Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “Your jests make no sense.”
“Story of my life.” She blew a strand of hair from her face and raised the sword again. The practice yard behind the stables smelled of horse, leather, and her own sweat. What she wouldn’t give for her trusty antiperspirant stick. Why wasn’t it cloudy or raining? The morning sun beat down with surprising intensity for England, and Beth’s borrowed chemise clung to her back. She’d been given a simple brown skirt and cream-colored bodice that laced up the front. It was like doing medieval CrossFit in a corset, not that she’d tried CrossFit, but she’d watched others doing it as she passed by the gym to her favorite bakery.
“You are holding the blade as if it were a broom,” Eleanor chided, stepping forward to adjust her grip. “Like this, with your thumb, yes, there. Now stand with your feet apart. More. You look like a startled deer.”
Beth widened her stance, feeling ridiculous. “I’m a chemistry teacher, not Xena, Warrior Princess.”
“I know not this Xena, but if she is a warrior, then yes, channel her spirit.” Eleanor stepped back, lifted her own wooden sword, and nodded. “Now, when I swing, you block. Like so.”
“Okay, so it’s basically like titration,” Beth muttered under her breath as Eleanor circled her again. “Steady hand, controlled motion, and no sudden spills except instead of acid, it’s a sword, and instead of a glass beaker, it’s my face.”
The wooden blade came at Beth’s left side with alarming speed. She jerked her own weapon up, the impact jarring her wrists as wood smacked wood with a hollow thunk.
“Better!” Eleanor beamed. “Again!”
The next blow came faster. She barely got her sword up in time, stumbling backward and nearly losing her balance. “Saints preserve us,” she muttered, borrowing a phrase she’d heard from the castle’s cook.
Eleanor laughed, the sound bright and clear in the morning air. “You learn quickly for one who claims no skill.”
“Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.” Beth adjusted her grip and tried to remember every swashbuckling movie she’d ever seen. The Three Musketeers. Pirates of the Caribbean. The Witcher. Star Wars, if lightsabers counted.
“Your form improves,” Eleanor said, circling again. “But your mind wanders. Focus.”
Focus? It just hit her that Baldwin could pass for a Henry Cavill lookalike, well, in his Witcher role, but with darker hair. A dreamy sigh escaped.
“Ouch.”
“I could have taken your pretty head.” Baldwin’s sister scowled at her. “Again.”
Beth took a deep breath and centered herself. Focus. She could do this. She’d survived faculty meetings and parent-teacher conferences. Surely she could handle a wooden sword. And she needed all the confidence she could muster with the king’s imminent arrival looming over Glenhaven. The thought of facing actual royalty, historical figures she’d only read about, made her stomach clench with anxiety. One wrong word from her could change history or, more immediately, endanger everyone who had shown her kindness.
Eleanor lunged again, this time aiming for Beth’s right shoulder. She parried, almost gracefully, and then, feeling bold, attempted a counterstrike. Her wooden blade whooshed through empty air as Eleanor danced away, laughing.
“You attacked! Excellent!”
“I missed,” Beth pointed out.
“But you tried.” Eleanor’s eyes sparkled. “That is the first step. Now?—”
The clatter of boots on stone interrupted them. Both women turned to see a stable boy hovering nervously at the edge of the practice yard.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,” he said, bowing to Eleanor, “but m’lord is asking after ye. Says you’re to come to the solar right away.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Tell my brother I am occupied with important matters.”
The boy shifted from foot to foot. “He said you’d say that. He also said to tell you that if you don’t come willingly, he’ll send Sir Roland to fetch you, and Sir Roland will tell everyone about the incident with the honey and the saddle.”
A flush crept up Eleanor’s neck. “That insufferable—” She cut herself off, glancing at Beth. “Very well. Tell him I shall come presently.”
The boy bowed again and scurried away.
Eleanor turned to Beth with a sigh. “Brothers. Even when they’re high and mighty lords, they’re still annoying.” She took Beth’s practice sword. “We shall continue tomorrow. You did well today.”
“I nearly fell on my face twice.”
“Yes, but you got up both times.” Eleanor’s smile was warm. “That is what matters most in battle and in life.”
As Eleanor strode away, Beth sank onto a nearby bench, muscles quivering. The practice yard was quiet now, save for the distant sounds of the castle coming to life. The clang of pots from the kitchen, the calls of merchants setting up in the outer bailey, the whinnying of horses being led to water.
