Free Lion Heart by A. C. Gaughen

her, and she made a soft cry, a weak hurt noise.
    I’d never heard Eleanor make any kind of sound like that.
    I should have thought of those women I heard talking. Wives. Family. Children.
    But I didn’t. I jumped forward, hooking my arm round his shoulders, and I slit his throat. He fell back quick, spraying me with blood.
    Eleanor met my eyes, and hers were wide and bluer than ever. She nodded once, and I shut the door.
    â€œMargaret,” she told me, pointing to the open door on the other side of the carriage.
    I growled out a curse. I hopped up on the chests in the back and looked out.
    There were blue cloth in the woods, and I followed the flash of bright. Margaret were fighting hard, but her small hands weren’t doing much as the man covered her mouth and tried his best to uncover the rest of her. Her gown were torn and she were sobbing under his hand.
    She were making enough noise to cover my approach, and I came fast as I could without him turning. I kicked my boot up between his legs and he howled, dropping her. She screamed and pulled away from him, and he grabbed her arm.
    â€œDon’t you touch her!” I screamed at him, fisting my half hand as best I could and slamming it into his face.
    The pain of the punch rushed up my arm. It were the good kind of pain, the simple kind that made sense.
    I hit him again.
    You can’t quite take a punch, Scar,
John told me once.
    I hit him again.
    You’re no good for punching
, Rob told me.
    What they never said were that they were the ones meant tobe punching.
    They were meant to be beside me, punching while I planned, strong-arming while I cut.
    A team. A band. Complete.
    Arms came round me, but they weren’t my bandmates. They were from Lady Margaret, and she were a sobbing, shaking little thing, and I couldn’t lift my hand.
    I looked down. The man were breathing—just, but it were there, in the bubbles of blood round his mouth.
    Sagging against a tree, I hugged her tight.

    We didn’t go on to Bristol. We went to Glastonbury, one of the oldest abbeys in England. Maybe the world; it were the oldest place I’d ever heard of. The whole party were rushed into the big stone walls fast, and I abandoned my horse to stay with Eleanor in the carriage. Margaret were sniffling and couldn’t much stop shaking, and Lady Norfolk were trembling but grim-faced as ever. Margaret had let go of most of me, but she still clutched my hand like it were a holy relic.
    I’d gotten blood on her. My hand were still bleeding, dripping into the carriage, and God only knew where else I were bleeding from. I watched my fist drip. It were easier than seeing a splinter of fear in Eleanor’s blue eyes. It were easier than seeing this girl treat melike a savior.
    We were all hushed and quiet as we were given rooms, and food, and a bath. Eleanor bathed first, and we all attended her. Or tried. The first thing I touched, I stained with blood, and Lady Norfolk pushed me back.
    So I watched. Sitting in the stone sill of a window, I breathed, and I watched over them. The bleeding on my hand slowed, and no one spoke as they brushed Eleanor’s hair—so much longer than I thought it were, since I’d only ever seen her styled and pinned up—and put her safe into fresh clothes even as the purple on her face bloomed outward like it were reaching for me.
    â€œYou,” Lady Norfolk indicated, pointing to the bath.
    I shook my head.
    â€œMy lady Princess,” she insisted.
    â€œI’m not a princess,” I told her, my voice cracking on the word. “And I’ve the most blood and dirt. The water will be ruined after I’m in it. Go.”
    She gave me a sharp nod and took her place in the bath, then Margaret. I saw scratches on her body that stung her in the water, and I found myself baring my teeth.
    Ruin. Ruin were all around me, and I couldn’t stop it none. I brought it to me like I were calling it down from the