by Jack Whyte
Most of the troops had long since returned from the outposts, but some were still out there upon the roads, such as they were, and these would continue to arrive throughout the morning. I had no doubt that every pile of wood would feed a fire before the morning passed. The day's main activities were scheduled to begin after the noontime meal, which would be a festive one, despite the fact that the individual units must remain together and be ready to parade when summoned.
Ambrose and I had found ourselves in a unique situation that morning, for we had done all that we could do in preparation for this day's events and were now constrained to leave the final details in the hands of those to whom we had delegated the tasks. We had agreed during our meal together that it would be both unkind and unwise to let it appear now that we lacked trust in anyone, and so for once we found ourselves at liberty to while away some time in idleness while everyone about us worked with twice the normal intensity.
Amused by the thought, and by the novelty of this sensation of irresponsibility, we set out to saunter at our leisure through the camp, but our progress was quickly retarded by the necessity of responding to an unending series of deferential greetings, and the ensuing awkward small talk with harried men, which invariably interrupted the performance of some task. Both of us quickly wearied of it and sought the silence of Aunt Luceiia's house, where, to no one's surprise, we were attended by the Lady Ludmilla. She told us she had been awake for the greater part of the night, assisting Master Lucanus—she would never think of him as "Luke"; that was my privilege as his friend—in his efforts to deliver a healthy child to the unfortunate woman Lucanus had spoken of the previous night. I was surprised to learn that the child had been born to Hector, one of our youngest and brightest Council members, and his wife Julia, both of whom I knew and admired. Hector, in particular, stood out among the councilors because he was a successful farmer who had had no ties with the Farmers faction, having chosen instead to tend to his own affairs and improve the quality of his arable land and his crops consistently from year to year without significant input from any other farm. I mentioned that I had met Luke on his way to the Infirmary for that purpose. He had not named the woman, which I privately thought strange, since he knew I was friendly with her and her husband. I said nothing of that to Ludmilla, however, who reported that Julia and her newborn son were healthy and well, and that the birth had occurred naturally and easily, with no need for Luke's bright, shiny knives. In gratitude, she added, and this information made me smile with pleasure, Julia had asked permission of Lucanus to name the child after him, a request with which, according to Ludmilla, Lucanus had seemed embarrassed and reluctant to comply, although he did not refuse. How could he, indeed? The child's name-granting lay within the parents' power alone, and the honour bestowed upon Lucanus was one he was powerless to refuse. From that topic, we moved on to discuss the rising number of children being born in Camulod. Fifteen had been birthed within the short months of the previous summer, as far as we could tally, and of those, twelve had survived, an extremely high number, attributable, we were sure, to the methods of Lucanus and his passion for cleanliness and meticulous postnatal care for both mothers and children.
Sometime later, having exhausted the conversation, and aware that my presence had become a patiently borne burden to the others, besotted as they were with each other, I went into the Armoury where, to my surprise and delight, I found Shelagh contemplating an array of knives and daggers mounted to one side on the central wall. Her back was to me and she had not heard me enter—she had left the door ajar again—and so, having set out towards her, I stopped before she could notice me and indulged myself in the simple, but deliciously guilty pleasure of observing her. Even from behind, she was ravishingly lovely, her long, self-willed tresses sweeping in cascades across her shoulders and more than half-way down her back. She stood on tiptoe, peering upward, her hands braced on a table-top, and her stance threw the clean lines of hips and buttocks into relief beneath the softness of the single garment draped from her shoulders and circled with a loose-looped leather girdle. She moved once, reaching further, straining to touch the metal of a wicked, broad-leafed blade with one fingertip, and my heart leapt to see what the movement revealed to my prying eyes: taut slimness of waist and swell of half-glimpsed breast beneath her upraised arm. I dared not stay a moment longer without announcing myself. So rapt was she in her scrutiny, however, that she remained unaware of me until I spoke.
"Good morning, Lady. You have an affinity for blades, I have observed."
She leapt backward and spun to face me, startled at the suddenness and closeness of my voice. "Oh, it's you, Commander Merlyn. Good morning. Knives, yes. Blades, only occasionally." She had regained her composure very quickly. "I should not be in here, should I?"
I smiled and shook my head. "No, you are welcome now. That rule—if rule it ever was—no longer applies. The only reason for my anger last time was the alarm I felt over my careless betrayal of my secret. Now you are privy to that secret, no secrecy applies."
She curtsied gracefully in the Roman fashion, holding her skirts out to her sides and dipping low, head bowed. "My thanks to you, Commander."
"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked, betraying my surprise. "I'll wager you would never do it at home in Eire."
Her eyes flashed and she tossed her head. "I never have, but who is to say I never will? I make my own rules of behaviour, Merlyn, and the man has not been born who can change any of them!"
I grinned, charmed by her scornful mettle. "Not even Donuil?"
"No, not even he." Then she relented, breaking into a smile. "Although he might persuade me in some things. He has a honeyed tongue, you know."
I grimaced. "Aye, I know. He has used it with me, too, although hardly in the way he must with you." I was suddenly and completely ill at ease with this conversation and my mind began to leap around, seeking alternative topics. Shelagh, however, was warming to her subject.
"He's a lovely man," she murmured, her thoughts evidently far from the Armoury. "I hope he comes back soon."
"He will," I assured her. "As soon as he can possibly make his way. Tell me about your knives."
If the abrupt change of direction surprised her, Shelagh gave no sign of it. "My knives," she said. "What would you like to know?"
"Anything, everything. Why do you have so many?"
"Well, they are throwing knives, and I have five of them. I suppose Donuil told you that?"
"No, not at all. He mentioned you had some skill with throwing them, that was all."
"Some skill? Is that what he said? Some skill? I'll show you some skill." She had begun looking about her, evidently searching for something. "Have you a piece of wood, a block of some kind?"
"A block? You mean like firewood? A log?"
"Aye, that would do, a big one. Have you?"
I shook my head, grinning. "No, but there are mountains of them outside in the courtyard."
"Good, then. Go you and fetch one here, and I'll get my knives. 'Some skill,' indeed!"
Suddenly I was alone, my eyes on the open door where she had vanished. Smiling still, and feeling strangely light-headed, I made my way outside, picked the largest log from the nearest pile and returned with it to the Armoury, where I set it down by the open fireplace. It was really large and heavy, as I had discovered carrying it into the building; the girth of a large man's chest and as long as the same man's torso. Moments later, Shelagh came striding back into the room, the blue, flowing fabric of her robe moulded to her thighs by the speed and length of her stride, her belt of knives suspended from her right shoulder, slanting down across her bosom and between her breasts. She was achingly beautiful and completely unaware of it, casting her eyes around the room from the moment she entered.
"May I move these books?"
"Of course. Here, let me move them over to this table."
"Good. Did you find a log?"
"I did. It's there, by the fireplace."
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p; "It'll do. It looks heavy enough. Would you put it there for me, on the table?"
I did so, and she stood for several moments, looking at it.
"It's too low. Can we stand it on top of the books?"
I could not get rid of the smile on my lips, and was enjoying this thoroughly. "We can, but we'll have to put a cloth between the books and the log," I said. "It's filthy and the books are precious. How high would you like it to be?"
"About the height of your chest—the middle of the log, I mean."
Moments later, the heavy piece of wood sat atop four of Uncle Varrus's books, which were safe beneath a heavily embroidered covering cloth from the long table at the end of the room. The midpoint of its height came even with my breastbone and its top sat level with my chin. I stepped back and turned to her.
"There you are, Lady."
"My thanks. Now stand away." Her tone was fierce, her words clipped. I moved away, masking my smile behind my hand for the few remaining moments of its life.
With a speed I could scarcely credit, her right hand came up from her waist, unsheathing a knife in passing, then flashed downward, and a blurred streak passed my eyes and hammered into the raw wood with a solid thunk. Without waiting to see the result of her throw, Shelagh had spun on her heel and retreated two paces before spinning back and repeating the performance. Three times more she repeated this maneuvre, never pausing for an instant, so that by the time I had begun to come to terms with what I had witnessed, she stood ten paces farther down the room from the spot in which she had begun. My eyes had never even sought the target. I had been completely enthralled in watching her movements. Now she spoke to me, her tone still iron.
"Some skill, I think. Take a look!"
I stepped forward to the target, fully aware of it for the first time, and gazed, speechless, at what she had done. All five knives stood together, the buried tips of their blades touching, the thickness of their handles forcing them outwards into a wedge-shaped, solid bar.
"Good God, Shelagh," I gasped. "Where and when and how could you learn to throw like that? That seems impossible. I would have sworn no one could ever do that with accuracy, let alone at that speed!"
"When? I've spent my whole life learning how to do it, but I had a natural ability to start with," she answered, now sounding almost subdued.
"I know, Donuil told me you could kill a running rabbit with a knife as a mere child, but I thought he was exaggerating out of admiration and loyalty."
"No, it was true. But when I was older, though still a little girl—I was eleven at the time—and he was away with his brothers, something happened that Donuil knows nothing about. I was attacked in the woods while walking with a cousin. Her name was Rhona and she was older than I—much older. The man who did it leapt on Rhona and I ran away." Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. "But before I ran, I threw my knife at him. It hit him in the throat, where I had aimed, but hilt first, and he laughed at me, then knocked my cousin down and chased after me. I escaped, terrified out of my wits, but he went back and raped and killed my cousin. I swore then that I would never miss with a thrown knife again, that the next man I aimed at would fall down and die with my blade in his throat and would never harm another woman. And so I learned my craft better than any other I have known. How did I learn? you asked. I learned by doing it. I threw, and threw and threw again until I learned to gauge the flight of any blade, once I had held it in my hand. I threw and threw until my arms—I throw with both— grew into wooden beams that moved down and through the same motion, exactly, every time. I threw until both my wrists became inured to endless throwing, and grew thicker than the wrists of any of my friends—you see?" She extended her arms to me, stretching them beyond the sleeves of her blue robe and, sure enough, the wrists, and her entire forearms, were thick, dense-looking and strongly muscled.
"That only leaves the 'where' of your questions, Master Merlyn. I learned wherever I happened to be at any time. I learned at home; I learned while working; I learned through endless hours and days and weeks of practising when other little girls and young women were learning women's skills, and yet I learned those, too. I learned while hunting and fighting with the men of our people, for among our folk there is no shame in being a woman and a warrior. You knew that, did you not?"
I nodded. "I did. It is the same among the Celts of this land. Women fight beside their men when danger threatens."
"Aye, and danger is never far afield." Her voice was now almost inaudible.
I turned once more to look at the five knives standing in the solid log. "You could do that again, right now," I murmured. It was an assertion, not a question.
"Aye, I could, but I'm no longer angry, and anger helps. I could do it again, nevertheless, and had you the nerve to blindfold me, then stand behind the log and speak to me, I could place all five blades into it from your throat to your breastbone before you had time to scream." She paused. "You would not do that, would you? Trust me that much?"
I hesitated, caught off balance by the suddenness of her challenge. Would I? I thought I might, but had to clear my throat before I could pronounce the words.
She smiled. "Then you would be a fool; a trusting fool worthy of gratitude, but none the less a fool for that. Accidents do happen, Caius."
I turned away again and began to prise the blades from the wood, finding it far from easy. When I had all five, I took them to where she stood and held them out to her, hilts forward, watching as she sheathed them, one after the other.
"Shelagh," I said, "you are magnificent."
She smiled at me, almost sadly. "No, but I know you mean that, so accept my thanks, for that, and for the other things."
"The other things?" I was puzzled, suddenly unsure of myself again. "What other things are those?"
"Your silence, and your reticence . . . respect, perhaps."
I felt my face grow red. "Forgive me, I don't know what you mean."
"Oh yes you do, Cay. I've seen you, felt you, watching me and known what your thoughts were. I am no maiden, to run blushing at such thoughts. But I am sworn to your friend, his wife in fact as well as name, and neither you nor I could ever deceive him or betray him in such manner."
I swung away, mortified at my own transparency, but she caught hold of my sleeve and turned me back to face her.
"Look at me, Caius Merlyn, look at me!"
I looked, cringing inwardly, and saw no sign of censure in her eyes, which gazed at me steadfastly. And then she smiled again, sweetly and gently, a smile of utter friendship.
"Here am I talking to you of maidens' blushes, and you outshine them all. Think of it thus, Cay: I am a woman, not a child, and aware that you perceive me as a woman. And I am flattered, as a woman, that I can attract the man you are. But I am a warrior, too. Never lose sight of that. I am a warrior, with a warrior's skills and depths. I have trained and hunted with men throughout my life, lived among them, fought with them and heard them speak of men's desires and lusts at all hours of the day and night through peace and war. I have killed men. And I have lain with some. No woman—and few men, for that matter—can survive a battle among comrades and not be physically drawn to some of them. You are a warrior, too, a soldier; you know the kind of fellowship shared peril breeds."
She paused again, staring at me keenly. "Do you understand what I am telling you, Caius Merlyn? These feelings you have, which you have been so painfully determined to conceal, are not one-sided. I feel them, too. That is why they persist; because I have allowed them to. Had they been unwelcome, I would have stamped upon them long before now, in any of a hundred ways that you would have accepted without ever knowing of my awareness. Do you hear me?"
I nodded, slowly, wonderstruck but still incapable of speech.
"Hmm," she said, smiling slightly. "Good. Do you feel any better? You look as though you've been hit on the head."
Dumbly, I shook my head. She laughed and grasped my wrist, pulling me with her towards the chairs that she and I h
ad occupied a few days earlier.
"Sit down, and let me put some wood upon the fire, then we will talk further. Is there anything to drink in here? Would you like some mead?"
I paused in the act of sitting, and straightened up again, forcing myself to swallow in the hope it might release my tongue. "No," I rasped, then cleared my throat loudly and captured a more natural tone of voice. "There's nothing in here, but I can call for some."
"Good, then do that, while I arrange this fire."
I cannot recall what thoughts went through my mind as I moved about the house thereafter. I know there were no servants to be found, and I ended up finding the mead myself and carrying it back to where she waited, and I know that as I entered, kicking the door shut behind me, and moved towards the fire, she sat watching me and smiling that small, friendly smile. I poured the mead and handed her a cup, then sat across from her, feeling the flames against my face and legs, and seeing the way her five, sheathed knives seemed to cling to her form, finding their own relaxed positions and each caressing her with intimate familiarity. She raised her cup to me and tipped it, spilling a small libation on the floor.
"Let us drink to ourselves, Caius Merlyn, to us and to our secrets: to the discussions we have had, the pair of us, and to our friendship, which will be permanent, I think, and spiced with innocent attraction and respect. I, too, may look, and lust inside with no harm done." She laughed, a lovely sound brim-full with mischief, then grew solemn. "We drink also to our friends and to our obligations, to the duties by which we are both almost gladly bound; and to your infant King, his destiny, and the families and lines from which he springs. What was it you called it? The great Dream of the Roman Eagles who founded Camulod.' Now there is a worthwhile litany of reasons why we should enjoy this mead. Will you not agree?"