Chapter 29 – Twists and Turns

Wherein respect is gained on both sides.

A small crowd followed Bosra and the knight into the garden. Among them were Rose, Valentina, and a pouting Brittany who attempted to smack her cousin with a lace fan. Valentina nimbly dodged the blow and tempered the urge to trip Brittany by stepping on the small train of her affronting dress. If the woman had chosen the colour to stand out in a crowd, she certainly did – like a pustule.

On a stretch of grass, bordering a terrace decked with tables, chairs, and large potted plants, Bosra would fight the knight.

He doffed his jacket and cravat, handing those to one who was likewise wearing a ceremonial cuirass, emblazoned with a sun motif. Meanwhile, Bosra took off the heavy bracelets, her choker and the Soultree bark amulet on its silver chain.

Without the adornments, her tattoos stood out more. She ignored the murmurs from the crowd.

"Favoured by the Gods," someone said, loud enough to pierce her veil of concentration.

She wasn’t anyone’s favourite. She had done a job and been rewarded. The how, the what, the why didn’t matter, not in this moment.  

All that mattered was the knight.

She looked down at her dress. It allowed for plenty of movement. On the other hand, getting blood on it, or ripping it as she lunged, would destroy it. That would be a waste of materials.

She stepped onto the grass and waited. Her hands hung down by her sides, fingers relaxed. She assessed the crowd, saw a few more men wearing the same ceremonial armour. She noticed Brittany the Vile. To her satisfaction, the woman looked away quickly, muttering something behind her lace fan to a hobnob standing next to her. One that in turn gave Bosra a haughty look.

Pupper and Tina were standing to her right, holding hands. There were people behind them also, but those didn’t matter.

Bosra let out a huffed breath; she pumped her arms and set her feet. She could feel adrenaline start to flow. She felt herself slipping into the calculating mindset that made her an excellent marksman; analysing weak spots and strengths.

He crossed the distance between them until they were two arm's lengths apart. He nodded to her. She nodded back.

She saw him conjure up the professional anger that made one into a battle bastard. He wouldn't pull his punches because she was in an evening gown. Nor because she was a woman. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he had fought women before, making him not as green as she expected earlier. 

A blink later, he was in her face. She blocked the first few fists he threw. This was her kind of dance.

He wasn't going slow. He must know he had to end this before she got her punches in. Distracted by his display of skill, she let one blow slip through her defence. He hit her square on the jaw. Pain flowered like a rose in early Summer. 

Gritting her teeth, she didn't hear the deep huff she produced on an exhale. She didn't notice herself teetering forward, telegraphing which arm was cocking, with which side she would strike.  

Her knight didn't notice either. He was too busy trying to land punches on her breastbone and ribs. The crowd did notice. Collectively, the onlookers held their breath. 

She turned slightly, moving back half a pace to increase distance. As her knight compensated for this, her fist connected with his jawbone. 

She felt the break happen beneath her knuckles. 

Her second punch hit him solidly on the pectoral arc. He wasn’t wearing pauldrons – they wouldn’t fit under his evening jacket – which was a win for her.

She heard him bite back a whimper, saw his eyes glaze over from pain.

The third punch was simply to make sure he wouldn't try something funny with her again; now or in the future. She hit his hip joint, just below the chest plate. 

He buckled.

For a second she thought he might go down.

He caught himself, using his good leg and cuirass to keep himself from teetering. As he tried to get to her, he found he could put no weight on the other foot. He glared at her foully.

She watched how his realisation set in. Because of the pain he was experiencing, it took a moment. He chuffed out a pent up breath.

She nodded in acquiescent respect. Held out her hand to him. Big, grey, bruised. 

Hesitantly, he put his own bruised paw in hers.  

She pressed it without the use of crushing force. There was a part of her that wanted to, that wanted to get more than even, for her friend’s sake. She denied herself that. This knight was not her enemy. 

"You have me beat, my lady. Tell me your name so I may do proper honour upon you," he spoke, his words a little slurred on account of his fractured cheekbone.

"Bosra of the Golden Bow," she answered.

 The knight attempted to bow over their joined hands. He wobbled and tightened his grip. Bosra put a steadying hand on his good shoulder. He flinched slightly, but deepened his bow, accepting her support.

"Lady of the Golden Bow, please pardon my previous remarks and tell me what my companion would do to appease thee." 

"Your name."

"Ilyas, son of Azat."

"You are forgiven, Ilyas, son of Azat. Your companion shall offer her apologies to mine." 

"I will never!" Brittany’s shrill voice resounded from the side-lines. She smacked her fan against her leg, then stomped off to re-join the revellers inside.

The knight cringed, nearly toppling himself over. "Tell me what I might do to appease thee, Lady of the Golden Bow."

"Ain’t nothing you can give that I want." She pushed him upright, before gently letting go of his shoulder and hand. "Find a healer."

Bosra turned to walk away.

As soon as she had, Rose slipped her bracelets back around her wrists. The choker and pendant followed.

"You need yourself a healer too," Pupper said softly, her face full of concern and repressed emotions.

"On it." Tina flitted off before anyone could stop her, her ruffled skirt whispering over flagstone as she went. 

"I need a drink." Bosra twisted her neck to ease the tension. "Anything." 

"Sure," Rose appeased. "We’ll get you a drink." She looped her hand around Bosra’s arm. "As soon as we get you cleaned up."

"Could use a snack too. Nobody likes a cranky highlander." The adrenaline rush wouldn't last. The crash was going to hit hard and quick. Harder and faster than Ilyas could punch.

Bosra touched her sore cheek and grinned. The man had known what he was doing.

Her hand dropped to the pendant around her neck. She touched the petrified bark. Whatever the rest of the night would bring, she was ready for it.

~

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