Taming Her Irish Warrior Page 5
‘Irish training,’ Bevan corrected.
Longford only smirked. ‘Thought you’d say that. He’s done well for himself, and I believe he’d make an excellent match with young Katherine here. Might as well get them married so you can return to Genevieve, eh?’
‘If that is Ewan’s wish.’
‘Other suitors are competing for Katherine’s hand,’ Nicholas interrupted. ‘However, he might consider my eldest daughter, Honora.’
Honora’s cheeks flamed. Her father made it sound as though she were an afterthought, a woman taken as a consolation prize.
She reached out and clenched the pommel of her dagger. It shouldn’t matter whether Ewan wed Katherine or not. Why should she be anything but happy for her sister? She certainly didn’t want Ewan for herself.
More than ever, she wanted to leave behind this tournament, to hide in the armoury or in the stables. Her unsettled future made it impossible to do anything else but worry. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on finding the thief, ever since her father’s suggestion that she marry. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
She made her excuses, claiming she needed a moment to take care of her personal needs.
‘Return within a few minutes,’ Nicholas warned. ‘The sword fighting will be the last competition, and I expect you to be present.’
The glint in her father’s eyes made it clear that he would brook no arguments. Sometimes she wondered if he secretly knew about her swordfighting skills. She’d been careful never to let him see, for he would not understand her need to excel in swordplay. But, nevertheless, there were times when his gaze appeared all too knowing.
She promised to return soon. Skirting the edge of the crowd, she came face to face with Sir Ademar.
‘My lady,’ he greeted her, bowing.
She leaned up to study the knight. Though exceptionally tall, his face was pleasing enough to look at. With light blond hair and dark blue eyes, he had a Norse look about him. Sir Ademar was one of the stronger fighters, and she’d seen him defeat many a man in combat. He was very quiet, however, and rarely spoke to anyone.
‘Sir Ademar.’ Honora nodded in greeting and tried to move around him.
‘Might I—?’ He stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘M-might I speak with you a moment, Lady Honora?’
His face coloured at his stammer, but he forced himself to continue. ‘Your father tells me that…y-you are planning to remarry.’
Not really, she wanted to say. Instead, she responded, ‘It is his wish, yes. I have not decided whether or not I will.’
‘I would be most…most honoured if you would c-consider me as a potential husband.’ Sir Ademar stared down at the grass, embarrassed at his awkward speech. Honora didn’t know if it was nerves or whether he always had difficulty speaking. But this was the first time any man had openly declared an interest. She could not have been more startled.
‘You flatter me,’ she managed. ‘But weren’t you courting my sister?’
His face fell, turning morose. Venturing a chagrined smile, he managed, ‘She…she would never consider a man like me.’
Wouldn’t she? Honora wasn’t so sure. But then, Katherine seemed taken with Ewan MacEgan, so possibly Sir Ademar was right. A touch of sympathy caught her by surprise.
Though she couldn’t be certain why she did it, Honora untied a blue ribbon from her hair and gave it to him. ‘Here. Take this when you go to fight.’
Sir Ademar tied it around his arm, the small bit of silk contrasting against the chainmail armour he wore. A faint smile perked at his mouth, as though he couldn’t believe what she’d just done.
Honora could hardly believe it herself. But his clumsy offer had touched her somehow.
‘God grant that I…may be victorious in this…next ch-challenge.’ The pride in his voice made her smile, and he didn’t seem quite so intimidating.
‘I bid you good fortune.’ And she was surprised to discover she meant it.
A horn resounded, and Sir Ademar bowed, exiting towards the fighting arena. Alone, she stood back while the men readied themselves for the last challenge.
When she saw Sir Ademar’s opponent, Honora’s smile fell. It was Ewan.
While the Norman knight wore chainmail, Ewan had chosen a lightweight leather corselet to wear over his tunic. Leather braces protected his arms, and he carried a heavy wooden shield. He caught her glance and raised his shield in a discreet salute.
He’d done that when they were children. Long ago, she’d thought he was mocking her, because he was allowed to fight while she could only watch. Now, she realised it was meant to show respect.
Though there were a thousand reasons why she should not care who won the tournament, a part of her remembered the awkward boy Ewan had been. The boy who had been her friend once, teaching her what he’d learned from the sword masters, even though it was forbidden.
All of her earlier good wishes towards Ademar crumbled away, for now her true wish was to see Ewan emerge as the winner.
Honora hurried back to the dais, wanting a better seat to watch the fight. As she passed by a small undergrowth of shrubbery, she spied something brown and rectangular-shaped.
When she knelt down, she nearly caught her breath. For there, nearly hidden amid the weeds, lay the chest stolen from the family chapel.
Chapter Four
There were a few minutes before the match was due to begin. Ewan’s entire body ached, and sweat mingled with blood upon his skin. After the last fight, he’d taken a slice across his upper arm. An irritant, nothing more, and it was worth the wound to secure the win. Now he had one remaining round.
Honora’s warning reverberated in his mind. Watch for a switch. Though he could fight using either hand, he strongly favoured his right. Best to end this match quickly.
Ewan drained the cup of ale his brother held, regaining his strength. The cool drink didn’t alleviate his thirst, but he took a few moments to calm his breathing and to focus on the upcoming match.
‘You’ve done well this day,’ Bevan remarked.
The rare compliment brightened his mood. His older brother found fault more often than he praised a fight. ‘Good enough for now. But there’s still this last fight.’
‘Use your brain, not your arm. And for God’s sakes, keep your eyes off your feet.’
Ewan hid a smile. He hadn’t done that in years, but Bevan wouldn’t let him live it down. ‘The Baron says there will be a prize for the winner.’
‘Whatever it is, give it back to his daughter in her honour.’
A sound idea, if the prize were gold or silver. ‘I should go.’ He handed the cup back to Bevan and moved towards his opponent. ‘They’re starting.’
Ewan glanced over at the dais. Katherine sat beside her father, an anxious smile upon her face, while Honora was missing.
It didn’t sit well with him to see her gone. Was she all right? She’d been tense for most of the tournament, her smile strained. His gaze shifted through the crowd, accounting for each of the suitors. No one seemed to be missing, save her.
Why would she leave now, when the fighting was about to begin? Honora loved to watch swordplay. He started to back away from the ring to search for her, when suddenly she emerged from a small grove of trees. In her hands, she held a wooden chest.
Ewan stepped in front of her. ‘Are you all right?’
Honora nearly stumbled, and he caught her arm. ‘Yes, I am fine.’
His shoulders relaxed. He was about to excuse himself when she held out the chest.
‘I found this in the underbrush over there. It’s what I was searching for the other night.’
‘The chest you thought was stolen.’
‘It was stolen,’ she insisted. ‘Wooden chests don’t grow legs and walk out into the trees.’
But if someone had taken it, why would they leave it behind? ‘I’ve heard nothing, Honora. Most of the men speak of your sister and little else.’
‘Keep your eyes open.’ Her gaze snapped to the cut upon his arm. Gently, she examined it. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I let Beaulais cut me, in order to move in closer.’
Her hand stayed upon his shoulder a moment longer than it should have. Though her palm was callused from holding the sword, her touch warmed his skin.
‘Honora, don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ She drew back, her fingertips coated with his blood.
He chose his words with care, not wanting to offend her. ‘I’m going to wed your sister.’
Embarrassment flooded her face. ‘If she’ll have you.’ With another step backwards, she added, ‘I did nothing except examine your wound. You’ve too high an opinion of yourself if you believe I wanted you.’
This was going badly. He tried to apologise. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Your match is next.’ She cut him off. ‘Go and fight Sir Ademar. Perhaps he’ll cut your other arm.’
With the chest tucked against her side, she strode off to the dais. Ewan stepped towards the ring, his annoyance rising.
Why did he always seem to fall into her trap whenever he was near her? And why, in God’s name, did she provoke him so? He’d meant only to be polite, to see to her safety. But within a few moments in her presence, they were arguing.
He unsheathed his sword and prepared for the fight against Sir Ademar. The tall knight wore chainmail armour, his coif and aventail hiding all but his face. Ewan circled his opponent, waiting for the right opening. The weight of the armour would slow the knight down, and Ewan intended to take full advantage of the weakness.
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.
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.