That's Lady Sandra for you. Do well, and you get rewards – and more work. I've learned a lot from her, not least how to handle people. And of course, it's not only more work, hut a chance to get in good with the heir, and it must he part of her plans for Mathilda, too. Wheels within wheels within wheels.
The two had shields and swords suited for their size as well, from the armorers at Castle Todenangst; except for the size and the lack of point or edge on the blades, they were better gear than many knights could command. Tiphaine and her vassal leaned on the hilts of their weapons and watched. Boy and girl did their stretches, then began practicing strikes and counters on the air.
"Hey, not bad," Ivo said quietly to her. "The Protector's kid is good, but the kiltie brat is better. He's got the right instincts, too-just throws the switch and goes for it. I mean, he'd have killed me dead with that dirk if the jacket hadn't been lined with mail on the torso. And Ruffin's shield-arm still isn't quite right."
Tiphaine grinned, and spoke in the same undertone as she watched: "The princess is pretty good, though. A good friend of mine"-the grief echoed, but a little less strongly each time-"was tutoring her before she was kidnapped last year, and I dropped in on it now and then. She was promising then and it looks like she kept it up."
"Yeah," Ivo said critically as they switched to sparring.
Both the adults leaned a little closer; that was both more interesting and more dangerous, hence requiring more supervision. Tiphaine pursed her lips. Neither showed much of the usual childish awkwardness or beginner flailing- most kids couldn't free-spar with any profit until they were a year or two older than these, not having enough hand-eye coordination. What they were doing was very basic, of course, and the blows were still light, but they were moving beautifully; she'd seen plenty of trainees of twelve or thirteen who did no better. Mathilda had made serious progress since the raid that kidnapped her, rather than going back, and she suspected trying to keep up with Rudi was part of that.
The male knight nodded and confirmed her unspoken judgment: "It's not that Mackenzie sword-and-buckler stuff, or Bearkiller targe-and-backsword. Someone's been teaching them both our style, or something close to it."
"That'd be the Englishmen," Tiphaine said. "The Lorings. I saw them work out last year when they were staying with the Household. They're good, both of them; the young one was really good."
"Yeah-watch it, kid! Careful with the princess!"
Mathilda staggered, wobbling loose-jointed after a strong backhand cut went boonnggk across the side of her practice helmet.
Rudi Mackenzie waved acknowledgment, then went over to his partner and steadied her, his own blade under his left arm.
"You OK, Matti?"
"Sure. Wow! I didn't see that coming!"
"You gotta remember how the helmet blocks things in the corner of your eye," Rudi said. "Sir Nigel taught me this trick on how to keep moving your head-want to see it?"
"That's enough for the morning," Tiphaine broke in firmly. "Time for a shower and breakfast. At your ages too much is as bad as not enough. You can overstrain your bones and tendons."
The children nodded obediently, and helped each other out of the gear and bundled it up neatly. Mathilda looked at her guilelessly. "Could you give us some lessons, Lady d'Ath?"
Tiphaine grinned back, more genial than most who knew her a little would have thought likely. "I think I could squeeze that in, Princess, for you and your friend there. Now let's go get cleaned up."
It certainly beats washing with river water scooped up in a helmet, and half the army copping a look, she thought a few minutes later, looking around at the bathroom of her suite with unbleared eyes as she stripped off the sodden practice outfit and turned up the wall-lamp. What's this?
This turned out to be liquid soap scented with lavender and rosemary. Unlimited hot water of their very own was a luxury that few enjoyed these days, which was why most places had some sort of communal bathhouse; Tiphaine soaked until the last tension left her neck muscles and then walked back out into her bedchamber wrapped in a big fluffy towel.
It had been thoroughly cleaned up while she was under the spray, and the rest of her baggage unpacked. Her field armor stood on a stand in one corner, and her parade set beside it, very similar except that the hauberk and coif were made from burnished stainless-steel wire, and the helm and vam-braces and greaves from chrome-plated metal-harder to work, and thus fiendishly expensive. There were fresh sheets and a new coverlet on the big four-poster bed, a set of riding clothes laid out, and fresh sachets of dried flowers scented the air. A fire was laid ready to light in the swept and scrubbed hearth of the fireplace, and the glass wall-lamps had full reservoirs; right now the tall, narrow window/arrow-slits provided enough light, unless you wanted to read.
Her pictures had also been set out by the bedside. There was a small silver-framed one of her parents and brother, whose whole neighborhood had vanished in one of the first great fires before she got back to Portland. And a fold-out set of three of her and Katrina; one in their Girl Scout uniforms, another taken not long after they entered Lady Sandra's Household, still looking like they had ten pounds between them and starving to death, and a last one six years old, of them both in hauberk and helm, when they'd turned eighteen and been sworn onto the Household rolls as full members and Associates of the PPA. They looked very solemn in that, with their arms around each other's shoulders.
Or so she'd thought, when an expressionless Lady Sandra took the picture, with the very last priceless frame of Zeiss film for the camera. In fact Katrina was holding two fingers up in rabbit-ears behind Tiphaine's helmeted head.
And nobody told me until it was developed!
Someone had also left a golden daffodil on the pillow, with a red ribbon around it tied in the shape of a heart, and another in front of the pictures. Tiphaine picked up the one on the pillow, clipped the stem with her dagger, tucked it behind one ear, and went down into the Hall, smiling quietly to herself and tucking the knot into a pouch at her waist.
I really think I am going to like that girl.
Ruffin and his Joyce had joined the party there, and Ivo and Debbie; they were deep in wedding plans, and Mathilda was listening raptly; the two women rose to give Tiphaine a curtsey before diving in again. Rudi looked frankly bored, and was focusing on his food. She didn't blame him. Debbie was an amiable ditz, in her opinion, but at least smart enough that you didn't always want to gag her with her wimple after five minutes of conversation. Joyce was good-natured and loyal and had cheerfully put up with the hardships court and camp held for the leman of a man-at-arms, and was admittedly eye-stopping, sexpot gorgeous in a big-eyed, big-hair, buxom way that had never appealed to Tiphaine. She supposed the woman was very attractive overall, if you weren't put off your feed by the very thought of having sex with someone whose IQ was about the same as a large dog's.
Say a golden retriever, hut with the added disadvantage of being able to talk and doing it nonstop, mostly about the puppies – pardon me, children – she wants. How on earth does Ruffin stand it? Ah, well, breeders: somebody has to do it, she thought indulgently, and returned their greeting with a nod.
Everyone gave an odd glance at the flower behind her ear, which was not the sort of gesture she usually went in for, but nobody commented as she took the high central seat and a servant brought her breakfast from the dishes kept warm over spirit-lamps on a sideboard; four eggs, a dozen rashers of bacon, fried green pickled tomatoes, hash browns and toast.