The Warrior's Reward Read Free Page A

of the knights and, of course, the surgeons which were inevitably needed. Her father’s tournament was never meant to be a fight to the death but accidents happened and occasionally tempers flared.
    She gripped Bella closer to her while they made their way past a group of men sitting around a fire. The merchant tents were farther back, some still open to sell their wares. Food and drink was most popular at this time of day and several men, and even a few women, stumbled along the wide mud pathway that led to the centre of the revelry.
    Ahead a huge bonfire blazed. Smoky swirls rose into the air then vanished into the blackness and sparks danced from it. The scent of burning wood mingled with that of a hog roast that Rosamunde saw was being carved from one of the many stalls surrounding the fire. But the main attraction was the ale tent. Set up by the local innkeeper, the shouts and singing told her many were in it and the innkeeper would do well from this tournament.
    “Should we go in?” Rosamunde asked when they neared the tent. The flaps were lifted far back and rows of tables were occupied with knights and simple peasant folk, all bonding over their shared passion—for getting into their cups.
    “I don’t think that’s wise, my lady. What if someone recognises you?”
    “They will not. No one would believe for one moment that my father would let me out without him.”
    Bella’s arm tensed on hers but Rosamunde would not be dissuaded. She refused to have regrets about tonight. They ducked into the tent. No one turned to look at them as she feared. In fact they were all far too busy enjoying themselves to care about the two new women in their midst.
    And if the scantily clad state of some of the wenches was anything to go by, no one would bother. Breasts were pressed into faces and thighs draped across laps of the obviously richer patrons. Rosamunde had to fight to keep from gaping. She had no ambitions to be a... well, to be a fallen woman, but a sharp jolt of something knifed through her. To have no inhibitions, to have such freedom. The thought of pressing herself against a muscular man, of his fingers on her thighs or maybe even her breasts made her pulse flutter.
    Before she got carried away with such ideas, she urged Bella to the trestle table that housed several dozen tankards of ready-poured ale. Rosamunde pressed a coin into her friend’s hand and urged her forward. “Buy some,” she hissed.
    “We don’t even know what’s in it.”
    “’Twill just be ale.”
    Bella dropped her shoulders and shuffled over to take two beakers and hand the coin to the innkeeper. Then she gave Rosamunde one and made a good show of checking the contents.
    Rosamunde clasped the earthenware tankard and took a great gulp. Bitter hops flooded her mouth and she fought to keep from spluttering.
    “I warned you.”
    Narrowing her gaze at Bella, she lifted the tankard defiantly and drained it, even allowing some to slip down her chin. She swiped a hand across the back of her mouth and they both laughed.
    “That is certainly not like the ale we have in the castle. And not nearly so weak, methinks. I feel all warm and tingly already.”
    “Oh, my lady, whatever are we to do with you,” her lady-in-waiting said indulgently.
    “I could think of a few things,” a man slurred from behind them.
    They both leapt forward when the large man wrapped his arms about their shoulders. Bella managed to slip away but his grip on Rosamunde tightened. Acrid breath washed over her. Rosamunde wrinkled her nose. The man needed a bath.
    She tried to wriggle away again, reluctant to draw attention to herself, while Bella darted her gaze wildly around.
    “Release me,” Rosamunde said in her most impervious voice.
    “Come join me for a drink, wench. Ye look lonely. I’ve a fine lap for ye to sit on.”
    “I thank you, kind sir, but I do not want to sit on your lap. I’m quite happy where I am.”
    “Nonsense.” Securing his other arm around