by Amy Tolnitch
“Hmm. While I appreciate your confidence in my ability to get away, I would prefer to keep my skills up.” She gazed around at the ten or so men who lingered, listening to every word their laird and his bride exchanged.
“My lady, I would be happy—”
Padruig cut off the overly enthusiastic boy, Artan, with a hard glance. He smiled at Aimili. “If the lady wishes to … practice with her wee sword, it is her husband’s duty to oblige her.” He squelched a chuckle at the flush of anger his choice of words provoked.
“As you wish,” she said, unsheathing a sword.
Padruig frowned at her. “Where did you get that?”
One of the guards snickered.
Aimili lifted her chin. “Our smithy made it for me. ’Tis called Judgment.”
“You put a name to that… that sword?”
A few more guards snickered.
“Are you going to fight or just stand there?” she asked.
At the moment, Padruig truly wasn’t sure. “Have you any training? At all?”
In answer, she sprang forward and attacked.
Padruig stumbled back, instinctively raising his shield. Behind him, he heard some of the guards making a wager and, by the saints, the curs were actually favoring his wife!
“Pay attention, Padruig,” she ordered.
He idly blocked her sword. Best to finish this quickly, he decided. The sooner the better the lass realizes she needs a man to protect her. He twisted and brought his sword down hard onto her shield.
A flash of pain crossed Aimili’s face as she dropped the shield onto the dirt.
“Do you yield?” he asked.
He was pretty sure he heard her say, “Go to hell,” but he refused to believe it. She ran at him, and he swung his sword low, intending to stop her forward movement. Instead, she leapt over the sword as if the very air carried her. Before he could do more than stare in astonishment, she had the very sharp edge of her blade against his exposed throat.
The guards burst into raucous laughter.
Aimili rocked back on her heels and sheathed her sword. “Mayhap, next time you will provide me more sport,” she said and sauntered from the field.
Padruig realized his mouth still hung open when Magnus walked up and pushed it closed.
“Good to see you are making progress with your bride,” Magnus commented.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Padruig murmured.
Magnus laughed. “You would prefer a helpless lass who spent the day in her solar working and reworking the trim on your tunic?”
“’Twould be easier.”
“And hopelessly dull.”
The other men filed off the field, sending Padruig grins and nods of approval. “Good show by your lady Laird,” one of them called.
“What am I to do with her, Magnus?”
His friend shrugged. “You have not been eager to accept my advice.”
Make Aimili his wife in truth, Magnus meant. Padruig swallowed, wishing the idea was not so appealing. Oh, to be sure, he’d had his share of plump, full-breasted women, and enjoyed every one. Lately, however, his taste had changed to a woman with a lithe, strong body, one with skin touched by sunlight. He felt beads of sweat form on his forehead. “What was her father thinking? Why did he not find a strong, young man to take her in hand?”
“Perhaps none of those lads thought themselves able to, as you say, ‘take her in hand.’”
“I am no sure any man could.”
“Maybe you should simply take her as she is.”
“I cannot. Not in the way you mean.”
“How long will you do penance, Padruig?”
“It could never be long enough.”
“I have been looking into the matter of Brona’s death.”
Hearing Magnus say Padruig’s sister’s name brought it all to the front of his mind. You killed her! his mother’s voice shouted. This is your fault!
“I spoke with Brona’s maid’s sister, who yet lives in the village.”
“Magnus, cease. We all know what happened.”
“Padruig, I—”
“Cease! ’Tis bad enough that each day here reminds me of Brona’s absence. Bad enough that every time I look at my wife I see Brona’s passion for life, her innocence of the wickedness of men.” He realized he was shouting, and clenched his jaw.
“Aimili is not Brona, Padruig.”
“She is the very same age Brona was when she died. Died because I failed to see the madness in Symund. Died because I forced her to sneak off with Malcolm. She grew up within the protection of her clan, just as Aimili did. Brona knew nothing of what dangers the world held, either.”
“You are afraid,” Magnus said, his eyes widening.
“Nay.”
“Aimili appears capable of protecting herself.”
“She is like a child who jumps off the cliff without looking down for a safe place to land. Today, she got lucky.”
Magnus shook his head. “She is your wife, Padruig.”
“Aye. And I will keep her safe. From everything.”
“Even yourself?”
“Especially myself.”
“What if Brona’s murder was not your fault, Padruig?” Magnus asked in a soft voice. “What then?”
“I thank you for your faith, my friend, but I know the truth. If not for me, my sister would yet live. That is my truth. That is all there is.”
Chapter Nine
Aimili nearly skipped as she made her way across the bailey. Take that, you overbearing knave, she thought. By the saints, the expression on Padruig’s face had been beyond price. She giggled, wishing she could share her victory with the old guard at de Grantham Castle who’d taught her that trick.
Still basking in satisfaction, she pulled up short when a maid stepped into her path. “My lady, Lady Freya sent me to find you. She asks that you attend her and Lady Efrika in Lady Efrika’s solar.”
“Oh.” Aimili cast about in her mind for an excuse. Surely she had something to do besides endure another discussion about how many joints of beef should be prepared for dinner. “I—”
“I will take you there.” The maid was at least a head taller than Aimili, and her expression, though sunny and friendly, was determined. Clearly, Efrika and Freya had warned her of Aimili’s likely reluctance.
“I suppose I can spare a short time,” Aimili said, ignoring the flash of humor in the maid’s gaze. She followed the girl to a round, squat tower and up two flights of stone steps. The landing at the top opened into a large airy chamber, its three windows open to let in the light.
Freya jumped up from her stool. “Aimili, there you are!” She beamed a smile.
Aimili blinked in shock. Each time she’d seen Freya, the girl had been dressed in a soft bliaut and undertunic, her copper-colored hair always carefully arranged to curl around her face. Today, she wore garments almost identical to Aimili’s, but of a dark blue instead of green. Her hair hung down her back in a single plait just as Aimili’s own did.
Efrika sat on a nearby stool with a pile of fabric spread across her lap. She and Freya exchanged a look.
“I am ready,” Freya announced.
“For—”
“Riding lessons. What think you of my attire?” She turned in a circle, laughing. “’Tis a very free feeling. I can see why you like to dress this way.”
Efrika coughed.
“Oh, but look, Aimili,” Freya said, pulling up a bundle of fabric from a basket in front of her. She shook it out and Aimili realized it was a bliaut of forest green wool, with pale blue vines embroidered around the neck and wide bottoms of the sleeves. “I shortened the hem and have not had time to embroider it yet.”
“’Tis lovely,” Aimili said politely.
“I am so glad you like it.”
Aimili narrowed her eyes in puzzlement. Why did Freya care what Aimili thought of her gowns?
“’Tis for you to wear to supper.”
“For me?”
; “Aye.” She draped the material over Aimili’s shoulder. “’Twill look much better on you than me, do you not think so?”
“I, uh—”
“I am sure Padruig will think so, too.” Freya flashed a wide grin.
“I doubt he will notice,” Aimili muttered. “Particularly after I just beat him in a sword fight.”
Freya’s eyes grew as round as a bannock. “You did?” She clapped and turned to Efrika. “Did you hear that? Aimili bested Padruig!”
Efrika’s mouth quirked in a smile. “What did Padruig say?”
Aimili couldn’t help but grin. “Nothing. He was in too much shock.”
“So,” Freya said, laying her hand on Aimili’s arm, “I will try to learn to ride if you will wear this gown to supper. And,” she said slowly, gesturing toward Efrika.
Efrika held up a length of deep purple silk. “This is for you. Padruig had Freya purchase it from a traveling merchant.”
Her words gave Aimili pause, and the beginnings of a warm feeling in her chest. She would not have guessed that Padruig gave her more than a passing thought. “He did?”
“Aye.” Efrika tilted her head. “I have begun sewing the gown, but, well, if you would prefer to do it yourself that is fine.” She clearly assumed that Aimili lacked the skill.
“I can sew, actually, but I do not generally take the time for it. Perhaps,” she paused and gulped, taking in the cozy atmosphere of the chamber, the surprising kindness and acceptance by Freya and Efrika, “I could help embroider the trim when ’tis time.”
“Perfect.”
Moments later, Aimili followed Freya down the steps and back out into the bailey. As the two crossed the sparsely grassed area, Aimili said, “Tell me about the fall you had.”
Freya wrinkled her nose. “We were riding back from Ruthenshire. They hold a fair there each May Day.” Freya took Aimili’s hand. “We shall go. ’Tis filled with merchants from everywhere!”
“You shall have to ride,” Aimili reminded her, more affected by the way Freya so easily took her hand than she wanted to admit.
“Aye. Well, ’twas a lovely day. The sun was warm, our stomachs were full from meat pies, fresh cheese, and wine, and my saddlebag held the most beautiful hair ribbons I had ever seen.” She sighed.
“Were you riding astride?”
“Aye. The truth is, I have never felt very balanced atop a horse. I so envy people like you who make it look so very easy.”
“You shall learn. Not everyone starts off just knowing how to sit a horse.”
“Good. Anyway, we were not in a hurry, so we were just walking along the road. There were woods to one side and open land on the other. All of the sudden, for no reason at all, the horrible beast I was riding went completely mad.”
Freya’s tone was so piqued that Aimili had to suppress a smile. “What do you mean?”
“He jumped in the air, landed to the side of the road, and galloped off as if his life depended upon escape. Somewhere along the way, he swerved to the right. I went left. When I woke up, Padruig was carrying me into the hall.”
Unfortunately, Freya’s story was not all that uncommon, but still… why put her on a horse so easily frightened? “Who chose your mount?”
“I dinnae remember. A groom had him ready for me.”
“When did this happen?” Aimili asked as they walked into the stable.
“Before Padruig left. Mayhap a year and a half ago.”
“Ye should not have been on a horse who would react so.”
Freya frowned. “I never thought of it that way.”
Mist stuck her nose over the door to her stall and nickered in welcome.
Freya halted and eyed her.
“This is Mist,” Aimili said, tugging Freya along. “She is my riding horse, and very sweet.”
The girl is afraid?
Aye. Be verra gentle.
Hmph. I always am.
She was thrown badly by a horse that panicked, apparently at nothing.
Not nothing.
No, but ’tis unclear what happened. Freya didn’t notice anything.
“Mist shall take very good care of you,” Aimili told Freya as she led the horse from her stall. “I promise.”
“She is rather big.”
Aimili handed Freya a brush and spotted D’Ary leaning against a stall watching them. He unfolded his length and approached. “May I be of assistance?”
Freya peeked over Mist’s back and squeaked in surprise. “Who are you?”
D’Ary flashed her a smile. “I am new in the stables. My name is D’Ary, my fair lady.”
Freya giggled, and Aimili gave D’Ary a warning look, to which he responded by winking at her.
Aimili narrowed her gaze. Far too forward to be a mere stable hand, she thought once again, wondering about D’Ary’s true background. “I have promised to give the Lady Freya instruction. She is not as comfortable riding as she would like to be.”
“What she means is that I am a terrible rider, and a feartie-cat, as well.”
“You suffered a bad fall,” Aimili reminded her. “’Tis understandable to be fearful.” She turned to D’Ary “Lady Freya’s horse took a sudden fright and bolted off with her.”
“What frightened the horse?”
“Nothing,” Freya told him. “At least naught that anyone could see. The damned beast, excuse my language, just took off.”
D’Ary frowned. “A palfrey?”
“Aye. Hugo had to put it down. By the time it returned to the stables, it had broken its leg.”
D’Ary looked at Aimili and she saw that he had the same thought she did. A well-trained ladies’ palfrey, chosen to carry a young, fairly unskilled rider, should not have behaved in such a way.
“You will have no trouble with Mist,” Aimili assured her as she saddled the mare. By the time they walked into the outdoor pen, Freya was biting her lip and slowing her steps. D’Ary stopped outside and leaned on the rail.
“I am no sure about this after all, Aimili.”
“When have you last ridden?” Freya didn’t answer. “Not since your fall?”
Freya shook he head, her cheeks flushed. “Nay. I told you I was a coward.”
“From this day forward, you may not say such things. If you name yourself a coward, then that is what you will be. Today, you are a brave woman who can ride and ride well. Now”—Aimili gestured to the stirrup—“up you go. I have her.”
Though her reluctance was palpable, Freya swung onto Mist’s back and took up the reins. She held herself as if an iron staff was permanently attached to her backbone, and her knees gripped Mist’s sides.
“Freya.”
“Aye?”
“Breathe. Mist is no going to run off.”
Freya blew out a breath, and her body relaxed slightly.
“Go ahead and walk,” Aimili told her. “I shall be right next to you. Focus on taking deep breaths and just moving with her.”
“Very well.” Freya squeezed Mist forward into a walk, but after a few steps pulled back on the reins. “She is going too fast.”
Aimili put a hand on Mist’s neck and looked up at Freya. “’Tis just her usual walk, no more. Breathe and move with her.” Aimili cast about for ideas. “Imagine that you are a partially cooked custard.”
“Custard?” Freya actually smiled at that.
“Aye. Soft, rather sticky, but not solid.”
Freya started off again.
She is digging her knees into my sides, Mist told Aimili.
I can see that. Be patient, my friend. She is fearful.
“Relax, Freya. Be the custard.”
When Freya giggled again, her body loosened.
“Try not to grip with your knees. It throws your body off balance.”
“Truly?” Freya gazed down at Aimili with a puzzled expression. “I thought it would help me stay on.”
“Nay.” Aimili halted Mist and took one of Freya’s legs out of the stirrup. “’Tis better to stretch this down
and around Mist’s belly. If you grip your knees, the rest of your body will stiffen, too.”
“Oh. I guess I forgot.”
“Who taught you to ride?”
Freya started Mist walking again. “Padruig, and sometimes Magnus.” She smiled. “We had such merriment together. Both of them were very tolerant of me following them about.”
“Merriment?”
“Oh, yes. But that was before Padruig took over for Father and, well, before …”
“Before?”
“Before poor Brona died. Padruig … well, you ken the story.”
“Not really.”
Freya sighed. “That bastard MacVegan murdered her because he couldn’t have her. She loved Malcolm. Padruig was too late to save her.” She pulled Mist to a stop and gazed down at Aimili. “He blames himself for everything, you know. ’Tis why he left.”
“Why did he come back?”
“I dinnae ken. I am only grateful he did in time to save me from having to marry Angus Ransolm.”
Aimili’s mouth turned down. “I have never met the man, but he whipped Loki mercilessly.”
“I am no surprised. He has a reputation for cruelty.” Freya shivered and crossed herself. “If not for Padruig’s return, I would be dead.”
“And my father’s aid,” Aimili said before she could stop herself.
Freya stared at her for a moment. “True enough. I hope you will be happy here, Aimili. We are pleased to have you.”
Aimili blinked back the sudden burn of tears. “Thank you.”
“Padruig … he, well, he is changed.” Freya bit her lip. “He does not trust himself anymore. And Mother …”
“I encountered your mother in the chapel. She called Padruig a murderer.”
“Aye.” Freya shook her head. “She hates him, and though he acts as if it is no matter, I know it pains him. They were once close.”
“He did not kill your sister.”
“Nay, but he feels as if he did. I fear he will never forgive himself. It is as if he sees himself too flawed, too stained to do so.”
Aimili slowly began to understand, though the knowledge brought naught but the heavy weight of hopelessness in her heart.
“Padruig used to be so different. He would tell me stories, and always tell me all about what happened during his travels with Father.”