Chapter 7 #3
Emily tried to scream, but no sound came. Alex snarled at her, “So have your lord. But if you ever touch me or threaten me again, I will gut you like a hog.”
Without warning, Alex felt a strong arm around her middle. Philippe pulled her back and Emily crumpled, gasping to the ground. Alex fought against his grasp.
“Alex!” he cried. “You must stop!”
She threw an elbow and broke his hold. She whirled around. His eyes were disbelieving and frantic, but she was no longer affected by his face. She hated him and everything about him. How could he be so disgusting? To share a kiss with her and then find another’s bed.
“Alex,” he said. “I’m so sorry I have given you the wrong idea—”
“No,” she said, backing away. She didn’t want his words. Then she picked up her sword and ran, away from him, away from Emily, away from her foolish thoughts forever.
It wasn’t anger that drove her to do what she did next. It wasn’t heartbreak or sadness. It was the cutting shame that she’d been so willing to change herself for a stupid, inconsiderate man. The feeling was hot and profound and poisonous in her veins.
And the only way she could make it better was by making it much, much worse.
Horns blew as the final preparations on the arena floor commenced. The excited rumble could be heard well across the valley. People in the stands stomped and waved blue and yellow scarves in crazed anticipation of what was to come.
Philippe sat beside his mother and father in their seats at the head of the arena.
Below them, porters raked the dirt on the stadium floor while the juniors lined up for their competition.
He strained his eyes to see if Alex was with the boys, but the group was shielded by an overhang, and he couldn’t find her among them.
After he’d dragged her off that buffoon Emily that morning, he hadn’t seen her again.
It all happened so fast; he hadn’t even defended Alex.
Now, he didn’t know if she would compete.
He’d ruined the day for her, he was sure. He’d ruined a lot of things.
He felt like an ass. A complete ass.
A line of guards marched out onto the arena floor and positioned themselves in formation.
Philippe sat with his head resting on his hand, unable to summon the desire to clap.
The last thing he had meant to do was hurt her.
The kiss they’d shared had been so innocent.
He just thought it would bookmark a special moment between them.
Alex couldn’t have thought that it meant more; she hadn’t even come of age yet, and he was quite young himself to enter into an official courtship.
Plus, he’d shown restraint for once. Didn’t she appreciate the fact that he had been so respectful?
Did she know what that meant? He really hadn’t meant to do anything wrong…
But the truth was, Alex had captivated him.
And he did something bad because of it. He’d realized on the riverbank that night that she was becoming a woman, her sighs and blushes causing a ribbon of desire to run through him that he didn’t want to ignore.
He wanted to taste her—her sweetness, her irreverence, her hunger—before another man claimed her, and it felt even better than he had expected, even though he knew it was wrong the whole time it was happening.
Why, why did he go to Emily, he thought, dropping his head into his hands.
He’d seen the way Alex had looked at him, with stars in her eyes.
He’d realized immediately that he couldn’t let it stand.
His freedom to come and go, to campaign, and to explore the world would be taken away if he entered a courtship.
He hadn’t thought, just acted. Going to Emily was a simple way to ensure he wouldn’t encourage anything more with Alex.
He hadn’t thought further than that, hadn’t thought about how Alex would react.
He was an ass. He shook his head and rubbed his forehead. An absolute ass.
The guards completed their display below and filed off the floor.
Monsieur Perreault stepped into the arena to address the cheering crowd.
He opened the large scroll and commanded his voice above the curtain of noise.
“On this day twenty-seven years ago, the Duke of Chevalerie established the first tournament for the skills of sword fighting in this very arena. It began as a contest to find the most talented and brave fighters, who would help protect the borders of our city. Today it awards us the most accomplished swordfighters in our land and beyond, who shall one day lead us in battle against our foes, and the foes of France.”
Applause erupted as people showed both enthusiasm for the games and allegiance to their Duke. Monsieur Perreault basked in the attention before using his hand to shush the spectators once more.
“The rules are simple,” he boomed. “The first two opponents are chosen at random. The winner of the match will choose the next contender, and so on. The judges will present awards for skill, dexterity, and endurance. The overall point bearer will be named the grand champion.” He paused and flourished his hand.
“Under the watch of the Duke and Duchess of Chevalerie and God in Heaven, the tournament shall commence!”
The excitement came like an avalanche, a roar rumbling through the stadium.
After a laugh and a shrug at the frenzy, Monsieur Perreault continued.
“We shall begin with the junior competition, to be followed by our masters. Awards for both groups will be presented at the end. May I have the bag with the names of the junior challengers, please?”
A young boy ran onto the grounds with a velvet bag. Philippe’s heart seized, hoping Alex had come to compete. She could be the junior grand champion; he knew it. She was crafty and skilled, especially compared to the boys in her class. Plus, he knew just how much she wanted to prove herself.
Monsieur Perreault plucked a name from the bag.
“éric Ansel!” he cried. The fans applauded as the young fighter walked out to the center.
Monsieur Perreault preened his garments and cleared his throat before taking the next name.
By his chortling laugh Philippe knew whose name it was.
“Alexandra de Foix to the ring!” he called.
Philippe ground his knuckles into the seat, pleading with the fates for her to emerge. He did not want to be responsible for her missing this honor. All he had wanted to take were her lips, but he feared he had taken so much more.
Alex popped out of the group of boys and came onto the arena floor. She would be fighting, he realized, his heart growing light again. He hadn’t ruined everything after all. He let out a long sigh of relief, thanking the heavens for the reprieve.
Monsieur Perreault said a few words to the competitors then backed away. The two squared off and faced each other. The crowd hushed, awaiting his command.
“En garde,” he called.
The fighters touched swords and held their positions.
“Pr?t,” he said.
The stadium stilled in anticipation.
Monsieur Perreault paused before continuing. “Allez!” he called and scurried back across the dirt.
The audience settled for the fight, but once the start was called, Alex dropped down, spun around and knocked the boy right off his feet. She held her sword to his neck before he’d even had a chance to move.
She’d won.
The spectators were on their feet screaming both praise for the skill and admonishments at the insolence. Alex hadn’t scored many points, but she’d come out fighting, that was sure. Philippe shook his head and grinned.
“Oh dear,” said the Duchess, stifling a laugh. “Poor éric.”
Monsieur Perreault tried to settle the audience once again, taking a moment to realize that he was on again, but the people were rabid with excitement. He approached Alex to determine who her next opponent would be.
But something was wrong; Alex and Monsieur seemed to be arguing.
Monsieur Perreault shook his head, getting more and more agitated and violent with his gestures, while she stood back with her arms folded.
People in the stands around Philippe began questioning what was happening.
The murmur rippled through the crowd. Finally, Monsieur Perreault walked to the judges’ table, his face set in consternation.
There, the judges listened to him and then looked at Alex standing defiantly, alone in the middle of the ring.