Chapter 7 #3
Nyneve bit down on her tongue and then tried to shake the image from her mind.
She pushed her curls off her shoulders, heat pricking her skin, her face growing hotter.
She’d grown accustomed to the ways of her clan.
It hadn’t been uncommon to do whatever she pleased with her paramour of the moment.
Pleasure freely given, freely taken, always at will.
But here in Camelot, no such customs existed for unmarried noblewomen, not with so many concerns about lineage and heirs.
As a squire handed Mordred his lance, she attributed her feelings to simple frustration, lacking the freedom she had with her people.
Nothing more. But her heart still quickened when the steward dropped his hand, sending both knights racing toward each other.
She knew little of the technique and skill behind jousting, but the ease with which Sir Bellicus hefted his lance, perfectly aimed at Mordred’s chest, made her anxious.
Nyneve found herself clinging to the railing beside the kitchen maids, who were shouting encouragement to Mordred, as the two knights pounded down the tilt field toward each other.
All other sounds faded away—there was just the heavy drum of hoofbeats, her own blood throbbing in her ears, and the thunder of her heart thrashing against her ribs.
At the last possible moment, Mordred lifted his lance and shifted his weight ever so slightly, flicking away Sir Bellicus’s lance as if it were nothing more than a pesky fly, and then slammed his lance straight into the opposing knight’s breastplate.
The crowd roared as Mordred’s lance shattered and Sir Bellicus tumbled from his horse.
Beside her, the kitchen maids shrieked in delight, clutching each other’s hands, and Nyneve found herself giving into the fervor when Elaine excitedly grabbed her shoulder, face flushed with heat as she gave a triumphant whoop.
Mordred pulled Rook up, twisting in the saddle to look at the wreckage in his wake. A squire caught Sir Bellicus’s horse, soothing the animal. Galen appeared from the field’s entry gate and moved quickly toward the felled knight.
Nyneve should, too, she knew. When she began to head toward the stairs at the end of the stands, she told herself it had nothing to do with Mordred and everything to do with fulfilling her duties.
She kept one eye on the field, the other on her path, as she jogged down the steps.
Mordred dismounted and began to walk Rook toward the top of the field just as Sir Bellicus got to his feet with Galen’s assistance, yanking off his helm.
The physician helped him remove his heavy mail, revealing a sweat-stained tunic.
Even from twenty or thirty paces away, Nyneve could see that the defeated knight was absolutely fuming.
She drew even with Mordred, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments.
Then Galen called for Nyneve at the same time a page approached Mordred, holding out a bow and quiver of arrows for inspection, saying something about upcoming events in the tournament.
Nyneve gathered up her skirts and broke into a run, but Bellicus was already shoving Galen away.
He shouted something, moving at a jagged pace toward Mordred, whose back was to the field.
Galen looked at Nyneve with an alarmed expression as Bellicus pulled a dagger from his belt.
Her heart leapt into her throat as he shouted a string of curses about Mordred’s bastard birth and Merlin’s prophecy, stumbling along the tilt.
Galen reached to grab the knight’s arm but failed, so Bellicus raised the dagger and sent it flying.
Nyneve’s breath caught in her lungs as Mordred stepped to the side, preternaturally aware of Bellicus’s attack, pushing Rook over with his shoulder.
The dagger embedded itself in the dry grass where the destrier had been standing just a moment prior.
Before Nyneve could even process exactly what was happening, Mordred reacted.
One moment, he held Rook’s reins loosely, his attention given entirely over to the page, and the next, he’d plucked the bow from the boy’s hands, strung it, spun to face the field, and sent an arrow flying.
Nyneve felt as though she watched the arc of the arrow forever, its crow-feather fletching shimmering blue-black in the spring sun.
The arrow sailed through the air with a whistle, catching Bellicus by the sleeve of his tunic and pinning him to the tilt fence.
The crowd went utterly silent. Then, still in full mail, only his helm removed, Mordred stalked toward the older knight, his face a mask of cold fury.
He grabbed Bellicus by the front of his tunic and leaned in close.
“If you hate me so deeply, challenge me properly. I dare you,” he growled, so low Nyneve barely caught his words. “But not my horse, Bellicus. Do not ever touch my godsdamned horse.”
With that, Mordred released the man and stepped back.
Bellicus said nothing, breathing hard, fear etched into his features.
When Mordred shifted his weight forward, Bellicus flinched, but the knight only yanked his crow-fletched arrow free of the tilt fence.
Then he turned and stalked back toward Nyneve, who was frozen to the spot.
Their gazes met for a heartbeat before her eyes slipped to his broad chest, the taper of his waist, and then, finally, without even meaning to, the green ribbon tied around the pommel of his sword, fluttering in the breeze like an omen.