“Only eight men to compete?” Graelam asked, turning to Rolfe. “Have I counted aright?”
The other men had moved away to take positions along the course. The truth was out. “Aye, ‘tis primarily the men who have not done much of this.” Indeed, he had handpicked the men who would not make Kassia look like a complete graceless child. Most of them were big men, clumsy with a bow, men who were trained to the lance and mace.
“I imagine,” Graelam said acidly, “that I am about to be most impressed,” for he had begun to recognize the men, even from this distance. “I did not know that Joseph even knew how to notch an arrow.”
“He has been practicing,” Rolfe said. “Come, my lord, I believe they are ready to begin.”
They had erected a small dais, wide enough for only two men. Graelam jumped into it and gave Rolfe a hand.
He turned at a shout and watched the first man, Arnold, ride into the course, his bow aimed at the first target. The arrow struck the target with more strength than accuracy, and Graelam shook his head. By the time Arnold had completed the course he had managed to hit the bull’s-eye on six of the twelve targets.
There was much good-natured laughing and cheering from the men.
“Arnold the ox!”
“He’ll eat the targets he missed for his dinner!”
“Most fascinating,” Graelam said sarcastically to Rolfe. “I grow more excited by the minute.”
The next two men did no better than Arnold, and Graelam was beginning to believe that Rolfe had arranged this ridiculous competition as a jest. He started to say as much to his master-at-arms, but Rolfe was staring fixedly toward the next rider.
Graelam did not recognize the man—boy, rather, he quickly amended to himself. But the stallion, Ganfred, was from his stable.
“At least the lad shows more ability than the rest,” he said, watching the boy draw his bow smoothly back and gently release the arrow. It hit the center. He frowned. “Who is he, Rolfe? A new fledgling you wish to take under your wing?”
“He does well,” Rolfe said, trying to postpone the moment of reckoning as long as possible. “Look, my lord, another bull’s-eye!”
Rolfe felt himself swell with pride. She was doing well, despite the problems she was having with the stallion. By the end of the course, she had struck nine bull’s-eyes out of twelve.
“The boy is undersized,” Graelam said, watching him ride back to the far side of the field. “I begin to believe that you arranged this competition just to make him look good. You gave him Ganfred to ride? Who is he, Rolfe?”
“My lord, look! Here is Bran!”
Graelam shot a sideways glance at Rolfe. Something was brewing. He decided to wait and see and simply enjoy himself in the meanwhile. The wiry, graceless Bran made Arnold look like a master archer. Graelam joined the laughter as Bran finished the course, smiling widely, showing the huge space between his front teeth.
“I will challenge any jongleurs to beat this act!” Graelam said.
Perhaps, Rolfe thought, he shouldn’t have picked such utter dolts to compete. Even if Lady Kassia won, it wouldn’t be much of a victory. He realized that the men competing had, of course, recognized her, for their performance became even worse. All the men were very fond of her, and were shielding her. He saw the men whispering to each other, passing the word along, and he realized that he had made a grave mistake in allowing this. Graelam would skin him alive.
He cleared his throat nervously. “The lad appears to have won the first round, my lord,” he said as the men slapped Kassia on the back, congratulating her. “The men will pair up in the second round and compete for the targets.”
“I can barely contain my excitement,” Graelam said dryly.
Rolfe saw that Kassia was paired with Bran, the worst of the lot. He waited until the two of them rode toward the first target, jockeying for position as they drew close.
“The lad, my lord,” he said, touching Graelam’s sleeve to gain his attention, “he did win the first round.”
“Aye, and he does not do so badly in this one. But he had better watch Bran’s horse. The brute hates Ganfred.”
Rolfe drew in his breath in consternation. The plan had been to have Kassia ride smartly up to her husband, pull back her hood, and demand the prize from him. He watched helplessly as Bran’s horse reared up, kicking his hind legs at Ganfred just as Kassia, as vulnerable as possible, raised her bow to shoot at a target.
“We must stop this!” Rolfe shouted.
“Why? You are growing soft as an old man, Rolfe. Let’s see how much talent the lad does have.”
“The lad, my lord, is your wife! She did not ride Ganfred until yesterday!”
“You are mad,” Graelam said between his teeth. “The jest goes too far, Rolfe.”