Free The Tournament of Blood by Michael Jecks Page B

man was sweeping away old rushes.
    ‘Out!’ Sir Walter snapped and the man fled while the knight untied his hose and pulled off his shirt.
    Helen watched him while she slowly removed her skirts and tunic. In every way he was a good husband to her, kindly and generous, and a master in the tournament. They had been married three years
now, and she had never yet seen him bested.
    ‘Hurry, woman! I’ll burn with lust else!’ he grumbled. He was already on their bed, the blankets pulled back, and now he took hold of her and pulled her towards him.
    It was a wonderful body, he thought, holding her at arm’s length a moment while he felt his ardour mount. Long in the leg, slim in the waist, she had a flowing mane of red-gold hair
framing a finely sculpted face with small nose, high cheekbones and slanted green eyes.
    Sensing his impatience, she quickly climbed atop of him, kissing and stroking to ensure his pleasure. It was her duty. She knew that he would suspect her of adultery if she ever rejected his
demands, and his response would be swift and uncompromising. She made love with a silent passion until he spent, and then worked a little longer, more slowly, until she gasped and fell onto his
chest, her breathing gradually calming.
    His chest was damp with their sweat. She kissed it, then rested her cheek on his shoulder, twining her fingers in the thick hair of his breast. ‘You’re confident of
winning?’
    Glancing down at her, his voice registered his surprise. ‘Do you have any doubt?’
    ‘I have never seen you lose.’
    ‘Yes, I will win. I have the horse, I have the equipment, and I know I have the most virtuous Lady to egg me on.’
    ‘After that display? You can still think me virtuous?’
    ‘For a woman, yes. Yes, I would say you are honourable enough,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t dare to be otherwise, would you?’ He gave a low chuckle as he rolled her onto
her back and climbed between her thighs.
    Only when he had exhausted himself and could lie back with his hand on her belly did his mind return to the tournament. Sighing contentedly, he allowed himself to consider the thrill of riding
once more against another man.
    It was rather like this taking of a woman, he thought. There was a similar tingle to the blood, a similar clutch at the belly, a heightened awareness of life. And the delight as an opponent fell
was similar to the pleasure when a woman surrendered herself. Both were exquisite, wonderful experiences. Different, but similar in some way.
    He had never lost in the lists. He couldn’t. He would take on any odds to win because within him he knew he harboured a strain of explosive cruel violence that exceeded the fabled madness
of a
berserker
. When his blood was up, his rage was like a red mist which encompassed his entire being, and he could throw himself into combat without a thought for his own safety, beating
at his opponent with a wholehearted ferocity that terrified any who stood before him.
    It even shocked
him
sometimes. Like when he had almost killed Sir Richard Prouse six years ago at Crukerne. Not that it was his fault. Anyone could fly off the handle in a
mêlée
; he wasn’t the first. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Especially in a battle. The ransom had been paid in full, which was what mattered. More business for that
usurer Benjamin, no doubt.
    The memory of Dudenay brought a scowl to his features. Tight fisted bastard son of a Parisian peasant’s poxed dog! His charges for the armour had been extortionate. It was all Sir Walter
could manage not to put his hands about the money-man’s throat when he had demanded his interest. Never again, thank God! Not now the creature was dead.
    Baldwin felt his wife’s grip tighten as the contractions returned, her breathing changing until she was almost panting while her fingers dug into his forearm, making him
wince. Gradually her breathing recovered and Baldwin blew out his cheeks in relief as her fingers released