Page 63 of Hers To Command
Even in his agony, he heard the sound of a sword being pulled from a scabbard.
Where washissword? Or any weapon at all? As agonizing pain radiated from his cheek, he spotted a broken shield and lunged for it, holding it over his head in time to fend off the blow of De Mallemaison’s sword.
Still holding the shield over his head, he scrambled forward, half-blind, searching for his sword. Any sword. A mace. A stick.
He saw his sword, thank God! He reached for the hilt. Before he could get it, De Mallemaison attacked again, aiming for Henry’s left shoulder and what was left of the shield. The force of De Mallemaison’s blow shattered the shield completely and the blade went through to Henry’s shoulder. The remnants of the shield cushioned the blow, and his mail protected the flesh, or Henry would have lost his arm.
Desperately he grabbed his sword and lashed out, but he swung wide, unable to see his opponent.
De Mallemaison’s blade caught his, sending Henry’s sword flying and leaving Henry weaponless.
Was this the end? Was he going to die here and now, by this man’s hand?
No, never. Not now, not this way.
Ignoring his pain, Henry half crouched, summoned his strength, and launched himself at De Mallemaison, tackling him before the man could raise his sword again. Together they fell heavily to the ground.
With a grunt, De Mallemaison shoved Henry off him. Henry rolled and when he came to a stop on his belly, he spotted a foot soldier’s plain sword on the ground a little more than an arm’s length away. Panting, he hoisted himself onto his hands and knees and crawled toward it.
A booted foot caught him in the ribs and sent him sprawling. “I think not,” De Mallemaison snarled.
There was another kick, this time to Henry’s wounded shoulder.
Merrick had kicked him, too, like a dog. He wasn’t a dog, and he wasn’t going to die beaten like one. Inching forward Henry raised his head, looking for that sword. He would find it. He must—
“Oh, for the love of God,” De Mallemaison sneered. Henry half rolled onto his back to see De Mallemaison raising his sword for the coup de grace. “Enough.”
A fierce cry rent the air. De Mallemaison half turned.
“Cerdic,” Henry murmured. And then the pain overwhelmed him, and he slipped to the ground, unconscious.
MATHILDE COULDN’Tignore the frightened faces staring at her. The servants had been terrified by the fighting and were now just as afraid of the silence that had descended upon the castle.
She was not afraid. She must not be afraid. “Our men must be victorious,” she assured them, “or Roald’s men would have already come—”
The door to the yard banged open, the sound like an explosion.
Mathilde whirled around as the frightened servants gasped. A bareheaded Ranulf, still clad in his mail and bloodied surcoat, stood on the threshold—not some unknown, vicious mercenary.
“Oh, thank God!” Mathilde cried and behind her the servants sighed with relief.
Then dread returned. Why didn’t Ranulf look more pleased? Whose blood was on his green surcoat?
Her joyous relief drained away, like the color from her cheeks, and she could scarcely draw breath. Where was Henry? Why had he not come?
He would have too much to do, she told herself even as fear clutched at her heart. He would also have to supervise the capture of the mercenaries, deciding on their fines or ransoms.
“My lady, we’ve managed to fight off the attack,” Ranulf began, walking into the crowded, hot room that smelled of roasting meat and gravy and bread. “But Henry has been wounded.”
She stifled the cry of dismay that came to her lips. She must not show fear or despair, because the servants were watching. Her only outward sign of torment was the way she clenched her fingers into fists, as if she would beat the man responsible for hurting Henry if she could.
Which was the truth. She would have thrown herself at him like a scalded cat.
“Where is he?” she asked, managing to keep her voice steady.
“The hall.” Ranulf held out his arm to escort her, but she ignored his silent offer of assistance. She would show her people the strength of Lady Mathilde of Ecclesford. She would not weep as she had after Roald had left her. She was a different, better woman now—the woman Henry respected, admired and loved.
Exhausted soldiers, some wiping sweat and blood from their faces, sat or leaned against the walls in the courtyard. Excited villagers milled about, some questioning the soldiers. Many of the people, both soldiers and villagers, saw Mathilde with Ranulf and quickly looked away.
