Authors: Sam Austin
Damsel Knight (2 page)
"I want to be the princess!" The girl jumps up and down, messy brown locks bouncing. She's ten, teetering on the edge of her antics being laughed away as that of a healthy child, and being scolded for being unladylike.
Her twin, identical from wind mussed hair to green linen dress, frowns. "No fair. I wanna be the princess. Tell her Innes. Tell her I get to be the princess this time. She can be the dragon."
Ness laughs. It's a rich sound that sends shivers down Bonnie's spine. Jet black hair frames his face in easy waves. Broad shoulders and skin tanned a deep copper speak of the long harvest that dragged out to mid-summer. His muscles flex as he paces the small valley the children have used for such games for as long as she can remember.
"No, over there," Neven says, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better look at what Ness is scouring the ground for. "That one's better. The one you've got is all rot."
Ness raises his eyebrows, but drops the stick he’d selected, and picks up the one Neven points at. Neven drops back to the grass, lying spread-eagled under the hot sun, a satisfied look on his face. There are a lot of things Neven isn’t good at, but finding materials for swords isn’t one of them. He’s been building a steady supply of shields and swords since he found Bonnie fighting over scraps at the marketplace and dragged her home with him.
It’s strange to think that after today all of that will be over.
Ness swings the stick through the air experimentally, dark brows drawn together in concentration. Years of doing a man's share of the work, after his father succumbed to sickness and his older brothers gradually peeled off to seek their fortune, have given him the strength but not the skill. His parries are clumsy, his stance weak. Even Neven would stand a chance against him.
Bonnie clenches her hands into fists as the twins lend him their applause. She hates every inch of him from his stupidly handsome face to his large muscled frame. He gets to play swords without hiding it. He's a whole year older than her, and no one talks about marrying him off. There's even talk of him joining his brothers in the King’s City now that harvest is over. Girls don't get to go on adventures like that. Girls don't get to go anywhere without a man.
"Let's make things fair," Ness says, pointing his sword at Bonnie and Neven. "Bonnie and Neven never join us anymore. Bonnie can be the princess, and Neven can be the dragon. No wait-" He shoves his thumbs in the rope that serves as his belt, and gives an easy grin. "Bonnie can be the dragon, and Neven can be the princess."
The twins break into hysterical giggles, leaning against each other. Bonnie can't tell whether it's the idea of her as the bloodthirsty dragon that does it, or weedy Neven as the dainty princess.
Neven shifts in the grass beside her, his face flushing a bright red.
She jumps to her feet, anger thrumming hot through her veins. "How about you be the dragon. I'll be the knight."
Ness makes a face. "You a knight? You may act more like a pig than a woman Bon, but not even a pig can handle a sword like a man can."
"I'll beat you. You and me one on one. First to land three blows wins," her traitorous mouth says. The moment she processes what she's said a wave of dizziness rushes over her. Her knees feel weak and loose. This is dangerous territory. Even if Ness keeps his big mouth shut, his twin sisters could blab about her acting unladylike. The village would talk. She doesn’t know what Neven’s parents would do about it, but it wouldn’t be good. They might have to cancel the marriage. They might even report her to Porthdon council.
There had been an old woman a few years back from another village. She’d started going senile and wearing her dead husband’s clothes. Someone had reported her, and soldiers had come to drag her away. They’d burned her a few days later as a witch.
That could happen to her if she stepped out of line. Mrs Moore had told her often enough. If anyone saw her sword. If her new husband wasn’t satisfied with her. If she spoke out of turn to the wrong people.
Ness looks at her oddly. “You think me some child to be beaten by a girl? I’m fifteen. That’s old enough to quest to defeat the real dragon.” He cocks his head, some of the swagger coming back into his movements. “And maybe I’ll do just that. Slay the dragon, rescue and marry the King’s beautiful princess, inherit the Kingdom. My family would come to live with me in the palace of course. I might hire Neven too. He’d make a fine squire after I’m knighted.”
Kensa stares up at her brother with wide brown eyes. “The King would knight you?”
“Of course he would,” Ness says, that easy smile back on his face. “The King promised that any man could try and win his daughter’s hand, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let a pauper marry his daughter. He’ll turn me into a knight, and make my family nobility.”
“That’s why father called him The Fair King,” Kerra says, her little face solemn.
“He’s not fair!” Bonnie shouts before she can stop herself. “And you could never defeat the dragon. You barely know how to fight with a stick, let alone a broadsword. You’d probably fall down the first time you tried to pick one up.”
Bonnie knows before Neven tugs on her elbow that she’s gone too far. Both girls jump back behind their brother, pressing hands over their mouths in identical motions. King Robin may be known as The Fair King, but people called him The Just King as often. It’s bad enough insulting a boy, but insulting a king is something that ends with you tied to a post and set on fire no matter who you are. The King’s justice would see to that.
“You forget yourself Bon,” Ness says, the easy smile gone from his face. “You best go back home now. I don’t want my sisters hearing this talk.”
“She didn’t mean it,” Neven says so fast that the words run into each other. “Honest Ness. She’s just upset. She got betrothed today. She’s nervous.”
“I would be too,” Ness says. “If your husband heard those words, your head would be separated from your shoulders before you finished the sentence. I’ve half a mind to track down the man and tell him myself so he knows what he’s getting himself in for.”
The words have less of an effect on her than they should. They should terrify her, but all she can think is at least then she won’t have to marry that horrible pig farmer. She hasn’t lent as much thought to what she wishes her husband to be like as the other girls do, but him and his sour expression are about as far from it as possible. Not that that should matter. It wouldn’t matter to any of the other girls in the village. They would be grateful to have a husband who could afford to put food in their belly, and she being an orphan ward of poor farmers should be even more grateful.
“But you won’t,” Neven says with enough terror in his voice for the both of them. His hand grips her arm tight enough to bruise. “Right Ness? Please say you won’t tell?”
Ness lets out a large sigh, the warm breeze mussing his hair. “She’ll never learn how to behave if you keep defending her Neven. You have a woman’s heart. I don’t blame you for it, but if you don’t rid yourself of it soon then you’ll end up as doomed as Bonnie. I hear they put cowards at the front of every army they march to the north.”
Neven turns a bright red at her side. The grip on her arm loosens. Bonnie jumps forward, blood boiling as it pounds in her skull. She pushes both hands into Ness’s chest, the highest part of him she can reach. It’s a child’s move. Her father would not think much of it, but he’s caught off guard and topples backward anyway. It’s also a boy’s move, not a woman’s, or even a girl’s.
“What are you doing?” Neven hisses in her ear as he pulls her away. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Ness stares up at her from the ground, mouth hanging open. The enormity of what she’s done hits her. She’s thrown away her whole life, for what? Just because she doesn’t want to become the property of a man? There’s no chance of that happening now. She hit a boy. Ness is perfectly in his rights to kill her right now in retaliation. And if she didn’t then the moment the twins got back to their mother she’d be reported to the council. No force on earth had been able to keep Kensa and Kerra’s mouths shut about anything.
But where the twins stood is empty grass.
"Look!" Kensa shouts. Her sister picks up the cry. "Come look!"
Bonnie turns her head to see them standing side by side at the top of the slope. Adults is her first thought. Some adults, maybe their mother, must have wandered over from the village. The twins are calling them over to tell them what a disgrace Bonnie was being.
Only, they aren't bouncing with excitement like they should be at the thought of sharing such scandalous news. They stand stock still, staring out away from the village.
Kensa turns back to them, her little face pale. She points a shaking arm into the distance. "Look! Look!"
Bonnie, Neven and Ness glance at each other as a noise like thunder floods over the small valley. Bonnie leaves the two boys behind to scramble up the grassy slope. The soft ground shakes beneath her fingers.
"Are they raiders?" Kerra asks, her voice high with fear.
A dozen horses charge across the fields, heedless of the small herd of sheep that scatter before them. Each man and beast is caked with dirt and sweat, but Bonnie sees beyond that to the bright white and red that make up their uniforms. Behind them follows two wagons, each bearing a golden circle against a red background.
"No," Bonnie says. "They're King's men."
They say that when a man breaks that oath, the red will separate from the cloth, dripping down like the blood that fixed it in place.
Bonnie's not sure of the truth of that, but this isn't the first time she's seen King's men. They rarely come this far west, leaving justice to soldiers assigned to the area. But to the east hundreds wander the giant city that surrounds the King’s palace, and she'd spent every day until the age of ten within sight of those city walls.
"Under order of the King," the leader says, looking odd, standing so regally in a spot that up until an hour before had been used to store most of this years harvest. Barrels and bales pile up in the dusty corners of the large roundhouse the village use to store food and livestock in winter, and for dancing in spring and summer. "Every able bodied man and boy with over ten summers is summoned to King’s City in order to take up service and fight to defend the Kingdom. This is to be considered a great honour. Every man who distinguishes himself in battle has the chance to advance up the ranks of the King's army, no matter their birth."
The crowd huddle together in front of the platform. Ness's mother hugs her five children to her. The two younger; a boy of three and a girl of six do not understand enough to pick up on anything but their mother's distress, but the twins cling to Ness with a neediness that should have embarrassed the boy.
The Carews stand stiffly, their six strong boys gathered around them. All of them would go from baby faced Andoco to Sego who had just this year started looking for a wife. A small mean part of Bonnie thinks it serves them right. Their extra hands are a sore spot for many in the village every harvest when they reap more than any family. Their girls are sent away to marriages the moment they wean, and the one malformed boy they had conveniently did not survive his first winter.
If they hadn't been so quick to send away the ones they deemed useless, then the wife wouldn't be facing a harsh winter, and potentially the rest of her life alone. The world is not a fit place for a lone woman, even out here in the country where such women still had some means to support themselves.
"Please sir," said the last of the families, an elderly man who had been alone since his last wife had been burned as a witch for producing nothing but a long line of girls. "I am old and feeble. My eyes and ears do not work as they used to, and my legs only carry me so far. Surely the King does not mean me as well?"
The red cloak looks him up and down. He's right that the years have not been kind to him. They rarely are to the poor who slave away all day and can't turn to magic for help as the rich can. He has a gaunt look many in the village share. His back is crooked and his fingers curl into stubborn claws when it gets too cold.
"Every able bodied man and boy," the red cloak says. "You are able bodied enough."
The man lowers his head and does not argue.
"I beg your pardons sir," Mr Moore says, stepping forward away from his wife and Bonnie. He holds Neven in front of him, clutching his thin shoulders in a way she's never seen before. Mr Moore has always been a hard but fair man. His hands were made for hard work and swats when you didn't mind yourself, not for clinging like some woman. "I would be grateful if you could spare my boy from this. My wife can't manage the land alone, and my boy - he's not one for fighting. He was sickly as a child and still recovering his strength. I fear he would not survive a war, but if you free him from this obligation, I vow to fight as two strong men in his place. I spent twenty of my years as soldier to the King, and will gratefully serve him twenty more."
The red cloak smiles, and behind him some of his men chuckle. "A craven is he? Well a few battles ought to cure him of that. The circle needs all kinds to defend it."
Mr Moore goes tense, his fingers digging into Neven's shoulders tight enough that she sees him wince. "Yes," he says stiffly. "As I remember." Then he flings Neven behind him to Bonnie, so hard that both children almost fall over. A heartbeat later he's on the platform, red cloak reaching for the sword that's already in Mr Moore's hand.
Bonnie can only gape. Distantly she hears Ness's mother scream as she turns to run, herding her children in front of her. All but Ness who stands watching the fighting with an unsure look, like he's not certain whether this is some elaborate play put on to entertain.
"Quick child," Mrs Moore says. She pries them away from the stage, but it's like Bonnie's feet are fused to the ground. Mr Moore a soldier? Mr Moore a swordsman? She'd thought him a farmer and nothing but. From the shocked expression on Neven's face, he'd thought the same thing.
The red cloak lies on the ground, his hand gripping the wound made by his own sword. It makes no sense. Cloaks are not only soldiers, but knights. How could a half starved farmer best a knight? The other soldiers run at him, their swords drawn. Mr Moore spins, blocking the first blow. His movements are skilled, but slow. His arms wield the sword well enough, but his legs struggle to keep up.
She’s brought out of her trance by Mrs Moore placing her hand over Neven’s. The woman’s eyes are filled with tears. “He said to take our boy. Go to the tree. He said you would know which one. Go now girl. Gods protect you and keep my boy safe.”
There’s a wet smack and a groan. Mr Moore falls to his knees. The stolen sword slips from his bloodied fingers. He glances back, his eyes drifting from his wife, to Neven, to Bonnie in turn. He doesn’t see the sword swing toward his neck.
“Father!” Neven screams, darting forward to where the soldiers are starting to take notice of the few still in the food store.
Bonnie’s hand closes over his on instinct. He’s taller than her by half a head, and about as strong, but his disorientation makes it simple to overbalance him until he has no choice but to stumble after her. She pulls hard, not giving him a chance to turn and see the death blow fall on her father’s neck, or the way his mother’s arms spread wide to stop the soldiers spilling off the stage from running after them.
But she sees. She sees it all.
***
“Why did he do that?” Neven asks, pacing the ground by the river where they had played that morning. It seems an age ago, back before any betrothal, before any soldiers. “I would have gone. I’m not craven. I’m not!”
Bonnie bends to dig in the hollow of the tree, trying to hide how much her hands are shaking. Her fingers graze cloth. She pulls out one pack and then another. They hadn’t been there this morning. Which means Mr Moore must have put them there, perhaps between the time the soldiers rode to the village and before they gathered everyone in the food store. But why? Could he think so little of Neven’s ability in battle to sacrifice his life?
Whatever the case they need to get out of here fast. The village is small, consisting of only four roundhouses with people, the food store, and a couple more houses long abandoned. The area by the river is out of sight of the buildings mostly due to hills, but it won’t take long to find, and if someone tells them the way then it could take no time at all.
“Here,” she says, tossing him one of the packs. “He packed this one for you.”
Neven peeks in the top of the pack. His face falls. “He packed my invention, and all my scrap.”
Bonnie tosses her pack over one shoulder, the small wooden shield Neven had made for her over the other. In a free hand she carries her father’s sword. Although large, it’s not as heavy as most broadswords. A special metal, her father had said. One harvested in the north beyond the circle where he was born. Forged with dragon fire he had told her. She’s not sure about that last part. Getting a dragon to help forge a sword without getting burned at the same time seems an impossible task. Everyone says dragons are mindless, and know nothing but killing.
The metal is a strange dark colour. It never seems to rust, so maybe there’s something to the stories of it being special. She likes to think so. Her thumb traces the carved dragon winding itself around the hilt. It grounds her.
Maybe Mr Moore had been a knight like her father. It seems unlikely.
“Come on,” she says. “We have to get to the woods before they come looking.”
He drags his feet and looks like he’s on the verge of crying, but he follows. That’s all she can ask.
Once they’re deep enough in the woods she stops, taking his pack from his shoulder. He doesn’t protest, instead crouching by a small stream to wash his face. He keeps his eye on his reflection in the water, like he’s waiting for it to tell him something. Maybe it will. They say water is the doorway between this world and the next. Sometimes when she looks at her reflection she fancies it must be someone else looking up at her from the other side. After all, her reflection has never looked like someone she recognises. It makes sense to think the pale girl with white blond hair and big blue eyes is a stranger.
“Don’t look,” she says. He doesn’t even seem to hear her.
She dresses hurriedly, hoping that her cheeks aren’t burning. All that has happened hasn’t been enough to take every stupid weak feeling it seems. Her foster father is dead. The woman she came to know as a mother is likely dead as well. The King’s soldiers are after Neven, and though she knows she has to protect him, she doesn’t know why. Yet here she is acting the woman. Her father would be ashamed.
“What do you think?” She asks, not able to stop herself from plucking the fabric self-consciously.
His eyes widen as he turns to look at her. “Take that off Bonnie! If someone sees you…”
She looks down at her thin body in his spare pair of clothing. Part of her wants to do just that. A girl in boys’ clothing. It’s not done. She thinks back to the senile woman burned for wearing her husband’s clothes. It’s hard, but she fights down the urge to shudder.
“No,” she says, hoping her voice sounds stronger than it does in her head. “I have to protect you, and we’ll have to travel far. A girl will attract too much notice.”
“Protect me?” His face screws up into a mixture of grief and anger. “You’re a girl Bonnie. You won’t even be able to protect yourself. You have to go back. I have to go back. I’m not afraid to serve.”
She goes to crouch by the stream, her sword balanced carefully on her knees. She may have only had chance to use it for practice, but she keeps it sharp anyway. Another thing her father had taught her. Her jaw clenches against Neven’s words. She’s been given a mission, like her father got his from the King. She doesn’t know the reasons why, but that is not always for a knight to know. A knight must do their duty.
A knight sounds a lot better than a pig farmer’s wife.
“We can’t go back. Your father gave his life for us not to.” She raises the sword, the edge glinting sharper than most weapons. The metal has a red hint, like it’s still hot from the fires that made it all these years later. She touches the broad side carefully, its surface cool beneath her fingers. She would have to be the same; different on the outside than she was on the inside. Or maybe this new identity would suit her better, and she would finally feel herself instead of an impostor. “And I’m not a girl any longer.”
She pulls the blade through her hair. It cuts the strands like a heated knife through butter, and she’s left with a fistful of white blond hair that trails down to curl around her feet. Her head feels lighter without it. “Help me with the rest.”
Neven digs in his pack, pulling out a small blade. He steps toward her hesitantly. “I hope you’re sure about this.”
So does she. She drops the handful of hair into the stream. An offering. It feels strange, like she’s cut off a limb.
“Gods give us luck,” Neven murmurs behind her.
“Gods give us luck,” she echoes the prayer. They’re going to need it.
***
It's night by the time they reach the docks. It's not a long walk, an hour or two at the most. They'd waited in the woods for the cover of darkness before passing over that last stretch of open land. They'd seen no soldiers out there by the boats, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious.
Neven had spent the time curled up, looking through the pack his father had packed for him. She can't tell what he's thinking, but she can guess. Time hasn't dulled the pain of losing her own parents. She can't think of any words to help him in his grief, so she leaves him be.
"This one," she whispers back to him through the black.
The boat is a small thing compared to the few others on the dock. The others are trading boats with cargo bound for Porthdon. This one is as small as the fishing boats tied up off the main dock, though not as rickety. Maybe it's supposed to be mistaken for a fishing boat to hide its true purpose. If so they should have hired someone with less of a fondness for telling tales. It sways from side to side on the dock in a drunken manner. Empty it would fit ten people at a squeeze. Filled as it is with various bags and boxes covered in a large rough sheet, it would fit only two or three.