Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1) Page 9

  Afternoons were better. Afternoons were mine. I knew they would be from the first day Rowan called those of us picked for the cavalry to the outer training fields. Between the years of James’ riding lessons and my long acquaintance with the bow, I seemed born to shoot from the saddle. After only a week of steady improvement, my arrows were finding their targets with nearly unfaltering consistency. James worried I’d draw too much attention to myself, putting us at risk of discovery, but I wasn’t about to abandon the one thing I was actually good at. Not when I’d proven myself so laughably inept in nearly every other arena.

  I was careful, though. I could feel Rowan’s hawkish eyes following me on the training field, boring into me as though they could peel back my flesh and read the truth of me inscribed on my bones. He said little to me besides offering the occasional pointer or flat-toned acknowledgement, but I knew he was watching me, waiting for my façade to slip. He could sense something amiss, so I made a point to spit, curse, slouch, and scratch at my personal bits a few extra times in his presence.

  Beyond the difficulty of the training, there were practical concerns with which I had to contend. James and I kept largely to ourselves, but it was impossible to avoid the rest of the recruits all the time. I adopted the name Eli to give the men and fashioned myself as a tailor’s son, a story given substance when James got a tear in his tunic and I offered to stitch it for him.

  “You’re going to mend my shirt?” he mused with a quirk of his brow. “How unexpectedly domestic of you.”

  I gave him a firm punch to the shoulder and patched it for him anyway. Several of the men approached me in the following days, offering coin or barter for repairs of their own. I soon found myself flush in both coin and trinkets, though I likely would have done the work for free, just to earn a bit of their goodwill.

  I found ways to wash and dress without revealing my sex, usually retiring early to the barracks and having James stand watch outside the door. In the mornings, already fully dressed from the night before, I’d keep my eyes fixed squarely on my boots while the shameless flurry of half-naked men around me scrambled into their trousers.

  And then we’d line up in the training yard and do it all over again.

  We were almost three weeks in when Briggs decided we all needed to brush up on our hand-to-hand techniques. He was in a sour mood that day, having sent a few lads to the dirt himself during sword practice. I was halfway to the stables with the rest of the cavalry, all of us grateful for the escape from his temper, when his booming voice rang out across the bailey.

  “Hold, whelps,” he barked. “Maneuvers can wait.”

  We exchanged confused glances, but doubled back obediently and lined up before him with the rest to suffer his dark, critical gaze. Rowan lingered in the background, watching the scene with his usual sharp-eyed curiosity but making no move to interfere.

  “Open hand,” Briggs growled. “Pair up.” I turned to James automatically, but just before we headed off to pick an open patch of ground, the captain’s voice thundered a warning. “One infantry, one cavalry. I don’t want to see any stale matches.”

  My heart sank like a stone in my chest, fear gripping hard. I hadn’t the strength for brawling, and I knew very well I wouldn’t be able to take a hit from any of the infantry Briggs had been training while we cavalrymen were busy riding formations in the outer fields. James shot me a worried glance and was quickly pulled away to face a lean, sharp-featured lad while I was left to fend for myself.

  “Come on, tailor,” called a good-natured tone. “Let’s have a go.”

  I turned to find one of the hulking crofters’ boys grinning down at me. His tree-trunk arms were crossed over his chest, making his already broad frame look even more formidable. My mouth went dry at the sight of him.

  “Trente,” I greeted lightly, hoping a bit of courtesy might sway him toward restraint.

  He unfolded and prowled a half-circle around me, meat-mallet fists raised between us. “I know you’re not much good in a scrap, so I’ll try not to snap you in half.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced he meant it.

  As soon as I put up my guard, he charged in, swinging wildly and with more speed than I expected. I could do little else besides scramble backward out of range, bumping into a nearby combatant and earning myself a shove and a string of curses.

  “Don’t run, lad,” Trente counseled, “or Briggs’ll keep you here all day.”

  “I’m not running,” I retorted stiffly, pride burning in my chest right alongside the fear. “Just wasn’t expecting to fight the second coming of Tuvre today.”

  He grinned. “Compliments won’t keep you from taking your lumps.”

  “Oh, I’ve no delusions on that front. I hear Tuvrians aren’t much for bribes anyway.”

  “This isn’t a fucking social call!” Briggs snarled at us from afar.

  Trente tilted his head at me in preemptive apology, but the jesting had done its work, freeing me from the paralyzing grip of my fear. I flashed him a boyish smirk and bounced a bit on the balls of my feet in invitation. He lunged again without warning. I dodged to the side and under his swing, only to find myself immediately in danger of a thick elbow driving backward toward my ribs. Skipping away in surprise, I managed to evade it, but Trente was a born brawler. He wasn’t about to relent when he had me on the back foot. I narrowly avoided several more blows before one caught me across the jaw and sent me sprawling.

  Hard-packed dirt rushed up to greet me with enthusiasm, gifting me a pair of fresh bruises on shoulder and hip while spots danced in my vision. A choked gasp was all I could manage as my face bloomed with delayed pain and tears welled in my eyes. The fact that I could still move my jaw at all meant Trente had pulled the punch at the last moment, but the sheer agony spreading through my skull was still more than sufficient to obliterate any semblance of composure I might’ve had. At least I retained enough sense to curl onto my side and bury my muted sobs in my sleeve, hiding my face from the others.

  “I’ll take my cavalry now, Captain Briggs.”

  Rowan’s stiff voice called out across the yard, slicing through the steady din of grunts and shouts. I barely heard it, too busy struggling to regain control of myself and stifle that perilous torrent of tears.

  Stop-stop-stop, I commanded in my head. You’re not allowed to cry. If they see you cry, they’ll know.

  My lungs heaved one deep, shaking breath after another, gradually steadying with each subsequent effort. The captains’ argument continued in the background.

  “Your boys’re too soft, Red.”

  “And yours couldn’t hit the broad side of the mess hall at ten paces. If you want to trade, just say so, but don’t use my cavalry for bait.”

  Their boots and voices drew closer, approaching through the nervous throng of recruits. Not wanting to be berated for wallowing on the ground, I forced my hands under me and shoved myself up onto all fours. My head spun with the effort, black stuttering at the edges of my sight.

  “Bunch of mewling pups,” Briggs growled, nearer still. “The commander won’t be happy-”

  “He’ll not be happy if you let your infantry beat my best marksmen to death, either.”

  I was still trying to get a firm hold on consciousness before I attempted standing when a figure crouched down beside me and took hold of my arm. Rowan’s keen eyes flitted over me in a flash, narrowing a fraction before he leaned in close.

  “Mind your tunic, lass,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

  Lass.

  My gaze snapped to his, terror surely painted across my features, but there was no threat or scathing disapproval on his face. He stared back with only the tiniest hint of impatience, glancing briefly at my chest where the laces of my shirt had come undone in the scuffle. The neck had fallen open, revealing the top edge of the muslin bindings that kept my breasts tightly bound to my torso – a precaution I’d deemed necessary after the near-disaster of that
first day of training.

  Once I’d knotted the cord tight, he proceeded to haul me indelicately to my feet and gave me a rough shove in what I later realized was the direction of the stables. The rest of the cavalrymen fell in around me, sweeping me along toward our familiar routine. Still reeling from Rowan’s words, I dodged James’ whispers of concern and tacked Valor in silence.

  Rowan kept my secret, though I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. He treated me no differently in practice than he had before. I was largely ignored, both by him and my comrades, who seemed to think I was landing my shots with the sole purpose of making them look bad. A few put their egos aside and quietly asked for pointers. I gave as much cautiously, not wanting to anger the captain and give him reason to out me, but Rowan simply eyed me with apathy and turned his attention elsewhere.

  He and Briggs must have come to some sort of agreement, because we added an hour of open-hand practice to our afternoon drills. Once again, I found myself woefully outmatched and the unintentional recipient of a number of solid thrashings, but my opponents was nearer to my own size and the lessons were far more academic in their structure. Rather than pitting us against one another in an all-out brawl, Rowan had us practice specific techniques and their counters. Still, each session concluded with a brief sparring match and my catalog of bruises continued to be refreshed regularly.

  I was in the middle of enjoying one of those daily thrashings when my father found us.

  A spry tanner’s son, Bryce, had just sent me to the dirt with a solid fist to my gut when I heard the mood shift around me. A slight hush stifled the constant din of pummeled flesh and heavy breathing. Clutching my stomach, I struggled to my feet and spun, searching for the source of the distraction.

  Dark forest eyes snatched mine in an instant, burning into me from across the field. The flush of the fight abruptly drained from my face at the sight of that hard gaze. He stared at me through the crowd of recruits from atop his black destrier, Samson mounted at his side, and my spine abruptly turned to water.

  “Did I say you could stop?” Rowan barked at us as he shoved his way through our ranks toward my father. Scuffles quickly resumed around us, bodies interrupting my line of sight and freeing me from the iron grip of that stare. I turned back to Bryce just in time to see his fist closing in on my face.

  “Sonofabitch!” I snarled, gingerly touching my freshly-split lip. “You cheap-shotting little cock!”

  Flat, scraggly hair the color of dirty laundry water was plastered to his brow, dark eyes and crooked grin laughing at me. “If you can’t be big, you’d better be cheap. Pay attention and you won’t get knocked.”

  I spit a bit of blood and charged, barreling into him with full force and taking him to the ground in a heap of thrashing limbs. Somehow, I managed to get on top of him and landed a few punches before his strength overtook mine. He sent me toppling over his shoulder and scrambled round to pin me, sitting squarely on my stomach and grabbing a handful of tunic. I braced myself for the pain and the humiliation of my father watching me get trounced by some common boy when Rowan’s sharp tone rang out.

  “In line, whelps!”

  Bryce’s fist froze, drawn back and poised to strike. For a moment, I thought he meant to get one last blow in, but he heaved himself off me instead and extended a lean, filthy hand.

  “Hurry up,” he cajoled with a red, toothy grin. “Don’t want to keep the captain waiting.”

  Grateful to be spared another bloody nose, I let him haul me to my feet. One wiry hand clapped me companionably on the shoulder.

  “Getting better, Eli. Someday, you might even win one.”

  We shuffled into neat formation and I spotted James several rows away, his eyes fixed on my father and face as grim as death. One of the recruits raced off toward the fort on his mount, the rest of us waiting in tense silence while Rowan exchanged low words with Commander Samson and his lord. For a mercy, Father kept his attention fixed on the captain until our comrade returned with Briggs and two others in tow.

  “My lord,” Briggs greeted with a crisp bow. “An unexpected honor.”

  “Report, Captain,” Samson replied in my father’s stead.

  One hand settled on the bone-handled dirk at his hip, a nervous gesture I’d not seen from him before. “We’re not even halfway through, Commander. They’re as good as can be expected.”

  Samson’s scowl could’ve curdled milk. He glared down at his two officers, lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Perhaps a demonstration, my lord?” Rowan interjected, directing the suggestion at my father with that same disinterested lilt in his tone. “We’ve a few promising pups in the litter.” His keen eyes glanced sidelong at Briggs. “A few with the gift for steel, as well.”

  “Aye,” the big man chimed in, shaking off his unease and waving a thick hand at the two massive lads he’d brought with him. “Thought you might want a look at them yourself, if you came all this way.”

  I expected my father to dismiss their offer and turn matters toward the truth of their presence.

  I’m looking for my daughter.

  That would be the end of it. Even if he hadn’t already spotted me, the words alone would plant enough suspicion in our ranks to make it unsafe for me to stay. Before long, my comrades would start to wonder why I never lingered in the mess hall at night. They’d realize I’d never removed my tunic in practice, even when the days were swelteringly hot. They’d recall the way I lost every single bout and couldn’t take a punch without my eyes watering. If Rowan had figured it out, so could they. I wasn’t stupid enough to put myself at risk of rape for the sake of my pride.

  But he didn’t call for his daughter. He just sat in his saddle and stared at me – through me – as though he were trying to identify a stranger. I surely looked the part, after four weeks at the fort, a compendium of bruises wrapped in dusty breeches and mud-caked boots.

  “See to it, then,” Samson growled, breaking my father’s unyielding attention from me once again.

  Briggs’ infantry matched one another in a vicious flurry of steel, swords sparking with the force of each blow. The rest of us looked on while they battered away at one another, thick arms and massive shoulders tight with their efforts. I envied them their strength, their fearlessness, their aptitude. I’d wanted so badly to be good at the sword. I didn’t envy the crushing blow that ended the bout, though. They locked in a parry, pitting their might against one another until the smaller of the two pivoted his blade down, slipping past his opponent’s guard and smashing the hilt of his sword into the lad’s face.

  A small cheer rose from the victor’s friends among our ranks, quickly silenced by a sharp glare from Briggs. Blood poured from the loser’s ruined nose and I was reminded of my brief match with Trente, once again grateful for Rowan’s intervention.

  That is, until he called my name.

  “Lehs! Eli! Mount up!”

  Shit.

  I should have kept my head down. Should have missed more shots. If I were smart, I would’ve kept myself in the middle of the pack, no better or worse than the others. But no. I had to show off. Had to revel in the one thing I was actually good at.

  Shit shit shit.

  “Go!” Bryce whispered when I didn’t move, reaching over to give me a shove. Lehs, the lanky son of an innkeeper, was already halfway to his horse. I forced my feet to release their grip on the ground and hurried after him, but as soon as I broke free from the huddle of recruits, Samson’s shout dragged me to a stumbling halt.

  “Horse thief?” he exclaimed, wide eyes bright with the same fury my father was keeping so carefully suppressed in the presence of his men. A few low murmurs of confusion rippled through my comrades behind me. I turned to face the commander like I was turning to face my own executioner. His features twisted in anger when he laid eyes on me in full, his dark gaze darting toward my father for a brief moment before settling back onto me. “Do ye have any idea-”
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br />   “Get on with it,” Father’s stern voice cut him short, full and deep and unquestionable as the ocean. Samson’s mouth snapped shut, my father’s unspoken command clear as day. My identity was his alone to reveal.

  I didn’t dare linger, fleeing toward the silvered shape of my mount. I ducked beneath Valor’s neck to put his massive frame between me and that sea of eyes. Finally out of sight, I heaved a steadying breath and leaned against his sturdy mass, drawing what strength I could from his presence before climbing into the saddle.

  Whatever was going to happen would happen. I could no more control my father’s actions than I could control the weather. What I did have say over was the manner of my exit from the garrison. If I was to be outed as a woman and dragged back to the manor in disgrace, then I would at least leave them with the unequivocal knowledge that it was a woman whose skill was deemed superior.

  And for good reason.

  Lehs and I rode a full lap of the target course. He took the lead on his little piebald mare, Valor and I bringing up the rear a few lengths behind. The innkeeper’s boy did a fair job of it, sinking a number of decent shots and getting close to the small long-shot target the men had affectionately started calling ‘the Maidenhead’. About the size of my hand and painted bright red, it was pinned to a short post nearly thirty yards from the course. An impossible shot for most, but I’d managed to hit it three times in the last few weeks. Of course, I’d missed it twenty times as often, but of the forty-seven cavalry recruits, I was one of only two who had managed it – Lehs being the other.

  But luck wasn’t with him that day and his arrow drifted wide, burying itself in the grass a few feet from the tiny red smudge. When Valor and I turned the last corner and his hooves hammered the dirt after them, I drew my last arrow and took aim. His pace was my heartbeat, our breaths heaving in time. The wind was out of the west, short gusts that were impossible to anticipate, but I trusted my instincts and adjusted accordingly. I gripped his barrel with my knees, rose slightly from the saddle, and let fly.