The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 19

  Trying to escape the knights, she found herself confronted by the rose warrior. Tugging off his helmet, he revealed a handsome face with chiseled features and dark eyes full of laughter.

  Jordan stared in shock. She felt the blood rushing to her face; the man was way too easy on the eyes. He looked even better in the simple armor of an infantryman than he did in court finery. Suddenly shy, she glanced away hoping that Stewart, the crown prince of Lanverness, would not recognize her.

  “Well done!” The prince offered his hand in congratulations. “That move with your shield took me by surprise. Not a tactic I’d recommend on the battlefield, but an interesting trick for the sparring yard.”

  Jordan shook his hand, using a hard grip, hoping to appear ‘manly’. Unable to speak lest she betray her sex, she lowered her eyes and began to back away.

  The prince followed. “I don’t think I know you, soldier, what’s your name?”

  Making vague hand gestures, she turned and ran for the nearest doorway.

  Behind her, the prince called out, “Don’t forget, the best sword owes us a round of ales at the Tavern of Thorns! We’ll meet you there at sunset!”

  Jordan raced to the safety of the nearest doorway, disappearing in a maze of hallways. With the help of a page, she eventually made her way back to the Navarren wing of the castle. Removing her helm, she shook out her sandy-blonde hair and entered the common sitting room she shared with her siblings. She found her sister, Jemma, curled up in an armchair reading a thick scroll. Even in a simple frock of blue wool, her petite sister was a vision of beauty.

  Glancing up from the scroll, Jemma said, “I see you found someone to spar with. Did you win or lose?”

  Dumping her half helm in a chair, Jordan unbuckled her sword and began to shrug off her coat of mail. “I managed to spar for one round and won.” Free of the mail, she pulled off her boots and sat sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, her long legs stretched towards the crackling heat.

  “And?”

  Tucking her short sandy hair behind her ears, Jordan said, “What do you mean ‘and’?”

  “And, as in what else?” Jemma stared at her like a hound on a scent. “Come on Jordan, you’re usually a bundle of energy after a sparring session. Instead you come in here with a glum face and just dump your gear on the floor. So I’m asking you, what else happened at the sparring round?”

  Sometimes her sister was too perceptive. Shrugging, Jordan said, “I won the sparring round and ended up being ‘best sword’. Apparently that means I’m supposed to stand for a round of ale at some local tavern. Only, the kingdom of Lanverness doesn’t have any women in their army, so the knights think I’m a man. I left before they could learn otherwise.” Jordan tore her gaze away from the fireplace to glance over at her sister. Jemma stared at her with hooded eyes. Jordan knew that look. She could never get away with anything around her sister.

  Putting the scroll aside, Jemma leaned forward, a subtle smile on her face. “Since when are you bashful about showing men you’re just as good as they are with a sword?” With a sly smile, she added, “If you’ve turned shy it means that you’ve met a man you’re interested in. Is he the one you’re supposed to meet at the tavern?”

  Of her six siblings, it was tough to tell who was sharper, Jemma or Justin. With a shake of her head, Jordan gave in. “Oh, all right! Yes, but I am not going.” She turned back to the fire, hoping the conversation was finished.

  “What do you mean you’re not going? You’re fearless with a sword in your hand, but when it comes to meeting a man, all you ever do is run! You’ll only be in Lanverness for a few turns of the moon, so go and meet him and see what happens. Where’s the harm?”

  Jordan glared at her sister. They were of the same age, both part of the royal septuplets, but sometimes Jemma acted much older than her eighteen years.

  Uncurling from the armchair, Jemma went to the outer door and spoke to the guard. Returning with a smug smile, she sat cross-legged on the floor, demurely tucking her skirt around her slender legs. “I’ve ordered a bath for you. Get cleaned up and go and meet the man. If you want, I’ll come with you.”

  Jordan barked a laugh. “No way, sister! You don’t belong in an army tavern.”

  “Then take Justin, or Duncan, if you can find him.” Jemma gave her a conspiring smile. “Don’t you want to see the look on their faces when they realize they’ve been bested by a woman? It will do their prickly male pride a world of good.”

  Feeling a smile creep across her face, Jordan had to admit it would be fun. “All right, I’ll go.”

  “Good, I’m glad that’s settled.” Gracefully rising from the floor, Jemma added, “You take care of your armor and I’ll sort through your clothes.”

  Jordan picked up her sword and chain mail, following her sister into the bedchamber. “Just remember, Sis, it’s an army tavern, so no dresses or anything frilly…not that you’d find much like that in my chest.”

  A turn of the hourglass later, Jordan finished her bath and pulled on a pair of black leather pants and a white silk shirt. Over the shirt, she put on her favorite red leather jerkin, the one with a white osprey eagle worked into the collar. Buckling her sword around her waist and swirling a dark blue cape around her shoulders, she returned to the sitting room to pass her sister’s inspection. “What do you think, Sis, will I do?”

  Jemma gave her a warm smile. “It’s perfect. It’s you.” With a mischievous grin she added, “Have a good time and I want to hear all the details when you get back!”

  Tossing a pillow at her sister, Jordan went out into the hallway to talk to the guard. The guard raised his eyebrows but she eventually got the directions. Along the way, she commandeered a page to lead her to the outer gates.

  The bustle of the capital city started just beyond the castle walls. Jordan set out at a brisk walk enjoying the mild evening. The sun set in a blaze of colors, bathing the cobblestone streets in gold, the perfect patina for the wealthiest city in Erdhe. Merchants spilled onto the streets, using long tapers to light lanterns hanging outside their shops. A warm glow of lantern-light lined the street, another sign of outrageous wealth. Jordan shook her head, amazed to find that many of the shops stayed open after dark. People crowded the street with their comings and goings, the rich velvets of nobles mingling with the warm butternut-homespun of the common folk. It seemed the queen’s city never slept.

  Turning into a side lane, she heard the faint strains of a bawdy army song. The song led to a tavern, a sign overhead displaying a tangle of nasty thorns. She paused on the stairs, listening to the familiar lyrics. Vulgar and crude, the song would have embarrassed Jemma, but Jordan just took it in stride. Lewd language was something you learned to deal with if you wanted to wield a sword.

  Stuffy with warmth, the tavern was overcrowded with soldiers in the green and white of Lanverness. Men argued, diced, and shouted lewd jokes, banging their empty tankards on tabletops. Serving girls navigated a gauntlet of grabbing hands, balancing huge mugs of frothing ale. A minstrel strummed a lute near the fireplace, the source of the bawdy songs. To Jordan’s ear the minstrel sounded off-key, but she doubted anyone in the crowd noticed.

  Unable to see an empty table, she put a hand on her sword and forced her way to the bar. Finding a place at the counter, she ordered a mug of ale. The barkeeper gave her a rude look, making it clear she did not belong. Jordan paid for the ale and then scanned the room for the prince. She found him sitting with a mixture of noblemen and infantry soldiers at a table near the bard. The prince seemed to be in high spirits, enjoying the bawdy songs as much as anyone. She liked the fact that he took his leisure with common infantrymen as well as nobles. She also liked the fact that he dressed in boiled leathers instead of the elegant finery of the court. With a rueful smile, she had to admit she liked the man no matter how he dressed. She wondered if the prince could ever like a woman who carried a sword. Putting a small stack of golds on the bar, she decided to find out. “Barkeep,
a round of ales for that table over there.”

  The swarthy barkeep scowled at her till he saw her golds.

  Covering the coins with her hand, she leaned forward. “Say that the drinks were from the best sword.”

  “As you wish.” The ill-tempered barkeep palmed the coins and then filled a dozen tankards, calling to a servant girl to deliver them.

  Jordan leaned on the bar, watching as the fresh tankards were passed around the prince’s table. The prince inquired about the ales and the serving girl vaguely waved in Jordan’s direction. He scanned the bar but his eyes slid over her without recognition. Standing with his tankard held high in salute, the prince hailed the bar, his voice cutting through the din of the tavern. “Will the ‘best sword’ grace us with his presence? We toast his prowess with the sword, or perhaps I should say his prowess with the shield?”

  The noise of the tavern stilled, the stares of the crowd turning toward the bar. Jordan felt the blood rush to her face. This wasn’t working out the way she’d planned. Steeling her nerve, she raised her own tankard and said, “I’ll drink to that.”

  A deafening silence blanketed the tavern. The silence held an ugly edge of menace…her claim violated their male pride.

  Ignoring the crowd, she focused on the prince. Surprise and disbelief warred across his face. He lowered the tankard and stood dumbstruck, staring at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

  A drunken soldier broke the silence. “Come ‘ere lass, I’ll test your prowess against me stiff sword!”

  The tavern erupted in a roar of crude laughter, all of it male.

  Embarrassed beyond belief, Jordan gripped her sword hilt and shouldered her way through the crowd. Rude hands grabbed for her. Pulling away, she stepped over a leg thrust out to trip her. More hands reached for her, a gauntlet of leering men. She pushed her way to the door, escaping into the crisp clean air of the autumn night. Breathing deep to rid her lungs of the tavern’s stench, she headed back toward the castle. Locked in her own anger, she did not hear the footsteps approaching from behind.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder.

  Unsheathing her short sword, she whirled to face the attacker.

  The attacker danced back into the shadows. From the darkness a male voice said, “So it was you in the sparring ring.”

  Keeping her sword raised, Jordan waited for the stalker to make the next move.

  Stepping into the light, he revealed his face. Jordan stared slack-jawed at Prince Stewart.

  The prince raised his hands in surrender, “My lady, you can put your sword away…you won’t need it with me…unless you are looking for another sparring match?”

  For a moment she forgot the sword in her hands. Coming back to herself, she sheathed her blade. “I only wanted to pay my debt of ale. I did not mean any harm by it.”

  He met her stare. “And I only wanted to meet you so I could toast your prowess with the sword.”

  She listened closely but heard no mockery in his voice.

  A sudden silence fell between them. The prince was the first to break it. “In Lanverness, women do not wield swords. I never guessed I danced the steel with a woman.” Pausing he added, “You fought like a man. In fact, you fought better than most men I meet in the sparring circle.” His voice trailed off and he just stood there, staring at her with a strange expression on his face.

  Always the same old argument. Exasperation flooded her voice. “Lanverness is ruled by a woman. If a woman can rule a kingdom, why is it so hard to believe that a woman might also be good with a sword?”

  A genuine smile lit up his face like an early morning sunrise. “Isn’t mother extraordinary? Lanverness has never had a better ruler.” Growing thoughtful he added, “Perhaps extraordinary women also wield swords?”

  Now it was Jordan’s turn to flush.

  Holding out his hand, the prince said, “We’ve danced the steel, but I still do not know your name.”

  Embarrassment heated Jordan’s face to a bright blush. “Actually, we’ve met before, but you were understandably pre-occupied by my sister. Her name is Jemma. She’s the beautiful one. My name is Jordan. I’m the other princess of Navarre, the one who likes to wield a sword.” She watched his face as recognition dawned.

  “I remember now.” With a twinkle in his eyes he said, “It seems we have much in common. We are both more comfortable in leathers than in the confining plumage of the court.” Growing serious, he said, “Perhaps we could start again?”

  Smiling, she replied, “I’d like that.”

  He answered her smile. “Let me walk you back to the castle. You can tell me where you learned that trick with the shield. I’ve never seen that move before.”

  Falling into step with the prince, Jordan thought her stay in Lanverness was going to be far too short.

  30

  Katherine

  The sun set on the third day of her captivity and still there was no sign of the knights. Their absence gnawed on Kath’s mind, eroding her resolve. Despair threatened to claim her…the one emotion she couldn’t afford. Bound to the saddle, a leather gag in her mouth, Kath stole another glance behind but this time the captain saw her. Reining his horse next to hers, he gave her a cruel smile. “Those shiny knights will never find us. You’re mine, girlie, you’d best get used to it.”

  Kath bowed her head, hiding behind a tangle of dirty blonde hair. Anger warred with despair. She’d often heard the knight marshal say that ‘despair was the vanguard of defeat’. Kath refused to lose this battle before the first sword was drawn. Girding her resolve, she forced herself to stop looking for the knights, swearing to find her own way to escape. Biding her time, she waited for the perfect moment.

  The waiting proved hard.

  Anger simmered just beneath the surface. Kath was surprised her captors never noticed the rage smoldering in her eyes, but then they expected to see a meek little girl so that’s all they ever saw. It was the meek little girl who succeeded in getting her feet untied, sitting astride the horse instead of being slung over the saddle like baggage. It was the meek little girl who would get the best chance to escape…but it was so hard to play the role. When the strain of the charade got to be too much, Kath thought about her talks with the veteran knights and how they stressed the importance of creating advantage in battle. She knew this was one of those times when being underestimated created a huge advantage, so Kath submitted to her captors, but every day the charade grew harder.

  She spent her time studying the enemy, searching for weaknesses. The days held a definite pattern. Up at dawn for a breakfast of cold dried meat and then tied to the pommel of the saddle, riding through the forest till dusk. They rode toward the northeast, always avoiding any farms or holdfasts, keeping to the shadows of the old growth forest. They stopped in the evenings for a hot dinner, spending the nights camped under the dense canopy of pine boughs. Lashed to a stout tree, Kath learned to sleep sitting up while her captors drew lots to see who stood guard. So far the pattern of days did not reveal any discernible weakness. Kath suspected her chance would come when there was a break in the pattern.

  Cresting a ridge, the riders came to a small fast-flowing steam. The captain called a halt, ordering a camp for the night. The others dismounted but Kath was forced to sit on her horse until the captain had time for her. She watched as he watered and unsaddled his stallion. Finished with his mount, he flashed her a crooked smile. “The prize was good today. We covered a lot of ground.” Resting his hands on either side of her saddle, he leered up at her. “Will the prize be good if I let her down from the horse?”

  Bound and gagged, Kath responded with a nod.

  The captain untied the rope binding her to the pommel. Grasping her waist, he eased her off the horse. Kath suppressed a shiver, hating his touch. She tried to keep her eyes averted and her body limp, hoping neither would betray her. Once her feet touched the ground, she meekly stared down.

  The captain thrust the leather collar in front of her face. “The pr
ize will be good and stretch out her neck for the collar.”

  Rage flooded through her, but she did her best to hide it. She knew the man enjoyed treating her like a slave but she had no choice but to comply. Raising her chin, she kept her gaze focused on the ground as the captain fitted the leather collar around her neck. He gave the leash a mild yank, reminding her that the collar was designed to choke. Putting a filthy hand under her chin, he lifted her face and peered into her eyes, his breath hot on her face. “If the prize promises to be good, then the gag can come out of her mouth. Blink if the prize promises to obey.”

  Kath blinked and the captain removed the hated leather gag.

  Her mouth was dry and the aftertaste of the gag was terrible. In a deliberately weak voice, she croaked, “Water?”

  With a laugh that sent shivers down her back, the captain held a flask to her lips. A gush of cool water flushed the awful taste from her mouth. When she finished, he tugged on her leash and led her to a spot under a tree. She sat where the captain ordered, trying to find a comfortable spot in the fallen leaves. The captain sprawled nearby, fondling the end of the leash while the other three worked to set up camp. It was always the same every night. The ogre gathered wood and built the campfire. The goblin-man spread the bedrolls and got out the bowls and the iron pot for making stew, while the other man, the archer, skinned whatever game he’d shot during the day and prepared it for dinner. Kath sat with her hands bound, a leash around her neck, using her eyes and her ears to learn whatever she could about her captors.

  Tonight they were having rabbit stew cooked with a few potatoes. Kath’s mouth began to water. The one thing she didn’t have to worry about was being fed. Her captors seemed serious about getting her to the ‘master’ alive, always giving her an equal share of the food.

  Bolo, the goblin-man, stirred the stew, tossing in herbs and a clump of wild carrots. The little man wore an odd patchwork of clothes, a rag-tag cloak over his stunted frame. Kath still thought of him as the goblin-man. She’d gotten use to his pointy teeth and stunted body, but what scared her about Bolo was the captain’s claim that the weird little man could sniff magic. She shivered with loathing every time he came near her.