by Kris Kennedy
“For honor. And chivalry—”
“That's not what these men are fighting for, lady.”
She looked at the silks and colors and parading knights and thought him quite mad.
“Then why are you here, if not to fight? In fact,” she looked around, “how did you get in here at all, Sir No One, if you are neither noble nor a fighter?”
“Who said I am not noble?”
She looked at his dull armor and simple tunic and gave him an almost pitying look. “Are you saying you are noble?”
“I did not say that, did I now?”
The way these particular words flowed out, the cadence of them, made her brow furrow in surprise. “You are not English.”
A muscle along his jaw rippled. “Never.”
“You are…Irish,” she announced her discovery triumphantly.
“That I am.”
She turned toward him, eager for the newness. “We do not meet many Irishmen here.”
“Oh, aye, I’m a rare bird.”
She smiled. She had no idea why this fact pleased her, except that Irishmen did not belong here.
But why that should please her, she had even less notion.
But when he smiled, a slow, half-formed smile, lifting one side of his mouth, denting the hair-roughened cheek, she felt the heat of him again—this time inside her. A swirling thread of excitement through her belly…and lower down.
Entirely not proper.
It was enough to prompt her to gather her skirts and get to her feet. Time to leave the rogue behind.
“Would you like a strawberry?”
His question rumbled out behind her. She froze mid-rise and cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder.
On his palm sat a small, friendly huddle of berries. They were rosy-colored, dimpled, and gorgeously plump. In the hot morning sun, they seemed to glisten with water.
“Where did you get them?” she exclaimed, taking her seat again without realizing. ”I saw none in the market square.”
“These are not from the market, lady.”
“They are wild,” she murmured, looking at their glistening pink redness.
“Very.”
The fat little berries rolled around in his palm, tiny green stems poking out the top. She thought of all the dishes served at the feast last night, course after course of frumenty and custards and cheeses and heavily spiced fish.
And now…this simple clutch of red-ripe strawberries.
She cast a surreptitious glance behind her, up the walkway behind the seats, where her father stood, near Lord Yves’s box. His head was bent, deep in conversation with a few other noblemen.
She looked back at her seatmate, the rogue with blue eyes and a handful of strawberries on his palm.
In a rush, she reached out. With a faint smile, he tumbled them into her hand. She picked one up delicately between her thumb and forefinger and bit into it.
It was luscious. Sweet and so plump, the juice would have run down her chin had she not lifted her hand and dabbed it with her knuckle.
Not proper.
“You are welcome, lady,” he said quietly.
In startled embarrassment, she looked up. “Oh, yes, I— I thank you, sir.”
That brought another slow smile.
And that brought another strange, improper flush.
Two more strawberries curled in her hand, she quickly lowered her eyes and turned to the parade of knights. Some of the men were beginning to exit, Sir Bennett in their midst.
“Admit it,” murmured the strawberry-wielder. “His legs are spindly.”
She kept her face angled away. “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said, then plucked out the stem from the second strawberry and popped it into her mouth. “But if you know so much about the ways and means of jousting, then you should indeed fight. Everyone here fights.”
“Everyone?”
She nodded firmly. “Everyone.”
He tipped closer. “When is your match, lady?”
A sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to laugh welled up inside her.
She covered it with a delicate cough into her silk sleeve. “You misunderstand chivalry, Sir No One. The men fight. The ladies delight and enchant.”
He sat back, his blue eyes holding hers for a beat too long. “Aye,” he agreed in a low voice. “They might at that.”
She felt very bright, and light, almost buoyant, like pollen lifted off a flower, floating in a breeze.
The sun must be getting to her.
“Even my father is fighting,” she told him. Nothing like speaking of Father to bring her back to the hard earth.
Something changed about the blue gaze holding hers. He straightened ever so slightly, the lazy power in his long limbs tensing into something more rigid.
“Your father is fighting?” he said slowly.
She nodded with no small bit of pride. “He is a renowned swordsman, one of the greatest fighters of the age, and loyal liege to King Richard.”
“And he is fighting?” he repeated, as if slow-witted.
“Everyone fights,” she reminded him.
She caught sight of Sir Bennett. He had paused on his way out of the stadium and was laughing with some women. A glance in her direction tempered the laughter, but only until he faced away again.
She presumed it would be thus when they were wed.
“You have convinced me, lady. I shall fight after all,” said the rogue at her side.
She turned with a happy smile. “Very good, sir,” she exclaimed.
“You approve?”
“I most heartfully approve,” she assured him, and they smiled at one another.
Another rush of excitement went through her body, a cool wash of weightlessness.
She attributed it entirely to the fact that she’d convinced a rogue to reform, and nothing whatsoever to the small smile that had deepened into curved lines beside his very masculine, very beautiful mouth.
“I am proud of you, Sir No One.”
The smile deepened the smallest bit. “Methinks you’re proud of you, lady.”
For a moment, she hesitated, spiked between righteous indignation and laughter.
She must not laugh. She must not.
She met his eye. “Sooth and why not? I did convince you of the value of chivalry.”
“Oh, aye, I’m entirely reformed.”
She bit her bottom lip to curtail another smile. “Tell me, whose shield shall you strike? Who will you joust against?”
“I was thinking of the sword fighting.”
She beamed at him. “How exciting.”
His gaze traveled over her face. “Will you attend?”
“Oh, no, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“My father does not think it appropriate for me to attend the sword fighting.”
His eyes held hers. “And yet others have done things far less proper and lived to tell the tale, aye?”
She stared at him, speechless, then stammered, “I- I could not.”
“Aye, you could.”
She felt the little rush of bee-pollen excitement again.
It lasted precisely three seconds, for the trumpets blared, breaking the moment. She jumped. Then, from behind her, came the sound of her father’s voice.
Always, her father’s voice, keeping her in check.
She half-turned in her seat, flushed with conflicting emotions. Guilt at having been speaking to a rogue who bore strawberries. Pride at having turned said rogue half-chivalrous. Excitement at having considered, for even an instant, doing something her father did not approve of.
She turned to find him looming behind her, his hand out, impatiently beckoning. “Come, Cassia, it is time to—what in God’s name is that?”
He was staring at the last strawberry in her hand.
“Oh.” Guilt flashed through her. “I—“
“Don’t you know raw fruit is bad for you?”
“Yes, I—”
“W
here did you get it?”
She glanced beside her. The rogue was gone.
“Sir John, Father. Sir John of…York,” she added vaguely. It was a common enough name. Indeed, she’d met two Johns who hailed from York already this morning.
Her father nodded absently. “Well, come. Sir Bennett will be jousting in the second arena in a bit, and you need to attend.”
“Father…I thought I might watch the sword fighting.“
He gave a bark of laughter. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, but I thought perhaps this once—”
“You’ll go to each of your suitors’ matches,” he said in a way that brooked no argument as he escorted her out. “By the way, did you give each of the men one of your sleeves?”
She clutched the pouch of her precious sleeves, sleeves intended to be stitched onto her gown…or hung on the lance tip of a knight to claim him as her favorite. To show he was fighting for her.
“No, Father,” she replied, stepping carefully as she descended the stairs. “I decided it would be wiser not to show favorites. After all, we do not know who will win the joust.”
Her father grunted in approval as they reached the ground. “Perhaps you’re starting to show some sense after all, girl.”
He plucked the strawberry from her hand as she passed by and tossed it to the ground. His boot crushed it as he reached for her arm.
“Come, we will be late. Again.”
“Yes Father,” she whispered, staring at the little broken pink body of the berry before following after him.
Chapter 5
Máel stood with young Odin outside the sword fighting ring and watched as three successive men entered the square, roped-off area to meet d’Argent. Each was taken down in short order by the giant of a man.
D'Argent beamed and waved to the cheering crowd after each knight limped away, absent things they likely very much needed: armor, horse, sword, coin.
“You sure you want to fight him?” Odin inquired skeptically.
The boy stood at Máel's side, holding his gauntlets and helm and being paid far too much for the service, on top of the fees Máel had paid to get the little thief to secure him forged papers that would allow him into the fight. Only noblemen were permitted to bash each other into pieces at this tourney.
“I’m sure,” Máel said shortly.
Fáelán would disapprove entirely, but he wasn’t here, was he? Máel had left a message for him and Rowan, telling them where he was and requesting their assistance, but as they were not here to offer other, less reckless, options, this hastily-constructed plan would have to do.
Odin shook his head. “That's a bad idea. He's a baron.”
“He's a coward and a treacherous cheat.”
Odin shrugged, neither outraged nor surprised. “I said he's noble, didn't I? But look at him. He's a great fighter.”
Máel didn't bother to reply.
It was the fourth time someone had informed him what a magnificent, accomplished, nay wondrous fighter d'Argent was, starting with the man's cosseted, arrogant daughter, who had proven to have one weakness—strawberries—and having succumbed to it, had given him the information he needed.
It turned out you could simply pull a sword on a nobleman at a tourney.
You merely had to dally with a daughter who was far too beautiful for her own good, and feed her berries—he'd watched them disappear into her mouth and knew an instant of wishing he could do far more with that mouth than feed it berries.
“He's also big,” Odin pointed out.
Midway through buckling on his sword belt, Máel lifted his eyes to look at d'Argent. “Aye, he's big.”
“Burly,” Odin added, proffering the helm.
Máel yanked up the hood of his linked mail and smashed the helm over it.
“Still in his prime. And wearing fine armor.” Odin turned his skeptical gaze to Máel and examined him. He did not look impressed. “When did you last oil your mail?”
Máel ripped the gauntlets from the boy's arms. “You can leave now.” He stepped over the roped line to enter the ring.
“I'm not leaving,” Odin said from behind. “I want to watch you bash his head in.”
He stopped midstride. “I thought you said he was big and burly and a great fighter.”
Odin grinned. “I did. But I think you'll be better.”
Cassia and her maid squeezed in along the railing around the sword fighting ring.
She’d done what she’d never done before—gone against her father’s orders—and left Sir Bennett’s jousting match, hurrying here instead.
The three jousting arenas were the main focus of the tourney-goers, but there were other events scattered throughout the castle grounds and meadows beyond. After the joust, sword fighting was one of the most popular activities, and Cassia now saw why her father might have forbid her from attending them.
The crowd around the ring was raucous. She and her maid were jostled as they moved in deeper. Yet there were other women here, Cassia told herself, ladies wearing silks in the boxes above, and common folk wearing linens in the surging crowd she herself was inside of.
All in all, she found she did not mind the jostling as much as she minded the endless oversight that filled her days and never let her go.
Indeed, she felt rather…free.
“He was a fine one, my lady,” Cassia's maidservant, Edith, whispered as they positioned themselves firmly against the railing that fronted the dirt-packed ring.
“Who?” she whispered back, although her cheeks grew a bit warmer. She might be able to fool her maid, but not her cheeks.
“The one with the dark hair,” Edith said.
Cassia sniffed. “I hardly noticed him.”
“You spoke a long time with someone you hardly noticed, my lady.”
“I was merely being polite. He was but a commoner.”
“A commoner with strawberries,” her maid teased softly.
Cassia looked at Edith, the only friend and confidante in her lonely life. “Pah, what do strawberries rate? I am to be wed to a great knight.”
Her tow-headed maid cast her a knowing, laughing glance. “Marrying isn't what those ones are for, my lady.”
“Edith,” she scolded. “You are here to protect me. I don't know what you're about.” She reached down to tug on her gown which had caught on a splinter in the rough wooden post. “In any event, we are here to see Father,” she reminded her maid. And herself.
But Edith wasn't listening. Her hand shot out and caught Cassia’s forearm, then she gave a strangled whisper.
“Sweet Jésu, my lady....”
Cassia lifted her head to find her father standing in one corner of the roped-off square.
The Irishman stood in the other.
Shock and horror bloomed through her body.
But her cold dismay was nothing compared to the look on her father's face as he turned from the cheering crowds and spotted his opponent.
His eyes widened, his jaw fell, then his face went white. Full white.
The rogue moved into the ring like liquid fire; his sword unslung and hanging low beside his body, as if he could not be bothered to lift it. His head was tipped down slightly, his eyes locked on her father as he moved forward.
Cassia pressed her belly to the railing as a shout was given and the match began.
Chapter 6
Máel circled d’Argent in the ring.
The noise of the crowd was loud, shouts urging both victory and defeat, but it was all like the noise of gulls on a beach. It faded in Máel’s mind as he strode forward.
D’Argent lifted his sword clumsily and backed up. “I—I thought you dead.”
Máel smiled. “Wishing does not make a thing so.”
“It was a...misunderstanding.”
“Which part did I misunderstand? The fists to my head, or the way you left me for dead?”
The baron backed up another step, clearly unable to muster his best sword work in the midst of
his shock. “My men may were overenthusiastic.”
“Perhaps because their lord is a thieving treasonous bastard and he didn't want news of his treachery getting out.”
D'Argent made a low hissing sound and cast a wary look around the stands, but the cheers and jeers were too loud to hear what was being said in the ring.
“I could have you arrested right now,” he said as Máel circled him, making him turn awkwardly. “You are an outlaw. A brigand. I could call the hue and cry.”
“Then do so.”
The baron made no move.
“You do not,” Máel observed. “And we both know why. If you call for them, there will be questions. ‘Why does the Baron of Ware know an outlaw and brigand?’”
The baron lunged with a stabbing jab.
Máel stepped back smoothly. “‘Why is that brigand here?’”
D’Argent’s face flooded red.
“‘Why did the baron retain his brigandish services in the first place?’”
The baron lunged and hacked at the armor encasing Máel’s forearm. Máel swept back and to the side. D’Argent stumbled forward, carried by his furious attack.
Máel whirled around. “You do not want people asking those questions, Ware, for I can answer them.”
D’Argent regained his balance and turned.
“Simply raising the questions will see the deed done,” Máel said. “You do not need anyone doubting your loyalties. Not at this tourney that is little more than a cover for rebellion for half the men here. You will be ruined. And then you will be dead.”
Ware rushed forward and took another swipe, but his rhythm was off, his focus disrupted. He missed. Máel danced back.
They turned again and faced each other.
“Prince John is far, far away,” Máel said softly. “I don't know what he's promised you lot of traitors, but he'll never deliver on his promises or his threats.” He smiled. “But I will.”
D’Argent backed up, sword held in a graceless clutch. “You are beyond your station when you threaten me. Moreover, they would never believe the word of a brigand over a nobleman.”
“They will if I have evidence.”
D’Argent’s eyes widened in shocked understanding. “The missive. You kept the message.”
