Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"Well, they are throwing knives, and I have five of them. I suppose Donuil told you that?"

"No, not at all. He mentioned you had some skill with throwing them, that was all."

"Some skill? Is that what he said? Some skill? I'll show you some skill." She had begun looking about her, evidently searching for something. "Have you a piece of wood, a block of some kind?"

"A block? You mean like firewood? A log?"

"Aye, that would do, a big one. Have you?"

I shook my head, grinning. "No, but there are mountains of them outside in the courtyard."

"Good, then. Go you and fetch one here, and I'll get my knives. 'Some skill,' indeed!"

Suddenly I was alone, my eyes on the open door where she had vanished. Smiling still, and feeling strangely light-headed, I made my way outside, picked the largest log from the nearest pile and returned with it to the Armoury, where I set it down by the open fireplace. It was really large and heavy, as I had discovered carrying it into the building; the girth of a large man's chest and as long as the same man's torso. Moments later, Shelagh came striding back into the room, the blue, flowing fabric of her robe moulded to her thighs by the speed and length of her stride, her belt of knives suspended from her right shoulder, slanting down across her bosom and between her breasts. She was achingly beautiful and completely unaware of it, casting her eyes around the room from the moment she entered.

"May I move these books?"

"Of course. Here, let me move them over to this table."

"Good. Did you find a log?"

"I did. It's there, by the fireplace."

"It'll do. It looks heavy enough. Would you put it there for me, on the table?"

I did so, and she stood for several moments, looking at it.

"It's too low. Can we stand it on top of the books?"

I could not get rid of the smile on my lips, and was enjoying this thoroughly. "We can, but we'll have to put a cloth between the books and the log," I said. "It's filthy and the books are precious. How high would you like it to be?"

"About the height of your chest—the middle of the log, I mean."

Moments later, the heavy piece of wood sat atop four of Uncle Varrus's books, which were safe beneath a heavily embroidered covering cloth from the long table at the end of the room. The midpoint of its height came even with my breastbone and its top sat level with my chin. I stepped back and turned to her.

"There you are, Lady."

"My thanks. Now stand away." Her tone was fierce, her words clipped. I moved away, masking my smile behind my hand for the few remaining moments of its life.

With a speed I could scarcely credit, her right hand came up from her waist, unsheathing a knife in passing, then flashed downward, and a blurred streak passed my eyes and hammered into the raw wood with a solid thunk. Without waiting to see the result of her throw, Shelagh had spun on her heel and retreated two paces before spinning back and repeating the performance. Three times more she repeated this maneuvre, never pausing for an instant, so that by the time I had begun to come to terms with what I had witnessed, she stood ten paces farther down the room from the spot in which she had begun. My eyes had never even sought the target. I had been completely enthralled in watching her movements. Now she spoke to me, her tone still iron.

"Some skill, I think. Take a look!"

I stepped forward to the target, fully aware of it for the first time, and gazed, speechless, at what she had done. All five knives stood together, the buried tips of their blades touching, the thickness of their handles forcing them outwards into a wedge-shaped, solid bar.

"Good God, Shelagh," I gasped. "Where and when and how could you learn to throw like that? That seems impossible. I would have sworn no one could ever do that with accuracy, let alone at that speed!"

"When? I've spent my whole life learning how to do it, but I had a natural ability to start with," she answered, now sounding almost subdued.

"I know, Donuil told me you could kill a running rabbit with a knife as a mere child, but I thought he was exaggerating out of admiration and loyalty."

"No, it was true. But when I was older, though still a little girl—I was eleven at the time—and he was away with his brothers, something happened that Donuil knows nothing about. I was attacked in the woods while walking with a cousin. Her name was Rhona and she was older than I—much older. The man who did it leapt on Rhona and I ran away." Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper. "But before I ran, I threw my knife at him. It hit him in the throat, where I had aimed, but hilt first, and he laughed at me, then knocked my cousin down and chased after me. I escaped, terrified out of my wits, but he went back and raped and killed my cousin. I swore then that I would never miss with a thrown knife again, that the next man I aimed at would fall down and die with my blade in his throat and would never harm another woman. And so I learned my craft better than any other I have known. How did I learn? you asked. I learned by doing it. I threw, and threw and threw again until I learned to gauge the flight of any blade, once I had held it in my hand. I threw and threw until my arms—I throw with both— grew into wooden beams that moved down and through the same motion, exactly, every time. I threw until both my wrists became inured to endless throwing, and grew thicker than the wrists of any of my friends—you see?" She extended her arms to me, stretching them beyond the sleeves of her blue robe and, sure enough, the wrists, and her entire forearms, were thick, dense-looking and strongly muscled.

"That only leaves the 'where' of your questions, Master Merlyn. I learned wherever I happened to be at any time. I learned at home; I learned while working; I learned through endless hours and days and weeks of practising when other little girls and young women were learning women's skills, and yet I learned those, too. I learned while hunting and fighting with the men of our people, for among our folk there is no shame in being a woman and a warrior. You knew that, did you not?"

I nodded. "I did. It is the same among the Celts of this land. Women fight beside their men when danger threatens."

"Aye, and danger is never far afield." Her voice was now almost inaudible.

I turned once more to look at the five knives standing in the solid log. "You could do that again, right now," I murmured. It was an assertion, not a question.

"Aye, I could, but I'm no longer angry, and anger helps. I could do it again, nevertheless, and had you the nerve to blindfold me, then stand behind the log and speak to me, I could place all five blades into it from your throat to your breastbone before you had time to scream." She paused. "You would not do that, would you? Trust me that much?"

I hesitated, caught off balance by the suddenness of her challenge. Would I? I thought I might, but had to clear my throat before I could pronounce the words.

She smiled. "Then you would be a fool; a trusting fool worthy of gratitude, but none the less a fool for that. Accidents do happen, Caius."

I turned away again and began to prise the blades from the wood, finding it far from easy. When I had all five, I took them to where she stood and held them out to her, hilts forward, watching as she sheathed them, one after the other.

"Shelagh," I said, "you are magnificent."

She smiled at me, almost sadly. "No, but I know you mean that, so accept my thanks, for that, and for the other things."

"The other things?" I was puzzled, suddenly unsure of myself again. "What other things are those?"

"Your silence, and your reticence . . . respect, perhaps."

I felt my face grow red. "Forgive me, I don't know what you mean."