by Lisa Shea
Michael dutifully made a motion forward, his legs wavering.
“Imagine your feet must go straight forward, or straight back,” suggested Elizabeth. “You want to maintain your balance. Your stance should not widen or narrow as you move. Now, again. Advance.”
Michael moved more steadily, and Elizabeth smiled with approval. “Better,” she encouraged. “Advance.”
The soldiers on the wall noticed what she was doing and called out praise and suggestions as Michael moved through the basics of advances and retreats, of lunges and fades. Elizabeth found herself enjoying the process, watching as Michael became more sure in his movements, as his stance became more steady, as his head was held more high.
The guard’s voice carried clearly across the courtyard. “Hey, down there, visitors,” he warned.
Elizabeth dropped the wooden sword, grabbed Michael’s arm, and in a moment they were both ensconced behind the back bales of hay, looking out toward the gate. There was a long stretch of time where the sound of hoofbeats grew ever closer, and then a dappled grey horse came in through the gates at a canter, his rider deftly drawing him in to a clattering halt in the center of the area. His eyes swept the courtyard, lingering for a minute on the wooden swords laying in the center of the ring, on Elizabeth’s own sword laid carefully on one of the hay bales.
Elizabeth cursed beneath her breath. Damn the man and his sharp eyes.
Claire was walking smoothly out from the keep steps, her voice carrying easily across the courtyard. “What do we have to thank for your return visit, Richard?” she asked calmly.
Richard dismounted, moved forward to stand before her, and dropped his head in a short bow. “My family has been asked by your nunnery several times to open into discussions of patronage,” he offered. “John and Ron would like to invite you to attend a dinner tonight, and begin those talks.”
Claire’s eyes were bright with amusement. “That is indeed a fortuitous invitation,” she offered. “I believe tonight’s dinner has been planned for several weeks, has it not?”
Elizabeth could not tell if Richard blushed, but his voice held a hint of contriteness. “The guest list has just been finalized,” he commented roughly.
He handed a scroll to Claire, and she scanned it, pursing her lips. “It says here that I am allowed to bring one guard with me,” she commented at last.
Richard nodded, his eyes glancing around the courtyard. “We would not want to compromise your safety.”
“Of course not,” returned Claire. “Well then, I shall give the offer some thought.”
Richard seemed slightly startled at this response, then bowed. “Of course. We look forward to your presence tonight.” He gave one last, long look toward the ring, and then he was wheeling his horse, heading out through the gates and across the coastline.
Claire watched him go for a long while, then she turned and strode across toward the ring. Elizabeth and Michael climbed back over the hay bales, moving to stand with her.
Claire’s voice was light with amusement. “We have been attempting to get those two into talks for three years now, ever since their father passed on. The day after you show up on our doorstep, suddenly the invitation is presented to us. Does that seem coincidental to you?”
Elizabeth found she was still staring at the open gates, gazing at where Richard had vanished from view. “I want to go.”
“Of course you do,” agreed Claire. “But do you think it is wise? Surely we should learn more about what is going on before -”
Elizabeth shook her head. “The sooner we know what is happening, the sooner we can address it,” she insisted. “By going disguised as your guard, I can ask questions and get answers that you would not. We can cover twice the ground in half the time.”
Claire shrugged. “You were always headstrong, even when we were little,” she chuckled. “Let us see what kind of an outfit we can rig up for you before tonight, then. We want to make sure you are properly dressed for your visit.”
Chapter 5
The sun was just slipping below the horizon, tingeing the sky with streaks of orange and crimson, as Elizabeth and Claire rode side by side toward the main gates of the keep. Claire’s modest garb was matched by Elizabeth’s quiet leather gear, a close-fitting leather cap tucked down along her skull, her hair nestled up beneath. A dark cloak completed the outfit, hiding her completely from view.
Claire chuckled. “Here we go,” she smiled, the freckles on her face glimmering in the light of the torches, and then they were through the gates, dismounting, handing their reins over to the grooms and heading across the courtyard. The area was gaudily decorated with bright honeybee-yellow banners. They moved up the steps toward the main keep door, and were guided by staff up the spiral staircase toward the dining hall.
They turned the corner and were immediately blasted with the rich aroma of spice, the jangled music of a group of musicians in a far corner, the bright combination of torches and fireplaces and braziers and glowing yellow banners on every wall. The room was crowded with well-to-do nobles, boisterous merchants, watchful guards, and modestly dressed religious folk. Servants weaved dexterously through the mob, delivering plates of fragrant meats.
Elizabeth inhaled deeply, overwhelmed by the cacophony. This was a far cry from her father’s austere regime, from the firm grip he held over his own keep.
A shadow moved before them, and Elizabeth dropped her eyes, drawing in the scent of musk, and leather, and that other intangible, tantalizing hint …
“Good evening,” welcomed Richard calmly, looking between the two. “I am so glad you could attend tonight.”
Claire’s eyes sparkled. “Your offer was hard to resist,” she responded. “The hospitality of your home is renowned.”
“Your guard may sit to the right,” he offered, his gaze moving over to Elizabeth.
She resisted the draw to look up, forced herself to nod, to set into motion without being drawn into those emerald oases. She had only ever known two other men with eyes such as those. Why did it seem that in each case it portended some sort of heartache?
She found the table of leather-clad men, settled herself amongst them in the shadows of a corner, nodded in thanks as a mug of ale was set down before her. She sipped at it absently, watching as Claire was brought over to the head table and seated next to John … or was it Ron? She decided that it had to be Ron, the one with the wilder tuft of hair. Neither seemed much changed from the night at the pub. They were laughing with enthusiasm, grabbing at the maids as they passed, and downing prodigious amounts of ale.
Ron nudged against Claire at some sort of jest, and Claire stiffened slightly. Elizabeth dropped her hand to her hilt, her shoulders tensing. It suddenly occurred to her that her role here as guard might be called into actual use. She had thought that, once within the walls, she would be at leisure to -
Ron put his arm on Claire’s shoulder, slurring some sort of comment into her ear, and Elizabeth could feel her shiver, feel her pull away. A cold cloak of focus draped over her, narrowed her world down to a pinpoint. The guards were in animated discussion around her, silver platters of chicken and goose were being passed around, but the fragrant aromas barely drew her attention.
Ron’s hand slid down Claire’s side, then went beneath the table, and Claire’s eyes popped wide open. Elizabeth stood with a sudden movement. She’d had quite enough of this. She stepped back over the bench, moving through the crowded room with a firm press of her shoulders, her eyes dark with fury.
Bodies blocked her way and she ground to a halt in frustration, pressing her way between them. She could no longer see where Ron had gotten to. Damn the man. He should be in chains until he was thirty at least. She pressed forward. There was a dark shape before her, and she stepped left, her heartbeat quickening. What was he doing to Claire now? Her way was still blocked. She stepped right. The form before her stepped right. She looked up in exasperation.
Richard was standing there, his gaze steady on h
ers, his emotions hidden in the depths.
Elizabeth’s throat went tight with anger. “Let me pass,” she snapped.
“I think we should have a talk outside,” returned Richard, his voice low.
Elizabeth glanced up toward the head table, and now both seats were empty. Her heart thudded in a panic. What had the lecher done with her?
She pressed forward. “I have to get to him before -”
“You need to -”
Richard put an arm out to grab her left shoulder.
She sprang back at that, reacting as if an adder had stricken her, her left hand dropping to her sword, pulling it out slightly, releasing it from its lock. The crowd instantly retreated back into a circle with a cry. In a heartbeat Ron was at Richard’s side, looking wildly between the two.
“It is her!” he screamed. “Guards, grab her! Throw her into the dungeons!”
The circled crowd was staring at her in a hush, the hilt of the sword was in her hand, and suddenly she was back at the May Day tournament. She was standing in shock as her father had shouted those words in fury, the spittle flying across her face.
Throw her into the dungeons!
At her father’s command, the guard she had grown up with, had sparred and laughed with, had instantly clamped his hand on her left arm and shaken loose her sword. He had hauled her down the long, stone stairs and tossed her into the dark, foul-smelling pit of rats and waste. She had been alone … abandoned … the silence and misery and dampness driving her absolutely mad.
She had sworn to herself that she would die rather than endure one minute of that again.
“Never,” she snarled, drawing her sword in a long flourish. In an instant Richard’s was held steadily before her, its point directed at her eyes. She slid her gaze up to his. To her surprise, his eyes held caution, concern.
She pushed the feelings aside. She knew how cold those green marbles could turn. She knew the jagged pain they could inflict. She drew in a deep breath, readying herself for the first strike.
A cool, even voice sounded from over her shoulder. “May I ask just what is going on with my guard? This hardly seems a hospitable way to treat invited guests,” suggested Claire in a quiet voice which carried to all corners of the globe.
Ron’s screech shook the walls. “It is her! She needs to be wrapped in chains!”
Claire seemed unruffled. “And why might that be?” she asked reasonably.
Ron’s voice reached an even higher key. “She killed my mother!”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise. The charge was so wildly unexpected that she bit back the urge to laugh. Given their reaction to her previous episode of mirth at the inn, she doubted it would go over well. Before she could begin to formulate a response, Claire was speaking again.
“I am so sorry for your loss. When was your mother slain?”
Ron looked at her as if she was daft. “On May Day, of course!”
Elizabeth could not help it. May Day. The laughter escaped from her before she could draw it in, bubbling out of her in rich relief. Of all the days for her to be accused of some sort of skulking activity.
Ron’s face had boiled over into a deep shade of crimson, and Richard was holding him back forcibly with one arm. Ron’s voice cracked as he shouted, “How dare you triumph over -”
“I am not making fun,” amended Elizabeth, dragging control over her emotions, taking in a long breath. “It is just that the ridiculous nature of your accusation boggles my mind.”
“But you are a left-handed swordswoman,” insisted Ron, his eyes bright with fury. “And an auburn one at that! How many of those could there possibly be?”
Richard’s voice interjected in a calm tone. “But her eyes are brown,” he pointed out. “The witnesses said the woman accused of pushing your mother had ice blue eyes.”
Ron shook his head with vehemence. “Those peasants could easily have made a mistake there. What are the chances of two left-handed, auburn swordswomen being in this area?” His eyes burrowed into hers. “Throw her into the dungeons until we can get the peasants here to say for sure.”
Elizabeth’s fingers wrapped more tightly around the hilt of her sword, but she took in a long, deep breath. Ron’s desire to seek justice for his mother was certainly understandable, and she did find the similarity fairly baffling. “Whether there are three or three hundred women like me, I still have an alibi which is unassailable,” she countered. “I swear to you - it was not me who harmed your mother.”
Ron scoffed. “What kind of alibi could we possibly trust from you?” he snapped.
An odd twinge coursed through her that the scene of her ignominy could now provide some slight benefit to her life. “I was at the May Day tournament in Hawes,” she offered simply. “I am sure over five hundred people were there.”
Ron’s voice was snide. “Oh, and I am sure every one of those people saw you,” he accused.
The day flashed into bright relief, and again she heard the roar of the crowd all around her, felt the thick mud beneath her boots, sucking her down, smelled the metallic tang of blood, the rich aroma of sweat and grime and leather. There was a sword swinging high, and the blinding flash of reflected light in her eyes … her foot slipped …
Her hand tensed automatically on her hilt, and Richard’s gaze shot to meet hers. His gaze widened in surprised understanding.
“You are Elizabeth of Hawes,” he stated, realization flooding over his face. “You came in second.”
There was a rolling gasp of noise around her, but Elizabeth could barely hear it. She heard the echo of those same words, you came in second, shouted in furious outrage by her father as he stormed across the muddy field, as his mailed hand swung high, slammed down against her head, driving her face-first into the grime and muck.
She blinked, staggered by the force of his blow. After a breath, then two, her world slowly began to draw into focus. Her mind sought to piece together the sounds coming toward her. Her father was shouting his fury to the far corners of the field. She would be thrown into the dungeons. She would be disowned.
She fought against the throbbing of her skull. There had to be a way out. Her eyes sought out Corwin’s, to find some small reassurance, some slight support from her fiancé. He was only a few years older than her. Surely he knew what it was to face challenges, to find a way through them.
He was looking at her with cold disapproval. And then, with a sudden motion he was standing, his moss-green eyes as sharp and emotionless as marbles.
Then he was turning his back on her. He stalked out of the stands. He was leaving her … he was abandoning her to her doom.
Claire’s voice was gentle at her side. “Elizabeth …?”
She shook herself back to the present, to the same green eyes staring at her. She turned sharply, putting them out of sight. Tumultuous emotions swelled within her, and she would be damned if she allowed them to spill from her while surrounded by strangers.
She pushed her way out through the mob and down the stairs. In a moment she was in the stables, snugging her saddle securely on her mount.
Claire was by her in short order. Soon they were riding out at a canter, taking the streaming distance home through the crisp night air.
Chapter 6
The first golden glimmers of dawn were stretching across the courtyard as Elizabeth steadily, methodically reduced the straw dummy into small shards with each swing of her sword. Tension built up within her at each blow, the craving for release, the desperate desire for an easing of the anger, but it never came. Each slash only seemed to reinforce the simmering feelings within her, validate her fury with all the wrongs in her life.
She could see her father’s face before her, his cheeks mottled crimson with rage, the spittle flying as he called her a lazy whore, a useless hag, a good-for-nothing female who had caused her own brother’s death. The truth of it echoed deep within her soul, and she swung high, arcing circles at the target’s shoulder blade, hammering again and again, seeking
to sever it completely.
There was a clattering of hooves in the entryway, and she finished her furious swing, noting with satisfaction that only a thin tendril of straw held the arm connected to the body, before turning to see who had come in.
Of course.
Richard sat on his dappled grey, his gaze fixed on hers, his moss green eyes unreadable in the soft morning glow.
He swung off his horse, handed the reins over to the sister who came up to help him, and then strode quickly toward her. His gaze moved between the dummy and her sword before coming back up to meet her eyes. His voice was low and rushed.
“Elizabeth, I want you to know that -”
There was a pounding of hooves from the entry area, and a pair of wild stallions burst into the courtyard, spinning and snorting as their riders struggled to bring them under control. It was a moment before Ron and John could get their steeds to a stop, could prepare to dismount and hand the reins off to a pair of hesitant sisters.
As one they strode over to stand alongside their half-brother, their eyes bright with petulance and anger.
John piped up first. “We were supposed to be included in every step of this process,” he insisted. “You should have drawn in and waited for us.”
Richard’s face shuttered. “You are free to proceed,” he offered evenly.
John rounded on Elizabeth, his eyes sharp. “Where is the child you have kidnapped?”
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped to meet Richard’s; he gave the slightest shake of his head. Anger welled within her at yet another unjust accusation, and she forced it down with determined attention. She needed to figure out what was going on.
“Who is this child?” she asked through clenched teeth.
Ron waved his arms in outrage. “Why Michael, of course, the innkeep’s valuable helper! Hyde depends on him for everything he does. You have cost that man a pretty penny. He wants either the child back or a substantial sum to cover his loss.”
