by Diane Magras
All the villagers were there: the farmers, the old men and women; the village lads and lasses—
And Uwen and the twins, standing among the crowd.
And Wulfric and Thorkill, against the far wall.
And Grimbol, standing apart.
“What are you doing here?” Drest slipped away from Elys and up to her father. “Everything’s burned! What have you done?”
Grimbol seized her shoulders roughly. “They said you’d gone! Into the woods, with no direction! Did you not hear my order?” He shook her, hard. “I leave you in this village to protect the lord, and what happens? You go on a wild run for no end but your own! Drest, you’ll follow orders! I shall bind your arms and carry you on my back like a bairn if you won’t!”
Drest tore herself free. “You’re a monster! Da, why did you do this? Are you never done with your revenge?”
Rage filled Grimbol’s eyes. It fit with the scars that ran deeper than the wrinkles on his face: white slashes over his eyebrow, jaw, and forehead. His voice lowered, and became threatening. “What did you just call me?”
The villagers were backing away.
But Wulfric was pushing through them.
“Wait, Da,” he said. “Drest, what’s this talk of revenge? Do you think we burned this village?”
Amazement wiped the fury from Grimbol’s face.
Drest locked her jaw to keep it from shaking. “You told Wyneck you would, Da. I heard you say it, in this room.”
Thorkill was pushing close, with Uwen at his heels, and then the twins, shoving the villagers, until Drest was surrounded by her brothers.
Each one of them was pale and streaked with ash. Part of Thorkill’s tunic was singed, and a bleeding wound trailed down one side of Wulfric’s face, near his eye to his chin.
“You think we did this?” Grimbol snapped. “Aye, we came back early because I did not feel right with you here alone, but this was not our doing. We came at night. Wimarca told us you’d gone, running from a castle man, and we were up at the mill, readying to set off after you, when they came. Four knights: Hugh, James, Guy, and Aimo, all men from the lord’s army, men I’d fought alongside years ago. But they were not here as friends. Without a sound, they slunk through this village lighting fires. Aye, but the first place they went was the healer’s hut.”
“Where is she?” Tig looked around frantically.
“Here. But only by the merest shred of luck.” A figure wobbled to her feet near the empty hearth, swathed in blankets with a linen bandage around her head. “They asked me where the lord was, and when I did not tell them they destroyed my hut in anger. Uwen, lad?”
Uwen squeezed back through the crowd to Wimarca’s side and grabbed her arm to hold her up. “Do you need me?”
“Oh, lad. What a question. Drest, your brother—he risked his life to save me. One of those men dragged me up to the burning mill, and thrust me in—”
“Your brother, lass, ran past him,” said Hodge, whose manner was different now: respectful and humble. “He seemed not to feel the wind of that man’s sword swinging at his back.”
“He went into the fire to save her,” said Torold, “while your brothers the twins—they stopped that knight.”
Drest stared from Uwen to the twins. “You were fighting knights? Without swords?”
“We were all fighting knights, and aye, only Wulfric had a sword.” Gobin’s smile was faint. “Lass, don’t be angry with Da; he ordered us to save the village.”
“Drest, lass, what do you think we are?” Thorkill reached around her shoulders and held her to him.
“Bloodthirsty villains.” She closed her eyes. Her throat was swelling. “I’m sorry, lads. I didn’t mean—Da?”
But her father had turned away. “Lord, you’ll find those knights laid out in the square. I left them for the crows, but they’re yours if you like. Where’s the miller? Arnulf, here’s your lad Tig. You were saying he’d been stolen, but look, he’s back.”
The crowd parted, revealing the miller. He seemed much smaller than Drest remembered.
Tig rushed to his foster father and took his hand. “Father, we’re safe. The knights that took me treated me well, and—it sounds as if Grimbol has saved this village again.”
Arnulf stared at Tig. His shaking fingers closed around the boy’s. “I did not even try to stop them when they took you. I should have tried, I—” Tears dribbled down his wrinkled cheeks. “I am not much of a father to you.”
Tig drew Arnulf into an embrace. “You are the best of all fathers, the kindest and the most thoughtful, though you worry too much. I am capable of great things, remember. I became friend to those knights, and they’ve come back to the village as Lord Faintree’s men, and now they’ll protect him.”
“There are more knights in this village?” Grimbol hooked his thumb in his belt by his dagger. “Where?”
“They are all faithful men,” said Emerick. “Grimbol, these are men I can count on. As I can count on you. Come meet them in friendship.”
Grimbol glanced at each of his sons, and last at Drest.
“If that’s your order, lord, I’ll follow it,” he said, his eyes still on his daughter. “I know how to follow orders.”
Tig sprang to his feet. “If I may, Lord Faintree, I think I should let those knights know what has happened. It will take but a moment. Before they wonder and come up here on their own.”
And in a flash of blue, he plunged into the crowd and out the door.
27
DAUGHTER AND FATHER
A day passed of work, of rebuilding the huts and tending everything that had been destroyed. Everyone labored together: Sir Reynard’s castle men beside the war-band, villagers with squires. Drest had walked the path all day with Tig, carrying messages and supplies, pausing to lift beams or hold up walls—or to stand with her arm around any villager who was caught by sudden tears and had to turn away. She had never seen such destruction, such suffering. And so she worked from the summer’s early dawn to its late night, and slept in Elys’s hut.
In the mid-morning of the second day, after finishing repairs of Wimarca’s hut with Tig and Hodge, Drest wandered up to the mill. She had been with Emerick for so many days that it felt strange to have been apart. She’d missed him.
The twins and Uwen, alongside Wyneck and four men-at-arms, had done much to repair the mill, and the wheel had been built anew. Wyneck was testing the new gears, which had been smeared with pig fat and creaked as they worked.
Inside the mill’s big room, Grimbol, Sir Reynard, and Emerick were sitting at the head of a long table. Drest stepped through the doorway, but paused. She was smeared with fluff, seeds, dried herbs, ash, and the sweat of hard labor.
I smell nearly as bad as sea rot.
“—and for Sir Hugh, Sir James, Sir Guy, and Sir Aimo, of all my knights, to hunt for me—” Emerick broke off. “Reynard, are you sure that any of my men are faithful?”
“They will be,” Sir Reynard said, “if you are leading them. I’m sorry, my lord, but there are many who have fought alongside Oswyn and will take his side as long as they think he has a chance to rule. That’s why we must find him quickly.”
“He attacked Drest, remember, at the headland.” Emerick nodded at her. “Will you come over here, lass, and tell us about that?”
She wandered up and sat in the empty space on the bench by Sir Reynard. Emerick leaned forward and smiled warmly at her.
Grimbol, at his other side, did not look at her.
“When was that?” Sir Reynard asked. “What day?”
She had to think. It seemed as if years had passed. “Five days ago.”
“But he must have left at once for Harkniss, for he was there, Oriana told Drest. Yet he’d gone before we arrived.” Emerick folded his hands on the table. “God’s bones, how on earth did he do that? It took us two
days to reach Harkniss.”
“He went by ship and then by horse,” said Sir Reynard. “There’s a port up the coast from the headland where we always keep a stable. You should know these things, my lord.”
Emerick groaned. “So he could be anywhere now.”
Sir Reynard patted his hand. “True, but we’ll find him; your uncle likes to follow plans. It was his plan to send that group of knights to search each village—for your lifeless body, he said. Clever. They knew what they were here for: a search-and-burn. Search for someone by burning everyone out of their homes, and murder and burn the man they find. Remember those, Grimbol?”
The Mad Wolf frowned. “Aye, I remember. I served in them, and then I fled them.” He rapped his knuckles against the table. “You say, Reynard, that he’s following a plan. What did he mean by sending a single man to find us? That’s what the villagers say, that there was one knight here alone after dark on the day I left. I’ve never heard of that done before.”
“Only one knight?” Sir Reynard looked from Grimbol to Emerick. “That’s against all orders.”
“It was Sir Fergal,” said Emerick. “He was here pretending to be a tanner from Brill’s Gate. He was—hunting.”
“Ah, for the wolf’s head.” Sir Reynard patted Drest’s shoulder.
“What’s this?” Grimbol’s voice was like ice. “Who’s a wolf’s head?”
“You didn’t know? Oswyn’s marked your daughter, Grimbol. He knows how she protects Lord Faintree, and so he accuses her of his death.” Sir Reynard leaned toward Drest. “But you’re safe with us here, you understand.”
She lowered her eyes.
The bench across from them scraped. Grimbol had risen, and was walking around the table toward the back door.
“Are we finished?” Sir Reynard asked sternly. “I think not. Grimbol, we have other matters to discuss.”
“I need a word with my daughter. Drest, come.”
And then he was out the door.
With her throat tight, Drest slipped out from the bench and strode after him.
* * *
• • •
Grimbol was waiting in the middle of the field across from the mill.
Drest took her time on her walk toward her father’s solitary figure, halting often to untangle strands of flowering purple vetch from her boots. Everything inside of her was sore—angry and hurt at once. She’d not seen her father for a full day. He’d not once come to find her and ask what she had done when they’d been apart.
Grimbol’s stern face was unchanging as she approached, even when she was close. “What is this about a wolf’s head? Why haven’t I heard of it until now, from that man?” His voice was soft but brutal, a growl unlike any she had heard.
She clenched her hand over Tancored’s pommel, focusing hard on the feel of that square against her skin. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Did you not think I would protect you?”
Drest fixed her narrowed eyes on her father, her lips tight.
“Lass.” Like a swift, sharp whip. “Do you know what it means, to be a wolf’s head? It’s given to the worst of men. I’ve never been called a wolf’s head, never, even with all I’ve done. Oswyn meant for you to die. He meant for you to suffer. He meant for you to fear—”
“I know what it means!” Drest stamped on the grass. “And I know what it would have meant if I’d told you! You’d have kept me running, not stopping at villages, away from all people—”
“Aye, I’d have kept you safe! I’d have kept you on the run with no man or woman ever seeing your face again—”
“But Da—that would be worse than what I’ve had! That’s no life. I’d rather die than live like that!”
He seized her, and held her tight. “I never should have left you. I don’t know what foolish notions of chivalry that lord has fed you, but Drest—ah, my lass, my lass—your life is more precious than anything. Aye, even if it is a life on the run.”
She tried to slip away, but his hold on her was fast.
“And you think your da is a monster. I will be to anyone who harms my wee girl. I’ll lock you up in a tower, I will, and set your brothers as guards below.”
I’ll climb down that tower, Drest thought. I’ll escape from any cage you try to lock me in.
Her father’s grip loosened, and Drest struggled out of it to face him on the grass.
“You’re not to go anywhere without one of your brothers,” Grimbol said. “Do you understand me, Drest? Never again. Always have a battle-mate at your side. We’ll live out this threat. And I shall find Oswyn, and I shall make him look me in the eye as I take his last breath from him—aye, Drest, I am a monster. Now go find one of your brothers.”
Grudgingly, she looked around.
“The twins. They’re by the hay field. Do you see them?”
“Aye, Da.” She started toward the small black figures against the green. The itching that always came over her when she needed to run was shooting through her legs. She broke into a stride, then a jog, then a run, and then a sprint.
But instead of sprinting toward the twins, she ran for the woods.
28
DISOBEYING ORDERS
Drest heard her father’s shout, but she raced on, the village at her back.
You think I’m nothing but a wee lass! I rescued you from a castle prison when you and all the lads were about to be hanged, and you still think I’m but a wee lass!
Branches tried to catch her, but she ducked through their tangle.
You told me I was to be in the war-band, but you don’t treat me as if I am. Nay, I’m but your lass, weaker than any maiden I’ve met, and so I must be protected, and held safe—as if I don’t know how to use a sword or go to battle!
She kept sprinting, and her breath became an aching dry fire in her chest.
If I wanted to be but a maiden, I’d have gone with Merewen! She tried to make me, but then she helped me, and trusted me, and knew that I could escape. Aye, a woman I barely know trusted me! Why do you trust all the lads but never me?
All at once, the woods opened up to reveal the chasm after which Phearsham Ridge had been named.
It was a furrow in the ground, separating the village and its woods from the rest of the world.
Drest’s sprint rattled to a jog, then a walk. With her chest heaving, she wandered to the edge of the cliff. Tiny plants had sprouted all the way down, growing on ledges, their green leaves reaching toward the sun. Thick moss lined the lower part of the cliff. It felt like an ancient, unknown place, and she was the first to discover it.
Drest closed her eyes.
It won’t ever end.
The wolf’s head was a mask, a cage, a new identity. Bandit, murderer, helpless maiden.
But that’s not what I am, not any of it. Drest rubbed her fist against her eyes.
Aye, I know what you are: a rot-headed squid for running into the woods by yourself. Against Da’s order. Uwen’s voice.
I don’t want you, lad.
Aye, but you should. Did not hear Da? It’s not safe for you to be alone.
I can tell if I’m safe or not. How can you? You’re not real.
Nay, I’m real, you maggot-brained sparrow. I’m as real as that man who’s watching you.
Drest whirled around.
A high-domed, long-jawed face in a brown hood and a brown cloak stared at her through the trees.
“Now, now,” Sir Fergal said, his voice like the crackling of a fish over fire, “I’ve been following you for ever so long. You’re not going to run again, are you? Let’s not fight. I shan’t hurt you. I need but a lock of your hair to prove I’ve found you, that’s all. May I have one?”
He was walking slowly out from the trees as if toward a wild animal he hoped to tame. With the cliff at her back and the knight only steps away, she h
ad no place to run.
Sir Fergal lunged, his dagger gleaming.
Drest ducked, and kicked him in the soft cushion of his stomach, but he didn’t fall. He grabbed at her boot—
But not quickly enough.
She was out of his reach, on her feet, and running into the woods.
The damp leaves were as slick as stone, but Drest barely touched them in her flight. She shot between trees, her speed keeping her balance.
Sir Fergal gasped—behind her, and close. He was faster without his hauberk, and his steps were a swift echo of her own.
Twining roots swept under her feet, up a hill. The land opened to a patch of grass where trees had fallen and lay in dusty heaps. Decaying wood flew out from her steps as she scrambled over the trunks.
Sir Fergal threw himself after her, over fallen trees, through thickets of weed, reaching.
Too close.
Drest swept her dagger from its scabbard, then bolted to a stop and swung around.
He wasn’t ready.
They collided and fell, a tangle of limbs.
Drest had fallen in a tangle with Uwen many times and knew how to free herself first—and to come out on top.
Within seconds, she was crouching on Sir Fergal’s chest with all her weight, her knees in his stomach, her right hand on his wrist, though he’d dropped his knife, and her left holding her dagger to his throat.
“Don’t move,” Drest panted. Her heart beat a fierce patter. “Don’t move, or I’ll slay you.”
He twitched against her knife. A faint red line appeared between the blade and his skin.
And then, all at once, he tensed. Taking deep, shuddering breaths through his nose, he waited, mouth tight, eyes shut, eyelids trembling.
Do it. Gobin’s voice. He’s waiting for you.
He’s made you suffer. He’s made you scared. Nutkin, his voice more bitter than it had ever been in life. Do it, lass.
29