Indeed, she felt rather…free.
“He was a fine one, my lady,” Cassia's maidservant, Edith, whispered as they positioned themselves firmly against the railing that fronted the dirt-packed ring.
“Who?” she whispered back, although her cheeks grew a bit warmer. She might be able to fool her maid, but not her cheeks.
“The one with the dark hair,” Edith said.
Cassia sniffed. “I hardly noticed him.”
“You spoke a long time with someone you hardly noticed, my lady.”
“I was merely being polite. He was but a commoner.”
“A commoner with strawberries,” her maid teased softly.
Cassia looked at Edith, the only friend and confidante in her lonely life. “Pah, what do strawberries rate? I am to be wed to a great knight.”
Her tow-headed maid cast her a knowing, laughing glance. “Marrying isn't what those ones are for, my lady.”
“Edith,” she scolded. “You are here to protect me. I don't know what you're about.” She reached down to tug on her gown which had caught on a splinter in the rough wooden post. “In any event, we are here to see Father,” she reminded her maid. And herself.
But Edith wasn't listening. Her hand shot out and caught Cassia’s forearm, then she gave a strangled whisper.
“Sweet Jésu, my lady....”
Cassia lifted her head to find her father standing in one corner of the roped-off square.
The Irishman stood in the other.
Shock and horror bloomed through her body.
But her cold dismay was nothing compared to the look on her father's face as he turned from the cheering crowds and spotted his opponent.
His eyes widened, his jaw fell, then his face went white. Full white.
The rogue moved into the ring like liquid fire; his sword unslung and hanging low beside his body, as if he could not be bothered to lift it. His head was tipped down slightly, his eyes locked on her father as he moved forward.
Cassia pressed her belly to the railing as a shout was given and the match began.
Chapter 6
Máel circled d’Argent in the ring.
The noise of the crowd was loud, shouts urging both victory and defeat, but it was all like the noise of gulls on a beach. It faded in Máel’s mind as he strode forward.
D’Argent lifted his sword clumsily and backed up. “I—I thought you dead.”
Máel smiled. “Wishing does not make a thing so.”
“It was a...misunderstanding.”
“Which part did I misunderstand? The fists to my head, or the way you left me for dead?”
The baron backed up another step, clearly unable to muster his best sword work in the midst of
his shock. “My men may were overenthusiastic.”
“Perhaps because their lord is a thieving treasonous bastard and he didn't want news of his treachery getting out.”