Kathleen Harrington (25 page)

Pennants snapped in the breeze coming off the nearby river. Wooden scaffolding provided tiers of seating for the lords and ladies. Many of the audience wore Roman garb in the spirit of the occasion, as did Francine, herself.

Colin had resisted the idea. He wore his shirt and kilt, with long hose and buckled brogues. His broadsword hung at his side, his dirk was jammed into his broad leather belt.

On Colin’s other side, Lady Pembroke, costumed in a deep purple palla draped over a pleated white tunic, unabashedly snuggled closer to the tall redhead. She slid her arm through his and smiled ingenuously.

Oliver and Gillescop Kerr came to join their little group. Neither of the two elderly noblemen wore a toga. Nor a smile. At their sober expressions, Francine felt a warning chill creep up her neck.

“Where
is
Kinrath?” Francine demanded of Colin for the third time. She’d been pestering him about the missing earl’s whereabouts ever since they’d sat down.

“I canna say, m-my lady,” he replied with an ingratiating smile. “I’ve only been t-told I’m t-to guard you with my life.”

“Isn’t that what Kinrath is supposed to do?” she grumbled half to herself.

“What about me?” Diana questioned in a plaintive whine. She batted her long lashes and simpered up at Colin. “Would you guard me with your life, sir?”

“Of-of c-course,” Colin stammered. “I-I would gladly d-die for you, m-milady.”

He ducked his head, but the sheepish grin on his face confirmed what Francine already suspected. Lady Pembroke had succeeded in enticing the tongue-tied Scotsman into her bed. The thought that Kinrath’s shy cousin might have been a virgin occurred to Francine. But keeping Diana from seducing a handsome young man would be like attempting to hold back the rising tide of the Thames.

Francine worried about the outcome of their affair. Not for Diana’s sake, but for Colin’s. The unabashed brunette fairly devoured men, then spit them out when she grew bored.

Francine planned to speak to Kinrath about the two lovebirds. She’d advise him to warn his lanky red-haired cousin to guard his heart. But she hadn’t seen her own tall Scotsman since they’d shared breakfast in the abbey’s dining hall that morning.

At the midday meal, Colin had informed Francine that he’d been ordered to remain with her throughout the performance. Kinrath would join her after the spectacle in the arena.

“Where’s Angelica and Signora Grazioli?” Diana asked.

“I decided that the gladiator fight would look too realistic,” Francine replied.

“’Tis merely a performance,” her friend pointed out. “There’ll be no bloodshed to give a child bad dreams.”

“Nevertheless, I think Angelica will be better off staying with Lucia at the abbey.”

Francine didn’t add that they’d be guarded, as usual, by Walter MacRath. Cuthbert and three other kinsmen were to stay with them as well. Diana was unaware that Kinrath wasn’t Francine’s lover, but her guard.

Francine had fully expected him to be at her side during the spectacle. No explanation for his absence had been offered by anyone, including Roddy Stewart, the earl’s gillie, who’d seemed to disappear right along with his master.

After Francine’s dunking in the bathtub and the subsequent sexual intimacy, she’d been careful to avoid any conversation with Kinrath approaching the subject. He seemed to sense her desire to back away from the painful confession she’d started to make as they stood in front of each other completely naked. But though he hadn’t pressed her, she knew he was merely biding his time until he demanded a thorough explanation.

’Twas an explanation she could never give. Not to Kinrath. Not to anyone. Angelica’s safety depended on Francine keeping the vow she’d made to her dying sister.

L
achlan entered the stadium, riding in a chariot pulled by three galloping black horses, to the wild applause of the crowd. Like the driver beside him, he’d been costumed in the gear of a gladiator, complete with plumed helmet adorned with a griffin and bronze defensive plates held in place along the entire length of his sword arm by leather strapping across his bare shoulders and chest and secured by a buckle. He carried a small rectangular shield and wore greaves of hammered bronze to protect the lower part of his legs. Below the shin guards, his feet were bare.

Damn it to hell. Looking down at the curved wooden sword in his hand, Lachlan felt like a naked idiot. He’d entrusted his own weapons to Roddy, who stood watching in fascination from the edge of the arena.

Despite Burby’s insistence that the other contestants would be armed with stage weapons as well, Lachlan couldn’t shake the feeling of riding into a trap. Lychester had seemed far too pleased about the change in plans.

Eight chariots raced around the arena as the audience cheered them on. Charioteers and gladiators alike wore the costumes of ancient Rome. People in the stands rose to their feet, their applause sincere and spontaneous. No one alive had ever witnessed such a sight.

Earlier, the Master of the Revels had briefed Lachlan on the afternoon’s performance.

“Each man will pretend to fight and defend himself,” Burby had explained. “Some of the actors, chosen beforehand, will simulate being wounded. They’ll be taken off the field in market carts.”

“Am I supposed to act as though I’m wounded?” Lachlan asked gruffly. “I dinna like the idea of being carted away in a farm wagon.”

Burby grinned and shook his head. “Since her royal highness asked you personally to participate in this free-for-all, ’tis a foregone conclusion that you’ll be the last man standing, my lord. Princess Margaret wants her future subject to stand alone and victorious in the center of the arena.”

Riding behind the trio of galloping horses in the jolting chariot, Lachlan wondered just how accurate Burby’s plans for the coming event would prove to be.

The magnificent steeds pranced to a halt before Princess Margaret, seated under the colorful awning that had been erected over the stands. The drivers lined the chariots up in one long row before the packed audience. Each gladiator stepped out and raised his fist in a salute to the princess.

They shouted in unison.
“Morituri te salutamus!
We who are about to die salute you!”

The princess smiled with childish delight at the make-believe fighters. Then the drivers galloped their horses out of the ring, leaving the gladiators to face one another.

The audience grew as still as death. Only the faraway calls of a flock of ravens whirling high in the blue sky above the enclosure pierced the silence.

With a nod, Margaret dropped her kerchief. “Let the games begin,” she sang out in her sweet girlish voice.

Lachlan turned to the fellow on his right, whose features were hidden behind a helmet that covered his entire head. Only his eyes could be seen peering through two small holes in the face guard.

Armed with a much larger rectangular shield and a straight sword suitable for stabbing, Lachlan’s opponent approached with a menacing stance.

Burby had assured Lachlan that the Romany actors would use their acrobatic skills to draw the applause of the crowd. He waited calmly, prepared for the man to execute a running leap and then somersault over him. Instead, his opponent struck out with his sword, his full strength behind it.

Lachlan parried the strike, only to watch his own weapon splitter to pieces against his assailant’s honed metal blade.

The whoosh of steel sliced through the air alongside Lachlan’s helmet. He dodged and pivoted at the last second, narrowly escaping a mortal blow.

Instead of all the gladiators fighting each other, they made a ring around Lachlan and began closing in.

Damn Lychester to hell.

Lachlan’s suspicions had been correct.

He was the only man in the arena armed with a wooden weapon.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

F
rancine stared in horror at the performance unfolding before her. How in God’s name had Kinrath become part of the afternoon’s entertainment? Why was he wearing the costume of a Roman fighter?

The other gladiators in the arena were not the professionals who’d rehearsed so rigorously with Charles Burby last spring. They lacked the muscular physique and superb catlike grace of the Romany acrobats.

Grasping Colin’s arm, Francine rose to her feet, dragging him up with her. “Something’s wrong!” she cried. Terror-stricken, she clutched his hand. “Those men are not performers!”

She raced down the steps, Colin right behind her, and Diana fast on his heels

“Wait!” Diana wailed, pulling at his sleeve. “Wait for me!”

“Charles! Charles!” Francine shouted, running toward the Master of the Revels.

Standing beside the low wall that surrounded the arena, Burby looked over. “Lady Walsingham,” he called. “I’m coming! Stay where you are!”

Shoving his way through the spectators crowded alongside the wooden boundary, Burby reached out and grasped her hand.

“Who are those men?” she gasped, panting for breath. “Where are the Romany tumblers? What’s happened to our performance?”

“My lady,” Burby said, his round face filled with horror. “I don’t understand. Those men are strangers. I don’t know where they came from. Or what’s happened to our players.”

Hearing Burby’s disclaimer, Colin raced to Roddy Stewart. “Give me Lachlan’s sword,” he called, snatching a shield from the grass. “Guard Lady Francine,” he instructed the gillie. “Dinna let her out of your sight.” He turned abruptly and almost trampled on Diana’s feet. “Dammit,” he snapped. “I could have injured you. Stay with Master Burby and Lady Walsingham. Whatever you do, dinna try to follow me. Do you understand?”

Diana took a step back, clearly astonished at his bark of authority. “Yes,” she said meekly. “I’ll, I’ll do exactly as you say.”

But she was already talking to his back.

Colin hurtled over the low palisade and raced across the sand. He used his shield to smash his way through the ring of startled gladiators.

“Lachlan!” he shouted. “Your weapon!”

Lachlan grinned at the sound of his cousin’s voice. Hurling the wooden stump he held at the nearest combatant, he caught his sword.

“Good lad!” he called to Colin as he pulled the blade from its sheath.

Without another word, they pivoted to stand back to back.

“There’s only seven of them,” Lachlan told his cousin over his shoulder. “You can go on back to the stands now and have a seat if you’d like.”

“And miss all the fun!” Colin answered with a laugh. “Not on your life! Do we kill them all or just wound a few and let the others run away?”

“Since the princes is watching, we’d probably best knock them around a bit and toss them over the fence. This is supposed to be staged to entertain the fancy lords and ladies. No one came expecting to see real bloodshed, I hope.”

Colin gave a snort of derision. “Someone forgot to tell that to our fellow actors.”

“Let’s not vanquish them too quickly,” Lachlan cautioned. “Use your shield rather than your sword. People will be disappointed if it’s over too soon.”

“Aye,” Colin agreed in a caustic tone. “We wouldna want to disappoint the royal menagerie.”

The thug who’d tried to decapitate Lachlan earlier now hid behind his tall rectangular shield. He lumbered toward Lachlan with the grace of an ox pulling a plow.

Lachlan dodged the awkward jab of a sword and smashed his shield against his opponent’s in a violent clash of metal upon metal. The boom carried around the amphitheater and up to the highest seats. People shouted with surprise and anticipation.

Driving the man back across the sand with a relentless onslaught of sheer power, Lachlan continued his forward rush, whacking his opponent’s helmet again and again with his shield. The fighter dropped his sword and staggered beneath the repeated blows. He fell to his knees with a grunt of disbelief.

Beneath the cover of the other man’s large rectangular shield, Lachlan kicked him viciously in the crotch. He followed up with a blow to his shoulder using the pommel of his sword.

The gladiator fell to the ground, writhing in pain and calling for mercy.

The audience roared with excitement. Many of the noblemen in the audience had studied the writings of Seneca the Younger, who’d described the games in the Coliseum in detail. They leapt to their feet and cried,
“Habet! hoc Habet!
Got him! He’s had it!”

Lachlan had no intention of calling for the spectators to give the sign for death by signaling with their thumbs. Instead, he waved for the cart to take the fallen gladiator away. The fight was real enough as it was. No one needed to be murdered to satisfy a bloodthirsty crowd.

Lachlan glanced over at his cousin. Colin looked to be having the time of his life. Without a helm, his hair gleamed copper in the bright afternoon sunshine. He’d taken his first assailant’s shield and was beating him down into the ground with it. The man howled in pain. No one must have told fellow that the gladiators of Rome remained silent, even under the death blow.

Colin smashed the handle of his broadsword against the man’s cheek plate, striking him where the jaw met the ear. His opponent fell unconscious on the sand.

The remaining fighters paused while servants, dressed in short togas, rolled a two-wheeled market cart into the arena, loaded the fallen men, and took them away.

The gladiators clearly weren’t Romany acrobats. Nor were they trained soldiers. They fought like common felons. Brigands just released from prison for the specific purpose of killing Lachlan.

Lachlan took the opportunity to remove his helmet and toss it on the sand. The clunky visor impeded his side vision. He glanced up into the stands, where the audience stood cheering. They believed they were seeing a practiced performance in which no one would actually be injured.

Lachlan turned his attention to his next combatant.

The man carried a net edged with lead weights and trident. He wore no helmet, but merely a cloth headband to hold back his stringy yellow hair. Sporting a broken nose and a scarred cheek—earned, most likely, in a tavern brawl—he attempted to throw the net over Lachlan, who dodged and grabbed hold of the netting. Lachlan jerked the net, pulling the man off balance. The tips of his trident caught in the net as he fell. He rolled across the ground, wrapped securely in his own web like a merman caught in a fisherman’s net.