Chapter Nine

Edwina shifted in her place at the high table and struggled to maintain her air of bland indifference. Gertrude shot her a curious look, but Edwina barely noticed. Sweat trickled down between her breasts, and her stomach roiled with uncertainty.

She had her doubts about this scheme of Thorstan’s. Oh, she no longer doubted his ability to fight. He had already taken out two of her suitors and now only three competitors remained—the clearly identifiable Angus, Thorstan, and Lord Number Five, a man dressed in amber and dark blue, no mean hand with the sword. And Edwina did not know whom to pair next.

If she put her Thorstan up against Angus, could he win? If she put Lord Five against Angus and Angus took out Lord Five, Thorstan would then still find himself facing the bear.

Everyone in the room looked to her. She had to say something.

Lord Five against Lord Ten,” she pronounced clearly.

Thorstan straightened. She had been impressed with his sword play so far, but she did not want to see him face Angus, who drove in with sweeping blows clearly meant to decapitate his opponents. Better her love be the loser, she reasoned, and alive. For she no longer doubted him to be her love, the lord of her life and her soul.

He squared off against Lord Five, his borrowed sword at the ready, and Edwina wondered who Lord Five might be. Some of the competitors had already been identified—Lord Six, Cormac, was clearly recognizable, and Lord Nine’s hat had fallen off at a critical moment, proving him to be Lord Percival, both now out of the running. But no one seemed to mind, everyone in the hall drawn quite surely into the contest.

“Have at it!” Edwina’s father cried.

And they did, with a furious flash and clang of their swords, far less play and more intent this time, while Angus danced with visible impatience to face the victor.

For her hand. Would she be forced to accept one of these three men—even if he was not her Thorstan? Oh, to what had she agreed?

But her beloved jester looked to take this match as well, for whatever else he might be, it was far more swordsman than fool. Ah, he could fight. Well enough to overthrow Angus?

Even as she wondered, he turned in a wicked, brilliant move that hooked Lord Five’s weapon from his hands and flung it in a screech of metal across the flagged floor.

A cheer went up in the room. The dashing man in black had the onlookers behind him, and no mistake.

In a furious gesture, Lord Five tore the mask from his own face and flung it down, revealing him to be none other than Lord Julian.

“I protest!” he cried. “Unfair. How do we know the identity of this man?”

“We knew none of your identities, at the outset,” Cedric put in.

Lord Julian’s eyes narrowed, and an ugly sneer distorted his handsome face. “But this man, appearing at the eleventh hour—how can we be sure he is who he claims, this missing tenth lord? Where, Sir Ten, is your invitation? Show it to us, if you are who you claim. For this, Master Cedric, might be some trickster, some master swordsman determined to humiliate us.”

Thorstan froze where he stood, and Edwina’s heart sank sickeningly. They were surely undone now, Thorstan’s plan in flames.

But she underestimated her fool. He jerked to life suddenly, and she realized it had been the sound of Lord Julian’s voice that shocked him—he knew it for that of his attacker.

“You, my lord, may be the sort of man to cheat in fair contest or waylay another in the dark. That takes far less courage than facing him fairly at arms and accepting defeat, does it not? You ask to see the invitation? Here it is.”

He dug in the pouch he wore at his waist and produced a missive, much folded, which he passed into the hands of Edwina’s father.

Cedric unfolded and examined the sheet. “This is, indeed, the letter I sent.”

A miracle! Edwina’s heart rebounded within her. But how? Could her fool actually be Lord Kenweth in disguise? But nay, for she had met that bumbling gentleman some time ago and remembered him as having a weedy build, a weak chin, and eyes set far too close together.

“Aye, well, enough of all this!” Angus declared. “My turn!”

He leaped into the center of the arena, not caring who he faced so long as he faced someone, and not a soul in the room doubted his identity. The breath caught in Edwina’s throat, and she reminded herself Angus did not mean to decapitate her love, merely disarm him.

Unless one of Angus’s wild blows goes awry, Thorstan ducks too slowly, or whirls too late.

Nay, but Thorstan would merely be discovered and then—and then—

Then what? Should she run to him now, stand fast, and declare to her father—to all assembled—she chose him? It was what she wanted to do. In fact, it was what she should do immediately before this madness went any further and he got hurt.

She drew in a hard breath and started to rise. Too late—the combat below had already begun.

Ah, and it might have been ludicrous—even amusing—were it not so terrible; the two men moving step for step in an ancient dance they both clearly embraced. So mismatched—Angus’s bulk, augmented by the shaggy, brown costume of the bear, and Thorstan moving as quickly as light within the blur of Angus’s whirling blade.

The room held its collective breath. Once around in a deadly turn, twice, thrice, Thorstan’s blade somehow meeting Angus’s every crashing blow, and Angus tore off his mask with an authentic growl and shook his wild red head. Thorstan, still in disguise, fought on, the set of his shoulders now grim and determined, his seemingly tireless feet moving with precision.

Angus whirled with a bellow, and his sword scribed a brilliant arc that brushed the top of Thorstan’s head. Edwina stifled a cry. Surely they remembered they were just playing?

If not, she would remind them, go down there and put herself physically between them if necessary.

She surged to her feet, Gertrude screamed, and she felt something icily cold press against her throat.

****

Everything in the room froze when a woman’s scream rent the air from the direction of the dais. Angus stilled his blade—thank God!—and Thorstan looked up, his head turning along with the others in the room. He saw Edwina caught hard in the clutches of none other than Lord Julian.

Rage rose instantly—flaming—to Thorstan’s head. Master Cedric apparently had the same reaction, for he bellowed, “What do you think you are about, Lord Julian? Unhand my daughter!”

“I think not,” Julian grated. His uneven breathing heaved his chest and jostled the blade pressed against Edwina’s white throat. Beside Thorstan, Angus gave a roar like the enraged bear he so resembled.

“Do not move,” Julian ordered, “or she dies.”

“You are mad!” declared Cormac from his place with the other defeated suitors.

“Nay,” Julian declared, “I am only bending the rules as they have already been bent.” He glared at Thorstan. “This entire undertaking has been fixed. I will not be made a fool!”

“You are worse than a fool.” Surprisingly, the words came from Edwina—no cowardice in the lass. Her bosom rose and fell, but her eyes gleamed like those of the Valkyrie she played. “What good will it do your suit to threaten me?”

“She is right, son,” Julian’s father pushed forward, his severe expression dissolved into one of alarm. “What are you about?”

The blade at Edwina’s throat did not waver, but Julian’s eyes bulged with his overweening emotions. “You bade me, Father, to succeed at any cost, and that I shall do. There is more than one way to press a suit—you taught me that.” He jerked his gaze to Master Cedric. “Have my horse brought to the gate. Your daughter and I ride this night. And perhaps in exchange for her safety, and her virtue, you will give me her hand.”

Cedric stiffened further; Thorstan could feel his outrage, but his eyes remained homed on Julian’s glittering blade.

“That, sir,” his voice rang out, “is a threat of rape.”

“Nay, for I know a priest, and ’tis there we ride this night. Once we are wed, it goes by another name.”

Edwina spoke again, her voice still bold, “I am already promised—to him.” Her eyes reached for Thorstan’s across the intervening distance, burning with insistence—and love. He met that gaze, a question asked and a pledge given.

All heads in the room swiveled to Thorstan, still in his disguise. But he spoke only to Lord Julian. “If you take her from here, I will hunt you down, no matter it be to the end of your life.”

Julian’s only response was to tighten his hold on Edwina. She went rigid, and a thin line of red appeared on her white skin.

“Be careful, Lord Swordsman—it may, instead, be her death you choose.”