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B aldwin stood in his chamber, the weight of his armor pressing against his shoulders like the burden of his title. Dawn had barely broken, pale fingers of light stretching across the stone floor. He flexed his hand around the hilt of his sword, the leather grip worn to the contours of his palm.

“My lord, ’tis time.” Sir Roland’s voice carried from the doorway, solemn as a prayer.

Baldwin nodded, jaw tight. “A moment.”

The chamber door closed with a soft thud, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He crossed to the window, gazing out at the courtyard below where servants scurried to prepare the lists. The morning mist clung to the ground like a shroud, promising a day of uncertain weather.

His mind turned to Beth, as it so often did these days.

Her face when Cedric had demanded the trial by combat, shock dissolving into horror, then that stubborn set to her jaw that both infuriated and captivated him.

She had tried to stop this, claiming that in her time, men no longer settled disputes with steel and blood.

“Then your time is the poorer for it,” he had told her.

Now, as he prepared to defend her honor, to prove she was no witch but merely a woman of extraordinary knowledge, he wondered if she was right. There were other ways to defeat a snake like Cedric Whitmore.

But not in this world. Not in his world. A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, expecting his squire with the remainder of his armor.

Instead, Beth herself slipped into the chamber, her eyes wide with fear and determination. She wore a simple gown of black embroidered with silver that brought out the gold flecks in her eyes. Her hair was braided back from her face, revealing the delicate curve of her neck.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

“I know.” She stepped closer, her scent, herbs and something else pungent from her stillroom filled his senses. “I came to give you this.”

She held out a small cloth pouch, her fingers trembling slightly.

“What is it?” He took it, careful not to touch her skin. Such contact before battle was ill-omened, or so he had always been taught.

“It’s a mixture I made. Salts and... other things.” She gestured vaguely. “If you’re wounded, it will help stop the bleeding and prevent putrefaction.”

Baldwin’s chest tightened. Her concern for his safety should not affect him so, and yet it did. “I have no intention of being wounded.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Neither do most men who end up that way.” She stepped back, wringing her hands. “Please be careful. Cedric is a bully, and I’d bet he doesn’t fight fair.”

“I am well aware of Lord Whitmore’s nature.” Baldwin tucked the pouch into his belt. “And I have faced far more dangerous men than he.”

Beth nodded, but her eyes remained troubled. “I know you have to do this. I just wish?—”

“What?” he prompted when she fell silent.

“I wish I were worth the risk.”

The words struck him like a physical blow. Did she truly not know? Could she not see that he would face a hundred men like Cedric, would walk through fire and flood, would challenge the king himself if it meant keeping her safe?

Baldwin closed the distance between them, his armor creaking softly. “Beth.” Her name on his lips felt like a prayer, a benediction. “You are worth far more than you know.”

Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly. For a moment, he thought she might weep, but instead she straightened her shoulders and nodded once, firmly.

“Then win,” she said simply.

“I intend to.”

She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Baldwin?”

“Yes?”

“In my time, we say ‘kick his ass.’” With that startling declaration, she was gone, leaving behind only her scent and the echo of her strange words.

Baldwin allowed himself a brief smile. Kick his ass indeed.

The courtyard hummed with chatter and wagers, a restless crowd of nobles and villagers jostling to witness Cedric’s trial by combat.

Breath fogged the cool morning air as anxious gazes flicked toward the empty arena.

Beth stood near the lists, heart lodged firmly in her throat.

A chill foreboding prickled her skin beneath the sleeves of the gown she’d donned as she searched in vain for Baldwin.

Where was he?

Cedric strode arrogantly into the arena, his broad figure sheathed in elaborate armor that shone like polished silver.

His black feathered helm caught weak sunlight, the arrogant tilt of his chin obvious even from a distance.

His shield bore the Whitmore crest, a hawk clutching a serpent, a detail Baldwin would have found grimly fitting, had he been anywhere nearby.

What was taking him so long?

Below, Father Gregory stepped forth, expression solemn, a wrinkled hand raised beseechingly to the crowd.

“This trial by combat will determine the truth of Lord Whitmore’s accusations against Mistress Beth Anderson, who stands under the protection of Lord Baldwin Devereux.

I will send word of the outcome to King Edward’s court.

May God render justice upon this field.”

In Baldwin’s chambers high above, curses blistered the air.

Baldwin struggled fiercely, pounding an armored gauntlet against the solid oak door, roaring at whoever had dared seal him in.

Moments earlier, he’d heard a suspicious scraping sound, followed by the unmistakable click of his own chamber door’s lock turning.

Saints, he knew only one person bold and clever enough to try such madness.

“Eleanor!” he shouted, voice echoing helplessly into silence.

What mischief had possessed his sister? He’d have words, stern words, once freed.

Glancing around, his eyes fell upon Beth’s curious little hairpin left carelessly atop the chest near his bed.

She’d shown him once, laughing lightly as she teased him about breaking and entering.

Grimly, he offered a quick prayer of gratitude to Beth’s instruction, then snatched the pin and crouched before the lock, fingers shaking as he worked to control his furious impatience.

As he wrestled the stubborn gears within, sweat beaded his brow, dripping unseen beneath the constraining armor.

Down in the yard, a figure emerged from the arched shadows at the opposite end of the arena, clad head-to-toe in Baldwin’s spare armor.

Beth’s heartbeat quickened painfully. Something was off.

He moved oddly, swiftly, but less comfortably than usual.

Yet the crowd roared approval, calling Baldwin’s name as the armored fighter stalked forward, sword drawn, stance fierce.

Cedric laughed harshly. “Come, Devereux. Let us see how quickly your witch’s spell deserts your sword.”

Without a word, the challenger raised a shield bearing the Devereux crest, circling Cedric like a wary predator. Beth’s eyes narrowed, her breath catching sharply as realization struck her heart like an icy dagger.

It wasn’t Baldwin.

She knew that confident, tenacious step as recognition hit. No, no, no! Beth’s blood turned to ice, dread congealing as she whispered Eleanor’s name in horror, afraid to call out and distract her.

The swords clashed violently beneath the gray sky, ringing savagely as they traded blows, Eleanor deftly meeting Cedric stroke for stroke, yet her smaller, lighter frame clearly disadvantaged beneath Baldwin’s bulky armor.

Cedric’s brute force bore down relentlessly, driving her back, step by trembling step.

Beth leaned against the rail, heart thundering wildly, praying someone would realize, would stop it before tragedy struck.

Baldwin finally wrenched open his chamber door, thundering down the corridor, cursing as he took the stone steps, descending with reckless speed, grip tight upon the sword at his side.

Below, Cedric jeered mockingly as he battered Eleanor to her knees.

“Is this Glenhaven’s fierce protector? Pathetic,” he spat, tearing his helm away to gloat, revealing cruel eyes glinting victoriously, twisted with contempt and hatred.

He snatched a second sword from a startled guard nearby, advancing leisurely toward his helpless opponent lying panting on the dirt, the helm still concealing her face.

“Now I’ll show your witch the justice she deserves,” Cedric growled.

With a ferocious, desperate strength, Eleanor tossed aside Baldwin’s too-heavy shield, flipped herself up to her feet and lunged for her bow lying hidden beside the barrier.

In one fluid, desperate motion, she seized an arrow, set it against the taut string, and drew back, lungs burning as she released her breath in a cry of defiance.

The arrow flew true, embedding itself deep into Cedric’s exposed throat.

The crowd erupted in shocked cries, some in horror, many in stunned admiration, as Cedric toppled heavily backward, clawing futilely at the arrow’s shaft lodged in his throat.

Eleanor rose unsteadily, ripped away her helm with furious abandon, sweat-darkened curls tumbling free, eyes blazing defiance as a gasp tore through the courtyard.

“A woman?” Lord Percy sputtered, face ashen.

“No,” Eleanor corrected fiercely, voice steady even as her breaths came harshly between parted lips. “Lady Justice.”

At that moment Baldwin burst into the arena, heart still slamming painfully with adrenaline and fear, sword raised, but far too late.

“Eleanor!” His bellow shook the stones.

He halted abruptly, finding Cedric mortally wounded, blood soaking into the dampened earth, his face paling eyes wide with disbelief. Standing defiantly above him was Eleanor, Baldwin’s own armor hanging awkwardly upon her slight frame, a fierce satisfaction glowing in her gaze.

Beth hurried toward Baldwin, meeting his incredulous eyes, her mouth slack in amazement.

“God’s teeth, Eleanor…” he rasped, anger and shock chased swiftly by undeniable pride. “Have you entirely lost your senses?”

“Perhaps,” Eleanor returned quietly, stepping toward him slowly, chin lifted defiantly. “Our family honor is intact.”

“You locked me in my own bloody chambers,” Baldwin growled, though his voice softened. “Remind me again what madness possessed you?”

She offered a weary smile, fierce eyes softening slightly. “Justice demanded a woman’s response today. And we women aren’t easily daunted.” Her eyes settled meaningfully on Beth.

Baldwin exhaled sharply, casting a helpless glance skyward before shaking his head, struggling unsuccessfully to suppress his reluctant grin. “Saints preserve me. She’s been a terrible influence.”

Beth laughed softly despite trembling nerves, looping her hand into Baldwin’s as Eleanor raised her chin higher, turning smoothly toward the stunned nobles.

“My lords,” Eleanor pronounced clearly, “today you’ve seen justice prevail. Delivered not by my brother’s hand, but mine. Let any man who questions Mistress Beth speak now, if he dares.”

A tentative cheer began, then swelled quickly as admiration replaced shock. The villagers shouted Eleanor’s name gleefully, the spectacle dazzling their senses. Beth pressed gratefully against Baldwin’s side, his warm arm slipping protectively around her shoulders.

“Bloody hell, Eleanor,” Baldwin murmured, pride threaded irrevocably through his rough voice, “you’ll ruin us.”

“Perhaps I’ll save us instead,” Eleanor countered boldly.

Beth squeezed Baldwin’s hand, warmth dawning in her chest. “She is amazing and incredibly brave. I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.”

He sighed, shaking his head in bemused resignation. “That she is.”

Above them, the sun broke through scattered clouds, sunlight threading golden rays across Eleanor’s victorious form, gleaming proudly against the armor she’d appropriated, justice unquestioned in every fierce line of her stance.

Baldwin tightened his grip upon Beth, breathing the lingering remnants of fear away as pride swelled fiercely.