A Walk in the Black Forest

by K. A. M'Lady

  This is ridiculous, she thought, yet her heart raced with trepidation. “I have no husband,” she evenly replied. She would not, could not, respond about her father, knowing that her anguish would be reflected in her eyes and in her voice. It was a weakness she could not afford to show.

  His eyes bored into her, willing her to tell him all that she knew. However, she could not answer his questions, especially how she had gotten here—wherever here was.

  His head shifted to study her more closely, like a beast scenting the fear on its prey. “A woman of your years should have a husband,” he stated flatly. “So, if there is no husband, then perhaps you would care to tell me where your father is? Is he in league with the Saxon rebels?” His anger and frustration at once surfaced, where only inquiry ruled before.

  “Is he now hidden somewhere nearby,” he gestured, “waiting to strike when we least expect it?” His eyes scanned first one side of the encampment and then the other. His hands clenched and unclenched, finally resting on the hilt of his sword. His facade of calm was stripped from his appearance like the skinning of a deer. “Does he fight against King William or perhaps,” he continued, his voice lowering in conviction as he crouched before her, taking her chin in his hand. “Perhaps it is you who is the rebel? The spy sent to entice me?” His anger permeated the air around them. Glaring down at her, his haunches bunched with anger, he waited for her response.

  Gabriella stared in wonder at this man and the anger that he possessed. His harshness seemed a bit too much for some actor in a reenactment. If he is no actor, she thought to herself, and my life depends on my response, which by the steely look in his eyes and the hard grip of his hand, it does, then I’d best answer as truthfully as I’m able. Folding her hands in her lap and entwining her fingers for strength, she replied, “My parents are dead.” Her words were a whisper, her voice cracking with its pain.

  Taking a deep breath, she continued, “As to the rest of your questions, I am certainly no rebel.” The trepidation was evaporating from her tone as she regained her faculties, her own annoyance then quickly surfaced. Not one to normally be enticed by another’s anger, she found her own temper flaring at his belligerence. “Nor would I even begin to know how to be a rebel,” she added, pushing his hand from her chin. “I don’t even know where I am, or how I got here.” This last she said with conviction, her voice rising in consternation.

  * * * * * *

  She stared up at him with her large green eyes, lashes clumping together from tears she had not shed when speaking of her parents. Her eyes had pleaded for him to believe her, to trust the things she said. Yet trust did not come easily to him.

  Damon had spent too many years at war dealing with lies and deceit. First having dealt with it as a young boy when he learned he was not his father’s child, but a bastard born. He learned of his mother’s liaison before she was given in marriage to the former Lord DeGracey. Lord DeGracey had wanted his mother so badly, he had agreed that he would give him the DeGracey name, but he would never look upon the offspring’s face. It was then that his mother was forced to send him away to foster at another man’s keep. So on a dark, wet morning, several of Lord DeGracey’s men led him and his mother’s maid, Rosalynn, from his mother’s home, never to return again.

  A long, wet and miserable journey brought him to the home of Lord Lucien Banet of Artaine, a vile man who resided some leagues away. Lord Lucien was the man he would be forced to grow up with. Banet had been a stern and taxing man, quite old even then, with a short, stout body, fleshy jowls and ink-black eyes. He possessed an aura of repressed darkness that clung to him like a cloak of evil.

  Damon could still picture his face to this day, worn by time, wracked by drinking and forever possessing a hatred of the world. He allowed no quarter, from his strongest warrior to the lowest maid. All of his servants were to follow his orders completely, and any who did not meet his expectations would suffer the consequences, at his own hands if necessary. Even death, at times, was one of those punishments. A small boy, barely free of the nursery, could not escape his unjust punishments. And there was always a punishment for whatever slight Lord Lucien felt the child needed.

  Damon could still remember being flogged and locked in a cell of the dungeon until he was willing to admit to his wrongdoings, even though he had done no wrong. His admissions only then being accepted after days locked in the dark alone with only the rats as his companions. They had roamed freely through the putrid rushes, searching for crumbs or any morsel of the dry, moldy bread that had been Damon’s only meal for the day, along with only enough water to barely quench a young boy’s thirst.

  The memories made his fists clench of their own will, his brow creased in aggravation and his lips pursed from the hatred that rushed through him. Bastard! He growled, completely lost in his thoughts, unaware of the woman who sat silently in front of him as the emotions poured through him of their own accord.

  In time, he had finally grown enough to stand up for himself. Then, one night, after a particularly violent fight, he had threatened his foster father at knifepoint to release him. With his blade pressed to Lord Lucien’s throat, Damon was barely able to refrain from finishing the blackguard off, so deep was his hatred and fury. When he left the keep of Artaine, he never looked back.

  Moving from place to place, he sought refuge in monasteries or helped farmers for short periods of time in their fields to fill his belly. He honed his skill as a swordsman from any who would teach him.

  At fifteen, he found a place of refuge in the keep of Sir François D’Trenre, and earned his spurs. It was there, in the keep of D’Trenre, that he had first met Sir Richard during his own stay of fostering.

  D’Trenre was an heirless old knight, taking in any willing to learn the way of the sword. He was a good man, more of a father to him than his own. But it was no great feat for a boy of his size and fierce determination to become a knight. He had always been bigger than the other boys, and the years spent in Banet’s keep had hardened him. This had given him a stronger will and more fierce determination to be better than those he encountered.

  After a time, when Richard moved on to return to his home, Damon had left D’Trenre’s keep, wiser, older and definitely a more knowledgeable swordsman. He spent the remainder of his youth and the first part of his adult life traveling, fighting, and selling his sword to the highest bidder until fate had brought him to fight by the side of William of Normandy and reunite his friendship with Richard.

  Eventually word had reached him some years later that Banet had been killed on a hunting expedition, beset by bandits. Damien felt no sorrow for the man, only pity and relief. Pity for the others who had suffered at the hands of such a vile man and relief that the world would no longer be encumbered by a man whose soul was as black as the darkest pit in his hellish fortress.

  Later, he had felt the pain of betrayal again when his lady wife, Therese, had spurned him for another. Learning of her treachery, he confronted her, only to chase her into the night where she threw herself from the cliffs of their home, killing herself on the rocks below.

  Yes, fate was very cruel when it came to his heart and knowing true happiness. It would appear that love and trust were not in his cards. Aye, he thought disgustedly, trust is not something to eagerly give and love only softens a man—weakens him when he most needs his wits. Snapping back from his reverie, he blinked several times before refocusing on the woman before him.

  He stared into the emerald green of Gabriella’s eyes and, sensing the plea within them, was almost persuaded to believe her. Almost. But the past had taught him little of trust and created a barrier in his soul. He wanted to believe her, to trust her, but alas, he knew he could not.

  With instincts honed in the dust of betrayal was the knowledge that she was not telling the truth, or at least not the entire truth. He decided, reluctantly, that he would accept a portion of her tale and wait to see if time could persuade her to tell him the rest. Time he was hesitant to s
pend with her, for even he was not the saintliest of men.

  Crouching down before her, he handed her a cup of water he had filched from the stream. Curving her hand around it, he could feel her trepidation in the flutter of her fingers as he made her clasp the cup. Then, he looked deep into her eyes, his mouth just mere inches from her, his breath lightly caressing her cheek, and he whispered, “Be careful, milady, that you do not withhold the entire truth from me for too long, for if it becomes necessary, I will force the tale from your lips.” Without another word, he rose and strode firmly across the camp.

  * * * * * *

  Gabriella’s heart raced. She could do nothing but stare after him while she relearned how to breathe. Each gasp was a painful reminder of the tremendous situation she now found herself in. Be careful not to withhold the entire truth too long, she mimicked, her voice trying to copy his rough baritone. How the hell does he know I’m not telling the entire truth? And what will he do if he learns the truth?

  She could still feel his touch on her fingers. His scent lingered before her as she visualized his sensuous lips. Realization slowly spread, butterfly wisps fluttering throughout her stomach. She knew with certainty that this was a man whose spell she would have no trouble falling under, despite his gruff fierceness. The pain in his eyes called to her. His desolate fierceness was a disguise for the loss that lingered behind the pale visage of his winter-chilled eyes. It was a loss much like her own.

  What has fate done to me? She sipped the cool water. She knew there had to be a stream or something close by where he had gotten the water. He, him, I don’t even know his name, she thought wearily, scowling into the darkness.

  Thoughts continued to coalesce in her mind as she kept asking herself how she had gotten here, but no answers were forthcoming. Why was she deposited into the arms of this strange, beguiling man-warrior?

  Does it matter?

  Part of her wanted to run screaming into the woods that this wasn’t real, this was not happening to her. The other part of her wanted to run straight into his arms. With this last thought, she knew she had to get out of this camp, away from his men and away from him, before it was too late. She knew she had to find the truth of where she was, and hopefully, find the way back home. Because if she did not get away soon, she may never want to leave his side.

  * * * * * *

  Damon watched her from the shelter of the trees just beyond the camp. Her face glowed in the firelight. He was drawn to this woman in a way he had never been drawn to any other before. He barely had the will to turn away from the sight of her, yet in doing so, he felt released as though from a spell. But it also left him feeling cold and empty inside.

  What kind of woman appears from nowhere? No men for protection, no horse, no wagon to travel in, no maid. He couldn’t make sense of the situation surrounding her appearance. He knew his men would not hurt her, but they would be wary of the way she appeared in the field. Some would even go so far to consider her a witch, a woodland fairy of some sort, for the old ways, the pagan ways, still lived in many men’s hearts.

  He shook his head to be rid of the thoughts flowing through his befuddled mind. I’ve more important matters to worry about than one lone woman. A beautiful woman, he admitted, but she will, in no way, upset the progress of my duties. Duties to myself, my king and my fragile country. With certainty that his treacherous thoughts were now under control, he sought out his men to discuss the next phase of his plans and their return home.

  Chapter Seven

  Gabriella sat in the darkness, the night a cool hand in warm places. The air, a feathered kiss, was just cool enough to enjoy the warmth of the fire. She watched the tall, bronzed-skin warrior prepare their dinner. He had come to the fire soon after her warrior had left her. He was tall and sleek, reminding her of a great tawny tiger. His hair was jet black, his eyes obsidian diamonds, his skin the color of warm melted caramel. He had a firm jaw and strong nose, deep set eyes with perfectly arched brows. If she didn’t have her warrior to compare him to, he would be quite fetching.

  She watched him silently as he quickly skinned two rabbits, leaving their pelts spread by the fire to dry. He had obviously cleaned them elsewhere so she didn’t have to see their entrails. For that, she was grateful. His cool demeanor frightened her more so than her warrior. He had a steel lethalness about him. Cautiously, she asked, “What is your name?”

  He looked at her through his lashes.

  Gabriella asked again, hoping to find some normalcy in this whole weird scenario. She snapped her fingers to get his attention, her twenty-first- century bravado taking over. “Hello! You do have a name, don’t you?”

  “I am Tanak,” he replied smoothly, his voice the deep growl of the tiger she aptly envisioned. “You belong now to the Dragon,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You do not speak to others without his consent.”

  Gabriella laughed outright, her hand covering her mouth, unable to keep the ridiculousness of his words from escaping. Oh this is just too much! Not only am I trapped in hell night, I’m trapped with a bunch of Neanderthals! You belong to the Dragon now...Oh shit! “Beg pardon. What did you say?” she questioned, unable to withhold the shock jolting through her system.

  Tanak just glared at her. Again.

  “Who did you say I belonged to?”

  “In my country, women lose their tongues for speaking without request,” he told her sharply.

  She had tried to question him about several things, her warrior, who he was and where they were and what would happen to her. He simply sat at the fire, turning the rabbits, not uttering a single word. He had obviously put her in her place—so he thinks—and refused to speak to her further. His coal black eyes reflected the flames. Eventually his silence began to grate on her nerves. Short of strangling the answers out of him, she was left to sit and idly watch as he cooked their meal.

  Boredom and irritably soon took their toll. Abruptly she stood and began pacing back and forth across their small campsite. This is ridiculous! The stupid man just sits there all pumped up with his manliness, cooking poor little rabbits. I can just picture him thumping his chest and grunting to the moon. Gabriella was growing highly irritated and the more time that seemed to pass the more trapped she felt. She was still clinging to the small hope that she could somehow get out of there and back to reality.

  I’ve got to do something. She glowered down at the quiet warrior. In the haughtiest voice she could summon, she said, “Since you refuse to answer my questions, then I really have no reason to stay. I appreciate you cooking my meal, but I am afraid I won’t be staying to eat it.” With that, she turned and stomped off into the forest.

  * * * * * *

  Shaking his head, Tanak muttered, “Foolish woman.” He rose to go after her. Two brisk strides brought him to the edge of the forest and, as he was about to take the next step, Damon’s hand fell upon his shoulder. “Your woman has chosen to not stay,” he stated, watching the darkness. “It appears she has found my company quite to her disliking.”

  Damon noticed the slight grin upon his friend’s face and the twinkle in his ebony eyes. Grunting his reply, Damon strode into the forest after her. Does the damn woman have no common sense? She is obviously unaware of the danger a woman wandering alone in the forest might cause. There could be rebels who may have followed. Or wild animals that might be hungry for a taste of human flesh. That thought caused him to pick up his pace.

  He could see her slight figure just a few yards in front of him. Her tunic easily blended in with the foliage surrounding them, but the fire of her curls as they swung unbidden over her shoulders marked her as an easy target. He watched as she slowly picked her way through the forest, each step precise, as though she knew where she was headed.

  Quietly he stalked her, smiling to himself as he watched her figure sway to and fro. Twigs and branches snagged her clothes and hair, causing her stride to slow, forcing her again and again to stop and untangle herself. He could hear her murmured cursing drift
to him on the soft evening breeze. She had little experience with traveling through the brush, a small truth to her feeble story. She was obviously not a rebel, or at least, not a very good one.

  * * * * * *

  Twilight had descended thickly upon the forest, making it difficult to see a path clearly. Gabriella ambled through the forest, not sure of her direction, but purpose clearly etched her brow. Each step took her further away from the dark knight—and his band of cave dwellers—deeper into the darkness.

  The moon was barely visible through the branches, their thick canopy like a great black blanket blocking out the sky. The shrubs covering the forest floor had spindly arms with claw-like fingers that latched on to her clothing as though refusing to allow her to escape. Why is fate against me? She tugged on her sweater. God would never allow something like this to happen. It has to be fate pulling my strings as though I’m a marionette. This is insane. She pulled a branch from the tangle of her hair. Fate or God, it doesn’t matter which, it seems that either or, I’m screwed! She wandered further into the forest. I’m a good Christian, not an every-Sunday-go-to-church Christian, but I have faith, and there’s no way God would put me through this. It just isn’t possible.

  A few yards further, she stopped to untangle yet another twig. She slowly glanced around her. The entire night had seemed to still, as if it was waiting for something. Something dark and dangerous. Or someone dark and dangerous. The silence was eerie, a Hollywood horror movie kind of silence, Jason waiting around the corner, or Freddy waiting beyond the bend. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Someone was out there, watching her, stalking her. She could feel their presence. It coursed down her spine as though grave walking on Halloween night. Her heart began to race, and her skin prickled with trepidation.