The Great Hall was in pandemonium. Even as Graelam was methodically working his way to her, his sword drawn, he was shouting orders. Food and ale were hurled to the rushes as his soldiers tried to get themselves together. They were well trained, but they had drunk more ale than usual and they were slower, their brains sluggish, for they hadn’t expected anything like this. But soon enough they had their weapons in hand and were fighting.
Suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall burst open, and Lord Richard’s men who had been locked in the dungeons came running in, shouting, “À Avenell! À Avenell!”
Chandra saw Graelam hacking his way toward her, his face grim, his concentration complete. Unlike his men, he had drunk little. She stuffed her stolen knife into her belt, then leaned down and grabbed the sword of a fallen soldier.
Mark saw her with that sword and blanched. What the devil was she doing? Was she mad? Hysterical? He yelled, “Lady, run, get out of here, hurry.”
Chandra saw that Lady Dorothy had stuffed John beneath his father’s chair. She herself was pressed back against a tapestry, out of danger.
Chandra heard one of Graelam’s men yelling curses, even as he raised his sword to drive it into Mark’s back. Without hesitation, she rammed her sword through the man’s side.
Mark whirled about and gaped at her, at the bloody sword in her hand. She’d saved his life? This was the little princess Jerval spoke of, the girl he believed was overproud, filled with her own worth? He yelled at her, “Lady, thank you, but for God’s sake, get you to safety. I told you to hide yourself!”
“If I had run, you fool, you would be dead.” And she laughed, pure and deep, wheeled around to drive her sword into the arm of another of Graelam’s men who was hacking his way toward John.
Graelam was drawing nearer to her even though three men were on him. He was very skilled, she thought matter-of-factly, not at all surprised, and very strong. His endurance was amazing, probably as amazing as her father’s endurance when he had been Graelam’s age. She felt a man’s hand on her shoulder and jerked about, her sword coming up. “No, lady, I am not the enemy. I’m Jerval de Vernon. Please, let me take you out of here.”
“Oh, no,” she said, and smiled at the young man whose face was streaked with sweat and trickling blood from a wound near his temple. Then he whirled about and motioned two of his men to join him.
Three men surrounded her now. They wouldn’t let her free, hacking, hacking, keeping their backs to her, keeping her in a tight circle, guarding her with their lives.
She heard a yell of fury, saw that Graelam was at the head of a knot of his men, his sword arm moving in great arcs as he fought his way back toward the doors of the Great Hall. He’d given it up, realized he couldn’t overcome all the men, and she knew he hated it, but he would escape, damn him. Abaric, holding his shoulder, his face without color, was staggering behind Graelam, and Graelam was protecting him. No, she couldn’t allow him to escape. She managed to break through her circle of protectors, simply because they believed her safe now and grateful for it, and ran toward him. Her skirt ripped up the side, but it didn’t matter. Suddenly Jerval de Vernon, the young man who had pretended to be Father Tolbert, was there between them and she froze for an instant. She really looked at him now, really saw him. By all the saints, she was looking at her father in his youth. This was a young man so golden, his eyes so brilliantly blue, his body large, so very hard with muscle, that he should have been her father’s son. He was big, sweating, his arm never tiring.
“Let me by you!”
He gave her a quick smile. “Not as long as I am still alive.”
She tried to run around him, but he blocked her. Then he leapt toward Graelam, yelling, “Come, Graelam de Moreton, fight me!”
Graelam saw Chandra behind Jerval de Vernon, and knew she wanted to take his place. For an instant, he felt deep pleasure at the sight of her, at the taste of her rage, the bloodlust in her eyes, the rip in her gown, the blood on that incredible fabric. Damnation, he knew he couldn’t get to her. He looked at the man who faced him now and knew he was a man of his own strength.
“Damn you to hell and beyond,” he said low, and swung his sword in a powerful arc directly down at Jerval de Vernon’s bare neck. But Jerval’s sword blocked his. They hacked at each other, the clash of steel on steel ringing above the cries of the wounded soldiers.
The great oak doors were flung wide. Graelam’s men streamed through them and down the narrow outside stairs, Abaric with them. Graelam drew Jerval with him. He heard his men getting the horses together, gathering their weapons and their supplies. No, he didn’t want it to end like this. He hated failure, tasted it, strong and hot in his mouth.
With a sudden cry of rage, he plunged his sword downward with all his strength, shearing away Jerval’s shield.
They were both panting, sweat blinding them. Graelam saw Owen, his father’s man, bold and coarse, weakening under the onslaught of a younger man. Graelam swung his sword in great arcs, pushing Jerval back, but he was too late. Owen fell hard into a pool of his own blood. Graelam lunged at Jerval as Owen’s death yell sounded lou
d in his ears.
They were evenly matched until Jerval slipped on a slick of blood. He saw Graelam’s sword above him as he flailed the empty air to find balance.
Suddenly, Jerval heard a soft, hissing sound. Graelam staggered back, his hand clutching at his shoulder. A dagger lay deep in his flesh. Jerval turned quickly to see that she had thrown it, that she was staring at Graelam, at the knife in his shoulder. She moved now to stand beside Jerval, her hand on his arm. “I’ll kill him now. Quickly, quickly, give me your sword.”
Even knowing what she’d done with the dagger, even seeing her save Mark’s life, even knowing she’d saved his own life, he hesitated, unable to comprehend what she had done.
“There will be another time, Jerval de Vernon!” Graelam grunted in pain as he jerked the dagger from his shoulder. He started to fling it to the ground when he saw it was Abaric’s knife, given to him by his father. He cursed, then shouted, “Your aim is that of a girl, Chandra, not a warrior. The next time, I shall teach you.” He laughed then even as his men pressed him back, out the great oak doors, into the inner courtyard.
She grabbed Jerval’s sword and ran after him. Jerval grabbed her arm and pulled her down beside him. “No, don’t go after him. Even with your father’s men, we cannot be certain to defeat him. Let him go.”
The men of Croyland and Camberley were pressing about them, running down the outside stairs into the bailey. They stopped then, shouting in victory as Graelam’s men, helping their wounded friends, managed to get onto their rearing horses and ride out over the lowered drawbridge.
Save for the moaning of wounded soldiers and the soft wails of women in the Great Hall, there was silence.
Jerval looked into her face. There were streaks of blood running down her temple, her hair was tangled about her head, her gown was ripped and covered with gore and filth. She was smiling. His father hadn’t lied. Jerval had never seen a more beautiful woman in his entire life. The little princess, soft and adored, helpless and submissive, that he had pictured in his mind’s eyes, died a swift death.
He said slowly, “You are Lady Chandra, daughter of Lord Richard de Avenell?”