For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale

horse, gazing toward her.
    The nameless challenger drew his sword, shouting within his helm. Still
    her knight did not move, but stared toward Melanthe. The great helm showed
    only menace, its eyeslits black and empty, but she saw beyond, saw a man on
    his knees in the great hall, looking up at her with intense entreaty. She
    allowed herself no change of expression, gazing steadily back.
    The red-gold challenger shouted again. Her knight turned and swung down
    from his horse, jerking his sword from its sheath. His squire ran up to him
    with his shield and bascinet helm, but the challenger was already running
    forward, aiming a great swing with a sword that took the sun to its tip,
    shining murderous steel.
    The hunchback ducked away, dragging the destrier with him. Her knight met
    the blow with an upward cut; the weapons rang and the crowd cheered. Neither
    man gave way as the blows fell, denting helmets and armor. They fought as
    barbarians fought, without mercy.
    The golden knight slashed over and over at her champion’s neck, killing
    blows, pivoting and swinging back again. He landed a strike that made the
    Green Sire stumble sideways, but her knight seemed better at mischance even
    than advantage, turning his swordhand down and slicing sideways, beneath his
    adversary’s arm, cutting through the vambrace strap. The challenger’s plate
    flapped loose, exposing vulnerable chain mail above his elbow.
    He did not appear to realize it, whipping his sword again toward his
    opponent’s helmet. It struck, driving a deep dent in the steel—under the
    force of the blow, the green knight’s sword seemed to fly from his hand, but
    then it was in his left as if he’d snatched it from the air. He brought it
    overhead, striking an arc downward, the sharpened edge aimed for his
    adversary’s outstretched arm with a force that would slice through chain
    mail and bone alike.
    Sunlight flashed on the broad side of the blade. Melanthe closed her
    eyes. She heard it hit—and the golden knight’s grunt of pain was audible an
    instant before the throng burst into noisy reaction.
    She blinked her eyes open. The challenger was hauling himself up off the
    ground, but he could not seem to gain any purchase on his sword. The Green
    Sire stood over him, looking up again at Melanthe. She had full expected to
    see the blood-gold arm severed and covered in real gore.
    But it was still attached to its owner—only rendered useless. The golden
    knight was groping for his sword with his left hand, his other hanging
    ineffectually at his side.
    The marshall had stepped forward, poised with his white arrow, but the
    fallen challenger shouted furiously at him. The official hesitated, his hand
    wavering, and then bowed and stepped back.
    The red-gold knight rolled, pushing himself to his feet with his good
    arm. Melanthe’s champion took a step toward her, the black eyeslits in his
    helm still focused in her direction. She could see his heavy breathing at
    the edges of his hauberk.
    He lifted his hand, palm up in petition.
    Melanthe saw the red-gold opponent achieve his feet. He shouted, his
    words obscured and echoing within the helm, and raised his sword with his
    left arm.
    She ignored her champion’s appeal, staring at him coldly.
    The challenger ran forward. The Green Sire turned, met the sword, and
    threw it off. He thrust the tip of his weapon at the golden knight’s helm,
    catching the visor’s edge, shoving the whole helmet upward, half off.
    Blinded, the other man ducked away, flailing his wounded arm and his sword
    to reset the helm, but another blow took it completely off.
    It rolled across the ground. A great roar swelled from the crowd.
    Lancaster stood swaying in the middle of the dusty list. One of his
    attendants grabbed the helmet and ran toward him.
    Her green knight turned yet again to Melanthe. He lifted his sword and
    shoved his helmet off his head with both hands; throwing the armor away from