Free Firethorn by Sarah Micklem

guest, and if he was not too particular, he might let his drudges have her now and then. If she didn’t begin as a whore, she usually ended as one, wearing a striped skirt and opening her legs for any man with coin until she was clapped out.
    He went on whispering. “You can ride the chestnut mare. She’s steady. I’ll get another mule for the baggage.”
    â€œI won’t be shared,” I said.
    â€œNever. You shall be my own.” He said this so fiercely I believed him.
    â€œWhat of the Crux? He won’t welcome me.”
    â€œMany a sword brings his sheath along; he won’t blink an eye. Come with me, I’m intent on it. I’ll care for you well, and you’ll bring me luck.”
    I said nothing, only looked at him.
    He laughed low in his throat and raised himself over me. “I can offer you better reasons, since you’re not convinced,” he said.
    While we coupled, my thoughts went wandering. Sire Galan would tire of me someday and leave me standing by the roadside with a few coins and a new dress, and Sire Pava laughing to see it. And suppose he did? I’d lived a long year alone in the Kingswood. I needed no man’s help.
    But that was all bravado. Already—how had it come about so quickly?—desire had begotten need. A few whispered words (perhaps he didn’t mean them) and I was ready to follow. It was worse to think of staying behind, to grind one day upon another. Nothing to hold me here. None to regret my leaving, save Az.
    I wrapped my legs around him and gripped his shoulders and pushed back.

CHAPTER 2
Sheath
    he First of Crux was not pleased, not at all, when Sire Galan took me to him and asked leave for me to travel with the troop. He said, “You know I don’t hold with sheaths—useless baggage. A sheath is no better than a harlot, but more trouble.” Sire Galan stood his ground, but I saw him flinch. He stood in front as if to shield me.
    The Crux went on to call me a whore four or five different ways, and a sow and a vixen besides. I endured it. I was so set on leaving, it seemed impossible that I’d ever thought of staying.
    But when the Crux said I was a bitch in heat and all the dogs in camp would fight over me, I stepped forward, eyes downcast. “Sire Adhara dam Pictor by Falco, First of Crux,” I said, in the correct and formal speech I’d heard the Dame use when she was most irked with me, “I won’t hold you back. I can ride, I can sleep on stones and keep a fire going in the rain. I know herbs for many uses.” I showed him my palms, callused from the hoe, sickle, and pestle. “Does a whore have hands like these? I know how to work. And I promise you no one will quarrel over me—I keep to myself.”
    The Crux laughed, a short bark. He said, looking at Sire Galan, “You can tell your little braggart she’d never hold us back. Isn’t that so? A bit of mud may cling to a boot for a time, but it’s easily scraped off. Take her, if you’re so ruled by your prick that you must have her, but keep her out of my way or I’ll feed her to the manhounds. And tell her never to address me again, unless I give her leave.”
    I’d forgotten my place. If I’d been a man, I might not have survived my presumption. I should have let Sire Galan answer, for there was nothing I could say that the Crux was obliged to hear. My face burned. I dropped to my knees and touched my forehead to the ground.
    The Crux turned on his heel and left us. Sire Galan pulled me up and kept hold of my hand. He’d seemed so assured before; now I saw how green he was, when he stood against a man. He saw me in a new light too, when I mislaid my country accent and my deference. I had dared to contradict the Crux. It frightened us both.
    I’m not sure why the Crux changed his mind and let me come, unless it was to teach me my own inconsequence. Or because a god whispered in his