Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

But this was her father’s match, not hers, and she could not set the rules. Her father sent her a furious glare, then looked around at the onlookers and smiled.

“We will not be inspecting lances,” he assured them.

The other combatants were talking amongst themselves, looking at the tips of their lances and gesticulating adamantly.

She caught Máel’s eye down at the far end of the ring and motioned, lowering her palms in an exaggerated motion. Bring your lance down. Then she patted her left shoulder, reminding him of what he’d shown her in these very stands: Sir Bennett’s armor was weak in that spot.

He gave a curt nod and straightened his helm.

She slowly retook her seat.

The joust was beginning to draw attention. More people were gathered along the railings, and others were coming up. A small cheering section developed for Máel, simply because he was unknown.

A little spark of gratitude filled her heart. She waved to the people in the cheering section.

They waved back.

This time, Máel lowered his lance…too far. And he was off-balance. But Bennett’s sword hit the shield rather then his body, and nothing shattered.

One point.

They trotted back to their respective ends.

This was their last chance. Máel knocked Bennett out of the saddle on this next run, or everything was lost.

He took the line in his tarnished armor and simple tunic, his jaw scruffy and his mouth set in grimness.

She thought him the most perfect, shining knight she had ever seen.

She held her breath as they reined about and faced each other, then rose to her feet and dropped her sleeve.

With a spur of their horses, they galloped toward each other.

The horses’ hooves fell like thunder. She could almost hear the wind whistling by her ears as she bent low over the railing, her hands clasped, eyes trained on Máel. It sounded as though a great multitude of people were cheering and shouting.

Dimly, she realized she was cheering too. Calling encouragement to Máel, shouting to Sir Bennett that he did, indeed, have spindly legs.

Waiting, waiting, waiting for impact—

They crashed into each other like ships in a storm. Wood shattered and went flying in the air, both their lances had broken, both direct hits…

Bennett pitched out of his saddle, spun like a top, and hit the dirt. Unhorsed.

She sagged, her hands folded around the low wall before her.

Now a fight to surrender…or worse.

Chapter 35

Máel flung himself off Fury before the horse fully stopped galloping and strode back to the center of the arena.

Bennett was climbing to his feet, shaking his head, sending splatters of blood flying. He wiped his nose along his forearm and lifted a red-rimmed glare to Máel.

“You bastard.”

“Yield,” Máel said, striding closer.

Bennett unsheathed his sword.