by Maren Smith
* * * *
"You should not be out here."
Mallory spun with a start, and Kenton quickly caught her arm before she fell backwards off the soldiers’ walk. “Oh Kenton, you scared me!"
"Yes,” Kenton drawled. “All the really attractive women tell me that."
Mallory knew little about valets, but Kenton was nothing like what she expected. He watched her with a spark of interest in his obsidian eyes. And despite his earlier comment about the soundness of her mind, he seemed not to expect anything illogical from her.
"What's going on down there?” She went back to spying on the two small armies through the narrow murder holes in the outer wall. “Who are those people?"
"Our nearest and dearest neighbors.” Kenton leaned his shoulder against the wall beside her. He folded his long arms across his chest and studied her with far more interest than the scene playing out below them. “That brutish red-haired man bellowing at His Grace is the Laird Kincaid. What happened to your neck?"
"Low hanging clothesline. Almost took my head clean off. Very dangerous."
"A clothesline?"
"Yes."
"In your bedchambers?"
"Actually, I was wandering around downstairs when I ran into it."
"I see.” Kenton hardly looked convinced, but he didn't argue with her. “Our lower maids have become lazy. I shall have to have a word with them. We cannot have errant clotheslines where the nobility can accidentally garrote themselves."
Mallory changed the subject. “They're yelling at one another."
"I'm rather surprised they've not drawn arms.” Kenton hardly spared a glance over the wall. “The Kincaid has been raiding along our borders. They've done it for years. Usually they steal a few sheep here. A cow or two there. They call it reiving; an infamous Scottish past time, traditional, if not honorable. But lately they have begun to take herds and to kill. Only last night they murdered a man and burned two homes to the ground, stealing everything that was not reduced to ash and embers. His Grace has good cause to be angry.” With a drawn pause, Kenton tipped his head to better see the Kincaid. “I have no idea why the Kincaid is upset."
* * * *
The Kincaid's face, or what could be seen of it above the orange bristle-brush of a beard and beneath the tangled mop of his long hair, turned red as a beet when he flushed. His fingers tightened on the reins. The stallion chewed at his bit and backed up several feet.
"Ye kin because yer English ye can burn me people from their homes!” he bellowed. “Ye starve my clan while ye sit high and fancy, eating me stock until ye cannae roll yer fat backsides out o’ yer chairs!"
"You have stolen from me,” Varden returned hotly. “Not the other way around."
"Ye lie t’ salve yer conscience!"
The flush of Varden's own temper quickly basted his neck and cheeks. “If your clan had its thieving way, my people would starve this winter!"
"Mine be the only clan starving. Ye've seen t’ that, aye, ye have! Dinnae be denying it! We've all seen ye scuttling off wi’ the dawn, like cowardly dogs wi’ tails tucked!"
Varden's temper erupted, spewing forth in a volley of curses that the Scot was only too eager to return.
"Cowardly,” Varden spat, “is raping women and beating old men and children!"
"Aye!” Spittle flew from the Kincaid's mouth. “And well d’ ye be knowing it! Ye've practiced long enough on me kin t’ make murder a bleeding art!"
Varden abruptly reined his horse to one side of the Kincaid's. “When?"
"What d’ ye mean, when?"
"When was the last attack?"
The Kincaid glared at him, his dark eyes narrowing. “This morning. Got word on me way here a field was burned an hour a-fore the dawn."
"Where?"
"Dunne, four miles north.” The Kincaid scowled. “Dinnae try t’ tell me t'wasn't ye who did it, I kin the truth when I hear it!"
"An hour before dawn I was in bed with my wife,” Varden snapped. “Which is where I would still be, given my preference. However, I did patrol the border between six and midnight last night, trying to catch those responsible for hanging one of my farmers in Barton-Under-the-Hill."
"That's eight miles from Dunne,” the Kincaid said.
"And four miles from Candlewick, where two houses were torched earlier. I also lost a good deal of livestock."
"If yer nae responsible, then who?"
"That is a very good question.” Turning his horse, Varden signaled his men to return to Cadhla. To the Kincaid, he said, “I have set up border patrols. I suggest you do the same. I'll let you know if I catch anyone."
"Ha!” the Kincaid barked. “Aye, and we'll see if I dinnae catch ye!"
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Chapter Ten
He had returned from his meeting with the Kincaid only a few minutes ago, and already Varden was leaving again. Wrapped in his bed sheet, Mallory leaned her forehead against her chamber's only poured glass window and tried not to feel disappointed. She needed to be more understanding. The world hardly revolved around her, after all. Varden couldn't be with her twenty-four hours a day; he was a busy man. He had responsibilities. Duties. It was selfish of her to want him to take her back to bed and finish what they'd started.
In the courtyard below, Varden was one of eight men saddling their mounts near the stables. He had already donned his battered leather armor and was checking his saddle cinch when Kenton handed him a package. He said something, and Varden turned and looked up. He pointed at her, tugged at his shirt collar, and mouthed the word “clothes” again. He seemed a little more insistent this time.
Mallory smiled and waved back at him.
Beside him, Kenton said something and Varden's back and shoulders went immediately broomstick straight. The valet quickly moved out of reach before Varden could lay hands on him.
Mallory sighed. She didn't even know where he was going.
"Grete?"
Behind her, a silent shadow standing in the doorway, Grete said, “Training Field, most likely. Where else would he be headed this time of day?"
"Is it very far away?"
"Do you really consider me a friend?” Grete countered.
Mallory cast a quick glance back over her shoulder before turning her eyes back to Varden. “Kinda sad, isn't it?"
"Had you not spoken for me, I would now be on my way back to London."
"Oh, I'm sorry.” Mallory turned, a slight frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Did you want to go?"
"Six months ago, I would have leapt at the chance and been grateful for it."
"But not now?"
"No, things are different now.” With her hands folded over her waist, Grete came to stand beside her at the window. Together, they watched Varden climb up into his saddle.
After a while, Grete said, “It doesn't matter. The Dowager will send me off anyway. I haven't finished her gown."
"I thought you finished that days ago."
"She called my seams sloppy and ordered them ripped out. I still haven't repaired all the damage."
"She can do it herself, then."
"She is the dowager. She doesn't do anything herself."
"Sounds like a bossy old biddy."
"She's not as bad as some."
There was a slight pause, and Mallory wondered if Grete had been about to say her. She ignored the inference and instead said, “Two men waiting at the Pearly Gates of Heaven strike up a conversation. ‘How'd you die?’ the first man asked. ‘I froze to death,’ says the second. ‘That's awful,’ said the first. ‘How does it feel to freeze to death?’ ‘Uncomfortable at first,’ says the second. ‘But eventually, it's a very calm way to go when you drift off to sleep. How about you, how did you die?’ ‘I had a heart attack,’ said the first man. ‘You see, I knew my wife was cheating on me, so one day I showed up at home unexpectedly. I ran up to the bedroom, but found her alone, knitting. So I ran all over the house and when I got to the last room, I ha
d a massive heart attack and died.’ The second man shakes his head and says, ‘That's so ironic. If you had only stopped to look in the freezer, we'd both still be alive.’”
Grete looked at her, without the slightest hint of a smile. “What is a freezer?"
Mallory sighed again. “Well, guess that takes care of my ‘Two guys sitting at a bus stop’ joke."
They shared a companionable silence, then Grete said, “There once was a man from Monclair, who loved his wife on the stair. The banister broke, he quickened his stroke, and finished her off in the air."
Mallory grinned. “Grete, was that a dirty limerick?"
"I know it wasn't very good, but it's the only one I know."
Mallory threw back her head and laughed.
They watched as Varden rode out across the drawbridge, the sound of horses’ hooves echoing like thunder back through the darkened gatehouse.
"He will not appreciate our following him to the Field,” Grete said with a small shake of her head. “He will probably be quite angry, in fact."
"Our following him?” Mallory turned to her with a smile. “Why, Grete. Are you coming with me?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course you do. We could explore the dungeon instead."
Grete stared at her. “Why ever would we want to?"
"You wouldn't find it interesting?"
"Heavens, no! What a morbid thing to say.” The old woman shook her head and turned away. “I'll have a lunch made. When we get caught, we can say we were on a picnic."
Mallory clapped her hands once. “Great! I'll get the horses."
"You get dressed,” Grete called back to her. “You'll not go to the Field wrapped in a bed sheet."
Faced with the nauseating prospect of wearing one of Claire's dresses, of feeling cloth that had touched that woman also touching her skin, Mallory instead opted to wear a nightgown. She selected an off cream white one, with enough frills and lace to almost be considered a real dress anyway.
Within the hour, with each woman saddled upon her own mare, Grete and Mallory were on their way.
The Training Field lay roughly one mile from Cadhla's westernmost tower and only a short distance from the village of Wooler. The main camp was nestled amid a hodgepodge of multi-colored tents, smoldering pit fires and crowded merchant stalls. Squires and servants ran amuck between the various sectioned off areas, ducking under ropes and dodging soldiers, camp followers, merchants, and inevitably, each other, while fetching and carrying everything from weapons to water to buckets of horse dung. Clotheslines linked nearly every available tree. Most were heavy with freshly washed laundry that fluttered gently as a comfortable breeze swept through.
Mallory drank in the sights. It would be a challenge to find Varden among such a thick crowd of people. Calling out was useless. Her voice would be lost in the roar of shouting soldiers, clashing swords, chanting merchants, shrieking women, laughing boys, crying children, pounding hooves, and the insistent ‘ching-ching ching-ching’ of a blacksmith's hammer on anvil. There was no help for it. Mallory grinned. They were going to have to tie the horses somewhere and search for Varden on foot.
"Well?” Grete half turned in her saddle to look back at Mallory. “Where shall we begin?"
"I can see why he likes to come here. This is incredible! Just like a county fair without the rides.” Putting out her arms, Mallory allowed a passing man to help her dismount.
"Be careful, Your Grace,” Grete called as the young man helped her down as well. She tied both their horses to a common hitching post. “It's easy to get lost here, so stay with me."
Reluctantly dragging her eyes from the display of armor hanging on the walls of the blacksmith's booth, Mallory nodded her agreement. Almost immediately a whole new wonder caught her eye: a group of children sitting before a makeshift puppet show.
"I guess we could try the jousting field first.” Grete searched above the crowd, noting the multicolored banners that marked the different areas of the sectioned off Field. “It's this way."
Mallory followed Grete past the hitching post and between two tents. A man was sitting on the ground sharpening a knife. He glanced up at them, at Mallory in particular and her cream-colored nightgown. With a shake of his head, he turned his attention back to his knife.
"Meat pies!” A nearby vender called out. “Fresh and hot! Fresh and hot! Meat pies here! Here-o!"
The pies smelled wonderful and spicy, and Mallory wished she had the money to buy one. When she turned back she found that Grete, unaware Mallory had stopped, had disappeared in the crowd. Mallory rose up on her tiptoes, trying to see over the ocean of people around her, looking for a familiar grey head. She turned in a slow circle, not even sure now which way they had been going.
"Eeny, meeny, miney, moe.” Mallory picked a direction and started walking. As intent as she was in her search for Grete, she hardly noticed the effect her presence was having on the people around her.
Startled by the sight of a lady in her nightgown, one man turned to watch her instead of where he was going and tripped over a tent stake. He stumbled and fell into a stack of loosely crated chickens. The crates buckled under his weight and the captive fowl flapped and squawked in a mad dash for freedom. The merchant who owned them roared. He and his family set off after the birds while a gathering crowd laughed and applauded their awkward efforts.
Mallory paused to watch two entertainers performing for a small crowd. One spat fire into the air while his partner swallowed a long blade. She moved on quickly enough, however, when she discovered they did not work for free and she had no penny to add to the collection given by the other spectators. A sweaty blacksmith trimmed the back hooves of a horse. Men practiced hand-to-hand mock fights with swords and bayonets. Two old women sat turning a woven basket of combed sheep wool into yarn. As the spindle whirled, they gossiped and laughed.
One soldier dragged a very willing girl behind some shrubs. She giggled and laughed, then squealed with delight as she was fondled more liberally than Mallory thought anyone ought to be while still in public. Blushing, she moved on.
Further along, she found an open area where two men duked it out in a light-hearted game of fisticuffs. Uninterested in the barbaric display, Mallory turned to find herself back where she had started, staring at the puppet show. One of the boxers caught sight of her. Pausing mid-swing, he was promptly knocked to the ground by his opponent who was not as easily distracted.
A pre-adolescent boy carrying a pail of muck turned all the way around to stare in wide-eyed surprise as he passed her. He fell over a tent rope, the contents of his bucket landing in the laps of two soldiers involved in a makeshift game of dice.
"Dung!” one shouted as he shook the stuff from his hands.
The boy jumped up and ran.
"Get back here!"
"Knave!"
As the bellowing men gave chase, one tripped on the same rope, which snapped and the tent collapsed, startling two horses tethered to the hitching post a short distance away. The horses shied in opposite directions, knocking over the post and subsequently freeing every animal on the line.
A passing woman bent to scoop up the forgotten earnings of the dice game, shook off the worst of the muck, and tucked the coins into her bodice. There was an extra bounce to her step as she continued on.
A dozen people ran after the startled horses.
As Mallory pushed through the crowd, she paused to run her fingers over some silk at a cloth merchants’ stall.
"Ye like this bolt, do ye?” the merchant asked. He was fat and pleasant and slightly bald on top.
Mallory liked him at once. “How much?"
"Well, now. This isn't ordinary cloth, ye know.” The merchant lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “This ‘ere be real dragon silk. Spun from the scales of the mighty beasts centuries ago. Been in me family for years. I'm ‘ard-pressed to part with such a treasured ‘eirloom."
Mallory dutifully felt the soft, smooth texture
between her fingers and giggled. She was being hustled!
One newly freed horse charged between two riders engaged in a mounted sword-fighting competition. Both were thrown, narrowly avoiding being skewered on their own blades. All three horses galloped together across the field and into the blacksmith's stall.
"Ye can't beat the quality of pure, one ‘undred percent cured dragon ‘ide,” the merchant said. “Treat it with care and it'll last a lifetime."
"I'll take it,” Mallory said. After a story like that, the merchant deserved a sale. “The whole bolt. Just bring it by Cadhla and my husband—he's the duke—will give you whatever price you're asking."
The merchant threw back his head and laughed. “Touche, luv. I know a ‘ustle when I see one. Be on with ye now."
"No, really,” Mallory said. “I'm Mallory, the Crazy Duchess.” She did a graceful pirouette to show off her nightgown. “Don't you listen to local gossip?"
The blacksmith dove over his anvil to avoid being trampled and fell into the center post. The entire stall began to lean to one side. The wood creaked ominously and the blacksmith and horses barely made it out before the whole structure collapsed. Previously attached to one of the posts, a clothesline fluttered to the ground, draping clothes across the nearest fire pit. The damp pile began to smoke, then bright orange flames licked up around the edges.
The merchant stroked his chin thoughtfully. With a rueful chuckle, he tucked the bolt under the counter. “I'll bring it by, then. But I doubt if I see a farthing for me trouble. I've been telling tales long enough to know when one's being told to me."
"I promise, your heirloom will not be given away for nothing.” She had just made a purchase in a medieval market. Tickled by her accomplishment, Mallory resumed her search for Varden and Grete. She could hardly wait to tell them.
"Fire!” a soldier shouted.
People came from everywhere to put it out before it had a chance to spread. Behind them, the pile of wood which moments ago had been the blacksmith's stall, was beginning to smoke as well. Fingers pointed after Mallory as, unaware of the chaos behind her, she ducked beneath two ropes and started into the field beyond. Two well-padded horsemen in the midst of a joust abruptly reined back their mounts before she was trampled underfoot between them. Both horses reared up; one rider was thrown.
