Chapter Five #3
Athdara’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before she headed over to the barrel and began rifling through the clubs.
All the while, she was thinking of what she needed to do.
She didn’t want to hurt him, but she didn’t want to fail, either.
He said nothing was off-limits, and, as a woman, Athdara knew where to hit a man hardest with the best chance of having him fall.
She’d had to do it before—aiming for a man’s privates in a fight—and she was very sorry she was going to have to do that to Tay.
But in this situation, it was either him or her, and she was determined that she would be the last man standing.
The last woman standing.
She collected her club.
It was made from very old wood, long and heavy, solid like a rock, with a big, bulbous tip to it. Just perfect to plow into a man’s crotch. God help her, she had to do it but was loath to.
She went to stand a few feet away from him.
Tay’s focus never left her face as he motioned Bowen over. Without any consideration to the fact that she was a lady and it would be polite to let her draw first, Tay drew the first straw and held it up. Bowen held up the second one he’d had in his hand.
Tay drew the long straw.
Athdara’s heart sank when she realized that she would receive the first blow.
She wasn’t sure where he was going to aim, but given how big he was, a blow to her head could quite possibly knock her unconscious.
If that happened, her quest to train at Blackchurch would be over before it started.
He’d already made it clear that he didn’t want her here, so as Tay began to circle her, holding his giant club with considerable ease, Athdara tracked him.
She didn’t know how she was going to brace herself against what would undoubtedly be a horrific blow, but she was going to try.
Suddenly, Tay came to a halt.
“Let me be clear that you are only allowed one blow at a time,” he said to the recruits. “Your opponent is allowed to fall, but if he cannot rise again, he is eliminated. Is that understood?”
The recruits nodded. He looked at Athdara, who also nodded.
Then he began to circle again.
The mood turned dark, filled with anxiety and uncertainty.
Athdara watched him, his big body, every twitch and every step.
She was trying to anticipate when he was going to move toward her, and when he finally did, it was as fast as lightning.
Suddenly, he was in front of her swinging the club at her knees.
Damage the knees and she wouldn’t be able to go on.
He may be fast, but she was faster—when she saw him swing for her knees, she leapt up, pulling her legs up against her body, completely missing the club. In fact, she’d simply jumped over it.
The move surprised Tay as well as the group. His momentum nearly brought him full circle, and it was an effort to stop himself from spinning once his swinging club met with air and not a physical barrier.
Athdara landed on her feet, wide-eyed and breathless, and Tay’s eyes narrowed at her.
“I suppose I should have been clear that the man receiving the blow cannot move,” he said. “That is not how this works. But since I was not clear, I will allow that you have avoided the blow this time. But not the next time. Is that clear?”
Athdara nodded. “It is, my lord.”
He nodded back. “Very well,” he said, dropping his club and simply standing there. “Go ahead. Do your worst.”
Athdara didn’t want to. She really didn’t want to hit him in any fashion, but she didn’t have a choice.
She had to make this blow count so he wouldn’t get up and take her head off.
Terrified, she walked up to him, gripped the club with both hands, and swung it as hard as she could straight into his privates.
The group of recruits gasped.
Tay immediately folded over, his hands on his thighs, but he didn’t stagger. As Athdara stood there and panted, verging on tears, everyone who had witnessed the blow seemed to be holding their breath, and that included Tay.
After several long, excruciating moments, he vomited. Everything he’d eaten for the past week and then some came flying from his mouth and onto the grass. The man heaved and heaved until he could heave no more.
Athdara couldn’t take it.
Tossing the club aside, she headed out of the field.
She just started walking. The tears came, and she began to weep.
Sobbing, she began to run, heading toward the cloister, where she would gather her things and leave.
There was no turning back at that point.
She’d done something she shouldn’t have done, but she hadn’t known better.
She didn’t know what else to do. Warfare wasn’t always noble knights politely swinging swords.
It was brutal and nasty, and it was about survival.
That was what she had been doing—surviving.
But she knew there was no coming back from that.
By the time she hit the cloister, she was hysterical.
She went straight to her corner and grabbed her meager satchel, shoving her things into it, including the blanket on top of her bed.
She didn’t have one and would need it whilst traveling.
She didn’t know what she was going to do now, but she would have to explain it to Lord Exmoor.
He’d graciously agreed to let her into Blackchurch without the usual pledge.
Men, or women, either paid the fee up front or pledged to pay it from their future earnings.
St. Denis had waived all of that because he’d known her father.
That was her connection to Blackchurch and why she’d come.
But now, she knew she couldn’t stay.
Everything was ruined.
With her things gathered, she tossed her cloak on and began to head out. She trudged across the former cloister, now mere ruins, heading for the north gatehouse. That was the one less traveled, and she didn’t want to be seen. She didn’t want anyone to see her shame as she fled Blackchurch.
She was on the road, halfway between the dormitory and the gatehouse, when someone came up behind her.
“Wait. Lady, stop.”
Startled, she came to a halt to see Bowen standing behind her. He was out of breath, as if he’d been running.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
Athdara backed away from him. “I’m leaving,” she said. “You need not worry over me.”
“Please, stop,” he said, holding out a hand but making no move to grab her. “I’m not entirely sure why you are leaving, but Munro wants you to return. He told me to find you and bring you back.”
Athdara shook her head. “Nay,” she said hoarsely. “I cannot. Not after what I did.”
“What you did was brilliant.”
She stopped, her eyes widening. “What?” she gasped. “How can you say that?”
Bowen wasn’t quite sure why she was so upset. “Because you exploited a weakness,” he said. “That is exactly what you are supposed to do. Are you going to come back or not?”
She blinked. That certainly wasn’t what she had expected to hear.
But she wasn’t going to fall for the praise.
She’d bashed Tay in his privates out of sheer panic and regretted it immediately.
The man who had spoken so sweetly to her, who had made her feel giddy—she’d just ruined everything, and it was a complication she didn’t need.
She would have to figure out some other way to seek revenge against her uncle, but Blackchurch wasn’t it.
“Nay,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “I thank you for asking, but I am not coming back. Tell Munro… tell him that I am sorry. So very sorry.”
With that, she turned around and began to walk again, heading to the gatehouse that faced north.
It was the second of two gatehouses protecting Blackchurch’s perimeter, and the road led into the wilds of Exmoor before gradually joining up with a larger road that led to the coast. She’d go to the coast and find a job, anything where she could earn a little money, and figure out what to do from there.
Her destiny didn’t lie at Blackchurch.