else.’
‘Keep your eyes open.’ Her gaze snapped to the cut upon his arm. Gently, she examined it. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I let Beaulais cut me, in order to move in closer.’
Her hand stayed upon his shoulder a moment longer than it should have. Though her palm was callused from holding the sword, her touch warmed his skin.
‘Honora, don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ She drew back, her fingertips coated with his blood.
He chose his words with care, not wanting to offend her. ‘I’m going to wed your sister.’
Embarrassment flooded her face. ‘If she’ll have you.’ With another step backwards, she added, ‘I did nothing except examine your wound. You’ve too high an opinion of yourself if you believe I wanted you.’
This was going badly. He tried to apologise. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Your match is next.’ She cut him off. ‘Go and fight Sir Ademar. Perhaps he’ll cut your other arm.’
With the chest tucked against her side, she strode off to the dais. Ewan stepped towards the ring, his annoyance rising.
Why did he always seem to fall into her trap whenever he was near her? And why, in God’s name, did she provoke him so? He’d meant only to be polite, to see to her safety. But within a few moments in her presence, they were arguing.
He unsheathed his sword and prepared for the fight against Sir Ademar. The tall knight wore chainmail armour, his coif and aventail hiding all but his face. Ewan circled his opponent, waiting for the right opening. The weight of the armour would slow the knight down, and Ewan intended to take full advantage of the weakness.
Sir Ademar lunged forwards, and Ewan sidestepped, blocking the strike with his own sword. They exchanged a few blows, each trying to gain the other’s measure.
Upon the knight’s shoulder, Ewan spied a blue ribbon. Honora’s token, he realised. As he parried another blow, he asked, ‘Are you courting Honora?’
‘I am. And I saw you … s-speaking with her just now.’ Sir Ademar swung his sword full force, and Ewan barely blocked it with his shield. ‘You made her angry.’
‘I make her angry by breathing.’ Ewan moved in, striking fast, forcing the knight to retreat. This was his chance to end the fight, and he used his full speed and agility, attacking without cease.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Katherine watching him, her hands pressed to her mouth. Honora’s expression was intent, and her gaze locked with his. She lifted her left hand in a silent message.
The switch.
Ewan transferred his shield to the other arm, narrowly missing a slice to his flesh. Sir Ademar fought just as hard with his left hand, as with his right, and Ewan had to give his full concentration to the man’s sword. Over and over, the knight struck, until the victory began to slip away from Ewan’s fingertips.
Frustration at his weakness provoked a rage. He ignored technique, relying on brute strength. As a boy, too many times he’d been cut down, told he wasn’t good enough. His brothers had tried to protect him, ordering him not to fight.
But he’d stubbornly refused to give up. And he wasn’t about to lose this match now.
Sir Ademar’s sword slashed towards his middle, and Ewan had no time to raise his shield. The blade sliced deeply into his arm, and he threw himself backwards, rolling away. Energy roared through him, his pulse pounding as he avoided another blow. His grip on the weapon loosened, but he managed to regain it.
Mud caked the right side of his face and shoulders, as he backed away from the knight, waiting for the right moment to attack. Sir Ademar sliced his sword downwards, but Ewan blocked the strike, using his legs to trip the man.
Around him, he heard the crowd shouting their approval, though most encouraged Sir Ademar. Blood flowed freely down Ewan’s arm, but he felt none of the pain.
With all of his strength, Ewan raised his shield to deflect another blow, then he swung hard, ceasing at the edge of his opponent’s undefended throat.
‘Halt!’ Lord Ardennes called.
Ewan kept his blade steady, but then he looked down and saw the knight’s own sword positioned at his gut. He cursed, for he hadn’t won the match.
The Norman knight smiled, stepping back to sheathe his sword. ‘A draw, MacEgan.’
Ewan gave a brief nod, though he wasn’t pleased. He’d intended to show his skills to Katherine, and though he hadn’t lost, neither had he been victorious.
His mood was black when he approached the dais. Sir Ademar walked alongside him, his own armour also caked with mud.
‘You fought well, Sir Ademar.’ Katherine smiled, then offered the same praise to Ewan.
Lord Ardennes lifted a hand. ‘It is time for the feasting. Since you held the victory in most of the contests, MacEgan, you may sit between my two daughters this day.’
It was not an offer of Katherine’s hand, he noticed, though it was an honour. He should have been glad of it, but at the moment, he was filthy, his body ached and he was bleeding.
Ewan asked the Baron’s permission to leave the fighting ring. He wanted a few moments alone to clear his head and to wipe off the mud.
When it was granted, he walked back to the grove of trees beyond the fighting ring, remembering a creek that he’d spied on their journey here.
The fight unsettled him, for he’d nearly lost. Ewan swiped at the blood on his arm, wincing at the depth of the cut. Sir Ademar was a worthy opponent, a man not easily defeated. Ewan would simply have to work harder to win. If it meant training an extra hour each day, so be it.
When he reached the icy water, Ewan stripped off his tunic and dunked his head beneath the surface. The cold chill slowed the bleeding from his arm slightly, but the wound needed to be stitched.
He waded into the water, still wearing his trews in the hopes of cleansing them. He wished he’d thought to bring a change of clothing with him.
A rustling noise caught his attention, and Ewan spun, startled by the intrusion. Gerald of Beaulais emerged from the trees. His hand rested upon his sword hilt.
‘Your sword skills are lacking, Irishman.’
Críost. Hadn’t he defeated the man already in the wrestling match? And here he was, half-naked, with his weapons lying upon the shore.
‘But I defeated you.’ He remained in the water, inching his way closer. He reached down into the water and closed his palm over a round stone. ‘What is it you want, Beaulais? A lesson in hand-to-hand fighting?’
The nobleman reached for the dagger at his belt. ‘Leave Ardennes. And abandon your courtship.’
A flash of metal caught the sun, and Ewan threw himself sideways. The blade sank below the water, and a second later, Beaulais collapsed. Behind him stood Honora, a stout limb in her hands. A line of blood trickled down Beaulais’s forehead.
‘What in the name of God do you think you’re doing?’ Ewan bellowed, striding from the water. ‘Did you murder him, then?’
‘He was about to murder you!’
‘He threw the knife as a warning. I saw it coming and avoided it.’ Ewan approached Beaulais’s body and nudged it with his foot. Thanks be, a low groan resounded from the man’s throat. ‘I don’t need you, or anyone else, to defend me.’
Honora’s face transformed from pale white to furious red. ‘Fine. Let the next man kill you, then. I’ll stand back and do nothing.’
‘Why are you even here?’ Ewan demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be with your father, preparing for the feast.