Page 1 of Plaid Attitude
Chapter 1
“Higher! Lift yer blade—good!”Coira Oliphant beamed as the lass parried her strike. “Now, flip it, come at me—Aye!Good!”
Breathing heavily, she fell back, her sword held in the ready position before her. “Ye’ve been practicing!”
Her opponent, thirteen-year-old Bessetta, smiled proudly. “I’ve been working on my arm strength as ye directed.”
Coira began to circle her foe cautiously, glad she didn’t have to worry about skirts, but irritated at the impediments of the furniture in a room not quite large enough for a bed, two chairs, a small table, a desk, AND two women with swords . Last summer, when the lass had come to her to ask—awkwardly—for training, it had been easy enough to spar near the loch where no one bothered them.
Since winter dropped so much snow on them, Coira had moved these weekly sessions to her chambers in the castle, which had necessitated moving the unnecessary furniture into the guest rooms and shoving the bed into the corner.
The spring melt meant the mud was almost as deep as the snow had been, but another month and they could move out-of-doors again—
Bessetta’s yodel warned of her attack, and Coira blocked it easily.
“What in damnation wasthat? Are ye trying to make yer opponent piss himself?”
The lass was beaming. “Aye. I’ve been watching the warriors spar. They yell afore they attack.”
With a quick flurry of movements, Coira stepped up and was pleased by the way the lass blocked her overhead attacks.
“That wasnae a yell,” she panted, spinning to one side to attack from the left. “’Twas a yodel. A sore-throated warble. A goat’s song.”
Her lips set grimly, Bessetta matched each of Coira’s blows, turning them away. “Mayhap,” she grunted. “But it startledye.”
Grinning wryly, Coira fell back, allowing the girl to press her advantage. Their blades were dull but still dangerous, and she kept her attention split between Bessetta’s expression and the muscles in her forearms, both of which would warn of her intentions.
It wasgoodexercise.
Good to be sweating, despite the fire in the hearth having burned low this morning. Good to bemovingand doing, instead of sitting at Da’s desk in the solar.
Good to be focused on an opponent she could attack and block—even if the lass was barely more than a bairn—rather than endless lists and calculations for the celebration.
“Now, my turn,” she grunted, going on the defensive. “Higher! If ye block down there, I’ll take off yer fingers—good. Aye, like that,” she coached, as her attacks came closer together.
When they’d begun these private lessons, Coira had thought to go easy on the lass. She’d walked through the blows, the blocks, the movesslowly, so that Bessetta had a chance to learn the feel of each. But the lass knew what she was doing; with her father being who he was, she’d spent a lifetime watching and learning from the Oliphant warriors, same as Coira.
The difference was, when Coira had wanted to learn, she’d had to go directly to those warriors and beg to be included. Bessetta had enough sense to approach her privately and ask for lessons.
The memory of those early years, when the warriors had laughed, then mocked, then begrudgingly allowed her to participate in sparring because she was the laird’s eldest daughter, caused the anger to build inside her again. Damnation, those years were behind her; she was respected and viewed as a worthy opponent—
“Coira!” the lass gasped, bending back under the strength of the attack. “I cannae…”
Fook. The anger had leant strength to Coira’s arm, and she’d almost taken off Bessetta’s.
Immediately, she stepped back, snapping her blade to her side, showing the lass she was done. “I’m sorry, Bess. I wasnae…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“’Tis fine.” Panting, the girl gave a little salute with her blade and stumbled toward the table where she’d left the scabbard. “I just wasnae expecting it.”
“Aye, well, ye must expect the unexpected in battle. Yer opponent will want to kill ye.”
In the corner, Rebecca mooed her agreement.
The lass picked up a rag and began to wipe down her blade, her shoulders still heaving. Coira appreciated the girl’s attention to her weapon even before she wiped the sweat from her brow.
“Rebecca’s right, Coira. I’m unlikely to go into battle.” Her shoulders drooped.
Coira snorted, which the coo echoed. “Lifeis a battle, lass.” She began to wipe down her own blade. “Ye think the world will just look at ye—a strong, independent lassie who kens her own mind and wants to be in control of her life—and allow ye everything ye dream of? If ye’d been born a lad, mayhap. But wefightfor what we deserve.”
