by Morgan Rice
*
Gareth burst out of the cottage, back into the clearing, to find Firth standing there, waiting for him.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Firth asked, concerned. “You look as if you’ve been stabbed. Did she hurt you?”
Gareth paused, breathing hard, wiping his mouth again and again. He hardly knew how to respond.
“Let’s get away from this place,” he said. “Now!”
As they began to head out of the clearing into the black wood, the sun was suddenly obscured by clouds racing across the sky, making the beautiful day cold and dark. Gareth had never seen such thick, black clouds appear so quickly. He knew that whatever was happening, it was not normal. He worried how deep the powers of this witch were, as the cold wind rose in the summer day and crept up the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but think she had somehow possessed him with that kiss, cast some sort of curse on him.
“What happened in there?” Firth pressed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gareth said. “I don’t want to think about this day—ever again.”
The two of them hurried back down the trail, down the hill, and soon entered the main forest trail to head back toward King’s Court. Just as Gareth was beginning to feel more relieved, preparing to shove the whole episode to the back of his mind, suddenly, he heard another set of boots. He turned and saw a group of men walking toward them. He couldn’t believe it.
His brother. Godfrey. The drunk. He was walking toward them, laughing, surrounded by the villainous Harry and two other of his trouble-making friends. Of all the times and places for his brother to run into him. In the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Gareth felt as if his whole plot were cursed.
Gareth turned away, pulled the hood over his face, and hiked twice as fast, praying he had not been discovered.
“Gareth?” called out the voice.
Gareth had no choice. He froze in his tracks, pulled back his hood, and turned and looked at his brother, who came waltzing merrily toward him.
“What are you doing here?” Godfrey asked.
Gareth opened his mouth, but then closed it, stumbling, at a loss for words.
“We were going for a hike,” Firth volunteered, rescuing him.
“A hike, were you?” one of Godfrey’s friends mocked Firth, in a high, feminine voice. His friends laughed, too. Gareth knew that his brother and his friends all judged him for his predisposition—but he hardly cared about that now. He just needed to change the topic. He didn’t want them to wonder what he was doing out here.
“What are you doing out here?” Gareth asked, turning the tables.
“A new tavern opened, by Southwood,” Godfrey answered. “We had just been trying it out. The best ale in all the kingdom. Want some?” he asked, holding out a cask.
Gareth shook his head quickly. He knew he had to distract him, and he figured the best way was to change the topic, to rebuke him.
“Father would be furious if he caught you drinking during the day,” Gareth said. “I suggest you set down that and return to court.”
It worked. Godfrey glowered, and clearly he was no longer thinking about Gareth, but about his father and himself.
“And since when did you care about Father’s needs?” he retorted.
Gareth had had enough. He hadn’t time to waste with a drunkard. He succeeded in what he wanted, distracting him, and now, hopefully, he wouldn’t think too deeply about why he had run into him here.
Gareth turned and hurried down the trail, hearing their mocking laughter behind him as he went. He no longer cared. Soon, it would be he who had the last laugh.