But it was Ellis who would be hurt, not she. Oh, God, she heard his furious shout, watched him stab the heels of his boots in his horse’s side, raise his sword high. He yelled at Graelam even as he rode with dead reckoning straight at him, “You bastard son of a witch! You want our lady? Not likely! I’ll carve your miserable heart from your chest.”
She didn’t think, just acted. She yelled for him to stop, but of course he didn’t slow. She yelled at the five men behind her, “None of you move. If you do, I’ll gullet you. I swear it. First I’m going to gullet Ellis.”
She kicked Wicket’s sides and sent him straight at Ellis. She came up beside him in but an instant, for Wicket was fast, and she was determined. She slapped her fist as hard as she could against his arm. “Listen to me! My father would flay me alive if you were hurt. You damned hero, stop it!” It slowed him, but just for a moment.
She heard Graelam shout, “Keep him back, Chandra. I don’t want to kill an old man.” His destrier was dancing forward, eager for combat.
Ellis yelled foul curses. He was out of control. She realized then that there was simply no choice. She threw herself at him and knocked him clean off his horse, sending them both crashing to the rocky ground. For a long time, she simply couldn’t breathe. She heard Ellis groaning beneath her, heard a roar of laughter. She thought she was dying, but then breath slammed into her lungs and she sucked it in as hard as she could. Finally, she realized she was alive, that she’d only knocked the wind out of herself.
She saw de Moreton riding slowly toward them. She rolled away from Ellis, grasped his sword and knife, and threw them away from him. “Don’t you move, damn you,” she yelled at him, and rose slowly to her feet, her hand on her own sword. She pushed back her cloak and slowly pulled the sword out of its scabbard. She stood there, facing him, her legs slightly apart, waiting.
He was nearly on her, his horse black as night, blowing. Graelam dismounted and walked toward her. He was big, she realized, taller than her father, thicker, much younger. He looked intently at her, saying nothing, just kept walking to her.
She held her sword in one hand, ready, ready, moving it slightly back and forth so he couldn’t be certain of her point of attack. She couldn’t just let him take her—she wouldn’t. That was something she couldn’t bear.
She took several steps back, keeping herself between him and Ellis, who was still now, lying on his back. She heard him moaning, but doubted he was conscious. He still hadn’t moved. She said, “I won’t be your wife. I won’t be any man’s wife, ever. Do you hear me? I will never wed. I am my father’s daughter, and I belong here with him. Leave now and I won’t fight you.”
“You truly wish to fight me?” he said the words slowly, no disbelief in his dark voice, but rather a sort of pleased joy.
“I would like to stick my sword through your belly. Ah, but you are wearing armor so that leaves me your throat. A good target.”
He drew his own sword and held it easily in his right hand, his left hand empty. He had tossed his shield to the ground beside his destrier. It was obvious he didn’t believe her to be any sort of threat. Indeed, how could she be? She was half his size. Very well, he had to be slow; his size and the weight of his armor would make it so.
“It is between us, Graelam de Moreton.
You have no choice but to fight me. Tell your men to stay back. If I beat you, you will tell them to leave here.”
He cocked his head to one side, and still there was that amazed look on his face that mirrored both pleasure and anticipation. He didn’t look away from her as he shouted back toward her own men, “All of you remain where you are.”
She said again, “Tell them that they will leave if I beat you.”
“Oh, no, I will not tell them that. It would make them fall off their horses with laughter. You can’t beat me, Chandra. Give it up.” He had the gall to hold out his hand to her.
It was too much. She gave an animal growl deep in her throat and lunged forward toward his left side. Her sword struck his. She nearly dropped like a stone. There had been no give, no weakening at all. It was as if she had slammed her sword against a rock. She remembered her father’s words, spoken over and over during the years, “Keep your damned head, girl. Don’t panic, ever, for if you do, you’re dead. If you’re alive, then there’s hope, but you must keep your head. If you fail with your first attempt to bring your man down, then keep seeking until you find his weakness. Every man has a weakness.”
“You have no weaknesses,” she’d said to him, but she knew that every other man did. Lord Richard had grinned at her and cuffed her shoulder just as he would a boy’s.
And so she stepped quickly aside and hammered her sword against Graelam’s, high, near his hand. He leaped back, releasing. She’d made him retreat. Just a step, but it was a beginning. Then she heard his laugh. He was laughing at her.
He thought she was amazing, a girl who aped a man’s ways, a girl who dared to raise a sword at him, and her anger nearly sent her straight at him. No, she had to be calm or it would be all over. She slipped her right hand into her cloak and slowly pulled her knife from its sheath at her belt. She looked steadily at her own sword, distracting him, readying herself. Ellis was yelling behind her, quite conscious now. She could see him from the corner of her eye struggling to get his sword, clutching at his right leg.
Graelam engaged her this time. He slammed his sword against hers, slicing downward, dragging her sword with his. He didn’t pause, just hammered again and again, giving her no respite. She knew he would crush her soon; his strength and his skill were simply too great. She fell back, slowly, slowly, her eyes on his face, hoping to see his strategy mirrored in his eyes. Soon now. Soon she would make her move. His blows were rhythmic, unending, and it seemed to her that each new blow was harder than the last. She wondered if he ever tired. Soon now. She danced to the side. When he turned slightly to come after her, she knew it was the moment she’d waited for. She leapt toward him, her knife out and raised. She struck her knife with all her strength at his naked throat.
CHAPTER 2
She saw her knife driving forward, straight and strong toward his unprotected neck, felt her own power behind that driving blow, limitless, focused, and then, suddenly, he had twisted about, and his hand in its leather gauntlet had somehow closed around her wrist and he was only inches from her face.
“A trick your father taught you, I assume,” he said, and she saw that he wasn’t breathing hard at all. She was nothing to him, nothing at all. The pain of knowing that was nearly as great as the pain in her wrist.
He squeezed slowly until she felt she would die from the pain. “Stop this. I have no wish to break your wrist. Drop the damned knife.” And in the next moment, her knife dropped from her numb fingers. She tried to bring up her sword, but he grabbed her and pulled her back against his chest. Both of their swords clattered to the rocky ground. He held one arm around her, and with his other hand, he pulled off her cap.
He was silent for a moment; then he said, very close to her ear, “You smell like sweat and fury and boar’s blood, but now it is over. I have won.”
So very easy for him, she thought, wanting to grab her wrist and rub it, the pain was so great, but she didn’t. She saw Ellis lying there, just staring at them, and there was defeat on his face.
She had lost. She wanted to curse him, but she said nothing.
Graelam called out to her men, “It is over, as I just told your mistress. There will be no looting, no killing, if you will drop your weapons and come with us into the castle.”