by Gwen Rowley
But he could not fault what training for battle had wrought in her body. She was tall and long-limbed, lean of muscle, stronger than any woman he’d ever known, and he had selfishly taken pleasure in that.
He called her name softly, but she didn’t seem to hear him, so eagerly did she watch the knights and squires training.
He touched her arm, trying not to feel annoyed. “Enid?”
As if she came out of a stupor, she turned slowly to look at him. “Geraint, let us go down among the men. The training fascinates me.”
“Enid—” he began heavily.
She turned to face him, taking both his hands in hers. “I know I am dressed inappropriately,” she said. “I will not interfere or try to display my skills, but Geraint, ’tis what I know how to do.”
Her voice was laced with sincerity; her blue eyes, pale as mountain ice, beseeched him. He did not want to refuse her anything, but he had to try to make her understand.
He kissed the backs of her hands. “But you have me now, my sweet, and the protection of my arm.”
She smiled at him, but he sensed a disturbance in her emotions as she looked back at the tiltyard once more. He would have to be more patient, he told himself, even as he gave in to her entreaty. He smiled, entwined her arm with his, and led her down the slope to where the knights trained. She grinned her excitement, and then had eyes for only the soldiers. If he didn’t trust in her love, he might easily be jealous.
But she had the queen’s ladies now to train her in the ways of women. Soon, she would understand that she was not alone in the world, that she had a husband now who loved her.
Geraint desired her trust more than anything else, for what was a marriage without it?
The sounds of combat grew ever louder as they approached, men cursing, grunting, shouting challenges, and the ever-present clash of metal on metal. Clouds of dirt raised by booted feet shimmered in the air.
Sir Blakemore, one of his sparring partners, broad and bearded, came over to the edge of the yard, and after a brief nod to Enid, looked Geraint over.
“You are not dressed to train,” the knight said.
Geraint grinned. “How observant of you. Can you not see I am with my lady wife?”
Blakemore shrugged and said in a low voice, “You have been gone too long. Are you not to lead a troop to scout the eastern border of King Arthur’s lands in a sennight?”
For a moment, Geraint felt like a youth again beneath the critical eye of his father, but all he did was nod. “I shall be well prepared.”
“If you call lounging between a woman’s thighs a preparation,” Blakemore said darkly.
Geraint stiffened and rested his hand on his sword. “You say such things in front of my wife?”
Blakemore reddened and glanced away, wiping his sweaty face on his arm. “My apologies, my lady.”
Enid smiled. “I freely came to the tiltyard, Sir Blakemore. I knew what to expect. And perhaps I shall forgive you if you demonstrate again how you found the weakness in your opponent’s armor with your sword.”
Blakemore straightened up and looked at her with interest, even as Geraint withheld a sigh. He could hardly blame Enid, since he was the one who’d agreed to bring her. He found his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. He despised this new feeling of jealousy. He had won her to wife; why was that not enough for him?
Blakemore walked like a strutting cock back into the center of the yard. The knight called out instructions as he broke apart the thrust for her, move by move. Enid leaned on the rail and watched avidly, as if she were committing it to memory. Surely no other woman had ever taken such an interest in a knight’s accomplishments. He almost found himself wanting to remind Enid of his own skills.
But that would only encourage her. Instead he fell to his favorite new pastime, watching Enid, from the excitement that widened her mouth and lit her eyes to the way she gripped the rail and leaned over it. And then he caught her twitching, and he realized she was imitating Blakemore’s movements.
Sighing, he shook his head and put his arm around her shoulders. For one moment he felt a startled tension surge through her body, as if he were an enemy. Almost immediately she relaxed, and her soft laughter was full of chagrin.
“Forgive me, my husband. I forgot I was not on the tiltyard myself.”
He smiled as he kissed her. “I will give you other things to think about.”
THAT night, long after Geraint had fallen asleep, Enid lay awake, the bed curtains closed around them. Geraint’s breathing was slow and methodic, with only the occasional growl of a snore that she found endearing. She knew she had to be in love if she found a man’s snoring so captivating.
Her body tingled with energy, and she felt suddenly smothered in the darkness. Very slowly she pulled the bed curtains back, her body alive with the night sky. It was as if her power didn’t want to leave her body and needed her to come be one with the stars and moon, woods and water. It was still so new to her that she didn’t know what to expect.
Her body was not her own tonight. She pushed back the coverlet, slid from the bed, and walked to the window. The shutters were already thrown back, and at the touch of the moon, she felt something stir inside her, an energy that seemed to crackle with heat. She closed her eyes to will herself to accept its very alienness, but in the end she stepped away from the window.
If only she could tell Geraint everything, ask for his help. But she could not forget his dismay with her need to visit the tiltyard, and the way he wanted her to be one with his people. There was no magic here, no destinies like hers. What if he outright forbade her to finish her mission? What if he was disgusted with the powers she was imbued with? But the magic would be gone when her mission was complete.
He had other things to worry about now, like the troop he was to lead, according to Sir Blakemore. She sensed a wariness in the other man in regard to Geraint. According to Sir Albern, Geraint had been working with King Arthur as an advisor. It was obvious he had not trained for some time. She would just have to make sure he spent part of the day tomorrow with his soldiers.
But to her dismay, he spent the morning introducing her to more women, finding more gowns and smocks for her to wear, and admiring her attempts at embroidery while he distracted her by laying with his head in her lap. She was alternately worried and pleased and exasperated.
In the great hall, just before the midday meal, she saw Sir Blakemore brooding when he noticed Geraint, then turning and talking to several other knights, who glared at her husband.
“Geraint?” she murmured.
But he was distracted by a maidservant handing him a leather wallet bulging with food. He glanced up at Enid, wearing an excited smile. “Aye?”
“Do you not see Sir Blakemore? He is upset with you.”
Geraint turned his head toward his comrade, but only shrugged. “He has never been married, and does not want to understand a husband’s need to be alone with his bride the first few days of his marriage.”
“But we needn’t be separated while you train. I could come watch you, maybe even practice—”
Geraint’s smile fled, and he spoke softly. “They will not understand that you were raised differently, Enid. You gave me your word, now I ask you to trust me in this.”
He searched her gaze with his, and she wondered if he saw that she did not trust him completely, not yet. Her stomach burned with the guilt, but not enough to betray her mission or her people. Silently she watched him sling two drinking horns over his shoulder.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Kissing her quickly, he took her hand to lead her through the crowds milling about the trestle tables. She watched him ignore Sir Blakemore, who turned away in obvious disgust.
“There’s a beautiful wood nearby,” Geraint told her over his shoulder. “It is the most romantic place, with a stream that leads to a small pond.”
She could not explain that she’d already been there.
T
HEIR private meal was glorious. Geraint made her forget everything but him. It was only when he escorted her back to the great hall, flushed with his kisses, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and her gown grass-stained, did reality intrude. He went off to a council of King Arthur’s closest advisors, and Enid found herself alone. She strode purposefully outside to the tiltyard. She might not be able to disobey Geraint and train, but she could watch and absorb the lessons, in hopes that she could later find time to practice.
She boldly walked up to the same rail and leaned upon it to watch the men train. She devoted an hour’s attention to jousting, knowing that her people needed to become more comfortable fighting on horseback. But then she went back to watching the sword fighting, her favorite discipline.
At first the knights regarded her warily, but in the way of men, soon they were trying to impress her. The ones who suffered for it were the squires, with years of training left before they had the ability to become knights. One particular young man’s plight called to her the most. He couldn’t have sixteen years yet, and his body was still gangly and thin with youth. He was no match for the men who trained around him, but still he continued to try. He reminded her very much of her brother, Dermot, who at fourteen was just beginning his training with the warrior women. Dermot was too proud to accept tutelage from his sister, of course, much as she ached to help him.
This young squire, his brown hair wet with sweat, made her feel the same maternal ache. He had no confidence in himself, she saw, as she unconsciously moved closer to him. He was fighting a bigger, older squire. Though they used blunted swords, her chosen squire kept falling back, repeatedly failing to parry in time to miss a stinging blow to his arms. She almost called out instructions, but caught herself in time.
She held her breath when he was knocked to his knees, his sword sliding across the packed earth near her feet. The other boy came at him from behind, his broad face full of triumph, his sword raised high.
At a full sprint, Enid picked up the sword and put herself between the young squire and the bully. The older boy couldn’t stop his motion, though she saw the shock register in his face a moment before she met his sword with her own in a parry so powerful that his weapon broke in two. Crying out, he dropped the hilt, clutching his wrist and staggering back to gape at her.
She froze, the sword at her side, hearing the stunned silence all around her. Even the horses blew out their breaths and waited. Every gaze was focused on her, and she saw herself as if from a distance, a woman too tall, too strong, clothed in a gown, but carrying a sword. Sir Blakemore watched her with cold, calculating eyes.
Gathering her wits, she turned to the instructor and said, “I could not allow him to strike such a cowardly blow. Forgive my intervention.”
“Did you not see what she did to me with strange magic?” the bully cried, holding his hand against his chest. “I was not going to hurt him!”
The skill was hers, Enid thought, but the abnormal strength was not. And she’d used it in front of all of her husband’s fellow knights. She’d made a grave error.
She knelt down in front of the young squire. He had fallen onto his backside, braced on his hands, staring up at her in shock. After setting his sword beside him, she put a hand on his shoulder. The power of a warrior woman surged within her like a rising tide, and though it was daylight, she could see the faintest glow where their bodies met. The boy’s wide eyes saw it, too, but he didn’t tremble, didn’t flee. She watched his face, saw the relief and amazement and thrill capture his expression. Looking at her with wonder and gratitude, he took her hand and kissed the back of it reverently. It was in moments like these where she most appreciated her calling as a warrior woman, a teacher to young men. This was no magic granted from the Lady; this was her destiny, her one gift as a member of the Donella. Every young man needed confidence, and by her touch she could grant it for a lifetime.
Embarrassed, Enid rose to her feet and almost stumbled, forgetting how drained she always felt. No one moved to help her except the squire himself, who jumped to his feet.
“Allow me to assist you, my lady,” he said, taking her arm.
With a smile, she pulled away. “I am fine. You return to the field. Believe in yourself.”
He grinned. “Aye, I will.”
Heavily, she walked away from the tiltyard, hearing the low buzz of conversation swelling behind her. When she reached a wooden bench in the shadow of a storage shed, she sat down and closed her eyes.
Geraint would hear of this, she knew. So would others. How would she explain herself without giving everything away? Her thoughts muddled, she let her consciousness drift. She had no idea how long she sat there, gathering her strength, but she came back to herself at the sound of male voices. The shed was between her and the knights.
And they were knights, because she recognized the voice of Sir Blakemore.
“The king will understand,” he was saying to an unknown number of men. “Geraint is not prepared to lead us. He follows the witch’s skirts more than he trains with us.”
Enid stiffened, worry and dread knotting her stomach.
“But he is one of the high king’s favorites,” a stranger said. “Maybe Arthur does not wish Sir Geraint to do battle. He is obviously being groomed as the king’s counselor.”
“He will not be a favorite if his wife is discovered to be a sorceress,” Blakemore said coldly.
Their voices faded, and soon Enid was alone. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms as if a chill had invaded her very bones. She didn’t resent being labeled a sorceress. She knew how different she was from these people.
But how could she tell Geraint that his friend had betrayed him?
Perhaps the high king wouldn’t believe such rumors. Would not King Arthur trust the prince of Cornwall over a mere knight? And she yet had to convince Geraint that he must return to his men.
Chapter 5
AT supper that evening, the massive great hall was lit by torches, full of the sound of pipes and harps. Tapestries celebrated the great deeds of King Arthur and his knights. Geraint had been a part of it, and was soon to be privy to more. He had a beautiful wife, a future kingship of his own, and a high king who was pleased with his performance this afternoon. Geraint’s command of the language of Gaul and his knowledge of the country itself had proven valuable. He was feeling well satisfied, especially with his position at the high table.
The representative from the king of Gaul was being feted this evening, and the court of King Arthur glittered its welcome, especially with the beauty of the ladies, who with just a demure lowering of their heads could distract any man. Maidservants anticipated their guests’ every need, from food to fill bellies to cushions for weary feet. Goblets of wine, a gift from the foreign king, whetted the appetites of the guests, and the bread was set out on silver plate rather than used as trenchers to hold the rest of the meal.
At Geraint’s side, Enid glowed beneath the thousands of candles. Her excitement and awe was a palpable thing, and Geraint wondered if she’d ever seen such a feast before. One of the queen’s ladies had gifted Enid with a wine-red gown that actually reached her ankles, a rarity since they’d not been here long enough to have a proper wardrobe sewn. Laced beneath her breasts, the gown displayed her embroidered smock beneath. He wanted to pull apart the laces with his teeth and—
He realized that Enid was watching him, wearing a knowing smile beneath her blushing cheeks. He was so lucky that she was not shy about the intimacies of marriage.
He leaned into her, let his lips brush her ear, felt her shiver. “I do not suppose that you have eaten your fill,” he whispered.
She giggled, and the girlish sound pleased him. How had he ever deserved her?
“And what would your king think if we left his feast so early?” she asked.
He bit her earlobe gently, felt her twitch, and then he moved away. “He would say that I am a lucky man, just as he is.”
“You compare me with
the queen?” she said with astonishment.
He saw her glance at Queen Guinevere, ever remote and beautiful in her white gown.
“Nay,” he answered softly. “She is her own woman, as you are. But you shall be my queen someday.”
She stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, unsmiling, and Geraint felt a moment’s worry. What could she be thinking?
Then she laughed and shook her head. “From what you tell me, your father is yet hale and hearty. I shall be an old woman before I am queen.”
“Without matters of state, I will have more time to sit at your side, an old man daydreaming about his old wife.”
She pushed at his shoulder playfully.
A young squire, brown-haired and lean, approached them carrying a platter with morsels of beef and lamb laid out to resemble flowers.
As the youth presented the tray, bowing, he looked at Enid and said, “My lady, I made sure to find the best for you. Each selection has been chosen for its tenderness, so that it will please you. I am Lovell of Exminster, and I am your humble servant.”
“Lovell, it is good to know your name,” she said softly, glancing at Geraint with what could only be uncertainty.
Before Geraint could ask a question, the squire turned to face him, his expression full of grave concern.
“My prince, no matter what anyone says, or how they try to slur her, I greatly appreciated your ladyship’s help this afternoon.”
Geraint glanced in astonishment at his wife, who winced and shrugged, but again, the squire spoke before she could.
“She was brave beyond any measure of courage, especially for a woman. Her courage is only equaled by her beauty and kindness.”
Enid’s face blushed red. “Lovell, please, you do not need to—”
But at that moment, there was a great cheer as buxom serving maids paraded into the hall, dancing between the tables and benches, bearing over their heads trays of cooked, stuffed swans so realistic that they still seemed to swim. Geraint expected his wife to enjoy the pageantry, but she continued to look worried, which made him uneasy. How could helping a squire at Camelot require feats of bravery in a time of peace?
