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“Firstly, the Ware barony is bankrupt.”
Sir Bennett took a step back.
She kept walking across the field until she reached Máel’s side. “Secondly, I am quite ruined,” she announced as she took his hand.
The crowd gasped.
She lifted her chin, but she was no longer alone. Máel’s hand squeezed hers, and as the low murmur of shock crossed the arena, he stepped forward as if he could take the brunt of it in her stead.
Rustling conversations broke out, and Bennett began complaining that he wanted his entry fee back.
Máel still held a palm over the spot where he’d taken the foul hit from Bennett.
“Are you hurt?” she whispered to him.
“Aye,” he replied curtly. “’Tis the most thick-headed sport I’ve ever seen. Two men simply ride at each other full tilt, out in the open? No one’s even trying to hide?” He shook his head in disgust.
She patted his arm. “You are right. Did I notice you held back on your sword stroke?”
They both looked at Bennett, still reeling at the edge of the ring even as he complained to her father and Lord Yves.
“Did you notice that?” Máel asked. “Aye, I did. I’d have sent him all the way to Carrickfergus if I hadn’t.”
“That was kind of you.”
“I’m a kind man.”
She snorted softly.
“My lady?” Lord Yves’s interrupted their whispered conference. “There was a third truth?”
“Yes, my lord.” She released Máel’s hand and lifted the rebel message held in her hand, the red seal of the Baron of Ware dangling off the bottom. One corner of t
he letter was singed.
She had snatched it out of the fire before it could burn like the whittled horse.
“My father is a traitor.”
For a moment, silence.
Everyone turned to stare at her father. His face flushed bright red. His chest puffed out, then his cheeks did too, as if a great storm was building inside him.
Then all hell broke loose. Her father tried to run. People chased him, and in the end, he was escorted off in a less-than-noble fashion: his arms locked behind his back by two of Lord Yves’s guards, another two men walking at either side.
“You stand by him?” he called to Cassia as he was dragged past. “A brigand, a commoner? I do not know who you are anymore, but you are not my daughter.”
Máel took a step towards him, but she put a hand on his arm, staying the move.
“You are right. I do not belong here,” she said, and let Máel guide her away.
Chapter 37
They retreated to, appropriately, the river.
It streamed in a wide, tame rush beside the castle. There were no people here, just birds and water and a single oak tree that they stood beneath. Their horses grazed nearby.
Máel had sent Odin to see about securing a few extra horses, or perhaps an entire wagon train, to handle all of Cassia’s trunks.
