The Lady In Armor

Dust rose up from the heavy wagon wheels grinding over the dirt road, mixing into the air with the sounds of the day; shouting marketers promising the quality of goods, the noise of voices and walking feet, the dull underlying clip-clip of horse hooves. The midday sun broke through the clouds, beating down on the villagers who filled the marketplace square. On the western corner of the square sat a worn, sturdy building; once a small stable, the walls-save for the corner posts and crossbeams-had been torn out to allow the outside air to pass under the roof, clearing away the boiling heat. Throughout the day, the sound of hammer on metal vibrated through the hot, shimmering air. The furious pounding sounded in heavy, timed, stroked, gradually shaping red-hot metal into magnificent swords, smooth shields, and an array of other intricate works.
Today was no different; the blacksmith was hard at work, finishing a request that had taken months to create. The last piece was set to be finished before sundown, and the customer had come to see the last of the masterpiece finished. She was there now, standing on the far post, in the shadows and smoke, where she could watch, but remained unseen. She was young, her pale skin contrasting sharply with the dirt and dark of the forge. Her long black hair was worn loosely, hiding sharp cheekbones and delicate elfin ears. Her pale blue eyes were trained on the crowd outside, darting this way and that, lips pursed as she watched them. She seemed not to hear the whanging and banging of the blacksmith and his work. A heavy black cloak draped over her shoulders, framing her lace-trimmed dress elegantly. She would never have been able to afford such items in her youth, but ever since Prince Gabriel had taken interest in her, such finery had become normal. He, of course, didn't know of her dealings with the smith. For a lady to come to a blacksmith and request such work was unseemly at best. Today it would be done, though. Today she would get her revenge. Her eyes flashed with excitement as she briefly lost her grip on her emotions. To finally pay what was deserved...yes, today was a good day.
"Nearly done, miss," the blacksmiths voice cut through her jubilation, and her eyes snapped back to their cold, distantness.
"Excellent." She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, obscuring her face to keep anyone from recognizing her. She was well known in these parts. Very well known. Since her seventh year, when word had gotten out about her encounter with the wolf in the woods, people had pointed behind her back and whispered. She did not care. She held her head higher, enjoying the attention. Her beauty, too, had made women throughout the kingdom narrow their eyes in jealousy. They had all sat back and smiled when the queen had sent the huntsman after her. When she had come back alive, the queen was beside herself with fury, and the women shrank back from her, fearful that only a witch could survive the queen's rage. Still Adelaide had carried her head high. When her grandmother died, though, the joy had left her, and those high, sparkling eyes had grown cold. Her beautiful smile disappeared, and her white skin was dulled by her black scowl. The only time the look lifted was when she was with her prince. A noblemen far more regal than she-an undeserving wench-should have ever hoped to attract. Still, she did not doubt his love, not when he faced his mother's temper to be with her. It was for this reason the queen hated her so-she knew that when she passed, her rule would be taken over by an inferior peasant whose beauty and grace far surpassed her own. Adelaide smiled again, gloating in an unladylike way at the her glorious future.
"My lady, it is finished." The blacksmiths rough voice once again snapped her from her daydreams, and she stilled her curving lips.
"Excellent." She tugged the hem of her hood closer, and stepped closer to study the newly finished gauntlet. Another smile, one pushed by the rush of exuberant success, threatened her red lips, but she clenched her jaw and the urge was quelled. "Have it sent to my home," she instructed. "I shall pay you on the morrow."
The blacksmith opened his mouth to object, no doubt, but Adelaide skewered him with an icy look, and he nodded. "O-of course," the old fool stammered, and Adelaide stepped back.
"Very good." With that, she swept away to the back of the forge where her steed stood waiting, away from the crowds. She climbed on board and arranged her skirts before whisking away with a clatter of hooves on stone.
It was past nightfall when the wagon arrived at the manor at the edge of the woods, and Adelaide stood waiting by a fire lit window. Shadows leapt and danced over her pale face, the long, lacy sleeves of her gown trailing past her waist.
Her face was nearly expressionless as she swept open the heavy oak door of her home, but if one were to look closely, they would have seen an uncharacteristic gleam in her eye. The men set the large trunk down with a thud in the room to which she directed them to, and just as quickly as they came, they were gone. Alone once more, Adelaide knelt beside the crate and deftly pried off the lid. The light of the candle she held aloft gleamed and skipped over the metal and leather that lay nestled in the straw, and she stood, swiftly lighting the candles on the dresser. The light glowed warmly, casting eerie shadows about the room as she went back to the crate, lifting from it a supple black leather corset, to which had been attached gleaming spaulders, the four layers overlapping each other like dragon scales. Under the corset lay a wide leather belt which had been modified to carry an armored over-skirt of rippling panels.
An under-skirt came with the over skirt, despite the blacksmiths blushing and
insisting he would not make the underthings of a lady in public-or ever-but an extra bag of money had shut him up, though he still did not look overly pleased with the job. The fool.
She needed an underskirt, to protect her lower half from any sword that should come her way-any blade that was properly looked after would slice cleanly three ordinary layers of skirts. A dark helmet lay at the end of the crate, its dark exterior like a solid shadow in the light, fluffy straw. She set aside the skirt and corset, picking up the helmet and traced the visor with her finger, then the wolves etched into the sides. The armor was lightweight, so that a lady could wear it without feeling as though she were lugging about sacks of grain like a common peasant. She slipped the armor on and rushed out to the stables, slippers replaced with heavy clanking boots that thudded on the cobblestones. Her horse, which she had left tacked for this very instant, threw up its head at the clatter, and as soon as she settled in the saddle and spurred him onward, he leaped into the night, her red cape billowing out behind her.
The moon had barely moved when she arrived at the palace, heart thudding like a drum. She tethered her horse in the shadows and slipped in the back door that she had paid the maid to leave unlocked. The maid had fled, in fear of being found out by her mistress, and Adalaide snorted at her foolish fear. Climbing the stairs to the queen's tower, she wrapped her hand around the hilt of her new sword. Her gloved hand turned the doorknob slowly so as not to make any noise, and she stepped into her Majesty's room.
The grand room was filled with useless gems and silly baubles, and Adalaide almost scoffed at the mess. Such finery, heaped carelessly, showed disorganization, a trait Adalaide associated the queen's rule. As she neared the great bed, blanketed with a dark red sheet, a shadow in the corner moved. "Do not touch her," Adelaide's prince ordered, and stepped into the sapphire moonlight.
"Stand aside," she growled, in a very unladylike way. The prince waved his hand, and guards swept forwards from behind dressers and out of closets. Adelaides hand twitched, spasmed, and her sword fell. Her plan. Her lovely plan. How had he known? The maid. Her mind seized the possibility and she bared her teeth.
"Her reign has gone on too long," Adalaide spat. "It is time for new blood, far more deserving, to take over."
Her prince shook his head, looking lovingly at his mother, sheathing a dagger she had not noticed in his hand before, and addressed the guards. "Throw her in the dungeon. She will be hanged on the morrow for treason." He bowed slightly at the waist. "My love." The guards seized her, and she shrieked like a demon, clawing at them with gloved hands, kicking with her heavy boots, but to no avail. She was dragged away, thrown in the cell at the bottom on the castle. All through the night she raged and screamed, until a thought struck her and she fell silent. During the great uproar in her room; the shrieking, clanking, screaming, and yelling, the queen had not once moved in her bed. In fact, she had barely breathed.
This realization set the horses in Adelaide's mind into a stumbling gallop, and she leaned on the forged bars of her cell. Why? Did he want the same power she sought? Had he been willing to kill his beloved mother for it? Another feeling was growing in her chest, cold and shocked. He had betrayed her. He had betrayed her love; how dare he act so infatuated with her, then throw her in a cell and attempt to hold her accountable for his mother's murder, done by his own hand? A small voice in a far corner of her mind wondered if he had a reason to do all this, but she squashed it flat, her eyes falling on her lovely armor. It was such a waste; the blacksmiths time, her planning, her money-which would never reach the man if she were executed-the craftsmanship, the excitement she had felt. She had been so close to ruling.
I will not go down this way. The thought blazed in her head as if God himself had whispered encouragement in her ear, and she stepped back from the cell bars. She would not be trapped like a common criminal.
"Guard!" Adelaide's voice rang out clearly, and a moment later, a man shuffled forth, eyes lowered, as if looking upon such a treasonous person would bring trouble to himself. "Fetch me some water," she pleaded, voice suddenly gentle and soft, "I beg you, good sir, and some bread and honey. I should like a last meal before I meet my well-deserved fate."
The man's face softened, and she removed her helmet as he finally lifted his gaze to her face. A sad smile touched her lips, drawing womanly emotion into her features, and the man bowed. "Yes, milady." He hurried away, and Adelaide's eyes followed him coldly.
By the time he returned, Adelaide's remorseful look was back in place. "Thank you, good sir."
The man passed the plate through the bar, and she grabbed his collar, hauling him close. Her other hand found her dagger and as he opened his mouth to shout, she shoved the blade through his throat. There was a wet gurgle, and she released him. He hit the dirt floor with a thud, and she crouched beside him, pulling the keys from his belt. Picking her helmet up off the ground, she reached around and unlocked the door. It creaked open, and she settled her helmet on her head. Who know how many guards lay beyond the wooden door before her.
The midday sun flashed through the air into the musty dungeon as Adelaide shoved the door open. The guards outside-caught napping, Adelaide was sure-gave a shout and fumbled about for their weapons.
Out of the door burst a fully armored warrior, metal and leather gleaming and flashing like it had been lit with a torch. Fierce blue eyes peered out from behind the helmet, and the dagger soared through the air, meeting its mark in the first poorly armored guard. The woman seized the fallen sword and gave the weapon an experimental whirl before turning on the other men. One by one, they fell, like pawns on a chessboard.
Now, Adelaide thought, to go for the King. She took off towards the garden, where she knew her beloved prince would be taking his midday meal in the warm sunlight.
The garden was filled with a variety of bushes, trees, and flowers, and the air was full of the sweet perfumes of colorful plant life. At the center of the garden sat the prince, seated at a decorated table in a cushioned chair. The sight of him made Adelaide's blood boil; how dared he look to happy when she, the love of his life, was supposed to be sitting in jail? Closer and closer Adelaide crept, until only a few bushes sat between her and her love. A bird sang off in a tree, and a gentle breeze swept over the garden.
The prince never suspected anything. Peacefully he sipped from his chalice, enjoying the outdoors. Then suddenly, a lady in armor sprang from the bushes. A heavy sword shone in her gloved hand, and the sun winked off her helmet. She was upon him before he could shout, grabbing his neck and hoisting him from the seat, smashing him down on the table. The sword clattered to the floor, and Adelaide reached up, removing her helmet and gently placing it on the chair. Her raven-black hair floated around her face, and she leaned over her prince, fingers clasped at his throat. "Remember me to Hell," her silky sweet voice murmured, and as he tried to get away, she took her dagger and sank it with such force into his neck that when she pulled back, his body stayed stuck to the table.
A sweet smelling breeze floated through the garden, stirring the grass and rustling the tree branches. The sunlight caught the lady in armor's pale blue eyes, and her red lips curved upwards as replaced her helmet.