I looked down at my arm and saw Sir Parnell’s gloved fingers encircling it while flashes of Branford’s obviously pained face invaded my mind.
“Release me.” I could hardly hear myself speak.
“You are not going down there,” Sir Parnell said again. “I know of which I speak. He does not want or need anyone near him right after he has been bested. You need to—”
“I said, release me!” I shouted at him. Sir Parnell’s eyes went wide, and I was not sure which of us was more surprised by my outburst. I felt his fingers relax and pull away from me a second later.
“Yes, my lady,” he said quietly as he bowed his head. “Please forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I have known Branford all my life, and he will not be…‘pleasant’ at the moment. He will want his privacy.”
“Once I know he is not badly injured, he can have it!” I turned and held up my skirts so I could wa
lk quickly down the wooden steps to the edge of the arena then around the side of the castle wall until I reached the opening where Branford had disappeared. I walked through the gate and up a path leading to the buildings that housed the animals. I saw movement next to a high stone wall covered in vines and quickened my pace as I made my way toward it.
Branford was seated on a stone bench with his sword propped up against the wall and his helmet beside him. Two large trees grew close to the wall where he sat, their roots making a tangled mess around the bench. He held his left arm away from his body while the right one gripped his hair. His eyes were closed and his mouth drawn into a vicious looking scowl. Sir Parnell’s warning ran through my head, but I shook the thought away. If Branford was badly hurt, it was better to help him as quickly as possible.
Lifting my skirts again, I closed the distance between us. When a dry branch snapped under my foot, he looked up, alerted to my presence. My husband’s eyes opened, and I heard myself gasp as he glared at me. His green eyes looked black with his fury.
“Get away from me!” His voice was a snarl.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” I replied. I felt my teeth sink into my lip, and I looked down at the ground near his plate-encased feet.
“I said, ‘Get away!’” he screamed as he stood abruptly and took a step closer. The fingers of his right hand clenched as he leaned toward me, his fist drawn back. I saw the muscles in his left hand also twitch to form a fist, but his fingers did not comply, and I saw my husband wince in pain.
“Give me your hand,” I said. I tried to keep my voice low and calm. Branford’s entire body seemed to strain against itself, like he was having trouble keeping his muscles bound within his skin. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared, and I could have sworn I heard a low growl in the back of his throat.
“You need to leave,” my husband said through clenched teeth. “Now.”
“I am not leaving until you let me look at it!” Again, my own outburst seemed to startle me as much as it did Branford. His eyes went wide for a moment as he looked upon me with mouth agape. The fire was still in his eyes.
“Please,” I whispered. I took another tentative step toward him. “Let me make sure you are all right.”
He glared at me and shook his head as he dropped back down to the hard bench with a clang of metal against stone. His right hand ran through his hair again, and it splayed out over his forehead in tangled, sweaty lines.
“It is nothing,” Branford said. “It is not even my sword arm. Go back to the stands. I do not wish to speak with you or anyone else!”
Taking the remaining steps needed to reach his side, I slowly knelt beside the stone bench and reached for his hand anyway. At first, he drew it away from my grasp but eventually sighed and allowed me to look at it. The edge of his hand and wrist were already turning purple with bruises though there was no blood. I ran my fingers lightly over his hand and arm as I knelt by his side. Though it did look like a bad bruise, it did not appear to be too grave. His arm was straight with no indication of a break.
“Are you able to make your hand into a fist?” I asked.
“What difference does it make?” Branford asked, still growling but not as harshly as he had been.
“I want to see if your fingers are broken.”
Branford mumbled under his breath but still complied. He hissed as his hand clenched, and though it was obviously painful, he did make a proper fist, and the bones appeared to be intact.
“I told you,” he said again, “it is nothing.”
I glanced up at him and found his dark and glaring gaze trained to mine, full of the angry tyrant that lived inside of him. I refused to look aside, determined not to allow him to push me away when he was hurt unless I was sure he would be all right. I tried to breathe normally as I held his gaze, but it was difficult.
Slowly, the fire in his eyes dimmed, and he sighed heavily. His expression turned strangely shy as he looked away from me to the ground near his feet. I traced my fingers slowly over the edge of his battered arm. His gaze swiveled back to mine and widened for a moment, and I was sure he was holding his breath. He parted his lips as if he were going to speak but closed them again before he had uttered a sound, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He reached out slowly with his right hand and touched my cheek, his thumb running tenderly across my cheekbone. The expression on his face was so strange, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
“What is wrong, Branford?”
He shook his head, dropped his hand from my face, and closed his eyes. The unusual look in his eyes was gone when he looked back to me again.
“I want to win…for you,” he finally admitted. He sighed deeply. “I wanted to present you with whatever the prize may be, and I managed to not even make it through the first trial.”
“It does not matter to me if you win,” I said, “I only want you unhurt.”