by Lisa Shea
“God’s toenails, but you are right,” laughed Elizabeth, giving her a toast with the skin of ale. “Good for you for finding a way to succeed on your own terms.”
Two pairs of eyes swiveled to meet hers, and Michelle burst out in giggles. “God’s toenails? What kind of a silly phrase is that?”
Elizabeth blushed. “It was a saying I picked up,” she hesitantly admitted. “So many people say ‘God’s Teeth’, that it seemed amusing.”
Michelle was still chortling. “God’s toenails,” she repeated with a snort.
Richard’s look was more serious, and Elizabeth worried that she had offended him somehow. “I only meant -”
Richard drew himself back from wherever his mind had drifted. “You meant that our lass is a brave girl,” he agreed, and the trio gave a toast under the warm morning sun.
Chapter 8
Elizabeth found herself rolling out of bed the following morning with a smile, her fingers flying as she worked the buckle on her sword belt, as she ran a quick hand through her hair, then slipped down the stairs and came out to the keep steps.
He was there, that quiet smile on his face as he stood, ready, at the center of the ring. She strode over to meet him, drew her sword out into a salute, nodded as he returned it. Her feet went into motion as she began circling around the edge of the ring, and he matched her, holding his eyes on hers, waiting for her to make the first move.
She knew he had been holding back, had been staying at the level presented, and she smiled. Despite Michelle’s delight, she had only been demonstrating simple deflections and blocks yesterday, giving her young student a taste of what she could attain soon. She wanted Michelle to see what the moves she was learning could be used for.
Now it was time to have a little more fun.
She spun her sword high and over, aiming for his left shoulder blade. He blocked, and she dove for his left waist. He deflected, and she sliced up from below at his left calf. He faded back with a leap, and she moved to start at his right shoulder blade. Block. Right waist. Deflection. She twisted her shoulders as if she was going to begin the sweep for his right calf, and his hands, his sword moved down to match.
She lunged forward, turning her hips, whipping the tip of the blade around, rotating it as she went so the flat of the blade would connect. There was no way he could -
Slam. His blade barely caught up with hers, but it was there, sending hers skittering to the side. She leapt back to give herself space, her mouth hanging open in surprise.
God’s teeth, this man was amazing.
He smiled at her expression, gave the sword a spin to limber his wrist, then settled back into a low guard. She could see it in his eyes, in the way they shone, that he wanted more.
Here we go.
Then she was in motion, slicing high, drawing him into a deflection, wrapping her blade around his, and he ducked beneath the counter-cut, bringing his sword across to aim for her stomach. She leapt backwards, then instantly forward again, driving her sword down against his left calf, working on his weak side. Usually her opponents were slower here, and her left handedness brought her a sizeable advantage, but Richard was there each time, his blade securely in position, his arms barely flinching as he absorbed the blow, turned his blade to retaliate.
She lost track of time, of place, of everything except Richard’s green eyes holding hers, of the lean of his shoulder, of the tremor of motion which ran along his bicep as he blocked, of the wrap of his fingers as he spun his blade to deflect her lunge.
She sought for the tell. So many fighters had one. They reseated their hand slightly before beginning an upper cut, they flexed their foot an infinitesimal amount before making that forward lunge. But with Richard, he seemed flawless. Nothing she did could draw him out of his easy response, his sure grace.
The morning sun slid the final inch over the keep wall and suddenly she had the full force of its glare in her eyes. She turned her head sharply, trying to track Richard’s blade by its sound, twisting, and he pulled in roughly to avoid the hit. Her arm collided with his and she lost her balance, tumbling to the ground. The ring she wore on a chain around her neck spilled from beneath her chemise.
Richard was kneeling at her side in a heartbeat. “Elizabeth, are you all right?” He helped her to a sitting position. Michelle scampered over from where she had been watching behind the bales, looking her over.
“I am fine,” Elizabeth promised them, bringing herself to standing, wiping the dirt from her dress. “If I ended a sparring practice without raised welts, my father would consider that time ill spent.”
Richard pressed his lips together at that, but Michelle interrupted with bright interest. “Whose ring is that?”
Elizabeth flushed, looking down, and with a quick motion tucked the item back beneath her inner layer. “Time to get you practicing, before we lose the entire morning,” she offered gruffly, putting her sword aside on one of the bales, taking up the two wooden ones instead. “Today we look at attacking on a diagonal.”
Richard’s eyes were near her throat, looking at where the ring had slipped, but he did not say a word. He took up the wooden sword and began moving through the drills with Michelle.
The ring against her chest seemed to have blazed into fiery heat. Over the past six months there were times she almost forgot it was there. Then other times it seemed a heavy weight, one which would drag her down into the darkest of depths. Now it seemed the tip of an iron-hot poker, searing at her, reminding her of the pain she had suffered.
Her hand almost went to it, to reassure her that it was the same cold, metal circle it had always been. She forced her hand to stay in place, to focus on the pair before her.
Then Claire and Susan were bringing out their lunch, along with three mugs of cider. They settled in on the fragrant bales of hay, and she cut even squares of her cheese, moving each into her mouth with careful attention. She could still feel the white-hot metal burning as if -
Michelle’s voice rung in her distraction. “Really, Elizabeth, what is that ring?”
That girl was as tenacious as a wolf stalking a wounded doe.
Before she could rein it in, she found her hand moving to press against her chest, feeling its metallic presence, cold and dead. Finally she looked up at the pair. Both were holding her gaze with quiet curiosity.
“It is … was … my engagement ring,” she admitted.
Michelle’s eyes widened with shocked delight, but Richard’s became distant, separated, and for a long moment he did not speak. Finally he asked, “you are spoken for?”
She shook her head, finding herself unwilling to look in those moss green eyes, turning instead to Michelle.
The girl’s gaze was bright with interest. “Tell me everything,” she insisted. “Did you have many suitors?”
Elizabeth snorted, taking a long draw on her cider. “Suitors,” she repeated, putting a heavy dose of sarcasm into the word. “When my father put me on the market at age sixteen, it was the same thing every time. Every. Single. Time. The man would ride in mid-day, and I would be in my gear, sparring. The man would look at me with a gaze of utter disgust, but then I could watch as the avarice won over, pushed away those first impressions and molded his face into one of appreciation.”
She took another long pull. “It got to be a game with me, to see how long it took before the eyes moved from one emotion to another. I would see if certain sword moves caused a greater reaction.” She chuckled low. “The groin thrust seemed to be particularly effective in that area.”
“I bet it was,” chortled Michelle, her eyes bright. “So then what happened?”
Elizabeth looked down into her cider. What had happened indeed. She had seen those moss green eyes, so like her beloved brother’s, and all sense had fled her mind. She decided that she had waited long enough, and that choosing someone at all had to be better than this endless round of feeling like one of the cattle at a market.
“After five years, Corwin arrived
at our keep. He was good with a sword. He seemed interested in sparring with me, in testing and improving my skills. My father heartily approved of him. So, after six months of courting me, he proposed.” She glanced down at where the ring lay. “I accepted.”
Michelle was transfixed. “Was it romantic? Did he pledge his undying love?”
Elizabeth downed the rest of her cider. “Real life is not like that,” she sharply corrected Michelle. “Marriage is a business transaction. Corwin and my father spent many long hours working out the precise details of my dowry. When they were done, they spent the remaining long hours drinking themselves into oblivion and congratulating each other on a deal well made.”
Michelle seemed unperturbed. “Still, you must have felt something for him,” she prodded, “to accept him after turning all those others down. Where is he now?”
A knife twisted in her stomach. She reached for her mug, found it empty, and Richard was offering his own without a word. She drew down a third of it, the welcome warmth easing within her.
“That May Day tournament,” she stated quietly, grinding the toe of her boot in the dirt, “I was sprawled face down in the mud. I had just been defeated, and my father in his fury had laid me out. He announced to the stands that he was completely disowning me.”
She could still feel the power of the moment, the taste of blood in her mouth, the shooting pain in her side, the sticky texture of the mud against her cheek and neck.
Her voice trembled. “I looked up for the one man I could rely on. The one man who would stay by my side; the only one since my brother Jeffrey who I could trust.”
Her mouth quirked at the memory, seared into her brain. “He was looking at me, all right. His eyes held that same mixture of disgust and greed that every other suitor’s had, and mixed in was the strongest of disappointment. Then he stood, turned his back on me, and strode out of the stands.”
Michelle’s voice was a whisper of shock. “He left you there to lie in the mud?”
Elizabeth downed another long draw of her cider, and her voice became guttural. “He left me to rot in the prisons, which is where my father had me tossed. They are the darkest depths of hell, with not a glimmer of light, not a hint of fresh air. It was a week before I could cajole one of the guards to let me into the hall to stretch my legs. Another week before my walks included the whole floor. A third week before I was allowed near the stairs.”
Her eyes shone as she remembered her escape. “Once there, I had my hands on a dagger, then a sword, and then I was in flight. I had a small bag packed with my horse at all times.”
Michelle was staring at her, transfixed. “Where did you go?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Once outside the keep walls, I moved from house to house to stay ahead of my father’s fury. I had numerous friends in the tournament circuit willing to lend a hand. I was waylaid out on the western coast, but then kind strangers took me in and equipped me afresh.”
She nudged her head toward the walls. “I had heard that Claire needed assistance, and here I am.”
Michelle’s eyes looked down toward the ring. “But if your betrothed was so cruel to you, and abandoned you like that, why do you still wear his token?”
Elizabeth’s hand went again to the round metal, and she cynically chuckled. “Maybe to remind myself never to go through that agony again.”
Michelle’s voice was a squeak. “Really?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I wear it because I want to find Corwin, to hand it back to him personally, and to tell him he did not break me. That it was better I discovered his true nature before I was irrevocably forced to remain by his side. That I have grown, and changed, and that I do not need to settle for men like him any more. I am no longer any man’s chattel.”
Michelle’s eyes were shining. “You are my hero,” she sighed. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
Elizabeth drained the cider, stood, and looked down at the innocent girl with her too-short hair and her dusty men’s clothing. “No, you do not,” she warned the lass. “You do not want to be anything like me.”
She could not bring herself to look at Richard, to see the pity or disgust or disapproval which could be showing in his face. She turned, taking the narrow stairs by the main gates in long strides, not stopping as she reached the top.
She strode along the wall to the back of the keep. She leant heavily against the sturdy stone, staring out at the distant horizon, becoming lost in the rhythm of the never-ending cascade of waves.
Chapter 9
Twists of unsettled feelings ran through Elizabeth as she rose in the pre-dawn softness. She carefully buckled on her sword belt and slid the familiar length of steel into its scabbard. She stood before the window for a long while, brushing her hair with slow, thorough motions, finally drawing herself to plait it into a braid.
She had no idea how Richard had reacted to her flustered eruption. She knew she should have said nothing, but the words had burst out of her before she could stop them. The emotions had been burning a hole within her brain just as the ring had been searing a hole into her chest.
The tale had been told. It could not be drawn back in now.
She sighed. If he was not waiting for her below, then maybe it was fate warning her that she was not intended for any man. Maybe this, too, was a way to learn of a man’s failures before she became too fond of him. Maybe it would be better if the sparring ring were empty when she walked out into the gentle golden glow.
She forced herself to believe that, to anticipate it, to look forward to the empty sparring area. Now she could focus on working with Michelle, two women against the world. They could stay here at the nunnery together, taking their turns on the walls, keeping an eye out for danger, escorting the sisters on their various trips. It would be fine. It had to be fine.
She came to the end of the spiral stairs. Her steps slowed as she came out to the keep doors, pressed them open, stepped out into the grey light …
He was there.
A wave of relief flooded over her so powerfully that she drew to a stop, caught in his moss-green gaze, and the corners of his mouth turned up in an understanding smile. She drew in a breath, stepping into motion again, coming down to stand before him, to look up at him, her eyes shining.
“You came back,” she found herself saying before she could rein in the words.
He ran his eyes down her form, lingering on the sword, and then returned his gaze to hers, his eyes steady.
“Yes. Always.”
His words were a vow.
A burst of joy spread from her very core, and she was drawing, saluting, swinging into action, but not with a drive to best him, simply with the delight of moving, of dancing, of weaving in and out, of lunging and retreating. He was there with her at every motion, his eyes on hers, his mouth relaxing into a smile. She threw her head back and laughed out loud. His face warmed, he eased up for a moment, and then they were spinning, weaving, dancing in the morning light.
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled as she retreated and looked him over. He had handled everything she’d thrown at him, but she had one more trick up her sleeve. The twisting undercut Corwin had taught her had been useful in numerous matches.
She circled slowly, balancing the distance, watching for just the right combination of stance and light and hold. It was coming … now!
She drove in hard, her hilt high, the sword tip down, then leant in, rotating it out, spinning it high and around and down to …
SLAM. His blade was there, in place, solidly, and her mouth fell open in shock. How in the world could he have been so ready for that?
He stepped back, his eyes sharp on her. “How -”
There was a clattering of hoofbeats on the cobblestone, and Elizabeth spun in surprise as the twins came barreling in on their stallions, heaving hard on the reins to draw them in. The steeds circled and stamped as they settled down. The men clambered off, tossing their reins to the sister who scurried out to meet them, then turned as
one to stare at her, their eyes drawing down her form, staring with open interest at the sword in her hand.
She could see it in their faces. Their looks went through incredulity, a shade of distaste, an edge of disapproval, and then, coming in stronger and stronger waves, the bright gleam of avarice.
There was a movement at the front of the keep, and Claire was sweeping her way down the stairs, moving to stand before them. Elizabeth found that her feet were in motion before she had conscious thought of joining them, and in a few long strides she had come up to the group, Richard close at her shoulder.
John was talking animatedly. “… and with our previous session with you being cut short, we felt it only proper to invite you back out for a quieter dinner. This time we could truly put the effort into discussing the patronage you had been interested in. We hoped tonight might be convenient?”
Claire’s mouth tweaked into a faint smile. “Tonight, you say? That is rather sudden.”
Ron burst in. “We should have invited you back sooner, we realize that,” he wheedled. “We have been busy hauling in the lecher Hyde. We are sorry for not coming to apologize before now.”
John’s eyes sidled over to Elizabeth, his gaze going to the sword still in her hand, before returning to look at Claire. “And, of course, your companion is quite welcome to come. This time she may wear more appropriate clothing, of course. No need for her to hide in that rough disguise at our home. We would be honored to have her as well.”
Ron chimed in at once. “Yes, quite honored,” he chorused, eyes gleaming.
Claire’s voice was even. “That would be up to Elizabeth.”
All eyes swiveled to her. A roil of confusion and fury and frustration swirled within Elizabeth’s chest. This had to be the work of her father. Only he could turn her world upside down like this, wreak havoc just when she thought she had escaped him. She had a mind to scream at the men to go away, to leave her in peace, to turn away with their eyes that judged and found her wanting.