The Tournament of Blood Read Online Free PDF

clumsy, misbeg—’
    ‘Simon!’
    As his eyes regained their focus and he could take in his surroundings, he recognised his wife. ‘Meg, can’t you keep the child under control?’
    ‘Child?’ Edith demanded, her smile instantly replaced by a black frown. ‘I’m nearly fourteen.’
    Simon ignored his daughter, clambering to his feet and rubbing his belly ruefully. He was a tall man, with thick, dark brown hair frosted at the temples. With his face ruddy from the wind and
rain, he scarcely looked his age, almost thirty-six.
    His wife, Margaret, a tall, slender woman whose blonde hair was turning grey, smiled serenely. Over the years since their marriage she had seen him change considerably, but now she was delighted
to see that he was losing the thinness about his cheeks and at the edges of his mouth. They had been caused, she knew, by her failure. It was easy to remind herself that many women couldn’t
give their husbands the sons that they craved, but in Margaret’s case there was an intense guilt because she had regularly conceived but then miscarried since poor Peterkin died. She felt as
though her womb had shrivelled inside her, was incapable of supporting another child.
    After Peterkin’s death, Margaret had blamed herself for the way that her man shrank in upon himself. He withdrew, his hair greying and his complexion growing sallow. Each time she
conceived she was aware of his solicitousness, which only served to make her feel still more wretched as each time she failed to give him another son.
    Not now. Simon could hold his head high once more, and the light of contentment filled his eyes, making them gleam with an inner fire. Right now he was eyeing his daughter with orbs that
appeared to shoot fire – and Margaret was convinced that their incendiary impact would soon make itself felt.
    ‘Well, Dad? You could have hurt me!’ Edith declared, hands on her hips. ‘You should have looked where you were going.’
    ‘You dare try to blame me?’ Simon thundered.
    ‘Edith, fetch wine! Go!’ Margaret ordered and, hearing the sharp tone of her voice, Edith shot her a glance, giggled, and sprang away. ‘You appeared in the doorway so swiftly
you made me jump,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I could have dropped Peterkin.’
    She saw his gaze flit down to the bundle in her arms and his fury cooled immediately.
    ‘I thought he was upstairs. Is he all right?’ Simon asked.
    ‘I think so, yes, but really, husband, in future, please be more careful.’
    ‘
Careful?
’ he repeated with a sarcastic lifting of his brows. ‘And pray how should one be careful about a daughter running into one’s stomach? She was like a
whirlwind at full-pelt, the little heathen.’
    ‘Please don’t swear about your daughter,’ Margaret said distantly. ‘She is upset enough as it is. She has a brother – not something she had expected – and her
nose is out of joint.’
    ‘Ah, you think so?’ Simon asked. ‘Jealous, is she?’
    ‘Just a little. And confused.’ Margaret looked down as Peterkin gave a short gasp and snuffle. ‘She is at an age when she will notice boys – and some have noticed her,
too.’
    ‘Dirty little sods, the lot of them! Let me catch them sniffing about
my
daughter and—’
    ‘It’s only natural, my love.’
    ‘Many things are natural, but that doesn’t mean I have to condone them,’ he grunted. ‘The thought of some idle whoreson mounting my girl . . .’
    ‘It will happen. Edith is a young woman,’ Margaret said softly. ‘She will be thinking of a husband soon.’
    ‘Humph.’ Simon knew she was right, but the idea that his little Edith was almost an adult, ready to breed and raise her own family, was hurtful – as if the girl had acted
treacherously towards him and his wife.
    ‘Shush!’
    He looked over his shoulder to see his daughter appear carrying a jug and mazer for him, walking slowly and carefully with a small towel over her left arm and shoulder like a steward.