Sir Vane vaulted from his high saddle with the graceful, easy agility of an acrobat. His boots touched the frozen gravel without a sound. He walked three paces forward, stopping four feet from where Tomas stood beside the broth kettle.
The crowd of veterans tightened around the outer edge, their knuckles white on their walking sticks. But Sile Rook held his arm out. That kept the men from rushing the noble.
“You have impugned the honor of House Brand,” Sir Vane said. He drew a heavy calfskin gauntlet plated with polished steel rings from his belt. “In the high chivalric code of this realm, an accusation of cowardice against a knight commander can’t be weighed by clerks or decided by parchment rolls. It must be cleansed with cold steel.”
With a sharp, dramatic flick of his wrist, Sir Vane threw the steel gauntlet down into the mud. It struck the frozen gravel two inches from the toe of Tomas’s left boot with a sharp, metal ring.
“Pick up the steel, Tomas Reed,” Sir Vane challenged, resting his gloved hand on the basket handle of his dress sword. “Meet me at dawn on the country dueling green with dress sword or broadsword. Defend your slanders with your life, or publicly recant every word carved upon those plates before the sun sets.”
