I squinted at Walker and thought seriously about running him through with the pointy end of my lance. Surely it was justifiable homicide? The only thing that kept me from throwing down the lance and quitting was my audience.
Word had gotten out that not only was Walker jousting again, but he had taken a new pupil under his wing. I didn’t realize until then just how well respected the man was in the jousting community, but the fact that every morning before breakfast, and every evening after the day’s competition was over, a group of ten or so squires—and occasionally even a couple of jousters—gathered to watch Walker put me through my paces said something about how highly valued his instruction was.
I glanced at the gang of usual suspects, giving them a little wave of my lance to let them know I wasn’t going to take Walker’s bullying. They liked it when I argued with him.
“Try it again, and this time keep your lance steady, and do not rest it on the shield. Only amateurs do that.”
“Who are you calling an amateur?” I yelled as he turned to walk over to the spot he claimed as his viewing stand (it was a lawn chair with a cooler of beer). “I won’t take that sort of a slur, you scurvy knave! You’ve insulted my honor. I challenge you to a joust!”
The squires cheered and looked hopefully at Walker.
“Stop playing around, Pepper, and get to it. We don’t have all evening to waste.”
Those squires who were married or in long-term relationships pursed their lips and shook their heads.
“Waste? Excuse me, who insisted that Bliss stop training me just so he could take over the job?”
Walker crossed his arms over his chest, which would have been a nice intimidating move if Moth wasn’t lying draped over his shoulders, his tale flicking lazily across Walker’s mouth.
Two or three of the squires began to make wagers.
“Get on with it, Pepper.”
“I challenged you to a joust,” I said, waggling the lance at him. “You can’t refuse a challenge.”
The squires all nodded.
“Yes, I can.”
They shook their heads.
“No, you can’t. It’s illegal. It goes against the code of chivalry.”
Three nodded, four shook their heads, two pulled out a pack of cards and began to play a game.
Walker frowned and spit the end of Moth’s tail out of his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you don’t want to joust—”
“But I do, with you, but you won’t. And that’s not fair!”
“Dammit, Pepper, I’m not jousting with you,” Walker bellowed.
The squires, to a man, froze.
“Why not?” I bellowed back.
“Because I’ll break your bloody neck, that’s why!” he roared.
It was at that moment that I realized he loved me, but he hadn’t yet admitted it to himself. Oh, I knew he didn’t want to break anyone’s neck, but it was the way he stood there yelling at me, a vein on his neck bulging, his face red with anger, his eyes icy slivers of silver cold enough to burn liquid oxygen. Only a man in love would get so upset.
That knowledge warmed me through the following two days, and despite the blissful moments I spent in Walker’s arms, I couldn’t help but worry about what was happening to him. The Three Dog Knights finished twelfth in the team competition, well out of the money. No further accidents had happened, nothing out of the ordinary, and everyone seemed to relax, feeling the worst was over. Walker’s covert investigation—which he refused to share with me, the beastly man—got him no farther than my own interviews of anyone and everyone who could have reasonably been around the stable the days before I noticed Marley’s leg. I had given up trying to find out anything about the lances—those were stored in a shed next to the arena, the shed locked and supposedly secure, but I suspected it would be all too easy to sneak inside.
No, what had me worried wasn’t a horrible plan against the team; it was worry about one man who filled my heart. Walker had continued to joust moderately well, but not nearly up to his past standards, according to a whispered conversation I had with Vandal, Butcher, and Bliss the morning of the swordplay competition.
“He’s holding back, that’s what it is,” Vandal said, plucking a latte from the cardboard holder that Bliss carried. “Did you see him in Realgestech? It was like he was made of steel, not his armor. He sat on Marley’s back like a great big lump.”
Butcher shook his head, carefully holding a latte for CJ and his own cup of tea. “He’s afraid, Vandal. Fear will do that to you sometimes.”
“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Bliss asked, biting her lower lip as she glanced toward Walker’s tent.
“He’s taking a shower,” I reassured her.
Her shoulders slumped. “It’s not that I don’t have the fullest respect for him—I know how he can joust. We all do.”
Vandal and Butcher nodded their heads.
“Top drawer,” Vandal said.
“Best there is,” Butcher added.
“And we all know what hell he went through after the accident, but we’re not going to stand a snowball’s chance in a Scotsman’s kilt if he doesn’t snap out of it.” Bliss’s forehead wrinkled as she thought of something. “Did you see his face when Farrell walked off with the team trophy? There was nothing there—no anger, no sorrow, nothing. It was as if he doesn’t care anymore.”
“He cares,” Butcher said slowly. “It’s buried deep, beneath all the self-hatred and fear that he’ll hurt someone else, but it’s there. He would have gone home if he didn’t care.”
“It’s not enough,” Vandal said, his voice mournful. “He’s ruining all our chances just because he’s lost his nerve. Everyone knows that we would have come in the top three if Walker’s low scores hadn’t pulled us down. Someone has to get him to shake out of it. Someone has to bring the old Walker back to life.”
Bliss turned to me. “Pepper, couldn’t you—”
I choked on the sip of latte I was taking. “Not a chance. You’ve seen him whenever I talk jousting—he goes Joust Nazi on me.”
The three shared a glance before turning back to me.
“Oh, no,” I said, snatching Walker’s cup of coffee from Bliss before backing away from them. “I know that look. You’re not getting me to do anything else. Walker and I have an unspoken peace treaty going on, and I don’t want anything to ruin it.”
“You’re the only one he’ll listen to,” Vandal whined, grabbing my sleeve to keep me from running.
“Bull! He’s known you guys much longer than he’s known me,” I said, still trying to make my escape.
“He’s not sleeping with us,” Butcher pointed out.
“So? The act of sexual congress does not give the congressee magical powers of persuasion.”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s an Ale Wench who could have me painting myself blue and dancing naked on the green if she put her mind to it.”
Butcher shot Vandal a scathing glance. “You did that last year at the French championship. No, I agree, Pepper is the logical choice. She can talk to Walker where we can’t. He knows how we feel; we’ve all talked him blue about the way he’s been jousting.” For the first time since I’d met him, his eyes held none of the gentle amusement that was normal. Instead, his usually warm eyes were bleak and flat. A cold shiver rippled down my back at the look. “We aren’t getting through to him. Only you have the ability to do that.”
The three of them looked at me with such hope in their eyes that I couldn’t just walk away as I wanted. Instead I went back to Walker’s tent to feed Moth, wondering how on earth I was going to broach the subject without Walker going ballistic.
That was the thought that consumed me most of the day. While the Three Dog Knights sat in the small outdoor arena to cheer on Butcher, Fenice, Vandal, and Geoff during their matches, I let my mind dwell on the problem at hand.
How was I going to tell the man I loved to throw away caution and joust like t
he maniac he used to be? At first I had thought his reputation had been exaggerated, but after listening to some of Walker’s tales about past tourneys, I had a new appreciation for just how he had earned the title of Walker the Wild. The key was to get him to make a sincere attempt to win the competition without endangering his—or anyone else’s—life, which meant I had to polish up that tarnished self-image he held.
“Easier said than done.” I sighed as we watched the competition.
“What is?” Walker asked, his voice a low velvet rub against my skin, his breath hot in my ear. I relaxed into his side, stroking Moth where he lay on Walker’s thigh.
“Nothing important. I’ll tell you later.”
“Later? When you’re naked and writhing beneath me and begging me to spread your thighs and—”
I put a hand over his mouth, allowing my fingers to do a little caressing before removing them. “Yes, thank you, Walker, just in case there was anyone left at the Faire who didn’t know exactly what was going on, that should clear up the confusion.”
He grinned at me, my heart turning a somersault at the look. When he wasn’t being Walker the Hun, he was everything I had ever wanted in a man—witty, charming, intelligent, mostly respectful of my opinion when he wasn’t telling me what to do, and sexy as hell. The last few days he’d started to open up to me, sharing his thoughts and feelings in the dark, warm hours of the night when we lay sated in each other’s arms, our bodies tangled together in drowsy completion. The thought that his trust in me might be shattered by the conversation I needed to have came close to breaking my heart. How could I risk losing everything I have with him, our entire future together, just for a stupid competition? I asked my Wise Inner Pepper.
How can you believe you have a future with him if he won’t conquer the darkness he hides inside? WIP answered back.
I ground my teeth and tried to tell myself Inner Pepper had clearly lost her mind, that Walker and I would be just fine if he never lifted another lance for the rest of his life. The following day I watched him covertly as he followed the swordfighting. His muscles twitched in time to the fighters’ bold sweeps of the swords, his arms tightening and releasing as he anticipated a blow, his body swaying and jerking as he countered a near-fatal lunge.
My heart sang a hopeless dirge as I admitted that maybe Inner Pepper wasn’t so wrong. Fighting was in Walker’s blood; he loved it so much that even in his darkest moments, he couldn’t separate himself entirely from the combat community. The man was born to be a knight. He’d even chosen a livelihood that would feed his addiction, keeping him around horses and their owners, many of whom were also part of the jousting society.
“Vandal’s up,” Walker said, interrupting my dark musing by wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer. The lovely, spicy Walker smell of manly man sank deep into my blood, and I couldn’t help but wonder if we could bottle whatever it was he exuded. “Now you’ll see some real fighting, not the feeble bit of sparring that we’ve seen so far.”
There was pride in his voice, pride and satisfaction and pleasant expectation, as if he were anticipating a precious gift. I gnawed on my lower lip as Vandal swaggered into the swordplay ring, calling out taunts and slurs against his opponent (one of the Canadian team). Would it change his relationship with his teammates if I turned him back into the old Walker? Would he resent them for demanding he give his all for them, or would he see them as innocent, ladling all the blame onto my head?
“Vandal!” one of the Ale Wenches yelled, waving a pair of undies at him. He saluted her, waving to the crowd as the announcer read off his name and history. Both men were in full armor, the heavy plate stuff, not just mail. Vandal’s helm had a scarlet plume that bobbed in the wind for a few seconds before the ring marshal shouted the cue to start.
“Holy cow,” I couldn’t help but say, my mouth hanging open just a bit as I tried to keep my eyes on the blur that was Vandal.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Walker asked, his voice warm and happy. “Best there is in England.”
“Did you teach him that?” I asked, not taking my eyes off Vandal as he danced around the Canadian, his sword flashing in the sunlight.
“Me? No, his father did. He was a master fencer.”
Crash! Vandal landed a blow on the man’s shield. Whammo! Another to the guy’s sword arm. Screeeeeauck! Metal slid along metal as Vandal cracked the poor Canadian right across the middle of his breastplate.
“I can believe it.”
With each blow, Vandal’s opponent got slower and slower with his responses, his strikes against Vandal all easily parried by the far more talented Englishman. In a matter of two minutes or so, Vandal had the Canadian backed up to the boundary of the circle in which they fought.
“One,” Walker said.
Vandal swung backhanded, landing a blow on the Canadian’s side. The man stumbled backward.
“Two.” A smile flirted with Walker’s lips as the Canadian raised his shield in an attempt to deflect Vandal’s spinning slam to his head. It didn’t work. He fell to his knees, the toes of his boots just touching the white line of the circle.
“Thre—Urgh! What the hell!” Walker lunged to his feet along with half the crowd, the rest of us too stunned by what we’d seen to do anything but watch in horror.
Vandal’s opponent, obviously realizing he was about to lose, made a last-ditch effort to gain a few points by throwing himself, sword first, at Vandal.
The curved wooden shield Vandal used to defer the blow suddenly went flying under the assault. Vandal stood for a moment looking down at his arm where the two upside-down U-shaped metal prongs that held the shield to the arm still embraced his forearm, barely leaping back in time to avoid being impaled on the tip of his opponent’s sword.
“Oh, no! Why aren’t the judges stopping them? Can’t Vandal call a time-out or something?”
“Not for faulty equipment, no, not without conceding the match,” Walker answered grimly.
“What’s he going to do?” I asked, flinching as Vandal’s opponent, realizing he had the advantage despite having almost been beaten, slashed at Vandal’s armor.
“Fight.”
“That armor can’t be pierced by a sword, can it?”
“No, but he can still be hurt,” Walker answered, his hands fisted as the opponent lunged forward, intent on skewering Vandal. He parried with a spinning backhanded move, then before the Canadian could recover, caught the man full on the chest with his booted foot, throwing him backward four feet, well out of the circle. The crowd erupted in cheers.
I sagged into a relieved blob. “Thank God it’s over.”
“The match might be over, but that’s about the only thing that is,” Walker growled, stepping across my legs.
I grabbed the back of his tunic, pausing only long enough to scoop up Moth from where he was sleeping in an empty nacho tray. “Oh, no, please tell me that move Vandal did was legal, and he won’t get DQ’d!”
“It was legal. Anything is legal in the sword ring except blows below the waist. He won’t be disqualified.” Considering the long two-handed broadswords the men were using, the rule made a lot of sense, if nothing else for their unborn children’s sakes. I scrambled out of the bleachers after Walker, knowing his words should have made me a happy camper, but the look in his eyes chilled me to the bone. I knew what he had referred to as not being over, what all the Three Dog Knights were thinking—the saboteur was back.
Vandal, I had to admit, handled the whole thing with great aplomb. After helping the man he’d defeated to his feet and making sure he was all right, he swaggered around the ring, bowing to the men and blowing kisses to the ladies just as if nothing untoward had happened.
Walker and Butcher stood together examining the broken shield. CJ, standing next to Butcher, looked frightened by something he pointed out. Once more I was aware of a feeling of isolation, as if I were looking in from the outside, not a stranger, but not part of what amounted to a family. Even CJ
seemed distant when it came to the team—she’d brought me, but I knew her heart lay with Butcher and the team. And oh, how I wanted to belong, too.
Maybe there was a way I could earn a spot in their group. Maybe if I figured out who was behind the attacks, they would view me as more than just Walker’s Faire girlfriend.
My mother always said respect was best earned, not handed over undeserved. “Obviously it’s time for Sherlock Pepper and Dr. Moth to do their stuff,” I told the cat tucked under my arm. “I hope you’re part bloodhound, because I have a feeling we’re going to need all the help available to nail whoever’s responsible.”
I stood back from the crowd, watching as people streamed up and down the wooden bleachers on either side of the uncovered ring. The Three Dog Knights—Vandal excluded, being busy with his adoring gang of Ale Wenches—huddled together around the shield, their faces guarded.
“Let us review the suspects, shall we?” I whispered, hoisting Moth up so he was cuddled against my chest, his soft felt horns bumping against my chin. Along the far side of the ring, Farrell and two of his men—both swordfighters—stood in conversation. As I watched, a woman in obviously rented garb and a man bearing three cameras approached the threesome. A few seconds later Farrell was posing with his men. “Suspect number one: the handsome Farrell Kirkham. Motivation: intense jealousy of Walker spreading to encompass any member of his team. Opportunity: loads of it where Marley is concerned, unknown but probable for the lances, and as for Vandal’s shield . . . hmmm. Unknown there, too. What do you think? Guilty or not?”
Moth reached up and patted my lips with his paw.
“What is that supposed to mean? Yes, I speak the truth, or no, what I’m saying is all wrong?”
Moth just looked his mysterious, all-knowing cat look at me. I touched the tip of my finger to his little pink lips. “Oh, that’s helpful. If I touch your mouth, you”—he sank fangs into my finger, and I jerked it back—“you’ll bite it, that’s what you’ll do, you mangy beast! You know, you totally suck as a spunky side-kick. Right. On to suspect number two.”
Veronica applauded from where she sat at the bottom of the closest bleacher. She was surrounded by her teammates, all there to cheer on their swordfighters, one of whom was in the ring now up against a giant Aussie. I watched the woman fight for a minute, then transferred my gaze back to Veronica. She looked as perfect as ever, her hair tousled in that expensive, “takes an hour to achieve” look of careless fashion, her tights emphasizing the long line of her legs, her tunic tailored to make the best of her rangy, athletic shape. She was professional, in control, and clearly wore the mantle of leader well, demanding respect from everyone who knew her. She was also covertly watching her ex-husband as he and his team congratulated Vandal. “I say she’s guilty. I wonder if Canada has the death penalty for horse abuse?”