Colban shoved his way through the crowd, leaving before the lad could make his identity known. He made his way past the gates of the castle toward the safety of the pavilions as the soft strains of the next entertainment, a musical consort, floated over the courtyard.
So focused on escape was he, he didn’t notice the pair of ice blue eyes observing him from atop the battlements.
Chapter 39
Watching the hooded man bolt across the field, his cloak flapping as he hastily ducked into one of the pavilions, Hallie knew it was Colban. It had to be. Who else had such a long and confident stride?
And yet there was enough of a sliver of doubt in her mind that she didn’t climb down from the battlements at once to pursue and confront him. It could all be just her wishful imagination, after all.
Why would Colban return to the place where his own kinfolk might recognize him? Where he could be connected to Archie’s murder? It made no sense. Such a risk would be foolhardy.
Even if she discovered it was Colban, what would she say to him? Go away? Perhaps it was best she didn’t find out.
Hallie pressed at her temples. She had to concentrate on the tournament. She would be competing in the sword fights on the morrow. She needed to practice.
Though she’d told no one about her condition, and it was still indiscernible to all but the most observant eye, carrying extra weight in her belly was throwing off her balance. She needed to focus on her form and agility. The last thing she needed was worrying that Archie’s killer was in danger of being discovered.
The stranger never returned to the courtyard. He didn’t come to the feast in the great hall. He likely had a servant bring him supper in his pavilion, where he would sleep for the night.
But she knew she’d see him again on the morrow, for he no doubt intended to participate in the tournament.
All night long, Hallie fought combatants in her sleep. And lost. In her dreams, each time her conqueror removed his helm—whether he was short, tall, stout, thin, dressed in red or yellow or black—it was Colban. By morn, shaken by suffering so many imaginary losses, Hallie rose early, determined to regain her fighting confidence.
An hour on the practice field did her good. She sparred with Jenefer and Feiyan, who had risen at dawn. In no time, she’d found her center again. Renewed and laughing with her cousins, she looked forward to the contests ahead.
Gellir and Brand were still too young to compete in the matches. But rather than observing from the rows of stands constructed on the tournament field, they took up a position as close to the fighters as possible. They mingled with the knights at the perimeter of the field to study their weapons and watch their techniques. Ian joined them, making sketches of the various pieces of armor, inspecting greaves and poleyns and questioning the knights about the pieces’ strengths and weaknesses.
Because there were so many contestants, the first few rounds of matches would occur simultaneously, with two challenges on the field at any given time.
Isabel had been awarded the honor of drawing the names of the competitors from a basket filled with slips of parchment. The winners of each contest would continue to the next match until the field was winnowed down to two combatants. The winner of that final match would be the tournament champion.
For the first match, Feiyan’s name was drawn, along with that of Sir Renard de Bois. Because her fighting style was so unusual, full of clever acrobatics, she handily won the match.
Meanwhile, Sir Rauve triumphed by brute force over his opponent, The Blue Knight.
Over two dozen matches followed, featuring warriors from all over Scotland and beyond. Among the contestants were a Nubian fighter of great renown, a Bavarian knight who claimed to be descended from the Huns, and a warrior from the infamous de Ware family from France. One unidentified combatant was even rumored to be an English knight who had stolen across the Border to compete.
The fighting was thrilling, full of as much mercy as ferocity and as much good will as good skill.
The Rivenloch clan claimed some victories. Hallie’s mother dispatched Jenefer’s father. Laird Morgan defeated Hallie’s father. Jenefer’s mother easily conquered Sir Johannes of Bamberg. Feiyan’s father sent Sir Morris of Stirling limping from the field. And Hallie left her Highland opponent, William of the mac Giric clan, in the dust.
Then Isabel announced the final two bouts of the first round—Sir Thomas of fighting Angus mac Ivey and Jenefer of Rivenloch fighting someone called The Sable Knight.
Hallie narrowed her eyes at her hotheaded cousin’s competition. The Sable Knight was her mystery man.
No longer wearing his hooded cloak, he was dressed in full armor and a helm that concealed his face. Neither his black tabard nor his shield bore insignia of any kind. But his height and bearing still convinced her it might be Colban.
As soon as The Sable Knight began fighting, however, she changed her mind. She’d seen Colban fight. It was nothing like this. Colban was a Highlander, accustomed to delivering the slow, deliberate blows of a two-handed claymore.
This man fought as if he’d been born with a longsword in his hand.
Despite Jenefer’s fierce attacks, The Sable Knight dodged them with a nimbleness uncommon for a man his size. He spun and thrust, countering her slashes with his shield, glancing them aside as if they were no more bothersome than Ian’s parchment birds.
Still, there was something so familiar about him. The way he lunged. The way he powered forward with his shoulders. The way he hesitated in a gesture of chivalry to let his opponent brace for the next volley. If it wasn’t Colban, it was someone with a hell of a lot of his mannerisms.
Jenefer eventually tired, and when, in angry exasperation, she overextended her blade, he rushed in close to disarm her. With the edge of his sword at her throat, she had no choice but to yield, spitting curses from inside her helm.
There was a brief respite for refreshments, and Hallie sipped at her watered ale, looking for the elusive Sable Knight. But he’d disappeared again.
The second round went more quickly. This time, Hallie was pitted against the Nubian warrior, Mashshouda. It was a tough battle. His technique was unusual, and he used his shield as a weapon just as much as his sword. But once she found his weakness—a lightness of foot that left him ungrounded—she swept him off his feet, winning the match and thanking him for a challenging skirmish.
The Sable Knight won again, this time against Sir Rauve. The stranger leveraged Sir Rauve’s own power against him, sending him tripping over his own blade more than once. When he downed him for the last time, he planted his boot on Rauve’s backside. The crowd found that more amusing than did Rauve, and Hallie longed to reward the Sable Knight’s cocky gesture with a humiliation of her own if they were matched in the next round.
Before the third round of matches, Laird Morgan, who’d advanced to the next level, approached Hallie. He nodded toward The Sable Knight, who stood on the far side of the field, inspecting his blade.
“Does that knight look familiar to ye?” Morgan asked.
Hallie pretended nonchalance. “Which one?”
“The man all in black.”
She pretended to study him. “Nay. Should he?”
Morgan shook his head. “He looks so much like—”
“Sir Dougal, aye?” Hallie quickly supplied, eager to distract Morgan. “The king’s man. Is it him? Do you think he would travel all the way here from Edinburgh to take part in the tournament?”
“Nay. I mean—”
“How exciting! Sir Dougal. Jenefer must be so thrilled.”
“Jenefer?” he asked with a frown. “She’s grumblin’. She lost in the first round, ye know.”
“Oh. Aye,” Hallie replied, just glad to be changing the subject. “But there’s still the melee. She loves the melee.”
Morgan didn’t reply, but narrowed his eyes once more at The Sable Knight. Then he shook his head.
Hallie breathed a sigh of relief when Isabel rang a bell to
get everyone’s attention for the third round of matches and Morgan bowed in farewell.
Sixteen contestants remained. Of the five of the Rivenloch clan—Hallie, Feiyan, Deirdre, Helena, and Rand—only three survived to proceed to the next level. Sir Rand, Feiyan’s father, was defeated by a de Ware. And Feiyan fell victim to a small, quick fighter by the name of The Sparrow.
Hallie fought against Sir Thomas, scoring a narrow victory when she ducked under a particularly vicious blow and shoved him to the ground with her shield.
The last match was between Laird Morgan and The Sable Knight. Hallie held her breath as the two rivals faced each other. If that was Colban, Morgan would surely recognize him at once. They were practically brothers.
The Highlanders had not fared well in the tournament. Their claymores were a valuable weapon in warfare, where a single blow could lay a foe low. But in sparring, where killing was not the goal, they lacked the finesse and recovery to maintain ongoing combat.
Laird Morgan managed to land a hard first blow to the shield of The Sable Knight, one that made him stagger backwards. But while he prepared for a second attack, the knight swept in with his sword, doling out three blows of his own.
Again, Laird Morgan swung his claymore. This time, The Sable Knight ducked under the blade, and it swished through empty air, throwing Morgan off balance. Rather than let him recover, the knight planted his saboton in Morgan’s hindquarters and shoved him farther. Morgan tripped and fell on one knee, but to his credit, he recovered and came up with his blade swinging.
Hallie narrowed her eyes at The Sable Knight. She got the distinct impression he was toying with Morgan. He could have dispatched him easily. But he preferred to prolong the match, which was quickly becoming more brawl than battle, as the two men used their elbows and knees to shove each other. Just like two brothers, Hallie realized.
No sooner did she have that thought than the match ended. The Sable Knight, apparently tiring of the match, snagged the hilt of Morgan’s claymore with his sword, sending the heavy blade sailing in an almost graceful arc across the field. Then he used his shield to knock Morgan to the ground.
Unarmed, Morgan yielded. Hallie expected The Sable Knight to gloat then and perhaps plant his foot on Morgan’s chest. Instead, he offered a hand to his fallen opponent, helping him to his feet. He even gave Morgan a humble nod, as if to say he’d been honored by the battle.
“That Sable Knight is quite good,” Hallie’s mother said as they broke for another respite.
Now only three Rivenloch fighters remained—Hallie, her mother, and her Aunt Helena. They discussed battle strategies as they sipped ale. By the chance of the draw, they might well be pitted against each other as opponents. But they all wanted someone from the Rivenloch clan to win the day.
“He might be good,” Helena snorted. “But did you see what he did to poor Sir Rauve? I’d like to wipe that cocky smirk off the lout’s face.”
“What face?” Deirdre said. “He hasn’t shown his face all day.”
Hallie broke in, eager to steer the conversation to other fighters. “The Sparrow seems dangerous.”
“Aye,” Deirdre agreed. “I suspect ’tis a woman.”
“Do you think?” Helena asked.
“Small, fast, clever,” Deirdre said. “Took Feiyan completely by surprise.”
Hallie nodded. It was hard to take Feiyan by surprise.
“And what about the Frenchman?” Helena asked.
“De Ware?” Hallie said. “I’d like to fight him.” The de Wares had almost as much notoriety in France as the Rivenlochs had in Scotland. It would be satisfying to defeat him.
In the following rounds, however, it was Helena who was paired with Sir Evrard de Ware, who unfortunately sent both her sword and shield flying.
Deirdre defeated The Sparrow, making sure afterwards to praise the knight’s great bravery and skill. There weren’t many lasses with the courage to take up the sword, and this one was worthy of respect.
The Sable Knight trounced the Flemish Sir Guillaume, cutting short the man’s flashy and flamboyant maneuvering with blunt force.
And with a distracting swipe of her shield and a strategic sweep of her sword, Hallie eliminated the last of the mac Giric warriors left in the tournament.
None of the finalists spoke during the next break. Now every warrior was truly on their own. No one could predict which of the four would be pitted against whom.
Hallie hoped she wouldn’t have to fight her mother. Though Hallie was younger and stronger, her mother could read her like a seer and anticipate her every move.
But the first two names Isabel drew were Hallie of Rivenloch and Sir Evrard de Ware, which pleased Hallie greatly. She wouldn’t mind putting the knight in his place after the drubbing he’d given her Aunt Helena.
It was easy to say. Not as easy to do. De Ware was strong and fast and clever. He made her defend herself at a breathtaking pace, hardly leaving room for attack.
Eventually, she managed to take the upper hand, mostly because she fought outside the bounds of polite French swordsmanship and relied on her wits, doing the unexpected. Her moment of victory came when she’d retreated, drawing his slashes far and wide, giving him the impression he was driving her against the fence, and then rolled forward suddenly in the dust to come up at his throat.
He took his defeat with good-natured grace, chuckling in amusement at her trickery and bowing deeply in her honor.
Then the contest between her mother and The Sable Knight began.
Their battle was intriguing, more like a contest of wills and wiles than a physical fight. Rather than coming at her with a forceful attack, he held back, as if testing her mettle. Laird Deirdre too withheld her fiercest blows, forcing him to take the lead. This went on for several moments as they circled, their blades making only occasional contact.
The crowd began to lose patience, calling out for the fighting to begin.
Finally, Deirdre unleashed a barrage of blows.
To Hallie’s amazement, he easily deflected them all.
But her mother, aware now that the knight was capable of mounting a good defense, understood she’d have to fight with more brains than brawn.
They battled back and forth, like cats playing with mice, each waiting for the other to make a deadly mistake.
He almost got her once, and the gasps from the crowd were evidence of how close the sword that whistled past her head had come.
While she was recovering, he followed up with an onslaught of aggressive attacks that she caught on her shield. Finally, one hard strike from his sword cracked her shield in two, rendering it useless.
She tossed the thing aside, intending to continue fighting.
But The Sable Knight lowered his weapon and backed away, offering her the opportunity to fetch a new shield.
If it had been Hallie, her first instinct would have been to seize that opportunity.
Her second instinct—and what her mother did—was to yield.
Laird Deirdre lowered her sword, announcing that The Sable Knight had won the match fairly.
The crowd cheered her act of chivalry—and his—and she waved at them in thanks and recognition. Hallie realized at that moment that, for a laird, winning the clan’s respect was far more important than winning the match.
She was still considering her mother’s wisdom when the two combatants exited the field and she heard Laird Deirdre murmuring to The Sable Knight.
“You know, if you have no affiliations, if you’re truly a knight-errant, the forces of Rivenloch would be glad to have you among our ranks.”
He gave her a nod of thanks, but didn’t reply. And once more, Hallie was struck by his strong resemblance to Colban. What it was, she didn’t know. His scent? His mannerisms? The shape of his body? The sensation persisted, no matter how unlikely and irrational it seemed.
Giving her head a mental shake, she strode away to splash water on her face, half to wash away the grime of the field and half to sob
er herself from distracting thoughts. She had to prepare for the championship match. After all, how could she gaze at her opponent as they exchanged mortal blows, wondering all the while if he was the father of her child?
Chapter 40
When Hallie returned to the field, it was with new determination. She tossed her braid over her shoulder and settled her helm down over her head, loosened her shoulders and blew out a hard breath.
This was it. No matter if she fought Colban an Curaidh or the Devil himself, Hallie planned to defeat The Sable Knight and claim the title of champion for Rivenloch.
As he’d done with her mother, the knight began by goading her with gentle taps that were easy to block, drawing her gradually into the fight. For one horrifying, distracting moment, the manner of his fighting seemed all too much like the Highlander’s seduction. The way he lured her in. Tempted her. Made her desperate to engage him…
Hallie slammed the portcullis on that thought before it could lay siege to her concentration.
The Sable Knight was an opponent, nothing more.
Hallie adjusted her shield. Her gift was her patience and perseverance. If he insisted on taking tentative, non-lethal jabs at her, all she had to do was wait for him to tire of the game.
When he finally changed the rhythm of his advances and lunged forward, she was ready for him. She cast off his sword and surged forward with her own, pummeling him in the ribs.
He recovered quickly, but she could see her swift counterattack had rattled him. Much like her eager response to Colban’s kisses had thrown him off-balance.
Mortified once again by the direction of her musings, Hallie retreated, slicing through the air as if mentally murdering her thoughts.
Meanwhile, he circled her cautiously, looking for an opening.
She gave him one. But it was a deceptive advantage. When he attacked in the gap she intentionally left between her sword and shield, she spun, scissoring her arms to catch and deflect his blade.
Bride of Ice Page 32
