On My Lady's Honor (All for one, and one for all) (10 page)

She gave a quick sideways glance.
 
Lamotte had disappeared into the shadows at the far edge of the courtyard.
 
There was little point in staying in the hopes of prolonging her lesson with him.
 
She did not want to impose too much on his good nature.
 
He had been giving up all his free time to her lately to tutor her.
 
She felt as though she could never be sick of his company, but she did not want him to tire of her.
 
His friendship, so casually offered and so gratefully received, had made her feel less lonely.
 
He made her feel as though she belonged as part of his world, and that she need never be alone again.

Her craving for company decided for her.
 
“Lead on.”
 
She could not rely on Lamotte to always be there for her.
 
She had to make a place for herself in the world she had chosen.
 
A drink in the tavern with Pierre was an uncomplicated start.
 
She only hoped she would not regret it.

The tavern was full to bursting point with soldiers of all descriptions.
 
Sophie recognized a few of them from her regiment, but most of them were strangers to her.

Pierre elbowed his way to the front, fending off the complaints of those he jostled with a quick grin and a few easy words, and ordered them some stew and a pint of porter apiece.

They sat down on a pair of stools at a rough-hewn table in a dark corner, away from the worst of the crowd.
 

Lamotte, she noted, appeared not long after they did.
 
She avoided catching his eye, and to her mingled relief and disappointment he did not join them, but made his way instead to a quiet group in the far corner.
 
He unsettled her and made her feel more on her guard than anyone else in the regiment, though she enjoyed his company more than anyone else’s as well.
 
She did not want him to think that he was her only friend.
 
Besides, she was tired tonight and Pierre’s unthinking comradeship was far easier for her to deal with.

She ate her thick meaty stew with relish, but dared only to sip at her drink.
 
She had never touched anything stronger than smallbeer before.
 
In her situation, and with Lamotte and others who knew her brother all around her, drinking was too dangerous.
 
She needed all her wits about her.

Pierre was under no such restraint.
 
Before he taken more than three mouthfuls of stew, he had finished his pint and was calling loudly for another.
 
The drink made him merrier than ever until Sophie was laughing harder than she had done in a long while.
 
She had not shed her cares for the simple enjoyment of food and laughter for longer than she could remember.

She could feel Lamotte’s gaze on her, and could not resist sneaking the odd glance back at him.
 
He did not seem to share her enjoyment of the evening.
 
He ate his stew slowly, and with a black look on his face.
 
The ale he drank only deepened his frown.
 
She wondered what ailed him that he was so morose on such a pleasant evening.

She was wiping out the last of her stew with a thick chunk of bread when a harried-looking serving maid, her hands full of brimming pewter mugs, finally answered Pierre’s call for more ale.
 
She plonked one of the mugs down in front of him, and he swiped it up immediately.
 
“To your health, darling,” he said with a flourish, raising his mug in her direction.

The fellows at a nearby table were less polite.
 
One of them, a big burly oafish fellow with hands the size of trenchers, put his arm around the serving maid’s waist as she passed by and drew her on to his lap.

Sophie looked up from her plate at the woman’s squeal of protest.
 
The maid was holding her brimming pints of porter high above her head as she tried to wriggle out of the oaf’s grasp.
 
With her hands occupied, she was powerless to escape.

The landlord passed by, plates of food in each hand.
 
He made no attempt to rescue her.
 
“Don’t spill ‘em girl, or I’ll dock the price of ‘em out of your wages.”

The oaf roared with ribald laughter at the girl’s cries for help, and grabbed at her breasts with his huge, meaty hands.
 
Sophie was close enough to see tears of pain and terror come to the girl’s eyes as she struggled in vain to break free.

Without stopping for breath, Sophie vaulted off her stool and drew her dagger out of its scabbard.
 
A few quick steps, and she was at his side.
 
Just touching the tip of her sword against the oaf’s neck, she growled into his ear.
 
“Drop the girl.”

He looked around in drunken surprise.
 
“You talking to me?”

Sophie pressed her knife a little harder against his neck, so that a trickle of ruby-red blood ran down into the collar of his shirt.
 
She had no patience for bullies who preyed on those weaker than themselves.
 
“Drop the girl.”

He roared in fury as the pain hit his fuddled brain.
 
He let go of the serving maid, who quickly scuttled away into safety, and lumbered drunkenly to his feet.
 
“I’ll take you apart with my bare hands for nicking me, you poxy little son of a whore,” he bellowed.

He was taller than a mountain, and just as solid-looking, Sophie thought with a faint stirring of dismay, as she swapped her wicked little dagger for her equally sharp sword.
 
She stood her ground, sword in hand, defying him to wreak his revenge on her.
 
Mountain of a man that he was, she was far more nimble on her feet than he could ever be, and the porter he’d drunk had slowed him down even further.

With a rumbling bellow of outrage that reverberated in the rafters, he drew his sword and aimed a tremendous blow in her general direction – luckily for her with more enthusiasm than finesse.
 
She barely needed to twist sideways a fraction and the blow landed harmlessly on a nearby stool, shattering it to pieces.

The scabrous landlord materialized out of nowhere, wringing his hands at the sight of such damage to his precious property.
 
“My chair,” he wailed, in tones of heartfelt anguish.
 
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, put up your swords.”

She ignored his cries, as he had ignored the cries of the serving maid.
 
He deserved to have all his chairs broken for the meanness of his mercenary soul.

All her attention was concentrated on the fracas she had started.
 
She had no desire to kill or maim the oaf – only to teach him a lesson to not mess with maids who didn’t welcome his attentions.
 
With a quick twist of her wrist, she cut through the lacings that tied up his breeches.
 
She heard Pierre behind her convulse with laughter as the oaf’s breeches fell to his knees.

The draught of cold air around his nether parts sobered the oaf.
 
With an inarticulate grunt of fury, he gathered a fistful of breeches in one hand and came after her again, vicious determination squinting crookedly out of his bloodshot eyes.

She could see out of the corner of her eye that Lamotte was watching her once more.
 
She could not resist showing him how well she had learned her lessons.
 
Pivoting on her heel, she leaped on to the table behind the oaf, hooked the tip of her sword in the back of his leather jerkin and ripped it cleanly in two.

The two halves of the jerkin fell over the oaf’s shoulders and down his arms, tangling in his sword and inhibiting his movement.
 
Still he came after her blundering through the crowd with his breeches in one fist and his sword in the other, intent on vengeance, striking this way and that at whatever got in his way.

His drinking companions had roared with laughter along with the rest at the oaf’s mishap with his breeches, but their mood turned ugly when they saw how useless all his strength was against Sophie’s speed.
 
They misliked seeing one of their own mocked by a Musketeer in the service of the King.

One by one they clambered to their feet, swords in hand, advancing against Sophie, trampling over anyone who got in their way.

In a few short moments, the entire tavern was in a complete uproar.
 
Stools were being flung and tables overturned.
 
Each man was fighting against everyone else – for no other reason but the love of a brawl.
 
Sophie was in the thick of it, hoping that Lamotte was still watching her as she called on every lesson that he had ever taught her to keep herself from harm.

She would have done better to keep her attention focussed on the rolling waves of the fight in front of her rather than trying to spy Lamotte’s reaction to her agility.
 
One wrong move, and she found herself trapped, her back against the wall, the oaf and his friends having cut off her escape routes.
 

She wasted no time in cursing her foolishness.
 
There would be time and enough for recriminations when she was safe out of trouble.
 
Her mind focussed on all the tricks she had been taught, she fought her attackers fiercely, calling on every dram of strength and courage she possessed – her agility was little use to her in such a tight corner.
 

Despite her best efforts, they were crowding in on her.
 
Much closer and she would not be able to lift her sword arm to fend them off.
 
She searched desperately for a friendly face among the crowd.
 
Pierre was trading blows with a fellow in the corner, too occupied to come to her aid.
 
Lamotte was standing idly in the far side, raising his sword only when necessary to ward off any stray blows that came in his direction.

She caught his eye in a frantic plea for him to come and assist her.
 
He raised an eyebrow in her direction, crossed his arms over his chest, and made no move to help her.

Damn him to Hell and back again
, she thought to herself, as she parried another blow.
 
The force of it sent shock waves up her arm and she nearly dropped her sword.
 
Her wrist would ache for a sennight.
 
He can see that I’m struggling.
 
Why won’t he come to my aid?

She dodged another blow.
 
Damn it, but she hadn’t meant to start a full-scale war – just to teach a villain some manners.

Just as her attackers were closing in on her for the kill, from out of nowhere a tall, blond Musketeer appeared beside her, his sword ringing with ferocity as he carved his way into the middle of the fray.
 
“Into the kitchen,” he hissed into Sophie’s ear.
 
“We can get out through the back door and into the alley that way.”

Sophie flashed her rescuer a smile of relief and thanks.
 
She could not understand why Lamotte had left her to her fate so callously – she had been in for a beating to end all beatings to be sure, if she had even survived.
 
She had thought he had begun to like her and to enjoy her company while he was teaching her.
 
Thank God and all his angels that some of the Musketeers knew the meaning of chivalry and would come to the aid of their beleaguered comrades.

Back to back she and her rescuer battled along the wall, swords clanging as they went.
 
Her companion battled valiantly and seemingly without fear.
 
He did not even try to dodge many of the blows that were aimed at him – he took them square on his sword and struck back again with a vengeance.
 
With a flurry of vicious blows that sent their opponents reeling, they popped through the nearest door, a narrow opening recessed into the wall, and slammed it shut behind them.

“Damn.
 
Wrong door,” the blond Musketeer said, as they found themselves in a storage room, with neither door nor window except for the tiny opening they had just popped through.
 

Sophie swore vigorously as she wiped the sweat out of her eyes.
 
“We’re trapped in here.”

Kegs of ale were stacked up to the ceiling, and huge hams and bunches of onions and other vegetables hung from the rafters.
 
A wiry, dark-haired soldier, dressed as they were in the uniform of a Musketeer, crouched in the corner with his back to them, stuffing onions in his boots.
 
He looked up as they burst in, dismay and then shock registering on his smudged and grubby face.