Edward gave Mordred a disgusted glance, clearly embarrassed by the fall he had just taken, but accepted the hand nonetheless. He didn’t pass up the chance for another dig at the pair of them, though, saying, “You see how unwomanly she is.”
Summer didn’t hear him; she thrust her sword into the turf and fanned herself, breathing hard. Her face was flushed from the combat, but she wore a pleased smile, and Winter brought her a cup of water. The redhead accepted gratefully, drinking deep.
The knight pulled the man to his feet, having to force himself to stop a laugh that threatened to escape him. “Yes, but you were beaten by her,” he tells him, “so how — unmanly would that make you?” He questions, tilting his head to the side, looking over him.
Mordred smiles at him before turning and heading towards Summer, placing a hand on her arm. “Great job.”
She brushed a damp strand of hair out of her eyes, smile widening. “Hardly even a bruise, you see?” She lifted on her toes to kiss him.
Winter cleared her throat. “Here comes father.”
Laurence clasped his hands behind his back, the same habitual gesture Edward displayed. “Well, daughter, is honour satisfied? Sir Mordred?”