“What in the seven hells is going on?” I exclaimed to James as quietly as I could while still being heard over the ruckus.
He grinned at me, thoroughly enjoying my discomfort. “These are men, Elivya. Soldiers. This is what men do.”
After we’d eaten, we found the barracks, and I set eyes on the deplorable conditions that made me seriously consider fleeing back to the manor. Rows of bunks made from no more than roughly-hewn timbers lined the walls, three levels high. We managed to find two adjacent lower bunks, thin pads of wool and wool blankets their only accompanying comforts. My mind spun as I regretted my determination to come to this place. It was cold, damp, dark, and stank of stale bodies. I caught James watching me. “What?”
“Not what you expected?”
“You could say that. Foolish, I guess,” I muttered, blowing out my cheeks in a mix of misery and resignation.
“Best get used to it.”
I scowled at him and dropped my saddlebags onto the floor beside my bed. Sore from the day’s ride and appalled at the situation I’d willingly put myself in, I learned firsthand how little good those pads of wool did to soften the planks of wood beneath. Curling into my scratchy blanket, a restless and fitful sleep eventually claimed me.
I awoke with a start to the roar of male voices and the clatter of gear. Shooting upright in my bed at the sound, my forehead slammed into the bunk above me. I collapsed back down and curled onto my side, clutching my skull in agony, my eyes watering. Seconds later, I heard James shout and release a string of curses, and guessed that he had done the same.
“On the field, you worthless dogs!” shouted the voice of a bear as men scrambled around us. My bunkmates above dropped down with a loud slam and quickly dressed. I covered my face with my blanket at the indecency of it and realized that there were aspects of this venture I had not thought through. Luckily still dressed from the night before, I waited until I heard most of the others leave and jumped out of bed to run after James and the rest, hopping along to pull on my boots as I followed.
We assembled within the fortress walls in the smaller training field beside the barracks. I glanced around, taking in the sights of the unkempt young men around me. They were the sons of crofters and blacksmiths, shepherds and innkeepers, all come to the garrison of my family to be trained in the arts of war. There was no major conflict in Alesia at the time, but the patrols helped keep order in the province, and the pay was good. For most of the men, it was a way to start their own paths in life, be it a foundry, shop, farm, or family. We were a sad-looking lot, with the exception of some of the crofters’ boys, broad-shouldered and formidable. I felt puny among them, though by looking around I managed to spot a few shorter than I - very few. Though I was reasonably tall for a young woman, being small by men’s standards was going to be a problem. Then came Samson’s voice over the murmur of the collective.
“You little bastards had better start getting your asses out of the rack by the time that sun gets above the wall!” He pointed to the eastern fortification, the sun blazing well above the highest stone. I peeked through the bodies and caught a glimpse of him atop his mount, a thick chestnut warhorse with black hocks, mane, and tail. After a few more insults, he shouted at us to get in line, though none of us had any idea what that meant. Between a litany of curses, he peppered bits of instruction, and we managed to get ourselves into acceptable order.
Luckily, Samson didn’t notice me that morning. We were given a long lecture covering conduct, attire, schedule, pay, and many other topics that I couldn’t keep track of between strings of curses. When it was finally over, my stomach was aching with hunger and my feet were sore. I thought we would be going to the hall to break our fast, but to my horror, we proceeded immediately to the main training ground. There, we were told to pair off and spar to show our knowledge of hand-to-hand combat. James stuck with me. I stood opposite him in complete despair.
“Ready?” he warned, fists raised.
“I have no clue what I’m doing!” I hissed at him, raising my own.
Samson started toward us and I began to panic. He had dismounted and was weaving through the pairs of brawling young men, shouting pointers, condemnations, and the occasional compliment. As he neared, I looked to James, wide-eyed and frantic.
“Just like when we were children,” he urged. I’d thrown mud and scrapped with the stable boys plenty, but this was something else entirely. “Come at me!” I did my best. We grappled clumsily as Samson approached.
“What in the hell is this?” he exclaimed. His voice roared so close, I knew he was looking at us. “You’re fighting, not fucking, you ninnies!” I felt his rough hand grab the back of my tunic and hurl me backward off my confidant. I stumbled in surprise at the force of it and fell squarely on my backside. The men around us had stopped sparring to chuckle at me. Samson glowered at James. “Stephan’s boy, eh? Get tired of picking stalls?”
“Aye, sir,” he replied.
“And you,” Samson growled as he whirled on me, stopping short when he saw my face. One corner of his mouth twisted into a savage smirk. “Well, well, horse thief.”
“My father sent me,” I said quickly.
His doubt was made clear with a harsh laugh. “Did he, now?”
Please, I begged him with my eyes. There was good reason for my parents’ list of conditions. If the others knew I was a woman, my time at the garrison would be done, lest I risk humiliation and possibly rape. Even James couldn’t protect me from a hundred lonely soldiers in the middle of the night. I may have been born to privilege, but my mother had ensured that I received a thorough education in the ways of men, both the good and the bad. Samson let me sweat a moment before turning to leave me in the dirt. “You should quit now, horse thief. Go home.”
James pulled me to my feet. “I’m not leaving,” I called after him, careful to pitch my voice low.
“We’ll see,” he shouted back, not breaking his stride.
I thought the first day was bad. I soon learned I had much more to be sore about than hurt pride, though I had that aplenty. Samson had spared me and kept my secret, but I was still a soldier in training, and the training was made for men. We ran long distances in the morning, followed by regular rotations of exercises through midday, pausing only a moment in the early afternoon to eat a hunk of bread and drink from the massive barrel of rainwater the kitchen hands rolled out to the field each day. After that, we trained in hand-to-hand combat, swordplay, archery, and finished in the early evening with mounted exercises.
My ruse was nearly discovered when the rest of the men saw Valor. I made up some wild story about inheriting him from a breeder in the far country whose mare had gone loose and gotten seeded by one of the outriders’ stallions. Luckily James chimed in as the invented breeder’s nephew and the others let my ridiculous story slide. Samson merely rolled his eyes and grumbled at us to get back to work.
I adopted the name Eli to give the men. It was close enough to my own that I would respond automatically, yet masculine enough to pass without remark. I fashioned myself a tailor’s son, a story made believable as soon as the other men began to get tears in their tunics during training. Silently thanking my mother for all her teachings, I bartered with the others for payment for my stitching services. My lessons with James gave me an advantage on the training field, and what I lacked in single combat, I made up for in mounted skill with a bow. Even Samson eventually used me as an example for the others, cursing profusely at them when their arrows ended up over the barricade wall instead of in the straw targets.
I was barely passable with a sword. The standard-issue armor dragged me down and made me slow, but Samson and his captains insisted we wear it, so I did. Knives were lighter and I could use my size to my advantage, dodging around and under the larger men’s guards. I hadn’t the strength for grappling or brawling and was whupped fairly regularly by James and the others. My friend tried to pull his blows as much as possible, but the other men were oblivious and I w
as an easy target. Needless to say, I took my share of beatings. For a bitter mercy, my soft skin usually provided enough blood to mask my tears. Over time, I grew more accustomed to the pain and wept less. I would be lying, however, if I claimed it wasn’t difficult. Oh, gods, it was the hardest, most brutal thing I’d ever done. Many nights, as I lay in my bunk, I would have sworn I would die in my sleep from the day’s injuries.
Samson put me against Trente once, one of the crofters’ boys. I managed to duck him for a short bit, but my hits to his massive body were about as effective as fly bites. With one wrong move on my part, he smashed his ham of a fist into the side of my face and knocked me out of my senses until that evening. James said he’d thought I’d died. I can tell you, when I recognized my error and saw him bearing down upon me, I was sure I would. Samson, surely afraid of my father’s wrath should I perish in training, never paired me with Trente or any other of the crofters’ boys again.
I learned of mead, and the dangers therein. Men liked to brawl under the influence of alcohol, and I was as good a target as any. I learned early on to keep out of the way. Most times, James and I would just sit to the side and talk over our mugs. We gained a reputation, he and I, and were taunted mercilessly by our comrades. Such things were not frowned upon, in those days, but among soldiers, everything becomes more complicated. He and I were proclaimed as lovers, and neither of us dared try to deny it beyond throwing back the usual curse and empty threat. I thought of Aubrey at times, and the image of him laughing heartily at our ruse bolstered me during some of the most difficult days.
I learned ways to wash and dress without revealing my sex. I learned to bind my breasts to my chest with muslin, lest anyone notice them in a grapple. My monthly dues were hardest to conceal, but I found ways. I’d fight through the weariness during the day and sneak off to the well at night to wash and launder.
I lost what fat I’d had on my body and replaced it with lean muscle. I learned to be agile and predict my opponents’ movements. I grew to be courageous and more accustomed to pain. I learned techniques, though I was not always able to employ them effectively, and forged strong bonds with both James and Valor. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and before I knew it, that summer was nearly over.
I overheard at dinner in the hall that we’d only two weeks left of training. It seemed impossible that so much time had passed. Excitement charged the stuffy air inside the basilica, the men eager to get back home, to see family and women they’d left behind. Some of the older lads already had wives and babes waiting. Most planned to return after the harvest for their first leg of service. Trente and several of the others proposed toasts to the near-end of our grueling endeavor. Talk ranged from spiritual libations to lewd stories, and everywhere in between.
“What about you, Eli?” one voice called out from the rabble. I turned to see Bryce, a lean young man of about eighteen years who regularly bested me with knives.
“What’s that?” I called back. Many of the others were watching now, too.
“Lost your cherry yet, lad? C’mon, tell us about it!” The others roared in encouragement.
I’d heard it enough times in the previous months to not blush. “Don’t you remember, dearest? You howled like a bitch in heat!” The room erupted in laughter and howls, and Bryce retreated back to his mug. I shook my head and turned back to James, who was eying me with amusement.
“What?”
He shook his head with a grin. “Your mother would faint in her corset if she heard such filth from your mouth.”
“I’m afraid I’ve had all the propriety beaten out of me.” I smiled wickedly. “There’s only Eli left now.” Three mugs of mead were getting to my head.
“Just don’t forget why you’re here.”
I opened my mouth to reply when another soldier by the name of Lehs stumbled into our table with his gaze fixed on me. I leaned back in my chair and rested my hand on my belt knife. He put a hand on my shoulder and I saw James tense out of the corner of my eye.
“You two... always sitting alone. Come join us!” He paused and his intoxicated grin faded to something more serious. “You know, you’re awfully pretty for a lad....”
“And you’re awfully smelly for a candlemaker’s son,” I retorted, trying my best to hide my panic.
“Come on, you drunken idiot!” Trente bellowed, hauling Lehs off our table by the back of his tunic and passing him off to a few others before turning to James with a smirk. “But you should join us. Three months, you two have been keeping your distance. ‘Bout time you drank with your brothers in arms.”
James tilted his head at me, and with my own already hazy, I simply shrugged and grinned.
They were a raucous bunch, our comrades. Mug after mug of mead was thrust into my hand and I found myself making up wild tales when pressed, boasting as they did of beautiful scullery maids and bar wenches. James was more careful with his consumption and kept a fairly level head. When the others pressed him for tales of his own, he leaned back against the wall with a glaze over his eyes that had nothing to do with mead. I sat on the table watching him with the others.
“I guess there’s one girl, but I’d rather not talk about it.” We all roared in protest and the others roughed his shirt and hair in encouragement. He looked up and met my eyes and something in them made me sober. “She’s more stubborn than an ox and hot-headed as Samson.” That got some chuckles from them.
“With a pig’s face and Trente’s body?” someone jeered. Another roar of laughs erupted, complete with some colorful interpretations of said hideous maiden.
James laughed and shook his head. “Nah, she’s beautiful. Eyes like meadows. She’s a mind of her own, that one, and a pain in my ass for it.”
“I hope you paid her back in kind!” Another riot of laughter and lewd remarks burst forth from the mass of soldiers.
“She’s too high for that. Out of reach for a stable boy.” His brown eyes held mine, and I felt the liquor’s haze drain from me. My heart pounded in my chest.
“Well, that just ain’t fun at all!” Bryce spat irritably. “I’ve got a story for ye, lads!” The men cheered and leaned in to hear yet another of his lewd exaggerations. Their attention diverted, I set down my mug and slipped out of the hall into the chill night air. The moon lit my path back to the barracks, abandoned still for mead and boasting. A deep breath drew in the scents of the training fields: crushed grass, wood shavings, straw, metal. I decided to slip out the gate instead toward the smells that beckoned me.
The stars flickered overhead as I dunked my head into the water trough to clear my thoughts. My mind raced at James’ words, my chest aching. I looked to the south, straining my eyes in a useless attempt to spy my father’s manor. Strange that I should think of it that way, after such a short time, but these months had changed me in a way I doubted I could reverse. I’d nearly forgotten the girl I was. Sheltered innocence was gone, replaced by hard-won knowledge. I wondered if my parents would even recognize me when I returned. I’d not seen a mirror since I left. I looked down at the undulating reflection before me. My face had traded soft roundness for hewn angles. A ripe bruise lingered on my shoulder and a shallow gash marred my cheek from the day’s exercises. My hair, I had wrapped in a tight knot at the nape of my neck, as always. My tunic was stained with blood and dirt, my chest bound and hidden beneath it. I looked like a young man. I looked like a soldier. Why that thought didn’t fully satisfy me, I didn’t know.
“Elivya?” Startled from my reverie, I turned to see James standing a few feet away.
“James.” I breathed his name without any intonation. Not a question, not a reproach, just his name. I wondered what he would make of it.
He took a single step toward me, looking contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”
“Did you mean it?” The words were out of my mouth before I knew I was speaking. Once uttered, they could not be unsaid, so I resigned myself to them. “Did you mean what you said?”
A l
ong moment passed, and I saw him fighting with himself over what to say, what to admit, or whether he should just deny it all outright. “Would it make any difference?” he asked instead.
His words stung, but I knew the truth in them. I was noble born, heir to my House. While dalliance was not entirely frowned upon, marriage was another matter altogether, and James was not the kind of man to treat women as disposable pleasures. I decided to attempt to defuse the situation, forcing levity into my voice. “Just the mead talking, then. No harm done.”
“You’re wrong.” He closed the distance between us, careful not to touch me. The air shifted, a trace of summer lilies catching my nose. I ignored it, acutely aware of James’ breath barely reaching my skin. All his boyish charm and quick wit seemed to have been discarded, replaced by an earnest solemnity. “I meant every word.”
My eyes stung. He was my first and dearest friend. I couldn’t recall when I had stopped considering him like a brother and started considering him somewhat else, but somewhere along the way, I had.
“We should get back,” he murmured uncomfortably, turning away, and the scent of lilies faded into the night.
The last two weeks of training proved both better and worse than before. As accepted members of the unit, James and I were treated more amicably in the evenings and in practice. I caught myself glancing at him from across the field during weapons exercises, caught off-guard then by my opponent, which bought me a string of curses from Samson. He pushed us the hardest those last two weeks. We worked more on mounted formations than we had before until our timing was immaculate and our technique was acceptable to his impossible standards. In the evenings, the lot of us ate heartily, drank plenty, and reveled in our camaraderie until Sarah chased us off to the barracks.
A Crown of Lilies Page 4