Mary Gillgannon Read Online Free PDF Page B

of a flurry of flailing arms and grim faces. When he could finally see him again, Richard’s knife was gone, and three men had his arms pinned behind him. His eyes were black whirlpools of hate.
    “Face me on the tournament field, you bastard. I dare you!” Richard taunted.
    Faucomberg’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t respond. He jerked his head toward the door. His men abruptly released Richard and followed after him.
    Will was finally able to reach Richard. His friend was glaring toward the door and cradling his right hand against his chest. Blood trickled down his fingers in a dark stream.
    * * *
    “It’s only a scratch, Will. I won’t even notice it by tomorrow.” Richard lay on a pallet before the fire while one of the de Lacy squires rubbed goose grease into his thick muscles. Will glanced at his friend’s bandaged hand morosely. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was in the worst possible place—cutting across the palm of Richard’s sword hand. It was sure to weaken his grip on the heavy lance he would wield in the tournament.
    “You shouldn’t have gotten involved, Richard. All you did was make a dangerous enemy and get yourself hurt.”
    “I wasn’t going to stand there and let that arrogant sack of shit call you names!”
    Will shook his head. “You must learn to ignore it. I can’t change what I am, and there will always be men like Faucomberg who can’t resist taunting me.”
    “But he called you a coward!”
    Will shrugged; “In his mind those who share my aberration are something less than men. I’ve grown used to it.”
    “Miserable wretch! If he would meet me on the tournament field, we’d see who is the coward then!”
    “It will never happen, Richard, and it’s just as well. You have your own reputation to consider. If you appear as my champion...” Will hesitated. “People might say that you and I...”
    Richard’s eyes hardened. “Pathetic, gossiping fools.”
    The slap of the squire’s palms on Richard’s sleek, oiled skin was suddenly the only sound in the room. Will’s taste in lovers was a subject neither man wanted to discuss.
    “Let me get someone to look at that hand, Richard. I want to make sure you don’t need it stitched.”
    “Stitched!” Richard sat up abruptly. “God’s blood, Will. I told you, it’s only a little scratch.”
    “Still... I’d feel better if you had it looked at. I could ask the serving wench if she knows of a physician...”
    “A physician? You must be mad. I wouldn’t let one of those murdering bastards near me if I was on my deathbed!” A slight smile quirked Richard’s lips. “But perhaps you should get the serving wench up here anyway. I have this ache in my groin that needs attending.”
    Will groaned. “You’re hopeless, Reivers. The next thing I know you’ll be asking for a skin of wine to kill the pain. Get some rest. You have a tournament tomorrow.”
    * * *
    Richard frowned as he rolled out of the sagging bed. His hand was sore and throbbing. He pulled off the ragged bandage and stared at the wound. It was clean, no festering. Still, it hurt. The thought of clutching a heavy lance made him wince.
    He shrugged his shoulders to ease his morning stiffness and tried to banish his doubts as well. He needed to win this tournament, and he had no intention of letting a sore hand interfere with his plan. He’d fought with much worse injuries before, and this time he was competing for something he’d dreamed of all his life. Land of his very own.
    A thrill went through him as he considered the rich hill country around Tudbury. Already he could envision it: his own small but formidable fortress and surrounding it, ripening fields gleaming golden in the sun, sheep grazing peacefully in the meadows, with cattle down by the river. In the fall, the produce of his prosperous lands would fill up a dozen sturdy carts and be taken to market. There it would be changed into gold, and the gold used to buy exquisite things to fill his