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“Come, we will be late. Again.”
“Yes Father,” she whispered, staring at the little broken pink body of the berry before following after him.
Chapter 5
Máel stood with young Odin outside the sword fighting ring and watched as three successive men entered the square, roped-off area to meet d’Argent. Each was taken down in short order by the giant of a man.
D'Argent beamed and waved to the cheering crowd after each knight limped away, absent things they likely very much needed: armor, horse, sword, coin.
“You sure you want to fight him?” Odin inquired skeptically.
The boy stood at Máel's side, holding his gauntlets and helm and being paid far too much for the service, on top of the fees Máel had paid to get the little thief to secure him forged papers that would allow him into the fight. Only noblemen were permitted to bash each other into pieces at this tourney.
“I’m sure,” Máel said shortly.
Fáelán would disapprove entirely, but he wasn’t here, was he? Máel had left a message for him and Rowan, telling them where he was and requesting their assistance, but as they were not here to offer other, less reckless, options, this hastily-constructed plan would have to do.
Odin shook his head. “That's a bad idea. He's a baron.”
“He's a coward and a treacherous cheat.”
Odin shrugged, neither outraged nor surprised. “I said he's noble, didn't I? But look at him. He's a great fighter.”
Máel didn't bother to reply.
It was the fourth time someone had informed him what a magnificent, accomplished, nay wondrous fighter d'Argent was, starting with the man's cosseted, arrogant daughter, who had proven to have one weakness—strawberries—and having succumbed to it, had given him the information he needed.
It turned out you could simply pull a sword on a nobleman at a tourney.
You merely had to dally with a daughter who was far too beautiful for her own good, and feed her berries—he'd watched them disappear into her mouth and knew an instant of wishing he could do far more with that mouth than feed it berries.
“He's also big,” Odin pointed out.
Midway through buckling on his sword belt, Máel lifted his eyes to look at d'Argent. “Aye, he's big.”
“Burly,” Odin added, proffering the helm.
Máel yanked up the hood of his linked mail and smashed the helm over it.
“Still in his prime. And wearing fine armor.” Odin turned his skeptical gaze to Máel and examined him. He did not look impressed. “When did you last oil your mail?”
Máel ripped the gauntlets from the boy's arms. “You can leave now.” He stepped over the roped line to enter the ring.
“I'm not leaving,” Odin said from behind. “I want to watch you bash his head in.”
He stopped midstride. “I thought you said he was big and burly and a great fighter.”
Odin grinned. “I did. But I think you'll be better.”
Cassia and her maid squeezed in along the railing around the sword fighting ring.
She’d done what she’d never done before—gone against her father’s orders—and left Sir Bennett’s jousting match, hurrying here instead.
The three jousting arenas were the main focus of the tourney-goers, but there were other events scattered throughout the castle grounds and meadows beyond. After the joust, sword fighting was one of the most popular activities, and Cassia now saw why her father might have forbid her from attending them.
The crowd around the ring was raucous. She and her maid were jostled as they moved in deeper. Yet there were other women here, Cassia told herself, ladies wearing silks in the boxes above, and common folk wearing linens in the surging crowd she herself was inside of.
All in all, she found she did not mind the jostling as much as she minded the endless oversight that filled her days and never let her go.
