Chapter Four
Isobel could hardly wait for the midday meal to be finished the day of the tournaments. The knights had spent the last two mornings practicing their archery and fencing skills and generally fighting the effects of too much wine and ale from the evenings before, but this afternoon they would be competing in earnest.
Sir Guy had asked for her ribbon to wear on his sleeve throughout the two days, but she had managed to prevent that from happening by explaining since her cousin expected her to preside over the events impartially, it would not be proper to favor one knight over another. He had muttered something about being her betrothed, but she had smiled benignly and asked if he wanted the other knights to think he was relying on her influence to win. That idea had its effect, and he’d stomped off, saying he would prove himself to be best.
Dear Bridgid. She had asked Sir William last night to help her slip away. She certainly didn’t want him seeing Sir Guy wearing her favor. She needed William to know she was serious about leaving. She had less than a sennight left to persuade him.
As Isobel left the Great Hall to go to the tournament field, she realized she hadn’t really given much thought to what she would do once she got to Barnsdale if Sir William would take her there. She couldn’t deny she was physically attracted to him—every maid in the castle was, as well—but she simply could not justify throwing herself at him in order to escape. She had no wish to force him to marry her by placing him in a compromising position. She knew all too well how it felt to be coerced into a betrothal she didn’t want. William would hate her for it, and she liked and respected him too much to let that happen. All of which meant she would not be able to stay at Barnsdale, but would have to continue on.
Her dilemma was temporarily put on hold when Isobel arrived at the tournament field. She had been so busy inside the castle yesterday that she hadn’t realized what had been transpiring outside the curtain walls.
The field opposite the tents had been roped off and makeshift benches lined both sides of the area. Banners representing various lords streamed from poles sunk into the ground every few feet. There must have been nigh unto two score fluttering in the breeze. Young pages, wearing the colors of their masters, stood beside each standard, looking both proud and awestruck at the same time.
On the side nearest the castle, a large canopy had been erected to provide shade and the seats were filled with young ladies from the surrounding manor houses. Their brightly-colored dresses reminded Isobel of exotic birds she’d once seen in cages at a local Welsh faire. As Isobel approached, she could hear them twittering like songbirds, as well. The seat in the middle of the front row had been reserved for her, and she sensed the hostility of some of some of the girls’ glances as she sat down. She also heard comments about being betrothed to Sir Guy.
Since she didn’t want to hear about Sir Guy, Isobel turned her attention to the field. Looking at the wooden board that had the order of names listed, she saw that William would be the twelfth knight to compete in each event.
The first event was knife-throwing and the targets were already in place. The bevy of ladies sitting around Isobel murmured and tittered as each knight took his place to throw. Giggles accompanied comments about which knights they would favor with a seat at the Boar’s Head Banquet on the Solstice, but a hush fell when William strode onto the field, followed by a collective moan over the group.
“Where did he come from?” asked one.
“Who cares?” another said. “He looks like a god.”
Isobel did a quick intake of air herself when she saw him. He looked magnificent.
His red cape had been thrown back across his broad shoulders to free his throwing arm, the short-sleeved tunic he wore exposing a bulging bicep and clinging to his flat torso. His long, sun-streaked hair had been pulled back in a queue, emphasizing the chiseled features of his face. His blue eyes blazed with intensity. As he placed his weight backward on his right leg to prepare for the throw, his leggings defined well-muscled thighs and the ladies groaned again.
“I want him to sit beside me at the banquet,” a particularly pretty girl with blonde curls said.
“I am going to ask him first,” a striking brunette said.
“You will need to get in line,” a third, quite buxom, girl said.
Trying to ignore the ladies’ comments, Isobel watched William intensely as he lifted his right arm perpendicular to the ground, his elbow bent just enough that the knife was alongside his head. She hardly had time to notice he held the knife by its blade before he shifted his weight forward, swinging his forearm straight and releasing the blade in one smooth, fluid motion. The knife spun through the air, turning precisely one-and-a-half times before it hit the exact center of the target. The crowd cheered and several of the ladies swore they were about to swoon.
Isobel was beginning to hate the ladies.
The next event was fencing. As they waited for the targets to be removed and the competitors to gather swords, gloves and leather cuirasses, Isobel wished she could seek William out to congratulate him, but knew that would be too obvious. If the way Sir Guy stomped off the field was any indication, he was already in quite a snit from losing.
The matches began uneventfully, most of them over fairly quickly when one opponent’s sword made contact with the other’s arm or torso, the rules limiting touches to above the waist.
William easily won his first round against a knight barely old enough not to be a squire, although that didn’t stop the ladies from acting as though he’d defeated an entire army.
“Ooh. Look how strong he is,” the blonde girl said.
“I wonder if his other sword thrusts as well,” the buxom one commented.
“I would not mind finding out,” the brunette countered to a chorus of giggles.
Isobel was really beginning to hate the ladies.
As the afternoon wore on, William continued to win, but so did Sir Guy, much to Isobel’s surprise. In spite of having an extra two stones of weight around his girth, he moved surprisingly fast and adeptly. Before too long, they were the only two remaining competitors on the field.
“Let us make this interesting,” Sir Guy said, and pulled the linen pad off the tip of his sword. “First blood.”
William looked grim as he removed the blunting from his tip, too. “First blood.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before the ladies surrounding Isobel gasped collectively. The men lining the perimeters broke into shouts and immediate wagering began. Isobel leaned forward to look past the ladies to get a glimpse of her cousin who was seated at the end of the canopy covering. Roger was frowning, but it didn’t look like he was going to get up and intervene.
Blast him.
She turned her attention back to the field. William and Guy were circling each other like two wild wolves, intent on claiming territory. For a long minute that was all they did, each observing the other. William took a quick step forward as if to engage, testing Gisborne’s reaction as the man raised his sword and crouched. William stepped back and continued to circle.
Gisborne lunged suddenly as if tired of waiting. William met his blade with the side of his own. For a moment, the two adversaries closed before William pressed hard and then cut over Guy’s sword before disengaging.
The two began circling again. Gisborne feinted once to the right, but William seemed to have anticipated that and parried the secondary thrust from the left quickly. He reposted, advancing toward Gisborne with a series of small steps while flexing his blade in a figure-eight movement that allowed for no counter-attack.
Gisborne retreated and the shouts grew louder from the men on the sidelines. No doubt the odds had just gone up on the wagers, but Isobel took no notice. She was concentrating on the moves being made. Gisborne had just managed a coupe and then cut low to deflect William’s line of attack. The deadly, sharp points of each sword flashed in the sun, although she didn’t need reminding that they were not blunted.
“Sir William moves like he is dancing,” one of the ladies said.
“Do you suppose there will be dancing after the banquet?” another asked, and was interrupted by a third girl.
“I want first dibs on dancing with him!”
“No! I do!”
“Maybe I will get to him first...”
Isobel managed to restrain herself from telling all of them to shut their mouths. What a bunch of completely hare-brained, self-centered nitwits. Could they not see the danger on the field? Sir Guy’s expression had gone feral. Isobel feared this was no longer a game. She tried to get Roger’s attention, to no avail.
“I think Sir Guy is taking this match too seriously,” the brunette said. “He looks like he going after Robin Hood himself.”
The blonde giggled. “Well, may not be him, but Sir William’s name is the same as Will Scarlett and he is supposed to be quite dashing.”
“I heard when the outlaws stop a carriage with a lady, Will Scarlett always kisses her hand,” the buxom girl said.
“Well, if he is as good-looking as Sir William, I would wish he would do a lot more than kiss my hand,” the blonde retorted.
The brunette gave her a contentious look. “You want to be tupped by him?”
“Who are we talking about?” the girl who’d spoken earlier asked. “Will Scarlett or our Sir William?”
“Does it matter?” the blonde responded and they all broke into giggles.
Isobel sighed. Giggling maids were one thing. Silly ladies were another. Evidently, their conversation—and their thoughts, if their minds worked at all—were centered on carnal activities. If their chaperones were not careful, these ninnies might very well lose their virtue at the Solstice bonfire. The common folk still held to the pagan rites of fertility after all. Isobel had no idea of what Will Scarlett looked like, but she didn’t relish this bevy of idiotic girls chasing Sir William.
Ignoring them, she turned her attention back to the combatants. Gisborne snarled and suddenly lunged. William sidestepped, coming round to the opposite side of Gisborne’s blade. The man spun and appeared to feint to the right again. William prepared to parry for the left thrust, only Gisborne double-feinted and struck from the right. Caught off-side, William quickly stepped back to give him room to engage. As he did, his heel caught on a root. Isobel’s heart leaped to her throat while her stomach dropped to her feet as William stumbled.
Before he could regain his footing, Gisborne took advantage to press his sword to William’s, the force of his weight behind it. William fell to the ground. Before he could roll away, Gisborne’s blade was at his throat.
“No!” Isobel screamed. “No!”