Thorolf’s head hurt from trying to follow their rapid conversation. He had given up after he was certain the Saxon knew he was challenged. But he must know why Kristen would naturally be upset. He must mean something else.
Thorolf shrugged. “Garrick furious with Selig…lose ship…bring Kristen here. Will likely thrash.”
Royce continued to frown. Could worry for her brother make her look so stricken? Mayhap so, when combined with worry over the outcome of this fight.
“When does your man come?” he questioned.
“Have time only to prepare.”
“Does he come fully armed?”
“Aye.”
Royce dismissed Thorolf with a nod. He sent a man to his chamber to get his armor while he told Alden what was to happen, and gave him instructions on the unlikely chance he was defeated. A short time later he was helmeted and weighted down with chainmail. Alden was sharpening his sword when the call came from outside.
Royce stepped outside, his sword in one hand, his shield in the other. The Vikings had all come inside the yard, yet they had spread out along the outer walls, their shields and swords lying at their feet as a sign they were only there to watch. Seeing this, Royce’s own men began to come outside the hall, and he gave the order that they were likewise to put down their weapons. He saw Kristen’s mother, gripping the arm of the huge, barrel-chested man beside her. Kristen’s father?
Royce did not wonder long, his attention drawn to his opponent, standing only a few feet away. He was a big man, mayhap even an inch or two taller than Royce. Powerful legs were spread apart and thickly gartered with leather, his only covering besides the conical helmet with its long noseguard that concealed most of his face. Muscles bulged across the wide chest and were tight across the flat stomach. The arms were like meaty clubs. Wide golden armbands circled his wrists, etched with dragon serpents. His large shield was covered with leather, with a two-inch spike in its center. And his double-edged sword was one of the finest-wrought weapons Royce had ever seen, the hilt richly engraved and inlaid with silver and gold.
Royce saw all this at a glance. That the man was bare-chested was a sign of contempt he could not ignore. He called Alden over to help him off with his own mail.
“Are you mad?” Alden wanted to know.
“Nay, he has the advantage if I am weighted down and he is not. I do not think this will be over with quickly, Cousin. I do not intend to give him any advantage.”
A cheer went up from the Vikings when Royce bared his own chest. His opponent had stood there and let him. Alden handed him back his sword and shield, and Royce approached the man he must kill. And then he froze, seeing the aqua eyes staring out at him from beneath the eyeguards of the helmet. He swore violently, stepping back. He swore again, throwing his sword down on the ground between them.
Garrick lowered his own sword. “By Thor, she did not tell you, did she?”
“I cannot fight you!” Royce snarled angrily. “’Twould destroy her!”
“Is that the only reason you will not fight?”
The tone was insulting enough that Royce could not mistake the slur of cowardice. He nearly retrieved his sword. But Kristen’s stricken face appeared in his mind and he clenched his fists tight against the impulse.
“Send me another to fight,” Royce gritted low. “Send me that bear who stands next to your wife.”
“Nay, my brother is in no condition to meet a man of your size and youth, though he would not admit it. You fight me or no one. Or did my daughter also neglect to tell you what would happen if you refuse to fight me?”
“She told me!”
“Then pick up your sword, Saxon. You know you have no choice.”
“Are you sure you are not too old for this yourself, Viking?” Royce sneered. “I train in warfare daily, in preparation to meet your brethren the Danes. Yet I understand you are no more than a merchant.”
“Oh, ho!” Garrick guffawed. “Now I have been well and truly challenged. You have one second before I start hacking you to bits, child.”
Royce dove for his sword, rolling with it, and coming up on Garrick’s left side. He had only that promised second before the first blow landed on his shield. Another followed before he found solid footing.
Brenna had been right. Kristen’s father did want his blood. He did not let up once in his attack, raining blow after blow, driving Royce back across the yard. No Dane Royce had ever drawn his sword against had been this merciless. But then, no Dane had had such motivation. He was fighting an enraged father first, a Viking second. He was being made to pay for every time he had taken Kristen to his bed.
In the upstairs window of Royce’s chamber, Kristen stood like a statue, watching the combat below. It was torture to watch, yet she could not pull her eyes away. Half a dozen times her heart had already dropped to her feet, when it looked as if Royce could not raise his shield in time, when he slipped and her father’s blade had come within inches of him, when he finally began denting her father’s shield.
They stood like bulwarks now, hammering away at each other, blow for blow. Kristen’s lips bled where she bit them to keep from screaming. How long could they last like this? How long before…
Royce was knocked to the ground with the force of the last blow. Garrick swung at his right side, but Royce’s feet tangled in his and Garrick went down as well. Royce was quicker to rise, and he had a clear opening to the Viking’s midsection. He did not take it. He stuck his sword in the ground instead and threw off his helmet.
“I am done!” he snarled. “I could have killed you then!”
