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“Excuse me?”
Anathema’s fingers slipped at the last moment, flinging the arrow off course so it stuck to the edge of the target, nowhere near bullseye. She scowled. She needed to practice day and night for the upcoming tournament if she wanted to show the whole of England that a woman was just as worthy to compete as any man. She did not need interruptions.
“Don’t startle me when I’m armed,” she scolded, her voice laced with venom, before she bothered to turn to the intruder, expecting another cocky man had arrived to heckle her.
Her expression softened into one of surprise and embarrassment when she saw the kind knight from the previous day.
He didn’t look like much of a knight, all knobby and awkward. Anathema struggled to imagine him wielding a broadsword or a shield. But he had been the one to come to her defense when she had demanded entry into the archery tournament, pointing out that noble birth was the sole written requirement for participation.
He had recoiled at her reprimand. “So sorry,” he said, eyes at his feet. “Only I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.”
“No,” Anathema offered gently. “I apologize for my rudeness.”
He looked up, eyes cautiously hopeful. He was quiet and seemed to want encouragement.
“To what can I offer the pleasure of your company Sir-” she paused, not remembering his title.
“Pulsifer,” he said with a small bow.
“Pulsifer,” she repeated reverently, the name feeling silky on her tongue. Silly girl, she thought to herself. She had no time to fill her head with childish fancies about any man, no matter the kindness or blueness of his eyes.
“I likely won’t last in the tournament,” he whispered to his feet. “I never do. I only sign up to appease my father.” He looked up, eyes wide. “You, however.” He looked meaningfully at the target and gave a rueful smile.
Anathema glanced at the misfired arrow. “I am very good,” she defended, her face heating as she gripped her bow firmly in her right hand.
“I know. I was watching you before,” Sir Pulsifer explained in a rush. He blushed and looked down again. “What I meant is-” he wrung his hands, embarrassed.
Anathema, more flattered than upset by the man’s spying on her, tried her best to coax him on. “Yes?”
“You see, most serious competitors carry a token of one whose heart they hope to win. And I thought, maybe, well...” Rather than continue his bumbling speech, he produced a handkerchief from his hip pouch, holding it out in offering.
Anathema accepted the handkerchief, too shocked to do anything else. She ran her thumb over the embroidered corner, feeling the shape of his family crest. She watched as he bowed again before retreating.
Perhaps childish fancies were not a waste of time. Anathema turned to the target once more, an even greater determination welling in her chest. She would win this tournament. For herself and for her knight.