Page 24

“Hold,” the sellsword called out, obviously not recognizing him. “I said hold.”

Before he could shout again, Guy had sped up enough to grab the man’s reins. Not two years earlier, this very same man, Dimmock St. James, had lost a match to Terric at the Tournament of the North. The dullard had failed to deliver the spoils. Terric would have refused to take the man’s horse—he had no need of it—but he never had the chance.

“Or better yet, dismount and put up your sword,” he called, seeing the exact moment the other man recognized him.

St. James, a heavily bearded man, laughed as if Guy jested with him.

“What say you?” St. James said to his two companions. “Shall I engage in swordplay with Guy Lavallais?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Nay. I think I’ll allow you to pass instead.”

“Dismount,” he growled. “And put up your sword. Or they”—he gestured to the men—“will be without a leader by the time we leave this clearing.”

It was near dark, but Guy could easily see the other men’s faces. They, at least, would not interfere. Smart men. He glanced toward Sabine, who thankfully did not appear scared. Merely curious.

St. James hesitated but finally dismounted.

Hand on his hilt, Guy stepped forward.

“I will be taking what you owe Terric Kennaugh from when you last met.”

St. James drew his sword, so Guy did the same.

“I owe the bastard Scot nothing.”

Guy yelled back to Sabine, “Turn away,” and took another step forward.

“A Scot, aye,” he continued to taunt St. James, “but one with more honor than a thousand of your kind.”

The insult hit its mark. Though his eyes were on St. James, Guy watched the man’s two companions in his periphery. He fully expected to fight all three before the day was done. A shame his wife would have to witness such a spectacle, but it could not be helped. St. James had cheated his friend and would answer for it.

“My kind? It seems we are in good company, routier.”

“If you intended to insult me, you missed your mark, St. James.”

It was true, he had run with the famed band of specialized mercenaries for a time in France. He was anything but ashamed by the association.

“I wonder, Lavallais,” St. James smirked. “Will your lady be glad to be rid of you?”

He did not let the taunt goad him. Guy would prefer not to fight in front of Sabine, but he could not let the slight against Terric pass.

“Put your sword down, pay the debt, and you may ride away with your companions.”

“I owe no debt to a Scotsman,” St. James sneered.

Guy was finished negotiating. He lunged at his opponent, and St. James deflected the blow at the last moment. They began to circle each other in the clearing, parrying their swords.

There was a reason St. James had been paired with Terric in a final match at the tourney. The man was skilled, and he matched Guy’s every swing and thrust as his companions dismounted. They likely did not think he saw them approaching, so when one slowly sauntered around Guy’s back, he assumed the worst of the man’s intentions.

Still engaging St. James, he waited to be sure the man truly intended to come at him from the rear. He wore only a padded gambeson, and though it may deflect a blow to the back, it would not save him if the man went for his neck.

By God’s own nails, the bastard truly did intend to stab him in the back . . .

He quickly adjusted his grip on the sword, bringing it under his arm, and thrust it into his adversary. Removing the sword just as quickly, he lifted it in front of him just in time to block a blow that would have beheaded him.

Turning to bring both men into view, Guy took advantage of St. James’s momentary confusion as he watched his man fall to the ground. Lifting his sword for a death blow, he stopped at the last moment. St. James had thrown his hands into the air, and his sword landed on the ground with a thud.

Both St. James and his surviving companion bent over the dead man. Guy had killed many men in his lifetime and could have told them he was, in fact, no longer for this world. If the man had not attempted to stab him in the back . . . if he’d worn proper armor . . . or if St. James had not refused to pay his debt . . . it mattered not.

The man was dead.