The Bride and the Brute

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Suddenly, the tweet of a bird sounded above the falling rain, but it was no real call. It was an alert from one his band. Their target was coming up the road. Pick and Beau moved into action immediately. They disappeared into the forest around Fox, moving in opposite directions to surround the approaching merchant.

  Fox listened again. The first alert was a sound for them to get prepared. Now would come the call of how many men were in the group. He heard one tweet, then another. Fox listened intently, but no further call came. Thunder grumbled in the sky, loud and angry. Two men? Fox wondered with amazement. Only two men? This would be too easy. He breathed a sigh of relief. For once in his life, something would be easy.

  He listened to the pattering hum of the rain as it hit the leaves around him, his gaze focused on the road before him. He couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. Then he heard the sound he was waiting for, the soft plod of horses in the thick mud of the road.

  Fox’s body stiffened in anticipation. Far off down the road, he could barely make out two silhouetted riders coming over the hill.

  He slowly, silently slid his sword from its scabbard. The handle was wet from the rain, but Fox’s palm gripped the leather hilt with confidence.

  The two riders came closer.

  Every muscle in Fox’s body tensed as he stepped out into the middle of the road. Above, the clouds drifted across the sky and a slight gap appeared between them. Moonlight shone down through the gap, illuminating the road before Fox, illuminating a cart being drawn behind the two riders, a cart filled with ten men at least. A chill raced up Fox’s spine. There were only supposed to be two men. That had been the signal he heard. Not two and ten! Fox’s gaze darted to the bushes on the side of the road, but there was no sense in trying to hide. The riders had obviously seen him, and he needed what they were carrying. Needed it desperately.

  And then the riders were before him, slowing their horses. Fox reached out and grabbed one of the horse’s bridles. “Good evening, good sirs.” Fox glanced at the men in the cart and breathed a soft sigh of relief. They were farmers, from the looks of them. Very tired farmers. They were all asleep, except for one old man who looked at him curiously.

  “What do you want knave?” one of the riders grumbled, keeping his head down out of the rain. “Out of the way. We are on our way to Ruvane village. The cart is full. We can carry no more.”

  Fox stepped up to the riders, having to look up through the rain to see the man’s face. “The rain must have soured your temperament,” Fox responded.

  “I’ll sour you, you oaf.” The man raised his fist.

  Fox lifted his weapon in one fluid motion and rested the tip against the man’s throat. “I think not.”

  Pick stepped out of the woods, moving to stand beside the second rider. He grinned up at the riders, his smile much more predatory than friendly.

  The first rider slowly lowered his fist.

  “What is it you want?” the second rider asked in a calmer voice. “We have no coin. Nothing worth taking.” As he spoke, his hand dipped down toward the handle of a dagger jutting out from his saddlebag.

  Fox swiveled his gaze slightly to the second rider. He wore a hood, no doubt to keep out the rain, but it also kept his features hidden in darkness. ”I want what you carry to Ruvane village,” Fox told him.

  “God’s blood, man!” the first rider cried. “Do you know what you ask?”

  Fox nodded. “I do. Now please hand over the bag.” The first rider opened his mouth to object but Fox pressed the blade against his throat. “Quickly.”

  “You can’t ask us to! There is –”

  “I can more than ask. I am demanding it.” Suddenly, a whooshing sound filled the air and a tuft of Pick’s hair seemed to leap off his head. The second rider cried out in alarm as an arrow sunk into the dagger’s wooden handle, a mere inch from where his fingers were groping for the blade! His horse started from the brunt of the impact but the rider quickly brought him under control.

  Beau stepped out of the woods, a second arrow nocked and ready to fire.

  Pick bent down and picked up the chunk of his lopped-off hair. He touched his head, feeling the spot where the arrow had shaved his locks.

  The first rider produced a pouch from his saddlebag and held it in his palm for a moment, as if weighing its value against the life of the other man. Finally, he held the bag out to Fox. Fox’s hand closed around the bag and relief coursed through his body. “Thank you, sirs.” He backed toward the cover of the forest.

  “You’re an insufferable maggot!” the first man hollered, shaking a fist at Fox. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”

  Fox ignored him and disappeared into the foliage. Pick and Beau quickly trailed him. He made his way through the woods, moving in and out of the trees, leaping fallen logs, looking over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. He paused at a tall tree and yanked the string on the bag open. He worked the neck of the bag wide so that he could peer into the pouch. He smiled in relief when he saw the contents.

  “Is it there?” Pick asked.

  “Yes,” Fox replied.

  “Then we must hurry.” Beau passed him, racing on.

  Fox pulled the string closed and tightened it quickly, then looped it around the leather strap of his belt, patting the precious bag before racing deeper into the woods after his companions.

  “Hey, wait for me,” a voice called out.

  Fox turned to see a young woman racing through the trees toward him. She was dressed in a leather tunic and leather breeches, her womanly figure clearly showing through the tight clothes. “Let’s go, Scout,” Fox called out to her.

  Scout hurried to his side, moving nimbly through the trees, crashing through a small bush.

  “Two men, eh?” Fox said.

  “I saw them,” Scout countered. “I just didn’t want to panic you. They were all asleep anyway.”

  “Next time, just give me the numbers.”

  Scout scowled. “Yes, sir, Lord Mercer. As you command. Far be it from me to make a decision.” Scout moved angrily away from him, joining Pick and Beau.

  Fox frowned, cursing silently, but hurried on. His hand unconsciously moved to encircle the bag of precious herbs he had just taken from the riders. He needed them far more than anyone in Ruvane village could ever possibly need them.

  Champion of the Heart - Chapter Three

  Jordan held Maggie tightly, doing her best to shield the young girl from the horror that was threatening to take her from the world. It was almost morning, and Evan wasn’t back yet. Maggie’s breathing was growing weaker and weaker, her small body laboring with each intake of air, her skin blotchy, far from its normal healthy coloring. The fever was slowly consuming her. Jordan wanted to tell Maggie to open her eyes, to give her just a glimpse of life, but Maggie needed every ounce of her strength, so she kept silent. She was afraid if she tried to wake the girl, Maggie wouldn’t open her eyes at all.

  Jordan’s arms tightened around her. She couldn’t lose her. Not after raising Maggie herself. She meant more to Jordan than... Tears rose in her eyes as she once again silently begged Evan to hurry. He should have been back hours ago. Where could he be?

  She squeezed her eyes closed, wishing that somehow she could take the sickness into herself, that somehow this tragedy could be hers to bear instead of Maggie’s. Despite Jordan’s best efforts to fight it back, a hot tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and trailed down her cheek.

  The sun’s rays began to peek beneath the door and spread across the floor, drawing closer with the passing minutes. Jordan watched the light grow brighter and brighter, creep closer and closer. Usually, the sunlight cheered her and warmed her spirit, but today the light seemed unusually bright and glaring, bringing with it the hands of death.

  Suddenly, the door was thrown open. For a brief, horrible moment, a black shape stood motionless in the doorway, taking on the ghastly appearance of Death, darkly robed and ominously quiet.

>   Jordan’s hands tightened around Maggie.

  Then the shape stepped forward. It was Evan. He entered the room and moved toward her.

  Jordan felt such relief rush through her that her arms trembled as they held Maggie against her bosom. She sat up in the bed, holding Maggie against her chest. “Do you have the herbs?” she whispered in a voice dry with relief. “Has Abagail made a drink I can give to Maggie?” She looked at Evan, her eyes imploring him for answers.

  But Evan shook his head at all of her questions. “No, Jordan.”

  “No?” Jordan asked in confusion. “Abagail hasn’t made the drink yet? Tell her to hurry. Maggie is –”

  “I don’t have the herbs.”

  “What?” Jordan gasped weakly.

  “The merchants were robbed before I reached them.” Evan looked away from Jordan to stare at the floor.

  “No,” Jordan whispered, pulling Maggie tighter against her. “No.”

  “I’m sorry, Jordan.”

  Jordan looked down at Maggie’s somber face. She stroked the little girl’s pale cheeks with the backs of her fingers, moving some of her damp, brown locks away from her closed eyes. Her small, small hands were still clasped together, resting atop her tiny chest. Jordan wouldn’t let her go without a battle. Jordan lifted her gaze to Evan, even as tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. “There has to be something else we can do.”

  “I -- I think we’ve tried everything.”

  “No. We have to think of something.” But even as Jordan said the words, Maggie’s breathing slowed. She pressed her cheek to the girl’s head and looked at Evan through her blurry vision. “She’s dying, Evan,” Jordan whispered in agony.

  Evan looked away.

  “Maggie,” Jordan sobbed, and pressed her cheek to the child’s. “No,” she begged. But even as she said the word, the girl’s breathing stopped altogether and her body went limp. Her chest no longer rose and fell. Jordan pulled Maggie tightly to her, sobbing, pleading with the Almighty not to take her. Maggie was only a child, the daughter she didn’t have yet. She couldn’t die because of some silly herbs.

  “Jordan,” Evan called.

  Jordan refused to look up. She kept her eyes closed tightly, her fists wrapped in the girl’s cotton dress. Her body shook with unspoken sorrow as she held Maggie.

  “Jordan.” Evan’s voice was firmer, demanding her to look up.

  Jordan didn’t care what he wanted. He had failed to bring her the herbs that would have saved Maggie’s life. It was his fault. It was all Evan’s fault.

  But she knew deep down it was not Evan’s fault. It was her fault for letting the children play in the rain the other day. Everyone had warned her.

  But the herbs would have saved Maggie’s life. Who could have stolen them? And why? Why?

  Someone grabbed her shoulder, shaking it gently. Jordan looked up to see Evan standing beside her. He jerked his head at the doorway. Jordan looked over Evan’s shoulder to see the children standing in the doorway. Kara, Ana, and Jason were sobbing. John was holding Emily slightly behind them in the open doorway.

  Jordan straightened and looked away to the dark wood wall, composing herself. It took her a long moment to blink back the tears and wipe her cheeks. She carefully laid Maggie on the bed, smoothing back her hair one last time. A well of grief opened inside her as she gazed at Maggie’s still face, but she fought down the tears. She pulled the blanket over Maggie’s head, saying a silent farewell.

  She slowly turned to the children and rose from the bed. With each step she took toward them, their tears pulled at the fragile wall of protectiveness she had tried to throw up around her own emotions. She had to stay strong for them. She had to keep her composure. Their large eyes looked to her for a reason, their tears demanding an answer. She reached the door and stopped.

  “You promised us Maggie would be all right,” Ana said. “You promised.”

  Jordan knelt before them, pain and failure welling up inside her. She could feel the protective wall starting to crack. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Jordan knew she had to control her tears. She had to be strong. She had to be. But when Kara threw her arms around Jordan’s neck and cried into her shoulder, the wall shattered completely and Jordan could do nothing to prevent the wave of anguish overflowing her senses. She hugged Kara tightly, sobbing.

  All the other children threw their arms around her in a protective shelter of love and grief.

  They wept for a long time together, holding each other, comforting each other as best they could. Thankfully, Evan had closed the door on Maggie’s death, sealing out the image of her unnaturally still form.

  Abagail clapped her hands. “It’s time to eat, children,” she said in her motherly voice.

  Jordan looked up at her and stood. She dabbed a sleeve at the corners of her eyes. “Abagail is right,” she agreed, gently taking Kara’s shoulders and guiding her to her chair at the table. The rest of the children followed, taking seats at the wooden bench.

  When the children were all seated at the table, eating in a strange brooding silence, Evan gently took Jordan’s elbow to lead her to the side of the room.

  “You have guests arriving at Castle Ruvane. You can’t afford to dwell here much longer,” Evan said.

  “I will stay as long as I am needed,” Jordan replied softly, her eyes taking in the way Ana bowed her head and wiped at her eyes.

  “Jordan,” Evan began sternly.

  Jordan’s gaze turned to the closed door, and the image of the young girl lying lifelessly inside filled her mind. Maggie. They had been so close to curing her. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Just yesterday morn I was playing hide and seek with her.”

  “Life is like that,” Evan said, distracted. He glanced at the front door as if he had somewhere better to be.

  “You can leave, Evan,” Jordan said coldly, angrily. “Thank you for staying and thank you for your help with Maggie.”

  Evan’s gaze shot to her as she began to move past him. “Don’t be like that, Jordan. I did my best. I will capture the cur that stole those herbs and make him pay for what he did. You have my word on that.”

  Jordan faltered and turned to him. “You know who did it?” she asked, shocked.

  Evan nodded. “The merchant saw him. Yes,” Evan said stoically. “I know who did it.”

  “Who?” Jordan demanded, grabbing his arm tightly.

  Evan shifted his blue gaze to her. There was such animosity in his gaze that for a moment Jordan was taken aback. Just by his stare, just by the hatred in his gaze, she knew who it was. And she couldn’t believe it.

  “The Black Fox,” Evan said. “The Black Fox killed your Maggie.”

  CHAMPION OF THE HEART

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  The Lady and the Falconer - Prologue

  England, 1373

  “Ready or not, here I come!” a young girl’s voice cried out in the distance.

  Solace Farindale pressed a hand over her mouth and giggled, scrunching lower behind three bales of hay. She didn’t know where her friend Gwen was hiding because as soon as Helen had begun counting, she’d run into the barn and dove behind the hay. Lillian, her maidservant, would no doubt be angry that she had dirtied her new velvet dress, but Solace couldn’t resist such a perfect hiding place. The sweet smell of straw filled her nose, and several strands tickled her back as she settled into her spot. She loved coming to visit Helen on her farm. She and Gwen had begged their fathers to let them go, just for the afternoon, and after much pleading the men had reluctantly agreed. It was half a morning’s ride from Gwen’s home, but well worth it.

  Finally, after a brief moment of expectant waiting, Solace peeked through a slit between the hay bales. The barn was empty. Several stalls that used to house horses now stood vacant. Solace knew Helen’s parents had to sell the beasts off because their
crops had yielded a poor harvest last year. Solace scanned the narrow area of the barn that she could see through the opening, but there was still no sign of Helen. She shrugged and settled back to wait.

  Then she heard the barn door creak open. Her eyes widened and again she placed a hand over her mouth as she slid lower behind the hay, afraid her giggles would give her away. But there was no scurry of searching feet, no calls of her name.

  Solace shifted and peered through the slit between the hay bales. She glimpsed a woman grabbing a rusty bucket from the ground and carrying it to an empty stall across from her. It was only Helen’s mother, Anne. Solace’s gaze flew to the door. Where is Helen? she wondered.

  Anne placed the bucket on the ground next to a small pile of seeds. She scooped up a handful with her cupped palm and dumped them into the bucket.

  “Good afternoon, Anne,” a man called out. His deep, guttural voice gave the greeting a harshness that belied the innocence of his words.

  Solace heard Anne gasp and she tilted her head, leaning closer to the narrow opening between the bales. She saw two men dressed in chain mail lurking near the door and one man standing inside the barn. She nervously twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger as a feeling of fear engulfed her. The tall man wasn’t a good man. She could sense the evil in him, as if a dark cloud belonged over his head. His hair was immaculate, styled in a fashionable bowl-cut, black as the night. The red velvet of his jupon was tailored to his chest and arms, padded somewhat at the chest and shoulders to accent their broadness. The collar reached all the way to his neck. He had the coldest blue stare she had ever seen.

  “Lord Randol,” Anne greeted with a slight bow.

  Randol sauntered closer to her. “Looks like you’ve kept the barn in good order.”

  “It’s our living, m’lord. We take good care of our things.”

  “Perhaps you should take as good care of your lord,” he grumbled. “Where’s your husband?”