Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  Mallory grimaced. “Yellow is not my color."

  "You used to love this gown."

  "Just trust me on this, okay? For the sake of argument, all the dresses go."

  The armoire was nearly empty, only the petticoats remained inside. The dresses were folded in neat stacks all over the bed.

  "But why?” Grete asked.

  "Because they're Claire's. I don't want to wear anything of hers. And don't start in about the nightgowns again,” Mallory told her sternly. “I'd like to think her affairs kept her too busy to wear any of them. And if I'm wrong—” she held up her hand when Grete opened her mouth to correct her. “—then let me be wrong. I don't want to know differently."

  "Well, I still don't understand. It's a waste of good fabric."

  "Then take some,” Mallory said. She began to dig through the stacks of folded gowns piled high on the counterpane. “Where's that green one with the blue-striped sleeves? That would look so good on you, bring out the green in your eyes."

  Grete snorted. “What would this old woman do with a dress like that?"

  "I don't know. Catch the eye of that certain soldier on the third tower, maybe. You think I haven't noticed the way you bat your eyes at him every evening when we walk around the walls, trying to catch his attention?"

  Grete colored instantly. “I most certainly do not! Bat my—catch his—Why, I never!"

  "Then why are you so embarrassed? There's nothing wrong with it. Ah, here it is.” Mallory pulled a folded green dress from the bottom of the third stack and handed it to Grete. “Now where's the sleeves?"

  "I'm fifty-eight, not some simpering schoolroom miss."

  "And he's fifty-six. So what?"

  "How do you know how old he is?” Grete asked.

  "I asked him. His name is John Huckle, and the only reason he hasn't been to see you sooner is because he thought you were put off by his scar."

  "Oh, that doesn't matter.” Cheeks a bright pink, Grete waved her hand in the air. “Hardly noticeable, really."

  "Grete,” Mallory paused in the midst of matching sleeves to gowns to give the older woman a knowing look. “It runs down the side of his nose, through his mouth, all the way to his chin. I don't know how he got it, but it's a wonder he didn't lose his eye."

  "I know.” Smoothing her hands over the green gown, Grete began to smile. “And doesn't it make him seem so dashing?"

  Mallory shook her head, chuckling. “So wear the green dress."

  "Absolutely not! I won't go getting above my station."

  "Suit yourself. Just don't be surprised if he comes calling on you after his shift tonight."

  Grete blushed even brighter. “You didn't!"

  "I sure did."

  They finished pulling the rest of the clothes from the armoire. The green dress with the blue-striped sleeves ended up on Grete's chair by the fire.

  "Are you sure you don't want to keep just one until the seamstress has the replacements ready?"

  "Positive,” Mallory said. “She promised me the first within the week and the rest as quickly as she can get them done."

  "I'm surprised His Grace agreed to purchase you a new wardrobe so soon already."

  Mallory grimaced. “I haven't quite had the chance to tell him. Don't look at me like that! I'll ask him, but I don't think it'll be a problem. See, he sent this to me this morning.” Mallory pulled the bolt of dragon's silk down from where she had stashed it on top of the armoire. She unwrapped the protective wool cover to show Grete the actual fabric. “Isn't this nice?"

  Kenton had brought it to her room earlier that afternoon, along with a note that said: For what this cloth cost me, you had best make something spectacular out of it for me. Varden

  Mallory had returned a note via Kenton back to him: How could I possibly cut up something as expensive and rare as dragon silk? Now that would be crazy! Mallory

  Mallory smiled as she remembered his response to her note: a lovely pink flower delivered via one by this time very surly Kenton, just as she was returning from her noontime visit with Devin. She re-wrapped the cloth and carefully tucked it back up onto the armoire. “I'm sure I can make him understand why it's necessary."

  "What about these petticoats?” Grete asked.

  "Those should be okay. In fact,” Mallory selected one and held it up to her. “I think this one is about to become a pair of running shorts. Can I borrow your sewing basket?"

  Grete looked at her suspiciously. “I thought you said you couldn't sew."

  "I can't. But this shouldn't be hard to make. I'll do it in the morning."

  * * * *

  Varden crouched unmoving in the briars while an insect crawled over his collar and across his skin. He could feel the thin stick legs clinging to his nape, tickling as it moved up into his hair. Yet Varden dared not brush it aside. He did not turn his head. He barely even breathed for fear that the slightest movement would give him away.

  The rain had stopped, but the canopy of leaves above their heads still wept. It was cold and would no doubt grow colder as the night progressed. In Foulden—several hundred yards beyond the line of brush and foliage that concealed him—nothing stirred. The gentle bleating of sheep was the only sound to be heard aside from a lone owl that hunted somewhere overhead. A low rustle shook the tree branches. Too light a sound to be manmade. An animal, then.

  "Yer full o’ piss and wind,” the Kincaid whispered, sitting in the bushes next to him. “I cannae believe I let ye talk me into this. I should be home, wrapped in me soft bed, and warming me wife.” He suddenly grimaced. “Then again, maybe I owe ye me thanks, lad."

  Varden refrained from rolling his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to listen to his neighbor talk about his love life. Unfortunately, for the past hour, the Kincaid had indulged them both in a one-sided discussion that changed without warning from one unappealing topic to the next. Varden glared at the dark empty cottages that made up Foulden. He supposed it was inevitable that reproduction should eventually find its way into the conversation. At least they were off his brother's crossed-eye.

  "Bloody woman wants another bairn,” the Kincaid was saying. “We've nine boys, but she's heart-set on a wee lassie t’ round things out."

  From the corner of his eye, Varden glimpsed movement, but it was only two sheep, who had somehow escaped from their enclosure.

  "Nine babies, and she wants another.” The Kincaid shook his head. He nudged Varden in the back. “I hear tell ye've just gained a wee bairn yerself."

  It was an invitation to join the discussion that was impossible to refuse and still remain civil.

  "Yes,” Varden said.

  "Lad or lassie?"

  "A boy.” And then because he knew the Kincaid wasn't going to leave it alone, Varden added, “We named him Devin. He's perfectly healthy and getting fatter by the day. My wife is fine. Thank you for asking."

  The Kincaid slapped him heartily on the back. “Always good t’ hear when they d’ well! I know he's yer second; sorry t’ hear aboot the first. Meself, I've buried two o’ me own.” He grew quiet as he tugged at his thick orange beard. “You know, I dinnae kin it's in me t’ throw a lass."

  Movement caught his eyes and Varden sent a quick prayer of thanks skyward. He nudged the Kincaid and pointed in the brush to their left. “Someone is coming."

  For the first time in over an hour, the Kincaid shut up. Unfortunately, it didn't last. “Ach, ‘tis only me son, Cullen. I had him watching the road."

  Though he looked to be no more than fourteen, the boy snuck through the brush better than Varden did. The boy's eyes were round and wide, and even in the dark of the pre-dawn morning it was easy to see that he was upset.

  "Hutton's been hit,” he whispered. “They ha’ burnt the fields and hanged a mon when he tried t’ stop ‘em."

  Varden rubbed his eyes and swore under his breath.

  "That makes five they've killed s’ far,” the Kincaid growled.

  "Eight, if you count my people.” Varden
rubbed his eyes again.

  "I dinnae ha’ the men t’ protect every village and house along the border,” the Kincaid said.

  "If I sent you some—"

  "They would nae be welcome anywhere I could post them."

  "If it means keeping someone else alive,” Varden told him, “then they can handle not being welcome."

  The Kincaid studied him for a moment, pulling on his bushy beard, before he reluctantly nodded. “All right, then. I'll d’ me best t’ ease things when they arrive."

  Exhausted, cold, and wet, Varden signaled his men to return to Cadhla. He looked at the still quiet huts of Foulden, sighed, and wearily rubbed his face yet again. He batted at the back of his neck where the bug still clung and shook his head to clear the excess water from his hair.

  The ride back home was the longest of his life. He really must be getting old, he mused. There used to be a time when he could stay up all night and still function the next day without difficulty. Now, he hardly remembered climbing the bailey stairs to his balcony doors, and he didn't bother to get undressed before falling into bed. His head found the pillow and his exhausted arms pulled it to his chest. He didn't move again, not even when Kenton struggled to pull the boots from his feet and peel the wet clothes from his chilled body.

  "As if I haven't better ways to spend my nights than to wait up for you,” Kenton grumbled under his breath.

  "Kill me or let me sleep,” Varden groaned. “I don't care which."

  "And me, without my sword.” Kenton rubbed him vigorously with a towel, then covered him with a blanket. “Were you more considerate of others, you'd catch your death of cold and spare me the hangman's noose!"

  A low rattling snore vibrated from the bed.

  Before he quit the room, Kenton stoked the fire and added another log to ensure it would continue to burn hot for another hour, then went to wake the kitchen staff.

  * * * *

  Sewing had never been Mallory's forte.

  Of course, she had never been in a situation where she needed to make her own clothes, either.

  Sitting cross-legged on the foot of her bed, the tip of her tongue pressed to her upper lip in concentration, Mallory cut along the narrow chalk line she had drawn inside Claire's petticoat. When she was done, she held up the two edges and congratulated herself on having saved time by cutting out both halves simultaneously. The edge was a little sloppy but, considering she had no idea what she was doing, it was not a bad attempt.

  She was surprised at how easy sewing was. Just bring two pieces of cloth together via a thin line of thread. Anybody could do it.

  Anybody but her, it seemed.

  Too lightweight to be thrown very far, her first two attempts were wadded in balls on the floor beside her bed. Both were too small to pull up over her hips. She had taken great care to make this one bigger, cutting the halves over-large so that they would be sure to fit and she wouldn't have to cut out a fourth. Quite frankly, she was running low on petticoats.

  Since she couldn't find any buttons in Grete's sewing basket, Mallory braided three narrow strips of cloth into a rope that she sewed into the waist of her shorts to help hold them up. Until elastic was invented, a drawstring was the best that she could do.

  The actual stitching was the most laborious part. Although she tried to keep them small and evenly spaced, impatience got the best of her. After a while, each stitch seemed to grow in size directly proportional to the length of sewing left to do. Some, she noticed, were half an inch long. And when she was finally finished, the stitches on one side were small, if unevenly spaced, while in places on the other they were big enough to stick her finger through. The whole thing would probably slide off her hips mid-lap, but they were hers, and she was determined to be proud of them.

  Just in case, she turned the cloth over to add another row of stitches alongside the first one. Her gaps growing larger as she went, she overlapped little stitches on the big ones and hoped they would even themselves out.

  Tying her unruly red hair back into a ponytail with another strip of cloth and using a white linen shirt stolen from Varden's wardrobe, Mallory tried on her new jogging suit. The shorts were a little snug across the seat and the material was thin. But it covered what it was supposed to, and there was no telltale ripping sound when Mallory bent over.

  She opened the door to Varden's room. A long snore rattled up from the bed as she tiptoed past him to the balcony doors. Mallory stepped outside into the warm sunlight and closed the doors quietly behind her again. The sun was barely up, shining brightly in a cloudless, blue sky. In the bailey below, the cobbles were still muddy from all the rain the night before, and people were beginning to stir. As Mallory leaned against the banister, stretching her legs, two carts rolled through the gatehouse. It was going to be a busy day. It was probably best to stay up on the soldier's walk and out of everyone's way.

  After a brief warm up, Mallory jogged out onto the soldiers’ rampart. She hated exercise, especially running. But she disliked being out of shape even more. And if mad-dash chases around the furniture were going to become weekly occurrences, then building her endurance to it could mean the difference between a comfortable life and Varden's broad hand vigorously paddling her bottom until she was crying too hard even to breathe.

  As she made her first lap, Mallory called ragged hello's to the guards she passed. One waved back at her.

  "Dice after dinner, milady?” he called after her.

  She gave him a quick thumbs-up, “Count me in!"

  He was the only one who spoke to her. The rest were too busy looking everywhere—anywhere—but at her to reply. Mallory didn't take the snubs personally. At any one time there were no less than eleven guards stationed along the walls and four in each of the three watchtowers. Varden did not strike her as the sort to do things needlessly, so she assumed there was probably a good reason for such precautions. Heaven forbid she should take a man's attention from his job and get them all killed by an invading army.

  As she rounded her first lap, Mallory glanced over the wall to the green hillside that spilled down into the forest a good football field away. She made a mental note to ask Varden just who their enemies were the next time she saw him.

  * * * *

  For the fourth time in a half hour, a steady stomping echoed along the wooden walkway just outside Varden's bedchambers. The sound stopped briefly at the stone of his balcony, then re-appeared on the other side where stone met wood again. Varden groaned and pulled his pillow over his head as the sound gradually faded away. But a few minutes later, just as he was beginning to drift back to sleep, the stomping returned.

  The next time he heard it, by sheer force of will, Varden managed to peel his eyes open. He attempted to focus on the balcony doors. The sun had climbed above the stone rail. He had only been asleep for two hours. Growling under his breath, he rolled out of bed and reached for his robe. Stubbing his toe on the leg of a misplaced stool, he hopped and swore the rest of the way to the balcony. As Varden threw open the doors, he recoiled from the bright light of dawn.

  Shielding his eyes with his hand, he scanned the parapet for the cause of that sound. He stared, then stared a little harder. There was his wife running around the outside parameter in pantaloons so skimpy that she may as well have been wearing nothing at all. No gentlewoman would have been caught dead wearing such a garment. For that matter, no prostitute would, either.

  "Claire!” His bellow shook the balcony rafters and echoed through the bailey. Servants looked up from their work to see what he was yelling at. Soldiers jumped to attention. His lunatic wife was not even fazed.

  "Mallory!” she bellowed back.

  Varden started to yell before he realized he was really more startled than upset. Ill-fitting and scandalous though it was, at least she was wearing something other than that damn nightgown.

  "Morning, honey.” Mallory raised her hand in mock salute, as she came around the walk. Her green eyes sparkled as she sized him up and down
in his morning robe. “Nice legs."

  "What are you doing?"

  But she was gone, jogging steadily away again. He had to wait until she made her loop before he could get his answer.

  "Practicing,” she puffed.

  "For what?” He called after her as she tromped past and away. With a wide yawn, he scratched his chest sleepily and waited. When he heard the steady slap of bare feet on the soldiers’ walk—he really needed to get her some shoes—he turned to watch her approach. “You never had an interest in exercise before."

  "I'm a changed woman.” As she ran past, Varden thought he heard her mutter, “Not that you believe me."

  Again Varden was made to wait for her next round before he could talk to her.

  "Practicing for what?"

  "The next time ... you ... ch-chase me.” And she was gone again.

  Varden bent to rest his forearms on the railing. He watched the stable master lead two horses through the gatehouse to the grazing paddock just outside the outer wall while she took another lap. “Rest assured, if I wanted to catch you, I could."

  "Wait until I ... I get into ... shape!” she panted and passed him again. “You'll never sp ... spank me ... again!"

  He laughed. So much for sleeping until noon. His eyes burned with exhaustion but, rather than return to bed, he was content to remain as he was, with the banister holding him upright. “This exhibitionist habit you have for running round in your unmentionables really should stop. What do you call that thing you're wearing?"

  "Jogging ... suit."

  "Scandalous."

  She was sweating, her face a bright pink. She swiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her wrist. Her other hand was pressed against the gnawing stitch at her side.

  "Perhaps you should stop before you fall off the wall,” Varden suggested.

  Panting heavily, Mallory shook her head and would have kept going had Varden not caught her elbow. She jogged a half-circle around him before gradually coming to a stop and leaned on his arm.

  "You are a very stubborn woman.” He led her back to his room. While she walked aimlessly to keep her legs from cramping, he called down the hall for a breakfast tray.