скачать книгу бесплатно
Sir Ademar lunged forwards, and Ewan sidestepped, blocking the strike with his own sword. They exchanged a few blows, each trying to gain the other’s measure.
Upon the knight’s shoulder, Ewan spied a blue ribbon. Honora’s token, he realised. As he parried another blow, he asked, ‘Are you courting Honora?’
‘I am. And I saw you … s-speaking with her just now.’ Sir Ademar swung his sword full force, and Ewan barely blocked it with his shield. ‘You made her angry.’
‘I make her angry by breathing.’ Ewan moved in, striking fast, forcing the knight to retreat. This was his chance to end the fight, and he used his full speed and agility, attacking without cease.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Katherine watching him, her hands pressed to her mouth. Honora’s expression was intent, and her gaze locked with his. She lifted her left hand in a silent message.
The switch.
Ewan transferred his shield to the other arm, narrowly missing a slice to his flesh. Sir Ademar fought just as hard with his left hand, as with his right, and Ewan had to give his full concentration to the man’s sword. Over and over, the knight struck, until the victory began to slip away from Ewan’s fingertips.
Frustration at his weakness provoked a rage. He ignored technique, relying on brute strength. As a boy, too many times he’d been cut down, told he wasn’t good enough. His brothers had tried to protect him, ordering him not to fight.
But he’d stubbornly refused to give up. And he wasn’t about to lose this match now.
Sir Ademar’s sword slashed towards his middle, and Ewan had no time to raise his shield. The blade sliced deeply into his arm, and he threw himself backwards, rolling away. Energy roared through him, his pulse pounding as he avoided another blow. His grip on the weapon loosened, but he managed to regain it.
Mud caked the right side of his face and shoulders, as he backed away from the knight, waiting for the right moment to attack. Sir Ademar sliced his sword downwards, but Ewan blocked the strike, using his legs to trip the man.
Around him, he heard the crowd shouting their approval, though most encouraged Sir Ademar. Blood flowed freely down Ewan’s arm, but he felt none of the pain.
With all of his strength, Ewan raised his shield to deflect another blow, then he swung hard, ceasing at the edge of his opponent’s undefended throat.
‘Halt!’ Lord Ardennes called.
Ewan kept his blade steady, but then he looked down and saw the knight’s own sword positioned at his gut. He cursed, for he hadn’t won the match.
The Norman knight smiled, stepping back to sheathe his sword. ‘A draw, MacEgan.’
Ewan gave a brief nod, though he wasn’t pleased. He’d intended to show his skills to Katherine, and though he hadn’t lost, neither had he been victorious.
His mood was black when he approached the dais. Sir Ademar walked alongside him, his own armour also caked with mud.
‘You fought well, Sir Ademar.’ Katherine smiled, then offered the same praise to Ewan.
Lord Ardennes lifted a hand. ‘It is time for the feasting. Since you held the victory in most of the contests, MacEgan, you may sit between my two daughters this day.’
It was not an offer of Katherine’s hand, he noticed, though it was an honour. He should have been glad of it, but at the moment, he was filthy, his body ached and he was bleeding.
Ewan asked the Baron’s permission to leave the fighting ring. He wanted a few moments alone to clear his head and to wipe off the mud.
When it was granted, he walked back to the grove of trees beyond the fighting ring, remembering a creek that he’d spied on their journey here.
The fight unsettled him, for he’d nearly lost. Ewan swiped at the blood on his arm, wincing at the depth of the cut. Sir Ademar was a worthy opponent, a man not easily defeated. Ewan would simply have to work harder to win. If it meant training an extra hour each day, so be it.
When he reached the icy water, Ewan stripped off his tunic and dunked his head beneath the surface. The cold chill slowed the bleeding from his arm slightly, but the wound needed to be stitched.
He waded into the water, still wearing his trews in the hopes of cleansing them. He wished he’d thought to bring a change of clothing with him.
A rustling noise caught his attention, and Ewan spun, startled by the intrusion. Gerald of Beaulais emerged from the trees. His hand rested upon his sword hilt.
‘Your sword skills are lacking, Irishman.’
Críost. Hadn’t he defeated the man already in the wrestling match? And here he was, half-naked, with his weapons lying upon the shore.
‘But I defeated you.’ He remained in the water, inching his way closer. He reached down into the water and closed his palm over a round stone. ‘What is it you want, Beaulais? A lesson in hand-to-hand fighting?’
The nobleman reached for the dagger at his belt. ‘Leave Ardennes. And abandon your courtship.’
A flash of metal caught the sun, and Ewan threw himself sideways. The blade sank below the water, and a second later, Beaulais collapsed. Behind him stood Honora, a stout limb in her hands. A line of blood trickled down Beaulais’s forehead.
‘What in the name of God do you think you’re doing?’ Ewan bellowed, striding from the water. ‘Did you murder him, then?’
‘He was about to murder you!’
‘He threw the knife as a warning. I saw it coming and avoided it.’ Ewan approached Beaulais’s body and nudged it with his foot. Thanks be, a low groan resounded from the man’s throat. ‘I don’t need you, or anyone else, to defend me.’
Honora’s face transformed from pale white to furious red. ‘Fine. Let the next man kill you, then. I’ll stand back and do nothing.’
‘Why are you even here?’ Ewan demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be with your father, preparing for the feast. Or have you forgotten that you are meant to choose a suitor?’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ But she looked embarrassed, suddenly aware of what she’d done. Her gaze drifted down to the ground, and she held the branch as though it were a sword hilt. Her sleeves stretched against her arms, and he could see the outline of her lean muscles.
Cold water from his swim dripped down his torso, down to soaked trews. Honora’s stare travelled from his feet, past his thighs and stomach before she met his firm stare.
‘Stop chasing after me, Honora,’ he warned.
Her lips pressed tightly together, her green eyes flashing fire. ‘I wasn’t chasing. I was trying to save your ungrateful hide.’
Ungrateful? He hadn’t needed her help. Did she still believe he was a spindly lad of sixteen, unable to defend himself? Not a chance of that.
Ewan took a step closer, but she raised the limb, as though she were contemplating striking him.
‘Do not even consider it.’ Wrenching it from her hands, Ewan cracked it over his knee and tossed the pieces aside. ‘Go back to your father, Honora. I’m not the man for you.’
‘I wouldn’t want you if you were the last man in England.’ Honora sent him a furious look before she picked up her skirts and fled his presence.
Ewan picked up his fallen weapons and stepped past Beaulais’s unconscious form, his fury rising higher. Why had she interfered? Beaulais might have retaliated before knowing she stood behind him. She could have been hurt.
Damn her. Nothing had changed, not in five years. She lacked faith in him, but he wasn’t about to justify his fighting skills to her. He had nothing to prove, especially not after today’s victory.
He cast a glance at the unconscious man at his feet, his annoyance rising. And by the look of it, thanks to Honora, he’d just made another enemy.
Ewan shared a trencher with Katherine, ensuring that she had the choicest pieces of roasted pheasant and smoked herring. The Baron had spared no expense in the feast, and Ewan revelled in the food. His favourite dish of blanc-manger was the most exquisite he’d ever tasted. The chicken paste had a hint of almond milk, sugar, and the light crunch of fried almonds gave it texture. It made it easier to keep his mind off the pain of his arm.
But even as he ate, he was uneasy about what had happened with Beaulais. The man would not hesitate to retaliate. The only question was when.
‘You haven’t lost your appetite, I see,’ Katherine remarked, in an attempt to make conversation.
‘Would you care for more?’ Ewan broke off a portion of gingered salmon, but she shook her head, declining.
Though he gave Katherine his full attention, he was well aware of Honora on his opposite side. He offered her the same courtesy, in order to maintain appearances, but he could see the shuttered anger in her expression.
Beaulais staggered into the hall some time later, his gaze livid. A piece of linen was wrapped around his forehead, and he joined the other suitors at the lower table. Conscious of the man’s venomous glare, Ewan stared back, willing Beaulais to look away.
Instead, the nobleman drew a dagger, letting the blade flash in the torchlight. There was murder in his eyes, a visible threat.
Honora wouldn’t be foolish enough to confess she’d brought Beaulais down, would she? The Norman lord wouldn’t take kindly to being struck by a woman. And though Ewan was confident he could handle the man’s anger, he wasn’t so sure about Honora. She was far too reckless.
A harper played lively tunes, breaking the silence and redirecting the attention of the guests. Ewan ignored Beaulais and reached for a strawberry. Bringing it to Katherine’s lips, he complimented her beauty. As she blushed and accepted the fruit, his elbow accidentally brushed against Honora’s. She jerked away, her eyes narrowed.
‘My pardon,’ he apologised. From the way Honora shrank back, it was as if he’d struck her.
Then her expression changed, and she lowered her voice. ‘You’re bleeding.’
He glanced at his tunic sleeve, which had darkened in colour. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You need to tend the wound. It’s deep.’
She acted as though his arm had been severed. Though the trickle of blood irritated him, it was hardly serious.
Ignoring her insistence, he offered her a piece of fruit. ‘Would you care for a strawberry?’
She shook her head slowly. In her eyes, he saw worry. And though he wanted to make a lighthearted response, something to make her smile, he knew it wouldn’t work. Honora had always been able to see past his teasing.
And he was still staring at her with a strawberry in his hand. He turned and fed the succulent fruit to Katherine. Honora stiffened, as though he’d hit her.
Was she jealous? He couldn’t believe that to be true, for she’d claimed she wouldn’t wed him if he were the last man in England.
He watched her speaking to Sir Ademar. A strand of dark hair came loose from her veil, hanging against her neck. The curve of her cheek was soft, unexpectedly delicate. When he reached for his tankard of ale, he caught her light fragrance, a hint of apples. She had tasted just as wild and tart as the fruit when he’d kissed her.
He drank deeply, trying to push the idle thoughts away. His reaction had been instinctive; it would have been the same with any woman. They had been friends once, but if he wasn’t more careful, he’d make an enemy of Honora. He didn’t want to cause any more awkwardness once he wed Katherine.
As the feasting wore on, the ale flowed more freely. Katherine excused herself to speak with the other ladies, and Ewan went to watch several games of chance. He was weary from the day’s fighting and leaned up against the wall after the trestle tables were pushed to the side. His brother Bevan was still talking to the Earl of Longford, but his expression was glazed as though he, too, wanted an escape.
Ewan reached out and touched the sleeve of his tunic, which was slick with blood. Damn it, Honora was right. His arm was growing numb from the bleeding, his body weakening.
‘Whom did you pay to fight on your behalf?’ a male voice interrupted from behind him. ‘One of the maidservants, perhaps?’
It was Beaulais. Ewan sensed a blow coming and stepped sideways, causing the Norman’s fist to strike the stone wall instead. Beaulais’s face turned purple with rage, and he clutched his hand.
‘Your fighting hasn’t improved, I see,’ Ewan commented. When another punch sliced towards his face, he blocked it, cracking his fist across Beaulais’s jaw.
The Norman countered with a blow to his arm, and Ewan sucked in air, the pain rippling through him. He slammed the full force of his fist into Beaulais’s stomach, but the man followed through with another hit to his mouth.
Ewan tasted blood and threw himself to the ground, knocking the nobleman off his feet. Rolling back up, he grasped Beaulais and lifted him up high. It was an act meant to demonstrate his strength and to humiliate his opponent. A gasp resounded through the crowd, to his satisfaction. With his muscles burning from the strain, he tossed Beaulais into the dirt.
Leaning down, he lowered his voice so only Beaulais could hear. ‘Don’t threaten me again, Norman. Or the next time, you’ll be unable to rise without help.’
He stood, facing the crowd of people. Lord Ardennes appeared indifferent to the fight, while Katherine was horrified, her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. Honora didn’t spare a glance towards Beaulais, but the gleam in her green eyes revealed a hint of pride. It was quickly replaced with anger. Ewan suspected that if they were alone, she’d blister his ears.
To Katherine, he gritted out, ‘Forgive me', and turned to leave. His eye was swelling up and blood ran down his arms.
He passed his brother on the way to the stairs, and Bevan sent him a warning look. The silent censure irritated his already-foul mood. He’d had enough of this night.
As he reached the bottom of the winding stairs, he heard the sound of quiet footsteps behind. Ewan spun and saw Honora standing behind him.
‘You frightened my sister,’ she said. There was no anger in her tone, only a resigned air. ‘I’ll send her to tend your wounds, and you can apologise in private.’
He hadn’t expected that. His shoulders lowered, his anger softening. With a low voice, he added, ‘I did not intend to offend her, or you, by fighting in your presence.’
She studied him, her clear green eyes discerning. ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have struck Beaulais when I did.’ She rested her palm against the stone wall, her eyes revealing guilt.
‘I can take care of myself, Honora,’ he murmured softly. He reached out and tucked the wayward strand of hair back beneath her veil.
She gave an involuntary shiver at the touch. ‘You’ll have to watch your back. Beaulais won’t stand for the insult.’
‘I’m not afraid of him, Honora.’
‘Perhaps you should be.’ She took a step backwards, her gaze sweeping over him. Ewan became conscious of his damp trews and the dried mud from earlier. ‘In the meantime, you should let Katherine help you.’
His forearm stung with the slickness of blood. She was right. ‘Where shall I await your sister?’
‘In the solar. I’ll send her there within the hour.’ With a nod from her as dismissal, he turned to leave. Raking his hand through his hair, he wondered exactly what he could say to Katherine to make amends.
‘I can’t tend his wounds,’ Katherine protested, in the privacy of their chamber. ‘I’m not good at healing.’
‘He wants to speak with you,’ Honora replied. When she’d watched Ewan fighting, a part of her had been fascinated at his massive strength. He’d picked up Beaulais and tossed him like a stick of kindling.
She’d been unable to tear her gaze from him, and when it had ended, her skin had prickled with awareness.
A bead of sweat had run down his neck, outlining the gleaming chest. He hadn’t looked like that at sixteen, still a skinny lad not yet grown into manhood. But now …
Sweet Jesu, she’d wanted to touch him, to know that strength for herself. And though he drove her to madness with his stubborn arrogance, she couldn’t deny what she felt when she was around him. The very air seemed charged with desire, every movement intensifying the startling ache inside her.
When she’d seen Beaulais attacking him earlier today, she’d struck out without thinking of Ewan’s pride. He’d needed help, and she’d given it, nothing more. Any soldier would do the same for a friend. But he’d taken it as an insult, one she hadn’t intended.
It was just as well that he’d renewed his dislike towards her. She was finding him more and more difficult to resist. Strong and bold, she couldn’t help but admire the man he’d become.
He needed the softness of Katherine to balance his fierce demeanour. Not a woman like her, as quick to argue with him, unwilling to yield. If she wed a man like Ewan, they’d shred each other to pieces.
Or they’d set one another on fire.
She could envision fighting with him, and afterwards, making up. Having tasted the warmth of his mouth and the flames that seemed to burn her up inside, she knew he was far too dangerous.
‘I asked him to await you in the solar,’ Honora told her sister. ‘You needn’t do anything but tend his cuts and let him apologise.’
