“Not much use for this,” he muttered.
“See if his squire comes to ransom it. Demand only what it is worth.”
They walked back to his tent. His next combat was soon enough that he did not divest himself of his mail and armor. He sat awkwardly and drank some ale and waited.
The next knight was more of a test. The man was not so old, and he showed quickly that he was more skilled. He was a big man, however, and that was not always a benefit. He fought furiously, which used strength up fast.
Zander played with him a good while, waiting for him to tire. When the signs of exhaustion showed, he executed his own offense and finally made the moves that brought the fellow down. Once again, Angus collected the arms.
The competition had lasted for almost an hour. The final one would be an hour hence, and part of the official jousts. Angus had warned him about the Scot. Just his luck that one would be last.
This time he did remove his armor, so his body could rest better. Angus pressed some cheese on him, and more ale. He could feel his strength returning. He retreated into his thoughts, to prepare his mind as well as his body.
Elinor gave the soup a good stir. It bubbled lowly over the campfire under the canvas awning she had raised to protect her from the sun. Mostly she stirred to give her something to do while she worried over what she had heard in the neighboring tent earlier in the afternoon.
The competitions had continued all day but should be ending soon. She saw dots on the castle wall, from where some honored guests watched the competitions. Down here, more would be sitting on a stand to the side of the field where the knights jousted.
Thus far, no challenges had arrived at this tent. Hopefully, none would. Unfortunately, that had become the least of her concerns.
Another cheer went up. Elinor debated with herself. She needed to buy some bread. Why not go now, and take the long way there, so she could watch the tournament for a short spell as she made her way? It would at least distract her mind from its feverish wanderings.
Satisfied that the soup would not need her attention for long while, she went into the tent and gathered her hair at her nape, then bound it with a strip of colored cloth. She changed into a green gown. Then she set out.
The camps grew more chaotic as she neared the lists. Peddlers wound among the tents, offering food and provisions that she never saw offered over by the river. She spied a few women but could not tell if they were there to serve their husbands or their masters.
The crowd had grown thick near the lists, and people jostled for good views. She squirmed through the bodies until she was close to the front at the main field, standing in front of the seated guests. A large field in front of her had been divided, and three competitions raged at the same time.
A combat ended, and a winner was declared. The knights left the field, and two others paced their destriers forward. In terms of size and bearing they looked evenly matched.
“Sir Liam of Kinsale and Sir Alexander de Mandeville.”
Her attention riveted on the knight wearing a surcoat of yellow and green. That one was Zander, she was sure.
She did not want to watch. She could not not watch.
The Scot was good, Zander had to give him that. After two passes with lances, they met on foot. They parried and thrust and swung, each trying to land a blow that would make a difference. So far, the only difference was that neither one looked to win soon, and the afternoon was passing.
They stood north to south, each of them positioned now in front of a crowd that watched. The onlookers did not like that since none of them could see all of the moves, but neither Zander nor the Scot wanted to have the descending sun in their eyes.
The Scot retreated ten paces and lowered his sword. Zander made good use of the respite to catch his breath. His two earlier combats were affecting his stamina now. It had perhaps been a mistake to announce he would take all challenges since this was the only one that mattered when it came to the champion’s prize.
The crowd shouted for the battle to resume. His gaze swept them, halted, then swung back. Dark eyes looked out from behind a man’s shoulder.
Elinor was here.
Memories of that kiss this midday distracted him for a moment. Battles have been lost for less. He did not see the Scot’s charge soon enough. The man came, sword raised, with an incomprehensible yell bursting from his mouth.
Zander moved, expecting the trick Angus had warned of, waiting for that weapon to make an arc and attack his right side and sword arm. Instead it swung to Zander’s left. Just in time, he moved his shield, but a sharp pain said the blade had slammed into the mail on his upper arm. The blade might be blunted, but it still had force. The shock of the blow caused his shield to fall.
Mind bloody with rage, he charged at the Scot without a shield, swinging his sword with both hands and arms. A roar came from the crowd along with some screams. In a dark blur of fury, he slashed and thrust and forced the Scot back until, with one well-placed blow, he hit the Scot’s sword so hard that it went flying.
It was finally over, but not without cost. Angus ran to him and looked down at the wound on his arm. “Blood. The mail did it, not the blade, but it will be hell tomorrow.”
Zander walked from the lists, gathering salutes from other knights and cheers from onlookers.
A voice shouted “The Devil’s Blade.”
He made his way to his tent,
