The Maid's War(21)

“How did the city hold out so long?” she asked him.

He nodded, pursing his lips. “A good question. People rarely ask good questions anymore. But you do. I like that about you.” He set the goblet down on the table. “I’ll tell you about Lionn and how Genette finally broke the siege. But first, let me help you understand who the Maid was. She led us to victory through the force of her personality. She was so certain the Fountain was with her. And it was.”





CHAPTER NINE

Resurgence





Spectators flocked to the training fields in Shynom to watch the impoverished duke of La Marche teach an unskilled peasant girl how to fight. Bawdy jokes were only half hidden behind hands. Bets were passed from purse to palm. There was the perception that it would take more than a few weeks to train such a peasant, Fountain-blessed or not, in the arts of war.

Then, on the third day, stunned silence fell on the onlookers as Genette disarmed him. Twice.

It was the sword, they said. The blade that had been drawn from the fountain at Firebos was enchanted. In defiance of such talk, Genette exchanged weapons with Alensson and repeated the maneuver that had disarmed him. Within moments, she sent Firebos flinging out of his hand and thudding onto the packed earth.

Alensson stopped wondering how she did it. And he began teaching her in earnest. Soon he was also defending himself in earnest.

He’d learned some tricks from the soldiers of Ceredigion during his long confinement in Callait. Alensson deflected a blow that made his elbow ring with pain, then stepped in and hooked his foot around Genette’s ankle. He was taller and more muscular, and he levered her backward as their sword guards locked, trying to trip her. Her hand reached up to grab his belt as the momentum between them shifted. Alensson realized he’d fall right on top of her; he hesitated. Anger flashed through her eyes, and she twirled away and rounded on him.

“Gentle duke, you are too gentle!” she scolded. Her dark cropped hair stuck to her face and she was breathing heavily, nearly as heavily as he was.

He paused to catch his breath. “Are you chiding me?”

“I am,” she replied, shaking her head. “You should have let me fall!”

“I didn’t want to crush you,” he countered.

Her eyes flashed with anger again. “What do you think I am made of? Glass? When we fight against Ceredigion, do you think our foes will treat me with delicacy?”

He stared at her curiously. “You are planning to fight at Lionn?”

“Do you think the men will fight as hard if I’m not fighting with them? Of course I will fight. Which is why you must train me!” She shoved him hard and then lowered into a battle stance, her eyes narrowing.

Alensson followed suit, preparing again to wage war on this peasant girl who had somehow already learned to beat him. She had a sense about her that was eerily akin to magic. It was as if she could sense his weaknesses, sense where he was going to attack and when. But perhaps these too were gifts from the Fountain.

He did a feinting thrust and then whirled around. She deflected the blow, whirled around as he had, and then suddenly her blade was at his throat, pausing just before his quivering skin. He stared at it in shock, realizing that she could have taken off his head.

“I won’t fool with you, Gentle Duke,” she said. “Harder! Fight harder!”

They went at it again, and then again. Most duels between knights lasted for a brief time, but it took Alensson nearly twice the normal time to subdue her. He still came out ahead five times out of seven, but each day that ratio leaned more in her favor.

“Rest, Gentle Duke,” she finally said, mopping her forehead with her arm. She was breathing heavy and fast as well.

He let slip an oath of amazement and saw her wince.

“Do not swear against the Fountain,” she chided, but this time she looked more injured than infuriated. “It is my friend.”

The words had slipped out of his mouth unintentionally. “Forgive me.”

She nodded to him in response. They went to the water bucket, and he let her fetch the ladle first. She was thirsty and sweating and looked like a soldier in her men’s clothes. But there was a feminine quality to her face, to the arch of her brows. He felt for the girl as a brother does for a cherished sister, protective and caring. There was something too sacred about her for baser feelings. None of the men in the camp had dared harass her.

She handed him the ladle and he scooped up some of the fresh water, drinking it heartily before he scooped some more and dumped it on his head to soothe his burning scalp. He was battered by their training, but teaching such a prodigy had also made him better.

“You’re really going to fight?” he asked her, feeling a certain protectiveness well up inside him.