Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “You must be ready.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But whether for spite or to be enigmatic, Sung Li apparently didn’t intend to explain his cryptic remark. With a grave expression that sent a chill of foreboding up Miriel’s spine, he turned and left her chamber.

  Miriel tried to cheer herself with the fact that Rand was taking her to the fair today. As she wriggled into her favorite rose red surcoat and chose a matching ribbon for her hair, she couldn’t help but smile as she thought about seeing Rand again. Had it been only half a day since she’d beheld those endearing dimples, gazed into those twinkling eyes, kissed that tempting mouth? It seemed an eternity.

  She hurried into her soft leather slippers and whirled her cloak around her shoulders, then eagerly rushed down the stairs, unable to keep the grin from her face.

  When Rand looked up from his breakfast to see the delicate rose petal floating down the great hall’s steps, he almost choked on his oatcake. Angels in heaven, she was more beautiful than he remembered, even with her clothes on. What would it be like to have her run downstairs to greet him every morn?

  Nay, he corrected, smiling slyly, if Miriel agreed to be his wife, he meant to keep her abed till afternoon.

  “Good morn!” she called, her face shining.

  Rand felt as happy as a hound wagging its tail when its master came into the room. He supposed it was pitiful to be so easily manipulated, but he didn’t care. He would gladly play the slave to Miriel.

  Of course, he could never let her know the power she wielded over him.

  He swallowed the oatcake, gallantly bowed, then let his eyes glaze over with feigned nonchalance. “My lady, what brings you downstairs so early? And why are you so gaily attired? Have you plans to clean out the stables today?”

  She narrowed her eyes wickedly at him and gave him a chiding shove in the middle of his chest. To his surprise, he was pushed backward several inches. The wee wench was more powerful than she looked.

  He grinned, rubbing at the spot.

  “I hope you’ve brought lots of silver,” she taunted, arching a brow.

  “Enough to buy the moon and the stars.”

  She cocked her head at him. “What about the sun?”

  “The sun?” He pretended to consider the idea, then frowned. “I don’t think a lass like yourself should be playing with fire.”

  She stepped closer and murmured, “But I like to play with fire.” She lowered her gaze pointedly to his rapidly swelling staff.

  “Oh, aye, my wicked lass,” he whispered, “that you certainly do.”

  “Where are my sisters?” she mumbled, glancing about the hall.

  He lifted the corner of his mouth. “In the tiltyard.”

  “Then kiss me,” she breathed.

  At that most inopportune time, Rand spied, just over the top of Miriel’s head, at the entrance of the buttery, that infernal maidservant, glaring directly at him. Instead of the soul-searing kiss he intended, he bent forward and placed a chaste peck upon Miriel’s brow.

  Miriel scowled, obviously disappointed.

  “Sung Li!” he called out, giving the glowering old maid a cheery wave. “Good morn!”

  Miriel’s eyes widened in surprise, and she took a prudent step away from him.

  Sung Li still scowled at him, but he ignored her irascible manner and spoke to her in warm invitation. “Will you be joining us at the fair?”

  Dismay flitted across Miriel’s features, but Rand knew it was a harmless invitation. Sung Li had proclaimed only two days ago that fairs were meant for you zhi, children.

  Sung Li sent him an undeserved withering glance as she scurried near, and for one instant, Rand wondered if the addled crone intended to poke his eyes or curse him in her tongue for issuing such an audacious invitation.

  But at the last moment, she took hold of Miriel’s arm. “Be sure you return before supper.”

  “Of course,” Miriel replied.

  Sung Li didn’t release her. She pulled Miriel even closer by the arm, and said distinctly, “The Night will come very soon. Very soon.”

  Some secret communication must have passed between the two of them in the next instant, for Miriel solemnly nodded, then murmured, “I’ll be watchful.”

  Her reply apparently satisfied Sung Li, for without another word, the old woman hurried off as she’d come, silently as a cat.

  Rand would have much preferred to continue where they’d left off, with Miriel begging for his kiss and his loins awakening at her urging. But if they did, one kiss would lead to another, kissing would lead to fondling, fondling would lead them up to Miriel’s bedchamber, and they’d never make it out the front gates.

  Rand had promised to take her to the fair. He’d also promised her a lover’s token.

  Late last night, after much reflection and consideration, he’d decided what that token would be. And now that he’d made up his mind, he was anxious to make his way to the fair to find the right craftsman from whom he might purchase such a treasure.

  He offered her his arm. “Shall we, my lady?”

  She looped her arm through his and smiled engagingly. What followed was the most enjoyable day Rand had ever spent at a fair.

  Miriel had always loved fairs, but this was the first time she’d been to one with a suitor and without a chaperone. Strolling down the winding rows upon the arm of a man she adored made it a completely new experience.

  Naturally she brought a list of necessities to purchase for the castle—beeswax candles and earthen vessels, medicines to replace those she’d given to the monastery, cinnamon from Burma and pepper from India—but for once, at Rand’s prodding, she dawdled at booths selling more frivolous wares.

  She examined a table full of silver cloak pins, worked into fantastical shapes of dragons and harts, lions and wild boars. Another booth featured a bright array of ribbons in every color of the rainbow. A femme sole from Normandy offered bottled scents of lavender and rose. Down another row, a leatherworker sold soft purses of all shapes and sizes, fastened with buttons made of cow’s horn. And one merchant offered tiny corked vials of dust, which he claimed was earth from Christ’s tomb.

  Strolling down the armorers’ row, Rand stopped to inspect a display of blades from Toledo, but decided the merchant was overcharging for his wares. It would be cheaper, he muttered to Miriel, to pay for passage to Spain himself and purchase a weapon there.

  At another booth, he found daggers of reasonable price, but inferior quality, something only a cautious purchaser would recognize.

  He took particular interest in a handsome blade at a third shop, until the vendor told him it was the actual sword of King Arthur, at which point he steered Miriel away with all haste, rolling his eyes in disbelief.

  Miriel’s admiration for him increased with their every transaction. Rand might not be able to read, but he had a sharp mind when it came to commerce. He might not be as wealthy as a lord, but she could be certain he’d never squander her dowry. It was a comforting thought.

  They’d almost reached the end of armorers’ row when Miriel’s eyes lit upon a motley array of used weapons from all over the world. There were curved sabers and short Roman swords, a couple of broad Viking blades and a great Saxon battle-axe. But what made her catch her breath was the weapon propped against the corner pole of the merchant’s pavilion. It was a perfect shang chi, a Chinese double halberd. The long black handle was painted with a red dragon whose tail spiraled down its length, ending at the red tassel that hung from its end. The twin openwork blades looked like the wings of a silver butterfly.

  Completely forgetting Rand, she reached for the beautiful weapon, hefting it in one hand. The craftsmanship was superb, the balance was incredible, and someone had taken very good care of the blades, for as she ran a thumb over one of the edges, she cut through the first layer of skin. It was rare to find a piece of such exceptional quality, and her pulse raced at the idea of acquiring it.

  “How much for this?” sh
e asked, trying to keep from sounding too eager.

  The merchant blinked at her, aghast, then looked askance at Rand.

  Rand’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “Are you interested in this?”

  Miriel glanced between the two men. God’s hooks! In her excitement over the shang chi, she’d forgotten that today she was only a maid of Rivenloch, not a master of Chinese warfare.

  “Aye,” she bluffed. “For Sung Li.” She addressed the merchant, pretending ignorance. “’Tis Chinese, is it not?”

  The merchant nodded. “Maybe the gentleman would like to try it.” He practically pried it out of her possessive grip and handed the weapon to Rand.

  She bit her lip in frustration as Rand turned the blade this way and that.

  “How much?” she repeated.

  Rand scowled. “It could not be much of a weapon, not with open blades like that. They would break off on impact.”

  She shook her head. “’Tis made for slicing, not chopping,” she told him. “And the steel is very strong, folded and fired up to a dozen times.”

  Both men stared at her.

  “Or so I’ve heard,” she finished lamely.

  “If I may?” the merchant asked, gesturing for the weapon.

  Rand handed it to him so he could demonstrate its use.

  “The shang fu is an ancient weapon from China,” he intoned.

  “Shang chi,” Miriel corrected.

  “What?”

  “Shang chi. ’Tis called a shang chi.” She assured Rand, “Sung Li told me so.”

  The merchant gave her a disapproving frown. But when she glanced at Rand, she saw subtle amusement dancing in his eyes.

  “The fu has a closed blade, like a halberd,” she said softly. “This is an open blade, a shang chi.”

  The merchant disliked being corrected, particularly by a woman, Miriel supposed. But he continued his demonstration for Rand, hefting a rotten apple from a basket on his table. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call it as long as it does the damage, eh, sir?”

  Making sure no one was in range, he rested the pole on his shoulder and tossed the apple onto the path. Then, using both hands, he swung the blade up over his head with the intent of bringing it straight down like an axe to split the apple.

  Miriel’s heart lodged in her throat. Shite! The impact of the ground would dull the sharp blade. She had to stop him.

  She acted on instinct. As the blade started its descent, she stepped toward the merchant. She grabbed the handle of the shang chi with one hand. With the heel of her other hand, she struck his elbow, not hard enough to break it, just enough to make him release the weapon.

  With a yelp of pain, he let go, and she managed to deflect the blow enough that the blade only grazed the dirt.

  She’d saved the weapon.

  But now she’d thrown herself from the kettle into the fire.

  There she stood with the incriminating shang chi in her grip. The merchant staggered back, cradling his cracked elbow. Rand stared at her in awe. And a small, curious crowd was beginning to gather.

  With as much feminine helplessness as she could manage, she shrugged an apology and handed the weapon back to the merchant. “I’m so sorry. I must have…slipped.” Then she realized she might use that to her advantage. “I feel so wretched. Please, let me pay you for the blade.”

  The merchant looked at her with doleful eyes, but clearly he wasn’t about to pass up a sale. “That’s eight shillings. Nay, ten shillings.”

  She was tempted to haggle with the cheat, but she supposed she owed him something for the damage to his arm. Besides, that piece was likely worth more than he knew. She counted out the pieces of silver from her purse.

  Then the merchant made the mistake of trying to ally with Rand against her. “Nothing more dangerous than a wench with a sharp blade, eh?”

  Rand grinned back. “Only a knave with a sharp wit.” He sidled up to the man, smiling companionably, and spoke loudly enough for the bystanders to hear. “Since my lady saved you from chopping off your own toes, my good man, I’d think you’d be more than happy to shave a little off the price.”

  “What?” He blinked rapidly.

  Miriel raised her brows.

  The crowd began whispering among themselves.

  “Is that true?” a toothless old man asked Rand. “Is that why the wee lass jumped in front of the blade?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said soberly, “heedless of her own safety.”

  An apple-cheeked woman nodded in agreement. “He would have chopped his toes clean off with that devil’s blade. I saw the whole thing.”

  “Indeed?” A scrawny, bearded man popped his head through the gathering crowd. “And he’s going to make her pay?”

  “’Tisn’t right.”

  “You’d think the wretch would be grateful.”

  The onlookers’ speculations grew more and more wild, and Miriel began to be embarrassed as the story grew all out of proportion.

  “Who saved his life?”

  “The wee lass. He might have killed himself with that nasty blade if she hadn’t…”

  “…snatched it right from his hand.”

  “…saved his ungrateful hide.”

  “…swept in like a guardian angel and knocked the Reaper flat on his arse.”

  “That merchant’s a thankless cur, that’s what he is.”

  “I won’t be buying my weapons from the varlet.”

  “All right! All right!” the merchant cried, then told Rand, “Eight shillings.”

  The toothless old man chimed in. “You should pay her for saving your life.”

  As the mayhem grew around her, Miriel stole a glance at Rand. His eyes sparkled with devilry as he stood with his arms crossed smugly over his chest. The wicked lad appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the chaos he’d created.

  “You are a knave,” she murmured.

  “And you are a liar,” he said affectionately, carrying the shang chi for her.

  As quietly as possible, Miriel pressed eight shillings into the merchant’s palm and slipped through the crowd. When they left, the bystanders were still arguing about what had happened, who had saved whom, and where they would or would not buy their weapons. Miriel couldn’t help but wonder what a toothless old peasant wanted with an ancient sword anyway.

  Miriel should have realized she couldn’t escape from the altercation completely unscathed. Rand had questions.

  “So how did you come to know so much about Chinese weaponry?”

  She shrugged. “Sung Li.”

  “And how did a wee old maidservant come to know so much?”

  “She…her father was a warrior.” Miriel bit her lip. It might be true, but she didn’t actually know. Sung Li never spoke of his parents, only of his teachers.

  “But surely he didn’t teach her to wield such weapons.”

  He was treading on dangerous ground. She had to be careful. “Sung Li has always been very observant.”

  “And are you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you observant? How did you learn to wield such weapons?”

  She choked on a forced laugh. “Me?” she squeaked. “Wield weapons? Oh, Rand, you know I can’t abide fighting.”

  God’s wounds! She couldn’t tell him the truth, not when she was trying to get him to ask for her hand. Eventually she’d confess. But it would be in her own time, little by little, so he could adjust gradually to her revelations—that the weapons on her chamber wall were hers, that Sung Li was actually her teacher, that Miriel was highly trained in the Chinese art of war. And that, if she desired, she could snatch that shang chi from him and slit his throat in the blink of an eye.

  Miriel furrowed her brow. She wondered if she’d ever be able to tell him the entire truth. It was a huge secret she kept from him. Perhaps if he knew the truth about her, he wouldn’t care for her anymore.

  Then she frowned at her destructive thoughts. It was foolish to feed her fears.

  The fac
t was she’d slept with Rand. Twice. There was no going back, no undoing what she’d done. She’d wooed him to her bed. Now she had to woo him to the chapel before he could unravel too many of her secrets. She intended to succeed…if she could distract him long enough from his dogged pursuit of the truth.

  Chapter 19

  Rand couldn’t help but smile in wonder as he walked beside Miriel, carrying her prize purchase. The clever lass might be able to fool everyone else, but Rand was beginning to recognize when she was making up tales.

  He’d seen the way her eyes lit up when she’d spied the magnificent blade. He didn’t believe for one moment that Miriel intended to give the thing to Sung Li. In fact, he’d wager half his coin that that entire collection of weapons on Miriel’s wall belonged not to her servant but to the saucy lass herself.

  The wench claimed she didn’t approve of fighting, but it was as clear as the shine in her eyes that she adored weapons of war. Not only that, but he’d begun to suspect she was capable of doing more than admiring them from afar.

  The way she’d blocked the vendor’s blow had been no accident. And now Rand couldn’t avoid the recurring suspicion that, as unbelievable as it seemed, Miriel bore a disturbing resemblance to the agile outlaw he sought.

  “Look, Rand!” Miriel suddenly cried, looking not at all like a dangerous thief but a beguiled child as she pointed at a tiny monkey with a jeweled collar that was scampering up onto its owner’s shoulder. Her giggle was contagious as she watched the little beast’s antics.

  Yet only moments later, the carefree child turned into a shrewd barterer as she haggled with a cloth merchant who was trying to pass off nubby linen as rare cotton from Egypt.

  In one moment she was licking the sticky juice of a cherry coffyn from her fingers.

  In the next she was whispering a warning to Rand that the pottery merchant was selling cracked wares.

  Miriel bounced constantly between woman and child, and he never knew which would emerge. But perhaps that was the thing that attracted him to her. He loved surprises, and Miriel was full of them.

  Was one of her surprises a habit of lurking in the woods of Rivenloch, preying on passing strangers with full purses? How could he find out for certain?