seeping blood. She’d survived. She’d killed. At least three soldiers she was certain of, and others would die of wounds she’d inflicted.
Her stomach churned as she thought of their families. Their Aremore families.
In his diaries, Morimaros the Great had written, Never ignore the consequences of your actions, for such ignorance alone makes your actions unjust.
It had been academic, until now. The consequences of her actions had been more along the lines of dragging squires into punishment with her for sneaking into the throne room, or hangovers, or regrettable mornings-after with girls who would run home to their husbands or fathers. Or a bone bruise from picking a fight with Banna Mora—and worse, the charged disapproval of Lady Ianta Oldcastle’s frown.
The consequences of childhood, Hal thought, are gentle guilts and awkward memories. The consequences of adulthood are ghosts.
But there! Hotspur Persy stood surrounded by soldiers, blood smeared like autumn leaves across her face, the vivid splatter turning her eyes lightning blue. As orders flew past her lips, her teeth shone pink.
Blood sharpened the flavor of Hal’s tongue, too. She wanted to kiss that other bloody mouth.
Hal stared at the flaring aggression, the living command that was Hotspur of Perseria. It was an easy pull to feel, to be drawn toward the lady knight, and Hal wished she weren’t so weary, so nervous; she wished that instead of muddy armor she wore a splendid suit of shining silver mail, her hair combed and fresh—anything to capture Hotspur’s attention in return.
The almost-prince stared too long. Her horse stomped; Hotspur’s gaze swung around and slammed into her.
Hal, startled, pushed a fist into the air and called, “Lady Hotspur! I’ve word from Mercia.”
Wind scoured across the space between them, jerking Hal’s hair free of its braids. The black strands whipped about her cheeks and tangled in the buckles of her armor.
Hotspur lifted a gauntleted hand in response.
Was it Hal’s imagination, or did the wind die at the gesture?
She could not bring herself to dismount, but directed her horse toward the other woman. An aide in Persy green spoke urgently in Hotspur’s ear and Hotspur nodded, eyes on Hal the entire time. The lady knight’s mail hood was pushed back off her head, pooling against her neck, her cap gone, and so her wild hair was tangled and torn, some dark orange strands stuck to Hotspur’s pink cheeks with sweat and blood.
“Hotspur Persy,” Hal said as her horse picked delicately over a broken shield. “I’m Hal Bolinbroke. I’m commanded to bring you with me to the gates of Strong Water Castle, where your aunt, Vindomata of Mercia, and my mother, Celeda, have the king.”
Hotspur nodded at Hal and put a hand on the aide’s shoulder. “Unhook my chest plate, Sennos.”
The young man, plain, his face shadowed with strain, helped her out of the plate armor, swinging it over his own shoulder when she was free of it. Hotspur wore a dark green gambeson beneath. Her sword belt was empty, her boots muddy up the calf.
“Ready,” Hotspur said.
Hal blinked down at her, and did her best to banish uncertainty. She offered her arm and shifted her foot out of the stirrup to allow Hotspur to put her boot in its place. Their hands gripped together, and Hotspur mounted gracefully, swinging up behind as Hal clenched her teeth against the ache of her side injury.
“Hi, Hal,” Hotspur said eagerly, with a broad smile, and shifted her seat closer, their thighs pressing together. She tucked an arm around Hal’s waist.
Twisting her neck, Hal was desperate to see the expression Hotspur wore, but only was able to glimpse Hotspur’s profile as the lady knight stared behind them at the field of battle. Did she notice how easily they fit, the rightness of her arm around Hal’s waist?
Hal ground her teeth and urged her horse to trot, thinking, No, don’t be a fool, this is the Wolf of Aremoria! She never would be distracted from the work of war by carnal thoughts, or even romantic ones.
Lady Hotspur had made a name for herself at only sixteen, leading Persy soldiers against Diotan bandits, routing them completely until she chased them across the border and returned with four hostages. At seventeen, Hotspur had defeated Sir Corio de Or, a legendary knight himself and as large as Lady Ianta, at single combat, then at the same tournament taunted a Burgundian earl by stealing his sword and holding it over her head, though its length was the same as her height, for over a minute.