by Lynn Kurland
Colin looked for a tablecloth, but finding none, used his sleeve. That’s what the damned things were for, anyway. What else was he supposed to use? His neighbor’s sleeve?
“What’re you scowling about?” Jason asked, taking an elegant sip of his ale. “The fare not suit you?”
“’Tis adequate,” Colin replied. “I’m just thinking on those ridiculous rules Gillian has for a man at table and wondering how it is you manage to follow all of them while not looking remotely like a woman.”
“’Tis my gift,” Jason said modestly.
“’Tis damned annoying,” Colin grumbled. He looked at Henri. “Don’t you agree, lad?”
Henri mumbled something unintelligible.
“We’re men,” Colin pressed. “Our duty is to fill our bellies with as little delay as possible. Who needs a spoon when you’ve two good fists and you know how to use them, eh?”
Henri delicately dabbed her lips with some kind of cloth she’d produced from the saints only knew where. “Of course, my lord,” she said, nodding. “Bloody hell!”
Colin choked and had to pour himself several cups of ale before the choking subsided. Why, the girl wasn’t a servant. No servant would have those manners that Gillian was so damned particular about. This wench could be nothing less than a highborn lady in disguise. But what in the world could be so terrible that it would send a highborn wench fleeing into hose and mail?
Colin watched Henri—or whatever her name truly was—finish her meal. Gillian, he thought with a scowl, would have been fully satisfied with her comportment. He found himself less impressed by that than by the depths of her green eyes and the fairness of her face. He could hardly imagine anyone, especially a parent, lifting a hand to one such as she. Even with her shorn hair falling about her face, and that face liberally smudged with the saints only knew what, she was exceedingly lovely. Did he but have a daughter such as she, no task would have been too much, no luxury too expensive, no whim too ridiculous for him to have seen to.
And had his own girl been stolen ... well, the saints pity the fool who dared the like.
But perhaps this girl didn’t have the benefit of a sire such as he would have been to her. Mayhap her sire was cruel. Or mayhap he possessed a cruel wife. Colin could readily see how a woman might have been jealous of such a one as this. But what a woman that had to be, to have given birth to this creature, then fostered a hatred in that same breast that had given the girl life. Colin, who had seen many terrible things over the course of his life, simply couldn’t fathom that.
But did the mother hate the girl thusly, or the sire for that matter, ‘twas entirely possible that she could have betrothed her to the most loathsome man she could find. And ’twas also quite possible that this girl had found flight to be the only acceptable course of action for herself. But who could be so loathsome that a girl would choose a life as a boy to escape him?
No one came to mind.
He looked around purposefully and the jug was summarily deposited before him. He finished it without further ado. Fortunately for him, he could drink numerous divisions of the French army under the table and still walk away with a clear head, so the drink did nothing but restore his wits to him. Unfortunately, it didn’t ease his heart.
“We should seek our beds whilst there are beds to be had,” he announced. “And tomorrow, Henri, we will train. Perhaps spending another day or two here waiting out the weather will do us all good.”
“And your identity?” Sir Etienne asked innocently. “Was there a reason we were to be silent about it?”
“A little scuffle,” Colin said, waving his hand negligently. “But one I wouldn’t want to repeat. Neither would you. You might bruise something and then where would we be?”
He watched as Sir Etienne threw Henri a glare and a look that contained something else. A warning? Colin sat back and wondered what Henri would choose to do. Protect Sir Etienne, no doubt.
Which she did, by trying to distract Colin to other things.
Colin listened to Henri babble something about baggage and horses and the like, then turned back to Sir Etienne. “I didn’t have your answer. How would you fare in a brawl of that size? Poorly?”
“My lord,” Henri said, leaping to her feet and upsetting her ale. “’Tis late and I’m feeling quite ill all of the sudden. Our beds, aye?”
Colin looked at Sir Etienne and saw the satisfaction cross the man’s features. And he vowed again to discover the depths of whatever it was the man held over Henri.
And then repay him for it.
“You’re right, Henri,” Colin said, rising and stretching. “You’ve need of rest after our journey. Let us be about the business of bedding down for the night. Come with me and we’ll see to the horses.” He looked at Jason and Sir Etienne. “See to yourselves and keep your mouths shut. I’d like decent bed and board for a day or two here.”
Without waiting for their responses, he left the common chamber and walked out into the wet. Rain didn’t trouble him. They surely had enough of it at Blackmour, and he was well accustomed to training in it all through the year. But Henri, well, who knew where the girl was truly from? Perhaps she didn’t have much rain where she had been raised.
“Pull up your hood,” he instructed. “Keep your head dry.”
“Aye, my lord.”
In the dark, where he could scarce see her face, much less her shape, he had no trouble divining that she was a girl. Why hadn’t he noticed either by the full light of the sun? By the saints, he’d been blind!
He’d been distracted by the thought of wedding Sybil of Maignelay—that was it. And there was his intense irritation with his sire to consider as well. Surely he could be forgiven his blindness, in light of those things.
He saw that their mounts had indeed been housed as promised, stole a look or two at Henri by the light of the stable master’s candle, and couldn’t help a small bit of marveling over her intense beauty.
The saints preserve him.
“To bed,” he announced suddenly before he did something foolish, such as continue to gape at her.
“But, my lord, I’ve ... um ... I need to—”
He frowned. Letting her out of his sight was something he had little liking for, but it wasn’t as if he could shadow her every moment. Especially when she had things to see to. Womanly matters and such. She opened her mouth to elaborate, but he held up his hand quickly.
“Say no more,” he said. “You’ve needs to attend to and want privacy. I’ll wait for you outside the gathering chamber. Have you your knife at the ready?”
She gulped and nodded.
Much as he might like to, he could do no more for her than that. Surely she could manage a trip to a bush without getting into mischief. He walked away, wondering how she’d managed to see to her body’s needs for so long without having been detected. He couldn’t imagine himself doing the like. A day, perhaps, no more, then he would have been scurrying for the first handy tree and damning whoever cared to watch.
One thing he could complain of: She took her bloody time about the whole business. Colin waited until he decided that perhaps she had either fallen into a hole or been overtaken by foul forest creatures. He walked silently back to the stables, peered about the building, and then saw what he’d actually suspected deep in his heart.
Henri and Sir Etienne in deep conversation.
Never one to announce his presence when a goodly bit of eavesdropping might yield more information, he crept around the stables until he could hear clearly what was being whispered.
“I told you, you foolish twit,” Sir Etienne whispered harshly, “to keep him from me!”
“I’ve tried!”
“You’ll try harder, or you’ll pay the price.”
“Why don’t you stop provoking him—”
A slap echoed in the stillness of the night.
Colin was halfway around the building before the thought to move crossed his mind. He stopped just in time, took a deep, silent br
eath, and then eased back into the shadows, sliding his sword back into its sheath. He was surprised by the ferocity of the rage that swept through him. How dare the wretch lift a hand against the girl! Colin stood in the shadows, shaking, and fought to gain control of himself.
He could rush forward and defend Henri, aye, but to what end at this moment? Much as he might want to, he couldn’t kill Sir Etienne for a mere slap.
But he could kill him for something more serious. He could kill him did Sir Etienne find the courage to challenge him for some slight. He could also bide his time, learn what Sir Etienne held over Henri’s head, and then slay him in good conscience for that no doubt unsavoury blackmail.
He let his breath out slowly and forced his hands to unclench. Aye, he would wait. And he would allow Henri a normal amount of freedom. He could easily keep the girl within arm’s reach at all times, but that would make Sir Etienne suspicious and ruin any chance Colin might have of catching him about some goodly bit of mischief.
Of course, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be three paces away from Henri at all times, lest the girl need aid.
Aid he would happily deliver.
“You listen, woman,” Sir Etienne said calmly, as if he hadn’t struck her but a moment before, “and listen very carefully. If he touches me, you’re finished. I’ll see to that myself.”
Henri’s answer was a whimper.
“And as for our other business, when I’ve decided what it is I’ll have from you, you’ll know.”
And with that, the man turned on his heel and strode away.
Colin stared after him, then looked at the girl he’d left behind, the girl who was now quietly weeping, and found that he had absolutely nothing to say. Other business? What other business? And what a woman Sir Etienne was, to force a girl to protect him! Colin’s disgust for the man, which had run deep enough before, reached new lows.
And poor Henri! Not only the burden of pretending to be what she wasn’t, but the added weight of having to guard Sir Etienne.
He watched as she shook herself, straightened, and put her shoulders back. Then she turned and started back toward the inn.
Colin swiftly made his way back there and was waiting by the front stoop as she crossed the courtyard. He pushed off from the wall with a negligent move, then folded his arms and looked down at her.
“Finished?” he asked pleasantly.
Her tears were gone and she wore a decidedly determined expression on her face. “Aye,” she said firmly.
What a wench. Colin was hard-pressed not to either clap her heartily on the shoulder or haul her into his arms and give her a squeeze that might break a few things. He could scarce believe that she wasn’t blubbering, but nay, her eyes were dry.
Her cheek, however, bore the print of a hand.
Colin realized how terrible his expression must be when he saw Henri’s eyes widen with unease.
“I was,” he announced, “thinking on past battles and a few very unpleasant foes. Nothing to do with you.”
“Oh,” she said, looking vastly relieved. “I hurried as quickly as I could.”
“Of course you did.” He paused. “I think,” he said slowly, “that we should be at our training at first light. What think you?”
“Absolutely, my lord.”
By the saints, the woman had the courage of a man. “Stay by me, Henri,” he said. “I have found that there are many dangers here in France. You’ll likely want to meet them with me guarding your back, think you?”
She looked so damned grateful that it almost made his eyes sting. But it was gratitude mixed with determination, and he found that he was almost as overcome by that as he had been by anything before in his life.
By the saints, the woman was exceptional.
He paused and considered. He couldn’t be fortunate enough to find Aliénore of Solonge already wed, could he? Then again, if she’d eluded him this long, couldn’t she be persuaded to elude him a bit longer? Perhaps he could pay for putting her in a convent himself, then wed where he chose.
He pushed aside those thoughts. He would face them when he arrived at Solonge and took stock of the situation. For now, he would admire the wench standing before him and not begrudge himself pleasure of it.
“Come, Henri,” he said. “We’ll make an early start of it tomorrow, aye?”
She nodded and he could have sworn he saw a faint smile cross her face.
He slung his arm around her shoulders—her very slight, very brave shoulders—and led her into the inn.
Chapter 23
The morning was wet, dark, and gloomy—perfect weather for learning the true business of death. Ali faced her sword master and found herself for the first time doing more than just mirroring his strokes, or standing next to him and trying to copy them. She was actually crossing swords with him.
And her head was still atop her shoulders.
Each clash of her blade against his rattled her very bones, but she found, after a bit, that it didn’t trouble her. Nor was she troubled anymore by sore muscles. Indeed, lifting her sword came easily to her now, and all those hours she’d spent practicing each stroke provided her with a goodly repertoire of things to use against Colin as they parried.
She found herself smiling in spite of the rain.
“I will,” Colin said suddenly, “now come at you as if I intended to slay you. Slowly, of course, and you can trust that it is with no malice. ’Tis but for practice.”
Ali braced herself for the worst, but it was only as he said. His strokes were slow and sure, and she was easily able to identify what he intended to do before he did it. Still, she could see why men quailed at the thought of facing him. He was enormous, his sword was enormous, and just the sight of him coming at her—albeit slowly and with no malice—was enough to make her want to drop to her knees and plead for mercy.
Or it might have been, had she not been able to keep him at bay.
It was tempting to permit herself the same look of arrogance that Colin usually wore when feeling quite pleased with himself.
She looked at him to find that he was regarding her with supreme satisfaction, as if he were actually pleased with what she was doing.
And that, to her surprise, was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes.
Quite suddenly, she found his warm, callused hand surrounding hers that held her blade, and his face not but a pair of hand’s breadths from her own. She had to tilt her head back to look at him, of course—he was huge, after all. But as she looked into his dark eyes, she realized how easy it would be to drown in those pools.
And, for the first time ever, she felt absolutely no fear of him.
“You have,” he said quietly, “done well.”
He was holding on to her sword hand, so she was forced to fan herself with the other hand. She tried to do it as unobtrusively as possible.
“Think you?” she squeaked.
His eyes crinkled the slightest bit, as if a smile might have considered coming forth had it not been Colin of Berkhamshire’s visage to wear it, and then he nodded just the slightest bit.
“Aye. Now, you must think on what you can do with this skill. You can always protect yourself, from any enemy. The more skill you have, the safer you will feel. And then, when the time comes that you have an enemy you must slay—and that time will come, believe me—you will have the skill to do so.”
She looked up into eyes that were still a mossy shade of green with brownish mud near the center and couldn’t help but wonder who it was that he had killed over the course of his years, who drove him to the lists every day, why he had trained himself to be the kind of warrior he was.
“Who is your enemy, my lord?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’ve had many.”
“Who drove you when you first began your training?”
“Can you not guess?”
It wasn’t hard. “Your sire.”
“Aye. I daresay you can understand why.”
She smiled. �
�Aye, I can.”
He looked down at her for a moment or two, then abruptly released her hand and stepped back a pace. “You have your enemy as well. Think on him should you need inspiration to fight well.”
She didn’t think she needed any more inspiration than the mere thought of Sir Etienne and his callous slap the night before, but she would take Colin at his word. And when he stepped back and raised his sword, she no longer thought of him and his reputation. She thought of herself and whom she might face in the future.
And how desperately she wished she could humiliate him.
“Now, let us be about this business with a bit more seriousness and see if you can bear it.”
Ali gulped as he came at her with quite a bit more seriousness. His first few strokes rattled her bones and shook the teeth in her head. Her hands stung. Her arms ached from the force of the blows.
But she didn’t quit.
Neither did Colin.
He merely continued to swing his sword at her, slicing, cutting, thrusting. And she found, to her continued surprise, that she was able to fend off his attack.
Perhaps she had found something she could master after all.
That it was swordplay shouldn’t have surprised her in the least.
When her arms began to tremble from weariness, Colin pulled his sword back and resheathed it.
“Enough,” he said. “Now we will move on to other things.”
Ali managed to get her sword home before she looked at him in surprise. “Other things?”
“Knife work.”
The saints preserve her. “Knife work?” she echoed.
“A sword doesn’t always serve you. There will be times in the night, in the dark, in close places where all that stands between you and death is a beautifully sharp dagger.”
She shut her mouth and tried to swallow. She could see the wisdom in it, and she could only hope she was equal to the task of learning what she needed to protect herself.
“Of course,” she said weakly.
“Will you quit?” he demanded suddenly.
She didn’t even have to give that any thought. She shook her head vigorously. “Nay, I will not.”