By King's Decree. Shari Anton

bit her bottom lip and looked away. Gerard frowned and stood, slowly and carefully this time. He needed to get outside, into the cold air to banish the effect of the ale.

      Still holding her hand, he felt the slight tremor that shook her. With his other hand he reached out and tilted her chin, forcing her gaze back to his face.

      “Say my name, Ardith.”

      She hesitated, then said musically, “Gerard.”

      His fingertips moved from chin to cheek.

      Harold stirred. “Ardith, a cup of water.”

      Ardith retreated a step.

      Gerard knew he was on the brink of acting the tyrant, of ordering Harold to get his own damned water, then hauling Ardith off to the privacy of his tent.

      “’Till the morrow, Ardith,” he said, and left the chamber.

      

      “Have they lost their wits?” Ardith exclaimed.

      “Nay, Ardith, ‘tis but a game,” Bronwyn said, patting the frosted grass beside her on the hillside. “Come sit and watch. We should be safe at this distance.”

      Ardith wasn’t so sure, though Bronwyn had chosen a viewing site at least an arrow-shot away from the men on the field.

      “When Corwin said sport I thought he meant footraces, or wrestling. I never imagined—” Ardith indicated the field and tangle of men with a sweep of her hand “—this madness.”

      “Have you never seen a ball game?” Bronwyn asked.

      Ardith shook her head, then watched in horror as a man tossed a leather sphere to, she assumed, a teammate. Ball in hand, the man went down under a barrage of opponents. “They will kill each other.”

      “Oh, you may have a bit of bleeding to stop and a few bones to straighten, but I doubt the blows will kill.”

      “When does the sport end?”

      “When the team with the ball crosses the goal, in this case the end of the field. Whichever team accomplishes the feat, wins. Baron Gerard’s team is getting close.”

      Though the day was cold, some men played barechested, among them Corwin and Gerard. From what she could see, so far they had escaped injury. Others weren’t so fortunate. Blood ran from men’s noses and from deep scratches down their arms and across their chests. She tried to assess injuries, but her gaze kept drifting back to Gerard.

      When not buried under a pile of men, Gerard was easy to pick out. He stood a head taller than the others, his golden hair a beacon on the gray day.

      Bits of mud clung to the hair on his muscled, sculptured chest. His thighs bulged against his breeches, threatening to rip open the seams as he struggled. Black leather boots hugged his calves.

      Where other men lumbered, Gerard moved with grace. Like a large cat, she thought. The young lion.

      He reached down with splayed fingers and dug the ball out of the writhing mass at his feet. With a roar heard above the shouts and grunts of the other players, Gerard turned and tried to run. He bounded over one fallen man, but another caught his ankle, stopping his flight long enough for an opponent to leap on his back. Gerard dislodged the man with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

      Gerard continued to shake off opponents. Caught up in the excitement of watching the display of raw strength, Ardith wanted to scream his name to cheer him onward. Then the tide turned.

      Gerard’s challengers kept rising and attacking until he finally succumbed. It took four men, hanging on him like leeches, to bring him down.

      Ardith’s stomach tightened as she watched for him to reappear. A clamor rose from the crowd. Whether the cheer was for Gerard’s prowess, or because he’d managed to toss the ball to Corwin, Ardith wasn’t sure.

      She scanned the field. When she finally saw Gerard getting to his feet, she exhaled shakily and stood. “’Tis barbaric,” she complained to Bronwyn. “I will return to the manor and ready water and bandages.”

      Bronwyn’s gaze never left the field as she delicately lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.”

      Ardith tossed her hands in the air and turned toward the manor. Along the way she snared three serving girls, who protested having to leave the display of sweat-glistened male flesh.

      “You will see their attributes up close shortly,” she told them. “If this idiocy continues, they will drop from wounds and exhaustion and need tending. I fear we may not get water heated before they drag the first of the fallen back to the manor.”

      Ardith’s prediction proved true. As she cleaned scrapes and poulticed bruises, she noticed that Lenvil’s men-at-arms had taken the worst beating. Nearly all had returned battered and bruised. From the men’s talk, she knew the teams had been evenly divided, with men of all three loyalties on each side. Lenvil’s soldiers had succumbed early and hard, leaving the men of Wilmont and Bronwyn’s escort to play out the game.

      As she glanced about the hall for another man to bandage, she saw Thomas standing in the doorway. He made a slight, beckoning hand motion. Thomas was dirty and a bit scratched, but otherwise seemed sound.

      “My lady,” he said quietly as she reached him, “when you have a spare moment, would you attend Baron Gerard?”

      Ardith’s apprehension blossomed. She pictured Gerard lying broken, bleeding profusely, dying on the playing field. “Where is he? How badly is he hurt?”

      “In his tent, nursing a lump on his head.”

      “Why did he not come into the manor?”

      Thomas looked sincerely shocked. “Oh, no, my lady, he could not. He would never show any weakness before the men.”

      Ardith looked around the hall. “Has the game ended?”

      “Baron Gerard was the last man off the field.”

      She thought to ask who won, then decided she didn’t care. She fetched a bowl and some rags, then gave the bowl to Thomas.

      “The pond has frozen over. Go fetch ice and bring it to the baron’s tent”

       Chapter Five

      Ardith pushed open the tent flap. Gerard sat on a stool near a small table, his booted feet spread for balance. With elbows on knees, he held his face in his hands.

      “Did you get a cold rag?” he muttered.

      “I sent Thomas for ice.”

      Gerard slowly raised his head. “What do you here?”

      “Thomas said you need tending.”

      “I do not need tending. I need but a cold rag.”

      “Apparently Thomas thought someone should look at your head. Since I am here, may I?”

      He hesitated, then nodded. The motion made him sway. Her bottom lip between her teeth, Ardith crossed the exotic rug spread as a floor for the tent. Her fingers trembled as she pushed aside his sweat-wetted hair. The lump was as large as a goose’s egg and colored a nasty shade of blue.

      Incredulous, she gasped, “You walked off the field?”

      “Of course.”

      Ardith shook her head. “Men and their cursed pride. I thought my father the most stubborn man in England. Next you will try to persuade me you have no headache.”

      “Ardith, ‘tis but a little bump on the head. I have survived much worse.”

      She swallowed the lump in her throat. She chose not to ask how he’d come by the scar below his right ear,