Damsel Knight (15 page)

"This is going to take planning," Bonnie says, making an effort to catch all of their eyes, including Alice's. The girl looks up at her with dumb surprise at being included. "We'll have to go under the cover of night, and we need a story. They're sore for more men, so it'll have to be a convincing one or we'll get recruited."

Mrs Moore flinches back.

Gelert runs over to them, not sparing a glance at the woman. His tail twitches back and forth. Opening his mouth wide - enough to see they could all stretch out in there, fingertip to fingertip and never touch the sides - he sticks out his tongue and drops a large object at their feet.

He backs away to let them inspect his offering, those row upon row of sword teeth looking very much like a grin.

It's not a stick. It's not a tree either. It, Bonnie realises slower than should be necessary, is a human covered head to toe in spit. A sodden red cloak tangles around its body. Not just any human either. A knight.

"Oh," Neven says.

Bonnie nods. That about sums it up. So much for that plan.

The knight groans, but the sound is almost lost under another noise: horses galloping toward them. A lot of horses.

As they crest over the hill some of those horses balk, spinning around and sprinting away. Some of their riders argue, kicking their legs and flapping their arms. Others do not.

Enough carry on coming, the soldiers on their backs letting out a war cry that sounds more of a desperate scream. The noise crashes over them, making her ears feel as if they might burst.

Gelert watches them, his pink carpet of a tongue almost hanging out of his mouth in anticipation.

"Go!" Bonnie shouts at him. Before they left the village Neven had swapped her scabbard over to her other shoulder. She draws it now, awkwardly. "Fly away!"

Gelert huffs, the resulting gale of wind comes close to knocking her flat. Panic turns her body almost as numb as her arm. She steels her feet, lifts her sword and swings. The flat hits his knee with a solid thump. Pain reverberates up her good arm. It's like hitting a stone wall.

Gelert jerks his head back, watching her intensely.

"Go on, get!" She shouts. There's a burning behind her eyes, and her tongue feels thick and clumsy. "You have to go or they'll..." They'll what? Kill him? Isn't that the point of this?

Gelert watches her a second longer, then spreads his dark red wings and flies away. Well, it's more a progressive set of leaps than flying, but it does the job.

The soldiers stop just short of running them down, trotting around until the horses gather in a rough circle, Bonnie and the others at the centre. Alice squeaks and hides behind Neven. Neven swallows heavily, but seems to do his best to stand tall. After a moment Bonnie sheaths her sword. It's not like it would be much use.

"Which one of you is the witch?" comes a rough voice.

A black horse, at least twice as large as any other, shoves its way to the interior of the circle. It walks with the self-importance of a king, nipping at one horse that stands too close, and kicking another. It snorts down at Bonnie, making her regret putting away her sword.

Its rider leans down, and she muses that he doesn't look that different from his horse. He's huge. Eight feet with hands as big as spades. A thick black beard covers most of his face and breast plate, and his eyes are small and mean. He's clad in black from head to toe, except for the bright red cloak hanging behind him. "Out with it. There are ways of finding out. Magic leaves a mark. Tell me now, and maybe I'll spare the others."

Bonnie's heart jumps into her throat. Magic leaves a mark. She's never heard of that. She thinks back to the locating spell Neven cast, not to mention the fire. Head thudding, she steps forward. "You don't need magic when you have a sword."

The man laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "And you expect me to believe a little brat like you scared away a dragon with that toothpick of yours?"

"It's no toothpick," Bonnie says, her good hand shaking, though whether from anger or fear she can't tell. "It's dragon forged steel, and I can wield it better than any man." Or she could, before she lost her arm.

"Dragons are magic," Neven says hurriedly, his voice squeaking. "It could be it sensed what would happen if it stayed and flew off. You are an army. What dragon would stay and face an army when it could pick you off one by one like your friend?"

The man's expression turns bored. "I've heard enough. Someone drag Sir Julius back to camp. Someone else secure the woman and the children. We'll light a fire tonight and be done with it."

"And burn my saviours?" The man Gelert fetched steps out from behind them, still dripping saliva. He's limping a little, but other than that seems almost cheery. "I think not."

Chapter 16

Porthdon is no longer Porthdon. It had never really been much of a town by city standards. It's mostly run down inns, pubs Mr Moore told her to stay clear of, and a few shacks for local fishermen. Not many people live in Porthdon, but plenty come to trade or to pass through to the King's road.

It was a different place back then, the cobbled square filled with carts and voices calling out wares. Fishermen hauling back their catches. Performers hoping for a few stray coins. Ragged kids running around or watching everything hungrily.

Now the voices are soldier's voices. The square is filled with boys running drills, hitting each other with wooden swords and sticks. The only children running around are those following orders. Tents are everywhere, and horses are tied to anything that looks like it might have even the faintest of possibility of holding them.

"Fetch two practice swords and show me how you wield a sword better than any man."

Bonnie blinks at the knight, not sure if she'd heard right. "Sir?"

"You heard me," he waves her away, reaching for the bucket Mrs Moore holds out to him. He dumps it over his head and clothes, unflinching as it drenches him. It must be freezing, yet he seems not to feel it. "Go on. Get. Tell them Sir Julius sent you if they give you any trouble."

Bonnie hesitates, then dashes away as Neven helps Alice draw up another bucket from the well. At first she thinks the grizzled instructor will give her trouble, but it takes only one mention of the name Sir Julius and the man pales and hands her the swords.

She jogs back, nerves buzzing around like flies in her belly. Frustrated she pokes her dead arm with one of the practice swords. Nothing. This is her chance to prove herself. Excepting witches and lost ones, no one but her father and Neven has seen her with a sword. She’s good. She knows she is. No one could not be after wielding a sword every day since they could walk.

“My arm,” she stammers out, stalling in front of the well. She clutches the two wooden swords between her good arm and her body. “I hurt it last night. It won’t move.”

He’s a handsome man, though not as much as some of the rich she's seen. Smooth brown skin, with pleasing features, and a smile that seems supernaturally bright. He moves like a jaguar, full of grace and lithe strength. A dangerous man, she thinks, despite his bright smile and relatively short height. Strangest of all is his hair. It’s as long as a woman’s, tied into dozens of dark brown braids that hang half way down his waist. His face his clean shaven. Other than her father, she’s never heard a knight choose to keep his cheeks smooth. Boys have smooth cheeks, not men.

“You have two arms, don’t you?” He asks with a cock of his head. He takes one of the wooden swords, spinning it casually in one hand as he turns toward an empty corner of the square.

Bonnie hesitates a moment, then follows. She spares Neven and the others a backward glance, but they’ve already peeled away into the bustling group of people. To find Ness she assumes.

The sword feels wrong in her hand. It wants the heavy bulk of a shield, not the clunky wood of a sword. Her father had mentioned once or twice about the advantage of using both hands with a sword. His left hand was his sword hand, but he’d used his right more often in their spars as that’s what he said she’d be up against. She’d tried, but soon gotten frustrated with the clumsy movements of her left arm and switched to her right. Now she wishes she’d listened.

Sir Julius turns around, every movement graceful. They’re on the edge of the square, the crumbled wall of a collapsed stables on their left draping them in shadow. It’s a fair distance from the middle of the square where most of the men and boys practice, dancing in the sunlight around the statue, so old it’s unidentifiable.

His eyes are a cool olive that don’t match his smile. He tosses his wooden sword up in the air with his left hand, and catches it with his right. “My left is my sword-hand, so I’ll fight you with my right. I’ll even put one hand behind my back. Give you a fair chance.”

Something inside Bonnie boils. “I don’t need you to cripple yourself for me to beat you.”

Sir Julius laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, but it doesn’t decrease the tension buzzing through her body. “There’s that fire. Now let’s see how much of it is hot air.”

He darts forward so quickly she has to scramble back to give herself more room to manoeuvre. She gets her sword up at the same moment he brings his sword down. They clash with jarring force inches from her face. Then in the time it takes to blink her sword is sailing across the square, bouncing off the cobble stones.

Sir Julius lightly touches her nose with the end of his sword. “Where did you go wrong?”

“My grip.” She scowls at her worn through shoes. “My grip was all wrong.”

“So? Go and get the sword. Try again. Do better. A mistake is only a failure if you don’t learn from it.” He taps his foot. “Well, hurry up. Right now I’m not seeing this skill you claim.”

Her stomach rolls as she picks up the sword. This is her chance to prove herself, not just as a woman good with a sword, but a person good with a sword. She knows she’s good. Her father always said she was just as skilled with a sword as any of his squires. If this was yesterday and she had her right arm, then she’d show him. But this is today, and she’s getting increasingly scared that she’ll never use her right arm again. “I’m good,” she says, more for herself than him. “I am.”

“Cocky maybe,” he says. “Good, I’m not so sure about. Show me.”

She does. She charges forward, sword ready. If she had her shield she might get in close, try to push him back and catch him off guard. He’s taller than her by eight inches, if it came down to a shoving match she’d lose, but catch him at the right angle and she could back him up enough to use her sword while he’s still recovering. But she’s no stranger to only having her sword, it makes things more interesting.

Making sure her grip is firm, she uses her decreased height to her advantage, ducking under one blow and delivering one of her own to his kidneys. It doesn’t connect. Somehow his sword is there, shoving hers backward. She stumbles, but manages to keep hold of her sword.

The knight spins the wooden sword by the hilt, as composed as if they’d been resting instead of sparring. “Try again.”

She tries to keep her breathing as smooth as his, but it doesn’t work. Sweat is spreading fresh stains on her soiled clothing. She’s fighting with her unpractised hand, but for the first time she’s not sure she could beat him even if her right hand were well. He’s fast, and the way he moves is different to anything she’s seen before - not, that’s not true - there was one guy glimpsed years ago in the practice yard at the palace, and at a tournament. He’d been quick, but not as smooth, and he had a tendency to lose his temper and make poorly thought out moves.

Her wrist draws a circle in the air with her sword, trying to get that feeling of ease that always comes with a sword in her hand. Her left hand may be clumsy, but there’s a whisper of it anyway. A thrill runs through her at the thought of having a challenge for once. She doesn’t have to imagine dozens of enemies, each more dangerous than the last. This is her enemy. This is her challenge.

She darts forward, but not as close this time. This time she’ll make him come to her.

He moves quickly, his sword swinging with enough strength to bruise if not worse. He has his leathers at least, and his cloak if the tale about its ability to deflect a blow is true, but she only has Neven’s shorts and tunic. He’s not unbeatable though. No man is, no matter how powerful they seem. He may have the fluidity of a jaguar, but underneath that he’s human. His hips and shoulders betray his swings before they happen.

She parries the blow, using her feet to angle his sword so it skirts off hers. It’s hard work parrying, moving, and seeing at the same time. Yet the hard is what makes it great. Her muscles sing in a way they haven’t since she last practised with her father. Her brain revels in puzzling out his movements, whether a shift to the left is a feint or a clue as to where to move her sword. He whacks her five more times, each closer to slipping past her guard than the last. Then she slips to the right and it’s her turn.

She rushes him before he can recover. She doesn’t have the strength to push him back, so she uses her feet to dance around him. Yet wherever she aims her strikes, his sword is there to meet hers. He’s too fast, too strong. Her foot catches on a clod of dirt, and all at once the tide changes again.

She skips backward to avoid him getting too close. It’s too late. She’s lost too much time. She just manages to get her sword up to meet the blow, but it hits solidly, pushing her off her feet and sending her skidding across the cobbled ground. She pants heavily, sweat dripping into her eyes and down her chin. Her legs sting from her new scrapes, but above all that she feels alive.

Grasping her sword, she scrambles to her feet. Her legs don’t thank her, but she doesn’t care. Fighting Sir Julius is the best she’s felt in a long time; since before the talk of betrothal came up. For a moment she feels comfortable in her own skin, and those moments come so rarely that she makes an effort to bask in it while she can.

Then she sees his face. Nothing about his expression speaks of the battle he’s been in. His muscles are loose and relaxed, his eyes cool and calculating. “I’ve seen enough.”

It hits her like a physical blow. Shame makes her insides shrivel. She had fun, but she lost. Her footwork was clumsy, her parries more so. Even her grip was off. The sword should be an extension of your own arm, and she held hers like a dim witted giant with a club. She feels like she did as a small girl when the other children laughed at her for saying she wanted a sword instead of a husband. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, her feet scream to run away and hide. She wants to scream that this isn’t fair. If her arm hadn’t -

Bonnie steels her shoulders, reaches for something else to focus on so she won’t end up blubbering like a baby. There’s a lot to cry over, and she’s afraid if she starts she won’t stop. Not to mention the looks she’d get. Boys don’t cry. Boys never cry. She won’t either. Never.

Anger greets her like an old friend. "You went easy on me, didn't you?"

"Not as much as I thought I'd have to," he glances toward the middle of the square, frowning. "Still, there's a list of improvements to be made a mile long. You're cocky. You don't adapt to your opponent as much as you should. Your swings are clunky. Your arms are weedy. You have little to no awareness of your environment. A bear could creep up behind you, do a jig, and you wouldn't notice it was there."

It's then she notices the strange silence that had fallen over the square since they started fighting. The men and boys still swing their swords at each other, the grizzled instructor still barks instructions, but their gazes glance their way too often for chance.

They're watching them. They probably watched the whole fight.

"I'm not weak." Something lodges in her throat. They watched the whole thing. They'll talk about her over their supper. The cripple boy who lost. Or maybe there's someone watching who sees through her disguise, knows she's just a girl playing pretend. "I can do better. Even if my arm never works again I can fight as well as any knight."

"No you can't," he says firmly.

Three words and the bottom falls out of her world. She's a knight. Even when she was a woman, she was secretly a knight. He strips that identity away like a woman swiping away a cobweb, and now she's nothing. Her stomach clenches.

"Not yet anyway," he says, placing his hands on his hips. His lips twitch with the slightest of smiles. "That's why I've decided to take you on as a squire. We'll train you up, and if you work really hard perhaps you'll be ready to beat Sir Angus before summer comes around again."

It takes a while for her to remember how to speak, but when she does all that comes out is: "Sir Angus?"

"Big guy into burning anyone and anything so much as in the same room as someone who breathes a word about magic." Sir Julius gives an exaggerated shudder. "Scary guy. Big. Strong. But overconfident. And he'll look hilarious getting beat by a child with only ten summers."

"I'm fourteen," she corrects him automatically. Squire. The word repeats again and again in her mind, and yet her brain can't seem to fit that word to herself. Squires grow up to become knights. She can picture the knight part well enough. She's had plenty of practice with that. But squires are highborn males. Her mother was highborn, but there's no way she can tell anyone that without them finding out she's no boy. "But I lost."

"You made mistakes and you learnt from them," Sir Julius says. "And from what I saw you've been learning from them for a long time. You've got some good moves. A little repetitive maybe. I'm guessing you haven't had many different opponents for a while, but we'll soon put an end to that."

"I'm not-" her tongue almost trips and says 'a boy,' but that would lead her straight to the fires Sir Angus talked about. "I'm not highborn."

"Neither am I unless you didn't notice my colouring." He tilts his head as if to give her a better view of his smooth brown face. "King Robin may have ended slavery, but there's still no one of my colour among the highborn. Not one marriage in a thousand years, did you know that? I'm the only knight of fifty that isn't white. A brave knight saw my potential and gave me the chance to rise above my birth. A real chance. I took it. I won't say it was easy, but it was worth the struggle. Now are you going to accept or keep protesting your worthiness all day? I'll even find work for your friends if that will make you happier?"