Page 15

A li would have spared a thought for those blissful days when all she’d had to do was rise, go to Mass, then spend the rest of her time doing menial tasks—never mind that it was under Marie’s critical eye and ready slap—but she couldn’t.

She was far too busy trying to keep her head atop her shoulders.

The day was definitely not proceeding as she would have liked.

She’d left the solar early in the day, certain she could avoid Lord Christopher, Lord Colin, Jason, and Sir Etienne—and that had been after a miserable night spent smelling whatever foul brew had been dropped in the passageway and subsequently seeped into the solar.

It had rendered the place almost unfit for habitation.

She’d intended to sneak to the kitchen, find herself something to eat, and then retreat to the safety of the battlements where she could inhale fresh air and give thinking on her future the attention it deserved.

She hadn’t managed to shove but a bite or two of bread into her mouth before Sir Etienne had appeared, scowling fiercely.

He’d taken her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her from the great hall.

She hadn’t had time to even contemplate flight.

Sir Etienne had pulled her across the courtyard to the lists, cursing her the entire while and promising her a good lesson that morn on how a man comported himself.

She’d known that nothing pleasant could come of that.

All she’d been able to do was pat her middle quickly to make certain her coins were securely nestled against her belly, then pray for a swift journey into senselessness before the true torture of his instruction began.

Once they’d reached the lists, he had shoved her away and bid her show him what feeble things she was capable of.

She had been no match for him from the start, of course.

She’d held up her sword as bravely as she’d known how and waved it about in the same manner.

As he’d sneered at her, she’d begun to wish that perhaps Isabeau had let her out in the lists more often where she might have learned a bit of swordplay.

Now, she found herself with her sword in both hands, fighting to keep it upright and wondering how the morning could possibly finish any way but in complete misery. And if her own black thoughts weren’t bad enough, a crowd had begun to gather—no doubt to be witness to her humiliation.

She could only hope Lord Colin wouldn’t be there as well, for then he would see her feebleness and likely know immediately she was not what she purported to be.

Sir Etienne took an enormous swipe at her.

Her blade left her hands abruptly; her hands stung as if Marie had been at them with a birch rod for some bad bit of embroidery.

Ali watched as Sir Etienne flipped her blade up and into the air with his own.

He caught it and tossed it aside with a negligent flick of his wrist. Then he looked at her, his utter contempt for her written plainly on his face.

“You don’t deserve your spurs,” he said coldly. “And I intend to see you sully them no longer.”

“Ah,” she began, but got no further.

He slapped her on various parts of her body with his sword until it felt as if she wore nothing, not a mail shirt, not a leather padded jerkin beneath her mail.

She was nothing but bare flesh against unforgiving steel.

The only mercy was that he used the flat of his blade instead of the fatally sharp edge.

Yet still her ears rang from blows, her legs stung from being whipped.

And then he jabbed his sword into the dirt next to him and came at her with his fists.

The fist blow connected with her belly. She immediately lost her wind. When she managed to suck back in air, he did it again.

And this time, despite herself, she heaved up her meager breakfast onto his feet.

The next thing she knew, he had her by the scruff of her tunic, had forced her to her knees, and had buried her face in her own bile.

She struggled to turn her head aside to breathe, but Sir Etienne was far too strong for her.

She clawed at the hand that held her head down until she felt the world begin to fade.

Perhaps her death approached. Not a dignified way to go, but who was she to find fault with it?

She suddenly found that she could breathe again and the first great gulp into her lungs was full of things she didn’t want to identify. She coughed and spit and gasped for more sweet air that smelled of things most foul. She didn’t care. She lived still.

“You ruined my sport,” Sir Etienne bellowed from above her.

“We don’t take kindly here to bullying children half our size,” came the reply.

Ali managed to pry her eyes open long enough to see that none other than Jason of Artane stood over her like an avenging angel.

Jason gave Sir Etienne a mighty shove backward.

She huddled there miserably and watched as swords were brandished and the true business of the morning began.

She had no means, nor desire, to protest the rescue.

She was simply grateful to be alive and breathing.

It took her half a lifetime to drag herself upright. She made it as far as her knees, and could go no farther. Her body was on fire and she wondered if Sir Etienne had done her a grave injury. Then again, perhaps this was how every man felt after being bested in battle.

She wished, and not for the first time recently, that she could have just been a woman. Surely even childbirth was less trouble than this.

Then the next thing she knew, arms were sliding under hers and she was hauled to her feet—rather gently, all things considered.

Heavy hands remained on her shoulders as her surroundings spun violently.

She wondered how she could possibly stand—never mind avoiding the temptation to break down and sob.

“It makes you want to kill the whoreson,” a deep voice said curtly from behind her, “doesn’t it?”

She could only nod jerkily.

One of the hands patted her shoulder with almost enough force to send her back down to her knees.

“Up on your own now,” the man said, then moved in front of her. “I believe I’ll be enjoying some of this fine play now.”

Ali watched in complete amazement as the very man she had risked her life to avoid strode out onto the field.

Apparently to avenge her.

Colin unceremoniously pushed Jason of Artane out of the way and took his place facing Sir Etienne.

“How pleasant to find you here again,” Colin said, folding his arms over his chest.

Sir Etienne shrugged negligently. “I’ve seen you a pair of times. And you’ve shown me nothing I haven’t seen before—and bested.”

Ali gasped at his cheek. Jason only laughed and resheathed his sword.

“You’ll pay for that,” he said, still chuckling.

“Jason, see to the lad,” Colin threw over his shoulder.

“Already done,” Jason said. He walked over to where Ali was weaving unsteadily and took her arm. “You look fair to falling down. Did he break anything, do you think?”

Ali could only shake her head. “He merely... wanted to ... teach me a lesson,” she managed.

“Hardly the way to go about it, was it?” Jason asked. He inclined his head toward the hall. “Let us seek out a healer for you and leave Sir Colin to his play.”

Ali hesitated. There would be something quite satisfying about witnessing Sir Etienne’s defeat. After all, how many souls had the luxury of watching a warrior of Colin’s mettle when that skill was directed at someone else?

“I believe that lad is mine now,” Colin was saying conversationally.

“He isn’t yet. I’ve things I intend to teach him before you have him and you’ll not interfere with that. Not,” he added contemptuously, “that you’d be able to with your paltry skills.”

“Well, perhaps we can come to an agreement on when I begin to care for what is mine,” Colin said, drawing his sword.

“You’ll have him when I say you’ll have him,” Sir Etienne spat.

Jason tugged on Ali’s arm. “No need to watch,” he said. “The garrison will be full of the tale later. And you’ll have the amusement of counting how many days Sir Etienne spends in the healer’s house, unable to rise from his bed.”

“Think you?” she wheezed.

Jason looked at her sideways. “Can you doubt it? Surely even France is afire with tales of Colin’s prowess.”

“Well ...”

“Listen for yourself tomorrow and see why few dare to challenge him.” He nodded toward the hall. “You need something to help ease your pain. Let us see to it immediately.”

Perhaps he had it aright and she had no need to watch Colin doing what he did best. Besides, the very sight of it might be enough to send her fleeing in terror from the lists and she wasn’t sure she could flee anywhere at present.

So she nodded to Jason, then limped along next to him back to the hall, grateful for the slowness of his pace and his lack of comment on her smell, which even she could tell was horrendous beyond the norm.

“A bath,” Jason announced, “then something proper to eat. And I’ll see that you can eat it in peace.”

A bath? Nay, she couldn’t have a bath. When, by the blessed saints, was the last time she’d been forced to do the like? At her christening?

Sybil had bathed occasionally, but that was to remove encrusted food from her person. Then again, the lady Isabeau had bathed quite often and never suffered any ill effects afterward. Well, that was fine for Isabeau, but Ali doubted it would go as well for her.

Especially in her current straits.

But before she could escape, she found herself in the kitchens, staring down at a tub placed in one of the darkest comers of the chamber.

It was then that she began to look about her for an exit.

Jason caught her by the back of her tunic. “A good scrubbing will serve you.”

“But—”

“We’ll find other clothes for you.”

Ali wasn’t sure how she was going to escape this tangle, but she knew she had no choice but to try. She could not allow anyone to see her naked.