A Walk in the Black Forest

by K. A. M'Lady

  Rosalynn was a short woman, her head coming only to the middle of his chest. Her pale gray hair was pulled loosely in a braid down her back. Her hair matched the drab woolen gown that was hidden beneath the crisp whiteness of her apron.

  She was slightly rotund and her face was etched with the lines of age and knowledge. She was old, but hardly looked frail and elderly. Her pale blue eyes showed kindness and sparkled brightly with wisdom in the glow of the firelight. She spoke softly, but Damon knew, if provoked, this kindhearted woman could be as fierce as a bear and roar like the hounds of hell.

  The peasants called her a witch, and whispered that she had the gift of sight and cast spells of sorcery with her healing herbs. She had been with Damon since he was a small boy, following him from his home in Normandy. She had lived with him in Artaine through the hell he had suffered as a ward of Lord Banet’s and then followed him through his adventures in the lands of the east. She was with him through the Battle of Hastings, and had been there with him through his wife’s death and the murder of his mother and sister.

  She had wept her own tears and suffered the loss of his mother more than he did. Yet her smooth veneer always remained calm, no matter the inner turmoil she may be suffering. She was his rock, always present, never wavering.

  There were no secrets he could keep from her and none knew him better than she. She had been his mother’s friend when she needed one, his friend when he had no other, and his provider when he was too small or too wounded to see to the deed himself.

  He knew she would always be close at hand when he needed her. Knew, too, that he could always depend on her loyalty. He could admit, if reluctantly, that she did possess an uncanny amount of luck, and he knew from his own past experience of rents and wounds that she had attended to that she had a way with medicines, but he refused to call her gifts magic.

  If it was not a tangible item that he could touch, smell, or taste, then it was not real. He was not some naive lad who could afford to live by hopes, dreams and magic. He lived by the blood and sweat of battle, the blood and sweat of life. He had no time for the fancies of young children and old women.

  He glared, trying to use his height and sheer size to intimidate her. He should have known it wouldn’t work. It never worked when he was a lad, and it wouldn’t work now. Clearing his throat, he said, “I need dry clothes for the girl and your medicines for her wound.”

  “All is waiting, milord,” she replied calmly. “A room has been prepared. Bring her, quickly,” she stated softly as she moved towards the stairs leading to the upper level of the keep.

  He didn’t know how she knew he would be bringing her, and right now, he didn’t care. Clutching tightly to Gabriella’s limp frame, he turned and followed Rosalynn across the hall.

  Wall sconces burned brightly down the hall that led to the main rooms of the castle. There was an alcove to the right just past the stairs and a large window reflected the lights off its dark panes of glass. The glass spoke of wealth that most knights did not possess. Many were not awarded the luxury of a castle, let alone could they afford glass to keep the wind and cold from seeping into the castle proper.

  But Damon was no ordinary knight. His windows were covered in glass. Glass that was covered in drops of rain that continued to fall against their darkened surfaces. In the firelight, he could see the brief reflection of Gabriella in his arms, soft and beautiful, frail and needing. In such little time, she was beginning to make her mark upon him.

  Damon brought her to the end of the long hall and stopped before a large wooden door. On the right was the room reserved for the lady of the castle, his room was directly across the hall from it. He had not been in the lady’s room since his wife’s death shortly after their arrival to Blackmoor.

  He stood at the threshold, not wanting to enter the room. The memories of her death still haunted him, and he swore he would never cross its dark threshold again. He stood utterly still as the past washed over him. He could see her at her small writing desk, the candlelight glowing across her pale hair, rosewood filling his nostrils with its clawing scent. The night beyond the castle’s walls thundered, much like tonight, as storm and sea crashed against each other.

  He felt the red fury of betrayal fill his veins. His heart clenched in pain with the thought of her loving another. He knew, had read the proof with his very eyes, held the letter she had written in his own hand. They fought, she screaming at him, calling him a monster. He had called her an adulteress; a whore. He had the proof, intercepted the letter to her lover and confronted her, demanding his name so that he could call him out to the battlefield.

  He remembered the rage that he had felt as he watched her spew her words of lies and deception. It was all he could do not to throttle her himself and force the truth from her. She had run from him that night, run in an attempt to flee him, to flee the web of her deception.

  He had chased her through the castle, across the great hall and out into the thundering night. All the while begging her to stop, pleading that she return to the castle, that they try to somehow work this out, yet she would not listen. She ran to the cliffs that surrounded Blackmoor on three sides. In horror, he watched as she flung herself over the edge of the cliff, her body crashing on the rocks below to be swallowed by the pounding surf.

  “Do not allow the past to haunt your future, milord,” Rosalynn said, as she stood within the entry of the room. The candlelight glowed softly around her, her hair silver in its light. “Do not allow it to harm your future, or the future of the lady you hold in your arms. The past has no more control over you. ‘Tis time to let it go.”

  Hers was the soft voice of reason, bringing him back from the shadows of his past, the shadows of anger, pain and loss. His demons slowly vanished, stirring him to action. He brought Gabriella’s still form to the bed and laid her down amidst the blankets and furs that covered its large expanse. He noted the warmth of the fire that filled the room. The tapestries that covered the floor and walls. The bed was hung with thick green curtains, pulled back to let in the glowing firelight.

  The bedding had been blue when Therese had resided here, and the scent of rose had clung in the air. Now, all of it had been changed; green and silver reflected in the candlelight, sandalwood and rosemary clung to the air. Where everything for Therese was stark and cool like an ice goddess, the colors and scents now seemed meant for Gabriella; soft, earthy, warm and beautiful.

  He took stock of the table laden with candles, their glow adding to the warmth of the room. A large bowl and pitcher were also on the table along with a plethora of herbs and salves. Cloth was stripped and folded in piles all in readiness for the patient lying amidst the bedding.

  “Tend to your needs, milord,” Rosalynn said firmly, a servant girl joining her. “I will see to your lady’s wounds.”

  He looked from the still, pale form on the bed to the warm caring face of his guardian. He knew that she would take care of her as if she were her own. She would be gentle where Gabriella’s pain was greatest, kind where evil had marred the skin. Gabriella was in the best care that could be offered. Taking his demons with him, he nodded curtly and strode from the room.

  * * * * * *

  Rosalynn and the servant girl, Anne, quickly built up the fire and stripped Gabriella of her sodden clothes. A paste made from Yarrow, Plantain and Calendula was prepared. They washed her and made an infusion to cleanse the wound on her back. Rosalynn sewed the gash and covered it with the herbs that would heal it and keep the infection out. She wrapped it tightly and put a sleeping gown over the girl’s unconscious frame. As she laid her back against the pillows, she watched as dark green eyes slowly fluttered open. “Be still, milady, all is well. You are safe, where you belong,” she said, gently caressing her brow.

  “Where…am…I,” Gabriella whispered, her voice cracking with pain. “Where…where is Damon?” her strangled words barely broke the silence of the room.

  Rosalynn watched her. She was tiny, yet strength exu
ded from her. Her wet, dark red hair clung to the pillow in whirling waves of crimson.

  Rosalynn stilled as though the gods were speaking to her. Knowledge filled her as though viewing the pages from a book. The end was not yet written, this chapter of her life only just beginning. Certainty coursed through her and she softly caressed the hair from the girl’s face. “He is near, milady, and will be with you soon. You must rest now and gather your strength,” she crooned. “Rest now, all is well.”

  * * * * * *

  Gabriella closed her eyes to the soft glow of candles. She was warm, warmer than she could remember being in days. The kind lady said she was safe now, and that Damon would be with her. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she believed her. She felt disconnected from her pain, lethargic as if she was floating, and she was tired, so very tired. Slowly, she succumbed to sleep.

  The peacefulness didn’t last; dark dreams engulfed her subconscious. Visions of sword wielding demons haunted her. In a mist thick with voices, she could hear the screeching cries of the dying chasing her, haunting her from the darkness. The ground beneath her feet squished, sloshed around her shoes, sticking her in the crimson mud. A scream clogged her throat, and she swore she could vaguely hear the call of her mother echoing from the darkness. The thunder of horses surrounded her, and the pitch of zinging arrows filled her heart with fear. The visions faded, and she fell into soot-gray darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Damon sat before the fire in the great hall, the large wooden chair reserved for the lord of the castle a small comfort at his back, the silence and darkness closing around him. The keep held many bad memories, and the silence reminded him why he had so often chosen to leave this place.

  The fire was built high, yet its warmth was barely beginning to seep into his bones, the numbness of battles, betrayals, and personal heartache not so soon forgotten in the musty rock and thrushes. He had left Gabriella in the care of Rosalynn and her servant, Anne. Though he had taken the time to clean the grime and blood from the weeks of travel off his skin, the memories of the death and destruction left their mark upon his weary soul.

  Visions lingered, whispered from the very walls like dark specters that haunted his every moment. Blackness and fire, screams of the dying, fighting all around.

  He had spent his time since leaving Gabriella’s side sitting before the fire, a cup of mead in his hand, the servants long gone to their beds, and the fire’s soft light filling the dark recesses of the hall’s shadows with a soft glow that swayed and flickered.

  He was dressed in dark gray woolen hose, a shirt a few shades paler, and a fur trimmed tunic the color of darkness. Yet the warmth of his attire could not withhold the coldness that had somehow crept into his heart.

  He thought of Gabriella, her wounded body in his arms, her lifeblood spilling on his hands. The vision of her blended with the vision of his dead wife, Therese. They were so opposite in stature and color, nature and spirit. Therese was an ice goddess. Pale of feature, silver-white hair flowing in glowing strands. Her small body fragile, yet her temperament fierce. He had seen her at a tournament and knew he had to have her. They had married young, he a warrior beyond measure even then. She the only daughter of a Viscount forced to wed him at her father’s leave, at a bride’s price her father could not deny.

  After their marriage, he left her often for battles all across Normandy. And at his every return, they would fight, her raving that he wasn’t worthy of her love, that she hated him with every breath for dragging her around like a pig to market, leaving her to rot in this awful castle with people she hated. People who hated her in return. She’d damned him at his every turn, never happy with her life.

  Yet even as he remembered the trials and horrors of life with Therese, her image would fade and the warm glow that was Gabriella would appear behind his eyes. The fire of her hair, the warmth of her skin. She had a spirit so much like that of a warrior. So much like his own. He could not get her out of his mind. Knew that any time with her would only lead to disaster.

  He knew he could not allow her to become important to him, knew that any path towards her would only lead to destruction. Destruction of the walls that he had so meticulously built around him.

  His life had become a lonely, barren existence filled with foul memories. By not allowing anyone into his heart, he kept it from being torn out. For him, love was nothing more than a curse, something that only caused pain and disappointment. His own memories were always there, just beneath the surface, swirling like a gray demon in the pit of his own living hell.

  He had been born of betrayal, his mother’s adulterous affair punishing him from his very first breath. He still wondered if it was because of his birth that the cruelty he experienced as a child at Lord Lucien’s hands had been planned by the very man he had first learned to call Father.

  This answer was never to be known, for both were now rotting in the fires of hell, their souls to suffer an eternity of damnation.

  Tipping his cup, he pondered his life in the fire’s golden flames. He had experienced more of love’s betrayal at the hands of his own wife, Therese. Her death still burned in his heart like a festering wound, eating him up with guilt and uncertainties. At times, he felt that because of the time spent away from her, fighting wars and conquering kingdoms, that it was his fault for her loneliness. His fault she sought the arms and comfort of another. No matter how horrible their relationship, she did not deserve to die the terrible way that she had.

  It was true that love had been unkind to him, cruel even, and he had no desire to suffer from it again. Yet, he could not stop thinking about her, the woman of golden flaming hair and forest-green eyes. Gabriella. Her name whispered in his mind, from the dark recesses of the walls, until it seemed to clutch his very heart. Merde! I am nothing if not doomed. His vision filled with her lithe, svelte form.

  He could still taste the sweetness of her lips. Still feel her in his arms. Somehow it had all seemed right. But he knew he could not allow his heart to feel that way again, could not allow it to suffer at the hands of another woman.

  Staring into the flames, he brought his cup to his lips, its rich flavors flowing softly down his throat, spreading its warmth through his body, doing its best to strip the coldness from his bones. He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the image of Gabriella from his mind and turn it towards his duties. He tried to think and calculate the coming strategies, the tracking of murderous rebels.

  “Milord,” said a voice from the darkness.

  He had heard Rosalynn come down the stairs, knew that she stood near yet he did not turn to acknowledge her presence. “Aye, Rosalynn,” he quietly replied, his weariness reverberating through the stillness of the night.

  “Your lady sleeps, milord.”

  “And her wound?” he asked, his voice sounding disembodied, the timber deep in the darkness of night.

  “Cleaned and sutured, milord. Now we wait and pray that the fever does not take her,” she replied, her eyes on his dark, brooding profile. “Rest easy, milord,” she said, reaching out to place her hand on his shoulder. “All will be well.”

  “Do you know this with the certainty of a healer, or from the visions of a witch?” he asked, still not taking his eyes from the fire, his cup of mead held loosely in his hand. There was no contempt in his voice, just a simple question.

  He had always known that she had a special insight into one’s character. She had the ability to access a situation or a person and know what was in their heart, be it good or ill. She had offered him that insight, or intuition, on several occasions throughout his life. She had used her knowledge in the past and had helped him through many trials. Knowledge, if not from witchcraft, then from the wisdom of an old woman who had seen much, he tried to convince himself.

  “There are no certainties in life, milord. You of all people should know this,” she replied, her voice softly mingling with the quiet of the hall as though weaving a spell of tranquility. “There are only certa
inties in what is in a man’s or woman’s heart,” she said, as she patted his shoulder and turned back towards the stairs. “I’m off to find my rest. The servant girl, Anne, waits by your lady’s side until I relieve her. Do not stay by the fire too long,” she added, “it could be a long night if the fever comes. And if it does, then your lady will have need of your strength.”

  “She is not my lady, Rosalynn.” he said to the darkness, regret mixed with anger echoing softly through the empty hall.

  “Not yet, milord,” Rosalynn whispered, quietly retreating. “Not yet.” She turned to climb the stairs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Damon sat in the darkness, lost in thoughts of the past and consumed by the worries of an unknown future. He knew he should retire to his chamber and succumb to the sleep that dragged at him, but his weary body refused to move.

  The castle servants had retired to their pallets for the night. His men slept on in the knights’ tower or were left to their duties of guarding the keep through the stillness of the night. The castle dogs were chained in the bailey and all was eerily silent. The rain had finally passed, leaving the castle and all its inhabitants to sleep deeply in the hushed realm of the night. Time had passed, nigh onto midnight before their Lord finally dozed off.

  With the passing of an hour, he woke with a start, his cup spinning to the floor, the remnants of his mead spilling in golden drops, where it was quickly absorbed into the rushes. He had fallen asleep in his chair, his chin resting on his chest. He did not know what had woken him, his eyes blinking rapidly against the darkness. He was stiff, and a crick was quickly forming in his neck. He took in the remaining embers of the fire that had burned low into smoldering ash. He shrugged his shoulders up and down to ease the discomfort and tightness of his haggard body.