Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1) (3 page)

“Come, my lady,” said his companion, tossing his hose and trews to the ground at her feet.  “Forgive my friend.  He is slow of wit and quick of tongue.  You’ve taken our weapons.  You have our braies.  You’ve won the day.  I pray you, let us depart in peace.”

Despite the fact that she had indeed won the day, bested them both, and wrought vengeance by condemning them to a humiliating afternoon of wandering about the countryside in nothing but their tunics, Deirdre couldn’t get over the sense that somehow she was the pawn in their encounter.

The Norman still stared at her with those soul-searing eyes, and it didn’t matter that she held him at sword point, that he stood bare-legged before her, that he was marked by the slash of her blade.  There was the look of victory about him, and she knew she’d never faced a more formidable foe.

Lord, what would happen when he discovered who she was?  What was in store for Rivenloch when this brute came to claim his rightful place in the great hall...

And in her bed?

Quickly, before a shiver of foreboding could betray her, she snatched away Pagan’s trews and those of his companion with her free hand, slinging them over her shoulder.  Then she gave the men a curt nod and hastened up the rocky rise to the crest of the hill.

She was halfway there when Pagan called out.

“Did you forget something, damsel?”

Always on guard, she wheeled with her sword at the ready.  Too late.  Something whistled past her ear and lodged with a thunk in the tree beside her.  The dagger from his boot.

She gasped.  The blade had missed her by mere inches.  But when she locked eyes with Pagan, standing there in scornful defiance, she knew at once he’d meant to miss her.  Which was even more menacing.

His message was clear.  He could have killed her.  He simply chose not to.

Her nostrils flaring, she sheathed her sword and strode away with as much calm as she could feign, silently cursing the Norman all the way home.

“What the bloody hell just happened?” Colin demanded when the lass had disappeared over the rise.

Pagan still bristled from Colin’s betrayal.  “We’ve lost our braies, no thanks to you.”

“Our braies?  Pagan, you’ve lost your mind.”  Colin tromped off down the hill toward the patch of thistles where their weapons lay.  “You know, if you wanted to choose a bride by process of elimination, you could have told me.  You needn’t kill the other two.  I’d be glad to take one of them off your hands.”

Pagan slogged after him.  “I wasn’t going to kill her.”

“Nay?”  Colin cursed as a thistle pierced his bare foot.

“Nay.”  Pagan narrowed his eyes.  “I have much worse planned for that one.”

“Don’t tell me,” Colin said, hopping about on one foot as he yanked the thorn from the other.  “You’re going to marry her.”

“Now
you’ve
lost your mind.”  Pagan couldn’t deny that the thought of bedding the wench was devilishly tempting.  Indeed, her beauty had naturally aroused him, despite his determination not to show it.  But there was something else.  Where most wenches made him feel superior—stronger, smarter, cleverer—this one challenged his dominance.  For the first time in his life, he felt on an even footing with a maid, physically and mentally, and the idea of lying side by side with such a woman...

But in one instant, with the cruel slash of her sword, she’d shown the cold nature of her heart.

“Nay,” he told Colin bitterly.  “I’m going to put her in chains.  Break her spirit.  Teach her obedience.”

“Aye, as I said,” Colin said with a shrug, “you’re going to marry her then.”

“I’m going to marry the runt of the litter,” he declared, though the thought brought him little joy.  “She'll no doubt prove a dutiful wife, grateful and compliant, only too happy to do my bidding.  And the frail thing doesn’t look as if she could
lift
a sword, much less come at me with one.”

“Again!”  Deirdre raised her weapon and bid her sister attack once more.

Hel charged forward with a wild grin, and their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks.

The violence was cathartic, empowering after Deirdre’s unsettling encounter this morn.  Dodging Hel’s fierce blows, she could almost pretend her heart pounded from the thrill of battle.  And not dread.

She hadn’t spoken to her sisters of her meeting with the Normans, nor did she intend to.  That burden of knowledge was one she preferred to bear alone.  At least Helena and Miriel would spend their last hours as the stewards of Rivenloch in blissful ignorance.

Hel’s shield clanged suddenly against Deirdre’s, jarring her bones.  Deirdre pushed off, returning with a horizontal slash from her sword that would have cut anyone else in half.  But Hel was fast, and Deirdre knew well her sister’s abilities.  Hel leaped backwards with a yelp, then dove into a roll, tumbling forward to come up beneath Deirdre’s blade.

“Aha!” she cried, her sword point at Deirdre’s chin, her eyes alight with victory.

But even the joy in her sister’s face, which was dusted with the fine silt of the practice field, didn’t lessen the impending doom that weighed heavily on Deirdre’s mind.

He was coming.  Maybe not tonight.  Maybe not even tomorrow.  But soon.  He was coming for her.

Deirdre had known the instant she’d locked eyes with Pagan that
she
must be the daughter to wed him.  Miriel could not, for she would disappear beneath the man’s overbearing shadow.  Hel could not, for one or the other of them would be dead by the end of their wedding night, and she feared now it might not be the Norman.

Nay, Deirdre would have to sacrifice herself.

It would be a hellish marriage, she was sure, but she’d endure it.  For Miriel.  For Helena.  For Rivenloch.

Hel interrupted her thoughts, patting Deirdre’s cheek with one gauntleted palm.  “Work on your speed, sluggard,” she taunted.  “We ought to at least make this Norman bastard give chase for a bride.”

Hel’s words echoed through her soul like discordant bells.  There would be no giving chase.  Not with Pagan.  He would come and claim her.  Simply.  Swiftly.  Irrefutably.

His image, as indelibly engraved upon her mind as the designs on her dagger, assailed her again—his proud stance, his mocking smile, his derisive gaze—and her pulse began spiraling faster.

God’s blood, what ailed her?  She wasn’t some frail maid who cowered in the face of danger.  She was Deirdre of Rivenloch.  She had routed thieves and tamed beasts and slain outlaws.  She’d not let one devil-eyed Norman daunt her.

Rage heated her cheeks.  She shoved Hel’s sword aside with her shield.  “Again!”

Sparks exploded as their blades clashed once more.  Hel spun and leaped, twirling her sword as if it were a plaything, but Deirdre’s shield was always there to answer, and while Hel tired herself with her antics, Deirdre powerfully met her blows with her own blade, knocking Hel back with her superior strength and a raw determination that left no room for defeat.

Indeed, it wasn’t her sister she sought to conquer, but rather the demons that beleaguered her thoughts.

That
, she thought, striking diagonally downward,
is for spying upon me like a stable lad.  And that...
  She thrust forward, missing Hel by inches.
...is for mocking me with your dagger.
  She deflected Hel’s blade as it came at her head. 
And this...
  She advanced relentlessly, slashing left and right in rapid succession, until she backed Hel against the fence of the lists. 
This is for leering at me with those unyielding, knavish, violating, breathtaking eyes...

“Deirdre!  Helena!” Miriel scolded from the tiltyard gate, startling Deirdre from her thoughts.  Their little sister lifted up her skirts to pick her way across the pitted field.  Deirdre and Hel paused in their fighting long enough to see that, scurrying deferentially behind her as usual, was Sung Li.  Miriel had collected the ancient handmaiden from the Orient years ago, along with several other sharp-toothed weapons.

Hel used the distraction to slip out from beneath Deirdre’s guard and past her, smacking Deirdre’s backside with the flat of her blade.  Deirdre turned and lunged forward, but Hel skipped out of range with a whoop of glee.

“What are you two doing?” Miriel demanded, her hands on her hips.  Behind her, the maid mimicked her posture.

Accustomed to Miriel’s disapproval, Deirdre and Hel ignored her.  Deirdre charged, swiping at Hel’s knees.  Hel neatly jumped over the blade and returned with a swing that, had she not ducked, would have taken off Deirdre’s head.

“Cease!” Miriel demanded, stamping her foot ineffectually.

Deirdre borrowed Hel’s tactics, diving forward to bowl her sister over in a cloud of dust.

Miriel gave a disgusted growl.  “Why did you bother bathing?  Now you’re both filthy!” she complained.  “‘Twas a waste of good soap.”

The servant clucked her tongue.

Hel rolled back, then arched and sprang to her feet again, ready for battle.  Deirdre scrambled up, tossed her braid over her shoulder, and thrust forward, but Hel’s blade caught and careened hers away.

“Prithee cease, sisters,” Miriel pleaded.

Deirdre blocked Hel’s next swing and yelled over her shoulder.  “Go back in, Miriel.  You’ll dirty your skirts.”  She shoved Hel back with her shield, then crouched to attack.

“But Father bid me come fetch you to supper.”

“Supper?”  Deirdre swung twice, then spared a quick glance at the sun.  It
was
low in the sky.  Time had flown on swift wings.

“Aye,” Miriel said.  “It grows late.”

“Just one more bout,” Hel insisted, tossing the sword to her left hand to deflect Deirdre’s thrust.  “Don’t fret.  We’ll come soon.”

“But Father says you’re to come
now
.  The new steward has arrived.  He’s been here for nearly an hour, and you’re not even dressed proper-“

Pagan was here?  Already?  Miriel’s words startled Deirdre, and that instant of inattention cost her a tiny slash across the cheek from Hel’s blade.  She flinched, sucking a quick breath between her teeth.

Miriel gasped.

“Oh, Deirdre!”  Hel lowered her sword at once.  “Sorry.”

Deirdre shook her head.  It was hardly the first scratch the sisters had dealt one another.  “My fault.”

“Maybe we
should
go in,” Hel said, exchanging a conspiratorial nod with Deirdre.  “Don’t wait supper, Miriel.  We’ll clean up and come right away.”

Miriel perused them doubtfully, likely wondering if they’d ever scrub clean.  “Hurry then,” she bade them.  “Sir Pagan seems most anxious to meet you.”  She scurried off, her maid in tow.

“Most anxious,” Hel muttered when Miriel had gone.  “No doubt, the rutting bastard.”  She pulled off her gauntlets.  “Shall we go then, before the old goat starts mounting the hounds?”

But Deirdre was too distracted to appreciate Hel’s sarcasm.  Dread filled her veins.  The hour of reckoning had arrived.

The man had certainly wasted no time, she thought.  She’d hoped to have a day or two for his wrath to cool.  For when he discovered just who she was...

But Deirdre refused to yield to maidenly fears.  She was a warrior, after all.  “Aye, the hour is late,” she croaked, sheathing her sword and wiping the blood from her cheek with the back of her gambeson sleeve.  She straightened with a sniff and squared her shoulders.  It was time to confront the devil who would shortly be her husband.

“‘Tis settled then,” the harried scribe muttered.

Pagan watched as the man swept the hastily scrawled document from the table before the old lord could spill his supper on it, blowing on the wax seal to harden the mark of Rivenloch.  No doubt the servant was peeved at being inconvenienced in this manner.  But Lord Gellir had insisted the papers be drawn up at once, despite the fact that everyone was in the midst of a meal.

The lord smiled vaguely, dismissing the scribe from the noisy great hall with a wave of his bony hand, then returned his attention to the roast coney in the trencher before him.

Pagan picked at his own supper.  He could not help but pity the old Lord of Rivenloch.  He’d surely been a formidable warrior in his day, for his great two-handed sword hung upon the wall above a dozen shields of conquered knights.  He was large of bone and broad of shoulder, with fingers long enough to singlehandedly choke a man.  What few strands remained of his hair were light, and his eyes were a startling blue, marking him as the son of Viking stock.  But time had worn him down like a river wears rock, softening his frame and unfortunately softening his mind as well.

It was painfully clear now that the King had handed Rivenloch over to Pagan not so much as a gift, but as a duty.  For in the hands of a witless lord with three daughters and a company of knights grown rusty with peace, without the Cameliard fighting force to defend it, Rivenloch would surely fall to the English.  And that would be a tragedy.  The castle was magnificent, its location enviable.

At Pagan’s request, when they’d first arrived, the youngest daughter and her wizened, white-braided servant had shown the two of them about the holding.

Of course, once he took a closer look, he realized there were changes he’d need to make.  Some of the outbuildings were rotted and in need of repair.  There wasn’t enough storage.  And the curtain walls surrounding the keep and its generous yard could stand to be fortified.

But those walls enclosed everything one needed to survive in the wilds of Scotland.  A sturdy stone chapel stood in the midst of the courtyard, flanked by a well.  A large orchard supplied apples, wardens, walnuts, plums, and cherries, and the pottage garden grew thick with vegetables.  Various workshops abutted the curtain wall, as did two kitchen sheds and an armory.  Behind the keep were housed the hounds, horses, and hawks.  And at the furthest end, running the width of the wall walk was an extensive tiltyard.  The keep itself, from the tops of its four towers with their cunningly placed windows to the depths of the spare, but well-secured cellars, was a castle to make any man proud.  A prize, he supposed, worth the price of marriage.

“Aye, ‘tis all settled,” the lord repeated, giving Pagan a distracted grin as he fondly patted his youngest daughter on the head.

The poor maid had gone as pale as milk.  Pagan wondered if anyone had even bothered to tell her she was being considered for marriage.  But he couldn’t summon up a smile of reassurance for her.  The decision burdened him with a sickly heaviness that suddenly robbed him of his appetite.

Around them, the noise of supper continued obliviously along, as if no earthshaking choice had been made, as if no life-altering fate had been decreed at all.

“You won’t regret your decision,” Colin said gently to the damsel, trying to ease her fears with a friendly word and a wink.  “Though many a maid will be melancholy to learn Sir Pagan Cameliard’s heart has finally been won.”

The lass swallowed hard and lowered her dewy gaze to the mazer of ale before her, which she hadn’t touched.

“To your health!” her father cried, startling the poor girl and raising his cup so briskly that ale sloshed over the rim and onto the white linen tablecloth.

The castle folk, seated at trestle tables about the great hall and unaware of the cause of the lord’s outcry, nonetheless cheered him in halfhearted answer.

Pagan dutifully lifted his cup, though his heart, too, was not in the toast.  Why he was malcontent, he didn’t know.  After all, didn’t he have what he wanted?  The Lord of Rivenloch had welcomed him gladly, and as Pagan had guessed, the youngest lass was not only lovely, but submissive and sweet.  Aye, she’d make a satisfactory wife, suitably faithful, charmingly naive, a woman to happily bear him babes and not question him about any mistresses he chose to keep.

And yet he’d been hesitant to claim her.  The fact that Pagan had come to practically usurp Lord Gellir’s holding seemed enough of a slap in the old man’s face.  But to appropriate one of his daughters as well...

In the end, Pagan had decided to do the noble thing, to let their father choose which of the maids he wished to relinquish in marriage.

Then, to his astonishment, before the lord could make that decision, before the other two dawdling sisters had even bothered to make an appearance at supper, the youngest had quietly, meekly, offered herself.

Pagan was no fool.  He could tell instantly by the tremor in her voice and the welling in her eyes that she’d tendered herself not out of desire for him, but as some sort of honorable sacrifice.  It was tragic, and yet there was nothing to do but accept her offer.  To do otherwise would not only give insult, but belittle her grand gesture.

Her father naturally approved the union.  For the lord, the youngest daughter was obviously the most dispensable.  It was the same in Norman households.  The firstborn son was trained to rule, the second to fight, but the third could only hope for a place in the church or a profitable marriage.  Certainly, marriage to Pagan would be profitable to her.

Still, Pagan was less than happy, gazing at the somber lass who was afraid to meet his eyes, the dull-witted lord with a foam of ale above his lip, and the company of Scots about him that eyed him with a combination of awe and mistrust.