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“Men wear those. We’ve found that ladies prefer the flexibility that separate pieces provide. Marigold, fetch the skirt. Lady Gwen looks to be bigger in the hips than Lady Constance, which means we’ll have to make a few extra links.”

“Sorry about my hips.” I felt stupid apologizing about something I couldn’t control, but at the same time, there I was creating extra work for them. “My mom says I get them from her. She’s always been broad in the beam, too.”

“Nothing wrong with good birthing hips. Ah, here we go.” She held up what I can only describe as a wraparound skirt made up of links of shiny silver metal teardrops that overlapped in a beautiful floral pattern. Antoinette strapped it around my waist. The two edges were supposed to strap together, but a three-inch gap kept it from closing properly.

“Well, now I feel like a great big elephant,” I said, glaring at the gap. “That’s it. I’m going on a diet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Antoinette said in what I was coming to realize was her usual gruff tone of voice. “Men like women with a bit of meat on their bones. Marigold, get the fire stirred up. Three rows of links should do the trick. I’ll have them and the breastplate ready for you by Nones.”

“When is that?”

“A few hours.”

Reluctantly, I took off the pretty armor, chiding myself for that emotion, since I hadn’t wanted to be a warrior in the first place.

“And I have no intention of actually fighting,” I argued with myself after bidding Antoinette and Marigold farewell. “Maybe if I suggest word games instead of physical combat. Or perhaps I can beguile whoever I’m supposed to fight with daring tales of mystical alchemy.”

The problem there was that I knew no daring tales of mystical alchemy. As a whole, alchemists were studious introverts not much given to any acts of daring, let alone those that would entertain someone enough to distract him or her from the thought of fighting.

“I’m doomed,” I said with a sigh, and started off for Ethan’s camp.

ELEVEN

“Lady Gwen! Lady Gwen!” I stopped, watching with growing misgivings as a squire ran up and immediately began tugging my arm. “You’re late! Master Hamo will be most upset.”

“Late for what? No, wait, it doesn’t matter. I’ve done the armor fitting, so now I get to go see my mothers.”

“Late for training! Master Hamo trains all the new warriors, and his lordship said you are to attend because you have no experience fighting.”

“His lordship who? Or whom. No, I think it’s who.”

The teen didn’t even look at me, just kept tugging me onward until we were clear of the tents. “His lordship. The man in charge of all of us.”

“Yes, but what’s his name?”

“I can’t tell you, for I do not know.”

“Oh, him. Well, you can tell Doug that I’ve done what he asked, and now it’s my time.”

“There ye be,” a deep, bell-like voice bellowed as the squire, who was now behind me shoving me forward with both hands on my back, pushed me into a roughly circular patch of dirt. A massive man stood there, barechested, with metal bands about his wrists. He had no neck, was bald, and stood with easy grace for someone who apparently had muscles on his muscles. He hefted a great sword that was taller than me, and nodded. “Ye look like ye have the makings of a fighter. Lad, her sword.”

The squire behind me stopped shoving me and darted to the side, returning with my borrowed Nightingale sword.

“Look, I really don’t have time for this—aieee!” I hadn’t even finished speaking before the massive man, who I assumed was Master Hamo, swung his equally massive sword at me. It was parry or die, and parry I did, all the while feeling sure that just that defensive act alone would result in my losing an arm.

“OK, so I was wrong,” I panted, blocking another thrust, the Nightingale singing as I swung her through the air. “That doesn’t mean I want to waste an hour fencing with you. Hey!”

Master Hamo had evidently just been toying with me, because I suddenly found myself flat on my back, my head ringing with the impact of it upon the dirt.

“That’s what ye get for not paying attention,” Hamo said, looming over me so that he blotted out the red, roiling sky above. He looked like a mountain in man form. “If I had wanted to, ye’d have been dead. As it was, I hit ye with the flat of me sword.”

“How about you don’t hit me with anything,” I snapped, woozy enough that I took the hand he offered, which hauled me abruptly to my feet.

“I won’t if ye learn what I’m about to teach ye.”

The events of the next hour are painful to recount, so I shall draw a veil over them. Suffice it to say that I ended up in the dirt pretty regularly every couple of minutes, but by the time the hour was up, I was dodging, spinning, and parrying almost all of Hamo’s blows.

“That be enough for today. Tomorrow we’ll work on yer attack skills. Give yer sword to the lad. He’ll see to its care until ye have a squire of yer own.”

“Every individual atom in my body hurts,” I complained as I hobbled over to the waiting squire. He looked about sixteen and wore the anxious puppy-dog look of perpetual worry and admiration that I was coming to realize indicated one who hoped to be a warrior someday. “It’s not as much fun as you might think,” I added.

The squire blinked at me, then bowed and trotted off clutching my sword.

“Right, now I see my moms,” I croaked to myself, and limped with a bent back toward the direction of Ethan’s camp. I moved with all the grace of an elderly crab, and my body screamed for a hot bath and a soft, comfortable bed, but I had to check on my mothers before I could give in and collapse into a ball of mewling, whimpering Gwen.

“Oy! You there!”

“Oh, for the love of . . . no. Not going to listen,” I said loudly, one hand on my back as I continued on my way.

“You! Hold up!” another voice called.

“Not on your life.”

Two men rushed up from where they were loitering on the fringe of the camp. I ignored them, brushing past them to the tree that had been felled and dragged over to make a bridge across the stream.

One large hand shot out and grabbed my arm, right where Helene had left bruises. I yelped. “Watch it! My arm was sore to begin with.”

“We’ve got you now,” the arm-holding man said. Wearily, I gave him the once-over. He was big—not muscles-upon-muscles-big like Hamo, but what I thought of as club-bouncer big—with tattoos of snakes that circled his neck, and dragons that emerged from under both sleeves of his shirt to run down the length of his arms.

“Unhand me, knave,” I said in my best Renaissance Faire manner.

“What did she call me?” Arm-boy asked the second man.

He was just as big and bulky as the first guy, and like him, had copious amounts of ink, but his tattoos consisted mainly of nude women in various poses. “A navel. The daft-witted hen called you a navel.”

“Like an orange?” The first man squinted at me. “Did you call me an orange, missus? Why did you call me an orange?”

“I didn’t. I called you a knave.”

He shook his head in dismay. “Now I gots to rough you up a bit. I don’t want to, but I gots to.”

“Aye, you gots to,” the second man agreed. “Can’t have people calling you an orange when you’re not an orange.”

I suddenly wished I had my sword again. “Look, I said ‘knave,’ not ‘navel orange,’ and even if I had said ‘orange’—”

“You can’t rough her up too much, though, Irv,” the second man added after some thought. “Boss won’t like it.”

Irv, who was looking sadly at me, chewed that over for a minute.

“Help!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, deciding that in this case, it was better to seek aid before the situation got out of hand. “Help! I’m being roughed up by two be-tatted hulks who don’t understand medieval-speak!”