Free Linda Barlow by Fires of Destiny Page A

were so concentrated that little direct sunshine could penetrate to the acorn-scattered ground.
    Sometimes Alexandra would sit down on the moss floor to rest and dream, but today she did not intend to linger. She was walking rapidly, singing a merry ballad, and enjoying the vigorous exercise of her hike, when a movement ahead in the gloom caught her attention. A lull in the breeze enabled her to hear the sharp metallic clash of steel striking steel. For a moment she could not identify a sound that seemed so foreign to the place. Curious, she walked toward the shadows circling one another beneath the vaulting branches. Two men were doing battle there. Each was wielding a sword.
    For a second Alexandra thought they must be apparitions playing out some ancient feud. Two men dueling in Westmor Forest? In the heart of the woodland, not far from Merwynna's cottage? It was outrageous. She advanced upon them as if she were a defender of the place.
    In the next moment she realized who they were and what they were doing. She stopped, but it was too late: this time they had seen her. She visualized the gloomy hall, the low fire, the voices she had not wanted to hear, although she had listened. She seemed doomed to intrude upon them, whether she liked it or not.
    They put up their weapons and Roger waved. There was nothing to do but go on.
    "Good morning to you," she said brightly when she reached them. "Don't stop. How often do I get the chance to see two masters at swordplay? Who's winning?"
    Roger and Francis Lacklin exchanged a look. They were both stripped to short breeches and hose—naked to the waist—and they were sweating. Each held a slim practice sword, and a supply of rapiers stood leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree. They were unusual-looking weapons, slimmer than she was used to, not at all in the English style. She wondered if they were Turkish, Venetian, or Florentine. The rest of their things—clothes, a couple of knapsacks, and a flagon of wine—were also piled there beneath the tree.
    "He is, as usual," Roger answered with a genial nod at his companion. His hair was plastered down across his forehead; with one hand he reached up and pushed it aside. There were beads of sweat on his throat, too, and on his wide bare chest. Alexandra stared at them, fascinated, while his glance took in the pack on her arm. "What are you doing here? Are you on an errand of mercy to some woodland cot?"
    Alexandra looked into his eyes in a futile attempt to take her mind off his smooth, sun-browned skin with its dusting of silky dark hair. He had beautiful muscles on his chest and belly. Indeed, she was certain she had never seen such beautiful muscles before. His arms, too. His shoulders. "I'm going to visit Merwynna," she managed to say.
    "Merwynna? You mean that old witch? God's blood, is she still alive? She must be nearly eighty."
    Roger had been friendly with Merwynna too, she remembered. At least until the day he had gone to Merwynna and demanded that she put a spell on his father, who had beaten him bloody for some childish prank. Merwynna had bound up his wounds but refused him the spell, which had angered Roger. He had insisted afterward that she was no true witch at all.
    "She's old, but as spry as ever. I see her often. My way lies through this grove. What are you doing here?"
    She asked this even though she already knew the answer. Francis Lacklin was leaving Whitcombe tomorrow. He and Roger must have wanted to be alone to discuss their treasonous plans.
    She expected Roger's glib tongue to answer her, but it was Lacklin who said, "He's been after me for days to prove I could still cut him to ribbons, so I'm finally obliging, even though I'm out of practice, while he's fresh from fighting Saracens in the Middle Sea."
    "Cut me to ribbons! Ha! I felt but one hit, and that barely palpable. Come on, Francis, you pompous blackguard, don't think I'm about to let you catch your bloody breath because of Alix. Defend