As she had once before, Mair escaped the camp entirely and headed into the trees. They had reached full summer growth now. Walking beneath them was to be cast into deep, cool shade. It helped her headache subside and her heart to calm.
She should not linger out here for long. She had nothing but her eating knife, and while the Saxons would not dare come this close to Venta Belgarum, there were more dangers than Saxons abroad in the woods. Most of them went on two feet, although bears were also dangerous at this time of year.
When she heard the clash of metal, her heart skipped and her wariness zoomed high. Perhaps the patrols had found something.
Then she heard laughter.
The knock of sword upon shield.
More laughter and voices, none of them raised in anger.
Intrigued, Mair crept forward, her knife out. She followed the sounds, which grew clearer as she drew near, although she could still make nothing of what they were saying. Voices echoed flatly through the trees, distorting the words.
She spotted movement ahead, a slight glimpse between the thick trees, and slowed her steps even more.
Even as the hand shot out from behind the great oak she was passing, Mair recognized Rawn’s bare arm. The wrist, thick with muscle, and the tanned flesh. He gripped her knife arm and drew her up against the tree he stood beside.
“Look.” He turned her around, so her back was to him.
Her heart thudding from more than being ambushed, Mair peered through the trees.
Rawn had picked his spot well. From here, a clear line of sight ran between trees and bushes, giving him a narrow view of the clearing beyond.
Men were training there. They wore old tunics and cast-off shields on their arms, as they moved through rigorous sword movements. Hector and Lionel were there, along with Bryn and Druston, among others. Nearly everyone part of Arthur’s counsel and considered senior officers.
“Watch,” Rawn breathed.
Mair would have been caught by the view and would have lingered to watch even without his advice, for the patterns and movements these men were using were different from any sword training she had ever seen.
She couldn’t make sense of the arm positions. They looked wrong.
How could anyone defend themselves with their sword up in the air that way?
“And what might you be doing, lingering here?” came the question from behind them.
Mair whirled. Rawn cursed.
Dinadan stood with his sword out, although the point was lowered toward the earth. He tilted his head. “Spying, are you?”
Rawn’s jaw worked.
“I was interested,” Mair said. “Why hold your sword so high, like that?”
Dinadan’s expression shifted to the merry one he most often used. “You’d best ask Lancelot. Come along.” He gestured with his sword that they should move toward the clearing.
Mair turned and followed Rawn through the trees. They stepped into the clearing and saw the whole area all at once. Mair caught her breath. There were dozens of men here. All of them were known to Mair. All of them were senior officers and lords, or the sons of lords. Tristan and Sagramore, the two Calleva twins, Martyn and Trevor. Cadoc, Aglovale and Percival and Lamorak. Even red-headed Gareth.
From the far side of the clearing, Lancelot strode around to where they stood, their eyes wide. Dinadan moved to meet him. “She wants to know why the swords are on-high,” he said. He laughed and moved over to the end of the line of men moving through set swings and parries and took his place with them.
Lancelot wore no armor. His tunic was simple and black, as usual. He considered them.
“You train these men?” Rawn asked, sounding winded.
“They asked me to teach them,” Lancelot said.
“Why here, in secret?” Mair demanded.
“It is no secret,” Lancelot assured her. “At least, not from Arthur and his officers. But why not here?” He looked around. “I like trees.”
He had lived among trees in the Perilous Forest, Mair remembered.
Lancelot smiled. “Besides, here among the trees, we are hidden from any spies who might note what we do and give that information to the Saxons.”
“Why do they hold their swords so high?” she said, for the question prodded her, begging to be answered. “It exposes your trunk, your hips and belly. It doesn’t make sense.”
Lancelot considered her. “No?” He beckoned with his finger. “Come with me.”
He moved over to a nearby tree. At the base of the tree was a sack, half-open to show a great collection of old swords. He pulled out two of them and tossed one to Mair.
She got her hand up and caught it, then turned it around and gripped the hilt.
Lancelot came back to where she stood and lifted the other.
Mair automatically shifted her feet into a defensive position and put the sword out in front of her, shielding her body. “This is a Roman short sword,” she complained. “You would have greater reach even if our blades were equal length.”
“You can fight with whatever blade you have,” Lancelot said. “Even that little eating knife of yours, used the right way, will win the day for you.” He raised the sword he held high over his head. “Lunge for me.”
Rawn moved around so he was between them and could watch. Intense curiosity and interest shone in his eyes.
Mair rolled her eyes and lunged.
Lancelot’s sword dropped in a slashing movement and jarred her blade aside.
Instantly, he brought the sword back up. “Again.”
Mair frowned. Where could she next attack? Surely, he could not guard every vulnerable point on his body with such a stance? She considered, then with a cry, threw herself forward, cutting at his thighs.
Another ringing of steel, and this time, her sword went flying.
Rawn made a soft sound, a mixture of astonishment and dawning understanding.
Lancelot picked up the short sword and handed it back to her. “This time, put your sword up…so.” He demonstrated.
Feeling foolish, Mair raised her sword over her head, imitating Lancelot’s position. It felt awkward and it felt dangerous. She was exposed this way.
Without warning, Lancelot swung his sword at her. It was a classic side swipe, the first movement any child was taught. A basic drill, good for disemboweling the enemy if he didn’t have his guard up.
There was no time to think. Mair whipped her blade down, to block the viciously swinging long sword.
The clash of the blades jarred her to her elbows. The strength of Lancelot!
“Mair, you stopped him,” Rawn breathed, awe tinging his voice.
Mair looked down at the locked blades—her puny short sword and the long sword in Lancelot’s grip.
Lancelot considered her, his black eyes grave. “Do you see?” he asked.
“I don’t understand. It shouldn’t have worked,” Mair breathed.
Lancelot nodded and straightened, releasing her sword. “You think it should not because you, just like your brothers, have been immersed in the proper way to fight, all your life.”
“The proper way works,” Mair said stiffly.
“Until it no longer works,” Lancelot replied. “Here. Put your sword out, as you were taught.”
Mair settled into the standard defense position, her sword out. From here, she could block every jab or slice.
Lancelot copied her stance. “Now, move very slowly. I will bring my sword thus, to strike your flank…” He brought the sword back in a slow movement, then around in the flat arc which, if not blocked, could decapitate a man or slice him in two. It was a death blow.
Mair brought her sword up in the classic blocking movement.
“Stop!” Lancelot said urgently.
She held still.
“Look where your sword is,” he urged her.
Mair lifted her chin, to look at the blade overhead.
“It’s up over your head,” Rawn breathed.
Lancelot let his sword drop, the point in the earth. He nodded. “When you keep your sword high, you are removing the first half of a classic blocking movement. You can respond faster and with strength.”
“That’s defense,” Rawn said. “What about attacking?”
“It’s still the same,” Mair said, as understanding flooded her. “Lancelot brought his sword back and up, to slash.” She demonstrated.
Lancelot nodded. “You do see. Very good.” He stepped to one side and indicated the men moving through drills in the clearing. “Join us.”
Mair didn’t hesitate. She nodded and moved over to the nearest line of men, beside Dinadan. It didn’t surprise her to see Rawn take up a place beside Lionel, farther along, one of the old swords in his hand. Rawn would understand how important this learning could be.
It was a morning of revelations and inspiration…and sheer hard work. As the sun rose to the noon position, the training ended. Mair knew the rest of her day would be taken up with considering this startling and innovative form of fighting. It was of little wonder Lancelot was unbeatable on the field. This sword work made any man faster and stronger, no matter what his natural strength or the weakness of the blade he wielded.
As Lancelot said, even Mair’s small eating knife would give her an advantage over a fighter who used the “proper” techniques.
Hector, Lancelot’s older half-brother, stopped before Mair, mopping his brow with his sleeve. “Tomorrow, as soon as the counsel has ended, we will meet here again. Yes?”
Mair nodded. She would be a fool not to come. She said diffidently, “May I bring the women of the Queen’s Cohort?”
Hector smiled. “They would benefit from this as much as any man. They will be welcome.”
The clearing emptied, everyone leaving in twos and threes, talking and laughing together. Someone had picked up the bag of swords. Nothing was left to show the purpose of the clearing.
Mair caught up with Rawn. “Why is no one speaking of this openly in the camp?” she asked him. “Everyone would benefit. Imagine what an entire army trained by Lancelot would do to the Saxon hoards!” Her heart hurried at the idea.
“No one talks about it for the same reason we didn’t,” Rawn said. His tone was thoughtful, his gaze far away. “How often have we sat and made fun of Lancelot and his ways?”
Mair’s excitement stilled. It was true. They had spent years laughing at the man. “It’s just that…he’s so young. Who would believe he could know more about war and fighting than us?”
“We were secure in the knowledge that our way was the best,” Rawn said. His mouth twisted. A grimace.
“If he would only show everyone what he demonstrated to you and me. Everyone would understand, then.”
Rawn’s gaze slid to her. “You’re only a few years older than Lancelot, Mair. I’m a few years older still. Yet even we are so mired in the old ways, it’s instinctive. I continually held my sword out, instead of up. You, too.”
Mair nodded. She had been dropping back into the old habits whenever she relaxed. She had to concentrate to keep her sword up.
“Can you imagine Pellinore trying to learn this?” Rawn asked. “Or Bricius? They’ve spent their entire lives fighting the only way they knew how. If we must fight our instincts to keep our swords up, imagine how difficult it would be for the older officers.”
“Druston and Bryn are older,” Mair pointed out.
Rawn halted, frowning down at the ground, working things out. “They’re not leaders,” he said softly. “They can afford the risk.”
“What risk is there in changing how one fights to a better way?”
“The risk of trying and failing,” Rawn said slowly. “Think of it, Mair. If Pellinore tried this way of fighting and couldn’t adjust properly, he might fail in the midst of battle, too. He would fall, and his house weakened.”
Mair nodded. “Then it is up to us, isn’t it? We must make sure the younger officers and fighters learn this way and rid themselves of the old way.”
Rawn laughed. “Listen to you! A Corneus warrior, dismissing the proper way to fight.”
Mair drew in a breath, startled. It was true. Corneus, the house of perfect warriors, had hewed to the proper ways for generations. It made the house strong. “If a new way is better, it should be used,” she said softly. “What Lancelot showed us…” She could still feel the jolt in her arms from blocking the powerful blow of his sword. It had been an astonishing moment. “If I can block Lancelot with a rusty Roman sword, the superiority of his way of fighting is proven, isn’t it?”
“It will prove itself on the field, in battle,” Rawn said. “For now, yes, we should continue to learn everything Lancelot can teach us.” His blue eyes settled on her face.
Mair couldn’t help it. Flashes of the night they’d had together slipped into her mind. He had looked into her eyes in this way, that night. Heat spread through her at the reminder.
He was looking at her now the way he always had in the past, before she had taken that damned second kiss. There was no animosity in his face. No bitterness in his eyes. Simply a warmth which laid between the two of them and no one else.
Rawn had forgotten they were no longer friends. She could see it in his eyes. But, so had she forgotten. They had fallen back into the old patterns, as their swords had done a while ago.
It was a stolen moment, one she was not entitled to any more. Mair wanted to weep at the loss.
It would be so easy to let the moment linger, to continue talking in this light-hearted and interesting way, as they had always done. Only, it would not be fair to Rawn.
Hating herself, hating the circumstances which made it necessary, Mair made herself say, “How did your evening with Tegan proceed?”
Rawn straightened with a snap. He blinked. All expression left his eyes and face. His jaw flexed. “That is a matter between me and the lady Tegan,” he said stiffly.
Mair nodded. The rebuke was a reasonable response. Her indelicate question had served the purpose she had intended. Rawn remembered, now, how things laid between them.
He clenched the hilt of his knife, for he wore no sword. With a stiff nod of his head, he strode away, heading for the camp.
Mair kept her gaze on his tall figure until he disappeared between the trees. She absorbed every little detail, from his broad shoulders to his muscled thighs and the hard-rounded rear which his short tunics displayed so intriguingly. She stored the details away, as one stored grain to last the lean, bleak winter to come.