Stubbornly Ambrose gathered himself and stood up. “Your horse is the better fighter,” he snarled, but he looked shaken and tired.
“Is that so?” Hodgson replied. He dismounted and approached Ambrose, sword raised, and the difference between the men became more obvious to Catherine. Hodgson was taller, wider, and more muscular. He was bleeding, though he seemed not to notice the wounds to his leg and back.
“Hodgson won my tournament last year,” said Boris. “He’s the best sword in my troop and as tough as they come.”
Ambrose backed away. Hodgson advanced. They circled. Hodgson thrust forward with a combination of hard, powerful lunges, each one deflected, but always Ambrose was moving backward.
Catherine knew there was no hope for Ambrose. “Stop this, Boris. Stop them.”
“All he has to do to stop it is give in and hand over his spurs.”
“Ambrose beat Lang and has first blood with Hodgson; it’s Hodgson who should be handing over his spurs.”
“Seems to me that my man wants to carry on.”
And Hodgson moved forward, swinging his sword. Ambrose parried but his whole body seemed to shake with the force of Hodgson’s blow. Again Hodgson advanced and Ambrose retreated, but this time he tripped on a clump of grass, staggering backward off balance, and Hodgson closed on him, driving his sword down on Ambrose, who just managed to deflect the blow before falling sideways. Hodgson stepped forward, raising his sword to deliver the killing thrust.
“No!” Catherine knew Ambrose was lost.
But then Ambrose’s sword was in Hodgson’s chest.
Hodgson looked as shocked as Catherine. Then she realized it was all a ruse. The trip had been deliberate; Ambrose had feigned being off balance under Hodgson’s guard, so his opponent’s chest was unprotected and Ambrose could thrust his sword up, driving it through cloth and skin and bone.
Hodgson still tried to bring his own sword down, but Ambrose anticipated that too and rolled sideways, leaving his blade buried in Hodgson’s chest. The big knight fell like a tree to lie facedown in the mud. Ambrose picked up Hodgson’s sword, glanced at Lang, and finally turned toward Boris.
His chest was heaving and he shouted, “The bridge is mine. Anyone can cross.” He pointed the sword at Boris and spoke in a voice that Catherine hardly recognized; it was so full of rage. “Even you, Your Highness, are welcome to travel this way if you feel brave enough.”
Boris’s face was twisted with fury, and for a moment Catherine thought he might charge at Ambrose. But at that instant Sarah and Tanya appeared, riding fast toward the bridge.
“Take your maids and return to the castle now,” growled Boris.
Catherine was sure that if she did, Boris would attack Ambrose. To do so would be dishonorable and somehow even he couldn’t do it with Catherine and her maids to witness it.
“I’m not leaving without my men.”
“Do as I say!”
“Not without my men!”
“Are you disobeying my instructions?”
“My instructions are always to stay with my guards. And your men, brother, have challenged mine and lost. Take the defeat like a man. Or you will lose all honor.”
“It’s not my honor that’s in question. What was I saying about contriving to be with that man?”
“It is you who have contrived all this, not I! Every day I ride safely here with my maids and my guard. Today, because of you, there is one man dead and another maimed.”
Boris pointed at Catherine. “No, because of you. Stay with your maids then, and your lover. But Noyes will not be as merciful with him as I have been.”
And Boris kicked his horse and galloped off toward the castle, shouting, “Evan, tend to Lang.”
Sarah and Tanya pulled up their horses, staring in horror at the men on the ground.
Catherine looked around. Peter was on horseback behind her. Sir Evan was running to assist Lang. Ambrose dropped to his knees, exhausted. And in the center of all of them was the body of Hodgson. But Catherine had to think: Boris had called Ambrose her lover. Whether there was proof or not was irrelevant; Noyes would come for him. If Ambrose was taken, he would be killed.
Catherine slid off her horse and ran to Ambrose. He looked up at her. His cheek and forehead were splattered with flecks of blood. He looked lost. “I couldn’t give them my spurs.”
“I understand, Ambrose. You’ve proved your honor and my brother has proved he has none, but Boris will send Noyes and his men now.” She held her hand out to Ambrose, intending to help him up, but instead he took her hand in his and bent forward to kiss it.
Skin on skin. His soft lips, his warm breath on her skin. So gentle, so strong, and yet so vulnerable. She wavered, wanting to kneel next to him, to hold him, but she was aware of Sir Peter’s eyes on her. She forced herself upright and said, “Please, Ambrose. This is impossible.”
Ambrose closed his eyes. “Yes, Your Highness.”
And the way he spoke, with such emotion in those three words, Catherine had to bend to him again. “Please, Ambrose. Noyes will be on his way here soon. You must leave.”
“I’m your guard, Your Highness. I can’t run away.”
“I’m ordering you to go. It is not me who is in danger now. You are, and I’m ordering you to leave. Never to be caught. That is my order. Go!”
Ambrose gazed up at her, and Catherine noticed how his eyes were hazel, blended with green and gold. She wanted to remember them, but still Ambrose didn’t move.
“Please, Ambrose. If you stay you’ll end up in one of Noyes’s cells. I couldn’t bear that. There is no dishonor in leaving now. I want you to go. I want you to evade Noyes. Frustrate him and Boris by remaining free. Don’t be caught like your sister was.”
This final comment seemed to rouse Ambrose, and he rose to his feet. “I’ll go, but know that if you asked me to stay I would do that just as willingly.”
Tears were in Catherine’s eyes now and one ran down her cheek. Ambrose brushed it gently away with his fingertips.
“You will be a great queen one day, and I will do my best to live to hear of it, Your Highness.”
He took her hand again and kissed it. Another touch, but now the last time she would feel his breath and the warmth of his skin . . .
She closed her eyes to savor the feeling. Then his hand was gone; just the cool air remained. And he was on his horse looking back at her, and then he rode off, quickly disappearing into the trees.
Sarah came to Catherine and asked if she needed water. Catherine waved her away. She didn’t need water; she needed to know that Ambrose would be safe, but there was little she could do to help that. She went over to Lang, lying unconscious, and asked Evan, “Will he live?”
Evan rose and bowed formally. “Yes, Your Highness. I’ve stopped the blood. The prince will send a surgeon. I’ll stay here until he arrives.”
And Catherine found herself saying, “We’ll return to the castle and ensure the surgeon is sent promptly.”
And perhaps somehow delay the pursuit of Ambrose . . .
Catherine walked back to Saffron, every step dreamlike and unreal. She knew she could never have a life with Ambrose, that she’d have to live with Tzsayn. What made her angry was that all this fighting was unnecessary. If her father or brother knew her at all, if they had any understanding of her, they’d know she would marry Tzsayn. Were they really concerned that Prince Tzsayn would be put off because a man had looked at her? Or was this another excuse to persecute the Norwend family?
Now Peter, not Ambrose, held the stirrup for her, and Catherine was on her horse, her mind still not caught up with her body. Sarah and Tanya rode close to her, though they hardly spoke. Catherine dreaded seeing Noyes and his men. They would hunt Ambrose down without mercy. But the more time he had to get away, the more chance he would have of survival.
As Catherine rode into the castle, her heart sank. Noyes and five of his men were already riding out. Catherine waved them to a stop, anything to delay their departure, even for a short time. Noyes approached and inclined his head in the smallest approximation of a bow.