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Or perhaps he simply was, and Chrisdean had no idea what he was up against.
He hazarded a look at Nimue, who was struggling to get free from her father’s embrace. When their eyes met, he shook his head, a silent warning for her to stay where she was. He didn’t want her anywhere near all that bloodshed. She didn’t seem to listen, though, and continued to struggle. It didn’t surprise Chrisdean, seeing her so stubborn, and as much as he feared for her safety, a part of him was proud of her for fighting with everything that she had.
“Even if you beat me, every time you look at her, you’ll be reminded of me,” Wentworth said. “You will never be free of me. I suppose neither of us will know peace.”
Chrisdean laughed at that, shaking his head. It was a ridiculous notion, he thought, and the laughter rippled out of him without warning. “Wentworth . . . ye’re nothin’ to me.”
As he spoke, he began to walk toward Wentworth, and when he was close enough, he attacked him with a swing of his blade. Wentworth parried it easily and answered with a blow of his own, which Chrisdean barely managed to avoid.
He was getting tired, he realized, tired and reckless, and soon, he wouldn’t have the energy to fight the man. The thought scared him. He didn’t want Nimue to watch him die; he didn’t want to scar her like that.
Chrisdean gathered the energy that he had left, every last sliver of it. He knew that the quicker he killed Wentworth, the better it would be for him, and so he put all of his effort into his attacks, one after the other, driving him towards the flames.
But Wentworth was a good fighter, much better than Chrisdean had anticipated. He was well-trained and well-built, and he was a good match for Chrisdean, especially when he was wounded. Even as Chrisdean pushed Wentworth closer and closer to the fire, the other man didn’t seem to be fazed. Rather, he avoided every single blow and then answered with some of his own that Chrisdean had trouble parrying.
Wentworth was getting the upper hand, it seemed to him. Chrisdean cursed himself for insisting that he should be the one to fight Wentworth, but he knew that his death would turn his good Scottish fighters into unstoppable warriors raging with fury. There would be no possible way for the English to win this battle, then. Chrisdean reasoned that his death was worth it if it meant that Nimue was safe, that Scotland was safe. His death might even unite the clans against the English.
With a pirouette to the side, Wentworth almost reversed their positions, and now he was the one who was pushing Chrisdean towards the flames. Chrisdean was drenched in sweat, the breeze cold against his skin but offering no relief from the combined heat of the battle and the fire. The closer Wentworth came to him, the more clearly Chrisdean could see his death, there on the ground, bleeding out in front of the fire and in front of his men and his wife.
It wasn’t the kind of end that he wanted for himself.
With the last bit of strength that he had left, he swung his sword, and for a moment, it seemed to him as though he could finally win the battle. Just when he thought that his blade would strike flesh, though, Wentworth moved, and all Chrisdean managed to do was slit his sleeve and cut the surface of his skin. The minor wound took Wentworth by surprise, and he faltered for a moment, but then he was quick to retaliate, kicking Chrisdean and making him stumble so that he couldn’t defend himself from the blade that came towards him.
Time seemed to slow for Chrisdean. He could see everything in great detail, from the glint of the blade in the half-light of the fire to the little pebbles that lined the pit. He could hear the cries of his men, some pained, others frustrated. He could hear the bodies of men as they hit the ground, one by one, lifeless, just like he was going to be soon.
And then he could hear Nimue’s voice, distant as she screamed. Was she calling his name, he wondered? He couldn’t tell, not when all his senses were so focused on the futile battle of keeping himself alive.
Goodbye, Nimue. Forgive me.
