And that was why Hotspur preferred to be partnered with Hal: because working together pushed them both to grow. With everyone else, Hotspur was either the superior fighter, or overly concerned with teaching. Unless she fought Mora, in which case Hotspur concentrated too hard on not dying, for Mora held within her a deep, rigid fury that, when it blazed up during combat, promised to devastate the world. (This, Hotspur thought, would be what made her the dragon.)
But with Hal, she was so well matched, so in tune, they could almost be dancing, and each got a little bit faster, a little bit stronger.
The first time Hal kissed her, the two were hiding from rain in the keep armory, treating leather in companionable silence. Hal lowered the leather greave into which she’d been rubbing oil and touched Hotspur’s cheek, and when Hotspur looked over, Hal put their lips together.
It was warm, soft, and dry. Hotspur liked it.
She said as much, then told Hal to do it again. Hal smiled, and the smile turned mischievous. “I will,” the prince promised, and directed her attention back to the greave. She did not kiss Hotspur again at that moment, a fact that twisted Hotspur’s stomach up in knots.
For an entire day she worried she’d done something wrong, been a bad kisser, and then kicked herself for even caring. She was the Wolf of Aremoria, and refused to be drawn into the games of a consummate flirt.
That evening Hotspur made the retainers under her command go out in full armor for a march. They exhausted themselves climbing hills, pitching tents, clearing the road of a tree that had fallen in the light storm. If one could do it in armor, Hotspur promised, how much easier would it be in mere gambeson and uniform?
When the company returned, late into the night, only Ianta remained awake. The old knight leaned against the wide door to the hall, a bottle of wine in one hand. She laughed at Hotspur, a gentle rumble of humor that put Hotspur’s back up. Stomping past, Hotspur was glad her rattling steel plates could wake up the entire keep. But then Ianta offered her the wine, and Hotspur took it. She jerked the cork free and drank. The cool white wine was a surprise, sugary and tart. Hotspur blinked and gave it back.
“Wolf,” Ianta said affectionately.
Hotspur opened her mouth, but did not yet know if she counted Ianta Oldcastle enemy or ally. For Hotspur, there was little in between.
Ianta said, “You should decide if her attention is going to make you angry, or make you happy. Both together will drive her mad, and we cannot afford a mad prince.”
“I have to decide? She is the one who …” Hotspur stopped at the look in Ianta’s eyes. The old knight had been fishing for information, and Hotspur had just provided it. She bared her teeth. “You watch out, Ianta Oldcastle.”
“For Hal, always.”
Hotspur did not sleep soundly. She tossed in her narrow bed, ground her fists into her eyes, and wished she had something to punch. When she did doze, her dreams were rampant with war—but not sex, thank the saints.
At dawn she launched out of her room and had been stretched and working with her horse for an hour before anyone else appeared.
When Hal had arrived, Hotspur glanced hopefully at her, then away, hiding her face until the prince wandered on. Hotspur ought to march over and demand another kiss—no, an explanation. She didn’t need pity kisses.
Burying her face against the strong muscles of her horse’s neck, Hotspur felt a prick of fear.
“Hotspur,” Banna Mora called. “Come show me the underarm twist you used to disarm Belavias two days ago.”
Hotspur gathered herself and said, “It will be harder for you, because you’re taller.”
Mora said nothing else, only tossed Hotspur a practice sword.
“Did you work on this with Vindus?” Mora asked when they paused to dip water from the well. “He used some similar footwork, seeming to retreat before a strong blow as if he were unconcerned with appearance, only winning, and I admired it. Or perhaps all Persys have this way in your blood.”
Hotspur said, “Yes, we learned the basics together, and I suppose it’s a bit of both.”
The lady of the March nodded, glancing up at the sky: it was streaked with white-gray clouds but would not rain. A cool breeze fell against their cheeks.
Though Mora would never admit so aloud, she very clearly missed Vin.