Page 13 of My Warrior
There was no reply. Holden wrinkled his brow. This game could become rather tedious, unless…unless it was some sort of jest planned by one of his men to relieve Holden’s obvious boredom. Aye, that must be it.
“You’re armed for battle!” he remarked, picking up his cup and swirling the mead around the rim. “Is it your intent to joust one of my knights?”
The rider abruptly lifted his long ash lance, and Holden cocked his head at this unexpected gesture. Maybe it was his cousin Myles. Myles had just won his spurs. It would be just like Holden’s uncles to put the lad up to such a challenge.
“With whom do you come to battle, sirrah?”
Slowly, the knight lowered the tip of the lance till it pointed directly at Holden.
Pleased with the thought of his uncles’ comeuppance, Holden smiled. “Me?” he murmured. “What a surprise.”
He waved. Then he called out, “I shall arm myself and be down presently, sirrah, to uncover your identity!”
Holden rode out to meet his mysterious challenger moments later. His suspicions about the knight’s identity were confirmed as he noted the small frame and youthful posture. Nonetheless, he’d humor the bold lad.
“You have no design upon your tabard, sir. Will you not at least do me the honor of telling me with whom I joust before I trounce you?”
There was no answer, of course, for Myles’s voice would have given him away. Bemused, Holden chuckled to himself as the horse and rider stormed to one end of the field.
Scarcely had he placed his helm on his head when the young knight surged toward him with lance forward. Angered at the boy’s rude haste, Holden lowered his lance and prepared to unhorse the whelp.
Ariel bolted forward without prompting, flinging up chunks of sod. When they met with a thunderous crash, the small rider was carried easily from the saddle to the earth with a thud.
Holden allowed the dazed lad to rise laboriously. They drew swords, and he gave the young knight many sound punishing buffets upon the helm.
The boy was quick, but haphazard, spinning and slashing with a recklessness Holden hadn’t noticed in Myles before. He was an agile enough opponent, but hardly a match for Holden’s sheer power, which he tempered for the sake of a fair fight.
Noting how quickly the lad tired, Holden offered aid. “Hold your shield higher, man! You’re getting careless!”
This made the knight’s attack all the more brash.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, bored of the battle, which had become sluggish, Holden decided to make an end of it. He swung a powerful blow with the flat of his sword across the knight’s hindquarters. His victim went sprawling in the grass, dropping both sword and shield on the way.
Holden shook his head, and then set his own shield, helm, and sword on the ground, offering his hand to aid the foolish novice.
Unexpectedly, the fallen knight reached for his own blade and swung it around hard, forcing Holden to block the blow with his arm. Holden winced as the blade caught him painfully on the shoulder and fell just short of penetrating the mail.
His arm throbbing from the impact, Holden fiercely swept up his sword and knocked his opponent’s weapon away.
This varlet was not his cousin. No de Ware would fight so unchivalrously. He dragged the knight to his knees and tore off his helm, flinging it to the ground. Blinded by rage, he yanked the dark hair back violently to expose the traitor’s vulnerable throat and raised his sword to slay the fiend.
Then the very breath was sucked from him.
Nay. It wasn’t possible.
“You!” he choked.
Cambria gasped, despite her brave intentions. That last blow had been unworthy of her, and she knew it. Lord Holden had every right to slay her for it.
Clenching her hair in his fist, the Wolf gazed at her bared neck and hesitated. Indecision warred in his steely eyes as his blade hung over her. She forced herself to stare at him, even if she couldn’t draw air into her lungs. She’d be damned if she’d die wincing from her foe. His expression wavered between anger and disbelief and something resembling fear, and then it evolved into a mask of pure fury.
With a bellow of rage, he brought the sword down violently. She screamed as he jammed its point into the ground beside her.
Her heart knifed within her chest, though she was out of immediate peril, as she gasped in great sobs of air. For a long while, nothing but their turbulent breathing rent the silence. Hers was born of shuddering relief, his of barely suppressed savagery.
His eyes flashed green fire when he was at last able to speak. “You little fool!” he snapped hoarsely. “Are you mad?” He plowed his mailed hand through his hair and began to pace like a cornered stallion. “What game are you… How could… Bloody… I almost kil-…”
If she thought she glimpsed a speck of self-reproach in his eyes, it vanished in the next instant, the moment he realized her scheme. He wheeled on her, incredulous. His words fell like blows, and she flinched from the sheer power of his voice.
