The old knight bowed low but held his eyes on the man in front of him. “Ah, Sir Holland. I was just finishing my patrol of our wards. My apologies for keeping you. This old man’s feet aren’t so nimble anymore.”
“Your ward is inside the wheelhouse, old man. And perhaps you’ve noticed that we’re stranded. If an attack happened now—”
“If an attack came now, I trust the saint would be safe in your capable hands. But who is to protect our novitiates?”
King seethed, gritting his teeth and glaring with beady, black eyes. “You insolent,” he started, then he spit and looked at Jael as if he’d not noticed her before. “Who’s this, then? A woman to keep off the morning chill? Mayhap the saint will finally listen when I tell him about your, ‘patrols.’”
Leonhardt did not take kindly to the remark, and her temper showed on her tongue as she interjected, “I’ll forgive you, sir, if you don’t remember me. I was at Herbstfield chapel. My name is—”
“I know what your bloody name is, child. Everyone knows. How else would you be here? And I see you don’t have a shred of shame about it.” He spat again and turned back to Rillion. “Go prove that you’re not useless, Pyke. I want a dozen more men over here. Now.”
“Aye,” replied the old knight, bowing first to his superior and then to Jael, whispering in her ear, “You’d best go, lassie. There are wolves in these woods with a taste for maiden flesh.” With that, he left Leonhardt with a chill in her bones, but she wasn’t about to give up just yet. There was work to be done, an opportunity to prove Holland a fool, to prove herself worthy. She started for the carriage.
King thought differently. “Where in Hell do you think you’re going?”
Jael gestured toward the two stories of double-wide carriage on eight iron-tyred wheels. “You said you needed more men.”
“You’re not a man. You’re a God dammed distraction, and a damned disgrace.” He grabbed her by the sword belt and shoved hard on her abdomen, knocked the wind from her lungs. It was a miracle that Jael didn’t lose her feet. King continued, “The arrogance. You’re just like your father, thinking you deserve to wear that sword. Playing the knight when you’re nothing but a bastard to a dishonoured—”
“I’m not playing!” erupted from her tongue before she knew what she was saying.
Holland smirked. He’d make an example of her, he told Leonhardt, then he called over the men struggling with the saint’s carriage. In a moment, Jael found herself surrounded. She thought of Rillion’s warning, but it was too late now. The wolves were upon her, snickering and sniggering like the girls at church—Sir Holland, their queen. He announced to the crowd in a voice like an actor, “Listen, everyone. We have before us a lady who believes she’ll be knighted to the Saint’s Cross! Look, she even has the sword to prove it!”
“But, sir!” one of the men called out, “Ain’t it on the wrong side?”
“Good luck draw’n that out!” shouted another.
A third joined in, “That’s how she practices her swordplay!” The man made mockery of tugging an imagined sword in and out of its scabbard. The meaning was not lost on Jael, nor on the crowd as they roared their laughter. There were hoots and howls and nasty japes all around—and tears welling at the center. Tears of frustration. Eventually, Jael swallowed her pride and tried to depart, but Holland wouldn’t allow it. He ordered the men not to let her pass. He said that her lesson wasn’t done, that she’d stay until she learned where she belonged. Back at the farmhouse. Back with my mother. Desperation gripped Leonhardt’s heart.
Her left hand fell upon the hilt of her sword. In one fluid motion, Jael bared the blade before the rancorous crowd, flourished the bright steel, and postured how only a trained swordsman would. She thought they might laugh; she hoped that they wouldn’t. “I told you I wasn’t playing, and I meant it. I can draw my sword just fine,” she said, praying a display of her prowess might put the mocking to rest.
Never did Jael imagine that the captain would take her flourish for a threat. He drew his own blade, one identical with hers, beat Leonhardt’s weapon aside, and held her at sword point.
“That was a mistake, girl. I could have your head for that. Hell, I’ve half a mind to lop off your hand, put an end to this foolishness.” He stepped closer and rested his point on the breast of her surcoat, between the eyes of the lion, steel biting the white thread. “Do you still think you deserve to be a knight? Do you?”
Jael cried silently. She refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing it, though she knew there was nowhere to hide the shame evident on her face, no way to keep safe from their judgement. She was naked, vulnerable on that sun baked ship in the center of a storm with wolves and serpents lurking all around her. And they were sneering now, she felt sure, till she looked aside Holland and realized that it was worse than she imagined. Not one was grinning, and everywhere she turned she found solemn, bitter, serious faces. King’s point sunk further, pricking her skin.
“Do you?” he shouted.
Rillion Pyke answered, “Aye, captain. I believe she does.” The old knight was just returning with a few men at his back and
