Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Stand aside!” he commanded the women and children. It was said that The Shadow had never mortally injured anyone, but Rand didn’t want to take any risks.

  At his order, the Mochries dutifully scattered to the sides of the path.

  The Shadow gave a slight nod then, almost a mocking salute, and Rand got the impression that beneath the layers of black cloth, the man was grinning.

  Rand intended to smite that grin off the outlaw’s face. With a grim scowl, he took a step forward.

  If he’d blinked, he would have missed the swift kick that The Shadow aimed toward his sword arm. Even so, he was barely able to retract his hand fast enough to keep hold of his weapon as he felt the close brush of The Shadow’s boot upon his fingers.

  There was no time to be amazed. In the next instant, The Shadow advanced with a forward punch that fell short of Rand’s jaw only because he reflexively jerked his head back.

  The next succession of blows Rand was unable to avoid. Like a quintain spinning loose from its mooring, The Shadow’s foot came around and caught him in the ribs. Rand was folded forward by the impact, directly into a fist that clipped him on the chin. Then the outlaw used both hands to shove him backward.

  Somehow Rand managed to stay on his feet, though he had to retreat to shake off the rapid attack and collect himself.

  Meanwhile, The Shadow stood waiting like an insolent lad, his arms crossed over his chest in smug challenge.

  Rand flipped the sword over in his grip. With a roar that usually sent men scurrying, he swung the flat of the blade forward with enough force to knock the outlaw cold.

  But the agile thief dropped to the ground as the sword whistled past, and Rand was almost spun around backward as his blade sailed through empty air.

  Rand slashed diagonally downwards then, once, twice, but The Shadow leaped nimbly aside both times.

  Now Rand’s determination was aroused. This was absurd. Rand was an experienced warrior. And the thief wasn’t much bigger than a child. Rand had the advantage of power and size and reach. Surely he could bring the outlaw to his knees.

  With a sharp exhalation, he began circling the robber, brandishing the blade before him, calculating the best angle of attack.

  In transparent mockery, the thief whipped out his much smaller black knife and began aping Rand’s stealthy steps.

  Behind him, Rand heard one of the maids giggle at the performance, which only fed his growing irritation with the varlet.

  Then he saw his opportunity. The Shadow’s attention shifted slightly as one of the maids whispered to another. Rand thrust suddenly forward, intending to give him a harmless but incapacitating slice along the ribs.

  Not only did the thief dodge the strike, but he simultaneously sent his own weapon spinning through the air toward Rand’s head, not close enough to do him injury, but close enough to distract him.

  As Rand reared his head back, startled by the flash of the silver blade, something happened. He wasn’t sure what.

  But in the next confusing moments, he was struck in several places, the sword was knocked from his grip, and he was bowled over as readily as a set of bowling kayles, to collide with the hard ground.

  Rand lay flat on his back, stunned, his lungs robbed of air, staring up at branches that hung over him like concerned bystanders.

  How the bloody hell had it happened? How could it be that some wee fellow in black rags, armed with a tiny knife and clambering through the trees like a monkey, had not only eluded capture, but felled him?

  Him. Rand la Nuit. Seasoned warrior. Esteemed swordsman. Respected champion. And one of the most reputable mercenaries in all of Scotland.

  For a moment all he could do was lie there, breathless, while The Shadow swung up to perch in the branch of a nearby tree, wagging his scolding finger. While he watched, the thief tossed some small, round object onto Rand’s chest, then, in a flash, leaped down to scamper off into the woods.

  After what seemed an eternity, Rand was finally able to drag in a hefty breath of air. He coughed once, twice, dislodging whatever The Shadow had thrown at him. Then he rose onto his elbows.

  “Are you all right?” one of the Mochrie maids asked. There was definitely diminished admiration in her voice. She apparently was as disappointed as he was.

  He nodded graciously. But inside he was fuming. The brazen thief had humiliated him. Outwitted him. Outmaneuvered him. Made him into an absolute fool.

  Worse, it seemed the Mochrie women were more than just unimpressed with Rand’s defense of them.

  “Did you see him?” one of them asked eagerly.

  “Aye, barely,” another replied. “He moved as quickly as…as…”

  “As lightning.”

  “Nay,” another said dreamily, “as swift as…shadow.”

  The other maids murmured in soft agreement.

  “I wonder what he looks like beneath that mask.”

  “Blond,” one of them guessed.

  “Nay, black-haired, to match his garb.”

  “I’d wager he’s as ugly as sin. Why else would he cover his face?”

  “To hide his identity, addlepate.”

  “Do you think we know him?” one of them asked, wide-eyed.

  “Nay. No one I know can fight like that.”

  “I think he wears a mask,” one of them cooed, “because he wishes to remain a man of mystery.”

  “Aye, mystery.”

  “Indeed, I’d wager he’s as handsome as the devil.”

  The maids tittered behind their hands.

  “He reminded me of—”

  “Ladies!” Rand had heard enough.

  The empty-headed wenches had no idea how close they’d come to harm. If the thief had taken it into his head to hurt or maim or kill them, Rand had no doubt he would have succeeded.

  Now, to listen to them glorifying the villain as if he were to be admired…

  He shook his head and pushed up to his feet, wincing at his injuries.

  “Are you unharmed?” he asked them pointedly.

  They nodded.

  One overbold lass languidly volunteered, “I don’t think The Shadow would ever hurt a woman.”

  Rand’s disgust almost equaled his fury. They were half-wits indeed if they believed an outlaw followed a code of honor. Satan’s ballocks! Even the mercenaries he knew bent the principles of chivalry.

  The Shadow was certainly capable. And that both alarmed and enraged Rand. He knew now that The Shadow was a serious threat. The outlaw might have only stolen a bit of silver and entertained the ladies with his antics today. But there was no telling what he might do when he grew bored with cutting purses. It was a short distance to go from cutting purses to cutting throats.

  Aye, he decided as the Mochrie men-at-arms, still groggy but recovering, gathered their wits and their weapons, he definitely intended to catch this villain.

  It wasn’t a matter of reward now.

  It was a matter of honor.

  “Look!” one of the maids cried. “There’s his dagger!”

  Rand scowled as the damsels rushed over to examine the slim black knife protruding from the trunk of an oak. Unbelievably, they began to quarrel over the thing, as if it were some champion’s favor. Rand could only roll his eyes.

  One of the Mochrie men clapped a consoling hand on Rand’s shoulder. “At least you got to fight him.” He shook his head. “The man moves faster than a monk out of a whorehouse.”

  The second man joined them. “Aye, you’re lucky he didn’t get to your coin.”

  Rand frowned, patting his purse. It was true. The Shadow hadn’t stolen from him. But was it because Rand had defended himself so well, or had the thief simply not wanted to bother with his coin?

  “Do you need a few shillings to get you home?” Rand asked.

  The first man shook his head. “Nay. ’Twas only our winnings anyway.”

  “Winnings?”

  “Aye,” the second man told him, “coin won wagering last night.”
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br />   The men thanked Rand for his offer and for his admirable attempt with his sword, but already Rand’s brain was reeling over what they’d said. He stared off into the forest where the outlaw had disappeared.

  The Shadow must be connected somehow to Rivenloch. Someone at the wedding supper last night, someone who’d been wagering at the table, must have found a way to recover his losses. Could The Shadow be a hireling of sorts, an agent of retribution for one of Rivenloch’s denizens?

  That was hard to imagine. The Cameliard knights were highly regarded in chivalrous circles, renown for their honor and loyalty. And the Rivenloch men he’d spoken to seemed too fiercely proud to resort to such underhanded tactics.

  But then Rand had seen the worst of men. Traveling in the environs he did, he came into contact with villains of the roughest sort, men who could grin and clap you on the shoulder while shoving a knife into your back. He’d seen once kind and peaceful men, tormented by some act of violence against their loved ones, ask for the kind of vengeance only the devil should exact.

  Rand drew the line at cold-blooded murder. He refused to be a hired assassin. But though he was ashamed to admit it and loath to remember, as a young and desperate mercenary, he’d sometimes been a partner to that kind of revenge, delivering wrongdoers into such men’s hands, turning a blind eye and walking away while they claimed their payment in flesh and no doubt secured their place in Hell.

  Thus Rand had learned that all men were fallible. Honor was fragile. Loyalty was fleeting. With the right motivation, heroes could be turned to outlaws in the wink of an eye.

  Was avarice enough motivation for a man to hire a robber like The Shadow to terrorize the countryside?

  Most certainly. And it was up to men like Rand to stop them.

  The Mochrie men had finally settled the damsels’ petty bickering by awarding The Shadow’s knife to the young lad who traveled with them, much to the ladies’ dismay. But as soon as Rand bent to retrieve his broadsword from the forest floor, the maids found something new to pique their interest.

  “What’s that?” One of the damsels pointed to a shiny object winking up from the ground beside him.

  “’Tis mine,” one lady claimed.

  “I saw it first!”

  “Nay, you didn’t. I—”

  “Ladies!” Rand’s irritation was only exceeded by his curiosity. He snapped up the object himself before they could engage in a wrestling bout for the thing.

  It was a silver coin.

  One of the maids gasped. “Is that what The Shadow tossed at you?”

  He furrowed his brow. It must be. But why?

  “It must be a token of honor,” one of the men-at-arms guessed. “He paid you for giving him a good fight.”

  “How romantic,” one of the women sighed.

  “I knew he was a man of chivalry,” another declared.

  “Perhaps we’ll see him again one—”

  “I’ll take my leave now.” Rand’s patience was at an end. He flipped the coin once and slipped it into his purse, out of the envious view of the Mochrie maids. Then, sheathing his sword, he nodded farewell.

  He planned to spar in the tiltyard again today, to immerse himself in the ranks of the men of Rivenloch, earn their camaraderie, gain their trust. Tonight he’d join in the wagering, keeping a close watch on the players. And he’d try not to get distracted by the breathtaking lass who kept creeping into his thoughts.

  Chapter 11

  Miriel was finishing up the accounts at her desk when Sung Li came up behind her with a late breakfast of oatcakes and butter.

  “It seems your suitor is much more…talented than he led you to believe.”

  Miriel tensed, but kept her eyes on her ledgers. It made her edgy when Sung Li spoke of Sir Rand. He obviously detested the man and would do anything to get rid of him. But Miriel didn’t want to get rid of him yet, not before she discovered his intentions. “Talented?”

  “He is quite skilled with the sword.”

  Miriel swallowed hard. Sung Li was right. “Is he?” She shrugged, dipping her quill into ink to scrawl the last figure on the page. “Maybe his skills are improving because Pagan has been sparring with him. Pagan’s a good teacher.”

  “Those kinds of skills a man does not learn in two days,” Sung Li said, setting the basket of oatcakes at the edge of Miriel’s books. “He is born with them.”

  “So why would he underplay his skills?” She asked the question as much to herself as to Sung Li. “Why would he pretend incompetence?”

  “Why would you?” Sung Li asked.

  She frowned thoughtfully. “The greatest weapon is the one no one knows you possess.”

  “Exactly. The element of surprise.”

  “Hm.” Miriel blew on the last entry in the ledger to dry it, then closed the book, sliding it aside. “What makes you so interested in his swordsmanship anyway? Swordsman or not, you know I could knock him on his arse.”

  “Pah! Sometimes you are overconfident,” Sung Li warned, “like a duckling who thinks it can fly because it can swim.”

  Miriel broke an oatcake and spread a thick layer of butter over it. “If I’m overconfident,” she said, giving Sung Li an obsequious grin, “’tis only because I have the best teacher in the world.”

  “Hmph.” Sung Li never fell victim to Miriel’s fawning. He was a wise old man who saw through everything, almost everything.

  “Besides,” Miriel said, pausing to nibble on the edge of the oatcake, “I should think you’d be pleased that I have a suitor adept with a blade.”

  He lowered his brows and intoned, “Those who practice deception have something to hide.”

  Miriel stared at the old man.

  Sometimes his words sounded terribly deep and mysterious.

  Other times it seemed he only stated the obvious.

  This was one of those times. She opened her mouth to argue with him, to tell him, of course they have something to hide, then thought better of it. One never argued with Sung Li. At least not if one wanted to avoid an hour-long diatribe on the wisdom of the Orient.

  “You should go to the lists,” Sung Li said. “Watch him. Study him.”

  Miriel took another bite, mostly to delay answering. She supposed there would be no harm in watching Rand fight today. Indeed, it was always a pleasure to watch a handsome knight wielding his sword—lunging, thrusting. Gasping. Sweating.

  But she suspected Sung Li knew more than he was telling her. His directive was less of a suggestion, more of a command. And she sensed a wary warning in his voice.

  “All right, xiansheng,” she conceded, “if you insist.”

  In the end, she was glad she had taken an hour out of her day to observe from the practice field fence while Pagan put Rand through his paces. She suspected Rand’s congeniality as he sparred with the men was as carefully manufactured as his inability with a blade. But he was damned good at it, nearly as good as she. She had to admire his talent.

  He feigned great interest in Pagan’s advice, mimicked to perfection the moves that Rauve taught him, and even listened to Deirdre’s recommendations regarding his grip on the sword.

  His swordsmanship showed marked improvement, which Miriel knew was just as calculated. After all, nothing flattered and ingratiated one to a man so well as steadily improving under that man’s instruction.

  Miriel took note of his checked swings, the slashes that went wide of their mark, the delayed blocks that resulted in close misses.

  He was intentionally minimizing his ability. He was certainly capable of greater strength and speed. He only withheld them because he had no call to use them here.

  Deirdre came up beside her. “He’s improving.”

  “You think so?” Miriel affected a small pout. “Helena said he fought like a wee lass.”

  “Coming from Helena, ’tis a compliment. You should have seen her fight when she was a wee lass.”

  “What’s this?”

  Nothing could keep Helena from the ti
ltyard long, even lying abed with her bridegroom on her wedding morn. She arrived in a breathless rush, wrapping a companionable arm around each of her sisters.

  Miriel sighed. “Do you think he’ll ever fight well enough to protect me?”

  Helena gave her a sly smile. “Do you like the handsome lad then?”

  Miriel gazed out across the field again, where Rand was crossing swords with Sir Rauve. He was a comely man, even if he might be a lying varlet. His shoulders were wide and powerful. His chest was broad, narrowing below his waist where his belt rested. His dark hair hung in damp locks about his face, down which rivulets of sweat ran as he wheeled and lunged with seemingly endless energy. When Sir Rauve called an end to the fight, Rand’s face lit up with the most brilliant smile full of flashing teeth.

  Miriel’s heart fluttered as desire surged through her, unbidden. Lord, the knave was more handsome than any man should be allowed. Still, she tried to keep her tone even as she admitted hoarsely, “He is attractive.”

  “And kind,” Deirdre said.

  “Aye.” He acted kind anyway, helping the servants, speaking patiently to her father.

  “And generous,” Helena added.

  “Hm.” Generous? He’d given Miriel his silver coin. But that was probably to buy her affections. He’d also offered escort to the Mochrie maids this morn, and that was definitely not motivated by generosity. What man wouldn’t offer escort to a bevy of fawning women?

  “Brave,” Deirdre suggested.

  Miriel glanced at her. “Brave?”

  “Did you not hear, Miri?” Deirdre’s eyes glittered with sudden delight, and she straightened to her full height to impart the news. “Your suitor, Sir Rand of Morbroch, this very morn challenged none other than The Shadow.”

  Miriel clapped a hand to her bosom. “What?”

  Helena didn’t believe it. “Nay.”

  “Aye. All the keep’s a-buzz.” Deirdre wrinkled her forehead. “Did no one tell you, Miri?”

  Miriel crumpled the neckline of her surcoat. “Was he…was he hurt?”

  “Oh, nay, nay,” Deirdre rushed to assure her. “You know The Shadow. Just a few scratches and a bit of bruised pride. But here’s the interesting thing.” She drew closer to whisper to both of them. “The Shadow left him a tribute.”