Knight's Prize (17 page)

The
second man joined them. "Aye, you're lucky he didn't get to
your
coin."

Rand
frowned, patting his purse. 'Twas true. The Shadow hadn't stolen from him. But
was it because Rand had defended himself so well, or had the thief simply not
wanted to bother with his coin?

"Do
you need a few shillings to get you home?" Rand asked.

The
first man shook his head. "Nay. 'Twas only our winnings anyway."

"Winnings?"

"Aye,"
the second man told him, "coin won wagering last night."

The
men thanked Rand for his offer and for his admirable attempt with his sword,
but already Rand's brain was reeling over what they'd said. He stared off into
the forest where the outlaw had disappeared.

The
Shadow must be connected somehow to Rivenloch. Someone at the wedding supper
last night, someone who'd been wagering at the table, someone unhappy with his
diminishing purse, must have found a way to recover his losses. Could The
Shadow be a hireling of sorts, an agent of retribution for one of Rivenloch's
denizens?

'Twas
difficult to imagine. The Cameliard knights were highly regarded in chivalrous
circles, renowned for their honor and loyalty. And the Rivenloch men he'd
spoken to seemed too fiercely proud to resort to such underhanded tactics.

But
then Rand had seen the worst of men. Traveling in the environs he did, he came
into contact with villains of the roughest sort, men who could grin and clap
you on the shoulder while shoving a knife into your back. He'd seen once kind
and peaceful men, tormented by some act of violence against their loved ones,
ask for the kind of vengeance only the Devil should exact.

Rand
drew the line at cold-blooded murder. He refused to be a hired assassin. But
though he was ashamed to admit it and loath to remember, as a young and desperate
mercenary, he'd sometimes been a partner to that kind of revenge, delivering
wrongdoers into such men's hands, turning a blind eye and walking away while
they claimed their payment in flesh and no doubt secured their place in Hell.

Thus
Rand had learned that all men were fallible. Honor was fragile. Loyalty was
fleeting. With the right motivation, heroes could be turned to outlaws in the
wink of an eye.

Was
avarice enough motivation for a man to hire a robber like The Shadow to
terrorize the countryside?

Most
certainly. And 'twas up to men like Rand to stop them.

The
Mochrie men had finally settled the damsels' petty bickering by awarding The
Shadow's knife to the young lad who traveled with them, much to the ladies'
dismay. But as soon as Rand bent to retrieve his broadsword from the forest
floor, the maids found something new to pique their interest.

"What's
that?" One of the damsels pointed to a shiny object winking up from the
ground beside him.

"
'Tis mine," one lady claimed.

"I
saw it first!"

"Nay,
you didn't. I—"

"Ladies!"
Rand's irritation was only exceeded by his curiosity. He snapped up the object
himself before they could engage in a wrestling bout for the thing.

'Twas
a silver coin.

One
of the maids gasped. "Is that what The Shadow tossed at you?"

He
furrowed his brow. It must be. But why?

"It
must be a token of honor," one of the men-at-arms guessed. "He paid
you for giving him a good fight."

"How
romantic," one of the women sighed.

"I
knew
he
was a man of chivalry," another declared.

"Perchance
we'll see him again one—"

"I'll
take my leave now." Rand's patience was at an end. He flipped the coin once
and slipped it into his purse, out of the envious view of the Mochrie maids.
Then, sheathing his sword, he nodded farewell.

He
planned to spar in the tiltyard again today, to immerse himself in the ranks of
the men of Rivenloch, earn their camaraderie, gain their trust. Tonight he'd
join in the wagering, keeping a close watch on the players. And he'd try not to
get distracted by the breathtaking lass who kept creeping into his thoughts.

Chapter 11

M
iriel
was finishing
up the accounts at her desk when Sung Li came
up behind her with a late breakfast of oatcakes and butter.

"It
seems your suitor is much more... talented than he led you to believe."

Miriel
tensed, but kept her eyes on her ledgers. It made her edgy when Sung Li spoke
of Sir Rand. 'Twas obvious he detested the man and would do anything to get
rid of him. But Miriel didn't want to get rid of him yet, not before she
discovered his intentions. "Talented?"

"He
is quite skilled with the sword."

Miriel
swallowed hard. Sung Li was right. "Is he?" She shrugged, dipping her
quill into ink to scrawl the last figure on the page. "Mayhap his skills
are improving because Pagan has been sparring with him. Pagan's a good
teacher."

"Those
kinds of skills a man does not learn in two days," Sung Li said, setting
the basket of oatcakes at the edge of Miriel's books. "He is born with
them."

"So
why would he underplay his skills?" She asked the question as much to
herself as to Sung Li. "Why would he pretend incompetence?"

"Why
would you?" Sung Li asked.

She
frowned thoughtfully. "The greatest weapon is the one no one knows you
possess."

"Exactly.
The element of surprise."

"Hm."
Miriel blew on the last entry in the ledger to dry it, then closed the book,
sliding it aside. "What makes you so interested in his swordsmanship
anyway? Swordsman or not, you know I could knock him on his arse."

"Pah!
Sometimes you are overconfident," Sung Li warned, "like a duckling
who thinks it can fly because it can swim."

Miriel
broke an oatcake and spread a thick layer of butter over it. "If I'm
overconfident," she said, giving Sung Li an obsequious grin, " 'tis
only because I have the best teacher in the world."

"Hmph."
Sung Li never fell victim to Miriel's fawning. He was a wise old man who saw
through everything,
almost
everything.

"Besides,"
Miriel said, pausing to nibble on the edge of the oatcake, "I should think
you'd be pleased that I have a suitor adept with a blade."

He
lowered his brows and intoned, "Those who practice deception have something
to hide."

Miriel
stared at the old man.

Sometimes
his words sounded terribly deep and mysterious.

Other
times it seemed he only stated the obvious.

This
was one of those times. She opened her mouth to argue with him, to tell him, of
course
they
have something to hide, then thought better of it. One never argued with Sung
Li. At least not if one wanted to avoid an hour-long diatribe on the wisdom of
the Orient.

"You
should go to the lists," Sung Li said. "Watch him. Study him."

Miriel
took another bite, mostly to delay answering. She supposed there would be no
harm in watching Rand fight today. Indeed, 'twas always a pleasure to watch a
handsome knight wielding his sword—lunging, thrusting. Gasping. Sweating.

But
she suspected Sung Li knew more than he was telling her. His directive was less
of a suggestion, more of a command. And she sensed a wary warning in his voice.

"All
right,
xiansheng,"
she conceded, "if you insist."

In
the end, she was glad she had taken an hour out of her day to observe from the
practice field fence while Pagan put Rand through his paces. She suspected
Rand's congeniality as he sparred with the men was as carefully manufactured
as his inability with a blade. But he was damned good at it, nearly as good as
she. She had to admire his talent.

He
feigned great interest in Pagan's advice, mimicked to perfection the moves that
Rauve taught him, and even listened to Deirdre's recommendations regarding his
grip on the sword.

His
swordsmanship showed marked improvement, which Miriel knew was just as
calculated. After all, naught flattered and ingratiated one to a man so well as
steadily improving under his instruction.

Miriel
took note of his checked swings, the slashes that went wide of their mark, the
delayed blocks that resulted in close misses.

He
was intentionally minimizing his ability. He was certainly capable of greater
strength and speed. He only withheld them because he had no call to use them
here.

Deirdre
came up beside her. "He's improving."

"You
think so?" Miriel affected a small pout. "Helena said he fought like
a wee lass."

"Coming
from Helena, 'tis a compliment. You should have seen her fight when she was a
wee lass."

"What's
this?"

Naught
could keep Helena from the tiltyard long, even lying abed with her bridegroom
on her wedding morn. She arrived in a breathless rush, wrapping a companionable
arm around each of her sisters.

Miriel
sighed. "Do you think he'll ever fight well enough to protect me?"

Helena
gave her a sly smile. "Do you like the handsome lad then?"

Miriel
gazed out across the field again, where Rand was crossing swords with Rauve. He
was
a
comely man, even if he might be a lying varlet. His shoulders were wide and
powerful. His chest was broad, narrowing below his waist where his belt
rested. His dark hair hung in damp locks about his face, down which rivulets of
sweat ran as he wheeled and lunged with seemingly endless energy. When Rauve
called an end to the fight, Rand's face lit up with the most brilliant smile
full of flashing teeth.

Miriel's
heart fluttered as desire surged through her, unbidden. Lord, the knave was
more handsome than any man should be allowed. Still, she tried to keep her tone
even as she admitted hoarsely, "He
is
attractive."

"And
kind," Deirdre said.

"Aye."
He
acted
kind
anyway, helping the servants, speaking patiently to her father.

"And
generous," Helena added.

"Hm."
Generous? He'd given Miriel his silver coin. But 'twas probably to buy her
affections. He'd also offered escort to the Mochrie maids this morn, and that
was definitely not motivated by generosity. What man
wouldn't
offer
escort to a bevy of fawning women?

"Brave,"
Deirdre suggested.

Miriel
glanced at her. "Brave?"

"Did
you not hear, Miri?" Deirdre's eyes glittered with sudden delight, and she
straightened to her full height to impart the news. "Your suitor, Sir Rand
of Morbroch, this very morn challenged none other than The Shadow."

Miriel
clapped a hand to her bosom. "What?"

Helena
didn't believe her. "Nay."

"Aye.
All the keep's a-buzz." Deirdre wrinkled her forehead. "Did no one
tell you, Miri?"

Miriel
crumpled the neckline of her surcoat. "Was he... was he hurt?"

"Oh,
nay, nay," Deirdre rushed to assure her. "You know The Shadow. Just a
few scratches and a bit of bruised pride. But here's the interesting
thing." She drew closer to whisper to both of them. "The Shadow left
him a tribute."

"One
of his knives?" Miriel guessed.

"Nay.
A silver coin. A tribute to Rand's worthy battle."

Helena
smirked. "Pah! A tribute?"

Miriel
frowned. "A tribute? Is that what he said?"

Deirdre
nodded. "He apparently had quite a battle with the outlaw."