The Maiden and Her Knight by Margaret Moore Read Free Book Online

capture Baron DeFrouchette and get a large ransom.
    The earl of Montclair slowly raised his trembling arm. His arm pressed against his side for stability, Connor lowered his lance. He would loosen his grip during the charge and hold his weapon out slightly from his body. That way, his arm would be better able to absorb the impact. If he were too tense or held the lance too close to his body, he could be pushed off his horse upon contact with an opponent’s shield.
    Lord Montclair’s arm fell, and in that moment, Connor dug his heels into Demetrius. His horse leaped forward and broke into a gallop, ahead of the rest of the men on his side.
    With a sound like distant thunder, the huge beasts of all the knights in the melee galloped forward across the space between them.
    There was the baron, easy to see in his scarlet surcoat, his lance wavering. Likely his arm was too weak to effectively control his weapon. Hunched down, his gaze straight ahead, Connor moved his shield toward the middle of his body and aimed his lance directly at the baron’s shield.
    His lance struck the shield—and split, the separate pieces shattering like so much tinder.
    He couldn’t believe it. His lance was oak, the hardest wood in England. It shouldn’t have—
    The baron’s weapon plowed into his shield, his arm and shoulder taking the full force of the collision. He tumbled off Demetrius and fell hard onto the ground. Stunned, the wind knocked from him, it felt as if his left arm had been torn off at the shoulder.
    No, still there…but the pain…
    Ignoring the agony and the noise of the horses, mengrunting, lances striking shields, as well as the clang of sword on sword, he struggled to get to his feet lest he be trampled by the huge hooves of the baron’s horse and those of other combatants. At the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, he crouched and looked up to see the Baron DeFrouchette looming above him. His left arm numb and useless, his shield fell to the ground—but by then he held his sword in his right.
    He heard a different sound and whirled around just as another knight in a royal blue surcoat embroidered with a silver eagle brought his blunted sword down on his injured shoulder. The blow and the pain brought him to his knees.
    â€œGet off the field, you Welsh pauper, and leave it to more worthy men,” Baron DeFrouchette taunted.
    His pride fierce, his resolve fiercer, Connor staggered to his feet. “I can still take you,” he growled, his teeth clenched as he blinked back the hot tears of pain that filled his eyes.
    â€œYou heard him, Welshman,” the other knight said in the noble drawl of Sir Auberan de Beaumartre. “Get off the field.”
    â€œDamn you! I’ll take you both!”
    â€œOh, I think not,” the baron sneered. “Here come the nursemaids to tend to the unfortunate wounded. Shall I call them over to you, Welshman? They can carry you from the field.”
    Both men laughed as they turned their horses back toward the melee, which had moved off toward higher ground.
    Gritting his teeth, he started after them, determined to fight, the blood of battle throbbing in his ears, the desire to beat them pounding through his body. Sweatpoured down his face and into his eyes, stinging and momentarily blinding him. He went to yank off his helmet with his left hand and again fell to his knees as pain like the curse of hell shot through his left shoulder.
    He remembered what he had said to Lady Allis last night, about knowing when to quit the field, and uttered the most profane and colorful Welsh curse he knew, because today, that time was now.
    Struggling to his feet, he spied a rotund little man in a black ecclesiastical robe trotting toward him. With him were two men, bareheaded but clad in the padded gambeson of foot soldiers, carrying a litter.
    He waved them away. He was not going to add to his humiliation by being carried from the field.