It was fascinating. I had never fought as part of a cohesive team. The Merry Men were very individualized when it came to our fighting style and methods. We worked well together, but our tactics were nothing like this.
These men moved as a single unit. If one rider shifted, and the man beside him immediately adjusted to cover the gap. I found myself leaning closer, watching the way each team tried to split the other’s formation.
The next time the trumpets blared, the announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “Next up, our contestants for swordplay!”
The spectators murmured eagerly and crowded close for the popular event as the next line of contestants marched onto the field.
The announcer lifted both hands, waiting until the crowd settled. “Before our swordplay begins, we ask you to join us in welcoming a new sheriff. As many of you know, the former sheriff of Nottingham served with loyalty and valor until his life was cruelly taken by Robin Hood and his so-called Merry Men.”
Boos erupted from the noble seating at once. A few people cursed my father’s name or spat upon the ground. I kept my face still.
The announcer waited for the noise to fade before continuing. “Though it was a devastating blow, Nottingham will not be left without order. The former sheriff’s son has served beside him for many years, learning the duties of this office and proving himself prepared to continue his father’s work without interruption.”
The crowd began clapping and the announcer raised his voice. “May I present your new Sheriff of Nottingham, Baron Blackwellson.”
One of the contestants, taller than the rest, stepped forward.
It was Baron.
He was dressed in solid black leather from head to toe, the dark material stretched tight across his broad shoulders and powerful arms. His mouth was set in an unfriendly grimace, and the shadow along his jaw showed that he hadn’t shaved inseveral days, just the way I liked. With his dark hair, massive build, and expression that warned people away before they came close, he looked every bit like someone who would be the Sheriff of Nottingham.
My heart gave a flutter.
Baron looked around the field and he made eye contact with me where I was standing near the edge, hands on the ropes around the arena. I couldn’t help it. I smiled and gave him a quick wink.
Baron’s expression didn’t change. He stared forward again as though I were nothing more than another face in the crowd.
I grinned. He was a good actor.
The tournament director gathered all the contestants and explained the rules of the bouts about to take place, from no fatal blows to no permanent damage. Any man who yielded, fell, or lost his weapon would be declared defeated, that sort of thing.
Once the director was done speaking, the first match began. Baron wasn’t in that round, but he stared intently at both men. I knew what he was doing. He was analyzing every habit and weaknesses of both competitors for reference later on. Some people inhaled deeply a second before attacking. Others shifted their weight before a feint or dropped their shoulder before a heavy strike.
The men in the arena first were two squires, and their swordplay was mediocre at best. They whacked at each other for a few minutes with more enthusiasm than skill. One stumbled and the other took advantage and knocked his sword aside, then the victor was allowed to sit while the next pair entered the sparring area.
I watched each match with vivid interest. I had always found it mesmerizing to study the different styles and techniques people used. Some fought with brute strength, trying to endthe match quickly. Others circled and waited, letting their opponents tire themselves out.
“So, Isabella,” a voice said behind me, “you enjoy watching this sort of event?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Leopold had returned. I had wondered how long he would stay away. Men like him could never seem to bear the thought of a woman who was not madly in love with them.
“Yes, my lord. And yourself?”
“Sometimes.” Leopold lifted his chin slightly. “I prefer to participate more than watch.” He snapped his fingers for a servant and asked for chairs to be brought. The servant who hurried toward us was Walter, the one who was well known for always wearing gloves no matter how hot the weather. He dipped his head politely, then vanished into the crowd and returned a moment later carrying two seats.
“A seat, my lady?” Leopold asked, gesturing grandly to the chair as though he had carved it himself.
“Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.”
I sat carefully, trying not to let the corset dig any farther into my ribs. Leopold took the chair beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushed mine when he settled in. I shifted the smallest amount away and pretended to be absorbed in the match.
Two men clashed in the ring, both much better than the squires from before. Their swords met with sharp clangs that carried over the field while dust rose around their boots. One circled left while the other kept his shield angled low, waiting for an opening.
“I prefer the javelin, myself,” Leopold announced.
“Do you?”
