BENEATH HER ARMOR

She returned wearing a knight’s armor, carrying an old love in her heart — and discovered that coming home did not necessarily mean staying. The knight in black entered the tournament without a name. That alone was enough to annoy half the nobility gathered beneath the colored awnings at Harcourt Field, because noblemen tolerated mystery only when they had invented it themselves, and this particular stranger had arrived shortly after dawn with a dark horse, battered armor, no herald, no servants, and a shield upon which someone had painted nothing more elaborate than a silver line across a field of charcoal. By noon she had unhorsed three men. By midafternoon she had embarrassed a fourth. And by the time the herald announced the final contest, Lady Rosamund Harcourt had stopped pretending she was watching merely because everyone else was. “Your ladyship,” murmured the woman beside her, “you have been staring at that knight for nearly an hour.” Rosamund did not look away from the field. “I have been watching the tournament.” “You have been watching one participant in the tournament.” Rosamund finally glanced toward Miriam, the traveling healer who had been invited to Harcourt for the week because tournaments produced more broken bones than glory and because Miriam had the useful habit of repairing both without displaying much respect for either. “You are remarkably observant.” “I am paid to notice where people hurt.” “I do not hurt.” Miriam's dark eyes moved over her. “No,” she said. “You look furious.” “That is different.” “Is it?” Rosamund turned back toward the field before she said something undignified. Then the black-armored knight lowered her lance. The horses charged. Wood splintered. One knight hit the ground. The other remained mounted. The crowd rose. Rosamund did not. She had gone perfectly still. Because the victorious knight had lifted her left hand toward the gallery. Around the wrist of the steel gauntlet was tied a narrow strip of faded burgundy silk. Rosamund knew that ribbon. She had tied it around a young woman's wrist twelve years earlier beneath an apple tree, laughing while the woman complained that burgundy was a dreadful color for a sword fighter. The ribbon had been brighter then. So had they. “Oh,” Rosamund whispered. Miriam followed her gaze. “You know the knight.” “No.” The knight turned her horse toward the gallery. Rosamund swallowed. “Yes.” The mysterious knight rode directly beneath Rosamund's pavilion. A hundred people watched. Rosamund heard none of them. The knight removed a fresh burgundy favor from her belt and held it upward. Rosamund stared at the hand. Then at the helmet. Then at the narrow darkness behind the visor. “You impossible woman,” she whispered. The helmet tilted slightly. That tiny gesture settled the matter. Only one person Rosamund had ever known could make a helmet look insolent. Rosamund reached down and accepted the favor. “Welcome home, Elinor.” Nobody close enough to hear appeared to understand. The knight wheeled her horse away. Miriam looked from Rosamund to the departing rider. “Elinor?” Rosamund closed her fingers around the ribbon. “Elinor Vale.” “I have heard that name.” “So has half the county.” “The other half believes she died abroad.” “For eleven years,” Rosamund said quietly, “I have occasionally wished they were correct.” Then Elinor entered the final contest. And ten minutes later she was carried from the field unconscious. Elinor awoke to the smell of rosemary, vinegar and smoke. She opened one eye. A dark-haired woman was leaning over her. Elinor closed the eye again. “If you are Death,” she muttered, “you are considerably prettier than I expected.” “I am not Death.” “Then perhaps I am improving.” “You have three cracked ribs, a cut beneath your shoulder, and enough bruises to make tomorrow unpleasant.” Elinor opened both eyes. “You are definitely Death.” The woman smiled. “Miriam.” “Elinor.” “I know.” That sobered her. Elinor tried to rise. Pain put her back down. Miriam pressed one hand against her shoulder. “Stay.” “I cannot.” “You can.” “I have spent half my life learning that I cannot.” “And I have spent half mine discovering that warriors become remarkably obedient when you press the correct rib.” Miriam did. Elinor gasped. “That was unnecessary.” “It was educational.” Only then did Elinor realize that most of her armor had been removed. Her breastplate lay beside the bed. Her shirt had been cut away from the wounded shoulder. Bandages crossed her ribs. And Miriam was looking directly at her face. Not at the armor. Not at the name. At her. “Who else knows?” Elinor asked. “That you are a woman?” Elinor nodded. “Rosamund.” Elinor stared at the ceiling. “Of course.” “She recognized you before I did.” “She always did.” Something in Elinor's voice made Miriam pause. “You loved her.” Elinor turned her head. “That is an unusually personal question from someone I met approximately four minutes ago.” “I have had my hands beneath your armor for considerably longer than four minutes.” Elinor considered that. “Fair.” Miriam began replacing the cloth around her shoulder. After a moment Elinor said, “Yes.” “Yes?” “I loved her.” Miriam's fingers slowed. “And now?” Elinor looked toward the window. “I have been home less than a day.” “That was not my question.” Elinor looked back at her. Miriam smiled. There was nothing coy in it. Nothing deferential. Nothing frightened. Elinor found that unexpectedly dangerous. “You ask too many questions.” “I am a healer.” “That explains the herbs.” “It also explains the questions.” “And the arrogance?” “That is entirely natural talent.” Elinor laughed. The cracked rib punished her immediately. Miriam caught her shoulder before she folded forward. Their faces were suddenly very close. Neither moved. For one quiet moment, the entire world seemed reduced to candlelight, linen, and the warmth of Miriam's fingers against Elinor's skin. Then Miriam drew back. “You should sleep.” Elinor watched her. “I suspect that may now be difficult.” Rosamund came the following morning. She dismissed the servant carrying breakfast, shut the door, and stood at the foot of the bed. Elinor looked at her. Rosamund looked at Elinor. Neither spoke. Miriam, gathering bottles from the table, glanced between them. “I suddenly understand why wars last so long.” Rosamund's eyes moved toward her. “I beg your pardon?” “Neither side appears willing to begin.” Elinor covered her face. “Miriam.” “I am leaving.” She collected her satchel. At the door she looked back. “Try not to reopen the wound.” Rosamund raised one eyebrow. “Which wound?” Miriam smiled. “Precisely.” Then she left. Silence returned. Rosamund sat beside the bed. “You came back.” “Yes.” “You sent no letter.” “No.” “You sent no message.” “No.” “You allowed me to believe you might be dead.” Elinor exhaled. “Yes.” Rosamund slapped her. Not particularly hard. Enough. Elinor touched her cheek. “I deserved that.” “I know.” Then Rosamund leaned forward and kissed her. Eleven years disappeared. For one heartbeat Elinor was twenty-one again beneath an apple tree, Rosamund's hands in her hair, both of them convinced love was sufficient protection against the entire world. Then Rosamund drew away. Her eyes were wet. “I have wanted to do both of those things since yesterday.” “In that order?” “I had not decided.” Elinor smiled. Rosamund did not. “You left because my father intended to marry me.” “I left because your father intended to hang me if I interfered.” “He was bluffing.” “He owned a very convincing rope.” That almost earned Elinor another smile. Almost. Then Rosamund stood. “He is dead now.” “I heard.” “And I am no longer twenty.” “Neither am I.” “So what happens now?” Elinor opened her mouth. Nothing came. Rosamund saw the answer before Elinor found one. Her expression changed. Not dramatically. That made it worse. “There is someone else.” “No.” Rosamund looked toward the door through which Miriam had disappeared. Elinor followed her eyes. Rosamund gave a tiny, humorless laugh. “Oh, Elinor.” “I met her yesterday.” “That has never prevented you from making catastrophic decisions quickly.” “That is unfair.” “It is extremely fair.” Elinor sat up despite her ribs. “Rosamund—” A horn sounded outside. Then another. Hooves thundered beneath the window. Rosamund crossed to it. Her expression hardened. “Dame Maudrec.” Elinor felt suddenly cold. Maudrec of Blackthorn Keep had been Rosamund's unwanted suitor before Elinor left England. Apparently some things survived eleven years remarkably well. “What does she want?” Rosamund turned. “What she has always wanted.” “My lands.” Dame Maudrec did not bother with diplomacy. She waited until Rosamund left Harcourt for evening prayers at the village chapel. Her riders struck on the return road. Miriam happened to be traveling with Rosamund because one of the household children had developed a fever and Miriam had insisted upon collecting willow bark herself. Rosamund later maintained that this was the only reason Miriam was taken. Miriam maintained that Rosamund had thrown a rock at an armored guard. Both statements were true. By nightfall, both women were locked inside Blackthorn Keep. Maudrec visited once. She wore black armor beneath a fur-trimmed cloak and carried herself with the confidence of someone who had rarely been told no and had never accepted it gracefully. Rosamund stood when she entered. Miriam remained seated. “Lady Rosamund,” Maudrec said. “Tomorrow you will sign the marriage agreement.” “No.” “Your lands will become mine regardless.” “No.” Maudrec smiled. “You have always possessed admirable consistency.” “And you have always mistaken persistence for charm.” Maudrec's smile disappeared. She looked at Miriam. “And the healer?” “Has nothing to do with this.” “I disagree.” Miriam looked up. “Why?” “You saw my men.” “I see many unpleasant things.” “You could identify them.” “I suspect the matching uniforms might accomplish that without me.” Maudrec stared at her. Rosamund nearly smiled. Maudrec left. The door slammed. Miriam waited until the footsteps disappeared. Then she produced a small glass vial from her sleeve. Rosamund stared. “You had that?” “I had three.” “Where?” Miriam raised one eyebrow. Rosamund considered. “No. Never mind.” She reached into the folds of her gown and produced a ring of keys. Now Miriam stared. “You had those?” “The guard was distracted.” “How?” “I smiled at him.” Miriam looked impressed. “I may have underestimated you.” “Most people do.” They moved closer to the torch. Rosamund examined the keys while Miriam crushed the dried contents of the vial into a wooden cup. “What does that do?” “Puts a large man to sleep.” “For how long?” “If I prepared it correctly, two hours.” “And if you did not?” “Two days.” Rosamund stopped turning the keys. “Will he survive?” Miriam considered. “Probably.” Rosamund resumed turning them. “I find that acceptable.” At Harcourt, Elinor learned of the abduction while trying to put on her breastplate. “You cannot possibly be serious,” said the old steward. Elinor tightened one strap. “Apparently I can.” “You can barely lift your left arm.” “I have another.” “Lady Elinor—” “Elinor.” “You are wounded.” “Yes.” “Blackthorn has forty armed guards.” “Then I shall attempt not to meet all of them.” “You have no army.” Elinor pulled on her cloak. “I have a horse.” “That is not an army.” “It is faster.” She rode before anyone could produce another sensible objection. The journey to Blackthorn took three hours. Climbing its western wall took another. And by the time Elinor lowered herself through an old postern window, her ribs had begun lodging formal complaints with every saint available. She crouched in the darkness and listened. Two guards passed. Elinor waited. Then she slipped into the keep. Meanwhile, Rosamund and Miriam had escaped their cell. The sleeping draught had worked. Unfortunately it had worked on the wrong guard. “I told you to put it in the larger cup,” Rosamund whispered. “I did.” “You put it in our cup.” “I had two identical cups.” “You are a healer.” “I do not specialize in crockery.” They hurried down the corridor. Behind them someone shouted. Rosamund lifted her skirts and ran. Miriam followed. They reached the courtyard just as the alarm bell began ringing. Ten guards appeared. Rosamund stopped. Miriam stopped beside her. “This,” Rosamund said, breathing hard, “would be an excellent moment for your mysterious knight.” A voice came from the wall above. “I was thinking the same thing.” Both women looked up. Elinor dropped from the lower parapet, landed badly, stumbled, recovered, and drew her sword. Miriam stared. “That was your entrance?” Elinor grimaced. “I had imagined it differently.” “You are limping.” “I know.” “You tore the stitches.” “I suspected as much.” Rosamund picked up a fallen guard's sword. “Could we discuss Elinor's medical irresponsibility after we survive?” “That seems reasonable.” Dame Maudrec entered the courtyard. The guards parted. She looked at Elinor. Then at the two women beside her. “You.” Elinor raised her sword. “Me.” Maudrec's gaze dropped to the helmet covering Elinor's face. “You hide behind armor and call yourself a knight.” Elinor stood very still. Then she reached up. Removed the helmet. And dropped it into the mud. Her dark hair fell around her face. The courtyard went silent. Elinor looked directly at Maudrec. “No,” she said. “I never called myself one.” Maudrec drew her sword. They fought. Not beautifully. Not like minstrels would later claim. Elinor was wounded, exhausted and angry. Maudrec was stronger than Elinor remembered. Steel rang through the courtyard. Elinor lost her sword. Maudrec advanced. Then Rosamund struck Maudrec's blade aside. Miriam swept the woman's legs with a discarded spear shaft. Maudrec hit the mud. Elinor stared down at her. Rosamund came to one side. Miriam came to the other. Maudrec looked at the three women standing above her. “This is dishonorable.” Rosamund smiled. “So was kidnapping me.” Miriam nodded. “And the accommodation was dreadful.” Elinor retrieved her sword. “I believe we are finished.” The gates opened before dawn. Maudrec's own soldiers had little interest in dying for a marriage contract once their employer was chained inside her own hall. Rosamund arranged matters with terrifying efficiency. By sunrise, Blackthorn belonged to nobody. Elinor found Rosamund alone in the small garden behind the chapel. For a long moment they stood facing each other. “You came for me,” Rosamund said. “Of course.” “You always did enjoy arriving late.” “I arrived before the wedding.” “A narrow success.” Elinor smiled. Rosamund stepped closer. “You still love me.” It was not a question. Elinor's smile faded. “Yes.” Rosamund touched her cheek. “But not the way you did.” Elinor could not answer. Rosamund nodded. “There.” “What?” “That.” “What?” “The truth.” Elinor looked away. Rosamund turned her face back. “You loved me once.” “I still do.” “That was not what I asked.” Elinor closed her eyes. “I don't know what you want me to say.” “I want you to stop treating the past like a promise.” Elinor looked at her. Rosamund's eyes were bright, but her voice remained steady. “We were twenty-one. We thought wanting each other meant the world would eventually become sensible.” “I wanted to come back.” “I know.” “I thought about you every year.” “I know that too.” “How?” “Because I did exactly the same.” Elinor swallowed. Rosamund smiled sadly. “And perhaps that is why we must stop.” She leaned forward. Their kiss was soft. Familiar. Beautiful. And finished. When Rosamund stepped away, Elinor's eyes remained closed. “Go after her,” Rosamund said. Elinor opened them. “What?” “The healer.” “Miriam?” “No, Elinor. The other beautiful dark-haired healer you have been staring at whenever you believe nobody notices.” Elinor gave her a look. Rosamund folded her arms. “She leaves this morning.” “How do you know?” “I asked.” “You asked her?” “Someone in this castle had to demonstrate initiative.” Elinor laughed. Then winced. Rosamund sighed. “And take a horse. You look ridiculous when you run.” Miriam had nearly finished tying her satchel to the saddle when Elinor found her outside the gates. The sun was beginning to rise. Blackthorn stood behind them, dark against a sky turning gold. Miriam glanced at Elinor. “Rosamund?” “Free.” “And Maudrec?” “Extremely unhappy.” “Excellent.” Miriam tightened the strap. Elinor waited. Miriam looked at her again. “And you?” “What about me?” “Are you returning to Harcourt?” Elinor looked back toward the road behind her. For eleven years she had imagined returning. Returning to Rosamund. Returning to England. Returning to the woman she had once been. Only now did she understand that she had mistaken memory for destination. “I thought I came home,” Elinor said. Miriam rested one hand on the saddle. “And?” Elinor stepped closer. “I think I came home to leave again.” Miriam's expression softened. “With whom?” Elinor reached for her hand. Miriam allowed it. “With a healer who asks too many questions.” “That sounds exhausting.” “I am prepared to suffer.” “You complain when I touch your ribs.” “You do it deliberately.” “Sometimes.” Elinor smiled. “So may I come?” Miriam looked at the armor Elinor still wore. “You cannot travel like that.” “I can remove it.” “The sword?” “Useful.” “The horse?” “Mine.” “The stubbornness?” Elinor considered. “Permanent.” Miriam sighed theatrically. “That is unfortunate.” Then she squeezed Elinor's hand. “But manageable.” They began walking. After several steps Elinor looked at her. “Where are we going?” Miriam smiled. “You followed me without asking?” “I was attempting to be romantic.” “That was reckless.” “I have been told.” “Frequently?” “Very.” Miriam nodded toward the open road. “There is a town two days east. They need a healer.” “And a knight?” Miriam looked at Elinor's battered armor. “No.” Elinor stopped. Miriam laughed. “A woman who knows how to use a sword, perhaps.” Elinor resumed walking. “That I can manage.” Behind them, Blackthorn Keep grew smaller. Ahead, the road disappeared into morning. Elinor tightened her fingers around Miriam's. For the first time in eleven years, she was not returning anywhere. She was going. And that, she discovered, felt considerably more like freedom.