Page 131 of The Pirate Queen

“And did Donal’s mother give you warning when she came at you, knife in hand?”

“No.”

“Nor will anyone else. Not when it matters, at least. So lift your blade.”

She holds it up, her knuckles white around the hilt. The blade is small. So small he thinks it might have come from a kitchen. A paring knife, perhaps. But the hilt looks to be bone, and it’s been well cared for. Shiny and sharp. Clearly a prized possession.

A dozen expressions wash over her face, and he cannot read a single one. He is determined to learn them, however. For now, he asks, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m trying to figure out what you are thinking.”

“Why?”

“Because I suspect you think my knife is silly. That it’s too little to do any good.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that at all. Smaller knives are often more effective for women. Easier to hide. Easier to drive home in a tight space.”

“And how do you know so much about knife fighting?” she asks.

“My mam.” He laughs at her shocked expression. “She insisted that I have lessons since I could walk. She says it’s dangerous business having The MacWilliam as a father and a half brother for an heir. Apparently I am exactly the type of man that others want to kill.” Richard says this with all the levity of a joke, both to make light of his own predicament and to let her know that he relates—in some way at least—to the scar that she bears.

It’s just a subtle movement in her shoulders, but she relaxes. Her body loosens, her chin lowers a fraction of an inch. Richard understands then that all she wants is to be taken seriously. She is in a strange place, surrounded by strange people. It took courage for her to meet him here.

“First, you must learn how to hold your knife,” he tells her. “A knife fight is, by nature, a close fight. There is never room for a mistake. And gripping the handle wrong is the first mistake most people make. ’Tis easier to cut yourself than your opponent.” Richard demonstrates with his own blade. He wraps four fingers around the hilt, then his thumb over the top of them. When at rest, the blade points behind him, but when he raises his arm, it’s directed at her. “Do it like this.”

She mimics him with careful movements. “How do you jab in this position?”

“You don’t. Swords and dirks are for jabbing. Knives are for throwing, slicing, and stabbing. It’s quick and dirty work. And there are a number of techniques you must master if you don’t want to find yourself on the pointy end again,” he tells her.

“A number of things? How much can you cover in one lesson?”

“Who says this will be the only lesson?” he asks.

Gráinne laughs. “You mean to meet me here every morning?”

Richard has been thinking about this since dinner last night, of how he might undermine his young uncle. He saw the way that bucket of pigeon’s milk looked at her, the way he flirted incessantly. His own father had warned him that would happen, and that he ought to look for ways to give Walter the advantage. But now that they are here, Richard finds that he doesn’t want his brother to win her hand either.

“And why not?” He shrugs.

“I’d have thought you valued your sleep more than that. Sneaking down here means being up before everyone else. I doubt your father—or mine—would approve.”

“Then we won’t tell them.”

“What if we get caught?”

“I do believe,” he says, “that the entire point of fosterage is to build…bonds…between our clans, yes? If someone does find us down here, they’ll likely not ask too many questions.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“My da—”

“Is asleep. Same as mine. They will be for a while yet. You can burn our time by talking or by learning. The choice is yours.”

Richard likes her smile. He likes the way it erupts suddenly, like the sun from behind a cloud. He would like to see it more often—the only times she’s shown it to him have been when he’s challenged her in some way.

“Where do we begin?” she asks.

“With your stance, the way you hold your knife and your body.” Richard moves to the middle of the floor, knife in his left hand. He swings it gently at his side. “Stay loose. Don’t lock your joints. Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Never take your eyes off me.”

She steps forward into the circle of torchlight, her eyes studying his hand, his body, so that she can imitate him.