Free Teresa Medeiros by Touch of Enchantment Page A

them.
    She expected Brisbane to hurl a taunt, but it was the priest who rose from his bench, raised his arms, and piously intoned, “Go with God, my son, and—”
    “I’ve no need of your blessing, Father,” Colin called out, his voice ringing in the shocked silence. “The Church may have failed to protect my property and family as they vowed to do while I was on Crusade, but God always fights on the side of right.”
    The priest retreated, muttering something about arrogant whelps and heresy. Tabitha covered her mouth with her hand, both touched and horrified by Colin’s naivete.
    “Cocky bastard,” Brisbane muttered. “Let the priest save his blessing for the wretch’s burial.”
    Tabitha slanted him a rueful glance. If this man called Colin “friend,” she would hate to meet his enemies.
    She gasped in unison with the crowd as a monstrous ogre of a man appeared at the far end of the field, his chain mail glinting in the sunlight. He wore a metal helm molded to resemble the snout of a mighty boar. Steel plates protected his elbows and knees, making Colin look painfully vulnerable in contrast.
    “Scot-Killer! Scot-Killer!” the crowd chanted with renewed vigor.
    Brisbane leaned over and whispered, “King Henry knighted Sir Orrick for valor after he killed over thirtyScots during a border skirmish. He brought their heads home in a bloody sack and piked them on his bailey walls like rotten melons.”
    She refused to give him the satisfaction of glancing up at the jagged spikes adorning his own castle walls. “Did he also strip them of their armor first? Or were they defenseless women and children?”
    Brisbane settled back in his chair, a pout pinching his lips. “I can assure you, my lady, that Colin has never been defenseless.”
    Tabitha found that difficult to believe as Sir Orrick’s squire led his master toward the platform. Orrick’s magnificent sable stallion dwarfed Sir Colin’s pony. She sucked in a breath as she realized Brisbane had added insult to injury by giving Colin’s own horse to his opponent. The stallion shied sideways, unaccustomed to the bulk of his new rider. The Scot-Killer drew back his golden-spurred heels and drove them into the horse’s flanks, laughing heartily when the squire’s tenacious grip on the reins kept the terrified horse from bolting.
    It was the first time Tabitha had ever seen Colin flinch.
    After the horse had stopped bucking and stood trembling in submission, Sir Orrick bowed his head and humbly accepted the priest’s blessing. The crowd murmured its approval. Tabitha watched with mounting horror as the ham-handed knight was outfitted with an iron-studded shield and an enormous lance. Delicate ribbons laced its length, but not even their festive splash of purple and yellow could disguise the deadly point at its tip. She feared the ribbons would soon be stained with Colin’s blood.
    The crowd burst into laughter as Brisbane’s squire handed Colin a lance that was little more than a tree branch whittled to a blunt tip. He accepted the crudeweapon without complaint, handling it with the same care Arthur would have given Excalibur. He was not offered a shield.
    Tabitha sprang to her feet. “You should be ashamed of yourself. This isn’t a joust. It’s a joke.”
    Brisbane’s lips curved in a feral grin. “One I’m sure Colin will appreciate. He always did have a droll sense of humor.”
    She found it hard to imagine the dour Scot having any sense of humor at all.
    “I should think you’d be flattered,” her host crooned. “ ’Tis an honor to be crowned Queen of the Tournament.”
    “In that dress you’re wearing, you should have crowned yourself Queen,” Tabitha retorted. The effect of her jibe was spoiled when her makeshift crown slid over one eye. Two of Brisbane’s women clapped their hands on her shoulders, shoving her back into her seat.
    The combatants were led to opposite ends of the field. A fat little man who looked as if he’d just