Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  As for Helena, there was no other man for her. Colin had been her first. He would be her last. She couldn’t imagine sharing herself with anyone else.

  She slithered into her gown, feeling his lusty gaze upon her.

  “Must you go?” he whispered.

  “Greedy sot.”

  “Oh, aye.” He drew his eyes slowly down the length of her, sending a shiver through her soul. Lord, it was tempting to stay with him another hour. But the morn marched on.

  “Maybe this afternoon,” she suggested, “in the pond.”

  His eyes widened. “The pond? ’Tis covered in frost.”

  “Thin-skinned Norman,” she teased.

  “Cold-hearted Viking,” he replied. “Where are those rose-scented silk pillows you keep promising me?”

  She giggled. “Will you settle for a pile of straw in the stables?”

  He grinned. “Aye. You know I will.”

  She wheeled to make her departure, giving him a wink at the door. “I’ll see you later then…stable lad.”

  As she glided happily down the stairs, she thought about everything she’d learned from the Norman. For Colin, making love was a journey, rife with adventure and exploration, with moments of intense focus and times of quiet reflection.

  He could be as fierce as a wolf in one breath and as gentle as a lamb in the next. Sometimes he coupled with her as if they engaged in fast and furious battle. Other times he tormented her for hours with breathy kisses and feather-light touches. Once he let her bind his hands so she could ravish him at her leisure. And once he blindfolded her so his every caress was a sensual surprise.

  He kept her as content as a cat with cream, and her greatest wish was that they continue forever like this.

  But while Colin pleased her in bed, she found another kind of joy in her private battles with Pagan, and that was where she was headed now.

  Pagan had sworn Helena to secrecy concerning their meetings. Deirdre, because of her delicate and unwieldy condition, would have burst into tears if she’d known that Helena continued to spar while she was forced to suffer in confinement. So to protect Deirdre’s feelings, they agreed to rendezvous each morn in a clearing in the wood. They told no one, not the men of Rivenloch, not the Knights of Cameliard, not even Colin. Helena carried her armor each day in a large basket that she claimed was full of provender for Brother Thomas.

  There, in the thick cover of the pines, she would meet Pagan, who helped her to arm and worked to improve her fighting skills. He challenged her, strengthening her muscles, honing her technique, turning her into a better warrior than she’d ever been before. It was a shame, she thought, that her sister was unable to fight, for Helena was sure she could beat her soundly now.

  But what drove her more than the thought of defeating Deirdre was that of entering the tournament Pagan had planned for Rivenloch. Though she and Deirdre had often sparred for exhibition’s sake, Helena had never before fought with men in a real tournament. The idea of competing against knights from far and wide, of winning honors and prizes, of bringing glory to Rivenloch, sent a thrill of excitement rushing through her.

  Of course, she’d have to enter as an unknown. Once men discovered she was a woman, most would either refuse to fight her or soften their blows. Pagan especially wouldn’t approve. But it wasn’t uncommon for knights to enter tournaments in unmarked armor. Sometimes they did it to conceal their illustrious reputations, sometimes to hide their outlaw status. Sometimes unseasoned warriors preferred to remain unknown until they could make a name for themselves. But whatever people supposed as they watched her battle in the tournament, Helena relished the moment when she would whip off her helm in triumph to the shocked gasps of the onlookers.

  As she tucked the concealing linen carefully about her basket of armor and prepared to exit the front gates, she smiled, dreaming of October and the distinction she would bring then to the clan of Rivenloch.

  Colin stood naked by the tower window, watching the sun gild the oak leaves one by one. The sweet, feminine scent of Helena lingered in the room, but it was as elusive as the woman herself. Three months had passed, and still he had no word of commitment from her.

  He might as well admit it. He was her paramour. Her courtesan. Her concubine. A prisoner of love.

  It certainly wasn’t by choice. He’d offered Helena marriage so many times he’d lost count. But the willful wench had denied him over and over.

  What she wanted, he didn’t know. He doubted if she knew. She seemed well contented with their frequent trysts, as was he. Yet he held out hope that one day she’d awaken to his heart, that she’d recognize the devotion in his eyes and agree to seal their love in the sacred union of marriage.

  Even Colin, once a dedicated bachelor, could see that their bond was special. True, they quarreled a good deal of the time. But their words were never harsh. Helena and he were simply two opinionated people who were passionate about those opinions and had no qualms about voicing their differences.

  Besides, their arguments were inevitably settled on a very different field of battle, one where shouts and stomping yielded to caresses and sighs, and they both emerged victorious.

  It was clear to Colin that they were made for each other. Despite the lack of wedding vows between them, he remained faithful to her, and he suspected she was loyal to him. Why then was she so reluctant to trust him with her heart?

  As he pensively scanned the dew-covered greensward, wondering how to earn her confidence, a subtle movement from the trees caught his eye.

  It was Pagan, fully dressed and armed, entering the forest.

  Colin frowned. Pagan seldom rose before the sun. Yet there he appeared, ready for the day. Perhaps, he thought, he’d risen early at Lady Deirdre’s bidding. Maybe she’d made one of those strange demands common to expectant women, for a particular fruit or herb that could only be found in a certain clearing at a certain hour. And Pagan, dutiful husband that he was, had set about to fulfill her wishes.

  Colin smiled ruefully. He wondered if he’d ever have the chance to grant such unreasonable requests for Helena.

  Several moments later, as he finished dressing, pulling on his leather boots, he glimpsed a second figure entering the wood at the same spot.

  Helena.

  He blinked.

  A half dozen ignoble thoughts crossed his mind—ugly, painful, impossible thoughts. But he dismissed them with a shake of his head. It was coincidence, no more. Helena traveled to meet Brother Thomas every morn. And Pagan happened to have ventured into the wood at the same time.

  Still, uncertainty gnawed at him as he turned away from the window. Was it a coincidence? He’d be a fool to overlook the possibility that Helena was…

  Was what? he thought bitterly. Cuckolding him? Pah! She owed him nothing. He didn’t own her—not her body, not her heart, and certainly not her loyalty. She’d made it clear she wanted no commitment.

  Perhaps that was why she’d made no distinct vows to him. She may have given up trying to win Pagan’s hand, but maybe she hoped to win his heart. Perhaps she was in love with Pagan. It was a wrenching thought, one that ripped at Colin’s soul.

  The rest of the day was pure torment for him. He couldn’t bring himself to keep his appointment with Helena in the stables. God’s eyes, he could hardly look at her, couldn’t speak to her, knowing she might have betrayed him. No matter how he tried to tell himself he’d been mistaken about what he’d seen and was making reckless assumptions, no matter how he tried to convince himself that what he and Helena shared was only frolic anyway—light adventure, meaningless fun, in his heart, he knew better.

  Colin and Helena were as matched as Adam and Eve. And now he feared she’d let a deadly serpent into their Paradise.

  For the next several days, he teetered on a blade’s edge of uncertainty. He refused to question either Helena or Pagan, nor would he spy upon them, afraid of what he might learn. He kept himself in a state of ignorance that, if not blissful, was at least of some s
olace. He distracted himself with hard, long practice in the lists. And he guarded his heart against the painful possibility that his Eden was about to be destroyed.

  But he couldn’t abide in ignorance forever, and a week later, the vicious serpent reared its vile head again.

  Lucy brought him the news, along with a flagon of ale, as he stood by the stable, taking a respite from training on the practice field.

  “There’s something I think you should know, Colin,” she confided, as he sipped at the drink.

  He winced. Lucy somehow imagined that just because he’d once planned to tryst with her, she could address him by his first name. “Sir Colin.”

  She shrugged. “Your mistress…”

  He glared sharply at her.

  She smirked. “Everyone knows.”

  He scowled, downing a hearty swig of ale. He supposed she was right. Probably all of Rivenloch knew he was Helena’s paramour. He wondered if they also knew he hadn’t bedded her in a week. “What is it?”

  “I fear,” she said, pausing dramatically and glancing about for unwanted listeners, “your clever little hen services two cocks.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  Colin swallowed hard. “I have no time for your gibberish,” he muttered. “I have a tournament to train for.” He gulped down the rest of the ale and pressed the empty flagon into her hands.

  “Wait!” she said, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t you want to know who ’tis?”

  “Nay,” he said flatly, shaking off her hand.

  But like a long-winded jongleur, she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d delivered her entire piece. “’Tis Lord Pagan himself,” she whispered.

  A chill sank into his bones as she confirmed what he already knew. But he shuttered his eyes against the hurt. It would serve no good to let the castle blab know the depth of his anguish.

  Despite her pitying pout, there was an eager glint in her eyes. She enjoyed spreading gossip and wreaking havoc. With this one piece of news, it seemed she was doing both.

  “She goes to him most every day, your lady,” Lucy confided. “They meet in the wood.”

  Colin felt his heart congeal into a cold, hard knot. Somehow he managed to keep his expression carefully neutral.

  When she didn’t get the reaction she expected, she shrugged. “I suppose he can’t be blamed. After all, his own wife is fat with child.” She cocked her head then and looked up at him with a speculative gaze. “But if you’re ever in need of comfort, a little cuddle in the hay or a warm place to lay your head…” She lowered her eyes to her plump bosom. “You know where to find me.”

  Whatever she expected after that, he was fairly certain she didn’t expect him to grab her by the throat and press her up against the wall of the stable. She yelped, her eyes bulged, and she began babbling like a startled chicken.

  He didn’t hurt her. He only frightened her. But he wanted to make certain she understood him plainly.

  “Who else have you told?” he bit out.

  She gulped. “No one,” she squeaked.

  “You’re certain?”

  She nodded rapidly.

  “You will tell no one else. Not a word. If I find you’ve so much as whispered their names in the same breath, I’ll wring your scrawny neck. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded again. When he let her go, she stumbled, then picked up her skirts and fled like a hen chased by a fox.

  When she’d gone, Colin slumped weakly against the wall. He felt as if his soul had been torn from him.

  Betrayal burned in his veins like acid. The air deserted his lungs. His spirit felt crushed, as surely as glass beneath a sabaton. He’d been right about Helena. But he’d been too smitten to believe it. She’d fooled him as easily as she’d tricked the English mercenaries so long ago. And like a sailor tempted by a Siren, he’d blindly followed her to his demise.

  Part of him did feel dead. It was easier than enduring the pain of betrayal. Eventually he began to breathe again, his rasps as harsh as frost upon the warm spring air. And with each rough breath, a new link of armor locked about his heart.

  “Nay, nay, nay!” Pagan scolded. “You’re dropping your wrist again. If you’d been fighting Faramond le Blanc, he would have lopped off your head.”

  Helena nodded. She didn’t know what was wrong with her lately. Her limbs weren’t cooperating properly, and she couldn’t seem to focus on her swordplay. She wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that the tournament was less than a week away.

  It was true, over the past weeks she’d been caught up in the castle fervor as servants and craftsmen made preparations for the lavish event. Excitement was high, tempers were short, and Helena felt a fluttering in her belly every time she thought about the legendary battles to come. The knights ranged the keep in no less than full battle armor, sparring at all hours, and in the great hall, Boniface practiced the songs he’d perform at the feast afterward.

  Colin seemed distracted by the upcoming tournament as well. He battled from dawn to dusk in the tiltyard. Consequently he hadn’t slept with her in days.

  She understood, of course. Most knights believed that a man’s strength was diminished by too much lovemaking. But sometimes Colin seemed like a different man. The hardened warrior he’d become had no heart, no soul. This new Colin never laughed and seldom smiled. Indeed, he seemed to be turned completely inward. If he passed her, he rarely spoke. And if he spoke, it was in curt tones, as if his mind was engaged elsewhere.

  His grimness admittedly took some of the joy out of her anticipation of Rivenloch’s grand tourney. She could only console herself by trusting that after the tournament, he’d transform back into the Colin she knew and loved. And she distracted herself from brooding by spending every waking moment in practice.

  “Faramond likes to attack from above,” Pagan continued with his advice. “You have to keep your wrist strong to block his blows.”

  Helena smiled to herself. Pagan never seemed to remember that she wasn’t competing in the tournament. At least as far as anyone knew, she wasn’t competing. But now that she was so much more skilled—faster, stronger, more agile—she wasn’t about to miss this opportunity to test her talents against the best in the land.

  If she could just keep her meals in her nervous stomach for more than an hour…

  Helena’s belly seized again, and she retched into her chamberpot.

  Sung Li crossed smug arms across her chest, her wise face puckered with pensive wrinkles. “I know what ails you,” she declared.

  Why Miriel’s pesky maidservant had followed Helena into her chamber, she didn’t know. The old woman usually trailed behind Miriel like a devoted duckling. But for some reason, this morn she’d abandoned Miriel and seemed fascinated by Helena’s ills.

  “’Tis nothing, only the excitement of the tourney,” Helena muttered.

  “Ah. And how long has it been so?”

  Helena gave the impertinent maid a withering glare, then heaved up the last of her breakfast.

  Sung Li clucked her tongue. “It is not the tournament.” She handed Helena a wet cloth, then announced with her usual unmitigated candor, “You carry a child.”

  Helena almost choked. But she recovered, taking the cloth and dabbing her brow with shaky hands. “That’s impossible.” But even as she denied it, she realized it was not only possible. It was probable. She and Colin had coupled enough times to spawn a whole brood of children.

  “Impossible?” The old woman’s thin white brows shot up. Then she narrowed her eyes to knowing slits. “You do know how children are made?”

  Helena had little patience for Sung Li’s insolence. “Out!” She pointed to the door.

  Unintimidated by Helena’s command, Sung Li slowly sauntered toward the door. “You should tell the father.” The maid couldn’t resist one last jab before she ducked out of the room. “If you know who he is.”

  Helena threw the wet rag at her, but it only slapped against the closing door.

  Then she sank o
nto her pallet, biting at her thumbnail. What if Sung Li was right? What if she was with child? The old woman had an eerie gift of prophecy. She brushed her palm over her belly. Was Colin’s babe growing within her?

  A strange pair of emotions, joy and dread, battled in her brain.

  Part of her was ecstatic at the thought of bearing Colin’s child. Already she imagined a miniature version of Colin with dark, wavy hair and twinkling green eyes. Or maybe a hot-tempered lass with tawny locks like hers. What a wonderful father Colin would make. He could take their child fishing and riding, sing silly songs and tell exciting adventures. He could share his laughter and his love, and together they could raise the child to be the finest warrior Rivenloch had ever known.

  But another part of her resisted the subjugation of motherhood. She’d already decided she didn’t want to be saddled with a husband. She most definitely didn’t want the burden of a child. She’d already seen what it had done to Deirdre. Her poor sister waddled about the keep now with an inane grin on her face, as if she didn’t mind in the least being kept like a coddled pet. But Helena was a creature of the wild, free, unfettered. She refused to be tamed and fattened like a breeding sow.

  She slid her hands over her belly again. If she did carry Colin’s child, it didn’t show yet. For at least another month or two, no one would notice. Nobody would try to force her to wed or send her to bed like an ailing child.

  After the tournament, after she’d proved herself on the field of battle, she’d think about announcing her condition. In the meantime, she’d continue on as if nothing had changed.

  After all, nothing had changed. Except for the bouts of queasiness. And no one knew about those but Sung Li.

  Sung Li.

  Helena gave a little gasp. The meddlesome maid might be scurrying about even now, wagging her tongue all over the keep. She shot to her feet, clapping a hand on the pommel of her dagger.