Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

She pounded her fist against the wall for emphasis, and suddenly a throng of doves exploded from the rotting perches in a flurry of cooing and feathers, stirring up the dust and flapping about Deirdre’s head. She yelped in surprise, startling them further.

  Bloody hell. The Normans had brought their doves with them. Not even the dovecot was safe from their invasion.

  “Shh.” She held her hands out, palms forward, as if by that gesture she could calm the birds and settle them onto their perches again. It would have been easier to reattach a plucked flower. Or, she thought, to restore Rivenloch to what it was before the Normans came.

  Her jaw resolute, Deirdre slipped carefully out the door so none of the flustered doves could escape. She was beginning to think it would have been wise to take Helena’s suggestion at the first. The sisters should have waylaid the cursed Normans in the forest ere they arrived.

  Chapter 15

  “Again!” Deirdre commanded, closing her visor against the afternoon sun, bracing her feet wide, and raising her sword against Sir Reyner.

  Sir Reyner lowered his shield. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, but—”

  “Come.” She slashed downward, sending up a cloud of dust as the tip of the blade furrowed the hard-packed ground of the list.

  “My lady…”

  “Have at me, coward!” She flexed her knees, tossed her head, and lifted the sword once more.

  It was Pagan’s loss, she thought, if he chose to make rounds of the castle with his builder, discussing changes in Rivenloch’s fortification, rather than spend time training with his knights. And she’d be damned if she’d let his soldiers, Rivenloch’s soldiers, grow lazy simply because he had better things to do.

  Pagan’s men were predictably hesitant to fight her at first. She was accustomed to that. Men feared they would hurt her. But she knew that once they engaged her, once she proved to be a worthy opponent, once she earned their respect, the Knights of Cameliard would learn to spar with her willingly, just as her own men did.

  Meanwhile, she’d hold back nothing when she attacked them and give no quarter when they struck. With luck, she’d even dole out a scratch or two they could display to Pagan at supper.

  Pagan thoughtfully walked the perimeter of the keep, nodding at the sketches, pleased with his builder’s suggestions. The addition of an inner wall enclosing the keep would vastly improve the defenses of the castle. Grain might be kept within one of the six new towers of the wall, and cellars could be dug underneath for storage of provender—ale, cheese, dried fish, salted meat—for a hard winter or in the event of a siege.

  Best of all, they could begin at once, and because the construction required no breaching of the outer wall, it could be done in complete safety. If the summer weather held, and if enough stone could be quarried, the building might be well underway before winter.

  There was just one thing Pagan wanted to discuss with Sir Rauve, and that was the merits of digging a moat around the castle. It would require extra fortification at the foot of the existing wall and the addition of a drawbridge. It was considerable work, expensive, and Pagan was not entirely convinced of its usefulness.

  Returning the drawings to the builder, he told him he’d have a decision by the morrow. Then he left to find Rauve.

  Dust churned up from the direction of the tiltyard. His men were likely there. None of the Cameliard knights, himself included, could go more than a day without engaging in some kind of battle. That passion for warfare made his men nearly unconquerable.

  Sure enough, as he neared, he heard the violent ring of steel on steel, the scuff of sabatons in the dirt, shouts of pain and rage and victory. He spotted Sir Rauve outside the field, leaning against the fence, watching the various battles with intense scrutiny. Indeed, so focused was his man’s attention that it took a third glance before Rauve realized who approached. Once he recognized Pagan, he pushed away from the fence and turned toward him. He looked uncomfortable, as if someone had put honey in his trews or told him that yet another black-haired whelp had been born to one of his mistresses.

  “What is it?” Pagan asked with a chiding grin. “Have you got some Scots wench with child already?”

  The big man only grunted, scowling and looking off absently across the field.

  “What is it, Rauve?” Pagan said, keen to his man’s dark moods. “Speak your mind.”

  Rauve spat into the dust and pounded a fist absently into his palm. “I’m not one to interfere. You know that.” He sniffed, but wouldn’t meet Pagan’s eyes. “I know the Scots ways are…well, they’re not the same as ours.”

  Pagan blinked.

  Rauve struggled with the words. “I don’t doubt her good intentions is what I’m trying to say, but…”

  “Her?”

  “Your wife.” Rauve shifted his weight uneasily and began to speak more rapidly, as if preparing for the blow to come at the end of his speech. “She has determination. That much is true. And spirit? Well, what Scot hasn’t that fierce kind of…”

  “What is it, Rauve?” Pagan braced himself.

  Rauve pressed his lips together, reluctant to say, then turned and nodded his head toward the tiltyard.

  Sir Adric le Gris sparred out there, his knees bent, his shield held forward, his sword aloft but moving only infrequently, and then gingerly, as if he defended himself against a kitten’s claws.

  Then Pagan saw the kitten. She swung her blade around in both hands, slicing right and left, twirling, dodging, thrusting… His heart plummeted.

  “Mother of God,” he said under his breath, clapping a hand to the pommel of his sheathed sword and advancing.

  But Rauve stopped him, placing his own body between Pagan and the tiltyard and ignoring Pagan’s black looks. “’Tis no great matter to me whether she wields a sword or no. From what the men of Rivenloch say, she’s done so since she was a child. But the knights fear for her safety, and—”

  “Stand aside. You have cause to worry no more.” To his amazement, he was trembling, and his voice came out like a feeble wind through a straw hovel.

  Rauve was looking at him oddly, and Pagan knew he had to pull himself together before he confronted Deirdre. He swiftly closed down all his emotions save fury. Then, filching the heavy, studded mace that hung from Rauve’s belt, he pushed past his man toward his target.

  “Deirdre of Rivenloch!”

  His bellow was loud enough to halt even the most distant bouts on the practice field. It startled Deirdre, though not as much as it did Sir Adric, who leaped into the air, all but dropping his sword and shield, as guilty as a mouse caught nibbling the Sabbath offering.

  Pagan stalked across the field, the mace gripped firmly in his fist.

  Adric fumbled his sword into its sheath. “Forgive me, my lord. I…”

  Pagan ignored his man and marched straight up to Deirdre. God’s blood! He’d told her she need fight no more, that he and his men would protect her. Why did she not believe him? It was that damned yard-long piece of steel, he decided. That was the root of his trouble and her danger. If he got rid of it…

  “Give me that sword.” He hoped to God she couldn’t hear the tremor in his voice. Sainted Mary, his voice served him well enough on the battlefield. Why was it shaking now?

  Deirdre tossed down her shield. She removed her helm, and her hair spilled free like honey pouring forth from a comb. “Why should I—”

  “Now!” he roared like a madman.

  She compressed her lips and tightened her grip on the sword. But he reached forward, easily wresting it from her hand.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “You have no right to…”

  But he wasn’t listening. Angling Deirdre’s sword with its point in the earth, he raised the mace high. Its studded head winked darkly in the sunlight. Then, with one powerful blow, he plunged the club downward. The refined steel was no match for the brutal mace, and the blade snapped with a brittle ring. The two pieces clattered to the ground like dry bones—lifeless, h
armless. The enemy lay vanquished at his feet. He’d slain the steel dragon and protected his lady from the harm she might do herself. Never again would he need fear for her life.

  Deirdre felt as if a quintain had caught her hard in the stomach. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her precious sword. He’d broken it. In the wink of an eye. Intentionally. The sword her father had given her. The sword that bore her name, scratched in a childish scrawl upon the hilt. The sword she’d painstakingly notched for every victory. To her utter mortification, her eyes filled with tears as she gaped at the broken blade.

  She bit her lip to stem the tide. Deirdre, the Warrior Maid of Rivenloch, didn’t cry. Not from pain. Not from fear. And certainly not from something as insignificant as the breaking of a blade. She would not weep. She’d not give Pagan the satisfaction.

  But to her horror, in the dreadful silence that ensued, a sob squeaked in her throat, and she knew she must flee at once, get out of their sight before she shamed herself in front of the knights.

  She didn’t trust herself to speak. Steeling her spine as best she could, she turned stiffly around. The knights moved aside as she made her dignified way to the gate and strode across the courtyard toward the keep. If she could maintain a pretense of composure and make it to her chamber, she could bar the door and cry her heart out into her pillow.

  Later she’d deal with Pagan’s treachery. Later she’d be able to think clearly enough to devise a fitting retribution. But for now, all she wanted was to make it to her chamber without falling to pieces.

  Pagan watched her leave the field, then turned to find several pairs of sullen, judging eyes boring into him. The Rivenloch knights. They didn’t approve. He glanced at the broken sword, winking up at him like a taunt, and cursed. Perhaps it had been a childish gesture, but, damn it all, someone had to keep Deirdre safe.

  “She’s a woman!” he yelled, loud enough for all to hear. “God’s eyes! Would you risk the life of the lady of the keep? Do you not want heirs for Rivenloch?” He shook his head and raked his hand back through his hair, then fixed them all with a stern glare. “No one, no one will spar with her again. Do you understand?”

  The Rivenloch men shuffled their feet and muttered grudging acceptance. He waved them back to their affairs with an annoyed flick of his hand. Then he trudged back to where Sir Rauve waited.

  “She’ll trouble you no more,” he told his man, returning the mace.

  Rauve grunted.

  Pagan crossed his arms over his chest, over the spot where his heart felt strangely bereft. For some unfathomable reason, he suddenly needed to explain himself. “A wench truly has no place on the field of battle, Rauve,” he murmured. “I don’t care what her father allowed. Her insistence on wielding her own weapon shows a lack of faith in my protection. ’Tis a man’s duty to protect his wife, just as ’tis his duty to lay down the law for her.”

  Rauve’s heavy black brows lifted almost imperceptibly.

  Pagan tried to summon up a self-satisfied smile and failed. Damn it all, he thought, he should have felt satisfied. Maybe he could talk himself into it. “’Tis my own fault. I should have made it clear for her earlier. A woman’s place is in the keep,” he continued with a frown. “Women are made for handling tapestries and…and seedlings…and babes, not weapons of war. She has…things to oversee…affairs to supervise.”

  “Aye.” Rauve still looked skeptical.

  “She has no business mingling with reckless knights who might unwittingly knock her senseless or…or slash her hauberk or lop off her…” He swayed as a too clear picture of Deirdre falling to her death hit him full force.

  “My lord?” Rauve grasped him by the shoulder in concern.

  Pagan looked at his man blankly. Who was he fooling? He wasn’t looking to lay down the law for Deirdre. Even in the brief time he’d known her, he knew better. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met—strong-willed and smart and independent—and he respected those unique qualities. By the Saints, he admired them.

  Nay, the truth was, he was terrified for her. When he’d beheld her battling Sir Adric le Gris, her shield bowing beneath his sword, his blade narrowly missing her leg, Pagan’s breath had stopped. It was different when he fought her. Then he was in control. But God help him, when he’d seen his beautiful wife fighting a man twice her size, risking her neck against his own seasoned knight, his heart had knifed so violently that he feared it would thrust through his chest.

  Which could only mean one thing.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  He was developing a weakness for his wife.

  He shook his head, then took a deep breath before he started off toward the keep. If it was in his power to stop Deirdre from ever lifting a sword again, he would do so, if he had to break every blade in the armory.

  “Deirdre.”

  Deirdre scrambled up from the bed, frantically wiping the despicable tears from her face, and stared at the bolted door. She wasn’t about to open it. She refused to let him find her like this, sniffling over her broken sword.

  “What do you want?” She tried to sneer, but the weepy hitch in her voice ruined the effect.

  The latch rattled in reply as Pagan tried the door. Her heart thumped against her ribs. He jogged the latch harder, without success.

  “Deirdre.” His tone was calm and steady, but its hard edge made the bar across the door seem suddenly insubstantial. “Let me in.”

  “Nay.”

  A long quiet followed. Deirdre’s pulse rushed in her ears.

  “Open the door, Deirdre.” His voice was softer this time, but even more dangerous.

  “Nay.”

  There was no reply, no movement. No sound at all intruded from beyond the door. Deirdre listened breathlessly, but the silence lengthened until she was sure he’d given up, gone away.

  And then the peace was split asunder.

  The oak door exploded inward with the sound of a hundred lances cracking. Splinters flew everywhere. The iron bands twisted beneath the impact, and the leather hinges ripped from their fittings. What remained of the door sagged and slumped to the floor like a slain beast. And into the doorway, through the cloud of dust, her father’s great war axe hanging from one fist, stepped Pagan, looking as ferocious as a Viking invader of old.

  Chapter 16

  Pagan was incensed. Here he stood, like some barbarian plunderer with axe in hand, forced to break down the door of his own bedchamber—by his own wife! How dared Deirdre…

  Deirdre.

  She shrank back, glaring at him with wet-rimmed eyes, as defensive and edgy as a wounded wolf. He supposed the fact he’d come crashing in with a war axe didn’t help matters.

  “Leave me alone!” she cried.

  Salty tracks stained her cheeks. Her eyes were red and swollen. And though she tried to disguise the hitching of her chest, a hiccough betrayed her. Bloody hell! His strong, fearless warrior wife had been crying.

  His grip loosened on the axe. His shoulders dropped. The tension in his forehead relaxed. Nothing melted Pagan’s rage faster than tears. Something about the soft, sweet lines of a woman’s face transfigured by sorrow wrenched at his heart. And knowing he was the source of her grief…

  Guilt washed over him. “Listen, Deirdre.” He spoke with a gentleness that surprised even him. He carefully set the axe aside and stepped over the pile of debris between them.

  “Get away from me!”

  Wild-eyed, she retreated, coming up against the edge of the bed. Before he could take a breath, she slipped her hand beneath the coverlet and withdrew a length of steel, a yard long and honed to a fine point. His eyes widened. Sweet Mary, did the lass have weapons stashed behind every tapestry?

  “Look, I’m sorry about your sword, but you gave me no choice.”

  “Sorry!” she snapped, lifting the sword to his throat. The tears in her eyes seemed to freeze into icicles. “My father gave me that sword, you bastard.”

  He winced as the point of the sword jabbed hi
s chin and regretted discarding the axe so quickly. “Well,” he said dryly, “you don’t seem to be suffering from any shortage of blades.”

  “And yet you persist in thinking me unfit for battle.”

  He locked eyes with her. She had a point. “What is it you want?”

  “I want my command back.”

  “Nay.”

  He saw her temper flare in the fiery depths of her eyes. But she controlled it like a flame burning in an enclosed lantern. “Do you know who I am?” She raised her chin proudly and looked down her nose at him. “I am Deirdre, Warrior Maid of Rivenloch. I have routed thieves, maimed robbers, and killed outlaws. I was born with a sword in my hand. You have no right to take my command from me.”

  “I have every right. I am your husband and steward of this castle, by command of the King.”

  She lowered her eyes to the tip of her sword, poised precariously against the vein in his neck. “You speak boldly for a man whose life hangs in the balance.”

  “You won’t slay me. My death would incur the wrath of my men and start a blood battle between our people.”

  “Maybe I shall only damage you.”

  He didn’t believe her for a moment. She was fierce, aye, and fearless, and she had scratched him once with her blade. But she was no cold-blooded savage. He shrugged, as much as he could without driving the point of her sword into his throat. “’Twill be you, dear wife, waking up next to my mangled body each morn.”

  Deirdre had to admire Pagan’s courage, marked in the even tone of his voice. It would take but a twitch of her wrist to slit his throat. But he was right. She had no desire to injure him. She didn’t take violence lightly. The only men she’d ever maimed had threatened the life or welfare of someone she cared for.

  So they were at an standstill. And she had precious little leverage left. They stared at one another a long while, each sizing up the other.

  Finally, after a long, weighted breath, Pagan spoke. “All right. I may live to rue this day, but I have a proposal for you.”