Chapter 12 | Cora

Chapter 12

Cora

D ays passed in the luchthonn camp as they did anywhere else. Of all the things she’d learned in the past two weeks, that was the most surprising. The tales of her husband and his men were remarkable, but the truth of their day-to-day existence was much less so.

The luchthonn ate and drank like other men; they swore, bathed—sometimes—and bled. In the early days, she’d imagined terrible creatures like the one Cillian became wandering the camp morning and night. She’d been sure the men would be coarse and vile, the epitome of every nightmare she’d had leading up to her wedding. The luchthonn were meant to be cruel and without honor because that’s how the stories described them.

She’d quickly realized that the stories were, as Cillian would say, a load of horseshit.

While the men of the luchthonn were hardly saints, they weren’t so different from the soldiers at the castle or the village farmers she’d known all her life. It was a slow realization, one built on instance after instance where she expected them to act in one way, only to be surprised when they did something different.

For example, the true reason for the absence of other women. At first, Cora had wondered if they did not permit men and women to be together outside of marriage or their clan home. The priest at her wedding had believed in some sort of moon goddess—maybe there were rules of their religion that kept men and women apart?

Seamus had set her straight on one of their forest visits. There were no women in the roaming packs because they were too busy protecting the clan home. Cora had listened, enraptured, as he’d described the fierce warrior women who guarded the gates to Clann Abhaile . She remembered how Queen Boudica had been her inspiration on the night she met Cillian and wondered if the legendary queen had been part wolf herself.

It surprised Cora how quickly her new routine, her new life , became familiar. When she walked through the camp in the mornings, men would call out greetings like she’d known them all her life.

“Good morning to you, Lady! Fine weather for one of your jaunts, eh?”

“Madam Fane! It were yarrow root you’ve been wanting, weren’t it? One of the lads found some near the creek!”

“Happy morning to you, Lady! Thanks for looking at that cut for me—bloody horse clipped me good!”

On and on it went. If she’d expected them to treat her like an outsider, she’d been mistaken. Almost to a man, they seemed happy she’d come to the camp. Eoin was the only notable exception, though from what she could tell, he didn’t care for anyone.

She’d asked Cillian about the sullen man she’d met the day after their wedding. He’d rolled his eyes and said to “pay the surly bastard no mind.” She’d asked Seamus after that. He’d shrugged, claiming that he didn’t know much except that Eoin was a fine warrior who kept to himself. All Cora knew for certain was that any time she passed Eoin, he scowled as though she’d spit on his shoes.

Cathall, the large blonde who’d held her when she’d tried to run from Cillian’s wolf, appeared in front of her. His greeting drew her thoughts away from Eoin’s frosty demeanor.

“Hello, Lady! Off somewhere important, are you?”

Cora smiled warmly and replied, “I’m sure my patients would think so. Some of the younger lads made themselves sick on a bad batch of ale. I’m bringing them some rosemary to help, but it can wait if you need me. A little extra time might drive the lesson home, don’t you think?”

Cathall returned her smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Cillian’s second-in-command always treated her with respect, but Cora felt he hadn’t yet passed judgment on her. He spoke to her—smiled, even—but it always felt stiff and forced.

“You’re a harsh mistress, Madam Fane,” he said, “But you’re right. A little more suffering will encourage them to be more careful next time. Would you care to watch today’s training?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” she said, offering an apologetic shrug. “I’d hate to be a distraction.”

For the first time, Cathall’s smile was genuine. “In that case, you must come! Your husband is in the ring today, and a distraction will be just what his opponent prays for!”

A large group of men surrounded the makeshift sparring ring. Her father’s guards sparred in a wide ring bordered by a short wooden fence. The ring in the luchthonn camp was smaller and only marked by a thin rope at its edges. The guards had always treated sparring like military drills. éogan was a harsh taskmaster, and he drove his men until they perfected whatever skill they needed. The two men currently in the ring were far less rigid. They danced around each other like there was a maypole between them.

Cathall gestured toward the crowd just as the two men crashed together like a pair of quarreling dogs. “Would you care for a closer look, Lady?”

Cora nearly declined. Her patients were waiting, and she was sure that Cillian would say that a sparring ring was no place for a lady. She hadn’t told him about éogan’s lessons. Hadn’t told him about the afternoons she’d spent watching the men run their drills while she mimicked them with a stick or wooden sword. Suddenly, she missed the crash of shields and the heavy cracks of the half-staffs.

“Yes, I think I would.”

If her answer surprised him, Cathall didn’t show it. He nodded, leading her closer to the ring. They nudged men out of the way, pushing forward until they broke through to the inner circle.

Two men faced off in the ring. One held an arming sword in one hand and a buckler in the other. The second, a much larger man, hefted a heavy claymore like it was a twig. They circled each other carefully, each looking for a weakness in their opponent’s guard.

Someone from the crowd yelled, “Get on with it, you lazy bastards!”

The rest of the men roared in agreement, and suddenly, the two men collided. The harsh scrape of the claymore against the buckler hurt Cora’s ears. She leaned closer to Cathall and shouted to be heard over the din of the crowd. “Why do they use their real weapons? Isn’t this training?”

“Of course!” he answered. “Why would they use anything else? These are the weapons they’ll use in battle. To train with anything else would be foolish!”

Cora stared at the two fighters, awestruck by their ferocity. The man with the claymore clearly had brute strength and size on his side, but his opponent didn’t seem worried. A one-handed sword and buckler were far easier to maneuver. The smaller man dodged the heavy swings of the claymore with ease, skirting around the edge of the ring.

The round went on for ages. As one man landed a hit, the other found a weakness or dodged a strike. It wasn’t until the smaller man took a blow to the head from the claymore’s pommel that the match was called. Blood dripped into the dirt below, and the loser held one hand to his head as he shook the winner’s hand with the other.

Cora asked Cathall if the men would need her help with their injuries, but he waved her question away. “They’re luchthonn; they will heal quickly. Now, if a madraí gets in the ring, they might need you afterward.”

Either he didn’t know about the many luchthonn she’d healed in the past weeks, or he thought it impossible for a human, a madraí , to come out the victor. Something inside rankled at his words, some vain pride. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard one of the luchthonn dismiss their human ‘brothers.’ Even the name they’d given them— madraí , dogs—was the lesser form of their own wolves. Not all agreed, but it was enough. The fact that they’d had no healing resources for them before she’d come was telling. Many of the luchthonn seemed to treat the madraí like her father treated his hunting dogs—valuable if needed for a task, but not nearly as important as a man.

Cora wondered why the human men put up with it. Even thinking about it heated her blood. Frustration built under her skin until her hands shook. She stuffed them into her apron pocket and hoped Cathall wouldn’t notice.

Cillian appeared in the middle of the ring, all swagger and confidence. “All right, lads, who’s in the mood to bleed?”

“I’ll fight you!”

The crowd went silent as all eyes fell on her. All around her, the men stared and gawked, but she ignored them. The only person who mattered was the man in the middle of the ring.

He looked her up and down, shaking his head as though she were a riddle he couldn’t solve. A moment of silence passed, and Cora waited patiently for him to respond. The air crackled with tension, waiting for someone to break it. Finally, he grinned and swung his sword up to rest on his shoulder. “A brave challenge, wife, but this isn’t a knitting circle.”

Heat flooded Cora’s cheeks as the men laughed around her. Cathall took her arm as though to lead her away, but she shook him off. “I didn’t ask for a needle, husband. Give me a sword. Or are you frightened of a little woman like me?”

Sounds of surprise rippled through the crowd. Some men looked concerned, while others leaned closer, drawn in by the growing spectacle. Across the circle, two men slid coins between them.

Cillian scoffed. “Enough, lass. You’ll only hurt yourself trying to pick up the blade.”

Cora smiled sweetly. “Then it’ll be a short match, yes?”

The whispers grew to murmurs, pulling Cillian’s attention away as he considered the surrounding crowd. His men were invested, listening with rapt attention to every word. There was no easy way for him to dismiss her without losing face, and by his darkening expression, he knew it.

“Mark me, woman,” he said, his voice as hard as stone. “You asked for this. When you’re bloodied and bruised, I’ll not hear a word about it. Do you understand?”

Cora nodded. The temptation to goad him further was strong, but she ignored it. Instead, she scanned the circle and called out, “Would anyone have a sword and buckler I might borrow? Seems I left mine in my other gown.”

At first, no one moved. They all glanced warily at their leader as though judging how angry he’d be if they responded. The man who’d been fighting when she arrived stepped forward, a nervous smile on his face. “Here, Lady. Take mine.”

Cora smiled and thanked him before stepping into the ring. The process of fitting the buckler gave her shaking hands something to do, and she hoped no one noticed that her nerves had caught up to her. She pictured éogan and all of his lessons in the castle courtyard. She’d never be a warrior, but he’d made sure she could hold her own against the other guards. Men and women could both die on a blade, he’d said, so it only made sense that she knew how to defend herself.

The sword in her hand was heavier than the ones she’d used before, but there was no helping that. She slid her hand to the center of the hilt, gripping it tightly with her thumb forward and her fingers bent just like éogan had taught her. The buckler around her arm was light but sturdy when she pulled it close to her chest.

Cillian watched her, eyes trained on her every move like a hawk fixed on a rabbit. He lifted his sword from his shoulder, shifting it in his hands as he widened his stance. “Keep that buckler up,” he said as he started a slow walk around the perimeter of the ring. “I’ll control my hits, but that won’t help if you drop your defense.”

Cora smiled, mirroring his circuit around the ring. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll try to keep it in mind when I win.”

The crowd roared around them. To her surprise, just as many cheered for her as for Cillian. Cries of “Get ‘im, Lady!” and “Kick his arse!” blended with calls for Cillian to put her in her place.

Before she could tune them out, Cillian attacked. She raised her buckler on instinct, deflecting his blow only a moment before it would have struck. It was a gentle strike, but it still vibrated all the way up her arm.

He was going easy on her, just as she’d known he would. She’d counted on the fact that he’d underestimate her. Like the man in the last fight, she would never win based on brute strength. Her only advantage came in his miscalculation of her skill.

Cillian hesitated after the blow, and Cora wasted no time delivering a counterstrike. He leapt away from her sword, dodging its arc more gracefully than she’d expect from a man his size. Rather than chase him, she waited. Patience. Patience and concentration were her strengths against this opponent.

He came at her a second time, feinting to one side before swinging from the other. She was ready. Narrowly dodging the blow, Cora reached out and tapped his exposed arm with the flat of her sword.

The crowd roared, their raucous shouts echoing around her. Cillian stared at her sword, then at her. To her surprise, he grinned and tilted his head until Cora heard an audible crack. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, wife?”

It didn’t escape her notice that he’d said something similar about himself after their wedding. Cora returned his smile. “Dear husband, you’ve no idea how surprising I can be.”

Something hot and hungry flashed across his expression—something she hadn’t seen in the weeks since their wedding. Most days, she only spoke with him in the early morning and late at night before bed, and he seemed content with that. Up till now, she’d appreciated that he hadn’t pressed her for more physical intimacy. Still, it’d be a lie to say that she hadn’t missed the heat in his eyes after that first night.

There was certainly heat now. Cillian re-centered himself and said, “I look forward to finding out, A Mhuirnín .”

The unexpected endearment distracted her, and Cillian rushed her before she could open her mouth. Strike after strike, blow after blow, his hesitation replaced with an energy she found difficult to match. Over and over, she lifted her buckler to block his swings. After the first few, her arm ached from bracing against the blows. She looked for an opening—any opening—to use.

éogan’s voice echoed in her ears, instructing her to dodge, to parry, to strike. She held her own, but his size and speed made it difficult to gain any ground. For one chaotic moment, they were equals. She couldn’t break his defense, but neither could he get past hers.

The longer the match went on, the more her muscles ached. Cillian was a trained warrior who’d survived countless battles. She was competent enough, but training in a courtyard wasn’t enough to beat him.

But victory hadn’t been her aim, and the sweat dripping from her husband’s brow suggested she would be victorious in her own right. Just by holding her own, she’d proved him wrong. The luchthonn women and the warrior queen flitted through her mind between blows—a reminder that she was not alone. Another strike came down on her buckler, and Cora barely resisted the urge to howl like she imagined they would.

It was a combination of her fatigue and his skill that ended the match. She miscalculated a blow, reacting to the swing just a second too late. His sword knocked her buckler from her hand. The force sent her reeling. Unable to keep her balance, she tumbled to the ground.

Cillian’s sword was at her throat before she could blink. The crowd fell silent around them as he stared down at her, his enormous blade buried in the ground next to her head. Cora took deep, heaving breaths as she held Cillian’s gaze. The heat in his eyes had only grown over the course of their match, and the throbbing between her legs proved that she hadn’t been immune. She pictured him covering her body with his own there on the ground. He’d kiss her, bite at her lips, and conquer her there as he had in their battle.

But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he shook his head and yanked his sword free from the ground. Then he extended a hand with a smile. Cora took his hand, gasping as he pulled her to her feet. Their spectators howled in appreciation, their shouts so loud they rang in her ears.

Cillian brushed the dirt from her cheeks. “I thought I married a lady. You didn’t think to tell me I’d mated Boudica herself? It might have been nice to know.”

Warmth spread through Cora’s body at the mention of her idol. “But husband, that would ruin all the fun,” she teased, running her hands over her hair.

Suddenly aware of their audience, Cora took a step back. She bowed, acknowledging his victory. As the men rushed them, patting her back and ruffling her hair, she couldn’t help but notice that Cillian never looked away.