The Warrior's Game by Denise Domning Page A

allowing me to pay the cost of repairing that band,” Michel replied. “It’s a pretty thing, certain to do justice to the head it adorns. Do be certain to tell its owner that I made it my gift to her.”
    “I’m certain the lady will be greatly appreciative, sir,” Master Robert replied, smiling.
    As he should. Robert knew if Michel paid him he’d get his coin this week instead of months or even years from now. “It will be a pretty thing again once I’m done with it,” the smith said, admiring his own handiwork.
    Giving the man a nod, Michel strode away, having just delivered a crushing blow to the woman he meant to make his wife. By paying for the repair the way a lover might he'd turned Lady de la Beres’ band into a symbol of her unwilling passion for him. From this day forward every time she looked upon the piece she would remember how she'd offered her body to a commoner, begging him to sate her physical needs.
    Michel freed a harsh breath. Now here was irony indeed. Five days ago her scorn had so set his teeth on edge that he’d sought to humiliate her by waking her passions. Today, after catching a glimpse of honest passion beneath her prejudice, he strove to reawaken her scorn.

Michel’s troop waited in the courtyard for him, eleven of the twelve men already mounted. Yet afoot, Roger Twofingers, so called for the number of digits hewn from his left hand in some long ago battle, held Michel’s horse. Although most of these men were English, they all wore the de Martigny colors. Battle-hardened soldiers all, none cared that the man they followed was foreign-born. For them, a man’s worth was measured by his ability to swing a sword and bring those who followed him out of a battle hale and hearty, and those were skills Michel owned in abundance. As for Michel, he'd chosen them for their ability to hold their tongues and their loyalty to the one who paid their wages, both attributes he appreciated, as well as their disagreeable appearances. The harder they looked, the less likely it was some brave band of boys would try to prove themselves better than a knighted commoner and his men.
    “We're off then,” Michel commanded Roger, taking his reins from Roger and rising into his saddle.
    As per John's command each day Michel and Sir Hubert, Winchester's castellan, met, and each day Sir Hubert struggled to hide his disdain for John's mercenary. In all truth the castellan was more tolerant of Michel than most Englishers. Perhaps this was because he was the fourth son of a baron, something that left him no more inheritance than the pride he took in his name. That didn’t mean their meetings, naught but formality as they listened to each other report on the state of the wards and castle, were easy. If the castellan never turned his shoulder, neither did his gaze meet Michel’s. Save for that, Michel might have offered Sir Hubert congratulations. Any knight capable of working his way from penniless extra son to guardian of a royal fortress was worthy of Michel’s respect.
    Once Roger was mounted, Michel led his troop out through the alleyway and onto the lane running in front of the smith’s shop, then turned his horse’s head toward the castle above the town. He urged his horse to move no faster than a walk, being in no hurry. Once his meeting with the castellan was finished all he had to look forward to was the ordeal of that godforsaken midday meal. It wasn’t the derision of the wards that bothered Michel, it was how John counted on his mercenary's daily exposure to the women of his household to thwart his mercenary’s wedding plans.
    All the breath left his lungs. “God take me for the idiot I am,” he snarled to himself as the magnitude of the error he’d just made reared up before him.
    “Sir?” Roger shot a sideways glance at his employer as they guided their horses through Winchester’s main gateway, avoiding a departing oxcart.
    “I’ve made a tactical misstep,” Michel muttered in