Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] by In The Kings Service

wholeheartedly, instead of being considered odd.
    Dobbin held up his hand. “The lady wins!”
    That got another roar of approval, as well as a few mutters, while the judges returned. Trevelyan Fitzroy looked as if he’d just been told the sun wasn’t going to rise tomorrow.
    She’d noticed signs of strain between Sir Blaidd and his squire ever since they’d returned from riding that day. She felt a small twinge of remorse for being the cause of any animosity between them, but not much. Sir Blaidd had rebuked the boy unjustly, and if things were not the same between them, it was Sir Blaidd’s fault far more than hers.
    At the moment, however, Sir Blaidd seemed to take everything in stride, including making the poorer shot. “I’ll have to do better with the next one,” he said evenly as he reached for another arrow.
    Becca also selected another arrow. They raised their bows simultaneously, and again Dobbin’s cry to let fly filled the expectant silence. Her bowstring twanged and her arrow struck the target.
    Off center.
    With a gasp, she looked at Sir Blaidd’s target, to see his arrow in nearly the same place as the previous one. A curse flew from her lips, while several of the soldiers groaned. This time, no consultation was necessary. A delighted looking Trevelyan retrieved Sir Blaidd’s arrow, while a glum Dobbin plucked hers free.
    “Forgive my choice of words,” she said through clenched teeth. “That wasn’t a ladylike thing to say.”
    “You don’t like to lose,” Blaidd said, still as cool and calm as a pond on a windless summer day. “Neither do I. And as for being ladylike, many of the ladies at court could make a soldier blush with their language.”
    “And you’ve been intimately acquainted with many, no doubt.”
    “Quite a few,” he calmly replied. “Certainly enough to know that being a lady isn’t a state conferred by birth alone. Several women of lowly birth of my acquaintance are more ladylike in the best sense of the word—gentle, polite, generous, kind.”
    She obviously wouldn’t fit his notion of being a lady. “Best two out of three, wasn’t it?” she said as she grabbed another arrow.
    “Aye, my lady.”
    He nocked his arrow and drew his bow, as did she. She pressed her lips together, determined to beat him.
    “Let fly!” Dobbin cried again, and this time, to Becca’s joy and relief, her arrow hit the very center of her target, an even better shot than her first, while Sir Blaidd’s went wide.
    She jumped for joy and nearly cheered, then settled down immediately. She didn’t want to look as if she was gloating.
    Trevelyan Fitzroy rushed to the target, looking ready to snarl, while Dobbin was all smiles.
    “A clean win for my lady!” he shouted.
    “Alas,” Sir Blaidd said after a moment. “A poor shot. Trevelyan’s father would be ashamed of me.”
    His lips twitched as if he was stifling a laugh, and another explanation, one that enraged her, came to mind.
    “Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t!” she called back. She faced Sir Blaidd squarely, so angry she could spit. “Did you shoot wide on purpose?”
    He looked taken aback and shook his head. “I assure you, my lady, I never lose on purpose. It was only that alas was not the first word to come to mind.”
    So firm was his denial that she believed him, but she needed to be certain he was not acting out of pity for her. “We’ll shoot again, and this time, do the best you can.”
    “I did,” he protested. His eyes flashed with warning. “And I did not lie when I told you I’d done so.” After a tense moment, however, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “But very well. If you want, we’ll shoot again.”
    “Good,” she snapped, as a mystified Dobbin and a confused Trevelyan reached them.
    “What’s this about, my lady?” Dobbin asked.
    “I fear Sir Blaidd thought it would be unchivalrous to let me lose. Perhaps you can assure him my pride will not shatter if I do.”
    Dobbin tugged at the