hen I arrive for our first sparring session, I do not call out a greeting, but let the glow of the torch and the sliding of the bolt announce my presence. With a sack over one shoulder and my knife within my reach, I begin lowering myself down the rope. I descend more cautiously than the first time, mindful of how glibly the prisoner discussed overpowering me, not wanting to give him any such openings.
In the dim light thrown down by the burning torch, I see him waiting a respectful distance away, hands easy at his sides. Good. He is aware of the trust I am placing in him and wants me to know he respects it. “I have brought food and practice weapons.” My voice is gruff. “Which would you prefer first?”
“The weapons.” His hunger is no small thing, and I cannot help but be impressed by his discipline.
“Very well.” I set the bag of food on the floor against the wall behind me, remove the two swords strapped to my back, and hand the wooden one to him. “I have chosen short swords, given the confines of our practice area.”
The prisoner balances the wooden sword on his palm, testing the weight and heft of it. Without warning, he grabs the hilt and thrusts it at me, a sharp, quick lunge that I only barely block in time. But block it I do. In spite of my irritation, my heart sings. He has not been imprisoned for so long that he will not be of any use to me. “That was unfair.”
He tugs his sleeves down. “But a good way to test your reflexes. You have used a sword before.”
“I told you I had.”
“True, but you also told me things that made me feel I needed to verify your claim for myself.” Before I can warn him that his remark flirts with forbidden subjects, he raises his sword and executes a series of blows, shifting so that he comes at me from alternating sides. For a moment, it is all I can do to meet his attack.
“Why are you still alive if you are only a mercenary?” I am finally able to ask. The dull thunk of wood hitting metal accompanies my words.
A corner of his mouth lifts in a humorless hint of a smile. “Can you truly say I was ‘alive’ when you first came across me?” The moment the words are out of his mouth, he realizes his mistake.
I ignore the transgression as I block one of his blows. “That does not explain why you are here. Surely even a mercenary deserves a cleaner death than this.”
“You would have to ask my jailor.” He lunges forward, and I step back, my foot slipping on the loose straw that litters the floor. He pauses to allow me to regain my footing. “Speaking of my jailors, how are you getting past them?”
It seems an innocent question. Unless he is trying to learn more about the castle’s security. “My relationship with your guards is none of your concern.”
“I ask because I have not seen any for weeks.” He swings his sword in an overhand, but I grab the lower end of my blade and use it like a stick to block his blow. He gives a surprised nod of approval.
I press my advantage and increase the strength and speed of my blows, trying to force him onto his heels. It takes all of his concentration to keep me from succeeding, and it is his turn to stumble. When he does, I step in under his guard and slap his chest with the flat of my blade.
Instead of anger or annoyance, his eyes glow with pride. “Well done, Lucinda!”
I use the back of my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow. “Lucinda?”
“Bringer of light.” He smiles, a quick, unexpected flash of white in the darkness.
I cannot decide if the name annoys me or if I like it. Or it if annoys me because I like it. “I suppose you have a name I should call you.”
“Maraud.”
I scowl at him. “That is not a name.”
He shrugs. “It is what my fellow mercenaries call me.” He tests the weight of the sword in his hand again. “Where did you get this?”
“From the armory in the garrison. What did your family call you?”
He looks up with a reckless grin. “Jackanapes. Ne’er-do-well. Knave. Take your pick.”
Which supports his assertion that he is naught but a mercenary. “Would your company not pay your ransom? Is that why are you being held here?”
“Where is here, if I may ask?”
“You do not know where you are being held?”
“My jailors were not a talkative lot.”
I consider his question, but can see no harm in telling him where he is. “You are in Cognac.”
His blade whips up, but not as fast as his first blows. “The count of Angoulême’s holding?”
We begin a series of slower strokes and parries. “Does that mean something to you?”
“No, but it surprises me. He has always been an ally of Brittany’s.”
I must tread carefully here. While I do not want to give away too much, my best chance of coaxing information from him will be to allow him to think I am telling the truth. “Ever since the Mad War, the regent has kept him on a short leash.” I fall silent as his strokes press me back toward the wall again. I successfully avoid being pinned into place, my parries causing him to grow ghostly pale and beads of sweat to appear along his brow.
“Enough.” I put the tip of my sword to the ground. That he has lasted this long says much about both his fortitude and his character. “I’ve no wish to tire you until you collapse.”
“You dream it is so,” he says between gasps of breath.
The denial of his obvious exhaustion nearly makes me smile.
“What was that?” He gestures toward my face.
Thinking of all the vile, nasty things that lurk in this pit, I swipe furiously at my cheek. “What?”
“Ah, ’tis gone, and the room is dark once more.” He grins, a swift, sudden thing like a bird darting across one’s path on a wintry day.
That is when I realize he was referring to my smile. “Jackanapes is right,” I mutter. “Give me the sword.”
He hands me his weapon, and I shove the sack of food at him. His hunger rises up like a physical thing—his nostrils flare and his jaw clenches. It is even more human than the smile.
I abruptly turn and secure the swords to my back. Even though it is our mutually agreed upon bargain, I feel as if I have just found a worm in my apple. For a moment, I am seven years old and have been walking for what surely seemed like weeks. I am tired and hungry—so hungry—but there is no money for food. I sit on the bank of a small stream, poking at it with a branch and calling it fishing, while my mother lies with a carter in the haystack in the fields behind me. When she returns, her skirts are askew and there are strands of hay poking out of her hair, but she bears a loaf of stale bread and half a wheel of cheese. It is a feast, and I dive into it with abandon, never pausing to think of it as payment.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Your face says otherwise.” It is the same voice he used in the dark, the voice I first knew him by. For a moment, one brief, regretful moment, I think back to that time.