Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Indeed?” He flashed her a sly grin. “Then I’m glad ’tisn’t a family trait.”

  He turned to march back to the keep, just in time to dodge the venomous glare she shot his way.

  “So what shall we tell them?” he said, nodding to the castle folk gathered at the gates.

  She thought for a moment. “We’ll say she took him on a cattle raid.”

  “A cattle raid?”

  “She goes on them all the time.”

  He raised a brow. “A kidnapper, a murderer, and a cattle thief?”

  “She only steals back what’s been taken from us.”

  He smirked and shook his head. Sweet Mary, Colin had his hands full. These Scots were strange creatures indeed.

  Chapter 13

  When Deirdre returned to the keep, she discovered that her father was having one of his bad days. She found him roaming the stairwells, weeping inconsolably, searching for his lost Edwina. His sorrow was almost too much to bear. Deirdre didn’t have the heart to tell him that one of his daughters was gone now as well, dwelling in a hovel in the wood with a Norman. Not that he would have understood. Today he didn’t even recognize Deirdre.

  She knew she’d have to spend the day with him in his chamber, protecting him from the eyes and ears of gossiping servants. Offering him company and privacy was the least she could do to preserve his dignity. Ordinarily it wasn’t too inconvenient. His bad days were infrequent enough that Helena and Miriel could manage the castle in Deirdre’s absence. But now, with Helena gone and Miriel overworked, cataloguing the assets of two households, there was no one to oversee Rivenloch’s daily operations—assigning tasks, settling disputes, supervising labor, meting out justice. It was enough to make Deirdre curse the Normans for their invasion and Helena for her impetuous escapade.

  Seated by his bedchamber hearth, rocking in agitation, her father began wailing again for his missing wife. Deirdre knelt by his side as he wept and took his hand in hers, speaking in soothing syllables.

  At times like these, Deirdre almost wished her father hadn’t loved her mother so, for it seemed he was a prisoner of that love, even beyond her death. It was as if her mother had taken a piece of him with her to the grave.

  Deirdre ran her thumb across the back of her father’s once capable hand as he sniffled softly into his beard. Soon the feverfew she’d slipped into his wine would take effect. In sleep, she prayed, he might find reprieve from his wretched memories and the demons that haunted him.

  Adjusting the coverlet over his lap, Deirdre reflected upon her own marriage, her Norman husband.

  Perhaps it was best that she felt no great affection for Pagan. She need only look at her father to be convinced that love was a cruel mistress—demanding and jealous and enfeebling. Aye, her parents had enjoyed happy times. She remembered the two of them singing together and laughing like children, snuggling by the fire and giving each other secret smiles at supper, kissing in the stairwell and chasing through the meadow like frolicking harts. But ultimately, love had repaid them in misery. It had taken a warrior who’d once held his head high in battle and reduced him to a sniveling old man. Nay, Deirdre thought, it was good that she didn’t love her husband.

  She stared into the flames, relishing the comforting burn upon her face as tongues of fire licked at the chill air. Eventually the lord’s sobs subsided, and he drifted off. Deirdre carefully disengaged her hands from his and rose to add a log to the hearth.

  The darkening sky outside reminded her that the day would end in night, that night meant a return to her own bedchamber. She wondered how fierce a battle Pagan would wage there this eve.

  Her defenses felt weak. She feared they’d not hold against him again. But she didn’t dare give in, for if she surrendered, she would hold no sway over him…ever.

  Deirdre was well aware that a woman might employ a man’s passion to utterly master him. Lust was a potent force. It had been the downfall of men since the time of Samson. As long as Deirdre withheld her body from Pagan, she might exert control over many things. Reign over her own people. Amnesty for her sister. Command of the army.

  But if he suspected how fragile her leverage was, how frail her hold was over her own desires… By the Rood, it would be her undoing.

  Someone scratched at the door then and announced dinner, startling the lord from sleep.

  “Deirdre?” He blinked at her, then eased himself up till he sat straight in his chair. Suddenly, he was transformed into her father of old, proud and strong, capable and wise. His eyes were clear, his gaze steady.

  Deirdre’s throat thickened with bittersweet affection. Sometimes she didn’t know which was worse—seeing him wander distraught through the halls or witnessing these rare moments of clarity, where he returned briefly to the father she’d admired and adored. It was heart-wrenching.

  “Deirdre,” he said fondly, tousling her hair. “What are you doing watching me doze? Shouldn’t you be on the arm of your new husband?”

  She gave him a shaky smile. At least he remembered some of what had passed. “Shall we go to dinner, Father?”

  “Dinner. Aye.”

  He pushed up from the chair and stretched to his full height. An uninvited tear welled in Deirdre’s eye as she glimpsed again the proud warrior he’d once been.

  “And afterwards, a good game of dice,” he said with a wink. “I have to win my coin back from those cheating Normans.”

  Deirdre hadn’t the heart to scold him. Aye, he’d gambled away enormous sums. Seldom an evening passed when he didn’t play at dice and lose. Thankfully, Miriel had long ago persuaded the men of Rivenloch to return their winnings to the household accounts. Now the only coin the lord lost was to strangers stopping in their travels. But with a house full of wagering Normans, new arrangements would have to be made.

  Meanwhile, Deirdre intended to enjoy the company of her beloved father tonight…before he slipped back into madness.

  Her plans for a pleasant meal were ruined. Apparently, while Deirdre was confined to her father’s chamber, Pagan had taken it upon himself to wreak havoc with her household.

  “You did what?” she demanded, nearly choking on a swallow of ale.

  “Tore down the old mews,” Pagan said, nibbling at one of the four dozen trout his Normans had caught in the loch.

  To her consternation, her father nodded his approval. “Good. It was collapsing anyway.”

  She scowled. “And what did you do with the falcons?”

  One corner of Pagan’s mouth cocked upwards. “You’ll have to ask the cook.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  Beside her, Miriel giggled. “He’s jesting, Deirdre.”

  Deirdre did not find Pagan amusing in the least. She’d been absent half a day, and he’d reordered everything in the castle, apparently now with her father’s blessing.

  “This trout is delicious, Ian,” Pagan raved. “’Tis a pity I cannot send my men fishing every day.”

  Deirdre fumed. That was just another example of Pagan’s ignorance. “Don’t even think of it. If you fish every day, you’ll empty the loch. We’ll have nothing to eat come winter, and there will be no trout left to spawn.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “So Miriel has warned me.”

  Deirdre stuffed a neep into her mouth. She didn’t care for the way Pagan seemed to be insinuating himself into her household. Already he called the castle folk by name. Already he availed himself of Rivenloch’s resources. And already he was garnering the confidence of her father. This did not bode well.

  “Pagan tells me he has brought a clever armorer with him,” Lord Gellir told her.

  “Josserand,” Pagan supplied, finishing off his ale and motioning a maidservant for another.

  “We have weapons,” Deirdre stated.

  “Not like these,” her father said, his eyes shining.

  “Toledo steel,” Pagan said. “Light. Strong. Well balanced.”

  Despite the appealing sound of new weaponry, Deirdre felt her temper risin
g. Pagan was clearly usurping her authority at every turn. “And do you intend to rebuild Rivenloch, stone by stone, as well?” she asked sardonically.

  “Well, since you mention it…” Pagan began.

  “Deirdre!” her father snapped. “Cease.”

  She colored. It had been months since her father had scolded her for anything. That he did so now, before this pack of strangers, particularly after she’d spent all day nursing his melancholy and preserving his dignity, was mortifying.

  Curiously, Pagan intervened to soothe her bruised pride. “Indeed, I wish to confer with your father about some alterations to the castle. I’d welcome his suggestions.”

  She was tempted to ask him why, since he didn’t seem to need his permission for anything else.

  Meanwhile, Lucy Campbell, one of Rivenloch’s maidservants, sidled between them to refill Pagan’s cup, blatantly displaying her enormous breasts. Why that should rankle Deirdre, she didn’t know. After all, Lucy flaunted her assets to all the men. But a jagged bolt of aggravation sizzled through Deirdre as surely as lightning drawn to water.

  Eager for distraction, she turned to Miriel. “Did you get started on the accounts?”

  “Started and finished,” Miriel replied with a smile. “Sir Pagan’s man, Benedict, had already recorded the Cameliard assets. ’Twas a simple matter to combine the two households.”

  Far simpler, Deirdre thought, than merging their peoples.

  Chaos abounded, even here in the great hall. The rushes had apparently been changed again, even though Miriel had had servants lay fresh rushes only last month. The pennants decking the walls were rearranged to accommodate several banners the Cameliard knights had brought with them. A pair of Norman lads spoiled the hounds in the corner, feeding them morsels of venison. And now the kitchen boys brought out some unfamiliar dish to complete the meal, something…Norman.

  Damn it all! This was her keep, her land. These were her servants. Pagan’s interference felt like…an invasion—as intrusive as his presence in her bed.

  But even as she put mental words to her thoughts, she realized how irrational they were. Indeed, it didn’t matter whose hands placed the stones of a castle wall, only that the keep was made stronger by it. She should be grateful for Pagan’s aid.

  But she wasn’t. Between this new marriage, Helena’s brash kidnapping, caring for her father all day, then emerging to find her world turned completely awry, Deirdre was too upset to feel thankful for anything.

  She excused herself from supper, giving Pagan a meaningful glare that told him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t get what he wanted from her this eve. Then she went off to bed.

  Pagan swirled the dregs at the bottom of his cup and eyed the serving wench who poured Reyner’s ale. She was a winsome lass with rosy cheeks and a plump bosom that swelled above her kirtle like rising loaves of pandemain. Her hair was dark, her eyes flirtatious, the pout of her lips alluring.

  Perhaps he’d swive her in the pantry tonight, he said to himself. He tossed back his drink, wincing at the grit he’d forgotten at the bottom, and slammed the empty cup on the table.

  Not only was the wench pretty, he thought as she approached him and refilled his ale for the seventh time, practically pressing the creamy flesh of her breast against his cheek while she did so, but she was definitely agreeable. She giggled low and asked if there was anything else she might do for him.

  He meant to tell her aye. He meant to whisper his lusty intentions in her ear until a blush rose in her cheeks. And then he meant to meet her in the pantry and serve her a draught from his stores.

  But it wasn’t to be. Every time he so much as considered fondling another wench, and this was the third tonight, Deirdre’s image intruded upon his thoughts. It wasn’t guilt that stopped him. Guilt would have been easy to discount. After all, it wasn’t he who refused to consummate this marriage. Nay, he had every right to swive whomever he chose. But he couldn’t choose. Or rather, he could choose, and the one he chose every time was the sultry-eyed, blonde-haired wench who lay sleeping in his bed even now. Soft. Warm. And naked.

  He let out a sigh and drank down the ale all at once. The maidservant giggled again and asked if he wanted more. He shook his head.

  He eyed the steps to his bedchamber. He could go upstairs and claim her right now. It was within his rights. No one would question him. Surely Deirdre didn’t expect him to honor that promise to her sister now. Not when Helena had broken the law and kidnapped his man.

  “Pagan, lad!” the Lord of Rivenloch called, jarring him from his scheming. “Come sit by me and share some of your luck!”

  Pagan tried not to scowl at the interruption. After all, he reasoned, his threats were empty. He had no intention of forcing himself upon Deirdre, promise or no. For better or worse, he was, above all else, an honorable knight.

  He might as well play at dice with her father. The old lord seemed to be fairly lucid this eve. Besides, he reasoned, it would keep him from thinking about the tempting, untouchable goddess slumbering upstairs.

  The light of dawn nudged Deirdre awake on her second morn of marriage, wafting into the bedchamber like a lady’s veil, softening the harsh features of the weapons on the walls and lending welcoming warmth to the room.

  The peace was broken by an abrupt snort. Pagan. He snored on the pallet beside her, his face mashed into the bolster, his hair falling recklessly over one cheek. He’d come to bed very late, she seemed to recall, though he’d been careful not to disturb her.

  Deirdre was not so careful. After all, it was morning. If Pagan wanted to be steward of this castle, he’d better learn to rise with the rooster. She flounced onto one side, then the other. She yawned loudly. She pummeled her bolster. She stole all the linens from off of him, and then, blushing at what she’d revealed, covered him up again.

  God’s eyes! She wondered if the man might sleep through a battering ram at the door.

  Very well, she thought, if he was too lazy to get up, she’d be only too happy to go about her usual activities without his interference.

  Even the noise of chain mail being dragged from her oak chest didn’t stir Pagan. She shook her head in disgust. What use was an illustrious, battle-seasoned Norman knight if the enemy could steal up on him at a full charge?

  She collected her things and slipped out the door, resisting the urge to slam it as she left.

  She had to wade through dozens of dozing Normans scattered in the great hall till she found a Rivenloch squire she could jostle awake to help arm the men. Her knights slept in the armory, and she roused five of them as well, the five who were not too drunk to stand. It was obvious by their sullen glares that they were none too happy to be wakened at so early an hour. But she countered their complaints, telling them it was their own fault if they’d imbibed too much drink with the Normans and caroused half the night away. It was essential for the men of Rivenloch to be prepared for battle at all times of the night and day, particularly since news of another English attack, this one at Cruichcairn, had reached Rivenloch.

  Soon she was sparring happily in the tiltyard, clashing blades with her men, inventing new maneuvers, crowing in victory as she cornered Malcolm against the fence.

  In high spirits, she recklessly invited the lot of them to attack her at once. Of course, for the sake of courtesy, they advanced in turn. Not even the most capable warrior could effectively battle five at a time if they came from all sides. But it was nonetheless a challenge for her, and her arm soon ached from clang after jarring clang of steel. The action thrilled her to the bone, and the victory was exhilarating. For Deirdre, there was no diversion more thoroughly engaging than swordplay.

  So lost in unbridled joy was she, indeed, that she was late to notice the wretched brutes who came to interrupt her play and spoil her mood.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

  Pagan grumbled and scrubbed at his eyes. Shite! Who was pounding on the door? It wasn’t until he sat up that he remembered where he was. Pale
sunlight bathed the chamber, but he felt as if he hadn’t slept a wink. He glanced at the bed beside him.

  Gone again. Damn!

  Bang, bang, bang, bang!

  “Bloody hell!” he growled, knowing it must be one of his knights, coming to drag him from bed.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  “Just a…” He stripped the linen sheet from the bed in a wad and plodded toward the door.

  Bang, bang…

  Before another blow could land, he snatched open the door. “What!”

  It wasn’t one of his men. It was Miriel. And she almost fell into the room as her fist fell on empty air. Her shocked gaze coursed immediately down his naked body, and he quickly clutched the sheet over the most offensive parts.

  “I…I…” She seemed to collect herself then and met his eyes. Her face took on a serious expression. “I think you’d better come.”

  The somber aspect of her eyes shook him. “What is it?”

  “They won’t listen to me. They won’t listen to anyone.”

  “Who? Who won’t—”

  “Hurry!” She turned her back, obviously waiting for him to dress. “Hurry, or someone’s bound to be killed!”

  What the bloody hell was she talking about? He dared waste no time asking her. Instead, he wriggled into his long shirt, threw the plaid over his shoulder, and buckled on his sword. “Where?”

  “The tiltyard,” she said.

  He catapulted past her and down the stairs, his heart in his mouth. He would have called his men to arms in the great hall, but curiously, none of them were there. All that remained were wenches and servants and children. Even the armory was empty.

  He raced out into the courtyard and crossed the grassy expanse toward the fenced tiltyard. When he arrived, he could only stare in awe. What he saw was too incredible to comprehend.

  Chapter 14