Gilbert looked ready to explode, yet Catherine thought his silence meant that he would abide the ruling. But then his chin jutted out again.
“I refuse to be judged by you or by any of these fools!” Gilbert growled. “Let God serve as my arbiter. Face me in an ordeal by battle and let us see who will emerge victorious!”
The crowd burst into an uproar, and Alban grabbed Gilbert by the back of his tunic, shaking him. “You insolent whelp. Think that you may command the king’s High Champion to combat and beobeyed? You’ll command nothing but a view from a cell while we await ransom for your worthless hide.”
“Is Camville a coward, then, as well as a murderer?” Gilbert shrieked, struggling and kicking as Alban began to drag him toward the path to the castle.
“Wait.” Gray’s voice cut through the noise in the square, but Alban seemed unable to hear it; he kept going, forcing Gray to yell, “Wait, Alban!”
Giving the youth another shake, Alban ceased his progress and stared dumbfounded at Gray. “You don’t mean to entertain the thought? Do battle with this wretch of a…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head in obvious reaction to the look he saw on Gray’s face. “Oh, nay, this is not good. ’Tis not good at all.”
Gray walked the distance to Gilbert with rigid, even steps. Almost methodically, Catherine thought. His movements reminded her of something. Something unpleasant. The recollection flashed suddenly into her mind. Aye, that was it. It was the same as the day of themélée—that horrible moment on the field when he’d seemed so stiff and detached, like an instrument of death…
Oh, sweet heaven, he was acting just as he had in the moments before he almost drove his blade through Eduard’s heart. Icy cold washed over her, but she had no chance to speak. Gray had reached Gilbert and a new hush descended over the crowd. Even in the stillness, Catherine had to strain to hear what he said.
“You wish to fight withme, Clare? Right here and now, in an ordeal by battle?”
“Aye,” Gilbert spat, straightening and glaring up at him. “If you’re man enough to take my challenge.”
Gray looked as if he was going to laugh, but then his face regained its preternatural, rigid lines. “If we fight, you’ll die.”
“’Tis a chance I’m willing to take.”
“Then make your peace with God and arm yourself, boy, because your insults will be answered in blood.”
Without another word, Gray turned and stalked a few paces away. He drew his sword and the crowd pulled back, leaving space for the fighting to commence. Catherine pushed to the front of the throng, trying in vain to catch Gray’s gaze. But he refused to look at her. He just stood there, staring straight ahead as he waited for Gilbert de Clare to enter the fighting space.
Uncontrollable tremors radiated from her stomach, and she laced her fingers tightly together. Her lips moved of their own accord in a soundless prayer, interrupted only when someone came close and touched her elbow. She met Alban’s gaze, seeing her own worry reflected in his eyes.
“Is there nothing you can do?” she whispered. Nausea rode up into her throat, choking her. From the side of her vision, she saw Gilbert walk stiffly into the clearing, his sword held tight in his grip.
“Nay,” Alban answered. “’Tis gone too far to stop. We must trust Gray to do what is right.”
She nodded wordlessly, too overcome with dread to say anything more. In the next instant the fighting began; with a howl, Gilbert raised his sword over his head and lunged, but his blade glanced off of Gray’s as if his blow held no more force than the weight of a gnat.
Gray made no sound as he faced the youth, though his eyes shone like green ice. He hardly shifted his stance as he delivered two swift strokes in return. The first hooked Gilbert’s sword and sent it sailing out of his grip; the second sliced down to just above the young knight’s knee, cutting through his chain mail and deep into the tender flesh beneath.
Blood spurted and Gilbert went down screaming, gripping his leg as Gray raised his sword again. The crowd gasped, women covering their mouths or shielding their children’s eyes as they prepared to watch their lord deliver the death blow he’d promised. Swinging down in a stroke meant to decapitate his opponent, Gray shifted back at the last instant, slicing into Gilbert’s cheek instead.
The young knight shouted in pain again and reached to his face, staring up with frightened eyes as Gray smoothly lifted his sword to the side and sheathed it, growling, “Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Be thankful that you kept your life this day. Now go, before I change my mind.”
Gilbert gaped like a fish, terror seeming to paralyze his ability to speak. With a whimper he scrambled to his feet and stumbled as best as he could from the clearing to his friends, who helped him mount his horse before all of them rode away down the road as if pursued by devils.
Gray stood silent for a moment more. He breathed deep, fisting his hands at his sides; then without a word to anyone, he stalked away. Catherine watched him stride with a purposeful gait toward the outskirts of the village.
The buzz of the crowd swelled again as she watched him go, uncertain whether or not she should follow him. People began to disperse, and she realized that Alban would be no help in deciding; he’d already gone to gather some knights to follow Gilbert, to ensure that he and his friends left Gray’s lands after paying their fines.
She was on her own.
Biting her lip, she considered her options. She knew that she played with fire to approach Gray now. And yet she couldn’t be a coward. Setting her gaze ahead, she followed his path, stepping gingerly around piles of animal leavings and debris as she went.
When she finally caught up to him, she found him standing at the limits of the village, gazing out at a clearing where the rye had recently been cut. Birds lit on the stubble in quest of grain, chirping every now and then and lifting in a graceful mass before settling to earth again. It was a peaceful scene; the sun shone warm in the late afternoon sky. And yet even with some of the villagers milling about, Gray looked very alone.
His broad, powerful back was tense with emotion, his arms crossed like bands of steel over his chest. As she approached, she saw his face in profile. He wore that familiar, troubled look, his jaw and neck rigid. She stepped a little closer.
“’Twas a fine thing you did just now, sparing Gilbert de Clare’s life,” she said softly, coming up beside him.
Gray hardly shifted a muscle. “He was a raw knight, barely in his spurs. I could not kill him.”
