Chapter 26 #2
Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch might be a tournament champion. But he didn’t live for warfare and glory. He lived to defend the helpless. To be strong for the weak. To protect the innocent and punish the guilty. He lived for the honor of serving others.
Her throat thickened as she gazed at her noble knight. The hero she’d carried in her heart all those years. The one she’d loved forever.
Now that she’d finally found him the perfect match, nothing could temper the way she felt about him.
Until he called out to the king. “Your Grace, I should like to make one more challenge.”
The crowd cheered.
“Another?” the king said, laughing. “To whom?”
“To my bride.”
The crowd gasped.
Merraid had forgotten their wager. She’d made that threat to toss Gellir into the dust mostly in jest. After all, he was a seasoned champion, and this was her first tournament. Her remark and the wager had been only a bit of boastful prattle.
Did he seriously mean to fight her?
“What say you, Lady Merraid?” asked the king. “Will you take up his challenge?”
What choice did she have? All of Rivenloch was watching. The warrior maids. Her teacher Feiyan. The king. Everyone wanted to see an epic battle between a man and his wife.
And maybe—just maybe—she did have a chance of beating him.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
She replaced her helm and unsheathed her sword as she strode toward Gellir.
He gave her a sly smile just before he donned his helm and faced her at the ready.
Merraid would have to count on all her skills. Her agility. Her speed. Her reflexes. Her powers of misdirection.
The one thing she hadn’t counted on was the support of all the Rivenloch ladies.
“Kick his arse!” someone cried.
“Throttle him!”
“Don’t hold back, lass!”
“Give him all you’ve got!”
“Show him who’s in charge!”
That last one was from Laird Deirdre, his own mother.
Bolstered by their encouragement, she blew out a steadying breath, bent her knees, and prepared to fight.
They slowly circled each other. Their first contacts were tenuous, as if they were testing the other’s mettle.
Soon they became more aggressive, launching series of attacks that moved them back and forth across the field.
Before long, urged on by the crowd, they were exchanging blows that might have killed lesser fighters. But Merraid wasn’t afraid. Indeed, she was fairly sure he was letting her seize the advantage. Allowing her to show off her skills. Matching her rhythm to ensure no one was seriously injured.
“Ye wouldn’t be holdin’ back, would ye?” she muttered as their swords tangled.
“Why would you think that?” He shoved her blade away.
“’Tisn’t a real battle,” she said, spinning and coming across with her jian, which he dodged. “’Tis more like ye’re dancin’ with me.”
“Dancing? You think so?” He thrust at her, making her leap aside.
“Thrusting forward.” Then he dodged back from her attack.
“Lunging back.” He advanced. “Thrusting forward.” Then he retreated from her strike.
“Lunging back.” He charged again, this time snaring her hilt with his and bending close enough to whisper, “I think ’tis more like swiving. ”
When he cast her off mid-gasp, she staggered and fell onto one knee. And that was when he dove in to set the tip of his blade at her throat.
There was a sigh of disappointment from the Rivenloch ladies and a cheer from everyone else.
“Do you ask for mercy?” Gellir teased.
“Never.”
He laughed and took her hand to help her up, murmuring, “You’ll be asking for mercy tonight.”
His words sent a shiver of desire through her.
If it were up to Gellir, he would have left the tournament right then and there. Spirited Merraid away to their bridal chamber. And spent the rest of the day trysting with his wife.
He definitely would have skipped the melee. The melee was always his least favorite part of a tournament anyway. It was chaotic and dangerous, like a real war.
There was little room to move. No delineation between ally and foe. No clear strategy, other than every warrior for himself. Knights were expected to slash and clout and raze until they were the last warrior standing.
After a day of bouts, warriors were tired. They were careless. Some of them were drunk. Fighting in close quarters meant opportunities for accidental gouging and bruising and slices from stray blades.
If someone was going to get injured, it would be in the final free-for-all.
At Rivenloch, melees were usually conducted with blunted weapons, and even children could take part.
He’d participated in his first melee when he was eight years of age.
Only once had anyone been seriously hurt, and that was several years ago when Dougal had shown up with a sharpened blade, bent on revenge.
Thankfully, there had been no lasting damage.
Unless you counted being married to Feiyan.
Gellir feared this melee, however, might leave more than one widow.
Even worse, the king wished to take part.
Gellir prayed the combatants, especially those from foreign lands, understood Malcolm was to be protected at all costs.
After a brief break for ale and lamb coffyns, everyone assembled on the field. Gellir positioned himself beside Malcolm. After all, who could better protect the king than the tournament champion?
Most of the Rivenloch warriors followed his lead, gathering around the king. And though he would prefer she were completely off the field, Merraid stood with them, squeezing in beside Feiyan.
King Malcolm cried out, “Let the melee begin!”
A frenzy followed. Swords and targes clashed. Helms collided. Gauntlets scraped across breastplates. Gellir was shoved back and forth as the grunting and growling mob surged first one way and then the other.
All the while, he kept an eye on the king. He let Malcolm experience a harmless blow here and there. But he kept the worst of the attacks away from him.
The German knight was particularly aggressive. And one of the Moors had bloodlust in his eyes. So Gellir battled them back, hoping they would tire of targeting Malcolm.
His attention, however, was scattered. He couldn’t help but worry about Merraid. She was a fine warrior. But she’d never been in a melee. Accustomed to space in which to swing her blade and leap out of range, she was no doubt struggling in the close-packed crowd.
Even now, he saw her elbowing warriors back as she tried to break free of them.
Was she in trouble?
He batted away the Moor’s sword and glanced back at her.
She was beside Malcolm. And the German knight was closing in on the king.
Gellir shoved the Moor back and shouldered his way through the combatants toward the German.
He’d just caught Malcolm’s eye when he lifted his gaze and suddenly glimpsed danger.
The flash of a steel blade.
Coming down over Merraid’s head.
All at once, time seemed to stretch out.
He wasn’t going to make it in time.
He was unable to move.
Unable to break free.
His heart sank like a stone through honey.
A gasp rasped slowly across his throat.
“Nay!” he cried, his voice strangely hollow.
Gellir had to block that sword.
He had to stop Merraid’s attacker.
Even if he had to kill him.
On sheer instinct, with blind faith, he tightened his fist on his sword and, with agonizing sloth, thrust it forward.
Merraid saw the king’s blade coming toward her.
In another instant, when it came within range, she’d deflect it with her jian.
Of course, she wouldn’t reply to his attack. Feiyan had already informed her of the Rivenloch warriors’ main task in this maelstrom of a melee. Protecting the king.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted another threat.
A more serious threat.
A blade driving straight toward the king.
In an instant, instinct took over.
In one fluid move, she knocked the king’s weapon away and turned to address the oncoming sword.
There wasn’t time to deflect it.
So she did the only thing she could to protect the king.
She used her body to block the blade.
It wasn’t the best option. But it was her only option.
It wasn’t until she felt the sword pierce her side that she felt a twinge of regret.
She’d been slashed by a blade before. Her arms bore thin white scars from training with the jian. And once she’d been gouged in the thigh by a dagger when she wasn’t paying attention.
But this was different. This was a blow with power behind it. A thrust that made her suck a sharp breath through her teeth.
The blade withdrew, and she had time for three thoughts as she clutched her bleeding side, wincing from the pain, and wilted onto the ground.
One, she wondered if she’d saved the king.
Two, she wondered if she was going to die.
And three, she wondered why Gellir had stabbed her.