Timely Defense

by Nathalie Gray

  “Just as harboring a foreign devil and letting him crawl between your thighs is—oh do not give me that affronted damsel look! I could see it on both your faces. But I shall show you the true meaning of having a man take you, a real man. And I look forward to being graced with the smile you bestowed on your visitor when you were here last.”

  “Hitting me shall not fulfill such fantasy, my lord,” she replied through her teeth. Her cheek burned and so did her palm though she wouldn’t complain about that last ache. Her eyes were welling but through sheer pride, she could keep the tears at bay. For now.

  “Oh but it shall, my untamed, headstrong little lady. For should you fail to greet your husband cordially, with nothing but a grin and your pale thighs spread wide, I should take offense and perhaps vent my ire on Sargans.”

  “You are despicable.”

  His blue eyes narrowed to slits but he smiled. An ugly, predatory thing that made her shiver. “I am despicable and very creative.”

  “We shall see how creative you get with a dagger in your back.”

  Matheus only chuckled. “I cannot wait. Now be a good wife and wait in my chambers. You might even want to have a bath brought up, perhaps wash my feet?”

  Rage curled her fists tightly. “Wash your feet?”

  But Matheus had already rounded on his servants and loudly called for one in particular to escort “the lady” to his chambers. A look of sympathy, quickly subdued, flashed in the older man’s eyes. After a bow, he bid her follow him and guided her up several flights of steps and into a wing where narrow windows let knives of sun stab in at acute angles.

  Her stomach tightening by increments, Marion realized she had walked into a prison more formidable than she had first expected. The sobering thought of Matheus professing his “creativeness” made her want to wash herself already and he had not even laid a finger on her yet. Aside from the violence.

  She missed Sargans—she missed her guest—already. But there was no way around it. Sir Ayjay would not fight for her. She suspected he did not know how to use a sword—or ride a horse—and would not want to be forced to watch him be seriously injured. Probably worse. Her life, with Sir Ayjay’s death on her soul, would not be worth living. Letting Matheus crawl between her thighs would be much better in fact. She shivered.

  And even if her guest chose to risk his life for her, he would not stand a chance. Not against Matheus, a master at the blade and a sly man. The lord would not stop at first blood. His obvious hatred for the “foreign devil” must have reached incalculable depths since he had destroyed the stained-glass window. As much as the conduct was reprehensible and infantile, Marion could not suppress the small smirk of satisfaction. Sir Ayjay’s ways were undoubtedly strange but she could not argue as to their effectiveness.

  She had come so close. So close to finding a man perfect for her, one who would respect her and treat her well. And that he was too handsome and skilled for words only served to deepen her misery. But it was not to be and living in the past only meant more pain. She straightened her countenance when the servant brought her to a large, ornate door and opened it for her. She stepped inside, did not turn around when he softly closed it behind her. He must have done his utmost not to draw the bolt too loudly, but she did hear the faint click all the same as the old man was locking her into Matheus’ bedchamber. Her prison. Her new home.

  * * * * *

  “What the fuck do you mean, she’s gone?” A.J. blurted out, realizing he’d spoken in English.

  All three men—Hugo, Thorins and Thomas—looked at him as though he’d just told them he knew of a virginal, honest lawyer living on top of a mountain somewhere and spewing divine legalese out of his ass…for free. He repeated his question in French, trying to replace the very satisfying “what the fuck” with something appropriate in the other language. Christ, some things just didn’t translate.

  “She has gone to marry him because of this,” Hugo snarled as he shoved into his chest a piece of parchment A.J. was SO going to keep for later when he visited the ladies’ room again. It was the perfect size.

  “What’s that?” He unfolded the note, turned it this way and that but couldn’t make sense of the weird, tight penmanship except the signature at the bottom. He knew just what to do with this particular spot. He’d put the note to good use. Lord Asshole. How appropriate.

  Thomas took it from him and read it aloud. “I, Lord Asshole, firstborn son of Rolland and on and on…” Thomas’ eyes skimmed downward farther while he muttered stuff about lineage and uncles and acts of prowess. What? The turdface hadn’t included “woman beater” in his CV?

  “Ah, there we are,” Thomas announced with a roll of eyes that made A.J. want to slap him upside the head.

  “Come on, man, you’re killing me!”

  “He is basically announcing he has doubled the levies to be taken from Sargans, which shall also now include the wool trade as well.”

  Hugo spat something that sounded a lot like “fuck”. Was he finally getting through to these folks?

  A.J. shrugged. “So what?”

  Hugo’s face darkened to a scary, heart attack shade of red. He shook his fist in the general direction of Rat Ass castle. “He meant to starve her out of her home.”

  “That bad?”

  Thorins nodded emphatically. “We are not a rich canton, Sir Ayjay. Only with the lady’s strict control could we keep ourselves fed and clothed. To double the levies would crush us.”

  “But why did she leave so early? Why didn’t she just wait a Goddamn minute until we got back?” A.J. fought against images of that jerk trying to force his filthy, scumbag, garbage-smelling hands on her. His heart pounded with increasing force and speed. Shit, maybe Hugo wasn’t the only one having a heart attack! It’d go well with the migraine suddenly pinching his optic nerves. He grunted and rubbed his temple.

  “Why should she have waited?” Hugo spat. “So you could mock her further?” Of course, his hand was on his sword-thing right away.

  “Okay, okay, I got the point. It’s essentially all my fault. Bad foreign devil, very bad. Now,” A.J. threw a narrow look at Thomas, “would any of you like to show me how to use one of those pointy sticks so I can shove it up Lord Asshole’s oh-so-tight arse? Or do I just go there and kill him with my bad breath alone?”

  Three days without a toothbrush…and counting. Damn if he didn’t want one bad enough to fight over it. Even a used one would do.

  If they acted any more shocked, Hugo and Thorins would resemble a pair of mimes. An image of the pair, faces painted white, wearing black leotards and berets—with the inescapable rose pinned to the chest of course—flashed in his mind. Shit, I need painkillers bad. I’m having hallucinations.

  “You shall accept the challenge? You now wish to fight?” Hugo asked, clearly not convinced.

  “No, I don’t wish to, it seems I just have to. So show me some moves.”

  A.J. wanted to remove the leather belt but Thomas stopped him with a hand on his elbow. “You shall need all the protection you can carry, my friend. Keep it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Within minutes, the three had escorted him to a corner of the courtyard where he’d seen other guards practice their stuff, clang their swords together and strike a pose but mostly just talking, scratching and laughing. Only thing missing were donuts.

  Once there, he had to put on a repellent leather vest thing with a padded front and sweat stains in the back. Arghhhhh.

  They tied it to him extremely tight before Hugo shoved a rusty sword in his hand and slid his out of its sheath. His was much nicer. Hey.

  “Have you ever fought in a duel?”

  A.J. shook his head. “Don’t have them where I come from. We just sue.”

  Both Thorins and Hugo looked a bit worried then.

  “Then I shall show you the basic stance, like so.”

  Hugo crouched slightly, his sword arm forward while his other was bent a bit over his belly. H
e flicked his wrist and brought the sword in a wide arc. A.J. tried to imitate the move, sending the sword arcing all right, only it wasn’t still attached to him and just flew right out of his hand. Shit.

  “Try again, but do keep a firm grip,” Hugo said with a pointed look at Thomas.

  A.J. spent at least an hour—he didn’t even need to check his watch as he was pretty good at guesstimating time and did work by the hour, on top of by the case—twirling his sword around. One time, he brought it down with too much force and ended up doing a face plant on the hard ground. By that time, people had come to watch the show. Great.

  “Do you have another sword? This one sucks,” A.J. panted, rubbed sweat from his forehead with his sleeve…too late remembering how sweat-stained the thing already was.

  “You have tried three different swords, Sir Ayjay,” Thorins replied as he tried to show A.J. how to do an overhead swing without going over backward and stumbling around like a moron. “Perhaps something smaller? Lighter?” Lighter than the last one he’d tried would mean he’d have to use a knife. The joys just kept piling.

  Hugo just shook his head and spat something in the language A.J. was dying to learn.

  “Hey, man, don’t you start! I’m doing the best I fucking can, okay!”

  “Your best shall not be enough!” Hugo snapped back. Fuming, he whirled around and kicked at the barrel holding the practice weapons, sending it crashing against the wall where it broke in several pieces and spilled its content.

  Thorins just looked at his feet while Thomas tried to tie the leather vest tighter around A.J. But the thing kept sliding down.

  He could tell everyone was trying not to look too disappointed but the “Norman lord” wasn’t making a very good impression on anyone. There was a lot of shuffling feet, hand-twitching and talking to the sky. What did they take him for? Fucking Zorro? Conan? It hurt him, how they acted as though Marion weren’t coming back home. It really did, and he’d be damned if he was going to let them think that.

  “He’s not keeping Lady Marion there,” A.J. said with deadly calm. “He’s not keeping her there and he’s not laying a finger on her either. You got it? And if I have to put my pretty head on the block, then I’ll do it. Marion is not staying at Rat Ass. In fact, I’m going there today, dammit. The lady is sleeping in her own bed tonight, I can tell you that.”

  His little pep talk didn’t seem to have any effect except on Thomas, who nodded solemnly.

  They resumed their practice but it was becoming increasingly—and painfully—clear A.J. wasn’t gifted for swordfight. He was already aching everywhere and hadn’t even received a real blow. But, as Thorins had told him, A.J. had incredible reach and should use it to his advantage. Too bad he had no idea what that was.

  There were just the four of them by then, with Thomas leaning against the wall and nervously chewing on his thumbnail. He suddenly brightened.

  “Sir Ayjay,” he said, coming closer and putting a hand on A.J.’s shoulder. He was doing that a lot. “We have been doing this all wrong.”

  “You think?” A.J. snarled, wiping sweat from his temple and snot from his nose…all with the same sleeve. His standards really were getting low.

  “We have been trying to teach you our ways of conducting a duel, when we should have tried yours instead.”

  A.J. did his best Excited Chihuahua Face. “I know. I say we have a swimming event. I’ll race him across the lake. Would that work?”

  Thomas, clearly not getting it, shook his head. “I am afraid not, Sir Ayjay.”

  It was worth asking.

  “So you mean, I’m to go there and argue until I’m blue in the face? Or rather until he’s blue in the face? Because that’s my way. I get in someone’s face and I talk. I confuse them, I talk circles around them, I make them look up while I throw a sucker punch, I attack from behind when they’re not looking or anywhere else I think I can sink my sly little fingers in and try to find the soft spot. And when I do find the soft spot, I stick the knife in.” A.J. cursed and tossed the practice sword to the ground. He couldn’t even feel his hands anymore—oh and he’d switched several times as he tried to decide if he was a leftie or a rightie with the thing. He still didn’t know. “Something tells me backstabbing and character assassination won’t help me against Duke Pustulescence.”

  Hey, that was a good one.

  Hugo and Thorins both seemed to be following Thomas’ chain of thought. The first even looked happy…well, not really happy happy, but darkly satisfied. Um.

  Thomas shook his blond head while he put his fists on his narrow hips. “On the contrary, my Norman friend. Your ways are foreign to us and shall be for his lordship as well. All we have to do now is find you a weapon you can use with your own strengths, your own ways.”

  “I don’t have weapons, I told you we don’t use them…”

  Wait…

  A nasty sort of smile spread A.J.’s face. He couldn’t see his face right now—and the damn place didn’t have a decent mirror for miles…leagues? Whatever. Oh but he knew the one too. The Shark smile. Scourge of crown witnesses everywhere, bane of prosecutors, crown experts and tight-assed judges. That smile had made lady jurors fan themselves with legal-sized notepads. Yellow, of course. It had forced the prosecution to rethink its strategy a split second too late, obviously, as The Smile, if it was there, already meant A.J. had found the soft spot and was gleefully sticking the knife in, all the while thinking about his next outrageous purchase.

  “If I can judge by the evil expression on his face,” Thomas remarked, looking unsure as to whether he should smile or cross himself. “I think our guest has found his weapon. Pray tell us what it is.”

  A.J. joined his hands and cracked his knuckles loudly. Even Hugo cringed.

  “You’re right,” A.J. said, grinning wider. “And it’s called a nine iron.”

  * * * * *

  Her face burned from Matheus’ treatment and she suspected bruising had already spread. How embarrassing. Though the chambers were furnished with exquisite tastes, if a bit extravagant, Marion thought it was all very ugly and ostentatious. Too many rugs, too much woodwork, too large a bed. Her throat squeezed at the sight of the monstrous affair. She tried not to imagine herself in it but would have to face reality sooner or later.

  “Once,” she told herself firmly. She would perform her duty only once. Then he would have to tie her down to get anywhere near her. She would demand her own, would even resort to sleeping on the floor if he denied her private chambers.

  How the man would be undoubtedly less skilled and much less tender than Sir Ayjay pinched her heart. Crossing her arms, she sat in a chair and tried not to fall in a sobbing heap on the floor.

  While the sun had reached its peak and began its descent, a dry sound announced someone was pulling the bar to the door. She jumped to her feet and crossed her shaking hands in front, chin up high, shoulders back and wearing her least welcoming set of glares. And she could fashion good ones.

  The door opened to reveal the man himself, looking even more frustrated than when she had seen him last.

  “Dear wife,” he said, bowing mockingly. “How adorable of you to wait for your husband before taking your clothes off.”

  The snort of incredulity had already left by the time she tried to subdue it. Matheus did not seem to enjoy it very much for his eyes darkened and without a word, he closed the door behind his back, stepping inside.

  “Did he have to rip the clothes off your back, that foreign devil or were you already on your elbows and knees, waiting for him?”

  “Lord Matheus! How odious!”

  “Odious?” he replied, slipping sword and dagger out of the belt, which he removed and threw to the floor. “No, Lady Marion. Odious is you, a Sargans by marriage, spreading your legs for that foreigner, that…” He seemed to lack the proper word to express his disgust and just opened and closed his mouth a few times. “But not to worry, I intend to cleanse you of his seed soon enough. I would say, rig
ht this instant.”

  He marched forward.

  Even if she wanted to run and fight him back—the mere thought of his hands on her made her gag—she knew he would catch her eventually and be even more excited with the chase, so she denied him the pleasure and just braced for impact. He did seem surprised and disappointed when he grabbed her by the upper arms and back-walked her rigid frame to the bed.

  “No fight in you today, Lady Marion? How unfortunate for I have plenty.”

  His hand connecting against her cheek made a surprisingly loud sound. She had not even had time to flinch. Tears of pain and shame welled. Oh but she would kill him in his sleep, the pig!

  “Much better,” he said, leaning into her and studying her flushed face and neck. His mouth was demanding when he crushed it to hers.

  Pounding on the door made him snap back and curse foully. “What!”

  The insistent thumping on the door did not relent and Matheus had to leave her and open it. Sir Emery stood in the embrasure. He looked horrified when he spotted Marion.

  “Lord Matheus! What are you doing?”

  “What do you want? As you can attest for yourself, I am rather busy taking what is mine.”

  “She is not your wife yet, my lord,” a red-faced Sir Emery replied, trying to squeeze his way inside but failing to dislodge the much larger man. “This is highly objectionable and beneath a Sargans.”

  “Get out of my chambers before I have you tossed out on—”

  Marion spotted another man by the door, a servant judging by the liveries. He bowed low. “Men are here to see you, my lord, for the duel.”

  Sir Ayjay? Impossible. The duel wasn’t until the next day. And even then, he’d already refused.

  Despite her best efforts, relief flooded through her trembling body. Who could have taken the challenge? Sir Ayjay had clearly indicated he would not. No one else would be allowed in his place. Perhaps they were not here to fight but for something else? Some kind of barter? She really did feel like chattel.

  “Even better, a bit of blood on my hands shall make it that much more exciting when I come back.” Matheus turned, winked at her then retrieved his belt from the floor. “You shall wait here until I dispose—”