With his back still to her, he closed his eyes. The emotions flooding him warred against one another. One part of him knew she was afraid . . . afraid of becoming a widow before she’d long been a wife.
Another part of him coiled in resentment. Was she so sure he could not win this battle against Knape? He’d explained they would be fighting on equal ground—no weaponry.
He turned and glared at her. “So, even you, my wife, has no confidence that a common ostler can win against a knight.” He spat the words, feeling his pride ooze with the fresh wound. “You chose me. I thought you understood my strength did not require the use of daggers or swords. I thought you had more faith in my abilities.”
Eva twisted her fingers in his tunic. “I do have faith in you. I know your strengths are far greater than a man who wields weapons—”
“Then why do you try to dissuade me from this fight? Whether you believe in my chances for victory or not, Eva, I will win this day. I may not be a knight, but I am a warrior. My father died on the battlefield. I may not have earned the trappings of a knight, but I possess the heart of one. ’Tis in my blood.”
He pushed her from him then, and she landed hard on the pallet. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed, “I love you, Mathieu. I do believe in you. But I cannot bear to lose you.”
Crouching to meet her eyes, he took both of her hands in his. “As God is my witness, I shall conquer the evil Captain Knape. I will either conquer, or die trying.”
The bailey was alive with people, an oddity for this early an hour. All the knights had gathered along the outer wall, a few bearing torches. Most wore chainmail. Others had strapped their swords at their sides.
Whose side would they be on, Mathieu wondered? Which man would the knights be cheering on? A commoner, a man with no position or title who tended to horses and hounds and hawks all his days? Or their captain?
He was afraid to venture a guess.
The castle folk had heard of the challenge as well, it seemed. Everyone, from the lowliest servants to the duchess’ handmaidens, were spilling out onto the steps to the Great Hall. Combing the crowd for Isabella herself, Mathieu did not see her at first. ’Twas only when he lifted his gaze to the window of her solar on the second floor that he saw the colorful, multi-paned window had been flung wide. Isabella stood watching, her expression unreadable. A chill slithered down Mathieu’s spine.
Did the duchess disapprove of this challenge taking place? Especially in the absence of the duke?
His answer came in the next breath, when he saw her close her eyes and nod, once. Unspoken permission to proceed. Mathieu realized at that moment he would not have engaged the captain if Isabella had voiced objection. His respect for this lady knew no bounds.
Keegan stood in the center of the bailey, feet planted wide, arms crossed across his chest. He also wore chainmail, along with his sheathed sword. Mathieu wagered he had a dagger hidden in each of his tall, heavy boots as well, not that they would be of much help to him.
No, this day he would be facing his lifelong enemy nearly as helpless as a newborn babe. Another chill gripped his chest. Eva’s words had shaken him. Was he man enough to do this? Could he possibly win?
Everyone paused and turned as the thunder of hoofbeats reached them through the gates, which swung open to a lone youth aboard a sweat-flecked palfrey. The boy’s eyes were wild. He couldn’t have been much older than Mathieu had been that day long ago. The fateful day that brought him here to this moment in time.
“What brings ye here, boy?” Keegan shouted.
The boy jumped down and started toward Keegan before Mathieu noticed his face was covered in dirt and streaked with tears. He fell at Keegan’s feet, croaking out, “The duke. I beg audience with the duke.”
Keegan raised one bushy eyebrow as he hoisted the boy to his feet. “The duke is not here. What manner of trouble requires the duke’s attention?”
“My sister,” the boy choked out. “Meri Anne. My sister . . . she is dead, my lord.”
The big knight glanced around him to the crowd with a quizzical expression. “Who is this Meri Anne? Is she one of our court?”
One of the knights stepped forward, his head bowed. “She is not, my lord. Meri Anne works at The Raven. She is a tavern wench—”
Mathieu’s stomach twisted. Was this the woman Knape had been spending his time with these past weeks in the duke’s absence?
At that moment the captain appeared on the steps of the keep, his clothes rumpled, and his face swollen and creased. He pushed roughly through the crowd, causing one of the kitchen maids to fall to the ground.
The boy stiffened and stood taller. Narrowing his eyes, he raised his hand to point a wavering finger at Knape. “There he is. He is the man who paid her coin to go with him last eve. When we found her in the bedchamber this morn . . .” The boy’s voice broke.
So the bastard had done it again. How many times was this, Mathieu wondered? How many lives had been ended to satisfy a sick and twisted bloodlust no man should possess?
Knape wasted no time. He bolted across the bailey with long strides and had nearly reached the boy when Keegan stepped into his path—so suddenly Knape bounced off the big man’s chest. Stumbling backward, the captain grabbed for his sword before Keegan locked his wrist in a vice-like grip.
“Nay. There will be none of that this morn, Captain Knape. Ye will answer for this wench’s life later, when the duke returns. First, ye have another battle to wage.”
The boy’s tale sent Mathieu’s rage to a blinding fury. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he took a step toward Knape, ready to tear the man’s head from his shoulders. ’Twas only Keegan’s giant hand on his chest stopping him.
“First, the field shall be levelled. Knape, ye shall throw down your weapons and engage in the challenge ye, yourself, claimed under the terms agreed upon.”
While two of the ladies bustled the boy off toward the keep, a page came running from the stables to tend to his horse. An eerie silence fell over the crowd for long seconds. Then, one by one, Captain Knape began to drop his weapons to the ground.
When all visible weaponry lie in a heap at Keegan’s feet, the big knight nodded toward Gaspard and another knight standing nearby. “Search him. Make sure he has no daggers hidden.” He snarled at Knape, “The chainmail goes as well.”
Keegan turned to Mathieu. “The men will search ye also, ostler. This needs to be proven a fair fight to all who bear witness.”
Mathieu nodded and stood with his arms and legs spread, allowing the knights to inspect his person. He had nothing to hide. As they did, his gaze bore down on his opponent.
For just the briefest moment, Mathieu thought he saw an emotion pass across the captain’s face he’d never seen there before. Could it be fear?
Eva crossed his line of vision, scurrying unevenly to the steps of the keep, where she was enfolded within the arms of her sisters. She was trying to be brave, Mathieu could tell. Yet although she stood tall and her jaw remained set, he could see the anguish in her eyes.
Were her fears well founded? Would he make her a widow before she’d been a bride long enough for joy’s blush to fade?
As Gaspard’s hands searched him, the Frenchman leaned close to his ear. “Don’t forget the moves I taught you. No fists. It’s essential you say balanced. On your feet. Surely, you will triumph.”
Silence fell over the bailey as Keegan stepped between the men and called for the match to begin.
“Fellow knights, men and ladies of the court, and Your Grace, Lady Duchess,” he glanced up at the solar window. “Last eve, the captain of the Royal Guard threw down his gauntlet to challenge Mathieu of Liège, our ostler and falconer. The battle will take place on even ground. No weapons, no armor.”
Everyone started and turned when the duchess’ voice rang out from her second-floor view.
“Is this a battle to the death?” she asked.
Keegan set his lips in a grim line. “Aye, Your Grace. Ei
ther to the death, or until one warrior grants mercy.”
After her nod of approval, Keegan took a step back and held out his arms. “Let the challenge begin.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Mathieu had never seen Knape move so fast. Screaming a war cry that echoed across the bailey, the captain came at him the instant Keegan’s words rang out. Before the ostler could take a breath, Knape had grabbed one of his wrists in one hand, and thrown his other arm around Mathieu’s neck. He was trying to use his weight and momentum to throw Mathieu to the ground. There, he knew from what the French knight had taught him, he would be all but helpless.
The ostler was grateful for the schooling Gaspard had given him.
Mathieu quickly countered with a shoulder throw, taking two quick steps directly at Knape, pivoting so his back crashed into the man. With their arms locked in a stranglehold, Mathieu twisted, and lifted Knape’s body up and over his shoulder. When the captain hit the ground, flat on his back, it was clear he was not only shocked, but the breath had also been knocked out of him.
This served two purposes, as far as Mathieu could tell. For one, it gave him a brief moment to regroup, breathe, and think about his next move. For Knape, it served only to fuel his ire to a frenzy.
Back on his feet, he came at Mathieu again, lunging head down like a bull. He hit the ostler hard, but Mathieu’s wide stance was stable, with one foot in front of the other. Although the move knocked him off balance, his position kept him from going down.
Mathieu took this opportunity to reach down and hook an arm under Knape’s leg, lifting him up and throwing him to the ground once more. This time, though, Knape was ready, rolling away in a flash. He was back on his feet within seconds. It was then the captain decided to change his strategy.
Knape reeled back a fist and hit Mathieu in the face, with a brain-jarring blow that almost took him down. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. So he was resorting to fists, the tactic Gaspard had warned the ostler to avoid. Mathieu’s only choice now was to stay quick enough on his feet to remain out of the captain’s reach.
This proved to be a difficult task when the world was spinning around him. Mathieu had been knocked in the face more than once by a rank young horse, a beast whose head was surely harder than Knape’s fist. But he’d taken the ostler by surprise, and hit his nose just right. Mathieu was quite sure it was broken.
Swinging wildly, Mathieu tried to counter Knape’s punches with jabs of his own. Dizziness and nausea were quickly consuming him, however. Every time his fist whooshed through empty air, the captain lunged in with another blow to his head. One to his ear made it sound like the church bells were ringing. Another to his jaw caused him to bite his tongue.
A feeling of dread consumed him as he realized Knape was fighting in a way Gaspard had not trained him.
There’s little use to your fists in situations like this . . .
Well, they were working quite well for the captain, it seemed. Mathieu did not know how to defend himself from an attack of this nature. Why hadn’t Gaspard given him some strategy for a situation like this?
Then, from somewhere in the back of Mathieu’s brain, Gaspard’s words came back to him.
An upward palm to the chin and nose . . . a strike like that could actually kill a man.
Mathieu was on his knees now, the world growing darker and fuzzier around him with every passing second. But those words resonated in his head, like a mantra. Like a prayer.
Like a miracle.
He waited until Knape came at him again. From his lower vantage point on the ground, the angle was perfect. As the captain ducked in to punch him again, the ostler drew back his elbow and threw his hand up, open and flat. Straight at Knape’s face.
The pain in his palm told him he’d hit his mark—teeth had slashed his skin. He looked up to see the captain go down, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. Long seconds passed. Knape lay there, very still.
Had he killed the man? Gaspard said it was possible . . .
Staggering to his feet, Mathieu straddled the captain’s prone body and placed two fingers on the side of his neck. Still a pulse. Still alive. Still—
“Mathieu! Watch out!”
Keegan’s shout cut through the fog in Mathieu’s brain but for a moment, his words made no sense. Knape appeared to be alive still, but unconscious. One arm was twisted up over his head at an unnatural angle, and the other lay down along his side.
Until it didn’t any longer. Eva’s scream from somewhere far off pierced his heart.
What was happening? What was the danger?
Instinctively, Mathieu slipped off the captain, who rolled with him, ending up on top. Knape’s arm was raised above him, and sunlight glinted off the blade in his hand. As the captain brought the dagger down toward his neck, Mathieu’s quick reflexes revived just in time.
He caught Knape’s wrist and straightened his own arm, using leverage to twist the captain’s arm. Savagely, he threw all his weight into the move, cranking Knape’s arm at an angle not naturally possible. He heard the bone break.
He heard Knape’s anguished scream.
He felt the man go limp on top of him as the blade clattered to the ground.
Pushing Knape off him, Mathieu dove and grabbed the hilt of the dagger, turning to end this battle. The man was evil, through to his black soul. The ostler had never killed a man in his life—didn’t know that he could. ’Twas one of the reasons he never wanted to earn his spurs and sword. ’Twas not man’s right to take another’s life. But this hatred had been building too long and too hard for him to stop himself now.
For years, whenever the rage overtook him, he pictured in his mind the sneering face of the captain, there on the surface of the planks lining the stalls in the barn. Gaspard was right about one thing: fists weren’t very resilient. The skin tore and the knuckles bruised easily.
Now, his moment had arrived. In his mind’s eye, he imagined how it would feel to plunge the dagger into Knape’s neck. But nay. Cutting his throat would be too quick, too merciful a death for this devil. Gutting him, ripping him open from his ribs to his groin would be a more fitting death. The man would watch his own bowels spill out into the dirt as he died, slowly, in agony.
With the dagger raised high over his head, he and Knape’s eyes locked. Now, ’twas fear he saw. He was quite sure of it.
It was enough.
Mathieu hurled the knife at the huge post framing the portico, where it stuck and vibrated in the eerie silence. As he started to his feet, he was surprised to feel Knape’s fingers around his wrist, even with one arm twisted and broken beneath him. His face was covered with blood, and so swollen already, he was almost unrecognizable. Still, he struggled to speak.
“End this, ostler. I concede.” he garbled. “You have won.”
Mathieu shook his head, his eyes raking over the ruined man beneath him. “You don’t deserve to die, you heathen. You deserve to live—live out your days in an interminable hell of your own making.”
Before he stumbled away, Mathieu paused, swaying. He turned and spat on his challenger, blinking in shock when he saw ’twas not spit, but blood he spewed. He saw Eva running toward him, in slow motion, as in a dream. But he found he couldn’t take another step. The ground beneath him was moving. His hearing faded away until silence consumed him. His knees screamed pain when they hit the ground, just before his world went dark.
Somewhere, through the deafening silence, he could swear he heard trumpets.
Epilogue
Eva knew the ordeal would be painful, but she’d never imagined just how excruciating ’twould be. She swore, with every wave that took hold of her body, she would split in two. Her body was soaked in sweat, rivulets running into her eyes to mingle with the tears. The midwife told her to scream, let it out. ’Twould make it easier.
Only one thing could make this easier. To have Mathieu by her side.
He wasn’t there, and she was
forced to endure this on her own. They’d brought her maman from Ghent, who held her hand and spoke soothingly. But ’twas only a distraction from the anguish that filled her body, her mind, her soul. The physical pain wasn’t nearly the worst of it.
’Twas the wondering. Would the child she bore this night be like her, twisted and deformed? Mayhap worse? In some ways, ’twas better Mathieu was not here to witness the horror when the babe finally slid free from her body and revealed itself. She could not bear to see revulsion in his eyes.
She’d been told men weren’t allowed in the birthing chamber anyway.
Mathieu paced up and down the long hall before the duchess’ solar, where they’d taken Eva when her pains had grown intense. Keegan and Gaspard paced with him, like penitent monks, heads down, hands clasped behind their backs. Silent, except for an occasional groan when a particularly anguished scream echoed from the chamber.
Had it been days? Or only hours? Or a lifetime?
Then, silence. For a very long time, it seemed. Darkness had given way to dawn, pale fingers of light creeping through the narrow window at the end of the hall when the three men froze to the sound of a creaking door. They spun around to see Lady Isabella standing there, her apron splattered with blood. Mathieu’s heart rent in two as he searched her face for an answer to a question he was afraid to ask.
His knees nearly buckled when her lips quirked into a small smile. “Come, Mathieu. Meet your new daughter.”
He nearly ran to the door before stopping short. “And Eva? Is she well?”
“Come,” the duchess nodded and waved him into the chamber.
Behind him, he heard the two knights who had become like his brothers hoot and smack each other on the back.
She was propped on many fine pillows, her damp, golden hair splayed across the white linen. Dark shadows slashed half-moons under her eyes. Beside her, her maman wept softly into her hands. The bundle Eva held in her arms was very still.
Mathieu knelt beside the bed and reached up to brush a tear off his beloved’s cheek. “She lives?” he asked, his voice thick.
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 27
