by Lynn Kurland
“Try that, my lord,” Berengaria said. “And see what you think.”
Grateful for something else to smell, Colin sniffed deeply.
And then he sneezed so thoroughly as to knock Magda over with the force of it.
Her foul brew flowed around the broken shards of her jug. Colin watched, his hand over his nose, as the brew began to flow beneath the solar door.
Nemain looked at Berengaria. “Hrumph.”
“Knocking may be unnecessary now,” Berengaria said. She looked at Colin. “If you will, my lord ...”
Colin didn’t have to hear that again. He handed her back her herbs, then turned and quickly made his way down the passageway. If nothing else, perhaps Sybil would have to quit the chamber to save her nose. Who knew where that would lead?
He strode down the passageway with as much haste as was seemly and made his way through the great hall and out into the lists where there were men doing things he could understand. There were far too many nefarious schemes and vociferous opinions floating about inside the keep for his taste. What he wanted was a bit of swordplay, then perhaps a hearty meal to soothe him. And no more bloody talk of marriage for the day.
He walked out onto the field only to be greeted by Sir Etienne’s booming laugh. He scowled. This was another one who would have to go as soon as possible. Colin couldn’t abide men who boasted of skill they didn’t have. He could only hope Lord Humbert of Maignelay-sur-mer would take the buffoon back. Colin most certainly did not want him as a wedding gift.
“Your lord must trust you,” said a man near to Sir Etienne, “to escort his daughter so far.”
Sir Etienne snorted. “She’s no temptation. And her maids are silly twits.”
Colin looked at the man’s back with narrowed eyes. Perhaps Sir Etienne wouldn’t be offering his opinion so freely if he’d but known who was listening to him.
“Your lord of Maignelay didn’t fear attack from ruffians?” another asked. “Odd, that he should send you so far with no men to guard her.”
“He has another man,” another said. “The young knight. He seems useful enough.”
Sir Etienne laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “That girl? Nay, he was sent along to play nursemaid. ‘Tis only I with skill—and ’tis mighty skill indeed, as you might imagine. Just me to guard Maignelay’s precious treasure.”
“My sympathies,” a knight said. “Saddled with such wenches and a useless lad as well. Have you not tried to train the boy?”
“Train him?” Sir Etienne snorted. “Train him to do what? Not to scamper away every time someone looks crossly at him?”
Another knight laughed. “Rather you should beat the fear out of him. Unless that task is too heavy for you.”
“I’ll see to training the lad when it suits me,” Sir Etienne said sharply. “Now, who’s for the lists? To be sure, none of you has seen my equal.”
Colin had heard far too much. Sybil’s little keeper was inept and terrified, true, but the saints pity the lad if he had the misfortune of a master such as Sir Etienne. Perhaps if Sir Etienne had a better idea of his own failings as a swordsman, he might not be so eager to take on the instructing of another.
And Colin himself was never one to shy away from giving instruction when it was warranted, and to be certain this oaf was in sore need of a lesson or two.
He cleared his throat. “I’m for a bit of swordplay.”
Sir Etienne turned around in a most leisurely fashion. “Ah, Sir Colin,” he said, “you have returned for more?”
Colin pursed his lips, not sure if he were more irritated by Sir Etienne disdaining his proper title as lord or his complete lack of respect for Colin’s skill.
Perhaps the afternoon stood to be far more interesting and fulfilling than the morning had been. Colin smiled pleasantly, flexed his fingers, and drew his sword. After all, whilst wooing brides was certainly not his strength, swordplay was.
Best be about something he could do well before he had to return to his unpleasant duties of luring, capturing, and, the saints preserve him, wedding of that cowardly wench locked in Gillian’s solar.
Chapter 7
Ali would have spared a thought for those blissful days when all she’d had to do was rise, go to Mass, then spend the rest of her time doing menial tasks—never mind that it was under Marie’s critical eye and ready slap—but she couldn’t. She was far too busy trying to keep her head atop her shoulders.
The day was definitely not proceeding as she would have liked. She’d left the solar early in the day, certain she could avoid Lord Christopher, Lord Colin, Jason, and Sir Etienne—and that had been after a miserable night spent smelling whatever foul brew had been dropped in the passageway and subsequently seeped into the solar. It had rendered the place almost unfit for habitation.
She’d intended to sneak to the kitchen, find herself something to eat, and then retreat to the safety of the battlements where she could inhale fresh air and give thinking on her future the attention it deserved. She hadn’t managed to shove but a bite or two of bread into her mouth before Sir Etienne had appeared, scowling fiercely. He’d taken her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her from the great hall.
She hadn’t had time to even contemplate flight. Sir Etienne had pulled her across the courtyard to the lists, cursing her the entire while and promising her a good lesson that morn on how a man comported himself. She’d known that nothing pleasant could come of that. All she’d been able to do was pat her middle quickly to make certain her coins were securely nestled against her belly, then pray for a swift journey into senselessness before the true torture of his instruction began.
Once they’d reached the lists, he had shoved her away and bid her show him what feeble things she was capable of. She had been no match for him from the start, of course. She’d held up her sword as bravely as she’d known how and waved it about in the same manner. As he’d sneered at her, she’d begun to wish that perhaps Isabeau had let her out in the lists more often where she might have learned a bit of swordplay.
Now, she found herself with her sword in both hands, fighting to keep it upright and wondering how the morning could possibly finish any way but in complete misery. And if her own black thoughts weren’t bad enough, a crowd had begun to gather—no doubt to be witness to her humiliation.
She could only hope Lord Colin wouldn’t be there as well, for then he would see her feebleness and likely know immediately she was not what she purported to be.
Sir Etienne took an enormous swipe at her. Her blade left her hands abruptly; her hands stung as if Marie had been at them with a birch rod for some bad bit of embroidery. Ali watched as Sir Etienne flipped her blade up and into the air with his own. He caught it and tossed it aside with a negligent flick of his wrist. Then he looked at her, his utter contempt for her written plainly on his face.
“You don’t deserve your spurs,” he said coldly. “And I intend to see you sully them no longer.”
“Ah,” she began, but got no further.
He slapped her on various parts of her body with his sword until it felt as if she wore nothing, not a mail shirt, not a leather padded jerkin beneath her mail. She was nothing but bare flesh against unforgiving steel. The only mercy was that he used the flat of his blade instead of the fatally sharp edge. Yet still her ears rang from blows, her legs stung from being whipped.
And then he jabbed his sword into the dirt next to him and came at her with his fists.
The fist blow connected with her belly. She immediately lost her wind. When she managed to suck back in air, he did it again.
And this time, despite herself, she heaved up her meager breakfast onto his feet.
The next thing she knew, he had her by the scruff of her tunic, had forced her to her knees, and had buried her face in her own bile. She struggled to turn her head aside to breathe, but Sir Etienne was far too strong for her. She clawed at the hand that held her head down until she felt the world begin to fade. Perhaps her death approached
. Not a dignified way to go, but who was she to find fault with it?
She suddenly found that she could breathe again and the first great gulp into her lungs was full of things she didn’t want to identify. She coughed and spit and gasped for more sweet air that smelled of things most foul. She didn’t care. She lived still.
“You ruined my sport,” Sir Etienne bellowed from above her.
“We don’t take kindly here to bullying children half our size,” came the reply.
Ali managed to pry her eyes open long enough to see that none other than Jason of Artane stood over her like an avenging angel. Jason gave Sir Etienne a mighty shove backward. She huddled there miserably and watched as swords were brandished and the true business of the morning began. She had no means, nor desire, to protest the rescue. She was simply grateful to be alive and breathing.
It took her half a lifetime to drag herself upright. She made it as far as her knees, and could go no farther. Her body was on fire and she wondered if Sir Etienne had done her a grave injury. Then again, perhaps this was how every man felt after being bested in battle.
She wished, and not for the first time recently, that she could have just been a woman. Surely even childbirth was less trouble than this.
Then the next thing she knew, arms were sliding under hers and she was hauled to her feet—rather gently, all things considered. Heavy hands remained on her shoulders as her surroundings spun violently. She wondered how she could possibly stand—never mind avoiding the temptation to break down and sob.
“It makes you want to kill the whoreson,” a deep voice said curtly from behind her, “doesn’t it?”
She could only nod jerkily.
One of the hands patted her shoulder with almost enough force to send her back down to her knees.
“Up on your own now,” the man said, then moved in front of her. “I believe I’ll be enjoying some of this fine play now.”
Ali watched in complete amazement as the very man she had risked her life to avoid strode out onto the field.
Apparently to avenge her.
Colin unceremoniously pushed Jason of Artane out of the way and took his place facing Sir Etienne.
“How pleasant to find you here again,” Colin said, folding his arms over his chest.
Sir Etienne shrugged negligently. “I’ve seen you a pair of times. And you’ve shown me nothing I haven’t seen before—and bested.”
Ali gasped at his cheek. Jason only laughed and resheathed his sword.
“You’ll pay for that,” he said, still chuckling.
“Jason, see to the lad,” Colin threw over his shoulder.
“Already done,” Jason said. He walked over to where Ali was weaving unsteadily and took her arm. “You look fair to falling down. Did he break anything, do you think?”
Ali could only shake her head. “He merely... wanted to ... teach me a lesson,” she managed.
“Hardly the way to go about it, was it?” Jason asked. He inclined his head toward the hall. “Let us seek out a healer for you and leave Sir Colin to his play.”
Ali hesitated. There would be something quite satisfying about witnessing Sir Etienne’s defeat. After all, how many souls had the luxury of watching a warrior of Colin’s mettle when that skill was directed at someone else?
“I believe that lad is mine now,” Colin was saying conversationally.
“He isn’t yet. I’ve things I intend to teach him before you have him and you’ll not interfere with that. Not,” he added contemptuously, “that you’d be able to with your paltry skills.”
“Well, perhaps we can come to an agreement on when I begin to care for what is mine,” Colin said, drawing his sword.
“You’ll have him when I say you’ll have him,” Sir Etienne spat.
Jason tugged on Ali’s arm. “No need to watch,” he said. “The garrison will be full of the tale later. And you’ll have the amusement of counting how many days Sir Etienne spends in the healer’s house, unable to rise from his bed.”
“Think you?” she wheezed.
Jason looked at her sideways. “Can you doubt it? Surely even France is afire with tales of Colin’s prowess.”
“Well ...”
“Listen for yourself tomorrow and see why few dare to challenge him.” He nodded toward the hall. “You need something to help ease your pain. Let us see to it immediately.”
Perhaps he had it aright and she had no need to watch Colin doing what he did best. Besides, the very sight of it might be enough to send her fleeing in terror from the lists and she wasn’t sure she could flee anywhere at present. So she nodded to Jason, then limped along next to him back to the hall, grateful for the slowness of his pace and his lack of comment on her smell, which even she could tell was horrendous beyond the norm.
“A bath,” Jason announced, “then something proper to eat. And I’ll see that you can eat it in peace.”
A bath? Nay, she couldn’t have a bath. When, by the blessed saints, was the last time she’d been forced to do the like? At her christening?
Sybil had bathed occasionally, but that was to remove encrusted food from her person. Then again, the lady Isabeau had bathed quite often and never suffered any ill effects afterward. Well, that was fine for Isabeau, but Ali doubted it would go as well for her.
Especially in her current straits.
But before she could escape, she found herself in the kitchens, staring down at a tub placed in one of the darkest comers of the chamber.
It was then that she began to look about her for an exit.
Jason caught her by the back of her tunic. “A good scrubbing will serve you.”
“But—”
“We’ll find other clothes for you.”
Ali wasn’t sure how she was going to escape this tangle, but she knew she had no choice but to try. She could not allow anyone to see her naked.
She watched as the tub was filled, standing still until Jason’s grip loosened before she made an attempt to bolt. Apparently, though, Jason was not as big a fool as she’d hoped, for even though she managed to jerk herself away from him, he had her back well in hand before she’d taken two steps.
“Shy, are you?” Jason asked, turning her to face him. Then he looked down at her face and stopped still. “By the saints—”
Ali made it a point to never be so close to anyone, lest the sight of her beardless face give her away. She pulled away from Jason and tried a bit of bluster.
“I’ve no need of aid,” she said gruffly.
But Jason continued to stare at her as if he had found an entirely new species of some kind of vermin and ’twas his knightly duty to discover everything about it he could. Ali could see the thoughts running amok in his handsome head and wondered desperately how she could make them stop.
“I have scars,” she blurted out suddenly. “They shame me.”
“Scars?” he echoed.
“Powerfully foul ones,” she said, nodding vigorously.
“Do you indeed?” he asked. His look of disbelief was complete. “I daresay scars aren’t what you have at all.”
“Would you cause me such embarrassment as all that?” she demanded, trying to sound manly. “Ruin my pride? Grieve me beyond measure by making me show things that shame me?”
He pursed his lips. “Very well. A screen, then. We all have things to hide, I suppose,” he added in a mutter.
If you only knew, she thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.
Then he looked at her suddenly, pleased, as if he’d just hit upon a foolproof scheme. “Can you get out of your clothes, or will you require ... aid?”
By the blessed saints, would this fool never concede the battle? “I can do it myself,” she said archly.
“You’re very stiff. How can you deny yourself help when you need it?”
“Very easily. Begone.”
He looked at her closely for another moment or two, then turned away thoughtfully and began to ask kitchen lads for the things she would require
for her bath. Ali turned back to the tub and wondered what she was going to do next. She could scarce lift her arms, and bending and breathing were completely beyond her. How would she ever manage to get out of her clothes, or her mail? Besides, she had no intentions of Jason knowing about the coins she carried inside her under-tunic. Those were her means to freedom and she would tell no one of them, no matter how trustworthy the person might seem.
It was quite some time before Jason returned and by then servants had filled the tub half full of steaming water. Jason carried clothing in his arms and a servant followed behind with a screen. The screen was set in the appropriate place and Jason laid the clothes on a small bench. Then he turned to face her.
“You know,” he said carefully, “you won’t be able to get your mail off by yourself.”
“I need no aid,” she said, crossing her arms over herself and gasping at the pain of movement.
He drew his knife. Ali backed away, wondering if he intended to stab her to get her to cooperate.
“I’ll cut your surcoat from you,” he said patiently, “then I will help you with your mail. Then you can see to the rest if you insist, though I could close my eyes, if you like.”
“And why would I need you to do that?” she snapped.
He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “You would know better than I.”
“You think too much.”
“And you are powerfully cheeky for a mere knight.”
“I could be a lord’s son,” she bluffed. “Your equal.”
“I suppose so,” he said slowly. “But,” he added with a wink, “I would still close my eyes to help you undress, did you but ask it of me.”
Ali merely glared at him, then held open her arms and didn’t flinch as he cut away her surcoat. He gently pulled off her mail, then removed the cross garters from her legs.
“Thank you,” she muttered, knowing she sounded ungracious, but unable to put any other tone in her voice.
“My pleasure,” he said, with a low bow. “I will await my young ... lord’s pleasure beyond the screen. Screech if you need aid.”
She could only hope that aid would come in the form of a serving wench, but then again, perhaps that would go ill for her as well. She would just have to hasten from the bath, dress herself in new clothing and hope that she managed it before anyone saw. And if they did, she would claim that the cloth around her ribs was to ease their soreness, not bind what little served for her womanly attributes. She had found, over the course of two years of trying to hide what she was, that people saw what they expected to see.