by Loki Renard
“Not heir,” Mary said. “For I am not a man. Under the law—”
“You think we here worry about the law?” Dylan chuckled. “No, not in a thousand years. That place is rightfully yours. We’ll pledge our loyalty to you, Lady de Vere, and you’ll reward us when you assume the throne.”
“There’s no throne in—”
“Metaphorically speaking,” Dylan replied. “You are adept with a blade. You can make yourself useful. There are many merchants ripe with coin along these roads. Relieve them of some of it, and you’ll find your belly full of food and your head covered at night. Whilst you’re here, we’ll teach you our ways. And one day when you’re ready—you’ll slit that man you call uncle from stem to stern and claim your lands.”
Mary made no reply but nodded slowly as the firelight danced in her eyes.
* * *
Living with the gypsies was quite an eye-opening experience for Mary. The accommodations were rough, and there were no beds as such, just bedrolls stuffed with straw. Tanned leather strung overhead kept the worst of the rain off, but on cold nights, it was not uncommon for the little gypsy clan to doss down together.
Mary would have found it quite impossible to sleep in such conditions but for Dylan the Red’s firm and soothing presence. He refused her any airs and graces, but always ensured her safety. That was more than enough for Mary.
There was much to learn and her days were busy. Dylan’s band of gypsies were not simple thieves. They often used guile and disguise in order to commit crimes, without the nastiness of violence and the risk of capture. Of course, steel was always there to back them up if their disguises were to fail, but their primary mode of sustaining themselves was the tricking of the rich.
During this time, Mary developed an alter ego, Richard de Vere. She wore a false mustache and beard which obscured much of her face and left her quite unrecognizable when she put on a deeper voice. As Richard de Vere, she accompanied her gypsy brethren to taverns and public houses where they sometimes fraternized with those they had robbed, or indeed, took it upon themselves to lighten the purses of unaware revelers.
Richard was not her only alter-ego. Mary quickly discovered that she was quite talented in the assuming of various guises. Slipping into the skin of another soul most appealed to her. She did not just change clothing, she changed personalities, becoming the character she had created. It was most liberating.
More than once she helped the gypsies to steal a carriage load of goods out from under a merchant’s nose by acting as stablers or as carriage men themselves. Though Mary at first lacked the nerve to try such bold measures, Dylan would not allow her to shirk her duties.
“You must learn our ways. They will serve you better than needlepoint and spinning,” he insisted.
Mary scratched her nose. She was daubed with mud so as to blend into the forest, which made her feel dirty and uncomfortable. Though she had engaged in plenty of what she had considered to be rough play as a younger woman, she had always maintained a certain level of dignity. There was little dignity in being a mud lady.
“Stop scratching,” Dylan said, swatting her hand away from her nose. “You’ll take the mud off.”
“Mayhap that is the point,” Mary said pertly.
Dylan raised a red brow. “Mayhap you need your precious hide tanned so as to remember your place here, m’lady.”
Mary briefly considered threatening Dylan with one of the many knives strapped to her waist but swiftly decided against such an action. Dylan was kind. He had almost certainly saved her from a death by exposure or something worse. Besides, his hand hurt like the blazes when it landed across her buttocks. He certainly had no qualms about correcting her when he saw fit, and more than once Mary had been subjected to the gypsy chief’s discipline.
“Why do we have to keep stealing and moving on? Why can’t we just settle somewhere?” Gypsies traveled by nature, but Mary did not enjoy the constant flitting hither and thither. She missed the solidity of a single place of residence. She missed her home.
“Because,” Dylan explained, “none will allow us on their land. We are moved along as swiftly as we are discovered. And if we do not move along, we are imprisoned. The peasants think us thieves, and the nobles consider us a nuisance.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Mary said, thumbing mud off her cheek. Again, Dylan swatted her hand.
“That’s enough of that. Now mind me, Mary. You are coming to observe this trick of ours. You must mind not to move too much or too fast. You must be of the forest.”
“I understand,” Mary said impatiently. “I am to be as a tree. Let us go. I am eager to see a merchant brought to justice.”
“We do not provide justice,” Dylan chuckled. “But we will lighten their load and relieve them of that burdensome coin.”
And so Mary found herself crouching in the shadows of the forest, keeping watch as a merchant drove into the trap so neatly laid. In the instance at hand, one of the gypsies had been dressed as a fine lady with the use of Mary’s wedding dress and was laid out upon the road. The idea was that the merchant should stop and upon investigation, be robbed.
Unfortunately, the merchant had not been informed of this plan and proved rather reluctant to co-operate with it. He was alone, riding a fairly sorry horse. When he came upon the prone lady, he did not stop to offer aid, but instead rode around her as if she were little more than a log in his path.
Outraged by the man’s lack of feeling for what could so easily have been her, Mary broke cover and made after the man. He had not been riding at any great speed, so it was easy to rush up behind him, vault onto the horse’s back, wrap an arm about his waist for a modicum of stability, and stick her blade against his thick neck.
“Your money, knave. I want it.” She growled the words in a voice disguised with rough malice, one that bore no resemblance to her natural light, feminine tones.
She expected the man to stiffen with fear; instead, he kicked the horse into an almost immediate gallop, clearly hoping to dislodge his attacker. It did not work. Mary had ridden many a flighty horse in her youth, and the old merchant had not the power nor the stamina to dislodge her. They had barely gone seven hundred yards when the knackered mare stopped dead and refused to move a step further.
“Fool,” Mary said. “Give me your gold, or I will slit your throat.”
“You will not take my gold,” the merchant hissed. “You will swing from the gallows, scum!”
“Stay your blade!”
Somewhere in the distance, Mary heard Dylan’s command but ignored it. Suddenly, she was hearing her Uncle Vincent’s voice in the sneering tones of the merchant. It lead to a rush of anger she could barely contain. She pressed down with the knife and more than nicked the skin. Traces of blood began to roll down the merchant’s sallow flesh as she pressed the blade into the fatty flesh of the man.
Before she could do mortal damage, something hit Mary. Hard. The blow caught her across the back of her shoulders and knocked her from the merchant’s horse. She landed on her bottom, able only to watch as Dylan cut the saddlebags free with professional alacrity, slapped the merchant’s horse on the rear and spurring it into a mad dash back from whence it came, carrying the fortunate merchant with it.
Mary cursed in the direction of the now fleeing man, but there was little time to get more than a few words out before Dylan hauled her to her feet and subsequently over his lap. Her short skirts were tossed up, her drawers pulled down without a moment’s hesitation, and Dylan the Red was plying his palm against her bare skin before she could protest the punishment.
“You will mind me, Mary,” he said, holding her tight to his thigh with an iron hard arm. “I will not have anybody harmed on my watch without my say so, little madam!” He slapped her bottom very hard, hard enough to make her yowl.
“What were you thinking? Vicious little beast,” he continued lecturing, slapping her bare cheeks with great ire.
Mary had never been the recipient of
such a thorough thrashing. She did not like it in the least. Each slap was like a lightning strike against her bottom, followed by a rolling thunder that lit every nerve with its fury.
Trapped against the gypsy chief’s body, Mary could do naught but squeal until he saw fit to stop slapping. When he did, Mary barely recognized her bottom as her own. It was still there, but it was swollen and red, covered in palm marks and aching with the blossoming of bruises. It was perhaps no more than she deserved, but that did not make it any easier to bear.
Dylan helped her to her feet and stood over her as she rubbed her backside and tried not to cry. It had been too fast and furious a punishment to bring tears, but the aftermath left her on the precipice of a great shedding.
“This will not do, Mary de Vere,” he lectured. “This will not do at all. You are such an angry little thing.”
“You would be angry too, if you were I.”
“Mayhap,” Dylan agreed. “But that anger of yours is making you reckless. It will not serve you.”
“What do you suggest I do? Forgive my uncle? Forget his treachery?”
“No, by all the gods, no!” Dylan laughed. “You must take that anger and hone it like a blade. You must hold it out before you so that it is your shield. Your anger is your weapon, Mary. Make sure you know how to wield it—lest it turn on you.”
Mary saw both the truth and the sense in Dylan’s words. He was right. If she was ever to reclaim her home, she could not become some wild beast of the woods.
“I am sorry,” she said. “Truly.”
“Good lass,” he said, shouldering the merchant’s bags. “Come. We have loot to share out.”
* * *
Over months, Mary learned how to control her anger and her fear. She learned how to further assume the character of another person, and how to deprive the wealthy of their riches without being so much as suspected, let alone caught. She became a master of disguise, able to impersonate anyone from a peasant to a priest.
There came a day when Dylan the Red told Mary he had something to speak to her about, something of great importance to her future and the future of the gypsy clan itself.
“You’ve come a long way, Mary,” he said. They were sitting on a platform in the tree tops, looking out over the winding road that cut through the forest. It was one of the many vantage points the gypsies used when lying in wait for their quarry, but it was the most beautiful of them all. “I think you’re ready to move on.”
“Move on? What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s time to leave us, lass.” Dylan did not look at her. Instead, his gaze was focused out over the horizon.
“You are casting me out?” Mary’s lower lip trembled. “Have I offended you?”
“You cannot claim de Vere manor as a gypsy brigand,” Dylan said. “If you are to take your place back in good society, you need to make those lords and ladies think you belong among them.”
“And how shall I do that?”
“Go to the abbey. Pledge yourself as a postulant, and make yourself pure in the eyes of God and man. When you are ready, we will be waiting.”
“But—”
“Do not argue with me, Mary,” he said. “You were never made for this life. You were made for more. And you shall have it.”
Impulsively, Mary wrapped her arms around Dylan’s waist and squeezed him with all her might. He returned the embrace, dropping a kiss on her head. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the man who had saved her. He smelled of masculinity and gypsy spices. He smelled of freedom. He smelled of comfort, but he did not smell of home. Even though her throat was closing with the impulse to cry, she knew he was right. She did not belong with the gypsies. There were lands and people awaiting her return, and return she would.
“Go, lass.” Dylan’s voice cracked as he patted her back. “Go before I change my mind and make you one of us forever more. Go claim that which is yours.”
Chapter Three
Two years later…
Fwip
Unleashed from a mighty ash bow, an arrow sailed through the air, landed square in the belly of an apple, and there stuck.
Lord Forthwithington, a lecher and a knave, but not a bad shot, grinned all about him as if expecting cheers from an adoring crowd, though only his squire was in attendance, save for the peasant woman who had been positioned beneath the apple. The squire burst into clapping; however, the peasant was not so pleased. She shrank to the ground, whimpering and praying to the good Lord above.
“Your arrow flew true, but the peasant has no faith in you, Lord Forthwithington,” the squire laughed. “I do believe she soiled herself.”
“She is a woman of simple mind, not much different from an animal. Throw her some bread and let us be gone. My point is made.” Chester Forthwithington threw back his shoulders and reached for the reins of his mount. His black hair flowed freely in the brisk wind as he spurred his mount on without a second thought for the apple, the arrow, or the peasant.
The squire tossed a twine-bound package to the woman and mounted his pony. His hair was cut after the fashion of a bowl, for he had once been a monk. At the age of eighteen and three-quarters, he had made his way out of the monastery and directly to the thighs of a fine lady who vigorously reassured him that he had made the correct decision in leaving the cloth.
“Peace be with you!” he shouted to the still cowering woman, making the sign of the cross as he spurred his short-legged steed in the direction his lord had gone.
He found his master stopped not far hence. The reason for stoppage was immediately clear. There was a bush in the middle of the road. A bush which spoke.
“Stand and deliver! Or sit. Your posture is of no concern to me,” the bush declared. “I am interested only in silver and gold.”
“Who are you?” Lord Chester laughed. “What mad jape is this?”
“I am good King Alfrich’s head, come to claim my bounty from the pockets of those who betrayed me and mine,” the bush said, green leaves rustling. “I will tell your fortune. Cross my leaves with silver, and you shall go unharmed.”
“You are a bandit,” Chester declared. “A merry bandit to be sure, but a bandit nonetheless. I will have your head for my pike!” The handsome lord leaped from his mount, and landing surely upon his two feet, went forward, sword in hand to do battle with the bush.
It was no great surprise when the bush sprouted its own steel. The squire Malcolm looked on with quiet wonder as Lord Chester circled around the bush, looking for an opening that did not seem to appear.
“This is folly!” he declared, growing impatient. “Fight me like a man, not a ficus!”
“What good would it do to fight you as a man, when you are naught but a mewling cur?” The bush was full of rude insults, which soon spurred Lord Chester into a most unwise attack. He lifted his blade high and charged forward, seeking to cleave the bush from tip to trunk. But it was not to be. With his midsection exposed, Lord Chester Forthwithington found himself a human pincushion, skewered not once, not twice, but three times before his initial cry of rage slipped away into a gasping, blubbering cry. He fell to the ground most solidly, clutching at his ruined doublet.
“On closer inspection you will find I have left your internal organs intact as a favor to your mother,” the bush declared as it swept across Lord Chester’s prone frame and gathered everything of any worth. When it had taken his broach and his pendant, his sack of jewels and his stash of coins, it bowed farewell.
“Peace be with you,” it said as it shuffled into the forest, where it was quickly lost amongst the many other bushes.
Chapter Four
Six miles south of famous Croxden Abbey lay a smaller convent named Tawston. Though small, it was well tended by devoted nuns who kept the grounds clear of weeds and plants of ill-repute, instead growing roses about the doors and potatoes in the gardens.
Tawston boasted several unique features. There was a maze of hedgelings which anyone more than three feet tall could
see over, but which would one day tower high above the heads of those who might set foot inside it.
The maze was the work of Sister Prawley, who spent her days making strange marks on scraps of parchment and made frequent requests for tea and ink, but other than that said little to anyone. It was Sister Prawley who shuffled by the concerned abbess one fine morning without so much as acknowledging the woman’s presence.
Abbess Mallorie Tudor had been a noblewoman. Indeed, she was still cousin to the king himself. Not a favored cousin, as her position at Tawston indicated, but still a woman of intellect and influence. She had once been quite a beauty, but age had taken much of her youthful appeal. In its place it had left wisdom and patience and a keen intuition, qualities infinitely more valuable than mere beauty.
As Abbess Tudor made her way down the garden path, there was a rustling in the hedgerows. It seemed very much as if someone or something was trying to escape a thorny embrace and having rather a hard time of it. The abbess stood and waited for the situation to resolve itself, which it did when a woman emerged from the hedge.
She had been wearing the simple dress of a postulant, but it was so torn from her adventures in the hedge that it was no longer modest. Slim, though scratched thighs were quite visible through rips and tears in the fabric. Even her midsection was exposed in parts, a scandalous baring of the flesh which would no doubt have shocked a lesser abbess.
“Postulant Mary!”
“Abbess!” A broad smile spread across the woman’s face, an expression of joy and wonder at having discovered a friendly face. “I have returned.”
Mary had something of the giddiness of a deer. She was all arms and legs and wide green eyes, which looked out on the world with a perfect innocence which belied her age. Had she not been a widow, she would have been very late to marry indeed, with one and twenty years behind her.