beautiful. Where is the harm?
I hold up my arms and Fleance passes the blue silk around my waist once, twice, and a third time. He has to lean close to me, but his hands do not stray. He ties the girdle and lets the ends fall. I feel the cloth snug against me yet not binding, a light thing of beauty.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“I want to kiss you.” His words come out in a single rapid breath.
I freeze. I feel hot tears begin to form and I close my eyes to keep them from falling. I have been so lonely since coming to Dunbeag.
“Now . . . may I?” he asks.
Where is the harm? I nod, and as his lips meet my forehead I feel a pleasant tingling of my skin beneath the girdle.
Oh please, now on the lips!
But instead Fleance draws back. Disappointed, I open my eyes.
“Where . . . where did you learn that?” I whisper.
“To kiss? Why, that was hardly anything.”
“Nay, I mean, to ask .”
He cocks his head to the side. “The other ways did not work with you.”
I smile and finger the ends of the sash. “But why?”
“Why what?”
Why are you, with your rough manners, now being kind to me? I thought you considered me too plain for your attention. Why does your father treat me like his daughter? Why am I so confused?
“Why did you give me this gift?” I ask.
He smiles. “I don’t know. It wanted doing.”
I peer into his face but cannot read his feelings. I yearn to shake him until his words and deeds fall into some pattern I might understand.
“Fleance, what do you want of me?” I say with all the earnest longing in me.
He steps back, dodging the question. “I want to teach you to fight!”
“And I want to learn,” I say, letting the question drop, for I don’t think I am ready for an honest answer.
Picking up the shield, I clumsily fasten its leather bands to my left forearm. I let Fleance show me how to protect myself while striking a blow, and how to fend off blows.
“Use the edge. If your enemy’s sword gets stuck in the front of your shield, it will be useless.”
We practice until I am nearly breathless.
“Now you are ready,” he says.
I raise the sword and it promptly slips from my sweaty hand. I groan with dismay.
Suppressing a laugh, Fleance takes a thin piece of deerskin and wraps it around my hand. I try not to think about his hands touching my fingers and wrist.
“This will improve your grip,” he says. Then he picks up a sword, and I see that it is made of wood.
“Why, that is a mere toy!”
“Don’t frown so,” he says. “It wouldn’t be a fair match otherwise.”
Determined, I face Fleance in the small clearing. With a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, I feel balanced and secure. I match his every move. My knees are bent and I lean a bit forward, waiting for the opportunity to thrust. Has Fleance noticed that my sword is now sharp?
“Just so you know,” I say, with a hint of teasing in my tone, “if I hurt you, I don’t mean to.”
Fleance laughs in a loud burst. “I think I can defend myself. I’ve had harder opponents.”
At that moment his attention falters, and I bring my blade briskly down upon his wooden war-toy. With a crack it shivers into pieces and he is left holding the hilt. He lets out all his breath at once and stares at me, stunned.
Now it is my turn to laugh.
“By Saint Brigid!” he cries. He looks me up and down, his eyes stopping at my waist. “Could the old woman have woven some magic into that girdle?”
“If so, I must never take it off.”
“Let me see that sword.”
Beaming with triumph, I hand it to him and slip the heavy shield from my forearm.
“It is the same one, surely, but you had it sharpened,” he observes. “Did you put a charm upon it, too?”
“I am no sorceress! But I have been building my strength. See?” I hold out my arms, letting the loose sleeves slip back, and tense them so that my sinews show, small but hard.
Fleance grasps my wrists, then slides his hands along my forearms,
I hold up my arms and Fleance passes the blue silk around my waist once, twice, and a third time. He has to lean close to me, but his hands do not stray. He ties the girdle and lets the ends fall. I feel the cloth snug against me yet not binding, a light thing of beauty.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“I want to kiss you.” His words come out in a single rapid breath.
I freeze. I feel hot tears begin to form and I close my eyes to keep them from falling. I have been so lonely since coming to Dunbeag.
“Now . . . may I?” he asks.
Where is the harm? I nod, and as his lips meet my forehead I feel a pleasant tingling of my skin beneath the girdle.
Oh please, now on the lips!
But instead Fleance draws back. Disappointed, I open my eyes.
“Where . . . where did you learn that?” I whisper.
“To kiss? Why, that was hardly anything.”
“Nay, I mean, to ask .”
He cocks his head to the side. “The other ways did not work with you.”
I smile and finger the ends of the sash. “But why?”
“Why what?”
Why are you, with your rough manners, now being kind to me? I thought you considered me too plain for your attention. Why does your father treat me like his daughter? Why am I so confused?
“Why did you give me this gift?” I ask.
He smiles. “I don’t know. It wanted doing.”
I peer into his face but cannot read his feelings. I yearn to shake him until his words and deeds fall into some pattern I might understand.
“Fleance, what do you want of me?” I say with all the earnest longing in me.
He steps back, dodging the question. “I want to teach you to fight!”
“And I want to learn,” I say, letting the question drop, for I don’t think I am ready for an honest answer.
Picking up the shield, I clumsily fasten its leather bands to my left forearm. I let Fleance show me how to protect myself while striking a blow, and how to fend off blows.
“Use the edge. If your enemy’s sword gets stuck in the front of your shield, it will be useless.”
We practice until I am nearly breathless.
“Now you are ready,” he says.
I raise the sword and it promptly slips from my sweaty hand. I groan with dismay.
Suppressing a laugh, Fleance takes a thin piece of deerskin and wraps it around my hand. I try not to think about his hands touching my fingers and wrist.
“This will improve your grip,” he says. Then he picks up a sword, and I see that it is made of wood.
“Why, that is a mere toy!”
“Don’t frown so,” he says. “It wouldn’t be a fair match otherwise.”
Determined, I face Fleance in the small clearing. With a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, I feel balanced and secure. I match his every move. My knees are bent and I lean a bit forward, waiting for the opportunity to thrust. Has Fleance noticed that my sword is now sharp?
“Just so you know,” I say, with a hint of teasing in my tone, “if I hurt you, I don’t mean to.”
Fleance laughs in a loud burst. “I think I can defend myself. I’ve had harder opponents.”
At that moment his attention falters, and I bring my blade briskly down upon his wooden war-toy. With a crack it shivers into pieces and he is left holding the hilt. He lets out all his breath at once and stares at me, stunned.
Now it is my turn to laugh.
“By Saint Brigid!” he cries. He looks me up and down, his eyes stopping at my waist. “Could the old woman have woven some magic into that girdle?”
“If so, I must never take it off.”
“Let me see that sword.”
Beaming with triumph, I hand it to him and slip the heavy shield from my forearm.
“It is the same one, surely, but you had it sharpened,” he observes. “Did you put a charm upon it, too?”
“I am no sorceress! But I have been building my strength. See?” I hold out my arms, letting the loose sleeves slip back, and tense them so that my sinews show, small but hard.
Fleance grasps my wrists, then slides his hands along my forearms,
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