D'Argent made a low hissing sound and cast a wary look around the stands, but the cheers and jeers were too loud to hear what was being said in the ring.
“I could have you arrested right now,” he said as Máel circled him, making him turn awkwardly. “You are an outlaw. A brigand. I could call the hue and cry.”
“Then do so.”
The baron made no move.
“You do not,” Máel observed. “And we both know why. If you call for them, there will be questions. ‘Why does the Baron of Ware know an outlaw and brigand?’”
The baron lunged with a stabbing jab.
Máel stepped back smoothly. “‘Why is that brigand here?’”
D’Argent’s face flooded red.
“‘Why did the baron retain his brigandish services in the first place?’”
The baron lunged and hacked at the armor encasing Máel’s forearm. Máel swept back and to the side. D’Argent stumbled forward, carried by his furious attack.
Máel whirled around. “You do not want people asking those questions, Ware, for I can answer them.”
D’Argent regained his balance and turned.
“Simply raising the questions will see the deed done,” Máel said. “You do not need anyone doubting your loyalties. Not at this tourney that is little more than a cover for rebellion for half the men here. You will be ruined. And then you will be dead.”
Ware rushed forward and took another swipe, but his rhythm was off, his focus disrupted. He missed. Máel danced back.
They turned again and faced each other.
“Prince John is far, far away,” Máel said softly. “I don't know what he's promised you lot of traitors, but he'll never deliver on his promises or his threats.” He smiled. “But I will.”
D’Argent backed up, sword held in a graceless clutch. “You are beyond your station when you threaten me. Moreover, they would never believe the word of a brigand over a nobleman.”
“They will if I have evidence.”
D’Argent’s eyes widened in shocked understanding. “The missive. You kept the message.”
“You burned the one I came back with, but you could not burn the one I delivered to Scotland. The one with your seal on it.”
D'Argent grabbed for him. The crowd booed. Chants of “Fight, fight, fight,” rang out.
The baron held onto Máel’s tunic. “What do you want?” he snarled.
Máel ripped his arm free. “Everything. All the money you owe me, and my father's sword.”
D’Argent’s eyes darted away. “I don't know anything about a sword—”
Máel swung, lifting his blade to deliver a crashing blow.
In other circumstances, were d’Argent not frenzied at the prospect of having his treason laid bare and his head cut off, the blow may have done little damage.
As it was, it knocked the sword out of his hand. The baron fell backward and sprawled on the ground.
Máel stepped forward and laid the tip of his blade to d’Argent’s throat.
The flesh dimpled and a small drop of blood appeared, a ruby jewel quivering at the edge of the blade point. He had to fight the urge to press forward and slice the twice-tempered steel through the baron’s neck.
“I will go get your rancid sword,” d’Argent rasped. His throat bobbed against the sword. “I do not have it here.”