by Lisa Shea
He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” he asked with curiosity.
“So you do not regret missing the exhibition of weapons?” she asked lightly.
A hint of surprise flickered behind his eyes. “I did not think I let it show,” he admitted after a moment.
“Not for most to see, perhaps,” she agreed, her eyes twinkling.
They moved up the main stairs, but rather than continue up the spiral steps to the main dining hall, she pressed forward, into the lower room.
Hugh glanced ahead at the closed doors. “I am sure it is locked up for the night,” he offered in a low voice. “It is fine; I am sure the other men can tell me what I missed.”
Lord Weston stepped around them, pulling a key from his belt. “Or maybe you can see for yourself, without the crowds and noise,” he offered with a smile.
Hugh glanced at Lord Weston, then back at Master Martin, and realization spread across his face. “You planned a personal showing for us.”
Joan grinned. “I did say earlier that I enjoy private viewings,” she reminded him.
Lord Weston finished with the door, then pushed it open. The large room was ringed with torches, and the walls were lined with display cases. Each held a collection of knives, swords, and other types of weapons.
Hugh’s face lit up with pleasure. He moved immediately to the case on his left, his eyes running along the items within the wood frame.
“Look at this scimitar,” he whispered, tracing his gaze down the curved blade. “That is stunning craftsmanship.”
Joan pointed at the next case, walking ahead. “And here is a traditional Roman gladius,” she called to him. “A good thrust with one of these to the midsection and your opponent goes down hard.”
Hugh’s eyes moved to another blade in the case. This one had an odd, almost lightning-bolt jag in its middle. “What is this?”
Master Martin came up next to them. “That is an ancient sword, a khopesh,” he informed them. “It comes from Egypt, and that jag in it makes it ideal for hacking.”
Joan chuckled. “I am more of a slasher myself,” she grinned.
“That you are,” Master Martin agreed with a smile.
Joan moved on to the next case – and stopped. There, lying in the center of the case, was a small dagger with a black leather grip. She knew every crease, knew every dent in its dulled blade.
Her voice was reverent. “My practice dagger.”
She reached out her hand. The hilt fit into her grasp as if the weapon had never left it, as if the intervening years had vanished in the blink of an eye.
Master Martin’s voice held warm amusement. “Up for a match?”
She spun eagerly, nodding, moving into the center of the room. He reached into the case and took out his own practice blade, perfectly matched to his small size. Hugh and Lord Weston looked between the two with interest, staying back at the edge of the room.
Master Martin’s eyes moved down his student with interest. “Perhaps your time in bucolic England has made you soft,” he teased Joan.
Joan’s smile widened. “Perhaps not,” she countered, settling down into a guard.
He circled her, and she turned in place, her eyes watching his. He was an absolute wizard, perfectly capable of attacking in a direction completely opposite what his eyes might indicate. But she had to start somewhere.
His eyes glanced to her left hip, and he lunged, but his blade twisted at her right shoulder. She leapt back, barely drawing her body clear of the blade. She immediately dodged back in, sweeping low, but he spun to the side, his eyes sparkling with delight.
“You have been keeping up with your studies,” he praised her, taking another circling step, and then he was in motion.
Joan quickly abandoned all hope of thinking three steps ahead. He was like a master chess player, laying down attacks that had only one possible defense, guiding her slowly but surely toward the final hit. And then he began again.
She let go any thoughts, any plans, and simply eased herself into the flow of motion. Soon she was turning with him, twisting, sliding beneath his swings, leaping back, laughing with delight.
There was a noise at the entryway to the hall. The main door swung open and a messenger in brown stepped in.
Suddenly it was five years ago. Joan was sparring with Master Martin in the polished-wood hall of his sword school. The messenger had plowed in through the door, his eyes shadowed, his face haggard.
Michael was dead …
Master Martin was mid-swing when he saw her distraction. He twisted to keep the blade clear of her body, but his momentum carried him into her. She flew back against the floor, her dagger skittering out of her hand, her dress flying up to mid-thigh.
Joan stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, taking in deep breaths, striving to corral her roiling emotions.
Hugh was kneeling at her side in a heartbeat. “Are you hurt?” His eyes moved down to her legs and they sharpened in concern, focusing on a twisting line of red on her right thigh. “You’re cut!”
She slowly shook her head. He put a hand out to touch the line and his forehead creased in realization. “An old scar,” he murmured.
Master Martin’s voice was rich with regret. “We were both distracted on that day, but I was the teacher; I should have been aware for both of us.” He looked down at Joan. “Again, I am sorry.”
She shook her head. “It was my own fault, both then and now. If I allow tragedy to distract me in a fight, then how can I protect those who depend on me? I need to be able to retain my focus no matter what surrounds me.”
Hugh nodded, his eyes somber. “And yet, while you are learning that skill, you do not need to gather scars as a reminder.”
She looked down at the thin line of red, absently running a finger along it. “It is all I have to remember him by,” she mused softly. “If this is to be my one memento, then I will treasure it.”
Hugh stood, putting out a hand, and she took it. He pulled her easily to her feet, his arm barely flexing with the effort. She walked over to the case and gently laid her dagger back into the case.
Lord Weston looked over at the messenger. “Yes?”
The man bowed his head. “M’Lord, the feast is in underway, and several of your guests are asking after you.”
Lord Weston nodded. “Of course.” He turned to the other three. “Come, join me.”
Joan looked at the door, her heart still twisting. There would be drunken crowds upstairs, full of laughter and song. She did not have the heart to join them.
Hugh murmured at her side. “Perhaps you would prefer a quiet meal in your room?”
She nodded in gratitude, her shoulders easing. That sounded just right.
Master Martin looked to Lord Weston. “I appreciate your kind offer, but as I am leaving tomorrow afternoon, I would like to spend this last night with my student. I will have my cook send up some traditional favorites.”
Lord Weston smiled, looking between the three. “As you wish. I will see you all in the morning then.” He turned and walked from the room.
Hugh held out his arm. Joan slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, moving at his side toward the spiral staircase. In a few moments the three of them were stepping into Master Martin’s room.
The elderly man murmured some commands to a young servant boy, who quickly turned and hurried down the hall. Hugh brought Joan over to the plush, white rug fronting the fireplace, and she eased down onto it with a smile. She had barely settled her dress around her when he was bringing over a mug of mead. She took it with gratitude, drinking down a long swallow.
Master Martin beckoned to Hugh. “Here, come help me with this low table.” The men brought it over to sit beside the rug. They then settled themselves cross-legged at its sides, preparing to dine.
Joan stared into the flickering flame, her gaze lost in the ever-changing oranges and yellows, her mind going back to that day of torment. In a single moment her world had changed completely. Her
path had been forever altered.
Master Martin’s voice was low. “He is gone, my student,” he murmured to her.
Joan’s voice was tight. “I know he is.”
“And yet you still live,” he continued. “Have you allowed any man to court you since that day?”
She shook her head. “I am not ready,” she ground out.
“Wounds take their time to heal; we know this and accept it,” he mused. “But at some point we need rise again. Otherwise the muscles atrophy.”
She stared into the fire. “I will know when I am ready.”
There was a movement at the door; the boy came in carrying a tray holding a collection of bowls. There were three types of olives, stuffed grape leaves, and fragrant chicken redolent with aromatic spices. Joan’s mouth instantly watered, drawn back into another world with the long-missed, familiar fragrances.
The boy lay the tray down at the center of the table and turned to retreat back to the kitchens. Joan barely saw him go, she was so eagerly drawing an olive from the pile, popping it into her mouth, and sighing in pleasure.
“That is delicious,” she sighed, lost in an ecstasy of texture, flavor, and aroma. Hugh’s eyes eased, and he smiled at her before starting in himself.
He ate a stuffed grape leaf, then turned to Master Martin. “Your cook is superb,” he praised warmly. “Perhaps you could leave him behind when you head on to London?”
The elderly man grinned. “You two will just have to visit me there,” he countered. “I would not do without him.”
The servant boy came and went, new courses were brought up, and by the time the dessert plates were being cleared Joan was beyond stuffed. She lounged against the side of the fireplace, her legs sprawled before her, running a hand through her hair.
“I will not eat again for a week,” she vowed, patting her bulging stomach. “That was intensely good.” She smiled over at Master Martin. “And now all we need is some good music while we digest.”
His brow creased at that and he looked down for a moment. “My dear, you must pardon an old man. I have been selfish. It is time for me to remedy that.”
Her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Selfish? Do tell?”
He drew to his feet, moving to the side of the room to rummage through a leather bag. He withdrew a long, narrow wooden box, about the size of her practice dagger, and brought it over to the table. He placed it reverentially on the table before her.
“This is yours. I should have returned it to you years ago.”
Joan leant forward with interest. She moved to kneel before the table, running her hand along the box’s polished surface for a moment before lifting its hinged lid.
She stared in shock at the object that lay within on a velvet base. It was her boxwood flute, the one she had been given by her father when she was thirteen, the one she had lent to Michael when he first began leaving her on assignment. The delicate design of nightingales traced along its length.
She brought it to her lips, hesitated for a moment, then began to play. The familiar melody of an Israeli folk song drifted from the instrument. She lost herself in it, in the rich world she had left behind.
The last notes died away into silence, and Master Martin nodded at her, his face somber but proud. She turned to Hugh.
He was staring at her, dawning understanding growing on his face, his eyes moving between the flute in her hand and the woman before him.
His voice was hoarse. “That is the flute Michael played when we had spare evenings between our missions.”
Her heart began tripping double-speed, but she kept her features calm. She had known this stage would come. She could only hope that he would move through it smoothly, would continue them on the path she had laid out.
He focused again on the flute. “He said that Nightingale, the courier, had lent him the flute.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
He shook his head, confusion creasing his brow. “But I thought Nightingale was a man?”
She gave a half-smile. She had heard this misconception so many times that it had become a running joke between her and Master Martin. “I assure you, I am not male,” she offered gently.
“I can see that,” he ground out. “But the missions you were sent on; the dangers you survived, I assumed …” He shook his head. “But I should know better than to do that,” he admitted self-deprecatingly. “Every assumption should always be challenged.”
He smiled wryly. “Nightingale often seemed to reach destinations in half the time it took other couriers,” he commented. “Having seen your steeds, and the way you ride them, I now understand how that could be possible.”
His eyes went up to hers. “It makes sense that your path never crossed mine. From our group, Michael was the only one who had contact with the base,” he stated. “It was a foundation of our system. The fewer who knew – ”
Joan’s mouth drew into a wry grin. “The fewer could be made to talk,” she finished for him. “Yes, I know.”
He blinked at that, then his focus became more attentive. Realization flashed through his face. He sat back, staring at her.
“The Michael you loved – the Michael you lost – that is the same man who was my best friend for five years,” he stated in shock.
It was all she could do to nod, to hold his gaze.
A roil of emotion cascaded through his face, of disbelief, and understanding, and confusion.
“But if that were true – ” he began, and then he looked away for a minute, gathering his thoughts, nodding slowly. His gaze was even when he looked back to her. “Michael was a rare individual,” he murmured to her. “I mourn his death with you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
A twinge of jealousy tickled her soul as she looked at Hugh. He had spent those last five years with Michael at his side, enjoying long, uninterrupted weeks of time talking with him, laughing with him. The two men had faced countless dangers side by side.
In comparison, Joan had been kept at a distance, catching only brief moments of Michael’s attention. She had dreamt of a future where she and Michael could finally be together – and that future had never come.
Hugh gave his head another small shake. “Still, it seems so utterly unreal to me, that I could have been so close to him all those years and never had an inkling of his relationship with you.”
Master Martin’s voice eased into the mix. “If it was dangerous for general members of our intelligence community to know of each other, how much more dangerous if two of them were romantically involved? News of that must be kept as quiet as possible.”
Joan looked to the elder man with a wry smile. “You refused to even allow me to visit him in Jaffa,” she pointed out.
He nodded, his gaze flickering for a moment. “That I did, and for good reason,” he returned.
Hugh’s eyes went to Master Martin, and it appeared he had now gone beyond shock. “Nightingale was your assistant. That would mean … you were the chief of operations of our spy network?” he uttered in disbelief.
Master Martin nodded. “I am sure I do not need to emphasize that this discussion stays within these walls. But yes, now that we are disbanded, and our members scattered to relative safety, I do not mind you knowing.”
Hugh looked between the two of them, shaking his head. “You were right there, in plain sight, at the center of a world-renowned sword school! You had people constantly coming and going from your facility!”
Joan’s mouth quirked into a smile. “That we did,” she agreed.
Hugh ran a hand through his short hair. “I had no idea,” he murmured, shaking his head. “All this time I imagined a dark, shady character, tucked into the bowels of a sewer system, receiving his orders from Rome and sending them out through a tunnel network.”
Master Martin’s eyes twinkled. “It was a little different than that,” he offered lightly.
Hugh glanced at Joan. “I can see that,” he responded, an ease coming to his features.
He smiled back at Master Martin. “You must have been the one who wrote Michael with our orders for those first few months, as we got settled in. I remember him being pleased with how precise and accurate the details were. He said it saved him a great deal of time in our preparations.”
Master Martin’s serene face glowed. “I am glad to hear my messages were of use to your little group.”
Hugh nodded. “Indeed. The arrival of those neatly blocked statements were quite a reassurance to him.” He gave a low chuckle. “When you handed the message creation task off to your other assistant, he transferred the reply communication chores to me. I think he missed your personal touch.”
Master Martin’s eyes grew somber. “I missed him as well,” he agreed in a low voice.
Joan shivered as a chill traced through her bones. She took a long drink, settling back against the side of the fireplace. Hugh was keeping his gaze on Master Martin, but she could see the wealth of questions swirling behind Hugh’s eyes. She knew it was only through strict discipline that he was biting his tongue and not pressing for more information.
Her shoulders slumped; she was beyond exhausted. She could not tackle those questions tonight. Not when it was so critical for each step to follow precisely in the pattern.
She allowed a loud yawn to escape from her, and without prodding a second followed soon after.
Master Martin nodded to Hugh. In a moment the two had taken up the table and moved it to the side of the room. Hugh moved from candle to candle, cupping his hand behind each flame before blowing it out.
His voice was wry. “Time for me to head back down into the maelstrom,” he offered to the others.
Joan’s eyes glanced up in surprise at that. “Surely that hall is a pit of strewn food and ale by now!” she protested. “Stay up here; there is plenty of floor for all, and ours is fairly clean.” A thought came to her and her eyes shadowed. “Unless, of course, you want –”
He shook his head vehemently. “I absolutely do not want to return to that,” he responded. “But I would also not want to intrude.”
Master Martin gave a warm laugh. “You forget, my lad, that we spent our lives in a sword school,” he pointed out. “There were always lads coming and going, and students collapsed, exhausted, on whatever ground they could find. You are welcome.”