Her palm smoothed the sheets where her husband had just lain. She found them cool to the touch. He’d been gone longer than she thought.
She sat up again, experiencing an odd sense of abandonment. Had the tourney begun already? Of course it had. A horn had just bayed outside her window. Being the host, Christian had no choice but to rouse himself early and attend it. He had kindly thought to let her sleep.
Flinging off the coverlet, she crossed the room and threw the shutters wide, heedless of her naked state. She sensed a great stirring of activity on the eastern side of the field, but the window gave only a view of the tents with their pennants snapping.
She heard the telltale thunder of two combatants coming together. The repercussion of the blow carried clearly to the window. A roar went up in the crowd, conveying a sense of urgency.
She had planned to bathe and dress in one of her finest new gowns. But something came over her, gripping her with nameless agitation. She couldn’t spare the time to bathe. She was galvanized to join the spectators right away.
Spotting the dress Nell had laid out for her, Clarise slipped it over her head, leaving the laces to dangle at her sides. Unable to locate her slippers, she gave up looking for them and dashed out of the room. The great hall below her was empty. Was she the only one missing the day’s events?
Barefooted, she skipped down the wide stairs, shot through the double doors and down the steps of the forebuilding. The courtyard was also deserted. She crossed it quickly, braving the cobbles that gouged her bare feet. She was hardly dressed like a proper hostess, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something momentous was underway.
Lengthening her stride, she ran through the first gate to the outer ward. There she faltered at the sight of the empty lists. The tourney must have been moved to the field outside the castle. The urgency in her belly hardened into apprehension. Why would they have moved the tourney outside?
She bolted through the outer gates, pushing aside the guards that stood beneath the barbican. One of them tried to restrain her. “Let me go!” she demanded, sending him a look so fierce that he snatched his hands away.
She crossed the rough planks of the drawbridge, amazed to see that a throng had already gathered to witness the spectacle. More amazing still was the daunting display of weaponry on the men who jostled for a better view. She rose on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the combatants. They must be well-known knights to have gathered so much attention.
Their mounts sailed off toward opposite ends of the field in preparation for another clash. She sought the insignia of the knight nearest her. When she saw the double-edged ax resting with deceptive ease on his thigh, she knew at once that the first opponent was Ferguson. Could this have something to do with the accident that would befall him today?
Her gaze swiveled to the second combatant. On the back of a huge black destrier sat a warrior of immense proportions. Her brain refused to believe what her eyes were telling her. But as his shield tilted in her direction, there was no mistaking the white cross on a black field.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
He’d never warned her that he meant to oppose Ferguson himself. Surely he didn’t intend to kill him now, in this very event! As they raised their shields in a signal for readiness, the truth slowly penetrated.
He did. He intended to kill Ferguson in hand-to-hand combat, nobly and without deceit. That was the reason the tourney had been moved outside the castle, to more neutral ground. She gave a cry of denial. Didn’t he realize it couldn’t be done? Ferguson knew dozens of deceitful ways to fell his opponent, and Christian would suspect none of them!
That awful realization kept her rooted to the dew-laden grass, her toes curling to keep her upright. With the sound of thunder, the combatants converged in the center of the field. She told herself to rise from what surely was a nightmare. They collided in a screaming tangle of steel. This was not a dream.
The crowd roared with dismay as the horses parted with no advantage to either man.
Clarise plunged into the throng of spectators and pushed her way to the rope that kept them off the field. The sound of ringing metal had her peering over a woman’s shoulder. She glanced up in time to see her husband thrust in slow motion from his horse. “Nay!” she screamed in denial. He managed to roll to his feet, but his helmet flew into the ankle-deep flowers, leaving his head vulnerable to attack.
Mercifully, the blow had also unhorsed Ferguson. The Scot was slower to rise, but his double-edged ax rose with him, singing a song of death as he arced it in a figure eight through the moist air.
With a distracted glance Clarise realized the woman in front of her was her mother. Jeanette stood very still by the rope partition. This morning she seemed in full control of her faculties. She watched the fight with steady eyes.
Clarise redirected her attention to the struggle now ensuing on foot. Why was this happening? Ferguson was to die in an accident, not in a blatant challenge. Not in a scenario where he could easily cheat to meet his ends!
What would happen if he won? My God, what would become of her if Christian were killed? What would become of her family?
The enemies circled each other cautiously. Ferguson was the first to strike. The blade of his ax slammed into steel as Christian lifted his shield at the last second. Clarise could imagine the impact shuddering down his arm. She winced for the pain he must be feeling.
Her husband stepped to one side, turning at the last moment to bring down his sword. The edge of Vengeance made sharp contact with Ferguson’s arm, and the Scotsman howled in pain, clutching his wound. Clarise smiled grimly, her confidence returning.
Of course Christian would win. Was he not perceived as the mightiest warrior in the borderlands? Hadn’t he earned the position of seneschal for his skill with a sword?
Ferguson recovered swiftly from the blow. Grinning beneath his helm, he calmly moved his ax into his left hand. The weapon whistled through the air as he closed in on his foe.
The Slayer bided his time, evading attack after attack with quick footwork and masterful use of his shield. His tactic was clearly to tire the Scot.
Soon enough, Ferguson’s ax grew heavy. He lowered the weapon, and it was Christian’s turn to be the aggressor. Vengeance caught and held the sun’s fire as it sang through the air, seeking weakness in the older man’s defense.
Though not as quick on his feet as his opponent, Ferguson held his ground. A blow from the broadside of Christian’s sword sent him staggering backward. He stepped into a low area where he lost his balance. Then he toppled sideways into a thatch of carrot weed.
A joyous cry escaped Clarise’s throat. It looked as though her husband would win the contest. Suddenly she realized that her mother had ducked beneath the rope and was racing into the field. Clarise called for her to stop, as interference at this point could escalate the conflict into war. But her mother was deaf to her cries, leaving Clarise with no option but to chase after her.
To her dismay, she saw her husband hesitate, his sword raised for the deathblow. The movement on the field distracted him. Her gaze flew to Ferguson, who was grappling in his boot for a second weapon. She screamed a warning to Christian.
But the shouts of the crowd drowned her cry. Ferguson surged from his crouched position. His hand sprang open, releasing a fine powder into the air. Christian staggered back, blinded by the invisible weapon. His broadsword fell heavily to the grass as he clapped his hands to his eyes and doubled over.
Ferguson adjusted his grip on the handle of his ax. Just as he hefted it to pursue his helpless opponent, Jeanette hurled herself onto his back. Clarise watched in wide-eyed shock as her mother sank a dinner knife deep into Ferguson’s neck.