The Dowry Blade (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Brede had both horses saddled by the time Sorcha appeared at her shoulder. She smiled, unnerved by the promise of uninterrupted time together. Sorcha’s answering smile smouldered, and Brede found a sudden urgent interest in a buckle on Guida’s bridle.

Sorcha grabbed a handful of Macsen’s mane, and hauled herself onto his back.

‘Are you coming with me, or are you going to admire the grease on the tack all day?’ she asked. Brede pulled Guida about and led her into the yard where she could mount without hitting her head.

‘Where to?’ she asked.

‘Away,’ Sorcha said abruptly.

Brede persuaded Guida close to Macsen and touched Sorcha’s forearm, intending comfort. Sorcha glanced down and frowned.

‘What?’ Brede asked indignantly.

‘Gloves,’ Sorcha said accusingly, and then her eyes travelling along Brede’s arm and upward, ‘sword, knives, mail.’

Brede removed her hand from Sorcha’s arm, pulling the leather glove from her hand with her teeth. She tapped Sorcha’s arm with her fingernail, producing a faint ringing.

‘Not exactly silk-clad yourself,’ she observed, throwing the glove across the courtyard, ‘Come on, I thought you wanted to exercise your horse.’

It was strange for the streets to be so full of people, laughing and spending such money as they had. This kind of celebration was all too rare. And now it was as though the very thought of war and of the attempt on Grainne’s life had been excised from the minds of the revellers. Out beyond the stone walls of the tower, the rest of the city had forgotten fear, and was full of light-heartedness. It felt dangerous.

There were children in the streets, a beggar playing pipes by the fountain. So normal, so carefree – no one paid attention to the mail-clad riders. Brede wondered if they remembered the army out beyond the walls; whether they knew they weren’t safe and cherished this unexpected happiness, as she cherished it. She wanted to lose herself in the colourful noisy throng, to be with Sorcha in an easy companionship, but the thought of Jodis kept her unwelcome company.

Forcing her hand away from the hilt of her knife, Brede tried to glance about her in a casual fashion. If everyone else could be at ease, wrapped in their own concerns, so could she.

They reached the market place, where the crowds made it harder to be together, impossible to force a way through, even on horseback, for this was a place for brisk sallies between one stall and another, not a head-down dash across the square.

On her way out to the walls, with half a mind to go beyond, Tegan walked into Eachan and had to put out a hand to steady him. It wasn’t until he thanked her that she realised how out of character it was for him to be unsteady, and more so for him to be grateful for assistance.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘Have you seen Brede?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Tegan said, ‘she’s up with Grainne as usual.’

‘No, no she isn’t.’ Eachan swore, tucking a glove into his belt in an absent-minded fashion.

‘What is it?’ Tegan asked.

‘Trouble,’ Eachan responded. ‘Madoc is back. I want her to stay away from him. And if you gave her my message she’s off in search of the daughter.’

‘West Gate?’ Tegan asked. Eachan nodded.

‘But she’s taken her horse,’ he observed. ‘She wouldn’t do that, would she, if she was only going there?’

Tegan was motionless, doubt assailing her.

‘Well if Madoc is here, and she’s gone, there’s no danger of Brede crossing swords with him,’ Tegan said carefully, wondering why Madoc was back, and beginning to make connections.

‘That is something to be grateful for,’ Eachan agreed, with more of his usual assertiveness, ‘Madoc would cut her to ribbons.’ Tegan walked on, but stopped again, not catching what he said next.

‘What?’ she asked, sensing its importance.

‘If it is the girl –’

Tegan nodded, finishing his sentence for him.

‘She’ll go looking for him.’

Out of the crowds at last, Brede put Grainne from her mind, and got her foot into the stirrup. Hauling herself into the saddle, she glanced at Sorcha.

‘You’re frowning,’ she said.

Sorcha raised her chin, and continued to frown. Brede turned Guida awkwardly, and bringing her round close to Macsen’s side, she reached over, pulling Sorcha’s plait. Sorcha turned her head, so that her cheek lay against Brede’s ungloved hand.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘We can’t go outside the walls, but I’ve found the river a good place to exercise the horses.’ Sorcha nodded. She wasn’t likely to forget that. Brede lifted her chin slightly, part defiance, part mischief. ‘Then we’re going to an inn, remember?’

‘Which inn?’

‘West Gate.’

Sorcha gave Brede a considering look.

‘Comfortable beds?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Brede said archly, and gave Guida a sharp kick, which set her off at a reasonable pace towards the river.

Brede was grateful for the wind in her face, and the certain strength of Guida’s muscles, putting more and more space between herself and the claustrophobia of Grainne’s chambers. She allowed Guida to choose the pace, and thought of nothing.

Sorcha watched Brede riding ahead of her with wistful jealousy. No matter how much she sang to Macsen, he would never be half the horse Guida was, nor would she ever have a tenth of Brede’s skill. However, she was prepared to try. She kicked Macsen lightly, encouraging him to greater speed. He surged after Guida, and, briefly, Sorcha understood Brede’s insistence that horses shaped her life, and that she could never be complete without them.

With that thought in her mind, Sorcha came level with Brede, and called out to her. As the horses slowed to a walk, Brede reached out, snatching at Macsen’s rein, pulling him close, so that he walked shoulder to shoulder with Guida for a few steps, then idled to a halt, content to nuzzle thoughtfully at Guida’s head strap. Brede twisted about, gathering Sorcha into her arms, awkward, passionate.

Guida stepped away from Macsen; unhappy at being close to a beast she knew to be vicious, and forced them apart.

‘What is it you are so afraid of?’ Sorcha asked, nudging Macsen close again.

‘Being wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘You don’t say much. You keep secrets, perhaps one of those secrets is that you don’t really want to be here.’

‘Dear Goddess, what gave you that idea?’

‘Silence, mostly.’

‘Were you not listening up on the roof, Brede? I was listening to you. I want to be here. No, that isn’t quite true – I want to be with you, I want to be out of this mail, in a bed, with you.’ Sorcha glanced at Brede’s face and laughed. ‘Right now,’ she said firmly, and walked Macsen close again so that she could reach out and touch Brede’s arm. ‘Right now.’

Brede ducked her head as she passed under the lintel of the stable. Guida protested softly at being brought back inside so soon, objecting to being brought through the crowds to no better purpose than this, a strange stable.

A child scrambled to her feet, reaching out an impatient hand for the reins, and Guida chose to complain at this too. Brede scolded her impatiently. The horse flicked an irritable ear, but restrained her awkward movements. The child’s hand dropped and she stared at Brede, taking in the sword and mail, the lack of saddlebags, the apparent lack of bond-collar. She could see the horse hadn’t come far, and was suspicious. She also recognised the words the warrior had used to her steed. Brede’s eyes met hers, as she dismounted and handed over the reins, almost questioning, but as swiftly dismissing.

‘You’ll be careful of the other,’ Brede said,.‘He’s difficult.’

The child nodded, recognising the accent, not listening to the words. As soon as she got a good look at Macsen, she grinned; the meaning behind the voice becoming clear. She nodded again.

‘I’ll mind,’ she answered, accepting the coppers Brede held out.

Sorcha gripped Brede’s hand. She was so used to the weight of keeping Grainne free of pain that she had almost forgotten what it was to not be holding her up. She hadn’t been as free as this since the horse market – since she first heard Brede’s voice. She considered her companion: what was it about her voice?

The Innkeeper was not unduly interested in them. Festivals often brought strangers in search of a room for an hour or two, to sleep off a hangover, to strike a deal in private, more often a meeting of bodies than minds. He scarcely glanced at them.

And at last there was a barred door between them and the world, and the whole city between them and anyone who might need them. A moment to be treasured then, a moment to linger over.

They stood a little apart, listening to the noise outside the shuttered window, tasting the rather foetid air of the closed room. Sorcha could not speak; any word of hers might appear to be witchery and, indeed, might be so.

Brede glanced about the room checking the security, and stopped; there was no danger here, but still. ‘This doesn’t feel right.’

‘How can it not be right?’ Sorcha protested. ‘Isn’t this what you and I have been wanting for weeks?’

‘
Yes
.’ Brede’s word exploded in the quiet. ‘Goddess, yes; with every bone in my body, but I wanted to –
find
our time, not be given permission.’

She pulled the sword belt roughly over her head, and rested the blade against the door – unconsciously barring it.

‘What then?’ Sorcha asked. ‘Would you rather –’

‘
No
.’ Again, explosive near-anger. Sorcha withdrew a step, listening with every hair, every pore of her body, trying to get past Brede’s words, trying to hear what it was she wanted.

Splashes of sunlight lit the darkness where the shutters had rotted. Sorcha watched Brede unlace her mail shirt and stepped forward to help her out of it. The weight of the metal on her hands felt strange, every muscle in Brede’s body screamed with restrained violence, but yes, as Brede said, every bone whispered desire. The splash of sunlight moved across Brede’s face as she turned. Brede’s hands guided Sorcha’s metal coat over her head, taking care not to catch her hair in any of the rings; tender. So close then, almost touching. Sorcha worked her hands free of the metal, acutely aware of the dull slithering thud as the mail hit the floor.

And still there was that reserve in Brede; that caution. Sorcha stood back.

‘Would you rather it was Tegan here with you?’ she asked. Brede’s startled glance met hers and turned back to a frown.

‘No,’ she said shortly, then, catching Sorcha’s expression, she hesitated. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘If Tegan and I had truly wanted –’ She couldn’t finish, suddenly unsure if what she had been about to say was true. ‘Tegan and I would always have been fighting each other. But you – I would fight
for
you.’

Sorcha laughed, puzzled. She let her eyes fall, away from Brede’s anxious expression, to the taut line of her neck. Almost without thinking, she raised her hand, laying her fingers against the pulse in Brede’s throat. Muscles jumped at her touch, and the rough sound of Brede’s breathing filled her.

‘Forget why we are able to be here,’ Sorcha said quietly, running her fingers up the ridge of tendon to Brede’s jaw, then on to her ear. Her lips followed the same journey, kissing from base of throat to lobe of ear. She could feel the heat of her own breath plume back off Brede’s skin. Brede bent her head and sighed, and the tension in her body was abruptly changed.

‘It seems I don’t need to fight for you,’ Brede said reaching to enclose Sorcha in her arms. Sorcha’s arms folded about Brede, pulling her closer, protective. She buried her face in Brede’s hair, breathing in the warmth of her.

‘Now,’ Sorcha said quietly.

Brede stroked her hair thoughtfully.

‘Now what?’ she asked.

‘Just
n
ow
. Not
soon
, not
later
, not
when we can
; but
now
.’

Desire quickened, and Brede smiled uncertainly, not sure what to do with that infinite spread of
now
. Sorcha had no such doubts; she buried her fingers in Brede’s hair, revelling in the warmth of her scalp. She clasped her hands about Brede’s head, holding her possessively, shaken by a molten rage of longing.

Slowly,
she told herself, placing her lips very gently on Brede’s brow. Brede blinked, surprised at the lightness of that touch, so at odds with the pent energy in the hands against her head. She shifted, and the grip relaxed. Encouraged, she snaked her arms about Sorcha, reaching under her shirt for warm flesh. As her fingers touched Sorcha’s ribs, Brede felt her flinch suddenly, and she laughed, pulling her towards the bed.

‘I never thought we’d get this far,’ Sorcha admitted.

‘No?’ Brede asked, exploring the warmth beneath Sorcha’s shirt.

‘No, I thought –’ Sorcha’s thoughts trailed into incoherence as she listened to the new messages flowing through Brede’s bone, sinew, flesh – and her own.

Coherence returned with her immediate needs satisfied, and a more leisurely exploration of Brede’s body. Under her seeking hands and lips Brede relaxed into happy anticipation, then that relaxation melted into a waiting stillness of such intensity that Sorcha was disconcerted, feeling that Brede was no longer with her, that somewhere in her mind, Brede was far away. She drew away slightly, and Brede’s heavy-limbed immobility stirred and she opened her eyes, and remembered to breathe. Her breath was ragged, and her puzzled, seeking eyes were half-blind, as she turned to Sorcha, a protest half-voiced. The protest died, and Brede turned her face away.

‘Don’t hide from me,’ Sorcha whispered.

Brede shook her head, and laughed, but the laugh caught, and became a sigh, and then a deep shaky breath. And then, another gasping breath, and another. The waiting stillness dissolved into shuddering, and the gasps into sobs. Brede wound shaking limbs tightly about Sorcha, hiding tears, muffling confused laughter.

Sorcha held her; waiting for the shaking to still, for the leaping pulse beneath her lips to steady.

At last Brede pulled loose of their tangled limbs, her lips seeking Sorcha’s, still too caught up in emotion for words. There was still an urgency to those kisses that overwhelmed Sorcha.