by Allie Borne
So Millie stood by Hannah’s side, creating the nearly accurate image of an unguarded stronghold, as John’s company galloped up, flags flying.
“Ho! Greetings from Lord Polk's estate!” called the gold and blue draped herald from his chestnut steed.
“What news bring ye?” demanded Millie, pinching Hannah's side in a silent warning to guard her words.
“We come bearing gifts and good tidings. Have we the honor of addressing the lady of the keep?”
“Thou hast the honor of addressing a lady, Sir,” Hannah responded vaguely, dipping her head to soften the boldness of her raised voice.
“Sir Polk, son of Lord Polk of Lakeshore Manor, requests an audience with the lady of Hampstead Manor. We assure ye most humbly of our honorable intentions.”
Hannah again bent her head in feigned submission. “I thank thee, Sir, for thy most kind assurances. I will discuss thy entreaty with the lady of the keep and return with her discernment anon.”
Hannah had to cover her mouth the stifle the tittering as she retreated down the stairs. The herald and John Polk's men had gaped and gawked at her cursory treatment, as if they had expected the gates to fly open and the trumpets to blare at their very appearance.
She had tried to remain completely focused upon her task at hand, but she had to admit a morbid curiosity concerning the infamous John Polk. Having overheard the heated whispers between her stepmother and the new Lord, she had surmised the man must be beastly. Yet, none of the men had shown themselves without armor, other than the herald. She would have to resign herself to never setting eyes on the villain himself, she supposed, sighing. How was one to ever have a decent tale for the lady's solar, if one were to never truly see the face of the evil assailant?
Shivering, she paused in mid-step as she recalled the chilling reality of armed kidnappers on her person. Hannah still sported the bone-deep bruises from where Polk's men had grabbed her. Polk, were he to force her to marry, could do much worse than a few bruises. Standing up taller, Hannah increased her pace. She had to keep her feet on the ground and her head from the clouds, if she were to make it out of this quandary unscathed.
Hannah was true to her word. She slowly and deliberately made her way up the stone staircase, to the solar. Upon entering, Sara and Hannah's eyes locked.
Looking down at the three-day old babe in her arms, Sara sighed. It was time for her and Elizabeth to make their grand appearance. Twas a pity, she supposed that she'd had no opportunity to prepare herself, other than a quick braid and a simple head dress. T'won't matter any wise, she reprimanded herself. They'll see not but a figure with a bundle in her arms.
Slowly, methodically, Sara rose. Handing the bairn to Hannah, she straightened her skirts and leaned in to kiss Hannah's cheek and that of the babe's. “The moment I hand Elizabeth to thee, thou art to take her and hide in the secret space behind the cellar. There is a pallet, milk, and food stores to last a few days, should thou need it. Do not come out unless we come for thee, or thou hast run out of food, no matter what thou hearest or how thou frets, dost thou understand me, Hannah?”
Hannah nodded, her lower lip trembling. “Ye are a brave girl and I know that thou will keep yerself and thy sister safe by staying hidden. Sometimes, waiting and hiding is the most clever and brave thing a person can do. I have peace of mind that ye are just that brave and clever girl, Hannah.”
Together, they returned to the hall, then resolutely marched through the bailey. Refusing to look at her eldest daughter, Sara snuggled Elizabeth tightly against her side and used her free arm to brace herself against the railing that led to the top of the wall. Willing herself strength, Sara stood in dramatic command of the scene before her. Lifting her chin into the wind, Sara imagined herself a warrior queen, perusing her troops.
Once the eyes of the men on horseback had all raised to fasten upon her person, she spoke. “Good even, gentlemen. Our household offers greetings to Lord Polk's men.”
Looking back at the man in charge, the herald cleared his throat and repeated his entreaty, “Sir Polk, son of Lord Polk of Lakeshore Manor requests an audience with the lady of Hampstead Manor. We assure thee most humbly of our honorable intentions.”
“Lady Sanders of Hampstead Manor greets thee gentleman and thanks thee for the honor of thy visit. We, of Hampstead Manor, joyfully embrace the friendship that Lord Polk has most graciously offered. Humbly, we beg yer forgiveness for our caution in allowing such a large entourage into our sanctuary. With the Black Death lurking, we find it prudent to be most careful, dear Sirs.”
Again, the herald turned back to seek guidance from the man on the white horse. This must be Sir John, Sara thought, narrowing her eyes to get a better look at the man Gavin claimed was her enemy.
After a brief consultation, the herald responded. “Sir Jonathan Polk assures the lady that his company is free from disease. He likewise informs her that he has express direction from the king to come to Hampstead Manor to see to the welfare of its inhabitants.”
“The lady of the manor greets Sir John and thanks him for his due diligence, on behalf of herself and her king. She assures Sir John that the manor and its inhabitants are thriving and will soon be traveling to pay tribute to king and country, as the pestilence abates.”
Again, the herald consulted John Polk and again he turned to yell, “Sir John loses patience with these hollow interactions and demands entrance to the keep. Tis his right to obtain quarters, sustenance, and access to the lady of the keep.”
“The lady of the keep does not deny Sir John his rights. If Sir John wishes to enter with two of his trusted men, then he may be allowed sanctuary. Due to our isolation, we insist upon protecting the inhabitants of the manor from disease.”
Gavin grimaced. They had only succeeded in stalling the vermin an hour at best. They would now have to deal with the miscreant carefully. “Tell them to enter on foot,” he whispered up to Sara, still crouched behind the wall's spiked edifice.
Sighing, Sara rallied her nerves and called out, “If it please Sir John, he may enter the gates on foot and be attended post haste.”
With a humph, John Polk beckoned for his herald to assist him from his horse, then flicked the reigns over to a man beside him. Beckoning to two burly knights, he walked towards the gate, flanked by strength and steel.
Sara's heart raced to think of the danger they now faced. She must play her part well, if their ruse were to work. Carefully, she made her way down the steps and wordlessly surrendered her tiny bundle into Hannah's waiting arms. Hannah scampered back across the bailey, desperate to gain her hiding place.
Sara carefully positioned herself twenty yards from the cracked door. Adam watched Gavin to assure himself it was safe to let in the small group. Millie stood by Adam, her hand clenched to the dagger in her belt. She would sink it into the most likely adversary, were the men to try to overpower Adam and open the gates. Sara followed suit. Gavin hovered above, ready to dump hot embers on the heads of any who might enter without consent.
The precaution was not needed, however, as the men slinked in and focused on assessing the internal defenses while Adam slid the large bar back into place, effectively shutting out the soldiers. The men remaining in the outer bailey turned and rode off, no doubt to attempt to enter by the back slope. Gavin grimaced. He hoped the traps he set would work.
“Welcome,” Sara beckoned, wishing to keep the men's attention focused upon her, the distraction. “Ye must be famished. Let us retire to the hall for some refreshment.”
Turning her back on her enemy, Sara walked towards the hall as if she welcomed threatening guests into her home daily. She could pull this off...if only her heart would stop thundering so loudly against her chest!
There, on the table, lay cold venison and cider tankards. Sir Polk stopped at the entrance, suspicion coloring his face. “Where are thy servants, Lady Sanders?” he demanded. “And where hast thy stepdaughter and bairn flown? I do believe I spied a bundle in yer arms as ye sto
od upon the ramparts.”
“Many have died of the disease...others, simply wish to stay hidden, I suppose,” she offered in a sing song voice, equal parts disinterest and mystery.
Sir John Polk's spine tingled uncomfortably. He felt as if he had entered some witch's hall, food magically appearing on the table, few servants in sight. He was beginning to question the king's motives in sending him here. The king's distaste for his person was not unknown at court. Had he been sent to an unholy slaughter?
“Would ye gentleman prefer music?” Sara asked, lifting her hand without awaiting a reply.
Softly, eerily, a lute could be heard from some distant passage. The men's hackles rose. “What game do ye play, Lady Sanders?” Sir John bellowed.
Sara lifted her hand and the music ceased. By now, she thought,Gavin would be beating a hasty retreat, readying for the next phase of their plan.
Millie and Adam stood out of sight, awaiting her signal. “I see that ye do not enjoy music. Very well, shall we sit and dine?”
Glancing side long at the three trenchers lain out before them, the men looked at one another questioningly. At Sir John's nod, they sat.
“Please,” she offered, “break thy fast.”
The men looked uncomfortably at their food and then at the empty place before Sara. “Forgive me, Sirs, for not joining thee. I broke my fast a few hours hence and do not wish to ruin my appetite for tonight's supper.”
She looked at the men with the glistening eye of one viewing three plump, roasted pigs. The effect was immediate. They squirmed in their seats.
Sir John seemed to rally quickly, however. Slamming his meaty fist on the long table before him, he bellowed, “Enough of yer bewitchery, woman! T'would not surprise me in the least to find thy husband and stepson died by thy conniving hands. Produce thy stepdaughter post haste or suffer my wrath!”
Well, this is proceeding much more quickly than I anticipated, Sara jumped nervously. Her deceased husband's rage had always been cold and calculating. This hot, unsettling impulsivity was beyond Sara's experience. Readying her resolve, she moved on to the next portion of the plan.
“Please gentlemen, I implore thee to eat and drink. Ill tidings settle best on full stomaches.”
Sir John's eyebrows rose in alarm. “What ill tidings?”
Lady Sara raised her own, awaiting his compliance. Slowly, Sir Polk grabbed a hunk of meat and raised it to his cracked lips. Biting down with tiny yellowed teeth, he tore the meat asunder and chewed, never letting his tiny boar eyes leave Sara's emerald gaze.
The man is a puffy, pimply pig,Sara shuddered in disgust. He will lay hands on Hannah over my cold, dead body.
Eyes still locked on Sara's, Sir John lifted his tankard and drank deeply. It cost us the last of our cider stock, but t'will be well worth it, Sara thought.
Silently, the other men followed suit. Thank the saints for manly pride. Despite their discomfort, they would not allow themselves to be intimidated by a woman.
“Allow me to serve thee,” Lady Sara offered, lifting the pitcher before her and walking around the long table to fill their tankards once more.
“Come, thou must drink with us,” Sir John cajoled, his tone making it clear he was making a demand.
They had all expected this, however, and Sara smiled. “Certainly,” Sara nodded. Returning to her seat at the head of the table, Sara lifted her right hand as she had done to summon the lute music. With her left hand, she surreptitiously lifted the goblet from where it dangled on a hook beneath the table. She sat, holding the stem of the goblet as if it had simply appeared in her grasp.
The slight of hand worked better than she had hoped. The men stood from their seats.
“What trickery is this?” Sir John stuttered.
Sara simply blinked back at him, bemused. “I assure thee, Sir Polk, I am most earnest in my attempt to be a competent hostess. Thou hast asked me to drink with thee, and I intend to do just that.” Swirling the dark contents of her glass about she allowed the viscous crimson liquid to cling to the sides of her late husband's silver goblet.
Ever so daintily, she lifted the goblet to her mouth and pretended to relish the taste of the chicken blood she'd placed there. As she had planned, the wide mouth of the goblet caused a few drops of the liquid to trickle down her chin.
Slowly, she placed the goblet upon the table and reached for the light linen handkerchief in her sleeve. Dabbing at the blood, she smothered a grin as the men took an involuntary step backwards. They were already feeling the effect of the drug.
Luckily, the late Lady Sanders had been a renowned herbalist. Her most treasured dowry had been the poppy seeds gifted her by her uncle, a wealthy tradesman. A few poppy flowers still grew behind the barn, mainly forgotten until the need had arisen. With Hannah's help, Sara had drained the plant's centers and harvested the seeds. Grinding them into a powder, she had stirred them into the cider. If their luck held, the dose of opiate would be strong enough to put these three men on their arses.
“Art thou quite alright?” Sara feigned concern, stepping toward her guests.
Again, the men stumbled back. “Stay away from us, ye vile witch!” Sir John slurred his words, wobbling unsteadily.
“Ye seem tired, wouldst thou like a place to rest?”
“Nay, not here. We will leave and rejoin my troops,” Sir John stumbled forward.
“Nonsense, ye are clearly fatigued. Come, Adam, and help our guests to their chamber,” Sara called.
On cue, Adam appeared and offered a hand to Sir John. Disoriented, John stumbled forward. Adam placed his arm beneath Sir John's, then led him through the back hallway. Sir John's men reluctantly stumbled after.
Leaving some distance behind, Millie and Sara followed. This had to work!
“Right this way, gentlemen,” Adam coaxed. “I have prepared for thee a room.”
Out through the back hall door Adam stepped with Sir John. Entering the dark space, Adam indicated the three floor pallets. “Rest here, gentleman, whilst I ready thy supper.”
The three men fairly fell to the beds, insensible. Quickly, Adam and Millie crouched by the men and loosed their belts just enough to remove their swords and daggers from their sheaths. Heavy laden, each backed from the space and Sara rushed to shut the slatted wooden door, sliding the heavy bolt in place.
Sighing, she turned to hear Adam whisper, “We'll not be able to shut this outer door until I hook the pig polk wagon to the horses and pull it away from the keep. Twas the only way to make the pig pen door seem like a chamber door on short notice.
“As we have yet to deal with Polk's men, we will have to find a way to disguise the polk, if we are to transport him back to his father...Ye don't think ye've killed them, have ye, Lady Sanders? I'm loathe to hang for this.”
“Nay, Adam. The poppy seeds only make one feel awkward and tired. Ye ken yerself how Lord Sanders liked to eat them on occasion,” Sara wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“They'll wake on the morrow none the wiser.”
Sara shivered with unease. She prayed that Lord Polk would overlook this slight to his position, and leave Hampstead Manor to its own devices. Sir Gavin had assured Sara that Sir John was by far Lord Polk's least favorite son. Third in line for the family title and one of six sons, Sir John had been forced to make his way in the world. When he had taken the money his father sent for him to make his place within the church and instead spent it on spirits and women, his father had cut him off without a dime.
Gavin was betting on the fact that Lord Polk had gifted Sir John with the small entourage of soldiers as a last ditch effort to get his troublesome son settled and out of his hair. He could just imagine Sir John wheedling and pleading with his father to lend him some men to gain the property. Too bad Gavin had been smart enough to ride ahead of his troops and take up residence first.
Now, he stood at the embankment, readying what was sure to be the next line of attack. For three days, Adam and Gavin had taken turns feeding the
fire and watching the bank. The thump of boat oars warned Gavin that the enemy had arrived.
Sweat poured from beneath his arms and across his brow. Wiping distractedly with his linen sleeve, Gavin crouched low atop the jagged peek and bent his head to listen. He would wait as long as he could to light the cliff. If he were lucky, several men would attempt to scale the cliff face at once. If his luck held, he could keep them scrambling until reinforcements came.
Gavin's mind struggled to focus on the task at hand. His concern lay with Sara, Hannah, and baby Elizabeth back at the keep. How could he, in good conscience, be here, protecting against a more distant threat when the man who threatened the well-being of his family was nestled safely within the keep, in arms-reach of his wife?
Logic told him he was doing what was best for his family, guarding the perimeter, and allowing Adam to help defend the keep. His heart told him otherwise. What good was a land and title, if the people he had come to care so deeply for were hurt, or worse?
Shaking his head free from the reverie, he refocused. He would not fail in his duties, and he would have to trust that Adam would keep his family safe. At least five pairs of hands and feet could be heard pulling and scraping against the rocks and moss covering the steep embankment.
Sir John had shown up with twenty men. Accounting for the two with Sir John, taking out this handful would mean that there were still about thirteen out there, waiting for a second round of attacks. A rock tumbled just yards below him. He could wait no longer. Jogging around the shrubbery and behind the boulder where his fire burned low, Gavin lit two torches and dashed back to the precipice. “May the lord have mercy on yer souls,” Gavin whispered as he tossed the first torch onto to the tar pitched wick. The wick lit, snaking its way down the tar-soaked embankment. Without hesitation, he stepped to light the second wick.
The embankment was covered in fire. Men screamed and fell, others could be heard sliding down and barking a warning to the others below. One man, not ten feet off, pulled his burnt body over the top of the embankment. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, Gavin rushed over in time to kick the man back down.