Sword Play

by Sahara Kelly

  Guy’s lips curled in distaste, and Gilles could read his friend’s mind as clear as day. It was a trait they’d discovered within each other—this ability to sense the other’s emotions with a mere flicker of expression.

  It had bonded them more closely than the fiercest battle, and once again, Gilles blessed the day that he had found himself next to Guy. Almost closer than brothers, they had shared much in the way of adventures and Gilles knew that he’d gained so much more than just a trusty sword at his side.

  Theirs was a deep and abiding friendship, tempered with loyalty and a great deal of respect.

  A respect which, unfortunately, did not extend to their host.

  Gilles pasted his polite smile onto his face, and watched as Guy’s lips tightened into their customary forbidding line.

  They followed the Baron into what had once been a Great Hall, but had now been converted into smaller apartments. The high-beamed entrance hall was all that was left of the original keep.

  “I have ordered rooms prepared for you, and a meal shall await you as soon as you are bathed and settled.” Baron Lymington summoned his steward, a shadow of a man who scuttled to do his Lord’s bidding.

  Gilles and Guy found themselves occupying a huge chamber above stairs, and had no complaints about the accommodations, only the host.

  “An effusive man,” muttered Gilles as he shed his travel-stained and dusty clothing.

  “Not one I’d care to live near, that’s for sure,” agreed Guy, sinking into one of the two wooden tubs that faced a huge fireplace in the room.

  He sighed as the warm water swept his limbs. “At least he has hot bathwater,” he murmured.

  Gilles, busily sinking into his own tub, simply sighed.

  Thus, the two clean and relaxed knights found themselves seated later that evening in Baron Lymington’s chamber, enjoying a flagon of ale and listening to the man as he related his tale of woe to Lord Benstede.

  Glancing around him, Gilles noted that the man clearly spared no expense when it came to his own luxury.

  Far off in the shadows was a mammoth bed, hung with a fine damask tester, and the wall hangings matched it in elegance. The floors were polished smooth, and the windows, through which he could see darkness falling, boasted well-mounted glass panes. Glowing wooden chests and bureaus lined the walls, and a fine fur rug lay before the Baron’s fireplace.

  “Will Lady Lymington be joining us this eve?” inquired Lord Benstede.

  “No, my Lord. She passed on to her just reward nigh on seven years ago. There is no Lady Lymington. Sad, but there we are.” The Baron idly waved a hand.

  A moment was spent in silence, honouring the departed, but clearly not mourned, Lady Lymington.

  “So, my Lord, I am going to have to ask for your assistance in the matter of Maltby Abbey,” said the Baron, turning to the subject at hand.

  Both Guy and Gilles pricked up their ears at that sentence, having lost much of the conversation earlier as it involved mostly effusive compliments and niceties, which were neither to their taste nor their interest.

  “And how may we assist you, Baron?” asked Lord Benstede, leaning back in his chair, replete at last after a fine meal.

  “Well, perhaps I should explain the situation first.”

  “That would help,” muttered Guy.

  He ignored a glance from his Lord. Guy too had noticed the richness of the room in which they were sitting, and had reached the same conclusion as Gilles. Baron Lymington was not shy when taking care of Baron Lymington.

  He knew that Gilles probably had taken the measure of the man right off, just as he had, and that they would share a mutual distaste.

  “Maltby Abbey.” Lymington sighed. “‘Tis a thorn in my saddle, my Lord.”

  “It looked a fine and tidy property?” encouraged Gilles.

  Guy mentally cheered his friend. Thank the Lord for Gilles. With his encouragement they might reach the point before midnight.

  “Oh it is that, Sir Gilles. And as such, it has been assessed the regular amount of tribute that would fit such a profitable place. My problem is not with the property itself, but the owner.”

  Guy leaned forward. “I believe your messenger to our Lord spoke of a Sir Dunstan something-or-other? An elderly man, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Quite right, Sir Guy. Quite right. Such a sharp mind. Equalled only by your sharp sword, I daresay, ha-ha?”

  Guy restrained the urge to retch.

  “Go on, man,” said Lord Benstede.

  “Oh—er—yes. Sir Dunstan Trenowyth. Man has to be the wrong side of eighty summers. He bought the place from the Swanns several years ago after some scandal or other befell that family and they decided to move on. Of course, at his age, he let the property slip for a while, and the fields failed to yield what they should have, and so on. I was almost ready to offer him my assistance…”

  Guy flashed a look at Gilles. Take the place over, more like.

  Gilles caught the glance and nodded slightly.

  “Until those two women arrived.”

  Guy found his attention caught. “Two women, sir?”

  “Aye, lad,” sighed the Baron, forgetting his manners in his clear distress. “Two harpies, two amazons, two bitches from hell, in my opinion.”

  Guy leaned back, interested now, in spite of himself. For a man to describe a woman thus, in his experience, meant one of two things. Either she was the ugliest sight this side of Medusa, or she’d spurned him.

  “And what did these—harpies—do?” asked Gilles.

  Guy grinned. His friend was also noting the words, however only a light in his blue eyes betrayed him.

  “Turned the damned place around, Sir Gilles. Completely around. Within one season, Maltby Abbey was in fine fettle, fields ploughed and sown, orchards pruned and blooming, and their honey? Well, I’ve never tasted the like.”

  Lord Benstede pursed his lips. “I fail to see a problem with all this, Lymington,” he said quietly.

  “The problem, my Lord, lies in the tribute.” The Baron frowned. “It had been assessed at a low rate because of the poor state of the fields and the land. We meet your Lordship’s set amounts, and use the normal methods of setting such a sum.” He nodded sagely.

  “Of course, as the fields began to yield and the crops improve, we increased the amount of tribute appropriately. But these last two years, we have not received the correct amount due.”

  Guy raised an eyebrow. “And you attribute this lack to the women?”

  The Baron snorted. “Every bit of it, Sir. Those two wenches have managed to work their way around each and every demand. Oh, I gave them a fair chance. Even dropped the first year’s tribute back a little. But they wailed their excuses about a poor winter, lack of fodder, illness amongst the field workers, that sort of complaint.” He frowned.

  “No matter what I did or who I sent, the tribute was always returned lacking the increased totals. My messengers were received politely, and sent packing with a meal under their belts, but no coin. My demands have been met with courtesy, I’ll say that for ‘em, but no results have been forthcoming. Damn, I even offered to wed one or t’other of the wenches, and that offer was turned down flat. Can you imagine?”

  Guy could imagine very well indeed. It didn’t take a man of science to figure out that these ‘wenches’ would want nothing to do with a man of Lymington’s ilk. His interest was growing by the second.

  “Wed one, Baron? So they are of marriageable age?” asked Gilles curiously.

  “Yes, Sir Gilles. Oh, a bit long in the tooth, since both are widowed. Cousins, I heard tell. But still young enough to breed lusty sons for me. And to give pleasure in the getting…” he chortled to himself.

  Guy’s gut tightened, and he banished some very unpleasant visions from his mind.

  “Have you tried to back up your demands with some…shall we say…forceful encouragement?” asked Lord Benstede.

  “I have tried everything, my Lord. I went myself
to Maltby Abbey not six weeks ago, accompanied by my finest squires, and in full armour too.”

  Guy watched Gilles suppress a snicker as the image of Baron Lymington trying to be impressive while corseted into armour flew through their minds.

  “They weren’t particularly welcoming on that occasion. Refused me even a simple meal. Damn near ordered me off their land. Their land. It’s rightfully Sir Dunstan’s, and he holds that only by my sufferance. Uppity bitches.”

  The Baron rose and paced the floor.

  “Since then, I’ve tried to employ a strategy that will force them to turn to me, and thus ensure that I receive the tribute in payment for my help.”

  Guy snapped to attention, disliking the sound of this announcement. “What strategy might that be, my Lord?” he asked quietly.

  “Well,” the man had the grace to look embarrassed. “I thought that if there were a few ‘problems’ for them, they might turn to me here at Lymington and ask for assistance. I’m sure you know the sort of thing. A hayrick burned. A field unfortunately blighted, and some trees felled by a terrible storm.” A sadistic grin crossed the Baron’s thick lips.

  “I must confess that last was a stroke of brilliance. We get some fierce storms hereabouts, and just before the last one, I had my men weaken several of the trees in their orchard. Did the trick very nicely. I’m sure you gentlemen must approve of such tactics. Are they not similar to those you’ve used yourselves in battle?” He looked with vain pride upon the men surrounding him.

  “We’ve never battled with women or an old man, Sir.” Gilles rapped out the answer, taking almost the very words from Guy’s mouth.

  “Of course, of course. I certainly never implied such a thing, Sir. Merely that I based my approach on military ideas, such as those which must occupy two such mighty and successful knights.” He fawned on the two knights who fought individual battles themselves against their bile.

  “I take it,” said Lord Benstede, with a quick frown at Guy and Gilles, who were rapidly approaching their boiling point, “that so far, none of your ‘stratagems’ have worked?”

  The Baron sighed. “Not a one. They have repaired the damage, even seducing away some of my own workers to help. And Maltby Abbey continues to thrive, continues to fail to meet its tribute, and I am helpless to do more because Sir Dunstan is the man in charge, and the bloody bugger won’t go and die, like anyone his age should. Once that happens, of course, I can take the whole place.”

  Guy and Gilles squared their shoulders in identical gestures of distaste, pulling back from the man speaking such appalling words.

  “So why not wait until that sad time? ‘Twould seem that a man of his years cannot last much longer,” said Lord Benstede equitably.

  “Hah. ‘Tis what I’d hoped for, but the damned old sod seems immortal. Nay, my Lord. I cannot wait longer. Action must be taken, and now. Before the harvest, before the crops are brought in, and while we can still assess how much more should be added to their balance due.”

  Lord Benstede sat back in his chair and stared at his knights. “Gentlemen. Any ideas?”

  Guy and Gilles looked absently at each other, busy with their own thoughts.

  Gilles’ eyes narrowed and a small smile crossed his face. “It strikes me, my Lord, that perhaps some information about Maltby Abbey might assist us in determining just what the situation is over there.”

  Guy grinned. “Would you be able to spare us for a fortnight or so, my Lord?”

  “You two?” Benstede raised his eyes in surprise. “You don’t usually get involved in such minor disputes?”

  All three ignored the huff of outrage from Baron Lymington, who clearly disliked his situation being referred to as a “minor dispute”.

  “True, Lord,” answered Guy. “But it has been a long journey, and both Gilles and I are ready for a little action. I’m thinking that perhaps Maltby Abbey might be in need of…”

  “Two stout lads, recently discharged from their military duties and looking for work,” finished Gilles.

  Guy nodded. “Exactly. As workers, we can easily take a better look at what is going on over at Maltby. No one would think that such men are aught but what they seem. We can find out exactly how wealthy these people are, why they don’t pay their tribute, and then perhaps, assist them in changing their minds.”

  “And get a bit of exercise into the bargain,” added Gilles.

  Lymington huffed again. “You’ll not be getting your ‘exercise’ with those two women, that’s a certainty. Cold and frigid, I’m told. As befits their widowed state, of course,” he added.

  Guy and Gilles exchanged a look of pure mischief.

  Melting the cold and frigid into the hot and welcoming was one of their specialties.

  Suddenly, this visit didn’t seem quite so boring after all.

  Chapter 3

  The wildflowers grew abundantly towards the sunshine in the small pasture not far from Maltby Abbey, and the two women lying amidst them were enjoying the rays as they swept over their naked skin.

  Linnet Aylmer turned on her stomach and ground her hips into the earth.

  “Faith, Mechele, such a day stirs the juices in me,” she sighed, as she rubbed herself against the grass beneath her.

  Mechele’s hand was caressing her breasts as she sprawled beside Linnet. “‘Twould be good to share such a moment with a man, I’m thinking.”

  Her voice was husky and within moments her hand slid to the soft blonde hair that covered her sun-warmed mound.

  There was no more conversation for a time, until the buzzing insects were disturbed by soft cries of pleasure as the two found release in their own manner.

  Sighing, Linnet turned over again, and flopped her arms out beside her. “I would not be averse to a fine cock entering me once again, I’ll admit. But ‘tis what’s attached to it that bothers me.”

  Mechele laughed, stretching languorously. “Well, as long as we have moments like these, I’ll not complain. Unless that idiot Lymington tries for another round of his exorbitant demands.”

  Linnet snorted and rose, slipping her kirtle over her head and gathering her long chestnut hair back into its customary knot. “Next time, you’ll be the one to turn down his offers. Marry the man, indeed. As if that would be the answer to all our problems.”

  Mechele laughed again and gathered her own clothes about her. “Well, telling the man you’d as soon marry a midden for muck was scarcely the act of a gentlewoman, Linnet,” she scolded lightly. “You can’t blame him for getting upset.”

  “It was nothing but the truth, so help me. If I take another man to husband, and I doubt that I ever will, at least he’d be halfway attractive to me, and promise some fiery bedsport. Not just a quick and selfish fuck. I’ve had that once, and will not have it again. Ever.”

  Mechele nodded, undisturbed by her cousin’s blunt language. She knew much of her cousin’s unhappy marriage, but not all. There were some hurts that only time could ease. For her own part, she would be happy to bed a man again, but wished for someone who would treat her like a woman this time, not a fragile flower.

  She sighed. There were passions buried deep in both of them. Perhaps it was those passions that had driven them to make Maltby a home of which they could both be proud.

  “Mistress Linnet…Mistress Mechele…” A young voice called to them and within moments a mop-topped youngster bounded through the flowers.

  “Sally, over here,” waved Mechele, watching as the young girl found them and grinned, showing off her gap where two adult teeth would soon break through.

  “You’re wanted at the house. There’s two men come looking for work and Sir Dunstan is napping…”

  Mechele and Linnet smiled at each other. Dear Sir Dunstan. Eating, napping and fussing in his herbal were his joys in life. They wouldn’t have him any other way.

  “We’ll be right there, poppet. Run along and tell Edwin to take them to the paddock,” said Mechele.

  “Two men?” Linnet rai
sed an eyebrow. “Rare that two men should be seeking work at this time of year. I would have thought that nearer harvest time would have been more likely.”

  Mechele paused, thinking about that statement. Neither she nor Linnet lacked intelligence, indeed they’d needed their wits about them a lot recently, given the unfortunate series of problems that seemed to be plaguing them.

  “Well, it won’t hurt to talk to them. Let’s see what they have to say. Perhaps one of them might offer that fine cock you were yearning for a while ago,” she chuckled.

  “Oh, faith, Mechele. A field worker? He’d have to have a mighty fine plow to come near my furrow!”

  Exploding into laughter, Mechele followed her cousin back to the lane and Maltby Abbey.

  *~~*~~*

  Linnet paused in the shadows of a tree for a moment, just looking at the two men who were chatting with their steward. Mechele ran right up behind her and nearly bumped into her.

  “What’s afoot, Linnet?”

  She raised her hand and pointed. “Well, well,” she breathed.

  Mechele stood next to her, clearly as taken aback as she was.

  Linnet had her own criteria for measuring a man, but these two surpassed even her standards.

  Both were tall and broad of shoulder, with hair that tumbled onto their jerkins. The dark one seemed quiet, and reserved, and his friend was doing most of the talking, gesturing with his hands and making the steward laugh at some jest.

  “Look at that black hair,” breathed Mechele. “And those legs,” she added.

  “And the blonde one, he’s all smiles,” whispered Linnet. “My, what a chest on that one.”

  Her gut twisted and she turned her back on them, slinking back further into the shadows. “Mechele, these are no workers looking for a job. Damn. These are the two knights we saw. I’ll bet my best hairbrush that they’ve been sent by that ass Lymington.”

  Mechele’s eyes narrowed. “‘Twould fit the pattern. Learn about us from the inside, then sabotage everything and force us into the Baron’s grasp. That bastard…”