Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said. I stared, craning my neck to see every detail in the stonework that stretched high above me. “You said it was your worst investment. Why?”

  “Because it will never do much more than pay for its upkeep. I’m planning to open it to the public next year, as a tourist destination and a venue for locals that can be enjoyed by everyone for a reasonable fee.”

  “Well, that sounds great,” I said, “but why did you buy it, knowing that?”

  That smile was back, hovering over his lips, daring me to kiss it away.

  “It was an emotional decision,” he admitted. “My heart won over my head.”

  “Why?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t thought him to be a heart-over-head person.

  “I grew up here. This town deserves better. I’d hate to see the castle dismantled and transported to the States just because the global recession hit Ireland so hard, and nobody was willing to invest in it. It has the potential to be an incredible tourist attraction, and tourism will do a huge amount to uplift the area. It was throwing money away, but throwing it into a place that is part of my history, and my heart.”

  He turned to me while he spoke, and I nodded in response, thinking his words through carefully. They did show another aspect of him; a gentler side. A generous side, even though the cynic in me was wondering if the castle had also been a convenient tax write-off. At any rate, he must have put a huge amount of work into this place to transform it from the spooky ruin, engulfed by forest, that he had described. Nature had been tamed here now; the woods cut back, the surroundings carefully tended to create a setting that was both tranquil and beautiful.

  Perhaps I should give Patrick the benefit of the doubt.

  At that moment, his cellphone rang. Excusing himself, he slipped his arm from my waist—reluctantly, I thought, before walking a few steps away from me and answering. “Afternoon, Claude. No, it is afternoon here, because I’m still in Ireland. Plans changed. What’s the latest regarding the Heathways deal in Dubai? Did you meet with Abdul?” He waited, listened. “No. I’ve got the info on my laptop. Give me a sec and I’ll send it through to you.”

  Mouthing a, “Sorry,” at me, he turned and walked briskly out of the courtyard, heading toward his car.

  I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Once a businessman, always a businessman, I guessed. At any rate, while he was busy, it would be a good opportunity to wander around the castle and take a peek at what lay beyond those high stone archways.

  Noticing a discreet brass sign for the restrooms, I decided to make that my first stop. I headed across the grass and under the shade of the walkway. I shivered, noticing how much cooler it felt as soon as I was out of the sun and close to those stone walls. How had they kept warm in the old days? I was imagining fur blankets and roaring fires—lots of both.

  The Ladies’ was beautifully decorated, with a pristine tiled floor and the fragrance of pot-pourri in the air. I used the toilet and washed my hands, impressed that rose-scented hand wash and moisturizer had been provided. There was still no sign of Patrick when I headed out, so I turned left and walked to the next huge archway.

  “Dining Hall” read the brass sign near the tall wooden door. The door itself stood open and I stepped into the huge chamber. An enormous wooden table was the room’s centerpiece, with rustic wooden benches placed along its length. This could not be the original table, surely, but I guessed it was a carefully made and costly replica.

  I admired the wall hangings and tapestries, which depicted feasts and battle scenes. In contrast to the throngs depicted in these embroidered artworks, the silence of the place felt almost expectant. It was silly to think that ghosts might lurk here, but on my own in this empty hall meant for such crowds, I found myself feeling strangely uneasy.

  I turned and left, crossing the courtyard in the bright, comforting rays of the sun, heading for the archway opposite. As I drew closer, I saw a brass sign that said “Armory.”

  Curious, I peeked around the half-open door to see that the armory was still a work in progress. It looked as if Patrick was going to make this room into a kind of museum, with the armor, shields, helmets, and weapons on display, but the exhibits were not yet complete. A long, polished table that was the room’s centerpiece was empty, although displays covered the walls. My eyes were drawn to a display of swords on the far side of the room, just below a tall, narrow window that let in a bright beam of afternoon sun.

  I walked across the room to take a closer look at the swords. Their shapes were at once familiar and foreign. That huge weapon must be a broadsword. It had a wide handle and a long, gleaming blade that looked thick and heavy. Surely it must have taken a two-handed grip to wield that behemoth? This one was the opposite. Its gilded handle and short, deadly sharp blade made it more of an ornamental weapon, but certainly one that could kill. Here was a scimitar, and my eyebrows rose as I recognized the distinct shape of an old-fashioned saber hanging next to it on the wall.

  These two blades were the predecessors to the fencing tools I’d practiced with every day for as long as I could remember. Not since my early teens had I gone without my saber practice for such a long time. It gave me a strange feeling to look at a blade that was so familiar, and carried with it so many associations.

  I remembered the way the sweat would pour off my body inside the suit so that I was gasping for breath…I always overheated badly in them. In summer, a fencing suit was suffocatingly hot, and in winter, I sweated almost as much and grew immediately cold when I stopped moving. Monika and I used to joke that nobody took up fencing in order to wear comfortable, fashionable gear.

  And then another memory of Monika and me during a training match faded into my mind. The two of us were laughing together so hard that we were doubled over with mirth, after she’d mistimed a lunge and I’d flubbed the parry and we’d ended up staring at each other, each stupefied by our own incompetence, before beginning to giggle.

  I remembered constantly massaging my left wrist and fingers, which took huge strain when I was practicing hard, because so much of what I did was controlled by fine coordination and fingertip pressure.

  I had a sudden urge to pick up the saber, to hold it in my hand, just to see what it felt like. To see if, by holding it, I might somehow rekindle the old passion and fire that I had felt for my sport.

  I checked behind me. Nobody was there. The sword itself looked sturdy enough. It was heavier than the ones I used, of course, but it seemed in pristine condition. I lifted it off its brackets and slipped the hilt into my left hand.

  Heavy, yes, but beautifully balanced. It felt amazing to be holding a blade in my hand that carried so much history. Where had it been forged, and by whom? And where had it been used? Had this blade seen battle…had it killed?

  My fingers automatically tightened around the grip, my index and middle fingers finding the places they needed to be to control the blade…but with the more solid weight of this weapon, fingers alone wouldn’t do it. My wrist and elbow would have to come into play. How would my injury cope?

  I moved to an open space, to where the beam of sun fell onto the bare floor, and turned my back on it so the light wasn’t in my eyes. In front of me, I imagined an opponent. Perhaps one of the invaders from ancient times, clad in rustic armor and carrying a shield and wielding a short, heavy sword. How would I defend myself in a real battle? What would it feel like to fight for my life, instead of just for a medal on a ribbon?

  I parried, thrust, parried again, and then I was off, shifting my weight, advancing and retreating while adjusting myself in perfect alignment with my dancing blade. This circular defense had always been one of my weaknesses, but it felt so easy here, in this quiet space. The light gleamed on my blade as I thrust it forward, hopefully to penetrate a weak spot in my invisible opponent’s armor.

  Although, this skirmish would not end in first blood. Swords were invented to fight to the death. Sometimes, I guessed, you might even have to take an injury delibera
tely to lure your opponent in, if it meant that you could then deliver the killing blow.

  So the duel would continue, then. The swish of my blade in the air was the only sound as I moved, my left arm sore from the effort now, the muscles no longer as fit as they had been and the weight and length of the sword was more than I was used to. But who would allow their opponent to win just because of fatigue? I could push through that. I had done many times before. I had pressed through my own exhaustion to please Dave, and to please my coach, and to please my parents and my sponsors and all those who were invested in my success.

  Now, with nothing left to lose, I was doing it only for myself.

  The ache in my arm felt good; it meant I was pushing myself. My breath was coming fast, my heart pounding as I shifted and sprang. My muscles were taut, coiled, ready. My body felt like a spring, rather than leaden, which was how my last few practice sessions had left me. I could see my shadow in the splash of sunlight on the floor, and I imagined my opponent, blinking in the harsh rays which were blinding him.

  What would I do? How would I try to finish this? Perhaps I could use the sixte position to protect my head from a downwards cut, and then riposte, aiming the blade not at my opponent’s helmeted head or armored breastplate, but lower down, going for his vitals, sliding my blade into his stomach.

  It was a difficult technique and one that could be clumsy; but I managed the sequence perfectly, ending with a low, deadly lunge. In my mind, I imagined myself ramming my blade into my opponent—his shriek of rage as he realized I had bested him.

  Breathing hard, grinning in delight at having won my bloody fantasy battle, I lowered my blade. And it was only then that the words, “Well done,” from the door behind me caused me to whirl around in alarm.

  Chapter 12

  Patrick stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes intent, although the expression on his face was one I couldn’t read.

  Guilt flooded through me as I stared down at the saber in my hand. What must he be thinking after seeing me prancing around in his armory with a sword I’d had no right to touch?

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. I was breathing hard. “I just…I decided I’d have a test fight. Just to…just to see if my left arm was in shape.”

  “You looked powerful,” Patrick said, and at his words I felt something inside me soften, because I’d imagined he’d be angry, but his praise had disarmed me completely. “Watching you was incredible. You were like a machine. Beautiful and deadly. No, not like a machine. More like a warrior princess.” He smiled wryly. “Did that last lunge destroy your imaginary opponent?”

  “I got him under his breastplate,” I admitted. My face was burning, and not just from the exercise. The saber’s grip felt slippery in my hand; my palm was now damp.

  “Good move.”

  “Hey, it was kill or be killed,” I quipped, to emphasize the silliness of my pretend fight. It was crazy that I’d felt such joy wielding the sword, but deep down I knew it had been because there had been no pressure on me to succeed.

  I had reveled in the simple delight of doing it for myself, without the weight of others’ expectations, or having to face a masked opponent who was as hungry for that medal as I was.

  Ashamed of my thoughts, I carried the sword over to the wall and replaced it carefully in its brackets.

  “What about your arm? You said you were testing it out?” Patrick asked.

  For some reason, in his presence, I was finding it difficult to get my breath back. Making an effort to slow my respiration down, I straightened my left arm, flexed it, then opened and closed my hand. It felt sore, but it was a healthy pain, rather than the knife-sharp agony which had stabbed through the muscle a few days ago when I’d tried a similar move.

  “It feels really good,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I felt. “I’ll be ready for competition again before too long.”

  “And is that what you want?”

  Patrick’s question was neutrally worded, but his words struck a chill through me. Perhaps it was the tone in which they were spoken, or maybe because they hinted at an alternative.

  And there was no such thing. Not for me, not now. I had only one future to strive toward, if my sponsors decided it was still open to me.

  “It’s definitely what I want!” My voice rang with false enthusiasm. “I can’t wait to get back into training. The world championships are coming up soon. It’s back to work next week for me.”

  “So you’ll go home on Monday?” His words felt like ice shards, shearing off from the vaulted ceiling.

  “I have to,” I said, remembering the meeting I’d promised to attend.

  I was filled with dread at the thought of returning to training. It wasn’t the hours of practice that disheartened me, nor the rigorous diet—although that was discouraging. More than that, it was feeling as if I would be climbing back into a box that I’d just had the chance to escape from. A box closed firmly by other people’s expectations of me.

  And how could I live up to all of them?

  I glanced again at the burnished steel blade, in its resting place on the wall, and wondered why the fight for life or death could seem so simple, while everything in between was not.

  “As long as you’re happy,” Patrick said. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, but his voice was cold. In my confusion, only one feeling was certain…it was over now, between us; it had run its course. Whatever spark had been there had burned itself out earlier that day. Now, my decision had cemented the fact that we would be going our separate ways.

  “Oh, I’m happy,” I reassured him. My voice sounded rather formal.

  “Good.”

  He walked toward me, and as he came closer, my smile became wobbly and my mouth felt suddenly dry.

  “Well, I guess it’s been a great drive. Seeing the castle and all. Thank you,” I said. My heart was racing. Bizarrely, I felt more nervous now than I had done when we’d been together outside the honeymoon suite, although I didn’t know what I was afraid of.

  He grasped my hands in his own and I sucked in a gasp of air involuntarily at this unexpected gesture. His hands felt warm and strong, his fingers twined through mine and then tightened.

  His gaze pierced me and, looking into his eyes, I felt my own eyes widen, my mouth soften.

  “It’s not over yet,” Patrick said softly, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about the drive.

  He lifted my left hand with his right, turned it palm up, and I looked away for a moment, not wanting to see the calluses on my palm that, despite my recent layoff from fencing, remained visible.

  He caressed my palm with his thumb. The pressure was light, but sensual. He lifted my palm to his lips, as if he was going to kiss it, but at the last minute he squeezed my fingers hard, closed his eyes, and pressed my hand into his cheek, pushing his face against it.

  My eyes widened, this strange and intimate gesture somehow affecting me more than a simple kiss would have done. And from my own response, the way I felt as my fingers touched his skin, I knew this was not over yet. How could I have thought so?

  Releasing my hand, he enfolded me in his arms and pulled me close. I was surprised by his strength, the firmness of his grasp, even though I was clasping him just as hard. We kissed roughly, desperately. The desire he’d kindled in me earlier was now flaming again. God, I needed him. I needed to crush my mouth into his, to feel the heat of his breath on my face, to greedily taste him while he was plundering me.

  Our tongues slid together and I closed my eyes, abandoning myself to the raw sensations of his kiss. But this wouldn’t stop at kissing—it couldn’t, not now. I sensed this, and knew he did, too. As the kiss deepened, I moaned, and he grasped me tighter. His erection, hot and hard, was pressing into my belly. The feel of it was driving me crazy with desire…this physical proof that his lust for me was as strong as mine for him.

  I moved my hand down, touching his cock, feeling its length through the soft grey fabric
of his chinos, reveling in his groan of pleasure.

  Abruptly, his arms closed around me and he lifted me off the floor, carrying me for a few strides before placing me gently down again. The hard edge of the table bumped against my thighs, and then he was guiding me back, lowering me so that I lay on its flat, polished surface. He undid the buttons on my blouse, his fingers clumsy with haste, or perhaps with desire, because one of them snapped off and I heard it spinning away across the floor.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, and I let out a breathy laugh, that served to reduce the tension between us for just a moment. He opened my blouse, let out a ragged sigh as my bare breasts were revealed. He stroked his fingers over them, circling his thumb around my tautening nipples before pinching them, teasing them into pulsing peaks of desire.

  “Wait,” he said. He smoothed his hands over my breasts once more before he turned and strode away. I looked round, my gaze passing over an arrangement of spears and shields on the northern wall, as I watched him push the heavy wooden door closed and slide the bolt into place.

  We were completely private now, and I shivered with expectation, resting my head on the table and looking up at the vaulted ceiling as I heard him return. Glancing to my right, I saw that dust motes, disturbed by our movement, were dancing in the golden ray of sun that now streamed through the narrow, arched window.

  Patrick’s hands smoothed over my knees, pushing my skirt up, easing my legs apart. I was acutely aware of my lack of panties as he slid his left hand under my bare buttocks to support me. If I hadn’t been so turned on, I might have felt shy, but I was beyond shyness now. He leaned over me, his features taut with desire.

  “You are so fucking gorgeous, Claire. Sexy beyond words,” he murmured, and I let out a small cry as I felt the delicious caress of his fingertips over my cleft.