on the back of Gray’s neck an instant before he heard the blood-curdling roar. Whipping his head toward the noise, he saw a flash of red and white and felt the bone-jarring impact as the knight’s steed slammed into his mount at almost full tilt. His stallion gave a shrieking whinny, and then the sky and the earth tumbled together in a sickening whirl. When it stopped, he found himself flat on his back on the field; the fall had knocked the wind from him, but he knew he couldn’t wait to recover. Struggling to stand, he cursed at the shooting pain that went through his right thigh, even as he raised his sword to ward off the blow that swung in hard from his opponent.
It only took an instant to recognize Eduard’s device—and even less for raw hatred to spill through his veins to mix dangerously with the battle lust he already felt. He’d done everything he could to avoid confronting his rival directly on the field today, trying to protect the fool’s life. Now he couldn’t hold back, even if he wanted to.
Gray spun around to fend off another blow and was knocked off balance by the pass of Eduard’s steed. But as he started to pitch backward, he reached up and dragged Eduard from his mount. They landed together in a crashing heap, and Gray bit back a growl as the impact jarred his injured leg again.
“Damn you, Camville,” Eduard snarled, pushing and grappling with him as he righted himself. “Give over and agree to ransom!”
“Never!” Gray took deep breaths, trying to keep rage from gripping him too tightly, from blinding his vision with the red heat that made his mind shut down for the kill. “’Tis you who’ll be damned,” Gray muttered, “if you don’t cease now, while you still can.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Eduard lunged forward, and their swords clashed. Neither would give ground, but when Eduard stumbled back, it seemed as if he’d had enough; then with a bellow he attacked again, using his knee as a battering ram. He slammed into Gray’s wounded leg with a sickening thump, and Gray’s vision erupted in flashes of light as pain engulfed him.
Everything seemed to slow. Gray felt every breath of air rasp into his lungs, heard the grinding screech of his armor as he crashed to his knees. Still Eduard came at him, yelling like a madman, swinging his blade down in a stroke meant to kill. At the last second, Gray raised his weapon to deflect the blow, and Eduard’s blade sliced sideways, gouging into his shoulder rather than his head. Burning warmth cut through him, hot blood seeping into his sleeve even as the strength drained from his arm.
All was quiet for a moment, as Gray absorbed the shock of his wound. He looked up slowly, feeling dark, dangerous emotions swelling, coming to life. He gripped his sword tighter, willing power to return to his muscles. And then the beast inside him thundered out of control.
Shooting to his feet, he hurtled at Eduard, heedless of anything but the need for answering blood. Through the haze of red he saw Eduard’s eyes widen, saw him trip over himself as he floundered back, trying to avoid the powerful sword thrusts. But Gray was relentless, driving and slashing. A long, drawn out roar burst from his lungs, and he pushed his enemy back and still back.
It was all Eduard could do to block the blows raining down on him, each one seeking to spill his life’s blood. But then he tripped, arms wheeling as he crashed to the field; his sword popped from his grip with the impact, and he lay there, helpless as a fly on its back.
Battle lust coursed hot and thick through Gray as he stood over his adversary and raised his weapon in both hands, point down. He heard nothing but the rush of his own blood in his ears, felt nothing but the gnawing hunger for vengeance, saw nothing but the faceless enemy he needed to crush.
With a battle cry, he prepared to drive his blade home into Eduard’s chest—when a woman’s voice pierced the well of his rage like an icicle plunged into his heart.
“Gray, please don’t! In God’s name, I beg you, please don’t kill him!”
It took a few seconds for the plea to penetrate his mind and a few moments more for awareness to come back and shake him from the throes of his battle trance. He felt as if all the pieces of his body were disjointed as he turned his head stiffly to the side to see who had spoken to him.
The blurring in his vision began to fade, and he recognized his wife. She stood less than ten paces away, tears streaming down her face. His gaze locked with hers. Dimly, he realized that she must have climbed from the pavilion, exposing herself to grave danger by running onto the field. Now her hand reached out to him, and she sobbed softly. All else was silent.
Almost against his will, the warmth of life began to seep back into his limbs, into his mind and his heart. He glanced back to Eduard, who lay still and helpless at the point of his sword. He struggled internally, thirsting to drive his blade home and finish the barbaric deed, while at the same time finding himself unable to ignore Elise; her entreaties pulled him away from the violence, tugging at the last vestiges of his compassion.
“Please, Gray, no more. Let him go, I beg you.”
The last was whispered, yet it resounded through his soul as if pealed on all the bells of heaven. Of a sudden his rage ebbed away. He closed his eyes for one, brief moment. Then he looked back at his wife.
“Christ,” he muttered, throwing his sword onto the field. He tilted his head back, took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Without another glance at anyone, he turned and began to walk away from the scene of battle.
But in that instant, Eduard sprang up and rushed at him, dagger drawn.
Even as Gray whirled around to face him, Eduard’s cool blade pierced below his ribs and withdrew with stinging force. Surprise mingled with shock. Vaguely, Gray realized that it was his own blood spilling hot and slick over his tunic and hands. It splashed onto his legs, and he looked down at the gushing wound in his side as if he was apart from it, viewing it from a distance.
When he glanced back up, his head felt light from loss of blood. He took a few steps back, but his vision whirled, and he thought he might fall to the field. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stumble forward again. He grasped the front of Eduard’s tunic, yanking the bastard closer, even as he cocked his arm back for the blow.
