He rode to where all the men were mounted and waiting. “Prepare the Scots. Malton, you will keep the scores and count the seconds.”
Chandra looked hard at the course. She’d studied it since early that morning. It was set the length of the practice field, with straw figures bound upright to long poles, spaced haphazardly, their heads tilted at odd angles. Her fingers fairly itched to draw her sword. She leaned forward to pat Wicket’s glossy neck, guessing that success depended greatly on the destrier’s skill.
As Ranulfe was readying himself for the first run, Lord Hugh rode onto the tiltyard and pulled his horse to a halt beside his son. “So, Jerval, I see your wife is here. Does she wish to show the men how to run the course?”
“She is watching, that is all. Hopefully she will cheer for me as well.”
“You do not sound certain that she will.”
“Nay, I am not, but I am hopeful.”
“It seems that I have saddled you with a hellion,” Hugh said, grinning at his son, “but by damn, she is a beauty.”
“Aye, I know it well.” And the son smiled at the father. “She is exactly what I would want.”
“Does she accept you yet as her master?”
“Probably not.”
“I envy you the taming of her. Your mother believes that you give the girl too much rein, but all in good time.”
“She bends—you just don’t see it much as yet.”
“Actually,” said Lord Hugh, “I have seen none of it.”
Maginn raised his arm, then, with a loud whoop, sliced it through the air back to his side.
Ranulfe raised his sword over his head and galloped toward the nearest straw Scot, yelling, “À Vernon! À Vernon!” The straw head went hurtling into the air. There were thirty Scots in all, and by the time Ranulfe wheeled his horse about at the end of the run, fourteen had lost their heads.
“Not bad for a Cornishman,” Jerval shouted out as the men cheered.
As the sewers raced through the course to fasten the heads back to the bodies, Chandra inched Wicket toward the field. She watched the next three men take their run, heard Malton call out their scores and their times, and wondered why they had all avoided the center of the course, where most of the straw Scots were bunched together. It was a narrow passage, to be sure, but to win, it had to be tried.
She called out, “What is the prize for winning?”
“Do not dare say it, Father,” Jerval said. He called back to her, “It is two pieces of gold, Chandra.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he usually won and his prize was one of the serving maids, usually Glenna, because she knew how to pleasure him until his teeth ached. But that was over now, Glenna forgotten.
“That is a good prize,” she said.
Lord Hugh gave a deep belly laugh. “So you will not tell her.”
“Oh, no.”
“It would make her jealous.”
“It would hurt her. And that is different.”
They turned their attention back to the course. Maginn raised his arm and dropped it, but instead of Thoms galloping toward the course, it was Chandra, shouting, “À Avenell, À Avenell!” as Wicket bounded forward.
Chandra felt a surge of pleasure as her sword sliced through the first straw neck, sending its head flying upward before it landed, careening wildly on the ground. It was not so difficult. Four more heads went flying, clean strikes, all of them. Then she whipped Wicket toward the center lane. She realized quickly enough that she had to hold Wicket on a straight path, and that meant she would have to lean as far as she could, her arm extended to its full length, to have a chance of reaching the straw Scot. Then, within but an instant of time, she would have to get her sword in her other hand to lean dangerously far the other way to behead the next Scot.
She would do it. She set Wicket down the center of the course. She whipped her sword up high, extended it as far as she could, and its weight nearly pulled her from the saddle. By the time she recovered, she’d missed the Scot. She whipped her arm back, having no control now, nearly slashing her thigh. She tossed her sword to her left hand. The time cost her dearly, for a straw Scot to the left was nearly upon her. She twisted about in the saddle, unwilling to pass it by, and slashed her sword at it. It sliced cleanly through the straw man’s chest but embedded itself in the pole. She did not release soon enough, and in the next moment, she was flying off Wicket’s back. She landed on her bottom and rolled instantly to her side. She was laughing at herself when she managed to get to her feet.
She was trying to work her sword from the pole when Jerval galloped to her side and jumped from Pith’s back. “The course is much more difficult than I thought,” she said over her shoulder to him, and kept working at the sword.
He grabbed her, jerking her about to face him. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, but I was a fool to take the center. I had not realized how far the reach was, and how little leverage and time I would have. I am all right, Jerval. My bottom is sore, that’s all.”