grinned at Rhys. “I’d be happy to take you on.”
Rhys quickly shed his heavy doublet and unsheathed his sword. The other three men in the group introduced themselves and then Rhys forgot them as he concentrated on the matter at hand. Dafydd Morgan was an excellent Vampire slayer and a few years younger than Rhys.
A circle soon formed around the two men as they tested each other, their blades engaging briefly in quick parries and then retreating to seek another opening. Rhys was aware of the spectators gathering, Elias Warner among them.
Dafydd’s blade came too close to Rhys’s cheek for his liking and he resolved to stop looking at the crowd. He almost pushed through the other man’s guard, but a quick step back saved Dafydd. He was no longer smiling; his expression was now intent, his brown eyes narrowed.
Time seemed to slow for Rhys as he brought his blade back one last time and waited for that moment of hesitation, that flicker in the other man’s eyes that would mean he intended to attack. He rarely fought humans anymore and had become used to the blurring speed of the more dangerous Vampires.
Dafydd’s breathing shortened and his guard wavered. Rhys was on him, beating the man to his knees and angling his blade across the other man’s throat. A roar of approval from the watching crowd brought him back into himself and allowed him to reach down and help Sir Dafydd to his feet.
Dafydd was smiling. “You are too good for me, Sir Rhys.”
Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m merely older and wilier than you.” He turned to Master Davies. “Your nephew does you great credit.”
Before Master Davies could reply, another man called out from the other side of the crowd.
“You fight well for a Welshman, Sir Rhys.”
Rhys stiffened as he recognized the much bejeweled brother of the queen, Lord Thomas Seymour. His long reddish beard framed a laughing, pleasant face, but Rhys could see no humor in his dark eyes. He bit back a retort. There was no point in antagonizing such a powerful man.
“Thank you, sir.”
Lord Thomas inclined his head a regal inch. “Perhaps you would like to take on a real challenge?”
“Not particularly, my lord.” Rhys looked around at his suddenly silent companions. “We are just practicing.”
“But I insist, Sir Rhys.” Lord Thomas snapped his fingers. “I have a Welshman in my retinue whom I would love to see you fight.”
Rhys realized he had no choice and wiped his sword on the soft buckskin of his hose. “I would be happy to fight your man, my lord, as long as you understand that it is just for your entertainment.”
“You will not even wager on the outcome, Sir Rhys?” Lord Thomas taunted. “Where is your confidence?”
Rhys didn’t bother to reply. From the eager muttering in the crowd, he could tell that bets were already being placed, and he could do nothing to stop it. He waited quietly for Seymour’s choice to emerge into the center of the circle and concentrated on regaining his breath and resting his body before the next encounter.
The man was tall and fair-haired, his eyes a dark brown. Rhys reckoned they were of an age, but the stranger was lighter in frame than he and less muscled.
“Sir Rhys.”
Rhys bowed to the man and took up his fighting stance, noting the confidence of his opponent and the mocking quality of his smile. Their blades met in a clashing salute and then Rhys had no more time to think, only to counter his opponent’s fast charges and block them with his own attacks.
Despite his slender build, his opponent was apparently fearless and quick on his feet. Too quick on his feet. Something was wrong, but it was too late for Rhys to do anything but keep fighting and stay alive. His focus narrowed until all he saw was the other man, the speed of his blade, and the smoothness of his breathing
Rhys winced as the man’s blade nicked his cheek and he felt the warmth of his own blood trickle down his face. His opponent’s
Rhys quickly shed his heavy doublet and unsheathed his sword. The other three men in the group introduced themselves and then Rhys forgot them as he concentrated on the matter at hand. Dafydd Morgan was an excellent Vampire slayer and a few years younger than Rhys.
A circle soon formed around the two men as they tested each other, their blades engaging briefly in quick parries and then retreating to seek another opening. Rhys was aware of the spectators gathering, Elias Warner among them.
Dafydd’s blade came too close to Rhys’s cheek for his liking and he resolved to stop looking at the crowd. He almost pushed through the other man’s guard, but a quick step back saved Dafydd. He was no longer smiling; his expression was now intent, his brown eyes narrowed.
Time seemed to slow for Rhys as he brought his blade back one last time and waited for that moment of hesitation, that flicker in the other man’s eyes that would mean he intended to attack. He rarely fought humans anymore and had become used to the blurring speed of the more dangerous Vampires.
Dafydd’s breathing shortened and his guard wavered. Rhys was on him, beating the man to his knees and angling his blade across the other man’s throat. A roar of approval from the watching crowd brought him back into himself and allowed him to reach down and help Sir Dafydd to his feet.
Dafydd was smiling. “You are too good for me, Sir Rhys.”
Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m merely older and wilier than you.” He turned to Master Davies. “Your nephew does you great credit.”
Before Master Davies could reply, another man called out from the other side of the crowd.
“You fight well for a Welshman, Sir Rhys.”
Rhys stiffened as he recognized the much bejeweled brother of the queen, Lord Thomas Seymour. His long reddish beard framed a laughing, pleasant face, but Rhys could see no humor in his dark eyes. He bit back a retort. There was no point in antagonizing such a powerful man.
“Thank you, sir.”
Lord Thomas inclined his head a regal inch. “Perhaps you would like to take on a real challenge?”
“Not particularly, my lord.” Rhys looked around at his suddenly silent companions. “We are just practicing.”
“But I insist, Sir Rhys.” Lord Thomas snapped his fingers. “I have a Welshman in my retinue whom I would love to see you fight.”
Rhys realized he had no choice and wiped his sword on the soft buckskin of his hose. “I would be happy to fight your man, my lord, as long as you understand that it is just for your entertainment.”
“You will not even wager on the outcome, Sir Rhys?” Lord Thomas taunted. “Where is your confidence?”
Rhys didn’t bother to reply. From the eager muttering in the crowd, he could tell that bets were already being placed, and he could do nothing to stop it. He waited quietly for Seymour’s choice to emerge into the center of the circle and concentrated on regaining his breath and resting his body before the next encounter.
The man was tall and fair-haired, his eyes a dark brown. Rhys reckoned they were of an age, but the stranger was lighter in frame than he and less muscled.
“Sir Rhys.”
Rhys bowed to the man and took up his fighting stance, noting the confidence of his opponent and the mocking quality of his smile. Their blades met in a clashing salute and then Rhys had no more time to think, only to counter his opponent’s fast charges and block them with his own attacks.
Despite his slender build, his opponent was apparently fearless and quick on his feet. Too quick on his feet. Something was wrong, but it was too late for Rhys to do anything but keep fighting and stay alive. His focus narrowed until all he saw was the other man, the speed of his blade, and the smoothness of his breathing
Rhys winced as the man’s blade nicked his cheek and he felt the warmth of his own blood trickle down his face. His opponent’s
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