He thought the crowd that had gathered might grow bored and drift away, but it did not seem like to happen. More had come than expected, word traveling to the nearest manors and bringing all who could spare a day. There were squires who had served and were ready for knighthood, boys whose fathers wished them to become pages, and more. There were enough concerns to occupy him for hours before the sparring began, and perhaps for hours after.

In every face that looked to him, there was dread and awe writ clear. It had been this way at Edward’s court too. It was always this way, how they whispered and stared and shied away as though he were a dangerous but alluring beast. It was quite a trick, to both attract and repulse so completely, so effortlessly. Wicked and corrupt and lethal, a man to be avoided by chaste maidens and other such timid souls: it was a role he had long ago decided to cherish. A little terror from common fools, and more than a little disgust from those who thought themselves more sophisticated. The predictable reactions were reassuring. He understood them, and they in turn taught him who he was.

He tried to remember the advantage in it, of how it could serve him. But the unease inside him only grew, pressing beneath his breastbone. He forced himself to watch the sparring, ignoring the foreboding that prickled at his skin.

All those who fought had skill enough against each other. It was only when he matched the best of them with the more experienced knights that they were fairly challenged, and Ranulf found himself assessing their every move. One was slow and steady; another nervous and reactive, his weapon restless in his hands. He saw at a glance how each could be quickly defeated, watched their more seasoned opponents intentionally ignore those openings to prolong the fight.

The sound of the blunted swords clashing became soothing, their movements as they fought a familiar and comforting dance. This was a thing he knew, a thing he understood without trying. Even to watch it calmed the tremor in him, called to the thing inside him that wanted release.

He reached for his sword, resolutely turning away from the delight and terror in the faces that watched him, and answered the call.

CHAPTER 16

––––––––

It was not the sounds of the sparring that caused her to take note, but the silence of the spectators.

The yard where the men fought was not far from the herb-house. Gwenllian worked there, one ear stubbornly trained on the sounds of fighting while carefully measuring out seeds of fennel. She had thought to distract herself with this work, but could not help but wonder how Davydd fared against the others, if Ranulf would find a serious challenger in any of the men.