pieces of plate in her hand and her assistant, Marigold, trotting behind her. “Lady Constance asked me to make this for her a few decades ago, but she’s yet to visit the front, so we can modify it to fit you. Here, hold this up and let me see what changes I’ll need to make to it.”
I did as she asked, admiring the metal chest plate while she fussed around me. It was a gorgeous piece of armor, well crafted and even graceful in its lines. It looked like it was made of sterling silver, although I knew it had to be some kind of steel. The breastplate was curved to fit a woman’s form, with breast cups that would please the heart of Grace Jones. The center of the breastplate curved down in an inverted arrow, much like a corset’s busk, the sides of which swept out to little hip flares that reminded me of a peplum. It was held on the torso by leather straps, and as Antoinette and Marigold strapped me into it, I was aware that not only did it fit reasonably well (although I overflowed the cups a bit), but it was also surprisingly light.
“Wow, I can bend and stuff,” I said, bending down to touch my toes. “This is much nicer than the other armor I was given.”
“The mail will be too small for you,” Antoinette said, eyeing me as I flexed and stretched to determine my range of motion. “But we can patch on a new section easily enough. The skirt, however . . .”
“There’s a skirt?” I looked down at my jeans. “I can’t imagine fighting in a dress.”
“It’s a mail skirt. It hangs down over your hips to your knees.”
“Oh. I thought that was part of the shirt thingy.”
“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—
“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
