by Maren Smith
"He had an aptitude for it,” Varden said. “Seemed a shame to waste the talent. Besides, these are dangerous times."
"More so than you know,” Godfrey said, circling Varden with slow and measured steps, the epitome of casual disinterest.
Varden turned as well, keeping him fully within his sight. “I sincerely hope you are referring to poor news from court."
"Nothing that affects you directly, of course. Her Royal Majesty has always regarded you as her golden-haired favorite, as you well know. Indirectly, however, the rumor mills have laid bets on whether or not the savage Scots raze Cadhla to the ground should the Queen, in her vast wisdom, decide her Scots cousin deserves not to keep her head firmly attached to her shoulders. I would hate to hear that something has happened to you, so far out in the country.” Godfrey smiled a smile of crafted sincerity, which never reached as far as his cool Lyssoue blue eyes. “Where no one could reach you in time to help."
Again, Varden itched to draw his sword. He spread his arms instead, gesturing to the surrounding camp. “I have all the help I need, a bare stone's throw from my front stoop."
Godfrey looked at the small group of untrained boys watching the exchange with wide and curious eyes, and laughed. “A pity you haven't more experienced soldiers."
Varden calmly said, “That would be a mistake for the Scots to assume."
They glared at one another, the silence stretching on, broken only by intermittent bird calls and the gentle whisper of the wind rustling through the crimson and amber leaved trees and the long fall grass.
Finally, Godfrey took a deep breath. “We used to spar here as children. Right beneath that old oak, unless I am mistaken."
"I remember knocking you down a lot,” Varden said flatly.
"And I remember the canings you got every time you did.” His brother smiled again. “Those bloodied noses were well worth it."
"I've grown too big to cane these days."
"I dare say you'll have a harder time knocking me down as well. I've been practicing."
Varden growled, “Then you might almost be a challenge for me."
Godfrey smirked, “I'll try to keep you entertained."
As the two men headed for the giant oak a short distance away, its sprawling branches laden with fall leaves, Kenton separated himself from the children and rushed to catch up with Varden. “What are you doing?"
"I am going to silence a braying jackass."
"He has already tupped her,” Kenton hissed. “The babe has been born. This proves nothing."
"It will make me feel a damn sight better,” Varden snarled, his hand already on his sword hilt.
"Godfrey will not stop at merely bloodying your nose. He will slide that blade between your ribs and be moved into your bedchambers by supper."
If anything, Varden's long-legged stride lengthened. He almost seemed to smile. “So be it."
Kenton stopped just shy of the tree. He stood, grim-faced, his black eyes flashing as the two men found their positions. Finally, he swung back to the boys, still standing where they had been left, and clapped his hands to bring them forward. “Gather around, lads,” he called as he turned back to glare at Varden. “Watch the masters at work."
From the look on Kenton's face, Varden knew the temptation to say “idiots” must have been overwhelming. But then Godfrey drew his sword and Varden's attention was instantly redirected.
"I've been looking forward to this moment for a long, long time,” Godfrey said, raising his blade.
"I'll try not to disappoint you.” Varden swung first. There were no timid swings or cautiously measured strokes. The Field rang with the crisp, metallic echo of steel on steel as, fury unleashed, Varden attacked again and again without pause or hesitation. The sheer force of his anger knocked Godfrey relentlessly back blow after blow until he lost his balance and fell. Varden pinned him there on the ground, the tip of his sword to Godfrey's throat.
"This, brother,” Varden growled, “is what I have been looking forward to."
"Do it,” Godfrey hissed back. “It changes nothing."
It was the hardest temptation he had ever resisted. He kicked Godfrey's sword away and stepped back slowly to allow his brother a gradual return to his feet.
Godfrey ungraciously accepted the reprieve with a smirk of derision. “You should have finished it."
"Keep practicing,” Varden finally said, and turned and walked back to Kenton and the boys. He could feel Godfrey's hatred burning into his back. When he had put a safe enough distance between them, he re-sheathed his sword.
"And that,” Kenton explained to the children as Varden stalked passed them, “is a sample of the skill we will teach each of you, if you are diligent in your studies and practice daily. Suitably impressed, are you?"
As they nodded in wide-eyed awe, he muttered, “So am I."
* * * *
"A book, a book,” Mallory said, deadpan. “My kingdom for a book."
"Why?” Grete asked. Though she never looked up from her sewing, her tone plainly said she could not have cared any less that Mallory was bored. “You would not read it even if you had one."
Slightly annoyed, Mallory asked, “How do you know what I'd do?"
Propped against her goose-down pillows, her fresh white nightgown a stark contrast against the dark blue quilt, Mallory stared at the canopy that stretched across the top of her bed and flowed gracefully down to become curtains all around. For now, the curtains were tied open to let her see into the sun-lit room. She had counted every wrinkle and groove in the curtains. She had studied every knick-knack and painting she could see. She had even counted the blocks in the walls and in the ceiling; there were seventeen hundred forty-nine of them, not including the floor, which she could only see in segments through the rushes.
"Would you like something to embroider?” Grete asked.
"Not unless you want to rip it all out again. I can't sew."
"You should be birched for lying. And by the way, such a tale would be easier believed had you not been sewing alongside me these past six months. And I am not going to finish stitching the border on that linen set for your mother either. When you make it up in your mind to be sane again, they shall be waiting for you in exactly the same condition that you left them."
"We've been stuck in this room for six months?"
"Six months, one week, and five days,” Grete said without enthusiasm. “With guards posted at the doors."
"No wonder you can't stand me.” Though Mallory could only see Grete from the side, she thought the older woman smiled. “Am I a prisoner or under extreme protection?"
If Grete had smiled before, all trace of it was gone when she lowered her sewing to fix Mallory with a very cold stare. “You tried to murder your unborn son. When His Grace prevented it, you then tried to kill yourself. Nearly hurled your self from the balcony. He barely caught you in time, as I heard it."
Mallory deflated a little. “Why would Claire do that?"
"You,” Grete emphasized, “attempted suicide because the consequences of your affairs had finally caught up with you. You may not have liked being faithful, but you hated being caged even more."
"Oh. How many affairs have I had?"
"You would know that better than I.” Grete tied off the string, then snipped it and re-threaded the needle.
"Don't you ever get tired of doing that?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I hate sewing. I could cheerfully live in a house without a single stitch of embroidery in it. But I don't. Most of the time, I live here in this room with you."
Mallory shrugged. “So don't do it anymore."
"The Dowager wants the lacing completely replaced. She has given me a fortnight to finish it for her."
"Oh.” Mallory studied the canopy a moment before asking, “If you're my maid, why do you work for the Dowager?"
Offended, Grete lowered her sewing a second time. She glared at Mallory from across the room. “I am a lady's companion, not a maid, as you
very well know. And it doesn't matter who I was hired to keep company with; what the Dowager wants, she gets, or I don't remain employed."
"Oh,” Mallory said again. She twiddled her thumbs, and then sighed. “If you'll just tell me where the books are, I can get one for myself."
"Ha! You can't get yourself to the chamber pot without my help."
Mallory grimaced, but there was no denying that. Two days of child labor had taken its toll on her body. She exhausted easily and even still hurt at times. Mostly whenever she moved. And everyone seemed determined to keep her permanently bedridden because of it.
She rubbed her chest gingerly. Her milk had come in and she was very tender. “I feel better today than I did yesterday."
"How thrilled I am to hear that, Your Grace,” Grete said, sounding anything but.
"You said I could see the baby when I felt better. How about today?"
Grete bent back over her sewing and said nothing; an answer in, and of itself.
In frustration, Mallory threw a pillow at her, though it fell a good ten feet short of hitting Grete's chair. “Why won't anyone let me see him? It's not like I'm contagious. I haven't got the plague!"
Grete gave her a sudden, sharp look of reproach. “The plague is not something to make light of."
"If I don't do something soon, I am going to lose my milk!"
"His Grace has already hired a wet-nurse. A capable woman, so I have been told. Her infant is too old now to suck, so the babe will have her most attentive care."
"He doesn't need her attention! He needs mine! I can't believe this. I can't see the baby, I can't get out of bed, and I can't even read a book.” Mallory stared up at the canopy curtains overhead. Then she took a deep breath and began to sing at the top of her lungs, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety-nine bottles of beer—"
"Don't start that again!” Grete clapped her hands over her ears. “You've sung every chorus to that song twice already!"
"All right,” Mallory said calmly. “We'll compromise. You bring me a book, and I won't sing anymore."
"Oh! If any woman deserved a birching, it's you!” Grete stood. She threw her sewing on the chair and started toward the door. “I am going to check on the status of our supper."
Mallory called after her. “Bring me a hamburger, French fries, and a strawberry milkshake!” She finished her order in a rush before Grete closed the heavy bedroom door. She was willing to bet, two-to-one, that she got greasy chicken broth and a hunk of the stalest black bread Grete could find in the kitchen.
Again.
This was ridiculous. How often did a girl wake up after dying to find herself centuries back in time? And in a castle no less! How could they expect her to just lie here? Mallory wanted to explore her new home. She wanted something exciting to happen. She wanted to get out of this miserable bed! All of which proved easier thought about then accomplished, for when Mallory pushed her blankets aside and slid her legs over the edge of the mattress, the pain upon sitting up nearly left her sobbing. She groaned, holding her midriff with one hand even as she reached out to grasp a sturdy bedpost. By the time she climbed to her feet, sweat and tears streaked her face.
Gradually the sharp pain faded into a dull pulsing ache. Mallory straightened slowly. She let go of the bedpost and smoothed her rumpled nightgown over her trembling legs. This wasn't so bad. She hardly felt any discomfort now. She just needed to move around, that was all.
Mallory took two faltering steps and swayed as a sharp dizziness spun the room. She reached for the next bedpost just as her eyes rolled back in her head and she folded unconscious to the floor.
Grete had her back in bed before Varden arrived at midday. For an old woman, the lady's companion had a wiry strength to her. She was also a tattletale, relating in exaggerated detail Mallory's first foray out of bed. “Her Grace apparently thinks herself well enough to run around the room."
"I was hardly running.” Mallory muttered. Enduring Varden's icy stare wasn't easy. He wore his displeasure like he wore the stiff leather of his practice armor: hard and dark, it surrounded him completely. And Grete wasn't helping matters, either.
"In fact,” the lady's companion stated. “It's a fight to keep her quietly in bed."
Fresh from the Training Field, he stood at the foot of Mallory's bed with one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other braced against his hip. He smelled of dust, sweat, and the sunny outdoors. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled past his elbows and his muscular forearms were lightly sunburnt. Mallory could practically feel the sun's absorbed warmth emanating from his skin and clothes. It was hard not to reach out and touch him. Though judging by the way he glared, he might well have slapped her hand if she tried.
"How can she expect to heal when she will not lie quietly?” Grete continued. “Imagine! She demands a bath brought every night!"
"Four words,” Mallory said, holding up as many fingers. She counted them off. “Your deodorant doesn't work."
"'Ties a wonder she has not caught pneumonia and died already!"
"I'm healthy as a horse,” Mallory protested.
"A horse as healthy as you would be put down for its own sake.” Grete turned to Varden, spreading her arms as if to say ‘See what I have to put up with?’ “Your Grace, she is disagreeable simply for the sake of being so. She asks for the baby constantly. She—"
"I have heard enough,” Varden interrupted. He sent Grete away with a single dark glare, and then fixed it on Mallory. “You will remain in bed until I permit you otherwise. Is that clear?"
Now it was Mallory's turn to glare. “If you hated your wife so much, why didn't you divorce her?"
All traces of anger fell from his face. Before her eyes, he seemed to harden even more. She hadn't thought that possible.
"Is that what you want?” he asked. “A divorce?"
"Why not? You don't love me. You don't even like me.” Mallory held up two fingers a half-inch apart. “I seem to be this far away from becoming your mortal enemy."
"It is not required that we like each other. What is required is for my name to remain unsullied and pure. I train soldiers for Her Royal Majesty's army. That is how Cadhla keeps its coffers in good health. Families send me their sons. I take these young men who would otherwise be farmers and merchants and I turn them into warriors. Her Royal Majesty then sends them to guard our ships against pirates and our borders against invaders. The Scots are not so much a problem now as the Spaniards, and I have been requested to train as many soldiers as possible as fast as possible. Those farmers and merchants that survive—and if they demonstrate exemplary service to the crown—stand a good chance of coming home to knighthoods, monies or lands, things they would not otherwise gain if they labored for a lifetime. There is a waiting list with the names of over four hundred hopefuls, all of whom would give everything they own to be on my Field at the start of next quarter's training. Half of society has sent their youngest sons to me. Do you really think I'd let you ruin that with the kind of scandal a divorce would cause?"
His voice was soft, almost gentle. It never once rose above normal tones but, though Mallory did not know Varden well, his very stance betrayed his anger. She had been mouse enough in the past to know that this man was accustomed to being a lion, an uncontested king.
"So we quietly hate each other until one of us dies and the other is free.” Mallory shook her head. “What a sad way to live. No wonder Claire tried to kill herself."
"You surprised me before,” he said softly. “Claiming to be a woman from the future is rather an intriguing new play for you. And I admit, this strange accent you have adopted did give me pause to believe you. However, once I had time to think with a sober mind, it occurred to me just how much you have to gain by this lunatic farce. Pitiful, isn't it? To be in a situation where insanity can actually improve matters for you."
"This is my second-chance life, Varden,” Mallory said. “I only want to live. Nobody lives when they're being treated like a
doormat and constantly trampled under foot. Frankly, I'm surprised that you haven't sent me packing already."
Varden leaned even closer, as friendly as a smoking volcano, and just as volatile. “I will never let you leave, mon âme. You can suffer in this marriage and be damned right alongside me."
"The more I get to know you, the more I realize how wrong we are for each other. I like lovable, huggable men, and you're about as lovable and as huggable as a cactus.” Glaring, Mallory pressed her hand against his chest and pushed him a few inches back.
He hissed a long, angry breath between tightly clenched teeth and in the next instant, Mallory found her self abruptly flipped onto her stomach. She gasped, more with shock than pain as he yanked the skirts of her nightgown up over her back. Frozen in horrified disbelief, Mallory stared at the lion tapestry as the first brush of cool air kissed the swells of her bottom.
"I know all about the loveable, huggable men you like,” Varden growled. With one broad and callused hand pressing her shoulders into the mattress, he raised the other high above her. “I'll be damned if I let you rub your indiscretions in my face!"
"No, wait!” Mallory tried to roll over, but her protest was abruptly cut short when she felt the first hard crack of his palm flattened her right buttock. She shrieked, the sharp pain chewing into her flanks as he immediately struck the left side equally hard.
As abruptly as it had begun, her spanking was over and Mallory found herself flipped back over onto her back. She grabbed her bottom, rubbing fiercely. She had a whole new respect for Varden's hard hands, and a helluva lot more sympathy for what that poor girl on the Crossroads had suffered through. How a mere hand could hurt so much was beyond her understanding! It couldn't possibly have hurt more if he'd used a paddle!
Too stunned to speak, she rubbed her smarting bottom and eyed Varden warily as he leaned back over her, bracing his hand on the pillow next to her head. He was close enough now for her to feel the heat of him, even through his armor. Close enough even to kiss, though at the moment that was the last thing she wanted to try.
