Satisfied that the soup would not need her attention for long while, she went into the tent and gathered her hair at her nape, then bound it with a strip of colored cloth. She changed into a green gown. Then she set out.
The camps grew more chaotic as she neared the lists. Peddlers wound among the tents, offering food and provisions that she never saw offered over by the river. She spied a few women but could not tell if they were there to serve their husbands or their masters.
The crowd had grown thick near the lists, and people jostled for good views. She squirmed through the bodies until she was close to the front at the main field, standing in front of the seated guests. A large field in front of her had been divided, and three competitions raged at the same time.
A combat ended, and a winner was declared. The knights left the field, and two others paced their destriers forward. In terms of size and bearing they looked evenly matched.
“Sir Liam of Kinsale and Sir Alexander de Mandeville.”
Her attention riveted on the knight wearing a surcoat of yellow and green. That one was Zander, she was sure.
She did not want to watch. She could notnotwatch.
The Scot was good, Zander had to give him that. After two passes with lances, they met on foot. They parried and thrust and swung, each trying to land a blow that would make a difference. So far, the only difference was that neither one looked to win soon, and the afternoon was passing.
They stood north to south, each of them positioned now in front of a crowd that watched. The onlookers did not like that since none of them could see all of the moves, but neither Zander nor the Scot wanted to have the descending sun in their eyes.
The Scot retreated ten paces and lowered his sword. Zander made good use of the respite to catch his breath. His two earlier combats were affecting his stamina now. It had perhaps been a mistake to announce he would take all challenges since this was the only one that mattered when it came to the champion’s prize.
The crowd shouted for the battle to resume. His gaze swept them, halted, then swung back. Dark eyes looked out from behind a man’s shoulder.
Elinor was here.
Memories of that kiss this midday distracted him for a moment. Battles have been lost for less. He did not see the Scot’s charge soon enough. The man came, sword raised, with an incomprehensible yell bursting from his mouth.
Zander moved, expecting the trick Angus had warned of, waiting for that weapon to make an arc and attack his right side and sword arm. Instead it swung to Zander’s left. Just in time, he moved his shield, but a sharp pain said the blade had slammed into the mail on his upper arm. The blade might be blunted, but it still had force. The shock of the blow caused his shield to fall.
Mind bloody with rage, he charged at the Scot without a shield, swinging his sword with both hands and arms. A roar came from the crowd along with some screams. In a dark blur of fury, he slashed and thrust and forced the Scot back until, with one well-placed blow, he hit the Scot’s sword so hard that it went flying.
It was finally over, but not without cost. Angus ran to him and looked down at the wound on his arm. “Blood. The mail did it, not the blade, but it will be hell tomorrow.”
Zander walked from the lists, gathering salutes from other knights and cheers from onlookers.
A voice shouted “The Devil’s Blade.”
He made his way to his tent, closed the flap, and sank onto his pallet.
Angus came over with a clean cloth and a thin knife. “That was quite a combat.” He spoke conversationally.
“I was distracted.” Angus probably wondered how the Scot had managed this blow. It was the sort of wound an inexperienced knight might suffer.
“She must have been pretty,” Angus said.
Zander said nothing to that, least of all that she was pretty enough that he had been plagued by daydreams about her that left him hard and hot.
Angus unbuckled and removed the plate on his shoulder, then pushed the surcoat aside so he could clearly see the left arm. “I was going to bring one of the whores here tonight, so you that could celebrate all these victories, but I’m thinking you won’t be fit for such labor now.”
“You underestimate me. How bad is it?”
“I’m not saying it won’t hurt.”
“It always hurts. Any warrior who claims it doesn’t is a lying churl. Well, get on with it.”
“There’s a surgeon here. Do you want to go to his tent?”
“You’ll do better. He’d probably kill me.”
Angus lifted the knife and began prying the mail out of Zander’s arm from where the force of the sword had buried it deep into his skin.
