"Yes, sir. I'm sure he will," Mathew replied. "If you'll excuse—"
"You know, Mathew," Ella said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, "your father is still a fine-looking man." She mumbled something else, partly to herself, that Mathew couldn't quite catch except for the words "good provider," but he decided it would be best not to ask her what she'd said and encourage her further.
As Ella mentally tallied Bran's qualities, she absently brushed back the same lock of hair off his forehead that Lara had a moment earlier.
Mathew had gotten used to women doing that. For reasons he was never able to fathom, they simply couldn't abide something out of place. He couldn't imagine another man doing it, or even caring if his hair went in five different directions at the same time. Rather than try and hold back the tide, he put up with the occasional adjustments and held his tongue.
Apparently satisfied with whatever calculations she was making, Ella noticed Mathew was still standing before her. "Do you know," she said, picking up where she'd left off, "a woman's touch around your house would be a welcome thing after all this time."
Feeling trapped, Mathew tried to think of some polite way to separate himself from Ella without hurting her feelings. "Yes, ma'am ... I mean, I don't know exactly. I guess you'd have to speak with my father. But right now, I really have to—"
Completely undeterred, Ella sailed on. "Mathew, I have a wonderful idea. I can't imagine why I didn't think of this sooner. Why don't you and Bran come for dinner tomorrow? My sister and her daughter, Brenna, are visiting for several days, and I'm sure Chantelle would love to see your father again. You do remember them, don't you? From Rockingham?"
As a matter of fact, Mathew did remember them. He also recalled his father comparing Chantelle's face to their horse Tilda, so he didn't think Bran would be overjoyed at the prospect of having dinner with them. To make matters worse, Brenna seemed to favor her mother a great deal. The chances for a quick disengagement appeared to be fading as Ella gathered momentum. Suddenly, help came from an unexpected quarter.
"Ella, let the boy go," Lucas said, stepping in between them. "He needs to be at the square right now for the tournament. We can discuss all this later." He gave Mathew a private wink and added, with more concern than might have been strictly necessary, "I think you'd better get a move on, lad, or like as not, they'll start without you."
"Father Thomas is certainly not going to start without him," Ella said to her husband. "But I suppose Lucas is right. You shouldn't be standing here gabbing the day away when you need to be somewhere." Ella wagged a plump finger at him for emphasis. "There'll be time enough to chat after your fencing thing is done with. Honestly, I think these tournaments are just an excuse for you men to get out of work."
Lucas rolled his eyes to heaven, but with the wisdom of a man married many years, he wisely said nothing. Realizing that his own mouth was open, Mathew closed it with a snap and bid them a hasty goodbye before hurrying down the street.
By the time he reached the square, there was a flurry of activity going on. The teams from Gravenhage and Mechlen had arrived and were taking their packs down from the horses. Though Mathew recognized a number of boys by sight from previous competitions, his shyness
had prevented him from making many friends. He did recognize Berke Ramsey, and looked away.
Almost twenty, two years older than many of the other boys, Berke was brawny and good-looking, and for some reason known only to himself, had taken a dislike toward Mathew. He seemed to have a special talent for picking out and preying on the weaknesses of others. In Mathew, that turned out to be shyness and lack of confidence. Several times in competitions over the years, when the boys would get together at the conclusion of the meet to socialize, Berke made a habit of mimicking Mathew's mannerisms and speech. The result turned Mathew's adolescent self-consciousness into active misery, so he made a point of avoiding Berke whenever possible.
It took Mathew only a moment to locate Daniel and Collin in the crowd. Carly Coombs and Garon Lang were there as well. While he was shaking hands with Garon, he overheard Carly chattering on about something or other to Collin, whom he suspected was only half listening.
Lara joined them a few minutes later. She had changed into men's clothes, indicating she was going to fence as well. Mathew had gotten used to seeing her in dresses recently and thought the breeches looked a little odd, but conceded that they allowed for greater freedom of movement, even though they tended to accentuate her hips and bottom. He was still looking when she turned around and their eyes met. Flustered, Mathew cleared his throat and occupied himself with making sure the handle of his blade was sufficiently tight. Lara raised one eyebrow and made a point of deliberately brushing past him. He did his best to keep a straight face.
Lara was the only girl in Devondale interested in fenc-ing, and she was quite good enough to compete with the boys. In the beginning, the other teams had complained it wasn't fair having to compete against a girl, but she si-lenced the protests after winning matches in several different competitions. She wasn't as strong physically as her male counterparts, but as Father Thomas had told then many times, speed, agility, and, above all, intelligence were far more important. A good fencer, if he or she was careful, could use their opponent's strength against them, and Lara was good.
Mathew saw Father Thomas talking with two men. The gray-haired individual was none other than Jerrel Rozon, who coached the Gravenhage team, and the other one was Thorn Calthorpe, who taught the Mechlen team. Mathew knew from conversations with his father that Rozon was a former general in the Elgarian military. If living a quiet life since retirement had softened him in any way, it wasn't apparent.
His father had told him that Rozon's men began referring to him as the "Anvil" after the Battle of Tyron Fel, though never to his face. The nickname stuck after he held his ground against three successive Sibuyan charges, without so much as taking a step backward.
The other man, Thom Calthorpe, was big and had an honest face and a straightforward manner. Mathew had met him at a number of different competitions over the years and liked him from the very beginning. Calthorpe was a keen a tactician and an excellent teacher, but unlike Rozon, he was willing to share his thoughts or offer advice, even with fencers on the other teams.
Mathew thought Father Thomas fell somewhere between the two coaches in philosophy. Though he concealed it well, Father Thomas definitely did not like to lose. Several years before, when everyone had gone home, Mathew watched him practicing with his father. They were about the same age and both had served together in the army. Father Thomas was tall, slender, and as quick as a cat. They went at each other for the better part of an hour and seemed evenly matched. Fascinated, Mathew sat in the corner absorbing it all, hoping to be as good one day. It was the first time he remembered thinking that Siward Thomas wasn't a typical priest—an opinion shared by a number of women in the village as well. When relatives with eligible daughters happened to visit, he never seemed to be at a loss for dinner invitations.
"Attention everyone ... attention," Father Thomas
called out, standing on the lip of the fountain in the center of the square. "If you will be kind enough to gather to me for a moment, we will begin shortly."
All the competitors on the Devondale, Gravenhage, and Mechlen teams crowded around him in a semicircle.
"First, a warm welcome to all of you. We know that some of you have traveled far to join us, and we are most pleased to have you as our guests. It looks like the Creator has favored us with a fine, clear day for a competition."
Heads bowed in unison as Father Thomas raised his right arm in benediction. "May His grace shine on each of you, and . .. ah ... may He make your blades accurate and legs strong."
Jerrel Rozon glanced up, raising a speculative eyebrow.
"A bit of help from above is always welcome, Jerrel," Father Thomas whispered in an aside. Other than a hint of a smile that
touched the corners of Rozon's mouth, and an imperceptible nod of the head, his expression didn't change.
"A welcome also to Lieutenant Darnel Herne and his men, who have graciously agreed to serve as our judges today."
Everyone turned to follow the priest's gaze to the west side of the square, where the soldiers were standing. Mathew counted twelve of them, and immediately picked out Darnel Herne as the officer he had passed earlier. The competitors applauded politely while Lieutenant Herne raised his hand in acknowledgment, adding a salute to Jerrel Rozon, who accepted the courtesy with a nod of his head.
"Today, we will have a meet within a meet. Not only will each of the teams compete for the first prize, the six men—"
"Or women," Lara called out.
"Or women," Father Thomas added, with a deferential nod in Lara's direction. "The competitors with the best record will fence in a round robin to determine our champion. Lieutenant Heme, Bran Lewin, and I will make up the committee on rules in the event of a dispute."
Mathew blinked and looked around, surprised that his father had already arrived. He must have nearly killed Obert to get that entire cord of wood unloaded, he thought.
Bran caught his son's eye and winked. "In the team event, you will each fence three bouts. The first team that reaches ten victories against their opponent shall be declared the winner. We will use the long boards as our field of combat.
"You must stay on the strip at all times," Father Thomas told them. "Should you step off the end with both feet, a hit will be awarded against you. Are there any questions from the competitors?"
"When do we eat, Father?" a brash voice called out. Mathew immediately identified the speaker as Giles Arlen Naismith, from Gravenhage. Jerrel Rozon turned a hard glare in the boy's direction. After a moment, Giles lowered his eyes, concentrating his attention on examining his boots, but the grin never left his face. A stocky teammate standing to his right bumped him with his shoulder, and Giles bumped him back in return.
Mathew had had trouble with Giles the last few times they'd competed. Giles was nearly his own height and seemed to be made of all confidence and swagger. Although certain that he was technically a better fencer, Mathew had lost to Giles the last three times they met, which frustrated him no end. Giles's attacks were unorthodox as well as fast, and they came from the oddest angles. "An excellent question, my young friend," Father Thomas answered. "Master Naismith, isn't it? You will be pleased to learn that the good ladies of Devondale, having you in their thoughts, have prepared a fine table to fill your empty belly ... and head."
That brought a roar of laughter from everyone there, and even Giles shook his head, smiling good-naturedly.
"Ready yourselves. We will begin in ten minutes. Good luck to all."
* * *
While people turned their attention to last minute checks of their practice weapons and equipment, Mathew walked quickly to the rear of the town council hall. His stomach never cooperated before a competition, and it would have been unthinkable for him to allow anyone to see him get sick in public. Of course, the butterflies were there again, and he felt the familiar constriction in his throat just before his stomach began to heave.
From past experience, he knew he would be fine once the tournament actually began, but having this sort of thing happen was still embarrassing. On several different occasions he had started to talk with his father about it, but shame prevented him and the conversation never took place. When his stomach settled down after a minute, Mathew took a sip of water from the bottle he was carrying, wiped his mouth, and started to make his way around to the front of the building.
Abruptly, he became aware that he wasn't alone. Standing at the end of the building were two of the boys from Gravenhage, staring at him in disbelief. The larger of the two was Berke Ramsey, and the other was a teammate of his whom Mathew didn't know.
"Are you okay?" the teammate asked.
"Oh, ah ... yes, I'm fine. It's just my stomach sometimes gets the better of me at these things."
Mathew was not prepared for what happened next. Both boys stared at him a moment longer before bursting into laughter and hurrying off.
Wonderful, he thought. This is all I need.
Once he rounded the building his worst fears were confirmed. Berke and his friend were standing with Jerrel Rozon and Giles Naismith, obviously relating what had just happened. Berke saw him and pointed in his direction, convulsing in laughter.
Mathew felt his ears go red and walked stiffly past them with as much dignity as he could salvage. It was small satisfaction that whatever they were saying did not appear to amuse Jerrel Rozon. Mathew couldn't hear the
words, but at least the smiles quickly disappeared as Ro-zon shoved them back toward the rest of their team. Giles eyed him solemnly, his expression unreadable.
Jerrel Rozon watched the gangly young man go by. Seventeen-year-olds were strange things at best, but there was something about this one that pricked his attention. His face might have been a bit pasty, and he looked none too steady on his feet, but Rozon could see the bright blue eyes taking in everything. Bran Lewin's boy, he thought, and made a mental note to himself about him.
Based on the draw, the first match was between Mechlen and Devondale. Two benches were set up parallel to the fencing strip on either side of a scorer's table so that team members could sit and observe the action. Mathew quietly took his place next to Daniel. "Who goes first?" he asked.
"Collin and that fellow over there," Daniel answered, indicating a dark-haired boy with a serious expression. Mathew nodded. "You're second, followed by me, Lara, Daniel, Garon, then Carly."
"Second?"
Fencing in second position meant he would have two bouts in the first half of the match, which surprised him. In his estimation, Collin was the stronger fencer, and he was puzzled by Father Thomas's selection.
"Mm-hmm," Daniel replied. "Father Thomas thinks we might be able to win early if we get off to a strong start."
Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell Mechlen about it, and the match turned out to be much closer than anyone thought. More than two hours had passed since they started fencing. Mathew's nausea was long gone, replaced by nervous energy. When the third and final round was called, Devondale was down by three bouts and in danger of being eliminated.
Father Thomas walked over with the pairing sheet and crouched down before his team. He told them that
Mechlen's coach, Thorn Calthorpe, had already made his choices, so it was just a matter of matching up who would fence whom. Mathew watched the priest position himself to block anyone from observing their deliberations. He showed the first name on the list to Collin.
"No problem, Father. I can beat him." Collin made the statement so matter-of-factly, Mathew felt a twinge of jealousy at his friend's confidence.
"Lara?"
Lara looked at the next name on the list and shook her head. "I'm not sure, Father."
She glanced at Mathew, who nodded reassuringly before looking back at Father Thomas. The priest searched her face for a moment, then patted her on the knee and turned to Daniel.
"Understood. Daniel?"
His friend stared at the name and then at a boy sitting on the opposite bench. "I think so—yes," he said softly.
Neither Carly nor Garon seemed certain about then-chances with the third name. Father Thomas looked thoughtfully at each of them before taking a deep breath. "Well, Carly, you have been coining to church regularly, so let us hope the Creator enjoys this sport. You will fence third."
Garon didn't know if the Creator took any interest in fencing or not, but he appeared pleased that Father Thomas had picked Carly. This left Mathew in the fourth position, with their number one fencer. Having already worked out the order, Mathew half expected Father Thomas to say something to him, and was mildly surprised when the priest simply squeezed his shoulder and said, "Let's get ready."
After making some quick mental calculations, Mathew th
ought it was more likely than not that the final and deciding bout would fall to him. He couldn't begin to guess at Father Thomas's reasoning and fervently wished he were someplace else, not in the center of everyone's attention. A sizable crowd had gathered to watch the conclusion of the match. Mathew thought about it for a moment, and became angry with himself for his own attitude, eventually deciding that whatever happened, he would make the best of it.
True to his word, Collin beat his opponent handily. Daniel also managed a win. Devondale was down only by two bouts with two to go when Carly took his place on the strip. Considering how Carly generally fared in such matters, Mathew didn't hold out much hope for his team. Just as Lieutenant Heme was about to give the command to fence, Mathew saw Father Thomas exchange a look with Collin, who abruptly stood up and signaled for the lieutenant's attention.
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe his boot lace is becoming undone," he said, pointing at Carry's right foot. "Here, let me help you with that." Before Carly or Herne could say anything, Collin quickly stepped over, knelt down with his back to the lieutenant, somewhat theatrically, and made a show of retying the lace. During his brief ministrations, Mathew could see Collin's lips moving, but he couldn't make out anything he was saying. Lara and Daniel saw the same thing and exchanged puzzled glances. From where Mathew was sitting, it appeared that Carly was about to say something, then changed his mind.
"Gentlemen, if you are quite finished?" Lieutenant Heme asked.
"Oh ... of course. Thank you, sir. Just wanted to be safe," Collin said, returning to his seat. The lieutenant eyed him skeptically, then cleared his throat, turned his attention back to the competitors and gave the command to begin. The look on Collin's face was pure innocence. "What was that all about?" Mathew asked under his
breath.
Collin's attention remained fixed on the bout and his expression didn't change as he replied, "I told him that everyone in Werth Province knows that they can hit him on the hip because he always overreacts with his stupid chest parry."
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 4
