“If her father is dead, she won’t care about that either.”
“Probably not. But I will.”
“Just so you don’t forget the goal is for younotto be killed. Would be a hell of a thing if you played a game of parrying only for that to happen.”
Zander had to smile at Angus’s deep frown. “I won’t forget.”
He moved his arms and tested how the plate sat on his shoulders while Harold attached his schynbalds. He unsheathed his sword and swung it a few times. He could hear the marshal’s voice above the noise of the crowd, explaining the stakes of the next two competitions.
He wondered if Elinor would be watching. He hoped not, but probably so.
He took his helmet from Angus. “Let us go.”
She did not want to watch, but she followed the stragglers aiming to the lists. She had removed the veil and silver before helping her father, but now both decorated her crown. It did not mean she wanted Zander to win. She just wanted neither of them to lose.
It seemed everyone was going to attend this competition. Not only because it was one of the last two, but also because it promised blood.
She buried herself among the bodies at the edge of the crowd that had formed. She could barely see through them. She heard the marshal’s announcements. Toward the end of his call, she felt a touch on her arm.
A boy stood right beside her, with his right arm extended in a gesture that pushed back the jostling bodies around him. “My lord invites you to sit on the stand with him, mistress.”
She looked across the field. Lord Yves had seen her and sent his page to bring her over.
“I don’t—that is, I—” She stammered out nonsense while she searched for a way to decline the invitation.
The boy smiled and urged her forward.
She hesitated, then walked with him. If she was going to be here at all, she might as well witness what happened, instead of craning her neck only to see nothing at all.
They mounted the stairs to the stand. Lord Yves stood and greeted her, and sat her beside him, making an important-looking lord move over to create a space. “You should not be alone, Lady Elinor. This trial is yours as well as theirs.”
He said that as if he knew just how similar it was and how no victory would please her. She collected what poise she could and ignored the eyes aiming her way from the other honored guests.
Movement below distracted all of them. Her father rode a horse onto the field that would be his battle ground. With his helmet and armor, no one could know his age, and on a horse his bad leg was not evident. The plate that Zander had brought gave him a presence, she had to admit, and hopefully some protection. He looked to be the knight he once was.
She wondered who had given him that horse to use and whether it would make any difference.
The crowd hushed on seeing him. Then a rumble started, and grew, like a wave from the south. It washed over the whole field as everyone reacted to Zander riding forward. He wore his own colors, not the green of his lord. He did not wear his helmet yet, so his face could be clearly seen. Hard. Pale beneath his dark locks. Fire burned in his eyes. This was not her childhood friend and recent lover. It was The Devil’s Blade.
Her breath caught. She looked desperately at her father again. Panic broke in her. She began to rise, to run to her father and beg him to step down and forfeit.
A firm hand on her arm stopped her. She tried to yank away but could not. Furious, she turned to Lord Yves, to demand that he release her, to scratch at his face if necessary.
He looked straight out at the combatants, not at her. “If you do it, Sir Hugo will never forgive you. Allow him to be the knight he is.”
“He will be killed,” she hissed.
“It is the best way for a knight to die. Fighting, and with honor.”
She stared at him, hearing the words spoken and unspoken. Her gaze swung to her father. Was that the real reason for this? Because it was an honorable way to die? The eventual alternative would not be.
She settled back on the seat. She composed herself, so she would look like the lady she had been born to be. Inside her body, however, her heart pounded, and her grief waited.
CHAPTER TEN
Zander eyed Sir Hugo. If not for Harold, he would not have prepared his own horse. The squire had run into their camp an hour ago to say Hugo might have found a mount after all.
Now they faced each other, lances balanced against their bodies, while the crowd waited.
