Jacq's Warlord (2 page)

8

Jacq’s Warlord

Jacq puffed at a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail and stuck to her sweaty forehead. Then she narrowed her eyes to glare at her opponent. “Prepare to die, Roman!” she bellowed.

“How ‘bout it, Jacq?” George said under his breath as he dodged her blow. His short leather skirt flared just high enough for a glimpse of his dirt-striped white Hanes.

“One beer. Let me buy you one at the Hostler’s Inn when we’re through.”

Jacqueline Frazier aka Hargred the Warrior Woman, at least for the rest of the tourney, stomped her feet, grinding her heels into the mud. “Sorry, George,” she said, raising her broadsword over her shoulder like a baseball bat. “You’re not my type. I’m gonna kick your ass, so stop trying to distract me.”

George darted to the left and then lunged, his sword jabbing toward her midsection.

Jacq swung, intercepting his move with a bone-jarring clang of metal. “I could see that coming a mile, George.” She grinned. She’d never tell, but she enjoyed the banter they shared on the field. If only he offered more of a physical challenge. “You gotta do better than that.”

George grinned back, his smile a slash of white in his mud-splattered face. “What, are Centurions too tame for you?” he drawled, his voice pitched low enough for her to hear, but not reach the spectators in the stand. “I think you’re just playing hard to get.”

She quirked one eyebrow and waved him closer. “Then come and get me, George.”

He growled and flexed his massive chest and arm muscles—every bit as imposing as Rowdy Roddy Piper in a Wrestlemania face-off. The impressive display of manly vigor was spoiled when he leaned toward her and whispered, “How ‘bout letting me win just once? I’m tired of eating Georgia clay.” For the benefit of the crowd, he beat his breastplate with his sword.

Jacq snickered. “What would be the fun in that?” She drew a deep breath, puffing out her chest and scowling, and then trumped his performance with an ululating battle cry. She swung her sword in a wide arc, her body turning to follow the blade while her own pleated leather skirt slapped her thighs.

As she closed the distance between them, George’s eyes widened. “Shit!” When she was a sword’s length away, he feinted to the right, surprising Jacq with a sideways slice.

9

Delilah Devlin & Myla Jackson

She jerked aside too late. His blunt sword slammed against the metal cones covering her breasts. Unable to pull her feet from the muck, she lost her balance and landed on her backside, splashing mud like Shamu at poolside.

George’s forward momentum carried him past her until he skidded to a halt.

The crowd roared, but Jacq ignored the hecklers’ calls for Hargred’s beheading. She pushed herself off the arena floor and reached to shove back the horned helmet from her forehead.

George whipped around to face her and grinned. “Ah Jacq, is it any wonder I’m half in love with you? You’ve got mud under your nose. It looks like a big brown booger.”

Jacq wiped her nose with the backside of a grimy hand. “And you can’t figure out why I’m not dying to go out with you?”

“That’s all right, sweetheart. There’s always next year. But right now—” He pointed at the arena floor. “I’m gonna take you down.”

Jacq cocked her head from left to right, cracking vertebrae before resuming her stance, sword poised over her shoulder. “You talk big, George, but remember who taught you your moves.”

“Oh, I’d be worried if I was facing your daddy.” George swung his sword like a mace and gave an admirable roar that the crowd joined.

Jacq caught the blow with her blade, grunting with pain. Though the metal of their swords was a lighter cast than the real McCoy, and blunted to prevent serious injury, they’d both have the bruises and aching muscles to show for their day’s work.

George slid in the mud, but righted himself quickly.

Jacq waited for him to face her. “Just remember. You train with him twice a year.

He kicks my ass every day.”

When Jacq was sure she had his and the crowd’s full attention, she flipped her sword high into the air in a graceful arc, its metal surface reflecting glints of the early afternoon sun. On its downward arc she twirled away to deftly catch the sword behind her back.

“You fight like a girl. Quit twirling your baton and fight me, dammit,” George said, his bravado unconvincing because it was accompanied by a groan.

The sounds of the other warriors fighting in the mêlée waned. Jacq decided it was time to end George’s dream of an upset victory. She raised her sword in front of her in a double-fisted grip. “Enough talk. Let’s dance.”

Thrusting, dodging and slicing, Jacq and George moved through their crudely choreographed sequences like WWF wrestlers. While their moves were practiced to prevent serious harm, the outcome wasn’t predetermined—whoever put their skills to the best use would win.

George altered the “script” and aimed another wicked slice toward Jacq’s shoulder.

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Jacq’s Warlord

This time she was ready, ducking below the stroke of his sword and coming up as momentum turned him sideways. She swung her own sword, whacking him in the ass with the flat of the blade. When he faltered, she kicked her leg against the back of his knees, sweeping him off his feet to land in an ignominious heap.

While he made mud angels trying to find a handhold in the muck, Jacq raised her sword high above her head, tip pointing down. She lifted her gaze to the spectators in the stadium seats and received a decisive number of thumbs-down votes.

“No wonder you don’t date.” George glared in disgust. “You’d never let the man be on top.”

“Maybe next year, sweetheart. Meantime, give them a good death.” With that said, she plunged her sword down into the space between his arm and ribs.

George played his part to the hilt, flopping like a dying fish until he gasped his last breath and lay still.

The audience whistled and pounded their feet on the wooden bleachers. Jacq raised her sword above her head in victory.

Noting the mêlée had ended, she stepped on George’s belly and walked toward the spectators’ stands to enjoy the applause for another job well done.

“Looks like the Fraziers cleaned up, again,” her dad said, as he joined her to bow to the crowd.

Jacq cast a glance at Thomas Frazier’s brown-spattered chain mail. “Cleaned up isn’t exactly the term I’d have used.” She noted the ruddy color of his cheeks. “No bad moments?”

He shook his head. “I’m healthy as a horse. Quit worrying.” He pushed up the faceguard of his Norman helm and grinned. “The mêlée was a good addition to the program.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Despite a little cross-century genre-busting?”

“I’ll admit I had my doubts. But what the hell!” His grin stretched wide. “Purism is boring. I think I’ll do this again next year.”

Jacq shoved aside her worry. He did look back to his old self. “Yeah. There’s nothing quite like facing off with a dozen knights and Vikings.”

Her father cocked his head toward George. “Your Centurion seemed to give you a moment or two back there.”

She snorted. “In his dreams.”

“George is a good cub. Give you ten, he goes a whole five minutes with you next year.”

She slapped her palm against his. “You’re on!”

A crack of thunder overhead heralded the renewal of the rain that had reduced the Renaissance Faire’s arena to a morass earlier.

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Delilah Devlin & Myla Jackson

“Looks like that’s all the fun we’ll have today,” her father said, peering at the sky.

“I’m heading home to the shower.”

Jacq fell in beside him as he walked toward the gates of the arena. “I won’t be far behind you. I just need to check with the events manager to see whether Maryann’s feeling any better.”

“It’ll be too bad if you have to miss the matches in the morning.”

“Yeah, it sucks. But if she can’t make it, I’ll probably be taking her place as the bard tomorrow. In a dress!” She shuddered. “Why me?”

He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Because they don’t want to see me in a dress?”

Jacq stared at his legs and pursed her lips.

“Not a word about the damn tights!”

“’Course not, Sir Tom,” she said with a slight bow. “Besides, I thought you told me they were chausses! Quite the thing a manly knight would wear.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her and drawled, “Still, it’s better than a dress.”

As she stomped toward the exit to the stadium, her father’s laughter followed. “I’ll have a pot of chili on the stove, so don’t bother picking up anything on your way home.”

Then her father left her, as was his custom, without a goodbye.

* * * * *

Maryann, the storyteller, had a raging fever.

Jacq blew out an exasperated breath. Not that she didn’t feel badly for Maryann.

But it was hard to muster charitable feelings at the moment.

Jacq was stuck with the bard gig in the morning.

The events manager had pleaded with her, and she’d caved. She was the only one who could wear the dress—Maryann was a large woman. Jacq could use the ties to cinch in the overgown. The excess material of the bliaut beneath it would add length.

Now Jacq had to find a story to tell. She could only hope the weather, which had taken a nasty turn dumping heavy rain, would wash out the event the following morning.

She pulled into the driveway later than she’d planned—badly in need of a bath. The mud caked beneath her costume had dried and gravitated to every crease of her body.

She itched something fierce. Add to that discomfort the hunger that made her stomach rumble loud as a jetliner, and Jacq was one grumpy girl.

The light above the porch glowed like a beacon, softened by the misting rain.

Thoughts of her father’s spicy chili warmed her body and soul.

There wasn’t much Thomas Frazier couldn’t do. He attacked every task with all the precision of a U.S. Army Special Forces soldier—which he was exactly what he was.

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Jacq’s Warlord

Her dad’s “retirement” assignment as an ROTC instructor at the same university where Jacq taught was a one-in-a-lifetime chance for them to spend time together.

Always close, their mutual love of history fueled their passion for teaching and for performing in the semiannual Renaissance Faires.

Jacq hurried inside and dashed through the kitchen. She slung her purse on the counter before making a beeline through the living room to get to the upstairs bath.

Her father rested in his easy chair, a bowl of chili in his lap. He welcomed her with a lopsided smile. “You got a package.”

Jacq paused, noting her leather lace-up sandals were leaving muddy footprints on the carpet. “I haven’t ordered anything,” she said, removing the shoes where she stood, although her feet weren’t much cleaner.

“I don’t think it’s from a mail-order business. Return address is from London, England.”

“London? Now, I know I haven’t ordered anything from England. What was inside?”

“No clue—it’s addressed to you. It’s over there,” he said pointing toward the floor beside the coffee table.

All thoughts of a steamy shower evaporated beneath her curiosity. “That’s a pretty big box.”

“Yes, ma’am, and it’s heavier than it looks. I had to help the UPS man bring it in,”

he said, leaning forward. “Go ahead and open it. It’s been burning a hole in the carpet.”

“Shall we?”

Together, they lifted the weighty package onto the coffee table. Her father pulled a Swiss knife out of his jeans pocket and cut through the packaging tape. They opened the flaps, scooping Styrofoam peanuts onto the tabletop. She’d worry about the mess later. Beneath several layers of wrapping lay a wooden box.

“Wow,” Jacq said in a reverent whisper. “You sure they delivered this to the right house? Get a load of the carvings.”

“Help me with this…it’s a bit heavy,” her father ground out, interrupting her awestruck moment as he attempted to lift the large wooden box out of its cardboard packaging.

Each taking an end, they pulled it free and set it back on the table.

Jacq ran her fingers over the smooth wood, amazed at the intricacy of the design.

Although worn with age, the scene, carved in relief, depicted a family dressed in costumes from the Middle Ages. There was a man, a woman, and three children…two boys and a girl. The woman sat with a book in her lap as the man stood behind her with one hand resting on her shoulder.

In the upper left corner was an engraved square. Inside it, ivy shaped an elaborate

“R”. Immediately below the square, almost worn smooth by age, was the number 1163.

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Delilah Devlin & Myla Jackson

“Amazing. Do you suppose that means the box was made in the twelfth century?”

her father asked, as he took a turn reverently smoothing his hands over the surface.

“Dad, how could that be? Something that old wouldn’t be delivered to our house by a UPS man.”

Jacq gently lifted the top of the box straight off since there were no hinges attached to the lid. Laying it to the side, she turned to the contents of the box, a feeling of excitement burbling in her empty stomach.

There, nestled snugly inside the box, lay a large leather-bound book with a tarnished metal and enamel cross at its center. The leather was darkened with age, but appeared intact despite a little wear around the corners of the binding.

Eager now to view the rest, Jacq reached inside. In concert with her father, they each took a side and gently lifted out the book.

Jacq laid open the front cover gently. Tucked into the corner was a large envelope addressed to “Miss Jacqueline Frazier”. She blinked—UPS hadn’t made a mistake.

She opened the letter, extracted a single sheet of paper and skimmed the contents.

“Dad, this is from a solicitor’s office.” She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “It says it’s a bequest from my great-aunt, Louise Langston. I didn’t know she’d died.”

“Let me see.” He reached for the letter. Reading it quickly, he frowned. “I didn’t know either. Damn shame.”