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Authors: Catherine Coulter
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kick Wicket in his lean sides, watched her horse leap forward, heard her laughter floating in the soft air back to him.
    "I mean it," he called after her, but she didn't hear him. Perhaps, if she pushed him, then that was exactly what he should do.
    Before the midday meal, Jerval found himself with Lord Richard, warming himself in front of the fire set in the great fireplace. "She wants to wrestle with me. It is not a jestâ she means it. This is impossible."
    Richard thought it was rather impossible himself. "If she wants to wrestle, you will have no choice, Jerval. You will simply have to control yourself. Naturally she will try to kill you. She is good. I taught her. When she sends pain crashing through you, your mind will forget your lust."
    "She doesn't realize she is a woman."
    "No, she does not. That is why you are here. It is time for her to learn."
    "You set me a problem, my lord, a very large one."
    "Perhaps," Lord Richard said very deliberately, "just perhaps I should have given her to Graelam."
    "No, damnation, no! He would have tried to break herâ or perhaps not. I don't know what was in his mind. But he did not want her toâ"
    "To what?"
    "I don't know. It no longer matters. I drove him from Croyland. He lost and he will never have another chance at her." He looked into the fire and stretched out his gloveless hands to warm them. Large hands, Richard thought, competent hands, strong and sure. Graynard tried to shove him aside, but Jerval held firm and the dog collapsed next to him on the brick hearth, his huge head on his paws.
    "She craves freedom," Richard said then. "She always has. Even as a child, she wanted the wind tearing at her hair, all the speed her pony could give her, wanted to throw her small spear farther than my squire could throw his own. Ah, I can still remember her laughter, her absolute joy, when she won her first knife-throwing competition. She beat six young men, and I will tell you, their resentment was palpable even though they knew she practiced more than they did, knew that she wasn't like other girls, knew that she wanted victory at least as much as they did. One of them even said something to her about going back into the castle and sewing. She bloodied his nose. Just one blow with her fist, and he was yelling his head off. Of course I had taught her how to use her fists."
    Actually, Jerval had no difficulty at all picturing that scene.
    "I have never reined her in, never stopped her from doing something she wanted to do. She wanted a suit of armor, and so I had one made for her. The flat rings don't quite overlap, so there is more space between them and thus less weight. In a true battle, she wouldn't have the same protection a knight has. But she is content, and when she jousts, there is at least some protection. Naturally, my men would let themselves be slaughtered before they would ever take the chance of hurting her."
    Jerval couldn't begin to imagine a girl wearing armor. His disbelief was so obvious that Lord Richard hurried to add, "She rarely wears the armor, just occasionally on the practice field when there is jousting practice. Some of the men even demand that she wear hers when they wear theirs to keep the games fair. She gives no quarter, you know. I taught her that compassion only comes into play when your sword is pressed against your foe's gullet.
    "But attend me, Jerval. There is no meanness in her, no pettiness. Perhaps some jealousy of another's better skills, certainly, but what is wrong with that? That just makes her work all the harder. She does not recognize her own beauty. Even if she did, it would not count greatly with her. It is what she has to offer, what she can gain by the skill of her own hand, her own
    "I mean it," he called after her, but she didn't hear him. Perhaps, if she pushed him, then that was exactly what he should do.
    Before the midday meal, Jerval found himself with Lord Richard, warming himself in front of the fire set in the great fireplace. "She wants to wrestle with me. It is not a jestâ she means it. This is impossible."
    Richard thought it was rather impossible himself. "If she wants to wrestle, you will have no choice, Jerval. You will simply have to control yourself. Naturally she will try to kill you. She is good. I taught her. When she sends pain crashing through you, your mind will forget your lust."
    "She doesn't realize she is a woman."
    "No, she does not. That is why you are here. It is time for her to learn."
    "You set me a problem, my lord, a very large one."
    "Perhaps," Lord Richard said very deliberately, "just perhaps I should have given her to Graelam."
    "No, damnation, no! He would have tried to break herâ or perhaps not. I don't know what was in his mind. But he did not want her toâ"
    "To what?"
    "I don't know. It no longer matters. I drove him from Croyland. He lost and he will never have another chance at her." He looked into the fire and stretched out his gloveless hands to warm them. Large hands, Richard thought, competent hands, strong and sure. Graynard tried to shove him aside, but Jerval held firm and the dog collapsed next to him on the brick hearth, his huge head on his paws.
    "She craves freedom," Richard said then. "She always has. Even as a child, she wanted the wind tearing at her hair, all the speed her pony could give her, wanted to throw her small spear farther than my squire could throw his own. Ah, I can still remember her laughter, her absolute joy, when she won her first knife-throwing competition. She beat six young men, and I will tell you, their resentment was palpable even though they knew she practiced more than they did, knew that she wasn't like other girls, knew that she wanted victory at least as much as they did. One of them even said something to her about going back into the castle and sewing. She bloodied his nose. Just one blow with her fist, and he was yelling his head off. Of course I had taught her how to use her fists."
    Actually, Jerval had no difficulty at all picturing that scene.
    "I have never reined her in, never stopped her from doing something she wanted to do. She wanted a suit of armor, and so I had one made for her. The flat rings don't quite overlap, so there is more space between them and thus less weight. In a true battle, she wouldn't have the same protection a knight has. But she is content, and when she jousts, there is at least some protection. Naturally, my men would let themselves be slaughtered before they would ever take the chance of hurting her."
    Jerval couldn't begin to imagine a girl wearing armor. His disbelief was so obvious that Lord Richard hurried to add, "She rarely wears the armor, just occasionally on the practice field when there is jousting practice. Some of the men even demand that she wear hers when they wear theirs to keep the games fair. She gives no quarter, you know. I taught her that compassion only comes into play when your sword is pressed against your foe's gullet.
    "But attend me, Jerval. There is no meanness in her, no pettiness. Perhaps some jealousy of another's better skills, certainly, but what is wrong with that? That just makes her work all the harder. She does not recognize her own beauty. Even if she did, it would not count greatly with her. It is what she has to offer, what she can gain by the skill of her own hand, her own
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