Quicksilver's Knight Read online

  But Lumpkin's fist slammed into her cheek as he snarled, "Vixen!" Pain seared through the side of her face, stabs of light obscured him from her, and she leaped back but not fast enough; his rough hand closed over her arm, yanking her off her feet. The ground rushed up to slam against her, but training came to her rescue—she tucked her chin in as she fell so that her head did not strike the ground. In fact, she managed to fall on her side, reached out to grasp the leg in front of her behind the knee, and pulled as hard as she could. She must have hit something she didn't know about, for Lumpkin screamed, a high and whinnying cry, as he toppled. Still dazed, she managed to push herself to her feet, her head clearing enough to see Rogash just beginning to get his breath back, glaring murder at her as he straightened—as much as he could.

  Jane leaped back into the underbrush, then twisted aside, and Rogash blundered past her, bellowing, "Come back here, vixen!" Moving with the silence of one born to the greenwood, Jane searched among last year's fallen leaves until she found a broken branch, three feet long and still sound.

  Rogash came blundering back, calling, "Where are you, trull? Come out and get what you deserve!"

  Jane stepped out in front of him and swung the branch two-handed.

  Rogash howled with pain, falling back with a crash but Jane heard a retching gasp behind her and turned to see Barlein coming toward her, still hunched over his pain, but with a dagger in his hand and blood in his eye.

  Jane swung her improvised club in a feint. Barlein reached up to catch it, lunging with his knife...

  But the branch wasn't there to catch; it circled around to smash against his knife hand. He screamed again, dropping the knife, then went silent as the branch cracked against his head.

  Suddenly, the wood was awfully still.

  Fear of another sort seized Jane, for she had never killed any man, and had no wish to begin. She glanced at Rogash, but he began to groan, clasping his head, and Barlein at her feet was breathing, at least. She stepped back into the roadway, club ready—but Lumpkin was scrabbling in the dust, trying to regain his feet. All guilt vanished, and Jane raised her club...

  Feet pounded through the underbrush, many feet, and Jane leaped back with a scream that was as much anger as fear, her club swinging high, ready to strike ...

  "Nay, sister, I pray thee," Leander said, startled. Jory and Martin stepped up to either side of him.

  Jane just stared at them, still holding her club as she gave a sobbing gasp. Then she dropped it and leaped into her eldest brother's embrace, throwing her arms about his chest in a hug like that of Death.

  "Nay, sister, 'tis well, 'tis well," he soothed. "You are safe now—we will not let any harm you."

  "She seems to have little enough need of us," Jory told him, and there was definite pride in his voice.

  "No need! See how she trembles, brother! Nay, sister, what did these cattle seek to do to you?"

  "What do you think, Leander?" Martin snapped. "Brave fellows, to come at a poor weak lass three together!"

  "Fool that I was, to ever let you go alone in the woods!" Leander groaned.

  "You did well, sister," Martin said with admiration. "Well, but not enough." Leander disengaged himself from Jane. "Come, brothers. Let us finish what she has begun."

  "No!" Jane cried in panic. "I would not have you hang!"

  "Peace, sister." Now it was Jory's arm around her. "We shall not be hung—but neither shall they."

  "No, no!" Jane cried. "Nothing that will not heal!"

  "You are too kindhearted, sister," Martin sighed, "but we shall honor your wish." He dropped to one knee to yank Lumpkin's head up by the hair. "Did you hear that, bag of offal? It is only by our sister's mercy that you shall not lose more than your life."

  "Nor even that!" Jane cried.

  "Well, as you wish, sister," Jory sighed, dragging Barlein back into the trail and throwing him down on the ground. "Up, swine! For I shall give you one chance of fair fight, though 'tis more than you gave my sister."

  But Barlein knew better than to risk it; he scrambled to his feet, trying to spring past Jory.

  Jory kicked his feet out from under him. "You do not wish the chance, then? Sister, turn your head!"

  "Aye, Martin, take her home," Leander snapped. "The two of us are more than a match for what is left of the three of them. Do not beseech greater mercy, sister, for they deserve none."

  "True enough." Martin turned her away with a consoling arm about her shoulders. "Come, sister, home to safety. You do not wish to see what follows."

  He was right—she didn't. She was sure of that the next week, when she happened to see Lumpkin going out to the field to work. The bruises had faded, but he was still limping.

  She had no trouble with the village boys after that but apparently, word of her spread to the manor house, for it was Sir Hempen who stopped her next—Sir Hempen, the son of Sir Dunmore, the knight whom her father served.

  Sir Hempen leaned down from his saddle to catch her wrist, saying, "Hail, pretty maid!"

  Jane's heart quailed within, for knight's son or not, the glint in his eye was the same she had seen in the eye of the peasant Lumpkin. "Say, pretty maid, have you seen a fox?"

  "Several times in my life, sir." Jane gripped her staff more tightly—she never went without one, now.

  "Aye, but have you seen one today? I am hunting vixen."

  "I have not seen one, sir, not this week past."

  "None?" Sir Hempen feigned surprise. "Not even when you have looked into the waters of a still pond?"

  Jane stared at him, startled, then twisted her wrist out of his grasp in anger. "Nay, sir, but I have seen an ass, not two minutes past!"

  His hand cracked across her cheek, and she fell back, biting down on a cry of pain, pressing her left hand to her cheek, then glaring up at him—but the young knight lolled back in his saddle, face easing into a wolfish grin. "Why, then, if you have seen an ass, so shall I! Come, wanton, will you be bought? Or will you be forced?"

  "I am no wanton, sir," she retorted angrily, "not for any man's buying or beckoning!"

  "That is not what I hear from the village boys. Nay, think, pretty lass—there shall be gold for you, and for your child."

  A sudden certainty crystallized within her, and she did not know where it came from, for it must have been building a while. "I shall never bear any child, sir, not yours nor any man's!"

  But he misunderstood her completely. "Barren? So much the better, then!"

  "Nay, sir, I am a virgin!"

  "Then how could you know you were barren?" He reached down again. "Come, I am not your first, nor shall I be your last!"

  She stared at the reaching hand for a horrified instant, realizing that Lumpkin and his friends had certainly had their revenge. Anger glared into rage, anger at them and this presumptuous young knight. She snatched the groping hand and spun about, yanking hard. She heard Sir Hempen's cry of surprise and fear, then saw him fly past her to slam full-length into the ground. His horse neighed and backed, alarmed—and Jane felt satisfaction glowing within her.

  Then Sir Hempen heaved himself up, glaring murder at her, and with a sick sense of certainty, she saw in her mind's eye a gallows, with the bodies of her three brothers swaying in the wind—for to revenge your sister on a peasant was one thing, but to take that same revenge on a knight's son was quite another. The certainty grew and the sickness faded as she lifted her quarterstaff in both hands, with grim conviction—for though Sir Hempen might have charged her brothers with assault, she knew he never would complain of a beating from a girl, for the very shame of it.

  If she could—for a peasant was one thing, but a knight trained in fighting was another.

  "You shall regret that, my lass," Sir Hempen grated, "regret it now, and in my bed!"

  "I shall never come to your bed, sir," she retorted. "They who did hint that I might, did slander me most sorely."

  "Most sore shall you be," he retorted, "but I doubt that you were slandered."
He gathered himself and charged, reaching.

  She spun aside and swung her staff.

  It caught him on the back of the head with a hollow knock, and he went sprawling.

  Jane stepped back and waited. A single blow and a quick flight would not serve this time, she knew, for word might still reach her brothers, and fools of honor that they were, they would seek Sir Hempen out. Worse, he would pursue her still, if not today, then another time, until they were bound to come against him. The only chance was to stand and fight, and best him at his own game.

  Sir Hempen came slowly to his feet, his eyes chips of ice. "What sort of a virgin swings a staff like a soldier?"

  "A virgin who is determined to remain so," she countered.

  He snarled and came for her again, drawing his sword. Fear stabbed her at the thought that the sword might, but she stood her ground, circling around him, ready. He began to smile, enjoying her apprehension, then suddenly advanced, slashing.

  She parried with the left end of the staff, then the right, then the left again. He lost his smile and swung his sword high—but she stepped in and swung the staff up to knock the blade aside.

  He caught the staff with his left hand, though, and held it high as he turned the sword and, using the hilt as a knuckle guard, drove his fist into her stomach.

  She fell back, unable even to cry out, and he wrested the staff from her as she fell, then pounced upon her—but even with the breath driven out of her, she had presence of mind enough to roll, and roll again and keep rolling. He had to scramble back to his feet, and it cost him just enough time for her to roll into the underbrush where she could catch herself to a sapling and use it to haul herself back to her feet, sucking in one tearing breath, then another—much more quickly than he would expect, for her whole body was in far better shape than that of any of the village boys she knew, from her daily sword drills.

  Cursing, Sir Hempen blundered into the thicket after her.

  Jane backed away from him, pulling the sapling with her, hand over hand until she was holding it near the top, its trunk bent into a steep curve. Sir Hempen was too enraged to notice; he only came for her, hands outstretched, lips writhing back in a snarl.

  Jane let go of the sapling.

  It slammed full into Sir Hempen's face. He staggered back with a squall, groping for something to hold him up, missed, and fell, rolling on the ground, his hands pressed to his face, groaning.

  Jane leaped past him, watching him as carefully as though he were a snake, stepping back to the roadway, where she caught up his fallen sword. There she stood and waited.

  It was only a few minutes before he came staggering out of the brush, saw her, and jolted to a halt, startled. Then his eyes narrowed. "Put it down, slut. You will hurt yourself."

  "Not myself, Sir Cur," she retorted.

  His head snapped up at the insult. Then he snarled again and came for her.

  She stepped back, whipping the sword through a quick series of slashes and circles. He should have taken warning, but he didn't; he kept on coming, and she stepped nimbly aside as she swung the blade.

  It sliced open his doublet, tracing a thin line of red across his chest.

  Jane felt her stomach sink; she had cut deeper than she had intended.

  But it must have been only his skin that she had cut, for he looked up at her again, his face stone, and took another step.

  She swept the blade down and around.

  Even Sir Hempen had sense enough to jolt to a halt with a sword's point aimed right at his belly.

  "You shall regret this, wanton!" he grated.

  "No wanton, but a maid!" she flashed. "And I intend to remain so! Now get you out from this wood, Sir Knight, while you can still walk!"

  His eyes narrowed. "You would not dare to harm a belted knight!"

  For a moment, her heart quailed within her, for she suddenly realized what would happen if she did—prison at the least, hanging at the worst. But hard on the heels of dismay followed inspiration, and she retorted, "I would dare to tell your father what you sought to do, to his old squire's virgin daughter—and be sure the wives can seek and verify that I am indeed virgin!"

  "At twenty?" he scoffed. "Twenty, and unmarried? How could the daughter of a peasant still be a virgin?"

  "The daughter of a squire! No matter his birth! And as to the how of it, 'tis simply that all the village boys are such clodpolls that I can feel only contempt for their callow uncouthness! Aye, and for their weakness and clumsiness, for there's not a one of them can stand up to me—no more than can you, knight or not! Nay, none have the quality to win my love, and none have been strong enough to force what I have no desire to give, when none give me desire! Be sure I am truly virgin, and that your mother and mine shall both ascertain it, if they must!"

  Sir Hempen kept his glare, but the first trace of doubt began to show. "Give me back my sword."

  "Ride away," she told him. "When you are out of sight, I shall leave it leaning 'gainst an oak at the edge of the wood, so that you may come back and find it—but you shall not find me."

  "Nay, for some poacher might chance upon it and steal it ere I come! How should a knight explain that he has lost his sword?"

  "How shall you explain that loss if I keep it?" she countered, and waited just long enough for the flush of his embarrassment to redden his face. "You may come back for the sword, sir, or you may ride off without it—but I shall not give it back to you while you are near me, save between your ribs!"

  Sir Hempen brayed harsh laughter. "Between my ribs? Why, foolish maid, how would you explain my death?" Again, dismay—and again, inspiration. "I would not," she said simply. "Who would think an unarmed maid could have slain you—if they found your body?"

  Sir Hempen reddened again, but this time, he said only, "The huge old oak that stands by the carters' path, where it enters the wood."

  "When you are out of sight," Jane said, by way of agreement.

  Sir Hempen favored her with one last glare as he turned on his heel and strode away to catch his horse.

  Jane watched him go. As soon as he had disappeared among the leaves, she disappeared into the underbrush at the side of the path. Then she let her knees buckle, let the sobs come.

  He found his sword—she watched from hiding as he took it up—and rode away. She was sure he was determined to have revenge, but she was equally determined that he should never have the chance. She never went alone by night again, but always asked one of her brothers to escort her. They, at least, were as skilled with weapons as she.

  It was a pity they were her brothers.

  But there were other ways of having revenge. Other young knights came riding, to flirt with her—only their flirtations were crude and demanding. She sent them away with sharp words, but when the third came by, she realized that since Sir Hempen had not been able to ruin her, he had ruined her reputation. She would have to put an end to that, she knew—and as always, she was determined not to put her brothers in trouble.

  So when the next young knight came by, she batted her eyelashes, laughed low in her throat, and told him to meet her by the great oak that stood by the carters' path, where it entered the wood. When he came, she gave him the same instruction in the strengths of the quarterstaff that she had given Sir Hempen, and bade him come back to the oak for his sword.

  It occurred to her that she should start a collection—but she understood, in some fashion, that swords were so important to knights that if she kept them, they would have to seek revenge on her, to the point of trial for witchcraft, or some such. She had to leave them something, or they would leave her nothing.

  But she came home to find her mother and sister in tears, and her brothers looking glum instead of grim, and learned how little they really had.

  They followed their father's coffin to the churchyard, then took their mother home. In the days that followed, they labored their way through grief together, trying to understand why God had taken their father away—though at sixty, h
e was certainly an old man. Nonetheless, his loss struck deep, and Jane was shocked to realize how much he had been the rock on which they all stood.

  She realized it all over again at the end of the month, when Sir Dunmore ordered all three of her brothers to join his entourage as he went to make a show of force along Count Laeg's border with his neighbor, whose soldiers had been committing a series of petty thefts.

  "All three?" Mother stared, taken aback. "Can he not leave me even one of my sons to care for me?"

  "Count Laeg has ordered Sir Dunmore to take all three," the squire told her. "His reasons are not for us to question."

  "No, surely not," Mother agreed, her gaze straying. But Jane realized why Count Laeg had given the order, and felt her heart sink within her. She tried to tell herself that she was being silly, that she was seeing evil intent where there was none, but she found she couldn't believe that. She knew Count Laeg had seen her on one of his recent visits to their village, and apparently taken notice of her, as he noticed every pretty young girl in his demesnethe lecherous old goat! Surely that was all; surely Sir Hempen would have been too ashamed to mention his encounter with her to Count Laeg's son, or to any other young man—and surely the other knights would have been similarly too embarrassed. Surely none of them would have spoken of her at all.

  But if that was so, why did a knight with a dozen men-at-arms come to fetch her, instead of one squire?

  "My daughter Jane?" Mother held to the doorjamb as though she would herself be the door that kept them out. "Why would His Lordship require her attendance?"

  "To serve him and his household." The knight couldn't quite meet her eyes. "He has a wife and daughters, and need of lasses to serve them."

  Her mother's face went slack with foreboding; even she had heard the rumors of the sort of attendance Count Laeg required.