Page 24 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
Her shriek could probably be heard in the next county.
“Sweet mother of pearl!” she yelled, bouncing in the saddle like a sack of grain as Goliath picked up speed.
“How do I stop this thing? Where are the brakes? Why doesn’t this come with a manual?”
“Gentle pressure on the reins!” Hugo called, jogging alongside them with surprising speed for someone his size. His voice carried the calm authority of someone who’d coached panicking riders through worse situations. “Don’t saw at his mouth—just steady pressure and speak to him. He knows his name!”
“I’m not speaking!” Rachel yelled back, frantically attempting to follow Hugo’s instructions while Goliath continued his enthusiastic tour of the training yard.
“I’m negotiating! Begging! Offering to empty entire coffers for his cooperation!
What do horses want? Apples? Sugar cubes? My firstborn child?”
“Try ‘whoa,’ mistress!” Hugo called out, his voice mixing genuine concern with barely suppressed laughter. “Or ‘easy, lad’—he knows both commands!”
By some miracle of physics, luck, or divine intervention, she managed to get Goliath to slow from a bone-jarring trot to something that might generously be called a walk, though it felt more like riding an earthquake with hooves.
“Well done!” Hugo boomed with genuine pride, his scarred face beaming as if she’d just successfully completed some sort of equestrian miracle rather than barely surviving a basic training exercise. “You stayed on! You kept your head! Most importantly, you didn’t give up when things went awry.”
“Stayed on,” she repeated, her voice slightly hoarse from terror and shouting. “Right. That’s definitely what I was going for. Not elegance or control or any sort of actual riding skill. Just... not dying.”
“’Tis the most important skill of all,” Hugo assured her with the wisdom of someone who’d survived too many battles to count luck over skill. “Any fool can look graceful when everything goes according to plan. The measure of a true rider—or warrior—is how they respond when everything goes to hell.”
There was something in his tone that suggested he spoke from extensive personal experience.
Rachel caught a glimpse of the man who’d fought beside Tristan in France, who’d earned that broken nose and missing tooth through years of combat, who’d followed his friend into exile without question or complaint.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Rachel had achieved what could charitably be described as basic competence.
She could mount Goliath without requiring assistance (most of the time), she could make him walk in approximately the direction she intended (usually), and she had only fallen off twice (which Hugo assured her was remarkable progress).
“That’s enough for today,” he announced as she dismounted with only minimal graceless flailing. “You’ve pushed yourself hard, and Goliath approves of your efforts. See how his ears are pricked forward? That’s interest, not irritation.”
Rachel looked at the horse’s ears, which did indeed seem unusually alert. “Or a sign that he’s plotting my demise for the next time I try to mount him.”
“Nay,” Hugo said seriously, stroking Goliath’s neck with genuine affection. “He respects persistence. This lad has thrown me more times than I can count, but he’s also carried me through Hell itself without faltering. Trust, once earned, is not easily broken.”
The words carried weight beyond their immediate meaning, and Rachel found herself studying Hugo’s weathered face. There was loyalty there, bone-deep and unshakeable, the kind that had kept him at Tristan’s side through disgrace and exile.
“Now then,” he announced, apparently transitioning seamlessly to the next phase of her education, “time for blades.”
“Blades?” She squeaked. “Please tell me you mean eating utensils. Preferably dull ones that require extensive chewing.”
“Knife throwing!” Hugo said with the enthusiasm of someone announcing free gold for everyone. From somewhere about his person, he produced a collection of throwing knives that made her wonder if he was part human, part armory.
“Every warrior should know how to strike from a distance. It’s an essential skill for hunting, for battle, for those moments when an enemy draws too close and you need to discourage their advances.”
“Right,” Rachel said slowly, looking at the wicked-looking blades glinting in the afternoon sun. Each knife was perfectly balanced, edges honed to razor sharpness, grips wrapped in leather that showed the wear of constant use.
“Because what this day really needed was the addition of sharp objects being hurled through the air by someone who can barely stay on a horse.”
“’Tis about accuracy, not strength,” Hugo explained, his teaching manner shifting to something more technical.
“These aren’t meant for hacking through mail or splitting skulls—they’re for precision work.
Stop a charging enemy, bring down game, create opportunities when circumstances demand creative solutions. ”
He selected one knife, turning it over in his massive hands with surprising delicacy.
“This particular blade saved Tristan’s life at Calais.
French crossbowman had him dead to rights while he was down with a wounded horse.
One throw, thirty paces, caught the bastard right in the throat before he could loose his bolt. ”
The casual mention of life-and-death moments made her realize she was getting a glimpse into a world she’d only heard about in stories. These men had fought together, bled together, saved each other’s lives in ways that created bonds stronger than blood.
“You threw it?” she asked.
“Nay, Tristan did. Finest blade-arm I’ve ever seen, though he’s modest about it.”
Hugo’s grin was fierce with pride and memory. “Course, I taught him everything he knows about throwing, so I suppose I can claim some credit for keeping him breathing.”
The knives were beautiful in the way that weapons could be—perfectly balanced, deadly sharp, with hilts worn smooth by countless hands.
They felt alien and dangerous in her palms, heavier than she’d expected, with an edge that seemed to thirst for something to cut.
The scent of oiled steel mixed with leather wrappings filled her nostrils.
“Now then,” Hugo said, positioning her in front of a target that had clearly seen better days—probably around the time of the Norman Conquest, judging by the number of holes and scars decorating its surface.
“Feet shoulder-width apart, blade held like so, and remember—’tis all in the wrist and the follow-through. ”
What followed was a masterclass in how not to throw sharp objects.
Rachel’s first attempt went wide by approximately three feet, hitting the stone wall with a sound like a very expensive mistake.
Her second attempt went high, sailing over the target entirely and disappearing into the bushes where it would probably claim some innocent rabbit as an unintended victim.
“Bloody hell,” came a voice from the castle walls, where several guardsmen had gathered to watch the entertainment. “Nearly took out Father Clement’s chapel window!”
“My gran could throw better than that, and she’s been dead these five years!” another guard added with cheerful appreciation.
But Hugo remained patient, his coaching steady and encouraging. “You’re thinking too much,” he said calmly, retrieving the wayward blades with practiced efficiency. “Trust your instincts. Feel the weight of the blade, judge the distance, let your body find the rhythm.”
Her third attempt was even worse, spinning wildly through the air before embedding itself in a wooden post at a ninety-degree angle from her intended target.
“Saints preserve us!” Hugo bellowed, throwing himself to the ground as the knife spun past his head with malicious precision. “That was... creative!”
“Oh no,” she gasped, watching the blade quiver in the wood like an accusation. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened! It just... flew!”
“At least it missed the important bits,” came a cheerful voice from the walls. “Though Hugo looked ready to meet his maker for a moment there!”
But instead of frustration or condescension, Hugo hauled himself up with a grin that spoke of genuine amusement rather than mockery. “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression,” he said, brushing dust from his clothes. “The lads will be talking about that throw for months.”
“This is hopeless,” she said, staring at her hands. “I’m going to kill someone. Probably myself, but possibly an innocent bystander. Or livestock. Do you have any idea how bad my reputation would be if I accidentally murdered a cow with poor knife-throwing technique?”
The gathered guardsmen chuckled appreciatively at her dramatic despair, but Hugo’s response was different from what she’d expected. Instead of dismissing her concerns or offering empty reassurance, he moved closer with the focused attention of someone who’d spotted something worth nurturing.
“You know what your problem is?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious. “You’re fighting yourself instead of fighting the target. Trying so hard to be perfect that you can’t hear what your body’s trying to tell you.”
He selected another knife, hefting it thoughtfully. “Tristan was the same way when I first taught him. Too much thinking, not enough feeling. Had him throwing for weeks before the lad stopped trying to calculate angles and started trusting his instincts.”
“And that worked?”
“Eventually. Though he still overthinks when he’s nervous.” Hugo’s expression grew thoughtful. “Course, he’s been doing a lot of overthinking lately. About you, mostly.”
The casual observation made her pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with knife-throwing techniques. “What do you mean?”