About a half dozen Rivenloch men in chain mail lay upon the ground as if dead, their shields discarded, their swords silent upon the sod. The Knights of Cameliard, most of them only half-dressed, none of them armed, stood in a rough semi-circle upon the field. And against the fence, Sir Rauve and Sir Adric restrained a furious, spitting, wild-eyed Deirdre. She was dressed in full armor except for a helm. As she thrashed her braid loose and waved her sword rampantly, her eyes flashed with murderous intent.
Pagan couldn’t begin to guess what had transpired. He couldn’t even summon the words to ask.
Fortunately, Sir Rauve volunteered an explanation. “My lord,” he bit out, his voice straining as he fought to contain his slippery captive, prying the sword from her grip and tossing it away. “We’ve rescued your bride.”
Rescued? She couldn’t have looked less like a grateful maiden in distress.
“Rescued!” Deirdre cried. “You stupid, overgrown f—”
Rauve diplomatically clapped his hand over her mouth before she could finish.
But Pagan was more concerned with the Scots knights strewn about the tiltyard. “Are they…”
“Oh, nay!” Rauve scoffed. “Just gave them a light tap, we did. Ballocks, we weren’t even armed. They just—” He let out a sudden yowl and snatched back his hand. Deirdre not only had claws, Pagan noted, but teeth.
Sir Adric continued. “They were attacking her, my lord. Their own mistress.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Five of them against one wench.”
Deirdre wrenched against their grasp. “You imbeciles! Crack-brained fools!”
The men began to grumble amongst themselves. Clearly they expected not condemnation, but gratitude, from the object of their rescue.
Pagan held up a hand for silence. Everyone but Deirdre obeyed.
“Let me go, you halfwits!” she spat.
Pagan nodded to Rauve, and they released her.
Cursing under her breath, she tossed her head and shoved them aside to make her way to the fallen knights. Pagan would have let her pass then, but as she swept past him, she gave him a hateful glare, as if he were somehow to blame. Irked, he caught her arm.
“Unhand me, sirrah!” she snapped.
“Explain. What’s this about?”
“You tell me. What kind of barbarians are you fostering, Norman?”
His head ached, and he’d had enough of her insults this morn. His grip tightened. “Do not disparage my knights, wench.”
“Knights? How can they call themselves knights when they have wrought this?” She gestured toward the Scots lying motionless upon the ground.
“Then tell me. What happened?”
“Your knights attacked mine,” she snarled. “Viciously. And without provocation.”
“What?” Rauve cried in disbelief. “’Tisn’t the way of it at all, my lord.”
Adric added, “We saved her, my lord. We saved her from harm.”
“Dolts!” she fired back. “I was never in danger. My men know perfectly well how—”
“Cease! All of you!” Pagan barked. He was starting to understand what had transpired, and already he saw the beginnings of his first major battle with his new bride. He blew out a forceful sigh. “You were sparring with them?”
She lifted her proud chin. “Of course I was sparring with them. Do you truly believe my own men would attack me?”
“Sparring?” Adric asked.
Rauve’s jaw dropped. “What? Oh, nay, nay, my lord.” He vehemently shook his head. “’Twas a full assault. They were on her five at a time. Heavily armed. Sharpened blades. Nothing held back. ’Twas hardly sparring.”
“Oh?” Deirdre sneered at him. “And what do Normans spar with? Willow twigs?”
Rauve spat into the dust. “I’ll tell you what Normans do not spar with. We do not spar with wenches.”
Deirdre’s eyes narrowed then, and Pagan saw a dangerous gleam enter them. “Maybe you’d like to try,” she challenged.
“What the…” Rauve looked horrified, as if she’d suggested he swallow a live kitten.
Pagan had to stop the nonsense. “Listen! The next man to draw a sword will answer to me.”
Rivenloch and Cameliard were allies now, after all, and by the King’s order, it was up to Pagan to merge Scot and Norman forces into a cohesive army. He had no time for childish quarreling. Nor did he have the patience for a wife who wished to play dangerous games with men twice her size.
Besides, he still stung from Deirdre’s rejection for the second night in a row. If the wench wanted a bit of…lunge and thrust…he’d be only too happy to oblige her in their chamber.
“Rauve, help these men off the field. Let them rest. We’ll get a fresh start in the afternoon, training the Scots.” He clucked his tongue, then muttered, “’Twill doubtless be a challenge to whip them into shape, considering that even fully armed, they couldn’t defend themselves against half-dressed men.”
Deirdre seldom lost her temper. It was a point upon which she prided herself. Unlike Helena, she maintained control of her emotions, relying upon her head instead of her heart. But this morn, her restraint was sorely tested.
At Pagan’s insult, she stiffened. How dared he ridicule the knights of Rivenloch? It was his own men who’d stupidly misjudged the situation, causing this mess. And how dared he speak so casually of “whipping them into shape,” as if they were a bunch of beardless lads who’d never swung a blade? As if she and Helena hadn’t spent the last two years honing the skills of the knights themselves? His counsel and his experience she welcomed. But how dared he assume that merely because he’d married into Rivenloch, it was now his occupation to command its army, her army?
These were her men, damn him! Her knights.
With icy fury, she stooped down and retrieved her fallen sword, then slowly turned and faced him, raising the blade. So the next to draw a sword would answer to Pagan? She’d do so gladly.
His men immediately froze, some of them swearing softly in awe, reinforcing her suspicion that they were a bunch of cowards.
“’The Scots’ need no training from you, sirrah.” She eyed his knights, who now stood in gape-mouthed anticipation. “Nor from your cowering men.”
A tiny muscle ticked in Pagan’s jaw, and for a long while he only stared at her, his expression unreadable. Her mouth curved up in a slow, scornful smile as she realized Pagan didn’t have the ballocks to fight her in front of his men.
But just as she’d decided he was going to cede defeat, he surprised her by drawing his sword.
“Clear the field!” he ordered.
All around him, his men hastened to comply, some of them carrying the still unconscious men of Rivenloch between them.
It was a pity he’d dismissed them. She longed to prove, not only to Pagan, but to an audience of his knights, that the Scots were made of stern stuff.
All the while the Cameliard knights hurried to vacate the field, Pagan fixed a grim gaze upon her. She met him, stare for stare, as long as she could. But the unflinching courage and raw determination in his eyes were most unnerving. She resorted to distracting him with words.
“My knights would never flee in such fear,” she said, glancing at his men, emptying the tiltyard. “They scuttle from the field like beetles from a fire.”
“They likely fear for you, my lady,” he said calmly.
She smirked. It was a childish boast, one she’d expect from an unseasoned fighter. “Well, they needn’t. You and I know I’m quite handy with a blade, don’t we, sirrah?”
His brow clouded. “Do not address me in that manner. You may say ’my lord’ or call me by my given name. But you will not use that term of disrespect again.”
“When you earn my respect, sirrah, then I’ll oblige you.”
His sword whipped up to her throat with such speed that it whistled on the air, making her gasp involuntarily. God’s eyes! She’d never seen a thing move so rapidly.
“You have much to learn about respect,” he s
aid. “’Tisn’t about who is faster or stronger or who has defeated more men in battle. ’Tis about honor.”
Deirdre gulped in spite of herself. Her heart fluttered against her ribs. She still couldn’t fathom how his sword had come to be at her throat so quickly.
“Now,” he said, giving the field a quick perusal. “They’re gone. Will you withdraw your challenge?”
She scowled at him. “Nay.”
“I’ve dismissed all the witnesses,” he said, “to spare you the shame of surrender.”
“Surrender?” She didn’t believe him for a moment. No one was that chivalrous. She narrowed her eyes, trying to guess his thoughts. He had ultimately prevailed over her yesterday, but she hadn’t been an easy conquest. “Nay, I think you’re afraid of me. You’re afraid to lose to a woman before your men.”
To his credit, he didn’t laugh at her, but a grimace of irony crossed his face. With a subtle shake of his head, he withdrew. “Fine. Give it your best.”
He swished his blade through the air a couple of times before settling into a defensive stance.
Indeed, his confidence was unnerving, even for Deirdre, who’d already battled him once and had faced down far more threatening opponents, opponents who were better armed and dressed in more than a tunic and plaid. And now that he’d mentioned honor, curse him, she supposed she should offer him a fairer fight. “I’ll wait while you don armor.”
He shook his head.
She frowned. “I won’t have you report that our fight was unjust.”
“Oh, I don’t plan to report our fight at all, but…” He gave a slight nod of his head and murmured, “Thank you for the courtesy.”
She sniffed. It was no less than any knight would do.
With a nod, she planted her feet, raised her weapon, and began the shortest sword fight of her life.
Pagan was eager to put an end to this foolishness and even more eager to crawl back into bed for a few more hours of sleep.
Deirdre had to learn that a woman her size could never prevail against men like the Cameliard knights. She was determined, aye, relentlessly so, and she had a few cunning tricks at her disposal, but her enthusiasm far exceeded her skills and strength. Pagan had toyed with her in their first fight. It was a matter of courtesy and custom to match an opponent’s level in a friendly battle. Probably all of Deirdre’s rivals did so, humoring her into a false self-confidence that could ultimately prove deadly.
He locked gazes with his beautiful, foolhardy bride. It was an unpleasant task, but he had to disarm the lass before she hurt herself.
He didn’t bother engaging her with his blade. Instead, he caught her sword arm at the wrist and, using his other hand, pried the weapon free with brute strength. Then he seized her by the front of her tabard, shoved her up against the wall of the stable, and pressed forward until he stood eye to eye with her.
He could see her pulse race in the throbbing vein at her neck. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her mouth half open in shock. But contrary to his expectations, there wasn’t an ounce of fear in her eyes. He couldn’t say why, but somehow this pleased him.
He was close enough to feel the heat of battle coming off of her, close enough that her breath mingled with his, close enough that it was a temptation to bridge the tiny gap between them and prove his point with a triumphant kiss.
But he had to settle their arrangements here, once and for all.
“Now do you think I’m afraid of losing to you?”
She swallowed, still obviously shaken.
“Would you not agree,” he said, “that I’m more than capable of protecting the keep?”
She frowned and chewed at her lip.
“And after the incident this morn, do you not trust that my men will guard you with their lives?”
After a long moment, she gave him a reluctant nod.
“Then let me do what I’m here to do,” he told her. “I’m the best defense you have.”
“You may be bigger,” she murmured. “And stronger. And more seasoned. But I know this castle. I know this land. And I know my people. You can’t discount my experience. I know best how to command my knights.”
Pagan knew he should argue with her, but he was beginning to feel like a hound slavering over a bone just out of its reach. His loins couldn’t help but respond when Deirdre was so temptingly close and soft and seductive. The feel of her spirited body against his chest, the erotic glow of her skin, the cool fire of her eyes, the scent of leather and chain mail mingling incongruously with flowers, drove him half mad with desire.
“You know, my lady,” he whispered, lowering his gaze to her inviting lips, “I’d be more inclined to let you play at being a soldier, were you more inclined to play at being my wife.”
She gasped. Her gaze hardened as she spoke between clenched teeth. “My affections are not for barter.”
“Pity,” he said, giving her a rueful smile. “You might find your affections are worth a great deal.”
Her gaze lowered then to his mouth, and he could almost see her weighing his offer, reconsidering.
But he suddenly realized he didn’t want Deirdre this way. He might have paid a woman for her favors in the past, but Deirdre was his wife. He wanted her to come to him of her own free will, not because he promised her a trinket or a trifle…or command of an army.
Before lust could get the best of him, he released her and backed away. “You fight admirably for a woman, Deirdre,” he allowed, “but you will fight no more.”
Deirdre replied with a strangled growl. Then she pushed him out of her way, retrieved her discarded sword, and shoved it into its sheath. For a moment, he thought she was going to speak. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes, and her lips thinned in anger. But in the end, without a word, she wheeled and stalked off the field as angrily as a spurned harlot.
Pagan watched her go. She would recover, he knew. Aye, she was vexed now. She was probably accustomed to getting her way. No doubt the Lord of Rivenloch had spoiled his three daughters rotten. That would have to change, now that he was steward.
Deirdre likely suffered, too, from wounded pride that his men had so soundly beaten hers. She struck him as a woman who hated to lose.
But she’d get over it.
She wrenched open the gate of the tiltyard and slammed it shut, rattling the wattle fence. Aye, Deirdre of Rivenloch most certainly did not like to lose.
By the Saints, she was far more complex than any woman he’d ever met. He hated to admit it, particularly since he fully intended to take over that responsibility, but she seemed to indeed have a true talent for battle. Aye, she was too light, too weak for genuine combat, but she had unique skills and a foxy mind. With a bit of training…
He patted his sword, safe in its sheath, unsoiled by Deirdre’s blood, thanks to his discretion, and shuddered. Nay, he decided, the battlefield was no place for a woman.
He didn’t care if she’d sparred with her countrymen from the time she was a babe, led armies, or slain dragons. It was too dangerous a profession for a maid. Pagan had enough to worry about, trying to get the Rivenloch knights in shape for battle, without brooding over a lass who believed she was invincible. He’d seen warfare, seen what it did to the healthiest of flesh and the most indomitable spirit. There was nothing that couldn’t be destroyed by the slash of a blade. Nay, he wouldn’t watch Deirdre fall beneath the sword, she nor her sister.
A scream of rage built up in Deirdre’s throat as she banged the gate behind her, a scream she feared might escape if she didn’t kill something soon.
Fortunately, she was able to walk off her anger before anything living crossed her path. But the mere fact that she felt such fury meant she was losing control, which in turn made her more furious.
She had to regain command. Of her temper. Of her body. And of her castle. You will fight no more indeed! How dared he dictate to her what she would and would not do? Damn him! She needed no man’s protection. It was no matter that he was capable.
And courageous. And heroic.
God’s blood! What did he think she’d done before he arrived? How did he think they’d survived without him? Hell, his arrogance was insufferable.
She should have told him so. But standing in such proximity to him, enthralled by the force of his gaze, consumed by the power of his desire, overwhelmed by the pure male essence of his body, she’d been unable to think properly.
Deirdre had reached the abandoned dovecot now, and she entered the dark hovel, eager to be far from the eyes of castle folk who might spread tales about her agitated state. The odor of mold and musty wood was strong, and though her eyes weren’t adjusted to see them, she heard mice skittering in the remote corners of the room. Closing the door behind her, she began pacing briskly back and forth through the rushes.
Damn the Norman! He was no less an invader than an Englishman would have been. This was supposed to be an alliance, not a conquest.
She kicked up a tuft of straw.
Pagan might claim to be doing her a service by being…what had he said yesterday? Her champion? But she could see through his deception. The fox meant to undermine her power.
She scuffed again at the dirt floor, making dust rise up in the slivers of sunlight made by the cracks in the walls. Lord, even in the cool of the dovecot, she felt unbearably warm. It must be the blood simmering in her veins.
She stopped pacing and sighed, trying to calm her mood. Rage would serve her ill. She needed to clear her head to consider her options. She pitched her rump against the wall and stared pensively at the straw between her feet.
If it were anyone else, she would have simply challenged the Knights of Cameliard to a melee, an even number of them against an even number of Rivenloch men. She’d always had great faith in her warriors. But sparring with Pagan had alerted her to his prowess, and watching a few of his men, unarmed and unprepared, take down her knights so easily had shaken her confidence.
Still, she had no intention of bowing to the Norman’s wishes. This was her home. She was the lady of the keep. If she wished to take command of the knights or the armory or the whole damned castle, then by God, she’d do it.
Maids with Blades Page 14