Three

Madoc didn’t see Moiread again until after noon the next day. The rain having stopped, he and Douglas had found their way outside and over to the practice yard. A short man with gray hair was yelling orders to a motley assortment of young men with spears, while another older collection of men shot at straw targets. He and Douglas found an unobtrusive corner and watched.

“They’re quite a promising lot, to my way of seeing it,” said Madoc after a few minutes of companionable silence. He recognized one or two of the pikemen as the guards who’d challenged him when he’d ridden up to the gate. They were polite lads, if young.

“Aye, more promise than fact just now,” said Douglas. “But the mountains are our best defense. It’s rare that an enemy gets this far…one with men and horses, that is.” A memory shadowed his face briefly, one that Madoc didn’t want to ask about. “The real soldiers will have just gotten back, having been out in the field with my sister. Speak of the devil,” he added, and raised a hand in greeting as Moiread wandered up to the yard.

She wore men’s dress, plain in cut but not in color: emerald-green breeches and a knee-length tunic in a plaid that mingled the same green with dark blue and bright yellow. A belt around her waist held a long dagger, but on her shoulder she carried a sheathed sword nearly as long as she was tall.

“Slander,” she said amiably. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have raided the kitchens for you.” Reaching into the pouch at her belt, she tossed a withered apple to Douglas, then one to Madoc, and grabbed a third for herself. “Seems we’ll miss the fruit in season this year. We can always raid the English pantries, mayhap.”

The apple was sweet, though shriveled. Madoc swallowed a few bites. “And I’ve ample funds to pay,” he pointed out. “We’ll stay in as much luxury as we can. I give you my word on it.”

“Oh, I’ve coin as well. Raiding’s better sport. But I’ll behave,” she said in answer to a glance from Douglas. Then she eyed Madoc and smiled ruefully. “And I should ask your pardon for last night, my lord. I’ve spent too much time among men-at-arms, and just then I’d spent too little in bed. Nor had I known anything of these plans.”

“When could we have told you?” Douglas asked. “The messengers canna’ find you if you don’t stay in one place.”

“We had been going on the double the last few days. And I know the air-sprites don’t do well in rain.” Having made these concessions, Moiread looked back to Madoc. “So I apologize, then, and I give you my word I’ll try to be more pleasant company.”

“You’ve no need of my pardon, lady,” said Madoc. She did look better: no shadows under her eyes nor haze in them, more expression in her face, and a neat precision in her motions that had faltered the night before. Despite male attire and what he thought was some skillful binding, she looked female, and he hesitated, doubting—and then doubting how to voice his doubts. “Ah… Had you thought to travel…in this manner?”

“More or less,” Moiread said, taking his meaning so quickly that Madoc worried she’d caught his glance at her breasts. She frowned, though not at him. “Men don’t take it greatly amiss in the field.”

“Not when you’re commanding, no, and not our men,” Douglas said.

Moiread grimaced. “Aye. There were a few who raised a fuss when the fighting was done. Times have changed, and in some ways not for the better.” She made another face, then shrugged away philosophy. “Illusion before we leave, then, if you or Father would be helpful. The question is which way.”

“Which way?” Madoc asked.

“Aye. They can enspell me to be more manly to the eye, though I do pass as is half the time.” She laughed at his carefully blank expression. “You knew already. And it’s a bonny bright day here, with me not in a cloak or half covered in mud. But a touch of magic can help. Or I can dress as a fair maiden, wi’ you escorting me to all eyes, and the illusion can cover my sword. Only one, though, aye?”

“Unless Father’s found some clever art he’s not told me of,” said Douglas.

“So. Being a maiden could make me more of a surprise, should any think to attack us. I couldna’ avoid the skirts, though, and they’d be an encumbrance for certain. But two men might put folks’ backs up where one and a girl might not. So,” she said again, and her eyes glinted with humor. “Am I your manservant, or are you my guardian?”

Either suggested images, stories that men passed between themselves when drunk. Madoc suspected that this time the suggestion was intentional, even if only for the mirth of it. He felt a brief sting of lust and fought to keep his gaze from sliding down Moiread’s body again.

Most likely she was joking. She’d been at war, and soldiers’ humor was not gentle. It meant nothing, Madoc decided, and fortunately her brother’s presence kept him from feeling anything stronger than that momentary shift in awareness.

It would be good to keep his mind away from that path, good to keep thinking of Moiread as a comrade in arms.

“Best we see which is more valuable, isn’t it?” he asked and tapped the hilt of his own sword where it hung at his waist. “Do you care for a bout?”

* * *

There was room enough in the yard for a pair to spar, even with the men training. Moiread had managed it often enough in her younger days. She vaulted the fence—Douglas mouthed something that sounded suspiciously like show-off, but she chose to ignore him—and drew her sword, getting her feet settled. The ground was a wee bit squashy, but not bad. Certainly it was a damned improvement over an actual battle.

Practice bouts always were. Moiread had time to adjust her weight and take in her surroundings. She wasn’t slamming sideways into her own men or having to keep an eye on her opponent’s fifty friends. And the place didn’t reek of death. Absent the bloodlust, which had its flaws but also its merits, the whole business was to be preferred.

Certainly there was more skill in a practice bout, and Madoc, it soon became clear, did not lack for skill. He fought with a long dagger in his off hand, all the better against a foe with the sort of large weapon she wielded. She was quicker with a long sword than most. In human form, she was stronger enough than mortals to make up a bit for the difference in weight with her opponent. Still, Madoc evaded her as they moved around the practice ring, ducking sideways from one blow and stepping back from another, only to dart in with a stab that forced Moiread to react fast and set her off balance.

Flat of the blade, they’d agreed, and to five touches or one killing blow. Madoc had the first touch, a grazing slap to the back of Moiread’s leg that would have barely missed cutting the tendon.

Out of pride, Moiread might have wished to blame the point on her travels, to think that weariness and stiff muscles had slowed her reflexes. She knew otherwise. Her people recovered fast. She’d had ten hours of good sleep and two full meals, almost enough for her to heal most minor wounds, let alone simple exhaustion. She was as well fit to fight as she ever had been, and Madoc was good.

Besides, it was exciting to realize the loss. It had been a long time since she’d fought a single opponent who was a true challenge. It had been a long time since she’d sparred for the enjoyment and the skill of it. The last occasion might have been ten years before, with Douglas, and she knew his tactics too well. Madoc was new.

She grinned acknowledgment of the touch and pressed on, delighting in the weight of the sword, the stretch of her muscles, and even the lingering smart on her calf. The spring air was fresh and cool in her lungs. Madoc was coming around her side, slim legs bunching as he began to lunge. Moiread sidestepped, thrust, and caught him in the shoulder, pulling the blow instinctively.

Another pass. This time he blocked her at close range. They stared at each other across locked blades. Madoc’s face was flushed, with beads of sweat at his temples, just as Moiread could feel them at hers. His chest heaved as he caught his breath.

There were other aspects of a sparring partner who wasn’t a relative. Moiread felt her heart speed up in a way that had little to do with pure exertion.

That happened. The physical was the physical, and it was easy enough for sensation to transfer. Many a camp follower had made herself a comfortable living on that account. Moiread ignored it. Or mostly she ignored it. The man was near at hand and damned attractive, and there was no harm in looking.

She didn’t stare long enough or intently enough to miss him going for her ribs with the dagger, at least, so all was well.

Then it was back into the fray, and she drowned attraction in the need to concentrate, anticipate, and finally move at the right moment and with the right amount of force.

In the end, Moiread won. It was a close thing. Madoc had four touches to her two when he misjudged her timing. She pulled her swing, changed the angle, and caught him clean across the gut, careful to use almost no force. Even blunt impact could be deadly there, with so many organs lying vulnerable. She’d seen that more than a few times before.

Madoc stepped back and bowed. “That finished me, didn’t it? You’re remarkably good, Lady MacAlasdair.”

“I’ve advantages. Time’s not the least of them.” Moiread sheathed her sword and leaned against the fence. “I’m guessing you haven’t put a century into learning. Have you a verdict?”

“Male dress, I should think,” he said. “If we seem less formidable, we’ll be all the more likely targets for it, and I’d rather not add to whatever foes we have. Unless you’ve any objection to it, of course.”

“None at all. Makes riding easier, and God knows I could always use the help there.”