Warrior's Moon A Love Story

by Jaclyn Hawkes

  Nodding, Peyton turned the gentle horse for home and glanced at the sky. Might be there was time enough to go visit Sir Mordecai. He’d been wanting to get back to see the old knight for days now. At home, he put the horse and cart away and stopped to speak to his mother a moment before walking off into the woods, knowing she assumed he was going to see Chantaya and Isabella. He didn’t think she would mind him visiting the renowned knight and he set off through the woods at a brisk walk.

  Sir Mordecai was sitting on the bench on his porch mending what looked to be the horse’s headstall when Peyton emerged from the depth of the forest. The knight’s head was up and watching as Peyton stepped out and Peyton had no doubt the old knight had known he was coming long before he could see him. His hair may have been nearly white, but he was as sharp and alert as a young man.

  Peyton wasn’t sure what to say to such a man of great legend. He was infinitely glad for the kindly smile the old man gave as he saw him approach and said, “Ah, young Peyton. What brings you so far into the woods of a fine day? Could it be you knew that an old man needed a hand from a strong young man like yourself?”

  Returning the smile, Peyton said, “I only hope to someday have a portion of the strength that you have in but one of your limbs, Sir. Are you truly in need of assistance?”

  Sir Mordecai nodded. “Aye. Indeed. In need of strength and agility and your youthfulness all around. The wind has torn a portion of the thatching loose from the south corner there and I haven’t the skill and balance to repair it. And old Wallace has fair knocked the gatepost awry with his scratching and although I’m the one who built it, I can’t both push it upright and hold it to secure it. A brawny youth is just what I’m in need of.”

  Peyton dropped to the bench beside the elderly man with a comfortable grin. “Well, then pray let me have the honor of serving the legendary Sir Mordecai. ‘Twould be an honor, Sir.”

  The old man’s roof truly was in a bad way and Peyton was glad to climb up and repair the thatching just the way he often did beside his father. It didn’t take but a few minutes, but he was sure the cottage would be far more water tight for his small efforts.

  The gate post was a more lengthy matter and they spent a good hour working side by side before the post was once again square and true and sound. The two of them spoke back and forth for the whole of the time and not only had Peyton been right in assuming the old knight would be fascinating to listen to, but he was only grateful he’d been able to help. Coming back seemed much less of an imposition when he knew he’d been of service this time.

  At length, he bid his older friend goodbye and headed back into the depths of the forest, wondering not for the first time, what it would be like to be a knight and go off to battle in defense of your kingdom. To his young heart, once you put aside the lack of home and family, knighthood seemed an uncommonly fascinating occupation. ‘Twas no wonder his father seemed to be caught up in another time and place when he spoke of Mordecai. It truly was a pity that he had been kept from his dream of serving. Still, he did have the wife and sons that Mordecai didn’t. Peyton thought of growing old alone and had to ponder further which life was truly to be pitied.

  On the way back he stopped into the Kincraig’s cottage and assured their well being, then continued home. At his house he was glad he’d stopped when his grandmother hugged him as his mother asked after Isabella. It would never have done for his grandmother to find out he had become friends with Mordecai and he was grateful to be able to answer honestly.

  That night in his bed in the loft, he dreamed of a knight in full battle dress with an armored steed that breathed steam in the cold like a sleek, warring dragon as they fought in defense of a fair maiden with long, dark silken hair and the face of a woodland fairy.

  When he awoke and realized it had been Chantaya in his dream, he was anxious. The thought of his beautiful young neighbor at the hands of some unseen enemy was troubling. Chantaya had been through enough in her short life.

  Later that afternoon, he wanted to trounce Chantaya himself when she tried to insist she could help carry bundles of reeds up the tallest ladder to his father, as he repaired the roof of the little village church. ‘Twas far too high for her safety, but convincing her of that was a day’s work of itself, let alone the thatching. Peyton’s father had had to tell her to stay down when she flat out ignored Peyton’s insistence. She was so intrepid ‘Twas absolutely frustrating sometimes. Not a grain of fear in that silly child’s head! And climbing a ladder with her petticoats fair rioting in the breeze! It had been near scandalous. There were days when Peyton had no idea how to deal with that girl in the slightest.

  He was still mad at her when the three of them walked back home together, and got even madder still when she laughed at him and his frustration with her. At that, she fair got the giggles. She put her arm round his waist to give him a light hearted hug at his obvious vexation and said, “Oh, come now, Papa Peyton. I lived through climbing the tall ladder quite nicely. No harm done. Stop being such an old crone now and laugh with me. ‘Twas an adventure, wasn’t it? I’ve never been up that high even when we climb the old tree by the cliff! Wasn’t it marvelous? I could see clear to the cross roads! ‘Twas fair refreshing! Was it not?”

  Tristan chuckled and Peyton gave her a look of disgust and sighed, “Refreshing? One of these days you’re going to kill yourself, Chani, with the antics you attempt. And I’m not going to be the one to pick up the pieces. You’ll have to go and admit to your dear mother yourself how you ended your young life, because I haven’t the heart to break news like that to her.”

  Chantaya only laughed again and gave his arm a squeeze. “Oh, yes you will, Peyton Wolfgar. You’ll always pick up the pieces for me. It’s well I know you. You’ve been my champion always and nothing will change that. It’s in the very soul of you. Being a champion. It’s fair branded onto your forehead.”

  She changed her voice to a deeper pitch to imitate him and cupped her mouth and went on, “I am a knight in shining armor who will rescue small children, grandmothers and damsels of all varieties. If you are ever in need, simply call on Sir Peyton, the gallant! I will never let one down.” Peyton fair glared at her and she laughed and added, “Ever!”

  They had reached the Kincraig cottage and Isabella opened the door to their voices, took one look at Peyton’s grimace and Chantaya’s giggles and said, “Gracious Pey, what’s she done this time to make you so sober? Or do you have a toothache?”

  At that, Chantaya went off in a whole new spate of giggles, hugged him once again and walked up onto the porch. She disappeared inside the house as Peyton sighed, shook his head and said over his shoulder as he turned to go, “Just a pretty, dark, curly headed toothache, Mrs. Kincraig. She’s making me old and I’m only but fourteen. I hope you have more success keeping her from any refreshing heights than I did this day. Good luck and good night now.” He walked away shaking his head with Tristan still chuckling and even Isabella laughed as she followed Chantaya inside.

  Ever it was that way. Chantaya diving into every experience of her life as if it were a grand new enterprise and making the three of them laugh through the whole of it. Peyton ever the steady, responsible one who safe guarded her, and Tristan, the easy going third leg of the stool, who smoothed out any wrinkles that cropped up along the way.

  That night in his loft bed, Peyton thought back on Chantaya’s foray onto the church roof and had to grin to himself in the dark. Yes, it had been unduly foolish, but she had fairly reveled in her risk taking, standing there on the top of the ladder with the breeze teasing both the hair that had escaped her braid to frame her pretty little face, and her underskirts. What was to be done with that girl?

  And yes, she’d been right. Peyton would stand by to protect her with his very life until the day he died. She knew him well.

  Chapter 3

  Trips to visit old Mordecai soon became a high point for Peyton. He became good friends with the old man and tried to soak up the le
gendary knight’s wisdom and ways. There was something innately admirable about the honorable elder and it only made Peyton’s fascination with him grow as they interacted.

  At first Peyton worked beside him at whatever Mordecai was doing at the time, but it wasn’t long before Peyton’s obvious fascination with Mordecai’s reputation had Mordecai showing Peyton his long unused armor and his weapons, and even showing Peyton some basic sword fighting skills.

  It also wasn’t long before Peyton’s parents figured out he wasn’t always at the Kincraig’s when he disappeared for hours at a time. However, after an initial discussion to ascertain that Peyton truly felt the old knight was a good and decent influence on their son, they only insisted that Peyton let them know from then on when he was going into the woods to visit and cautioned him to keep his friendship with Mordecai discreet around Willem’s mother.

  Once Peyton knew that he had his parents’ blessing, he allowed Tristan and Chantaya to come with him, although Tristan was truly more interested in staying in the village and playing with the boys there. Usually Chantaya was helping her mother to gather the plants and herbs and mushrooms. That left Mordecai to Peyton more often than not and Peyton relished the time. In a way, he felt like he’d grown past the boyhood pursuits of the village and moved on to something of far greater import.

  Mordecai spoke of honor and trust and industry, courage in the face of evil, loyalty, guardianship and virtue. Things that until now had seemed like the monotonous lectures of loving parents, but from Mordecai they became the creeds of greatness. Hearing the ancient knight’s philosophies was like opening a huge new book of life for Peyton. Just as his parents had always taught, there were things that needed to be fought for. Things that truly were more important than life itself.

  It planted a yearning in Peyton to strive. To go further and reach higher and to become more than he’d ever imagined thus far in his life. ‘Twas as if Mordecai’s earlier greatness opened Peyton’s vision to the possibilities of what humans were truly capable of and stretched his own personal potential. ‘Twas positively empowering to him even within the limits of their society of peasants and gentry. Until now, he’d always assumed he was a peasant boy, destined to grow up to be a respectable, hard working peasant father like his own. It had never occurred to him that there might be other paths available to him. With the passing of time and with Mordecai’s new perspective, Peyton didn’t know what he would be as an adult, he just knew he could no longer settle for mediocrity.

  Sometimes Tristan and Chantaya came to Sir Mordecai’s with Peyton. She always brought her honey cakes or some good thing to give and true to form, she was always right in the middle of whatever Mordecai and Peyton were doing at the time, even though Tristan was often bored of it all. It never even entered Chantaya’s mind that a female shouldn’t necessarily know how to wield a sword or shoot a bow. And, although at first Mordecai was skeptical, he too soon succumbed to Chantaya’s ability to sweet talk anyone into letting her have her way. ‘Twasn’t long before she could ride Wallace expertly and Mordecai even made a small bow that just fit her to teach her archery and gave her a miniature wooden sword for her twelfth birthday.

  By her thirteenth, she was good enough with them that Tristan didn’t even bother trying to compete with her and Peyton himself was hard put to keep her from stabbing him when they sparred. And she had learned to handle even Mordecai’s new younger, more spirited horse, Bartok, like she was glued to it.

  Age didn’t make Chantaya any less capricious. She still lived life with an enthusiasm that was at once, entirely endearing and at times entirely dangerous. One afternoon, she spun while sparring and slipped. She took a hard enough spill into the dirt of Mordecai’s yard that she gave herself a bloody nose and Mordecai obviously felt horribly guilty.

  Peyton didn’t feel guilty. He felt like ‘Twas finally time to put his foot down and make her stop playing at being some kind of female Robin Hood, before both of their parents found out and forbade them from seeing Mordecai anymore. As he stood beside her putting pressure on the cloth that he held to her nose, he began to lecture her about acting more like a lady. Thinking that it was going remarkably well, he was rudely awakened when she pulled the bloody cloth from her face so she could laugh up at him.

  She pushed him away, stood up and picked up her sword. Peyton began to swear and Mordecai looked from one to the other of them in consternation. He was even more concerned when Peyton listened for a second as she began to wheedle him, then simply picked her up and swung her over his shoulder and headed for home which only made Chantaya laugh again. Peyton simply waved at Mordecai and kept trekking into the woods.

  SSSS

  The old man eventually sat down on his porch bench and shook his head. Never had he conceived of a student like eighteen year old Peyton Wolfgar. He was quiet and focused and completely competent and Mordecai knew that if given the chance, he had the potential to become more legendary as a knight than even he himself had ever dreamed. Mordecai just wasn’t sure what to do about that. And he certainly didn’t know what to do about this strikingly beautiful, half girl half woman who could do anything and wrap anyone around her little finger. She was an incredibly good little warrior, yet she looked like a woodland nymph and took absolutely nothing the slightest bit serious.

  Mordecai looked out at where the two of them had disappeared into the forest and chuckled. At least Peyton seemed to know how to handle her. Mordecai was surprised that she hadn’t gotten angry at Peyton, but she just always seemed to laugh at him. And Mordecai was surprised that Peyton didn’t get angry at that, but he, in turn, always simply seemed to take Chantaya in stride. Five years apart, but they were quite a pair, those two.

  The old knight stood and stretched and walked down to talk to his old horse, Wallace who stood patiently beside his new one and munched lackadaisically. Mordecai wasn’t truly spry enough to be teaching these youngsters like this and yet, he wasn’t nearly as decrepit as his dear old horse. Wallace was literally on his last legs and Mordecai knew it. He wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find the old boy had died in his sleep any morning now. Mordecai petted the old campaigner, then sighed and rubbed his own shoulder where it ached from sparring earlier. They neither of them were up to this, but Peyton was too good to not train. That was all there was to it.

  Peyton and Chantaya were a good ten minutes into the woods when her nose started to bleed again and it dripped down Peyton’s back. She had just been going to let him carry her all the way home like an old grain sack over his shoulder, but the bloody nose changed that.

  ‘Twas kind of fun to get Peyton’s dander up. Especially when he resorted to carrying her. He’d become all but brawny as he’d matured and she thought it was great to be hefted over those great shoulders. He was so funny when he thought she needed to behave better, although you’d think he’d realize sooner or later that that old lecture about acting like a lady wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Who wanted to act like a lady when you could act like a knight? Peyton should have figured that one out. Now, if there had been some grand, fancy ball gown involved like she had seen one time in the dressmaker’s shop, that would be one thing. But, village girls had to be content with good, drab sturdy working dresses and they didn’t hold a candle to sword fighting.

  Peyton put her down when she mentioned the blood on his back. He looked at her with concern as he pulled another cloth from his pocket and put pressure to her nose again. With his other hand, he wiped at the blood on her face with his sleeve, sighed again and said, “Chani, what’s to be done with you? Isabella would be horrified.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, a nose bleed never bothered my mother and well you know it, Papa.”

  He tried to look stern and said, “I’m not talking about the nosebleed, Chani. I’m talking about the sword fighting. And the archery and the riding astride Bartok. Grand Goshen girl, I daresay you’d wrestle me if I agreed to it. It’s pure shameful. You’re not six anymore. It tru
ly is time you grew up and acted like a lady. You near look like one, if one doesn’t notice you’re carrying some gruesome weapon. Isabella would be appalled and don’t try to deny it. If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to tell her myself and she’ll make you stay home and learn to sew or something.”

  “I already know how to sew and I don’t think she’d be as thoroughly appalled as you think. She’s the one I got my nature from, you know. Why do you think she knows how to read and ride astride as well? She’s not exactly your most demure matron.”

  “Your mother never acts inappropriately.”

  “Neither do I.” She pushed his hand away and gingerly touched her nose to see if it had stopped. “I think it’s all right now.”

  He leaned toward her and gently began to wipe at her face. “You’re covered in blood. Isabella will think I tried to beat you. Sword fighting is inappropriate, Chani. And you’re done. There will be no more sparring girls. It’s over. It should have been over as soon as you began to . . . uhm . . . As soon as you . . . Now that you’re not a little girl anymore.”

  Chantaya put her hands on her hips. “I am thirteen, Peyton Wolfgar. And I’ll do as I please, thank you! You are not my Papa.”

  “You’re almost fourteen. And you look like you’re seventeen. So act like it. And your Papa would have said the same thing and you know it. Now come. Let’s get you home before your nose starts to spout again.” He turned and began to walk and she fell into step with him.

  Stubbornly, she said, “Thirteen is thirteen. I don’t have to act seventeen until I am seventeen and I might not even then if I don’t want to. My nose would be fine without some brute packing me around like a sheave of thatching. Why would looking older preclude my learning to sword fight? ‘Tis ridiculous!”