Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

Edmund led Miles swiftly back through the stillness of the forest, to the spot where his victim lay, allowing his master to see for the first time the limp and bedraggled body which had begun to slide of its own volition beneath the icy water of the woodland bog. The body was soaked and unnaturally still. Edmund’s arrow expertly lodged in the thigh.

  Miles paused to survey the scene, holding Edmund back with a raised palm. When he was satisfied that no one lurked in the shadows between the trees, he knelt on the sodden ground and with rough hands hauled the body clear of the water, noting with suspicion and mounting unease the rope tangled around the neck. He glanced up at the overhanging trees. He saw no limb that would have accommodated a makeshift gallows. What devilment had gone on here?

  He removed the damp woollen hat and tossed it to the boy before smoothing the mud splattered hair back from the face and then leaning so close that his own warm breath would have tickled had the victim been conscious, he listened for sounds of breathing. He noted the pale smooth skin and fine bone structure, and was aware of a subtle fragrance, hovering just beneath the stink of rotting vegetation. He sat back on the damp ground pulling the body with him and assessed the situation.

  “Edmund, you are indeed a fortunate miscreant. Despite your skill with the bow, your victim still lives.” He grinned at the lad, who shook with relief. “But I see I need to further your education, for this is no boy. Don’t you know a maiden when you see one?”

  Although at a loss as to where this girl had come from, or how she’d breached his fail-safe systems, he had not the time to deliberate on the puzzle. He couldn’t afford to linger, nor could he simply leave her to perish. In reality it would have been more convenient to pretend they’d not stumbled upon her and preferable for all concerned if Edmund had not skewered her with his suspect aim.

  But as a knight, reluctant or not, he had a code of sorts to uphold. He accepted that lately he had been more scoundrel than valiant defender of the crown. Circumstances beyond his control had seen his honour tested. Perhaps in the guise of this strange bedraggled girl, the fates had sent him a reminder of how he should behave. Who was he to argue with fate?

  He loosened the noose from around the girl’s neck, noting the redness of burnt skin, stripped off his belt and used it to stem the flow of blood. Then picking her up as if she weighed naught, he slung her across his shoulder as he would have carried the deer, had Edmund’s aim had been true. With questionable care, and surprising speed he carried her back to the camp.

  Dropping her limp body in an unceremonious heap by the fire, Miles pondered whether such a scrawny thing was worth his efforts at all. He had things to do. Plans that required set in motion, which he delayed at his own peril. There was no guarantee of her regaining her senses and, honour-be-damned, he’d no desire to be landed with a drooling halfwit. He crouched at her side and laid a palm against her cheek, felt her skin cold and clammy. He knew her leg required treatment and the arrow must come out, but it was not safe to linger here in the frozen wood.

  Whoever she was, her kin would come looking and he doubted they would believe young Edmund had mistaken her for a deer. They would either be looking to rescue her or finish her off, and waiting around to find out was not an option.

  “What did you see before you loosed your arrow?” he asked the boy, impatiently. He needed to understand the significance of what they’d inadvertently stumbled upon. It was not usual to come across young girls, alone in the deep woods, even more unusual to discover them near death with a rope around their neck. Despite his impatience at this unwelcome interlude, he was intrigued.

  Edmund shrugged, bewildered. “A deer, I reckon I seen a deer.”

  “But obviously you did not. Did you merely see movement? Was the girl on the ground or in the air?” He pictured her suddenly, a fleeting image of a terrified face, as she swung, feet far from the ground. His hand strayed to his throat, where his own scars were barely visible, but engrained on his mind nonetheless. He dropped his hand and blinked the image away.

  “In the air,” Edmund pulled a face, suppressing his laughter. “How could she be in the air, she’s not a bird?” He flapped his arms, hopping on one leg, a court jester in the making. Miles recognised fear edging toward hysteria as the boy attempted to rationalise his actions. He recalled his own first kill. Fear mingled with elation. It had left a bitter taste, but that was long ago and his palate had quickly grown accustomed.

  Continuing his assessment of the girl’s condition, Miles ignored the boy’s antics and his interest grew, despite his initial reluctance. In his experience everything happened for a reason, good or bad. It was his task to determine how best to turn this misadventure to his own advantage. “Nor is she a deer, Edmund, but that did not stop you. Was she hanging? Or was she on the ground?”

  “Does it matter, my lord?” shrugged the boy in confusion.

  “It matters if we have come upon a hanging,” replied Miles grimly. “The hangman may come looking for his corpse.” He turned with a menacing grin that highlighted the scar tracing his jaw line. He couldn’t help himself. Edmund was such an easy target. “Or indeed, he may be content to take the boy who loosed the arrow, in place of the corpse. Just think of it, Edmund, the world looks quite different from the end of a rope.” And he should know.

  Edmund paused, one foot hovering above the ground and allowed his arms to drop to his side.

  “I think she be on the ground,” he said quickly, He’d no wish to meet the hangman.

  Miles shook his head impatiently. “You think? Maybe if you had thought before you released the arrow we wouldn’t be in this predicament.” He didn’t need the additional aggravation. Not now so close to home, so close to completing his mission.

  “Edmund make haste, prepare the horses, we need to leave now.” He snapped the shaft of the arrow, to ensure it did not impede their progress but the girl lay unresponsive to any additional pain the action may have caused. She was either made of sterner stuff than he, or so far gone the pain had ceased to mean anything.

  He checked her breathing again. Detected it; shallow but still there. He slid a rough palm beneath the neck of her woollen jerkin, ignored the swell of her breasts and concentrated his mind on the rhythm of her heart beating in her chest. The physicians he’d met on his travels, in lands far from this place, had held great store by the function of the heart in life and death. He was no physician, but it was true, he’d never felt the beat within the chest of a dead man and he’d seen and created many dead men.

  “Edmund did you hear me?” He withdrew his hand and turned impatiently. The boy was a liability. “What have you there?”

  Edmund grinned mischievously, fear now erased from his face. He lifted the small dog by its scruff for inspection. “He’s mine, I found him in yonder forest. He’ll bring us many rabbits.” The dog wriggled in the boy’s grasp, wagged its tail energetically and Miles allowed a reluctant smile.

  “Rabbits yes, but no more deer, Edmund, or the king will have your head and mine.” The boy dropped his gaze and Miles momentarily shared his unease at the strange turn of events. He turned away from the child, swept a quick glance around the campsite and added gruffly. “Keep him if you must, but make sure he doesn’t stray. He has a wilful look about him. I fancy he would think naught of chasing my stock, supposing I have any left after all this time.” The boy grinned again and nodded his agreement. “And, Edmund,” added Miles, “make haste!”

  Riding hard through the forest the horses picked their way sure-footedly through the bogs and beyond, where the moor rose above them, still snow covered. Here the land grew ever steeper and more rugged. The wind snapped cruelly across the vast empty terrain and the riders braced themselves against the biting weather.

  All the while Miles held the girl against the warmth of his body. Her chilled dampness seeped through the cloak and into his clothes and skin. He fought the wheeze which tightened his chest as her cold impregnated him and he began to doubt his decision to bring her a
long. She would likely die and he would have received a soaking for naught.

  Her head rested beneath his chin and he listened as she whimpered with pain. A good sign, she was regaining some of her faculties. He pondered on her identity, where she’d come from and how she’d gotten so close to them without being seen. He wondered about her strange clothes, and why she was dressed as a boy. Miles knew all about spies, had encountered more than a few on his travels. He knew how they worked, how devious they could be, but what would spies be doing this far north? Unless, word had got out of his return to these shores, and Sir Gerard had prepared a welcome.

  He wondered a lot and in particular, he puzzled about why someone would want her dead. She was very young to warrant the noose, but who was he to question the law, or her, if indeed she had fallen foul of it. He had spent much of his time in questionable compliance with laws that changed as readily as the Monarch. It was not his place, nor his wish, to pass judgement on a scrap, who might yet succumb to her wounds.

  His judgement was reserved for someone altogether more deserving.

  Chapter Three

  Cold, wet and hunched in the saddle, Miles was thankful for short winter days. Although keen to press on and reach his final destination, he was bone weary and grateful that the early loss of the sun brought an end to their frozen journey. As darkness closed in around them and the temperature continued to plummet, they came with immeasurable gratitude upon a low stone building, alone in the desolate landscape.

  The boy, with little flesh on his bones, was frozen. He stamped his feet and blew onto his icy hands in an attempt to warm himself. Miles too had suffered the sting of the elements. His muscles ached with the strain of holding the girl. For the second time he doubted the wisdom of his decision to bring her along. He should have left her. Would have left her, he realised with a measure of self-loathing, but for the risk to the boy and himself if they were implicated in her death. He’d become corrupted by the life he’d led and perhaps it was time he considered how to make amends. With no energy or time to dig a grave in the frozen ground, he considered it prudent therefore, to ensure her good health. He lifted her from the horse’s back and turned to assess their sanctuary.

  The building had been a home, during the summer months when there was a living to be made up here in this high land of hardy hill sheep and buzzards. Now, still shrouded in thick snow it stood abandoned. Its sturdy walls had survived the worst weather. The adjoining outbuildings less successfully, however, they were sufficient to shelter the horses from the relentless wind which carried sleet and the promise of heavier snow to come.

  Miles shouldered the door, thankful the roof was intact and the interior dry. He’d sheltered in far worse places, and there was something of comfort in the unassuming stone walls. He lowered the girl to the dirt floor, still scattered with last year’s straw, and set about making a fire while Edmund attended to the horses.

  “It’s going to be a long cold night, Edmund,” he said, when the boy returned. His voice was hoarse with the cold and lack of use. “If your petit cerf is to survive till morning we shall need to warm her.” He held out an empty cooking pot and the boy nodded. Not keen to go back out into the cold, but resigned to his role as snow gatherer and general dogsbody, he paused at the door.

  “Edmund, make haste,” Miles added. “The sooner the arrow is removed and the humours restored the better for us all.”

  Edmund looked from the man to the girl, reluctant to leave. “D’ yer believe someone was tryin’ to kill her?”

  Miles cocked his head. “You mean, other than you?”

  “I didn’t intend harm,” the boy muttered, dropping his gaze to his feet.

  “Indeed, Edmund, but now you see the result of using a weapon without clear sight.”

  “It will not happen again. Ye can be assured of that.”

  Miles shrugged; the boy had learnt his lesson. “No matter, Edmund, you made a mistake, and we will endeavour to put it to rights, now go.”

  He returned his attention to the girl who lay unmoving by the fire. He squatted alongside balancing on the balls of his feet and slowly drew back the cloak. He judged her taller than the boy, a little older, and slightly built, though the woollen tunic she wore hid most of her body from view. Her hair was fair or would be when clean, though oddly streaked with pink. It was short and unusually spiky apart from the fringe that fell across her eyes.

  He ran his fingers roughly through the damp strands, checking for any wound that may have stained her hair. Why would a woman choose to wear her hair so short unless she was a spy and attempting to pass herself as a boy? Realistically, a female spy who made the most of her femininity and had a little more flesh on her bones would have stood more chance of infiltrating his defences than a scrawny boy. In fact, had she been more to his liking, he might well have enjoyed a little infiltrating of his own, and his nemesis Gerard would know that. He was therefore left uncertain and unconvinced at her purpose.

  Perhaps the noose was the key, but who wanted her dead and for what reason? His gaze travelled to her leg and the arrow, part of which still protruded through the loose fabric of her leggings. What kind of a woman wore clothes such as these? She was odd there was no question about it, and oddness carried with it an air of mystery which made him suspicious. He had not survived the last ten years without developing a sense for such things.

  He took his knife and slit the material from ankle to waist. She moaned softly as he unlaced and removed her boots. Good boots, he thought; lightweight and sturdy with soft padding at the ankle, they would be comfortable, though the fastening was unusual and they were certainly not footwear for a young lady. Then the trousers were off and that did cause her to struggle against him. He was surprised at her strength. Even in slumber she fought him and he smiled at her spirit. No doubt when awake she would realise the folly of her struggles, but for now he found it mildly entertaining.

  “Hush, Mademoiselle,” he muttered. “I mean you no harm; I’m trying to assist you, lie still.” He stroked her hair, in the way he would to calm his horse, or a flighty hound, and then absently, he stroked her pale thigh for no other reason than the fact that he could. While his rough palm skimmed her soft skin, he considered the best way to remove the arrow, which ensured his mind did not stray to other matters of the flesh. Fortunately for her, the arrow did not appear to have hit bone. It would however, need to be removed and that was going to hurt. It was inevitable. Regardless of her undeniable fighting spirit, she would definitely need something to dull the pain.

  He used the boiling water provided by Edmund to clean his knife, then took a small blue glass vial from his pack and took a moment to consider its use. The contents were precious, a concoction of opiates brought from the east and irreplaceable in this remote location. He was uncertain whether it might be needed again, or whether it would be wasted on a lost cause. Nevertheless, he propped the girl up against him, tipping her head back so she could be made to drink. He spoke softly against her ear and she roused slightly.

  “Mademoiselle, you must drink this. It will make you sleep. When you awaken all will be done.”

  He took her incoherent muttering as acquiescence and poured half the contents into her mouth. She gagged and he held her mouth and nose closed with one hand to ensure she swallowed. Edmund looked away, reluctant to witness to her distress.

  “Edmund, hold fast,” Miles muttered. “You’ve seen worse on the battle field. I need your help here, hold her tight while I attend to the wound. It will cause her pain and she will fight you despite the tincture. You must hold her securely so the knife does not slip.”

  Edmund took Miles’ place and did his job admirably for she did indeed howl and thrash when the arrow was removed and even more so when the wound was cauterised. He held her to him tightly, his small thin arms empowered suddenly with the necessary strength. He had never been as close to a girl before. When all was done, Miles was forced to prise him away he appeared so affected by the traum
a of the operation and the nearness of the girl.

  “Go and settle the horses, Edmund,” said Miles gruffly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement. “I will attend to her now.”

  Edmund smiled weakly. He pulled on the girl’s hat and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders before gratefully leaving the cottage.

  Miles took the time to rinse his blood stained hands in the cooling water. He rolled his head slowly from side to side to free up his taut neck muscles. He badly needed to sleep, but wasn’t quite finished. Leaning forward he used his thumbs to gently rub away the muddy tears from the girls face. She was deathly pale and her clothes clung damply to her cold skin.

  Lifting her arms, he pulled her woollen tunic over her head. Her clothes would dry overnight in front of the fire. He paused, distracted and undeniably interested when he saw how little she wore beneath; a short close fitting white sleeveless tunic that revealed her belly and the tiniest lace undergarments he had ever seen.

  Tracing the outline of her right hip bone, a flurry of tiny butterflies tattooed in the deepest indigo blue, fluttered lifelike across her pale skin. If she wasn’t a spy then she was some kind of temptress and his mind buzzed with possibilities, not all of them honourable. He smiled shrewdly and reassessed the situation. She was certainly not as young as he’d first thought. Maybe that explained the hanging; maybe she’d been the victim of a cuckold wife, or a guilty husband.

  She shivered in the frigid air and he watched mesmerised as the butterflies twitched their wings tantalizingly. With a muttered curse he gave himself a shake and replaced the cloak. It amused him to know something about her, something she would no doubt prefer to keep hidden. She was indeed a puzzle, but there would be time enough to solve it later, when he had energy for the game. His priority now was to eat and sleep. He needed all his strength and wits for the days ahead.

  Every day brought him closer to Wildewood and revenge.