Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  By the time he mounted the curtain wall, his men had drawn close enough for anyone to see it was not an army, but an entourage of families. Aye, his knights were armored and armed, but only as a precaution. Behind them, ladies rode palfreys, and maidservants slogged through the mud while children scampered about with tireless energy. Men-at-arms and squires brought up the rear, guarding half a dozen carts of furnishings, provender, and arms.

  Pagan decided to make conversation with the archer at the foremost tower. “They don’t look very threatening, do they?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  “More like travelers than an army.”

  The archer sniffed and kept his bow at the ready, poised between two merlons of the wall walk. He was obviously not about to be dissuaded from his loyalty to his lady, regardless of his own opinion about the strangers. Indeed, it was an admirable quality.

  Pagan sauntered over to the second archer, positioned to the right. “They appear to be friend, not foe, to approach the castle so openly.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” the man murmured, his eyes trained on the company, his fingers wrapped loosely about his bowstring where an arrow was already nocked. “I’d rather not converse while I’ve got something in my sights.”

  Pagan nodded. This man, too, was well disciplined. As ill-equipped and inexperienced as they were, he had to admit these Scots seemed to know what they were doing. Someone had trained them well.

  He backed away and approached the third archer, a young lad whose upper lip was beaded with sweat and whose arms trembled as he tried to steady his bow against the merlon. This was the one Pagan would have to watch.

  “Easy, lad,” Pagan whispered.

  “Sweet Mary!” the lad cried, startled so much that he almost fired the arrow on the spot.

  His heart leaping into his throat, Pagan clasped his hand over the lad’s to prevent an accident. “Easy. You don’t want to shoot one of those children, do you?”

  The lad shook his head.

  “Have you never fired a bow before?” he asked.

  “Aye. I’m the best hunter in the clan, can fell a buck at fifty yards. But—” The lad gulped.

  “You’ve never shot a man.”

  The boy bit his lip.

  Pagan dared not release his grip on the bow. “I have. Would you like me to take your station?”

  “Nay,” the lad said vehemently. “Nay. I’ve been entrusted with this post, and I won’t abandon it.” He seemed to gather strength from his own words.

  Pagan had to admire the lad’s courage and sense of duty, though he’d be far more comfortable if the boy had handed him the weapon. “Very well.” Reluctantly, carefully, he loosened his hold. “But take care not to fire until you are ordered to do s—”

  “Prepare to fire!” came a shout from behind him.

  Chapter 8

  Pagan’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Nay!” he roared.

  Deirdre, in all her armored glory, stood with her sword drawn and raised, ready to give the order to shoot. As one, the archers nocked their arrows and took aim.

  “Wait! Wait,” he said, willing his voice to remain calm, but taking huge strides toward her. “Hold your fire.”

  “Must you countermand all my orders, sirrah?” she snapped, her blade still lifted. “Or is that the way Norman soldiers fight?”

  Pagan could barely draw breath as he watched the archers’ arrows train upon his people. But he had to stop this madness. “Can you not see?” he asked. He made a grab for her sword, but she drew it back out of his reach. “They’re not soldiers. They’re innocent women and…and children and—”

  “That one with the battleaxe,” she said, nodding at the knights and raising her sword a fraction, “is no innocent. What do you say? Should we take him out first?”

  “Nay!” Pagan’s eyes grew wide. God’s blood, Sir Rauve d’Honore was one of his best knights.

  “What about that man with the standard?” she considered. “They say there’s nothing more crushing than to have the coat-of-arms fall.”

  “Nay.” The standard-bearer, Lyon, was but a lad with a wife of two years and a babe. “By God’s grace,” he said, incredulous, “you don’t even know who these people are.”

  “I know they’re upon my land,” she said coolly.

  “They may mean you no harm.”

  “I’m unwilling to take that risk,” she said decisively, lifting her blade again.

  “Wait!” This time he successfully caught her wrist and brought her up close. He gazed upon her beautiful face, her smooth brow, her flushed cheeks, her determined mouth. Then he frowned. Something lurked in those cool blue eyes, something devious, something dangerous, some spark of mischief.

  “Maybe I should have the archers aim for that pretty redhead in the blue cloak,” she murmured pensively, the shadow of a smile playing about her lips. “Shooting a woman would certainly cause a stir in their ranks.”

  Then he saw the truth. The damned wench was bluffing.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You know,” he accused.

  One corner of her lip curved up. “Oh, aye.”

  The breath went out of him then, but he didn’t release her wrist. “And how long have you known?”

  “Almost as long as you.”

  “Colin.” The traitor must have told her. He was ever siding with the fairer sex.

  “Nay.” She wiggled her ring finger.

  “Ah.” Clever wench. Clever and infuriating. “Well, my cunning lady, will you call off your archers now?”

  “That depends.”

  Why the woman believed she had the upper hand, he couldn’t imagine. Her men might fire the first shot, but if they did, the knights of Cameliard would turn Rivenloch into a bloody massacre within moments.

  “Depends upon what?” he asked.

  “Upon your reason in neglecting to tell me your men were coming.”

  It was a fair enough question. “Call off your archers, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Let go of me, and I will.”

  The two of them stood at an impasse then, he with her blade at bay, she with her archers poised to fire. One of them had to cede. Pagan let go of her wrist. She lowered her sword.

  “Archers, rest,” she ordered. They lowered their bows. “Well?”

  “I wanted to see how battle-ready your men were,” he admitted openly.

  “And?”

  “They need much more training and practice. Their numbers are pitiful, and their arms are in sad repair.”

  She bristled. “I’ll have you know—”

  “But,” he continued, “they’re organized and well-ordered. They have discipline and heart, things which can’t be gained by anything but fierce loyalty.”

  His amendment seemed to smooth Deirdre’s ruffled feathers. A curious warmth flowed through his veins to see how proud she was of her clansmen, bedraggled and unseasoned though they were. Indeed, it was a shame she was a woman. He imagined she’d make a fine second in command.

  “Well, now that you’ve measured my people’s worth,” she said with a trace of irritation, “how long will yours be staying?”

  He scowled. Didn’t she realize? The King hadn’t sent him solely to claim a bride. Pagan had come to claim a castle. His knights and their families came with him. “Rivenloch will be their home now.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?” She crossed to the rim of the wall walk and stared down at the approaching horde. “All of them? There are too many. Rivenloch cannot possibly sustain—”

  “Don’t fret. I’ve skilled huntsmen, cooks, and an alewife or two in the ranks. I’ve already planned to have the castle enlarged, add a cellar, double the kitchens, increase the size of the stables…”

  Something he said infuriated the wench, though he couldn’t imagine why. After all, he was offering to improve the castle. But she let out an exasperated sigh and turned on her heel, marching down the steps as if she stomped them into submission.

  He watched her go
, belatedly deciding he’d better follow her. He couldn’t have her open the gates of Rivenloch, only to greet his people in full armor at the point of a sword.

  Deirdre stiffly raised her mazer and drained the last of her honey mead. It might have been sheep piss, for all the attention she paid it. All around her, strangers ate and laughed and jested…and infiltrated the ranks of Rivenloch, Deirdre thought, like sly foxes in a dovecot.

  “Deirdre,” Miriel whispered beside her.

  “What?” she snapped. Miriel’s face fell, and Deirdre was instantly contrite. “Sorry.”

  “The stores of wine are running low,” she said under her breath.

  Deirdre clenched her teeth and muttered, “Then let them drink pond water.”

  Miriel sighed, speaking softly so that Pagan, seated on Deirdre’s other side, wouldn’t hear. “Oh, Deirdre, you should have let me marry him. Then you wouldn’t be so miserable.”

  “Nay, nay.” She clasped her little sister’s hand. “Don’t even think of it.” She forced a smile of false cheer to her face and gave Miriel’s hand a reassuring pat. “’Tis only that I’m…overwhelmed.”

  Miriel winced in apology. “And here I’ve come to trouble you about the wine. ’Tis no matter. On the morrow, I’ll send a lad to the monastery for more. Meanwhile…” She pensively tapped her pointed chin. “I’ll fetch the…heather hippocras from the cellar.”

  “The what?”

  But Miriel only gave her a wink and a sweet grin and left to perform a small miracle.

  Deirdre couldn’t help but smile back. Miriel was brilliant and inventive when it came to rationing provender and sparing coin. But though she might have solved the wine quandary, Deirdre pitied the poor cook, who faced the impossible task of stretching a single roast boar into food for well over a hundred.

  By Deirdre’s count, the company consisted of no less than two dozen mounted knights, a considerable number. As much as she hated to admit it, she was impressed. The King had wed her to no worthless adventurer after all. Pagan was the captain of a sizable fighting force. But accompanying that sizable retinue were wives and children, as well as a score of squires, servants, and hounds. And now the poor hall and stables of Rivenloch were packed as tightly as a barrel of herring.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Pagan murmured beside her, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Rivenloch’s stores will be well replenished. I’ll send my men to hunt tomorrow, and the older lads can fish in the loch.”

  “They may be too drunk by then to stand,” Deirdre grumbled.

  Damn the meddling Norman. Rivenloch was her responsibility. What did he know about the crofters or the land or the loch? He’d probably never even spent a winter in Scotland. How would he keep the people from starving? Curse his hide, he’d brought too many mouths to feed.

  She glanced down at the trencher she was expected to share with her new husband. He’d hardly touched a bite, and his cup of mead was yet half full. It was apparent that Pagan, at least, was doing his part not to deplete Rivenloch’s resources this eve.

  The same could not be said of his knights. One of them, Sir Rauve d’Honore, obviously drunk, tottered to his feet and raised his cup. “A salute to Lord Pagan’s prize,” he slurred, “the most beautiful bride in Scotland.”

  Cheers went up around her, but Deirdre sighed at the shallow flattery. By the Saints, what did beauty matter? Besides, it was nonsense. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as Miriel, and Helena had a far more voluptuous…

  Helena.

  She frowned. Where was Helena? And where was Pagan’s man? He’d gone to fetch her hours ago. She started to push up from the bench, but Pagan caught her arm, a silent question in his glance.

  She chose to overlook his possessive grip. “Where is my sister?”

  “Miriel?”

  “Helena.”

  He released her. “She’s all right. Sit down.”

  Something in his eyes, a sort of guilt beneath his reassurance, made her heart trip with mistrust. “What’s happened? What have you done? Where is she?”

  “She’s with Colin. Sit down.”

  “And where is Colin?” Deirdre demanded a little too loudly, startling the diners beside her.

  “Aye, Colin,” someone echoed from a lower table. “Where is Colin?”

  “God’s blood, where’s the varlet gone?”

  Soon all of Pagan’s knights were asking after the man.

  “Colin?” Pagan smiled for their benefit. “Ah…Colin has gone to…to fetch more ale from the cellar.”

  The knights cheered and drank, if possible, even more heartily.

  Deirdre scowled. Pagan wasn’t any better at lying than she was. And the knave was holding her fast again, as if she were a charger inclined to bolt. She clenched her fists and her teeth, finally taking a seat. “Damn you, where is she?”

  “The last time I saw her, sometime after midnight,” Pagan muttered, “she was so drunk, she could hardly crawl.”

  Deirdre felt her face go hot with guilt. He’d seen Helena? But how? Hadn’t she gone straight to her chamber? Surely she’d slept through the night.

  Noting her high color, Pagan leaned close and murmured, “What’s this, wife? Your blush betrays you.” His grip tightened on her arm. “Do you know something about her devilry of last eve?”

  Deirdre refused to look at him. Devilry? Dear God, what had her impulsive sister done now?

  Pagan cursed softly, his breath harsh against her cheek. “Bloody hell, did you send her?”

  Deirdre’s thoughts were whirring by too fast to answer.

  “Did you send her to kill me?” he bit out.

  She flinched. Kill him? God’s eyes! Had Helena tried to make good on their sisterly vow? Had she tried to slay Pagan?

  Nay, it couldn’t be. After all, the Norman was here, alive and unharmed.

  Pagan’s fingers dug painfully into her arm. “You did send her.” He hissed against her hair now. To anyone else, it would appear he but whispered lover’s promises into her ear. “You sneaking shrew. And I credited you with more honor.”

  That shook her from her woolgathering. She faced him squarely. He was right. She was honorable. “I swear I didn’t send her anywhere. Whatever she did, she did on her own. But tell me. You haven’t hurt her, have you?” Her eyes narrowed, half in dread, half in threat. “Have you?”

  He seemed insulted by her question, though he let go of her abruptly, as if suddenly aware of his own strength. “Nay. ’Tis not the way of a Norman knight to attack God’s weaker creatures.”

  Weaker creatures? Now he insulted her, but she was too relieved to take him to task for it. “Thank God.”

  “Thank Colin,” he muttered. “Or else I would have missed our wedding, dear wife.”

  “What have you done with her?”

  “She’s safe enough for the moment.”

  “Don’t harm her,” she charged him. “I’ll see to her chastisement myself.”

  “Indeed? And what chastisement will you administer to your sister for murder and treason? Will you slap her naughty wrist?”

  Deirdre colored. She was beginning to hate Pagan’s sharp wit. Mostly because, in this instance, it was deserved.

  Pagan lifted his cup and sipped at his mead. It was hard not to notice the callused knobs of his knuckles and wonder what harm they could inflict, way of a Norman knight or not. But Deirdre couldn’t stand idly by while Helena suffered for her mistake.

  “Listen,” she said. “I’ll make a bargain with you. Here’s the truth of it. ’Twas my fault. I suspected Helena might do something…impulsive to halt the wedding. So I plied her with drink, enough, I’d hoped, to keep her drowsing, to prevent just this sort of…mishap.”

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. Apparently, he considered Hel’s attack far more than a mishap.

  Deirdre straightened and looked him in the eye. “Punish me. Punish me in her stead.”

  It would be best. She was stronger than Helena. She could endure pain without a word.
Hel would only earn herself a harsher penance by spitting curses at him.

  “You’d pay for her sins?” he asked softly.

  “She’s my sister. You know she meant no treason. She only thought to save Miriel from—”

  “From having to wed me.” His voice was flat. “But you managed to save her instead.” There was a sharply sardonic edge to his words as he lifted his mazer of mead. “I applaud your noble sacrifice.” He finished off the cup all at once, then let out a long sigh. “You know, at home, beautiful wenches used to fall all over themselves for my favors. I come to Rivenloch, and everyone thinks me a demon.” He shook his head. “What is it? Have I grown horns?”

  Deirdre hated to admit it, but even with horns, he’d be the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Instead, she explained, “You’re Norman.”

  He lifted a brow. “You do know ’tis Normans who are your allies against the English, do you not?”

  “We’re not at war with England.”

  “Not yet.”

  His words alarmed Deirdre. Rivenloch had always seemed like an insignificant corner of Scotland, too small and remote to be of interest to invaders. But it was true that reports of miscreant English lords attacking Scots castles had become more frequent of late.

  “You have nothing to fear. The knights you see here,” he said, gesturing to the men around him, “are the best warriors in the land. As soon as they train your men in the finer points of warfare—”

  “Train my men?” Deirdre said, affronted. “My men need no training from your…your—”

  “Lord Pagan!” someone shouted. “What promises do you whisper in your bride’s ear to make her blush so?”

  “He doubtless boasts of the length of his broadsword!” someone else cried.

  “Why waste words, my lord?” another taunted.

  “Aye, show the lass what steel ’tis made of!”

  Suddenly the great hall was filled with the clamor of cups banging on tables and chants of “Pagan! Pagan! Pagan!”

  Deirdre felt suddenly smothered. She again had an overpowering desire to draw her sword in answer to the barbaric noise. But Pagan, perhaps sensing her unease, placed one placating hand upon her shoulder and stood, raising the other to quiet his men.