Chapter 10
This was unwise. Gellir knew it. And Merraid knew it. He could tell by the furrow between her brows.
“You don’t have to…” he began.
“Nay. ’Tis fine, Sir Gellir. I am at your service.” She bowed her head.
He scowled. Sir Gellir? Since when did she call him Sir Gellir? “Never mind. I’m sure you have better things—”
“Lady Feiyan wishes me to teach ye. Sir. That’s what I shall do.”
Her stiff decorum and that “sir” was making him testy. “I need no instruction,” he said, adding a pointed, “my lady.” How hard could it be? He waved the blade toward her. “Go on then. Attack me.”
She lifted a skeptical brow. “As ye wish. Sir.”
Did her lip quirk up then? He had no time to notice. In the next instant, her blade whipped around from the right side to kiss his neck.
He blinked. If the blade had been sharp, she could have beheaded him right then and there. He’d had no time to raise his own weapon.
She lowered the blade. “Again, sir?”
He stepped away and nodded.
This time, he blocked the slash aimed at his left knee.
But the impact made the strange blade quiver in his grip.
It distracted him long enough to allow her a second attack.
She reversed, spun, and sliced through the air.
Before he could defend himself, the edge of her weapon found his throat again.
She clucked her tongue. “Twice now I could have killed ye, sir.”
“Fine,” he grumbled, moving her blade aside with a cautious thumb. Then he made an X in the air with his own sword. “Show me how to use this thing.”
She agreed, though she remained aloof. And he was determined enough to master this new weapon to ignore her new primness.
“Scottish swordplay,” she began, demonstrating, “is a series o’ hacks.
One after the other. Each has a beginnin’ and an end.
’Tis like a sculptor chiselin’ words into stone.
” She changed her movements into slow loops and lazy circles in the air.
“But the fightin’ from the Orient is a continuous flow.
There’s no beginnin’. No end. ’Tis more like a quill scrawlin’ letters on parchment. ”
For the better part of an hour, Merraid taught him the basics of the Eastern style of warfare. He learned how to wield the lightweight, single-edged dao, which was capable of more speed and flexibility than a heavy Scottish sword.
He mimicked her motions, which matched the nature of the blade better as it flexed through the air.
“That’s it,” she said. “And when ye use it quickly, ye can feel the blade warpin’ just a wee bit.”
He nodded. “Making it less likely to break.”
“Aye. The dao is made for speed, not strength. ’Tis used as both sword and shield. Strike at me slowly from the right. I’ll show ye.”
He did so. Her blade caught his, but then circled around it with a scrape of steel on steel. It didn’t stop the blow directly as a shield would. It deflected it.
“Instead o’ blockin’ an opponent’s strike, ye use its force and change its path.”
“Let me try.” He motioned her to strike at him.
She brought her dao down slowly. He snaked his blade around hers and cast it off in another direction. Then he returned with a slash that stopped short of her waist.
“Exactly!” Enthusiasm colored her voice.
They continued practicing the move, gradually moving faster and faster. Finally, he could do it at full speed.
From there, she taught him more complex maneuvers. Showy over-the-head circles. Sly under-the-arm thrusts. Levered behind-the-back attacks.
“That’s it!” she cried when he successfully mastered a spinning backhand strike.
He grinned. It had been a long time since he’d felt this challenged and excited. He didn’t want to stop. “Let’s spar now.”
Despite her determination to remain cool, her eyes lit up. “As ye wish. Sir.”
Merraid dominated the battle. Which was no surprise. After all, she’d had years of training. But it was a pleasure to test his flexibility and his capacity to learn new techniques.
Indeed, he was enjoying himself so much that he completely lost track of time. He didn’t notice the rest of the castle waking. Servants starting the day’s work. Warriors emerging to spar on the field. Or the arrival of the last person he wished to see.
Merraid was in the middle of a thrilling acrobatic attack. Gellir was left breathless—nearly unable to defend himself—when he was interrupted by a harsh reprimand.
“What the bloody hell do ye think ye’re doin’, sirrah?”
Gellir’s hackles rose. It was Henry. That pesky guard from Lady Maut’s castle. The one who thought Merraid belonged to him.
Gellir resisted the urge to come round with his sword. He’d like to lop off the man’s annoying curl—if not his head—for speaking to him with such insolence.
Merraid spoke before he could. “Henry!” she scolded.
But Henry’s gaze was locked on him. Blind to Gellir’s identity, he saw only a foe. “I’ll ask ye again. What do ye think ye’re doin’?”
Gellir narrowed his eyes.
The insolent guard came forward with a threatening hand on his hilt.
Merraid stepped in front of him. “Henry, stop!”
Henry’s piercing gaze dropped to her. “Are ye all right, Merraid? What’s he done to ye?”
Considering Merraid had the upper hand, Gellir couldn’t help but snicker at that. The sound that enraged the guard.
“God’s bones! What kind o’ knight are ye, sirrah, attackin’ a lass?”
Gellir opened his mouth to reply. But Merraid gave the guard a sobering shove backwards. “He wasn’t attackin’ me, Henry. We were sparrin’.”
That didn’t sit well with Henry either. He looked aghast at Merraid.
By now, the Darragh warriors who populated the field were alerted. Their intervention wouldn’t be necessary, of course. Gellir could easily quell the guard alone. But Henry had proved one thing. He cared enough about Merraid to protect her with his life.
Gellir supposed he should be relieved.
Instead he was annoyed.
Henry muttered, “Was he forcin’ ye to spar, lass?”
Laughter teased at the corners of Gellir’s eyes. Henry didn’t know her very well if he thought a man could force Merraid to do anything.
“Nay,” she said. “’Twas my idea.”
“Your idea?” Henry scoffed. “What do ye mean?”
“I mean, I’m a warrior, Henry. Ye might as well know it. I fight with a sword.”
By his expression of horror and distaste, Henry obviously wasn’t familiar with the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch. “By choice?”
“Aye.” She placed a hand on Henry’s chest. “Now will ye apologize to Sir Gellir for your discourtesy?”
“Sir…” Henry gulped. “Gellir?”
Merraid moved aside.
Henry took his hand off his hilt and nervously licked his lips. “I beg your forgiveness, m’laird. But when I saw wee Merraid—”
“You’re forgiven.” Gellir didn’t need to hear the details or how desperate Henry was to save his beloved.
“Thank ye, m’laird.” He bowed his head as he retreated. Then he faced Merraid and murmured under his breath. “As for ye, I don’t know what to say, lass. A woman…with a sword…”
“Ye’ll have to get used to it, Henry,” she told him. “I’ve wielded a sword since I was a lass.”
Henry’s look of distaste was comical. At least it was to Gellir. He’d grown up savoring such confounded reactions to the women in his warrior clan.
But he could see Merraid was not amused. And he suddenly felt sorry for her.
Disappointment dampened Merraid’s high spirits.
Why did Henry have to stumble onto the field just as she was crossing blades with Gellir?
She’d planned to tell him—eventually—about her unusual diversion. It wasn’t something she ever meant to hide.
But she hadn’t expected to have to defend herself so soon.
She hoped Henry might be different from the rest. She thought, given time, he might even be pleasantly surprised to discover her unique talents. Surprised and impressed.
But it seemed he was just like the others. Judgmental and disapproving.
She’d been having such fun, battling Gellir. She loved practicing her skills. And having an eager and dedicated student was a pleasure.
Henry’s response had triggered old feelings of shame and inadequacy. True, she’d learned to keep up a brave face under criticism long ago. But his condemnation made a new cut in her already scarred heart.
“Come now. ’Tis a jest, isn’t it?” Henry decided. “Ye saw me comin’ from the parapet and—”
Gellir coughed.
“Nay,” she told him. “’Tis true.”
“Ye can’t be serious,” he insisted.
Gellir stepped forward. “She is. If ye doubt it, why not try your own hand?” He flipped the dao around and offered it to Henry, hilt-first.
Henry, of course, would have none of it. “Och, sir, I won’t fight a woman.” He shuddered.
“Are you afraid?” Gellir teased.
“Of a lass?” he replied. “O’ course not.”
The Darragh warriors laughed at that, confusing Henry.
“You should be,” Gellir said. “She nearly took off my head. Twice.”
Henry must have realized he stood on dangerous ground. He’d been issued a warning by a celebrated tournament champion. And he was surrounded by Merraid’s allies. His frown of condemnation dissolved into an easy grin.
“Well now, I can see ye’re havin’ a wee bit o’ fun at my expense. Far be it from me to stand in the way of a woman’s… diversions. No matter how curious they seem.” He placed a humble hand over his heart and gave her an apologetic bow.
Gellir and the others chuckled, giving her a nod of reassurance, and dispersed. It had all been in good fun.
Until Henry reached out to coil a fond finger around the end of Merraid’s braid.
It was a gesture of affection. But it was also expressed ownership.
He murmured for her ears only, “O’ course, once we’re wed, darlin’, ye’ll have my sword to defend ye.
There will be no need to carry one o’ your own.
No need to engage in such violent sport.
Not when there’s more pleasurable sport to be had.
” With that, he tugged her forward by her braid and pressed a quick kiss on her mouth.