Knight's Blood by Julianne Lee Read Free Book Online

but that wouldn’t be possible, nor even a good idea, where she was going. Anyone there who saw she was lactating would expect her to hire out as a wet nurse, and as a woman there would be no freedom of movement to look for the elf. No, she had to return to the guise of Sir Lindsay Pawlowski, in search of his nephew, the child of Sir Alasdair and Marilyn MacNeil of Eilean Aonarach. Lindsay Pawlowski was supposedly dead, but it would be a simple story to resurrect the brave young man who had fallen down a mountainside in a struggle against a bandit, for the body had never been recovered.
     
    When she finished, the bandage was tight and bulged more than she liked, but the tunic and mail hauberk she’d brought went over it and hung well enough to disguise her gender. She looked like a barrel-chested man. A pouch she attached to her belt contained a large packet of the thinnest, most compact, yet maximally absorbent sanitary towels on the market. The postpartum bleeding would continue for a while yet. In the past she’d used pieces of linen for her periods, which she’d then burned or buried to keep her secret, but though the sanitary towels would cause questions if discovered, it would be worth the risk not to have to carry so much bulk. One of these would last so much longer and protect so much better than a plain piece of cloth.
     
    It was a tightrope she was about to walk. A dangerous game of deception, to present herself as a man in a world where she could be killed for it if discovered. But she had experience moving like a man, walking, talking, and behaving like one. Her shoulders shrugged, and the chain mail settled over them. The garb felt heavy, but familiar. The gauntlets that had also been Alex’s were a bit large on her, and the spikes riveted to the knuckles would probably not be terribly effective because of that, but there was nothing for it. A weird nostalgia for the days when she rode with Bruce’s army against Edward of England made inroads beneath her hatred for Nemed, and it made her feel stronger than she knew she was.
     
    She reached into the bag again and brought out the sword. It was an authentic reproduction of a real medieval weapon; she’d bought it in London. Nearly a museum piece in its own right, it was not a toy or sport piece like those favored by people who attended historical reenactments and such. This was a real weapon. Made of genuine tempered steel, it bore an edge and balance worthy of the knight she would have to become on the other side of this wall. The hilt was not solid silver as it appeared, but nobody would know that. The grip, however, was wrapped in silver wire and would tarnish normally enough not to raise eyebrows. She knew how to use this weapon, as well as the dagger she’d also bought. She hung them both in scabbards, on a leather belt she then slung about her hips over her surcoat and mail, then donned the mail coif and addressed the walls.
     
    “Coward. Show yourself!”
     
    The voice then came. “You’re serious, I can see.” It sent a frisson of fear down her back and out to her fingers, but she clenched her jaw and kept the emotion to herself. Nemed was there, as she’d expected.
     
    “You have my son.”
     
    “I have no such thing. Go away. Leave me alone, and tell that idiot American you’ve married to do likewise. I’ve finished with the both of you.”
     
    “Where are you?” If she could get him to show himself, she thought she might be able to fight him right there and have done with the whole issue. But his reply was a disappointment.
     
    “Not here, I assure you. That husband of yours nearly killed me with his demand I send you both home. I barely exist anywhere anymore.”
     
    “Liar.”
     
    There was a great heaving sigh, then, “If you say so, but in any case I’m neither where nor when you are currently. I really don’t care to discuss it.”
     
    “Where is my son?”
     
    “I’ve no idea. Now go away.”
     
    “I want my