With those thoughts, along with her voice in his mind, his ache now turned to fear and dread.
It disturbed him. He stopped, feeling the sudden need to turn his horse—to go back—to take her in his arms once more—to protect her. But the consequences, should he abandon his command, stuck with him like a disease; he would suffer the same penalty as the Scottish Queen—if not, worse.
Defeated by requirement, he pushed forward, leaving his wife behind, her hand suspended in the air, in the hope he would turn his head, just one more time. But he kept going, until all that remained was the fading sound of his horse galloping further away, taking him to a fate unknown.
Reece eventually slowed his horse to a canter, confident his wife could no longer see him. Still, he tried not to think of her. But she had been his weakness since their first encounter. Surrendering to his thoughts, again, he recalled their simple wedding day.
It was winter, and the snow had fallen thick and heavy. They had met at the wedding of her close cousin, Lieutenant James Mackenzie, who still served under him. The unlikely invitation had come as a surprise. Tempted to turn it down, he had then felt obliged to attend. It seemed his whole life had been bound by duty… until that day.
She had taken him with a single glance, and after a determined introduction, he had made it his priority to pursue her. It was she who had given him the reason to face each dawn, to return safely, knowing she was there to love and welcome him. At times he tortured himself, wondering what fate would have delivered him, had he not attended that wedding. He was thankful he had.
Two opposites in every sense, their differences failed to keep them apart… except one: her father. He had been reluctant to part from his only daughter, because of their difference in age and background—she, ten years his junior and from the Northern Kingdom, while he hailed from the South. However, had it not been for her mother’s influence on her father, he imagined they would have eloped. He smiled, recalling her words of persuasion, as they waited for the approval, after he had asked for her hand:
“What is a mere ten years, husband? Can you not see when something is meant to be?”
Tragically, she did not live long after that—the consumption finally taking its toll on the poor woman. But, despite her illness, she lived long enough to see them wed, before the Grim Reaper called—one month after.
“Why is it, the good and the blessed die young?” her inconsolable husband had cried out at her funeral. However, in the months that followed, he gradually lost the will to live, without his beloved wife. By simply wasting away, he waited for death to reunite them. Reece never forgot the words he spoke to him, in his dying moments, before welcoming death.
“I could not have wished for a better husband for my daughter”.
Until then, Reece had never imagined it could be possible to die from a broken heart.
Their parting, as always, was heart-wrenching, but he was content in the knowledge she was not alone, despite being strong-willed and stubborn. While away, their kind Landlord, Thomas Drew and his wife, Marian, looked in on her from time to time and, in return, she tended their house and occasionally cooked for them—the couple insisting on paying her a small wage. Reece always noted, on his return, how much weight his Landlord had gained in his absence. Still, it was a means to her living, and Landlord and tenant got on well, allowing him peace of mind when the Crown beckoned.
His Captain’s wage paid little, and when home, he was more than happy to provide basic lessons in sword-fencing to Thomas Drew. Though never discussed, he knew their Landlord and his wife feared for their own safety, their religious beliefs being different to those they were acquainted with. Therefore, they chose to conceal them—an unfortunate necessity of the times.
Their neighbours, although sparse, were also kind, but old. Reece could not rely on their visits being frequent enough, making him anxious, should anything happen to the Drews.
“If something happens to me,” he had warned her before leaving, “If I never come back, you must return home to your uncle’s people in the North”.
At first, she had been reluctant, refusing to listen, but his insistence eventually won her over, forcing her to agree.
Reece had no desire to reach his destination too eagerly, regardless of the journey; it was long enough. Living short of two leagues outside Nottingham, it had been the perfect compromise: she loving to embrace the spirit of the forest; and it providing him with a temporary haven from the trials of war.
“Our little sanctuary,” she had called it.
A sudden, sharp cross-wind made him shiver. Pulling up his collar, he cursed the lengthy winter and longed for the spring. His hands brushed against his unshaven face, reminding him to remove the unsightly bristles when he reached his destination; it was expected of him, to promote a good example to those under his command.
He was glad of his knee-length coat. It was thick-quilted and partially covered with black leather, keeping him relatively warm. The quilt’s vibrant shade of crimson stood out in the drabness of a winter that still clung to the bare branches of depressed-looking trees.
He glanced down at his boots; he would have to request a new pair on his return—the leather so worn, they let the dampness seep through.
He then checked his leather gloves, before putting them on. They’ll do, he thought. There was only so much the Crown would replace, depending on your rank.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed tiny, white flowers growing sporadically, reaching out to hold on to the fading light of day. She had told him their name once. Again, he diverted his thoughts, doing his utmost to recall it.
Anything to break this quietness, he thought. ‘Can you remember their name, Altan?’
His mare jolted slightly, at the sound of her Master’s voice. It was only then he noticed it, after speaking: the ghostly silence. He looked up, now aware of his surroundings. It was unusually still, and the evening twilight loomed fast. The night forest would soon bring with it its cross-over of life. He imagined a stranger passing through in its re-awakening—them thinking it might be cursed, such were the haunting sounds that came from its depths. However, he was familiar with the wildlife that scurried through the foliage.
Usually comforted by their presence, they were, now, nowhere to be seen or heard. He looked into the woods, expecting to glimpse the eyes of night peering back at him; but with no moonlight, they would be difficult to see.
Nothing. Not even the sound of an owl, hooting down from above, could be heard. All of a sudden, he felt deserted on his journey—left alone in the universe with only the company of his loyal mare.
Sensing unease, Reece felt an uncomfortable change in the forest, as though it were watching him. He checked the Broadsword, fastened to the side of his saddle. Just in case, he thought. And should he be parted from it, he knew the item, concealed inside his right boot—his Basiland dagger—the lethal, two-edged, long blade—was there for added protection. But somehow, despite their presence, they gave him little comfort, now.
Altan suddenly grew restless. Unable to calm his horse—much to his annoyance—Reece dismounted, forcing him to lead her on foot. But the mare, refusing to go any further, continuously thumped the hard ground with her hoof, pointing towards something. She then stopped, her ears flicking back and forth, detecting a sound coming from deep within the forest.
Reece looked towards it, listening, while remaining vigilant. With each passing second, it grew louder and familiar.
‘It’s only a fox, my beauty,’ he said, recognising its distinguished call. Persistent in its human-like cry, he surmised the mammal was in pain. It was his inclination to leave it—to let nature take its course—but the sound of his wife’s voice inside his head pleaded:
“You cannot abandon it, Reece! If it is gone beyond help, you must put it out of its misery, and bury it before the other wild animals have their way.”
He sighed. ‘She would never forgive me, Altan,’ he said, stroking the mare�
��s flank. She neighed in response to his touch, though, was still anxious. Perhaps she felt the fox’s pain; after all, animals had a sixth sense. Rolling his eyes, he reluctantly turned on his heel, leaving his horse alone on the rugged path.
As darkness hovered above, waiting to descend on what remained of the dusk, Reece left the path, passing over the threshold and into the forest’s domain.
The mammal’s pain heightened, as Reece made his way through the trees, in search of it. It seemed to call out to him, luring him closer. He paused, checking his location. A few paces to his left, standing alone in the gloom, he identified the ghostly, dead branches of a large, silver birch, which had ceased to live, three winters before. Some locals claimed it to be the sinister work of witchcraft. He dismissed all notions. In truth, the tree’s mysterious demise had been the fault of a poisonous fungus that had latched itself to the roots, bringing its life to an end. It had simply died, leaving the bare branches white—emanating an unearthly presence within the forest.
Hearing the fox’s agonising cries grow louder, he knew he was close. As he passed the silver birch, heightening his pace, he glanced at its base—able to distinguish the outline of its killer, still clinging to its roots.
Reece looked above him. Despite the dark, his vision was good, and he could clearly see the night sky; it was covered with heavy, white clouds, promising snow. He shivered, feeling the biting cold, tempted to go back to Altan, and continue on his journey. However, when the fox cried out, again—now just few feet away—he chose not to abandon it.
The mammal stopped as Reece drew near—the only sound—his advancing footsteps. The fox, alerted to another presence, looked up, its eyes wild with fear. Reece slowed on his approach, until he came to the place where the helpless creature lay—mangled to the point of death—and felt pity for it in its ill-fated struggle, to hold on to life.
Removing the dagger from his boot, he looked down at the fox, then sighed, reluctant to kill it. At that very moment, Reece felt more compassion for it, than for the lives he had taken on the battlefield. But that was war. The innocent creature, now staring up at him, deserved to die with dignity.
Then, as though in understanding of its fate, the fox looked into his eyes, with a sense of peace.
‘Forgive me,’ he appealed, leaning over it. ‘But, I do you a great favour.’
Raising the Basiland, Reece knew it would take one clean sweep, to bring it peace.
It never came.
Chapter Twelve
‘He wakes!’
Reece woke with a sudden jolt, on hearing the foreign voice in his head. Feeling dazed and confused, he groaned, then felt a stinging pain. Raising his hand, he discovered the wound where the blood had dried around it—at the base of his neck. He winced.
‘How did…?’ He struggled to recall what had taken place. Think! he told himself, searching through the mass of cloudy images in his mind. But nothing surfaced. Slowly he moved, aware of the freezing ground beneath him. His body felt leaden and ached, hampering the need to drag himself to his feet. Stiff and sore, he eventually forced himself to rise, but as he found his footing he jolted back, grasping his throat.
Choking, and unable to breath, Reece felt the air being cut-off from his lungs. And when the stabbing pain took over, throbbing as it pulsated through his body, he imagined this was his end.
‘Do not fight it.’
Hearing a voice, Reece turned abruptly, grimacing, as he continued to fight for air, and yet he saw no-one. Struggling to breath, he reached out finding the wall to support him, his chest contracting, then thrown into spasm, in its bid to hold on to life.
‘It will pass.’
Suddenly, as sure as he heard the voice again, as though it were releasing him from the clutches of death, he drew back and inhaled deeply, gulping the precious air, until he could speak.
‘Who—who’s there?’ he croaked, clenching his aching body.
There was no reply.
Narrowing his eyes, he searched through the void yet still saw nothing. He hesitated, listening, then dismissed it, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him, through his ordeal. It was nothing new to him; he had seen it so often in a soldier’s final moments—how they rambled on, thinking they could see and hear their loved ones.
Trying to clear the bleariness from his head, Reece breathed in, deeply; however, the intake of breath made him dizzy. Then, losing his balance, he fell hard against a jagged wall, its sharpness grazing his hands, causing them to bleed. He stared at the dark-red liquid oozing from the wound, its sweet smell, surprisingly enticing.
Bemused, he took a few moments to compose himself, before looking down at his sorry state. His coat was torn and dirty, and the collar, stained with dry blood. He groaned, knowing he’d be severely reprimanded, for reporting for duty, grubby and dishevelled looking. He then checked the inside of his boot for his dagger, relieved it was still there, then stopped, when something occurred to him.
‘My sword—my horse—my—’ He was at a total loss, as to where they could be.
Stepping away from the wall, he let his eyes take in his strange circumstances, through the soft glow emanating from small lamps—one hanging on each wall.
Where am I? he asked himself, still dazed and confused. He looked around. As his eyes adjusted, it did not take him long to realise…
Reece found himself in an old, stone chamber—one that perhaps served as a crypt, and yet there were no sarcophagi. It was empty, save for a few broken pieces of stone scattered on the floor. The low, arched roof was supported by elaborate stone pillars—each one decorated with faded paintings and carvings, representing the beliefs of a bygone age. Its old, musty smell was overpowering to his senses, and he perceived no-one had tread its vault for a long time… until now. He then noticed a stone staircase, and made for it, scrambling up each step, halting when he reached the top. A set of heavily chained iron gates were blocking his path—and behind them, a sealed wall.
There was no way out.
A spark of anger ignited inside him. ‘Who keeps me here?!’ he cried, hearing the echo of his own voice. ‘Show yourself!’
But the echo faded into the void, throwing back nothing but silence. He cursed it, stepping back, before it dawned on him:
‘I’m a prisoner!’
Disturbed by his predicament, Reece returned to the crypt’s interior to think. But his throat was parched with an unquenchable thirst he could not apprehend. He hesitated, suddenly aware of the sound of trickling water coming from an underground stream. He thought it unusual—a well inside a stone chamber—though, not impossible. Panting, he moved swiftly—the sound of his footsteps carrying throughout, as he searched for it.
With each heavy step, Reece perceived he was being watched. He paused a moment, listening, drawing on his intuition. Instinctively he breathed deeply, inhaling a presence. Confused by his heightened senses, he surmised the emptiness of the crypt emphasised its recesses, leading him to envisage it was the ghosts from its past, keeping his company—and nothing more.
Distracted, and enticed by the constant trickle of water, he quickly found the little well, drawing on its contents; it tasted strange, and unappealing. In spite of it, no matter how much he consumed, he could not satisfy his dryness.
‘Try as you may, it will not quench your thirst… not yet.’
Reece spun round, water still dripping from his mouth.
The young-looking woman stood before him—small and slight in build. Her mane of chestnut hair fell perfectly down the length of her spine. Her skin was pale—tinged with the hue of youth. He sought to determine her age—no more than twenty years—a few younger than his wife, perhaps. She stared at him, her deep-set, brown eyes surveying him with curiosity.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, slowly rising.
She remained silent and poised, as she followed his height, watching him subconsciously rub his aching neck.
With no more than three paces dividing them, Reece almos
t towered above her. And as he looked down, taking in her features, he noted a softness in her round face that hinted kindness, and yet her eyes told a different story; he detected a sadness behind their glower. He ventured to ask another question, to break her silence.
‘What is your name?’ he asked, daring to move towards her. She remained still, unthreatened by him. He paused, noting her attire, thinking it more suited to a man. The dark-rufus buckskin, gracing her body, was tailored to perfection, exhibiting the leanness of her frame. On her feet, she wore thick, black leather boots, up to her knees. She had a warrior look about her—ready for battle—yet held no weapon.
Intrigued by her casual nerve, Reece moved to question her further, then hesitated, sensing they were not alone. His eyes glanced down as he considered the dagger concealed inside his boot.
‘Her name is, Wareeshta,’ declared another voice—clear and precise. ‘And I believe you so bold as to use it.’
Reece looked about him, trying to locate its source, his hand open, ready to draw his weapon.
His wait was brief.
From the far end of the crypt, a figure came into view, their stride long and graceful. At first it was difficult to distinguish their features, as they moved with confidence between the dim light and the shadows of the crypt. Whoever they were, their presence was strong—it exuding charge and influence.
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