by Kris Kennedy
Me. It is me. Máel carved a little figure of me by the river. “It is nothing,” she said brokenly.
He took it from her. “Is this his?”
“It is mine.”
He threw it into the flaming brazier and rounded on her. “After all your breeding, your training, the coin spent on tutors and—”
“We ruined me.”
He started. “What?”
She looked at the little carven likeness of her burning in the coals of the brazier. A knot of flames flared up, consuming it. Soon it would be nothing but ash. “I am ruined, Father. I am a fallen woman. I am no longer in possession of my virginity. But I am in possession of knowledge.”
A pressured silence filled the room. “What do you know?”
The fire crackled as it ate the figure of her.
“I know about this.” She held up the message Máel had given her, the one that proved her father’s treachery.
He snatched it from her hand. She stared straight ahead as he examined it, turned it over and ran his hand over the wax seal. Then he lowered it.
She cared nothing for his anger now. Let him rage. It meant nothing. She had no hope, no ambition, no plans or desires. Máel had taken everything.
For she knew the awful truth now: Máel was the going-away sound that had haunted her castle and her life. He would become the echo, always rushing away.
Their time together was a single, shining, howling mad, magical adventure in her life. And it would be nothing but a memory.
And that would never be enough.
She was truly, finally, ruined.
Her father’s bootsteps sounded dully on the plank floors as he crossed to her side. He closed his fingers under her chin and jerked her face up.
“You do not know what you are saying,” he told her in a flat, icy voice. “You have been through a great ordeal. We will say no more of it.”
She barely recognized him. She was not sure he recognized her either; she had become an obstacle in his way, and he would smash her to bits if required to get what he wanted.
“You will go back down to the great hall tonight. You will smile and dance. You will go to the jousts tomorrow. You will smile whenever you see Sir Bennett,” he said in that queer, emotionless voice. “And after the joust on Friday morning, you will sign the marriage contract. And you will keep your mouth shut. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” she said, her voice as full of ice as his had been.
His face shifted. He knew who he was dealing with now: not a daughter, but a negotiating partner.
He dropped his hand and examined her in a way that implied he thought he understood her now.
Idiot.
He watched her with a new respect. “Your future lies in the balance here too, Cassia,” he said softly. “Baronies do not stay in the family when treason is involved. We all have something at stake here.”
She knew precisely what was at stake. Her heart. Her finally-filled, now-broken heart.
Her father flung the letter carelessly into the brazier and walked out. She turned her head to watch, waiting for it to burn.
Her father thought he knew what ties bound her to this course of action. He had no idea it was not ambition, but heartbreak.
And love. For if she rebelled now, if she crossed her father’s purposes, they might ride out and hunt him down.
Every moment she consented was a moment Máel had to ride away, to become the going-away echo of her life.
She looked at the missive, starting to curl at one corner. It blackened.
One more day and her fate would be sealed.
Her father called to her.
She got to her feet.
Chapter 31
The mêlée was afoot.
Friday’s dawn had broken upon an already bustling castle. Knights donned armor in the great hall in grim silence, as guests streamed across the green fields to fight the war-like game that would make some men rich, and turn others into paupers.
But in the near jousting field, closest to the keep, a private match was taking place. When it was over, Cassia would have a husband. And one of these men would have a barony.
The morning burned bright, as sunny and fresh on this, the last day of the tourney, as it had been on the first.
It was a beautiful day.
It was terrible.
The first two men lined up on either side of the arena, and her father announced the rules of his little jousting fiefdom, where all deferred to him.
“There will be three passes for each pair of combatants,” he called out. “All passes occur at a gallop. Points are awarded for contact and breakage. Three points for a break on the shield, two for a break on the body or arm, and one for a touch on the shield if it does not break. If either man is unhorsed, or the score is tied at the end of three passes, the fight moves to foot, with swords. Combat continues until one man yields…or is otherwise incapacitated.” He smiled. “The rounds are elimination. The final winner will take my daughter to bride and inherit the barony of Ware.”
There was scattered clapping from the spectators, but otherwise, everyone was silent. The fighting men were deadly serious, and Cassia was sick to her belly and heart.
Her father turned to her. “Drop a sleeve, daughter, and start the match.”
She extended her arm and dropped one precious sleeve on the dirt.
One by one, run by run, the men raced at each other and shattered their lances. There was nothing glorious about it. It was torture and hell, and to protect herself, she grew increasingly numb as the matches went on.
She decided she would be like Máel. Shut everything down and survive. It was the best she could hope for.
As each pair of men ran their matches, the field narrowed further, until only two knights remained. One was Sir Bennett. The other was a man she barely recognized; she thought she might have seen him spill wine on someone’s gown in a drunken stupor the night before the tourney began.
How could that have been less than a week ago? She’d lived an entire lifetime in those few days.
She dragged her attention back to the field. Sir Bennett bowed to her from the saddle, then reined around and cantered to his end of the field.
It took only two runs before the other man was knocked clear out of the saddle. Sir Bennett was the champion.
Her new husband.
Scattered clapping erupted along the railings. Her father stepped into the ring and clasped wrists with Sir Bennett.
“Cassia, come greet your betrothed,” he called out.
She closed her eyes and turned away, then heard a disturbance break out behind her in the jousting ring.
She paused and half-turned back to the field.
Chapter 32
Máel had spent all of the day Thursday and a goodly portion of the night searching for Odin.
He haunted the jousting grounds as the championships match was fought within. Then as the sun set, he stalked through the poverty-stricken warrens of Gracious Hill, the town attached to Rose Citadel.
He visited every whorehouse, asked every proprietor and passerby he could induce to talk, inquiring if they knew where he could find a tow-headed, extremely cocky urchin named Odin.
To the good, everyone seemed to know him. To the bad, a few people wanted him carted off to the stocks for robbing them blind.
Máel commiserated with their tales of Odin-woe, and eventually tracked the boy down to a broken-down hovel of a residence, an apartment squatting in the most dismal alleyway at the darkest edge of town.
When he finally located the particular hovel Odin inhabited, the boy seemed reluctant to assist him.
“Told you you’d need help,” he muttered, scuffing his boot in the dirt.
“Aye, you were right,” Máel said. “I was wrong. How much will it cost?”
Odin flicked him a glance. “What do you need?”
“I need to get into a joust.”
“The jousts are over.”
“One remains. Tomorrow morning, at dawn.”
Odin stared at the ground, then began to grin. It stretched across his pinched little face, which he lifted to Máel. “I knew you had a lady love!”
Máel blew out a breath. “Again, you were right. You have remarkable foresight.”
“The lady in your tent?”
“Aye, the lady in my tent.”
Odin whistled. “She was right noble,” he said enthusiastically.
“Most. But we haven’t any time to waste, for I need—”
“A lance?” Odin guessed.
Máel frowned. “Can I not say the thing I require before you do?”
Odin wasn’t listening; he was shaking his head. “A lance costs dear, sir.”
Máel shook his head in return. “What you consider ‘dear,’ others consider highway robbery. In fact, a few of those people are looking for you right now. You’re not very popular.”
“Neither are you,” retorted Odin, but he leaned to the side to glance around Máel’s shoulder, perhaps to see if any of the unhappy souls were coming right now.
“In any event,” Máel continued, “I haven’t any coin. I already gave it all to you.”
A look of concern crossed the boy’s face. “You did not…did you?”
“But I can give you something better.”
He scowled. “What?”
Máel hesitated, then reminded himself Cassia was worth it. “Would you want to be my squire?”
Odin’s eyes widened, then narrowed again. “You’re not a knight.”
“And you’re not free. But we make of ourselves what we can, aye?”
The smile Odin had given earlier had been triumphant; the smile he gave now was quieter, but it lighted his eye and made him lift his chin.
He gave a decided nod. “Deal.” He started walking off. “Come with me, sir.”
Máel clapped him on the shoulder as they went.
“Do you even know how to joust?” Odin asked.
“I’ll learn.”
Odin’s face pinched. “That’ll be a painful lesson, sir. She worth it?”
He closed his eyes and pictured Cassia. Pictured her eating strawberries. Drinking his whisky. Running through the woods in her rose and purple gown. Splashing him with river water. Stepping out in the firelight wearing his tunic. Learning to whittle and shoot an arrow. Cassia riding him, her head dropped back, singing his name…trusting him, above all others.
“She is worth everything.”
* * *
Cassia had just turned away when she heard a disturbance break out behind her in the jousting ring.
A low voice spoke, then Sir Bennett said, “This is an outrage!” and her father said, “This is a private joust, man. Begone.”
She paused and half-turned back to the field. It was a blare of sun. It seemed cruel to have such brightness, blinding her to her future.
She lifted her hand, shielding her eyes, and squinted into the light.
The rider’s boots hit the earth, raising a puff of dust as he leapt off his horse. He took off his helm and the sun fell on his face.
Her heart fell and lifted in a single, fluid, dizzying arc.
Máel. It was Máel.
He had come for her. He was going to fight for her.
He was going to die.
Chapter 33
A rumble of astonishment rippled through the small group of combatants and onlookers engaged in the little drama that would decide Cassia’s fate. The combatants exchanged glances; the spectators lining the ring leaned in farther to listen.
D’Argent looked stunned. “I did not think even an Irishman would be such a fool.”
“That makes it sound as though you think I will lose,” he replied.
D’Argent smiled. “This one will cost you.”
Máel unslung Moralltach and threw it on the ground at d’Argent’s feet.
It hurt, to be sure, but he’d decided that if an oath required you to ruin innocence, it wasn’t much of an oath at all.
Further, he decided love may not, in fact, be a lie. Cassia had risked all for him, with nothing to gain but a future she did not want. He had a deep suspicion love was the reason why, and it seemed most chivalrous indeed.
But if it was a lie, he would live this lie for the rest of his life.
D’Argent stared at it in shock, then fixed Máel in his glare. “She means this much to you?”
“I will not speak of Cassia to you.”
The baron glanced at the blond-haired knight who’d protested his outrage so loudly when Máel first rode up, then looked back and lowered his voice.
“You have no leverage here, Irish. I burned the missive. There is no proof. But even if you had it yet, you would do nothing, for if you reveal me, you destroy her too.”
Máel did not reply.
His silence infuriated d’Argent. Different parts of the man jerked in twitches: his hands, his jaw, his eye. “You turned my daughter against me.”
“You turned your daughter against you.”
“You ruined her.”
Máel felt a cold smile stretch his lips. “No. But I shall gladly ruin you.”
The baron straightened with a jerk. In a loud voice, he said, “I accept your bid, Irish, for I want to see you die.”
The handsome Bennett spun toward him. “No! It is not fair—”
“The joust was for all eligible combatants,” d’Argent interrupted. “I have deemed him eligible. Let the match begin.”
Bennett’s face twisted in a mask of disgruntled fury as the baron retreated to the stands. Bennett spun to Máel. “Who are you?”
“No one,” Máel said as he gathered Fury’s reins.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Or I, you.”
The knight laughed. “With that horse? In that armor? And that lance?” He made a disparaging gesture to the lance Odin had secured for him.
Máel said nothing, just swung up on Fury, a bit clumsily as the saddle was different than his usual one, with a higher pommel to keep him in the saddle when he took the first hit.
Hopefully.
Bennett snapped his fingers and a red-faced squire scurried out, took his horse’s reins, and led the extremely large stallion to the far end of the arena. Bennett continued to look Máel over derisively.
“You are not good enough for any of this, Irishman. All of it is beyond you. The castle, the joust, the lady. You do not belong here. She is mine, the title is mine, and you cannot—”
Máel finished tightening a lace on his gauntlet and looked up. “Do you always talk this much?”
Bennett looked ready to launch himself at Máel, which would be preferable to jousting. He was only jousting in an attempt to get to the on-foot portion at the end.
Assuming he made it that far.
He truly did not like jousting.
Bennett started toward him in anger but a bright feminine voice called out, breaking his stride.
“Sir Irish,” Cassia’s voice carried across the arena.
They both turned.
God’s truth she was beautiful. But her beauty went deeper than that which you could see with your eyes. He knew that now. She was clever and eager and earnest.
But above all, she was honorable.
She’d never broken her word. Every thing she said she’d do, she’d done. No matter the effort or the risk, she’d persevered. She was more steadfast than any knight he’d ever heard of in any tale.
She was also a carnal dream incarnate.
Máel rode over to her.
“My lady,” he said as he drew up before her.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” she said, doing a bit of both.
“Why do you not wait until it’s over, and decide then?” he suggested.
She laughed through the tears. “You are the most reckless man I have ever met.”
“I made a vow.”
She looked surprised. “You never promised me—“
&nb
sp; “I vowed no harm would come to you. That Bennett man would do harm to you. Your father is nothing but harm. Every man but me is harm to you.”
She wiped her eyes, but her smile was as bright as a flame. He could almost feel the iron around his heart melting.
“You are also quite arrogant,” she whispered, smiling.
“And that is why you love me, lady.”
Bright eyes held his. “In fact, I do love you.”
“And I, you, princess.”
She straightened and gestured for the tip of his lance. “Bring it here,” she commanded.
He dipped it and presented it to her. She tied her sleeve to the end, nodded regally, then added in a whisper, “Do not hold the lance too high. Keep it tucked in tight. Palm up, thumb away from Sir Bennett. When you are about four strides off, bring it down.”
He lifted his eyes. “Did you translate a tract on jousting as well?”
She smiled. “Yes, I will read it to you later. For now, you are my champion.”
And for that, he would risk everything. He hoped to win everything. But if necessary, he would lose it all, even his life, for her.
He passed Bennett on the way back to his end of the arena, and caught the man’s eye. He nodded to the purple sleeve fluttering off the end of his lance and raised a brow.
Bennett’s face grew beet red.
It might help distract him. Infuriate him. Overwrought people rarely fought well.
Any advantage would do, for unless and until he could unseat the vaunted Sir Bennett of The Many Words, Máel was well and truly doomed.
Chapter 34
Cassia dropped her sleeve, and the match began.
Máel’s first pass was truly awful. His lance too high, his aim off. Whereas Bennett’s was like an arrow in flight. It smashed directly into Máel’s chest and shattered. She thought it would pierce him straight through and send him sailing to Oxford.
But he was not unhorsed.
Two points to Bennett.
Máel reined about and trotted away, bent over in the saddle, a hand on his chest, covering where he’d taken the hit.
