Soul, Penllyn Chronicles #3 Ebook

Gwen and I rose early the next morning. We padded around the sleeping guests on the floor of the great hall and headed toward the kitchen. Gwen filled a bowl with leftovers from the feast to break her fast. The sky was beginning to shift to dark blue, the hour before the sun rose. The moon was still high in the sky and lit the hilltop with its pale light. Up the hill, though, a soft yellow glow drenched the weapons field where Cadoc and I drove off the last of the specters.

Yellow light spilled from lamps around the field. Lord Emlyn and several of his guards danced a slow dance. Their blades were bare. The morning mist swirled around their ankles. I couldn't resist the sight and lead Gwen that way. Too many years were passed, almost a century, since I had seen those movements. My heart sang out with the music of their dance, and I was drawn to watch.

Emlyn and two of his fellow guardsmen  wore just trousers and boots in the mists. One was a lanky man with light brown hair. His mustache was solid in color , yet nowhere near as bushy as the other Cymry men let theirs grow. His dripped down his face and filled in under his chin. The third man was Gerallt, the lead guardsman.

They moved slowly, swords in hand, through a series of ritualistic moves. The form and grace mimicked courtly dances from Europe. The dance called to me. 

Lord Emlyn glided with the grace and form I had seen in only one other man. The guard with the light hair moved almost as well as the Penteulu. Gerallt showed skill, but I could tell he was outclassed by the other two. 

I was so enraptured with the beauty of the dance, the moves were thrusts, slices, parries and evasions, that I missed the footfalls behind us.

"He's quite the swordsman," a gravelly voice said. "His reputation is close to becoming legend across all of Britannia." Caerwyn, the father of the bride from yesterday's wedding, gave us a small bow. Gwen returned his smile.

"Lord Meirionnydd," I said with a mild incline of my head.

“Please, milady,” he said, “let’s skip the formalities. You’ve become a fast friend already.” 

We all stayed quiet and watched the poetry of the men and their blades.  Memories from my past flashed through my mind. My hands and arms twitched with their movements. 

As they slowed, then stopped, Emlyn faced the other two and raised his sword in salute. They pivoted to face us and gave us the same tribute. Only after Emlyn sheathed his blade, did the other two gather their gear. Emlyn waved an invitation at Caerwyn and pointed to where several practice weapons lay out on a woolen  cloak; wooden swords made in approximations of the various sword lengths. Most were the wide blades, made for one hand, with a shallow guard above the hilt, and a wide triangular pommel across the bottom of the handle. But, there were a few longer weapons. I hadn't seen this style for almost a century, and then, only in the hands of two masters of the blades.

“Milord Meirionnydd,” he said, “would you care for a practice round?”

“Perhaps when I’m younger, Emlyn,” Caerwyn chuckled. “Ladies? There is no finer bladesman nor teacher on this side of our land.” 

A smile spread across my face. Gwen cast a glance at me. I wasn't sure if her expression was one of curiosity or caution.

“Don’t get sliced up,” she said. “I’ve already patched you up once in the last month.” 

I unfastened my cloak. My dress was tighter than I preferred. Rather than rip the seams to gain room in the skirt, I pulled the bottom of the skirt  above my knees. I tucked the upper end of the skirt under my belt. Too many centuries had dulled any modesty I might have about showing my legs. I just hoped I wouldn't shock Penllyn's sword master, nor Lord Meirionnydd too much.

Caerwyn walked a pace behind me. His expression was stoic. 

 “May I assist you, milady?” he asked as we reached the practice weapons. “Most of our women train with the sword, and a small shield.”

“Your women learn weapons?” Most of Europe’s cultures had shifted weapons training to only men.

“Our lands are too rural, and raids too frequent,” Caerwyn said. “All of our people learn spear and shield at an early age. At least enough to help defend our lands as is often needed.”

 My hand itched with desire, but not for a short blade and small, round shield. I wanted to feel the poetry I had just witnessed as Lord Emlyn lead his protégés through those meditations. 

Emlyn stepped over and laid his belts and two blades onto his folded cloak. He watched with almost no expression, other than a touch of curiosity in his eyes. I gestured toward the weapons. “Which is your preferred weapon, milord?”

He reached for a sword longer than the others, with a more pronounced guard. There were several like it amongst the others. Penllyn's penteulu was one of the few men who preferred a longer, thinner blade. When combined with the second sword he wore at his other side; he reminded me of someone else I knew from many centuries before. That they had met was certain in my mind now.

I selected one of the same type and tested the balance in my hand. The hilts on these were longer. Room for a hand-and-a-half. My smaller hands would fit on the hilt, one above the other. The centre of balance was almost perfect: about three fingers down the blade from the handle. The cross guards on these practice weapons matched the ones on Emlyn's own swords. They were broader and longer than the shallow circular discs on the Celtic or Saxon blades. Emlyn's choice of guards on his blades told me he was fond of his fingers and wanted to keep them intact.

He led the way onto the practice field. We both raised our wooden weapons toward Gwen and Caerwyn. Then we saluted each other. He dropped into a ready stance his long blade held with two hands above his head, point forward. I followed a beat behind him. No sooner was my weight shifted and sword raised than his blade moved toward my shoulder.

I parried and slid my blade toward him. He stepped out of its path and pushed my strike off line. The tip of his blade slashed in, and fast compared to the subtle flick of his wrist. I recovered fast enough to block and counter. I felt the rhythm of his blows. He was moving the same dance they practiced a few moments before. His only change was to counter my out of sync swings. Once I recognized the rhythm, I tried to flow into it with him. Too many years, almost a century, had passed since I last enjoyed these dances.

After a moment, he shifted his blows. Once I found the flow of the dance, I could also feel the movement of the air with my blade. The wooden sword was like a cat's whiskers, an extension of my senses.

His next blow was out of the rhythm; a new dance began. Swing, step, parry step, thrust, step, parry, step. His blows forced me to back up. My muscles began to remember this new dance. Emlyn forced me to explore my limits. I was getting too close to the pile of practice weapons and needed to turn the fight around. This was a test of skill, and he was among the best I had met. I needed to be not just good, but my best.

Thrust, step, parry, step. Only I stepped into his next swing and pivoted behind him. Yes, I used my speed to my advantage.  I would need speed until I could get my body and mind working together well enough to stand a chance against his skill. My pivot brought me behind him on his off side. As my blade spun toward where his head had been, his blade sliced toward the back of my knees. I leapt over his blade and redirected my wooden sword toward his shoulder. That forced him to step out of line and off to the side. His back was now to the practice weapons. He saluted me once with his blade.

“Can you do two weapons?” There was a gleam behind that gaze. He was attractive, not overly muscular, but toned into a true fighter. A few streaks of grey intruded in his wavy dark brown. The crinkles of ages had just begun to creep into the skin around his dark eyes. 

My passion was brewing. Any more time with Emlyn on the weapons field and I suspected it would boil. Not lust for flesh, but for … completion. I recognized the gleam in his eyes. He looked as though he just found a missing piece to a puzzle. I felt the same. Skill and talent like his with the blade were what I had missed over the last century. This could become very interesting if I didn't misjudge his intentions.

"I'll need to warm-up," I said. I would not, could not, let the opportunity he presented pass.