The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  Along with the rest of the cheering, applauding crowd, Rowena leapt to her feet, though unlike them, she had her hands held over her mouth in fearful suspense. The force of the clash had been so violent it had unbalanced Sir Richard, who teetered helplessly for a few moments before slowly crashing to the ground, too weighed down by his armour to recover.

  While everyone’s eyes were on Sir Richard’s horribly slow fall, The Sorcerer had dragged himself to his feet, drawn his murderous battle-axe, and was now rushing at the defenceless Sir Richard.

  ‘Richard, danger behind you!’ Rowena screamed, leaning so far out over the rail that a hand grabbed her from behind.

  Sir Richard threw himself to one side, and a split-second later the blood-rusted blade sliced into the earth where his neck had lain a moment before.

  ‘Mother of God, have mercy!’ Rowena gasped, barely able to watch her knight face such danger, yet completely incapable of tearing her eyes away for even a moment.

  By the time de Wintore had pulled his battle-axe forth from the earth’s grasp and swung it high in readiness for another blow, Sir Richard had managed to get to his knees, draw his sword and lift his shield between his head and the axe’s fast descending blade.

  The fierce axe blade embedded itself deep into the wooden shield. And as de Wintore pulled back on it, Sir Richard allowed himself to be dragged forward and up. Barely had he regained his feet when the shield was ripped free from the axe’s bite, losing a chunk with it. A furious exchange of blows began.

  Although de Wintore’s battle-axe had the advantage of momentum and brute power, Sir Richard was able to be quicker on his feet and deliver lightning-fast attacks with his lighter sword. But this did not save him from all of the Sorcerer’s blows. Some could not be dodged or parried, and hit into his armour with a sickening thud that was complete agony to Rowena, who let out a cry of pain every time. Both knights were rapidly gaining a large collection of dents in their armour, and Sir Richard’s shield soon had splits and whole pieces hacked off.

  The crowd had been watching this battle enthralled, but when Sir Richard stumbled on a lance fragment and was rewarded with a crashing blow to the shoulder that instantly gushed blood, the crowd’s mesmerized gasp was immediately followed by a voice demanding, ‘Madam Judge, these knights are fighting with unlawfully sharp weapons. You must put a stop to this battle before one of them is slain!’

  Sobbing aloud at the ghastly sight of crimson blood pouring down her knight’s breastplate, Rowena turned to see who had spoken. An elderly lord in a long blue robe was sternly standing before Lady Sabina, who sat on a throne beneath a grand, cloth-draped canopy.

  The regal lily eyed him sourly. ‘Nay, I have no wish to stop such entertaining sport.’ She smiled a glacial smile and gestured at the crowded gallery. ‘Look how my guests are enjoying themselves.’

  ‘But madam—’

  A finger as thin and pointed as an icicle was raised. ‘That is enough, old man! I am Lady Shrewsbury now. I am much more powerful than you, and this is my feast. If you insist on vexing me any further I shall be forced to ask the king to remove your head from your neck.’

  The dignified lord looked so offended as he backed away muttering into his beard that Rowena was half afraid he would have a fit. But a loud crash from below brought her eyes swiftly back to the lists.

  ‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ she cried, seeing that her knight’s shield had been cleaved in two by de Wintore’s evil blade.

  Sir Richard took his sword in both hands and the battle continued with an even more furious and brutal flurry of blows and stabs. The crash of metal on metal was deafening, and mixed with it were frequent grunts and gasps from the battling warriors. Blood now covered de Wintore’s left arm and ran from his side, where Sir Richard’s blade had sliced through his armour.

  Rowena was now on her knees clinging to the rail, praying and sobbing. The fight seemed an even thing, with neither warrior gaining the upper hand. The blood was growing ever more plentiful. The weapons and armour of both knights were thick with it. It was now impossible to tell where it was coming from or even which knight it belonged to.

  After what the sand-filled hourglass informed the crowd was another three quarters of an hour, Rowena could tell Sir Richard was finally falling prey to fatigue. He was having difficulty parrying the murderous battle-axe’s savage attack as his old wound complained, leaving his left arm ever weaker.

  Exhausted herself, she leaned on the rail and clutched her arms about her head in agonized terror, silently imploring Saint George to aid her hero in his moment of need.

  A sudden low swipe from de Wintore caught Sir Richard off guard, and the blood-hungry blade sunk into the place where the knee armour joined the thigh plate. Blood gushed forth instantly, and Sir Richard’s leg gave way.

  Rowena screamed and lunged forward, but a hand grabbed her arm from behind. ‘Do control yourself, darling. It is no business of a woman to be interfering in matters of war and honour.’

  She snapped her head around and was face-to-face with the limpid young peacock of earlier, now with the added irritation of an indolent, patronizing smile. ‘Go give your mirror a kiss, eunuch, and stop talking of things which you know nothing about!’ she hissed, giving him a very unladylike shove.

  When her attention returned to the battlefield, Sir Richard was fighting a desperate losing battle from a kneeling position. The ground around him was soaked with blood, and still de Wintore’s blows rained down on him.

  Then the Sorcerer raised his vile, blood-covered axe high above his head in what she knew he intended would be the death blow.

  Time seemed to slow. She heard nothing but the beating of her heart. This was the end, surely.

  The blackened blade swooped towards its prey like a diving hawk. A dull thud rang out as the blade hit her knight on the side of the head. Sir Richard’s helmet was flung to the red-stained earth, and a moment later his pale, blood-smeared head was lying senselessly beside it.

  The Sorcerer raised his evil blade once more. ‘Do you yield, dog?’ demanded the thin, cruel voice she had heard on that stormy cliff-top.

  Sir Richard neither answered nor moved. His eyes looked straight up at de Wintore, but seemed to see nothing. He was unconscious. Perhaps even—dead.

  Without a moment’s thought, she leapt down from the high gallery, dragged herself up from the mud and ran towards the stricken Sir Richard, who lay on the blood-stained mud that was about to be his execution block as though it was a cloud of sweet dreams and tenderness.

  ‘He does not yield!’ screamed the Sorcerer in fiendish triumph, standing over the fallen warrior and swinging his axe back for the final blow.

  In a frozen tunnel ending with her knight’s pale, noble face lying senseless in the mud, she flew over the ground. ‘Spare him, I beg you!’ she cried.

  As Rowena flung her body over her fallen knight, his eyes flickered. She turned to look up at de Wintore, and a shower of blood droplets sprayed off the axe as it started to descend.

  Into her silent, slow-moving world rained the crimson droplets, showering her upturned face with Sir Richard’s still-warm blood. Without realizing what she was doing, Rowena lifted the sword lying by Sir Richard’s side so its blade pointed skyward. His body felt rigid beneath her and his eyes were unseeing, but in an instant, he clamped the sword between his arm and his side.

  ‘Help me—hold it!’ he gasped.

  Her hands closed around the bloodied hilt unquestioningly as the blackened battle-axe swooped in for its gory feast of blood and agony.

  They were going to die together. ‘God is merciful…’ she murmured.

  But the axe was falling no longer. It was The Sorcerer himself who was falling.

  Suddenly sound flooded back into her world, and an instant later de Wintore thumped to the ground, half splayed over her and Sir Richard.

  Stunned, she opened the eyes she had closed as she winced in preparation for the impact of the metal giant. De Wint
ore lay face down on the ground, motionless.

  But why?

  She squinted against the low winter sun, and saw that the light blinding her eyes belonged not only to the sun. The light belonged also to the glinting end of the sword-blade protruding from de Wintore’s back.

  Epilogue

  ‘I’M hurting.’

  Rowena stopped and turned.

  A frustrated-looking Sir Richard gave her an apologetic smile as he limped up to her. ‘Even at that slow pace, you will leave me behind shortly.’ He frowned and looked down, his expression suddenly falling. ‘I’m sorry, my love. A woman should not have to be burdened with such a broken husband.’

  She put her hand to his pale cheek. ‘Oh don’t say that, Richard! We’ve been married for less than an hour; you are not a burden to me. It was thoughtless of me to take this long uphill path from St Agnes’ to Eaglestone Castle instead of going through the woods with the rest of our wedding guests.’ She took the cloak draped over his arm. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment and enjoy the view of the valley. The grass is nicely dry here.’

  Once Rowena had spread the cloak out on the daisy-sprinkled grass, she threw herself down on it. Waiting while Sir Richard carefully, painfully lowered himself down was an exercise in self-control, as she found it almost impossible not to assist him. But she did not. Nothing was more depressing and hurtful to him than being helped by a pixie-sized lady.

  To keep Rowena’s mind off her companion, Nature proved a most successful distraction. The wood behind was a-burst with springing, sprouting, budding growth. The fresh, tender green of the leaves almost seemed to shout with the joy of newness and sun-filled purity, of life and of harvests to come. The forest floor was a haze of bluebells that seemed to spread into eternity, their bells tolling an unheard music of magic. Here and there nestled a golden primrose or tiny, timid forget-me-not. And at the edge of the wood and all down the hedgerows danced opulent troupes of apple blossom and mayflower, their honeyed boughs a drunken feast of delight to the visiting hordes of bees and butterflies.

  In front of her lay the valley, spread out in the spring sunshine. From high up here on the hill, the trees surrounding Stoatley Manor and lining the banks of the brook chattering its way down the vale could be seen, and at its far end, Willowmead’s distant thatched rooftops. The brook’s faint, faraway chatter was joined by a chorus of blackbirds and thrushes and, from deep within the heart of the woods, by the call of a cuckoo whose enchanting voice floated across the valley.

  Noticing that Sir Richard seemed to be having little success in getting comfortable, she returned her attention to him. ‘Why don’t you lie down?’

  Rowena’s face was searched for any traces of pity.

  Trying not to feel grieved, she kept her smile carefree.

  ‘But there is no room for both of us if I spread out like that,’ came the still-suspicious reply.

  ‘There is if you rest your head in my lap.’

  ‘But I’m too heavy. It will be uncomfortable for you.’

  She rolled around so she was behind him, and took hold of his shoulders. ‘Richard, stop talking and do as your wife tells you.’

  He finally yielded and allowed her to pull him down until his head rested in her lap. Once settled, she sighed contentedly and smiled down at him. ‘Listen to the birds in the woods. How they rejoice as the earth breathes out her golden dreams...’

  He smiled fondly up at his wife and took her hand in his. ‘And I rejoice too. It is not often a mortal man succeeds in winning a fairy bride.’

  ‘And it is not often that a bride is kept waiting at the church door for twenty minutes by her bridegroom. Everyone was beginning to think you were going to jilt me! What kept you?’

  ‘I couldn’t find my comb.’

  She laughed aloud at the matter-of-fact way in which he delivered this answer. ‘Was that all? I thought at the very least you had had a last-moment tax demand from the king!’

  ‘A man can’t come to his own wedding with his hair a mess. It would be unseemly.’

  She smoothed his elegant white damask doublet thoughtfully. ‘Especially when he has come dressed all in white. You do know that penniless brides wear white to their weddings in order to signal they have no dowry to bring?’

  He grinned up at her. ‘Yes, I do. That is why I’m wearing white today—to signal that I’m penniless and unlike you, have nothing to offer the marriage except my useless body.’

  ‘The Cunninghams may have provided me with a small dowry, but it was merely in order to keep up appearances. If they had not, all the other noble families would believe that they were too poor to do so. My aunt still seems to think my marriage is going to be the death of her. She has not risen from her bed for the past week. A good excuse for not attending my wedding rather than illness, I believe.’

  He assumed a look of mock indignity. ‘Have they no respect for my status as an illustrious knightly hero? Any decent family would welcome such a dented, rusted, penniless war-sword as I into their family like a long-lost son.’

  She placed a slightly hesitant hand on his head and began gently stroking his glossy black hair. ‘If you had slammed Lord Shrewsbury’s head down on that table just a little harder, I may well have been the one coming to my wedding in white as a truly destitute bride, rather than in this fetching primrose-yellow gown.’

  ‘I was in such a black mood at the time. I really wanted to do that weed an injury. But for all your admirable horror, the mirth the scene caused you did not escape me, you banshee.’

  She twisted her fingers around an ebony lock and gave it a firm tug. ‘Indeed, but I thought you a brutish animal—a very brave brutish animal.’

  ‘Ow! Let go of me.’

  She loosened her fingers and resumed the caressing strokes. ‘Luckily the brutish wolf has turned into a perfect lapdog.’

  But her smugness was short lived, as the little finger of the hand she rested on his cheek suddenly found itself held firmly captive between sharp white teeth. ‘Ow! I see I spoke too soon,’ she laughed.

  The unsuspecting prey was mercifully released. ‘You thought me a complete bastard and you were right. I, on the other hand, thought you to be a very cunning fox indeed. Being such a bear-brain myself, this made me terribly afraid. When you first started coming to the castle, I spent many sleepless hours at night pacing the ramparts trying to work out why you were there, what you were up to and how I could get rid of you. I really thought I’d cracked it when I got you down to the dungeons.’ He chuckled darkly. ‘The look of horror on your face as you entered the rat-infested place was priceless…’

  The caresses stopped abruptly. ‘You were such a beast! I really did think someone—possibly me—would not come out of that hell alive.’

  He looked up at her guiltily. ‘I was desperate to rid myself of you. I am sorry about that, my love… After what you said about the taxes, I was truly afraid of you.’

  A gratified smile spread over her lips. ‘Really?’

  He laughed. ‘Really. I barely slept a wink for a week after that.’

  The caressing hand slipped into his shirt’s open neck. ‘And when did you first decide that you wanted to marry me?’

  ‘I fell under your spell the moment you first darkened my door, but when I saw you coming down the stairs at the Cunninghams’ feast in your faded, over-tight gown after your desperate last touches in the mirror, I was truly smitten. And after you proved yourself so resourceful, devious, uncompromising and fearless that night, I knew you had to be mine.’

  Rowena coloured a little. ‘I didn’t know you were there already when I came down!’

  ‘I stood outside while I waited for you to appear.’

  She frowned at the memory. ‘You really did get underfoot that evening. If you hadn’t forced me to drug you I would have been much less strained.’

  ‘Because you were afraid it might make me ill?’

  ‘No, because I was afraid of not having enough left to drug my uncle with. I g
ot it from an herbalist—some would say witch—who lived out in the forest.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Such kindness…’

  ‘It was expensive and I had to walk a long way to get it!’ protested the accused.

  Sir Richard suddenly gasped and clutched his shoulder. ‘Good God, that hurts!’

  She removed her hand instantly. ‘I’m so sorry; did I hurt you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, it was just one of the accursed stabbing pains I’ve been getting lately.’

  She frowned worriedly. ‘These wounds you received at de Wintore’s hands—they are so many!’

  ‘Yes, but I am the one lying here in the spring sunshine in the lap of my beloved, and he is the one whose corrupted corpse is feeding the worms in Shrewsbury Church’s graveyard while his sin-blackened soul feeds the fires of Hell.’

  With a tenderly concerned finger, she gently followed the long purple line running from his temple back into his hairline. ‘Yes, and for that I give thanks every day.’

  He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You see, I did not die at de Wintore’s hands as you were so sure I would.’

  ‘Yes, but you came so very, very close…’ The tender green eyes misted over. ‘If you had not succeeded in kicking de Wintore’s feet out from under him—I can barely think of it.’

  ‘I had righteousness on my side; it was meant to be. Now please don’t cry, dear heart.’

  She managed a watery smile for his sake. ‘Saint George most surely aided you in your hour of need. Any knight who did not have the angels on his side would have fallen. It truly was a miracle that you were saved that day.’

  ‘It was, and one of those angels was you. Afterwards, when I was delirious with fever and blood-loss, that butcher of a physician was all for cutting my damn leg off and bleeding me with leeches. If you had not swiftly had me taken back to Hartfield and Brother Jacob’s care, I likely would never have walked again. That bastard quack, I wish I could cut his damn leg off!’