In declining, the Scot would have found himself and his men slaughtered in the Slayer’s hall. The gauntlet had been tossed, and Ferguson accepted it, with no other choice.
How quickly the night had sped by! The sun was already edging over the treetops. Peasants tromped across the meadow from their far-flung huts in order to satisfy their curiosity. Did they know the tourney had given way to a deadlier sport? Christian wondered.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sharply rising wall of the castle. He couldn’t see the solar from his present vantage, but he imagined that his bride still slept. She was rarely up before mid-morning. Had he done the right thing to keep the truth from her? It had been hard to think of little else when he joined her in the bridal bower. But later, as he drew her tender body close to him, he’d felt a peaceful certainty in his soul. And then he’d slept—by God, he’d slept the entire night without waking! It had been the best sleep of his adult life.
He wondered, now, if he should have told her everything. She’d assumed the Scot would come to some accidental end, that Christian would kill him by devious means. She did not fully realize the metamorphosis for which she was responsible. The only way to prove his worthiness was to slay Ferguson by honorable means: by Ordeal by Combat. That way Ferguson, at least, could defend himself, and neither Christian nor Clarise would be troubled by their conscience later. He knew too well the torment of a troubled conscience. His wife would never suffer such agonies, he vowed.
Still, he wished Clarise could watch him do it. How he longed to be worthy of her! But her peace of mind and her physical safety came first. He could not trust her to remain an impartial observer. Clarise was too loyal, too protective. She forgot at times that he had spent his adult years learning to fight. She thought she could do it better.
Nor did he trust the Scots not to target her in some way, thereby forcing his surrender. Nay, it was best she remained where she was, sleeping peacefully in bed, her body soft and warm beneath the coverlet.
Sir Roger scurried around the front of his horse, breaking into Christian’s thoughts. “My lord, I have a bad feeling about this,” he volunteered, catching his liege’s arm.
Christian shook him off. This was not the time for Roger’s sixth sense to kick into action. “ ’Tis too late to change my mind,” he snapped at his vassal. All he could do at this late point was to calm his roiling nerves.
“Look for trickery, then,” Sir Roger cautioned, his scars bulging with concern. “He knows he cannot defeat you. He will try something underhanded, mark my word!”
They led their horses off the drawbridge and onto the road. Christian’s armor made a chinking sound with every step. “We fight hand to hand,” he told his vassal. “Do you remark any trickery, then by all means strike the Scottish forces. But do so hard. I would not have any finding their way into the castle. Signal for the drawbridge to close.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Should something happen to me—”
The knight cursed, looking away.
Christian stopped and put a gauntleted hand on his vassal’s shoulder. It took effort to push the words past the constriction in his throat. “Do whatever it takes to keep my lady content in life and to assure Simon’s inheritance. Remember we suspect a traitor in our midst.”
Sir Roger’s mouth thinned. “It will not come to that,” he growled, as if to convince himself.
The fighting had been moved from the outer ward to the meadow outside the walls. The field afforded them more room for maneuvering. It would keep the Scots from spawning mischief in the castle to distract them. “They’re waiting,” Christian urged, nodding toward the area that was already roped off.
As they neared the meadow, the sun spilled over the hill in a bloodred stain. Christian’s gaze fell upon a blackbird as it swooped from the sky to steal a hot bun dropped by one of the spectators. When he next looked toward the tents, he was looking at Ferguson.
The Scot had emerged from his tent wearing English armor, his helm in his hands. Despite his indulgence the night before, he looked fit and fierce. His eyes were focused and clear above his burnished beard. At the sight of his double-edged ax, several onlookers backed away, giving him clear berth to approach the field.
Christian looked for Ethelred, standing alone with his cowl pulled over his head. A more reluctant participant could not have been found to shrive the two combatants. The good abbot gave him an imploring look as they came closer.
Unable to meet the abbot’s gaze, Christian focused on Ferguson instead. To bolster his enthusiasm, he recalled the nineteen peasants cut down at Glenmyre, the ravaging fire, Clarise’s mother begging to be let through the gate. He gave a thought to Clarise’s father, brought to an early demise by the Scot’s artifice. And lastly, he thought of the pink scars on Clarise’s beautiful back, put there by this barbarian.
By the time Christian’s soul was properly commended to God, he was fully ready to spill the Usurper’s blood.
“Choose your weapon, Ferguson,” Sir Roger charged, acting as intermediary.
The Scot gripped the handle of his ax and grinned like a cunning fox. Christian reached over his shoulder to pull the hilt of Vengeance from its sheath.
“You will begin at the sound of the horn. May the first to be unseated defend himself as best he can. Any violation of the code of honor shall end the tournament.” Sir Roger’s tone became threatening. He made it clear to everyone gathered that a breach of the rules would result in war. Behind them, men-at-arms watched each other warily.
“Mount your horses.” Sir Roger’s final words saw Ferguson spinning away toward his sorrel. Christian tightened the girth on his saddle. With nothing left to delay him, he heaved himself onto his mount and gave the destrier a jab. He trotted to his position on the far side of the field.
Turning by a copse of beech trees, he waited for the horn that would hurl him into combat.
Time stood still. Only the rapid beating of his heart assured him that the seconds ticked by. He found himself wishing suddenly that Clarise were in attendance after all. With the light of her eyes on him, he would feel himself cloaked in her protection. He imagined her standing at the edge of the field, a faint smile of encouragement on her lips. She’d believed in him last night. ’Twill be all right, she’d assured him. He repeated the words to himself. I promise, ’twill be all right.
He had to win. There was no room for defeat.
If he did not emerge the victor, he would never know if his plot to win her heart bore fruit. Or withered like an unplucked grape.
Chapter Nineteen
The blast of a war horn caused Clarise to bolt upright. The shutters were ringed with morning light. Memories of her wedding night flooded pleasurably into her mind, and she fell back onto the blankets with a sigh. Her muscles were sore, as was the tender place between her legs. But she felt like a new woman, a butterfly freshly sprung from its chrysalis.
How foolish she was to have feared that marriage to the Slayer would bind her to a beast! He’d been gentle, considerate, unbelievably giving. She dragged a hand over her sensitive breasts. No longer did she worry what would become of their marriage after Ferguson’s demise. A world of possibilities lay before them. With Christian’s sword arm to defend them, their security at Helmesly was unbreachable. They would raise a family behind Helmesly’s impenetrable walls and never know the terror of being overcome, displaced, violated.