It was one of the afternoons when Liz was musing on a dream of the Assassin Connor Kenway that she first saw him. She was standing on the wall overlooking the courtyard when the young man strolled in. He had a tradesman's dress and a tradesman's build: stocky and swarthy, clothed in scuffed leather boots, denim pants, a plain, stained white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with a brown cloth vest thrown haphazardly over that. A brown flat cap blocked his face from view, but not the thick curls that fell around his neck or the stubble that rimmed his jaw, ending in a thin mustache and a chin speckled with fuzz. A checkered kerchief was tied around his neck, the curls meshing with the threads that seemed to have frayed from the weave and hung like hounds' teeth around the collar of his shirt and the hollow of his throat.
Striding down to the courtyard, the tall redhead folded her arms across her ample chest and looked down at him with studious, hard blue eyes. It wasn't normal for a commoner to come to the upper end of town, much less to stroll into the courtyard of Queen Victoria's personal bodyguard as if he owned the entire estate.
"Who are you and what do you want?"
"Who I am, Ms. Leitch, is really not that important right now." He had his hands in his pockets, his head lowered so the bill of the cap covered his face still. She could see his arms, though. Two bracers were clearly displayed, his brown skin stained black in places. Was he a blacksmith? One of railroad workers? A coal miner? What was he? The questions nagged at Liz's mind as she pursed her lips and glowered down at him.
"I asked you a question, boy, and you'd best be answering me quickly. And my title is Lady. I am Lady Elizabeth Leitch. That much you have correct."
"Lady." He said the word as if it was an insult, spitting upon the ground. She took a step back, lest the projectile land on her just-polished boots. "Knight. Lady. Lord. Liege. Servant. Vassel. Vagrant. What are you? You claim, I hear, Miss Elizabeth Leitch of Edinburgh, to be an Assassin. I would like to put your mettle to the test."
The next moments were a blur of motion. Liz took the bow from her shoulder and nocked an arrow. The youth took hold of it as he pressed his back against her extended arm. For an instant, she saw the glint of a blade. She blocked it with her hidden blade. Then he was on her left, as if by magic, and she realized through the din of the blood in her ears that he was singing!
"Wack fol'a day diddle dee dye doe! Je le len 'o je le la le len 'o!" She lunged at him with the knife. He hopped aside, twisting and spinning away from each swing. "Fiddle daddle day diddle dee dye doe!" The irritated dame grew angrier when she saw the wide grin from beneath the cap.
"Damn it, be quiet!" Her knife passed inches from the checkered cloth that covered his throat; he executed two quick flips to get a little distance between them, landing in a crouch with an almost laughed, "Ho rif dhe ra hur!" It was with a start that she realized the boy seemed to have forgotten about her a split second later. He seemed to be admiring the architecture and dancing, his boots clip-clap-clopping against the cobblestones with heel and sole and toe as he hummed, "Tiri ti trantrantran! Tiri ti trantrantran..."
The boy spun on the balls of one foot, oblivious to the woman drawing the long sword from its sheath at her hip, his hands weaving through the air, spreading out to the side as if to keep his balance. Liz moved forward, intent on putting an end to the farce the bout had become.
As she stepped in to skewer him, he twisted low, slipping beneath her reaching arm. A kick sent the blade sailing across the yard, a second forced her to step back or be struck in the face. Finally, the cobbles met her back, the wind knocked from her as his palms collided with her chest, his foot planted firmly between her breasts to keep her there. Finally, she saw his face.
It was a face as dark as his arms and well-lined. Deep dimple lines, three to each side of his grinning mouth, made him look almost old. Laugh lines cut deep at the edges of his eyes, which were bagged at both the top and bottom lids, and heavily accented with purple, bruise like shadows. The intruder's eyes were brown and merry, half-lidded. If she'd had the breath, the downed lady would have compared him to a cat gazing down at the mouse beneath its paw. He tilted his head then and she changed her mind. He was just an arrogant pup.
"Give me your name, boy, so when I've gotten my feet back under me I'll know who to find and beat into a proper gentleman."
The man removed his foot from Elizabeth's chest. "I have been known by many names." He went to the gate and paused, looking back over his shoulder. The woman had risen to a sit, propped on one arm. "But you may have the pleasure of knowing me as An Gealbhonn."
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