Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

  “Good day to you, sheriff,” he replied as he edged back a little. The man encroached upon their space and Miles did not appreciate it. He was at a disadvantage stood as he was while the sheriff was mounted. He would stand a poor chance of defence from the sheriff’s sword should he choose to wield it, while he had Grace attached to him like a limpet. “You have travelled far. What brings you to this God-forsaken place?”

  The sheriff circled the group as he attempted to satisfy his curiosity. “I am in search of lawbreakers. Have you had sight of any Scotsmen on your journey?”

  Miles shook his head, glanced at the bodies and his stomach clenched. He tightened his grip on Grace and willed her to be silent. They were after Scots rustlers not missing nuns, and the Scots could look after themselves, and yet, the man seemed determined in his efforts to get a look at Grace.

  “You should not linger here, Sir, it is not safe.” The sheriff yanked viciously at the reins and the horse fought the bit angrily, wheeling ever closer. “There are villains abroad and another storm is brewing. Where are you and your good lady headed?” He leaned down from the saddle for a closer look.

  Grace balked at the sight of his florid, pockmarked features, the spittle spraying liberally from between flaccid jowls and broken black teeth. Miles felt her fear. He contained the quivers which shook her slight frame, within his embrace.

  “We look for somewhere to break our journey,” said Miles, he did not care to mention Wildewood. “The lady is unwell and the pony is lame.” He tightened his arm around Grace’s shoulders and prayed she would not betray him. To his surprise and relief she executed a perfect swoon and buried her face in his chest with a dramatic gasp. “We must seek shelter,” he added and he turned and lifted Grace onto the back of his horse. “If you will excuse us, we will take our leave.” He swung up behind her and taking the pony’s reins from Edmund he gestured at him to follow on foot.

  “But surely you do not expect that I would leave you out here at the mercy of the weather and the lawless. No, Sir...” said the sheriff with a glint in his eye, “my men and I will escort you and your good lady to The Wedder Inn. William Craig will have room, no doubt.”

  He called to one of his men to make room for the boy on the back of his horse and Edmund glanced quickly at Miles. Miles gave the slightest incline of his head. By necessity they were obliged to accept the sheriff’s offer.

  “What’s happening?” whispered Grace. “Where are we going now?” She clutched the front of the saddle and for once did not resist as he tightened his grip around her waist. He turned the horse away from the sheriff and scanned the accompanying men quickly. Too many to fight and he had not the horse power to flee. He swallowed his unease, unwilling to reveal just how rattled he was.

  “A slight diversion, Mademoiselle, I must ask that you continue this charade,” he breathed hoarsely against her ear. “I do not trust the sheriff. We must ensure we do not give him cause to question our account.”

  “But...but isn’t he the law?” Confusion and fear caused her words to stutter. “Shouldn’t he be helping us?”

  Miles laughed humourlessly. “He acts on behalf of the king but is in the pay of the barons. He upholds his own laws, those that bring the greatest reward.”

  “You know him?” She sounded appalled and Miles winced. He knew far greater monsters than this and recalled occasions when he’d behaved almost as badly.

  “I know the likes of him but I do not know this man personally, and that is in our favour.”

  “Why?”

  Miles smiled sourly “Because he is a collector of bodies and I have no desire to add to his collection.”

  Miles had little inclination to visit The Wedder Inn either. It would take them in the opposite direction from Wildewood and they were frustratingly close. However, he would rather that, than have the sheriff follow him home. He did not need the man’s attention and didn’t enjoy the man’s obvious interest in Grace.

  He was equally puzzled by the sheriff’s lack of interest or knowledge in the missing nun from Kirk Knowe. He’d expected to be questioned and been prepared to feign ignorance. Perhaps the alarm was yet to be raised although that seemed unlikely. They must have missed her by now. He needed to keep her close, particularly at the inn; if they were separated he was unsure what she would do. He’d a lot to lose if she betrayed him, not least the ransom.

  The sheriff rode frustratingly close, slowing his horse to keep pace with Miles. “Your good lady is very quiet,” he stated slyly. “Is all well?”

  “It will be when we are able to rest, sheriff. I fear we slow you down. Pplease feel free to continue your manhunt. We will find the inn ourselves.” Miles wanted rid of the man but realised that would not be easy.

  “I would not hear of it, Sir,” replied the sheriff. He smirked and Miles held his gaze coolly. Something was afoot but caught up as he was with the mystery of the girl’s identity he couldn’t decide whether the interest of the odious sheriff was mere coincidence or more likely connected. He was certain of one thing. He couldn’t afford to let Grace out of his sight at the inn. If the sheriff were to catch her on her own he would be unable to guarantee her story or her safety.

  A shout came then from one of the men who stood in his stirrups and pointed north where the moor rose again. Riders could be seen in the far distance heading away from them. The remaining Scots raiding party no doubt and the sheriff glanced quickly from the Scots quarry to Grace, shrouded beneath her cloak, sheltered against Miles chest. His face was a torment of indecision and intrigue and it gave Miles a measure of power to know that the man’s greed would naturally have him follow the bounty hanging on each Scottish head.

  “If you are sure you do not need our escort then we will resume our chase,” said the sheriff. “Perhaps we will meet at the inn?” He studied Miles for a moment, as if about to make further comment. Then he hauled the horse around with a cruel hand and headed north. He had Scots to kill.

  Edmund was dumped unceremoniously onto the snowy ground, and with a curt nod, the hunting party were off at a gallop. Miles watched them go, waited until they were out of sight then dismounted and hoisted Edmund up in front of Grace. He passed the reins of his horse to Edmund, gathered up the reins of the pony and headed for Wildewood. When they reached the point where they had first encountered the sheriff he stopped and gestured for Edmund to dismount, he had walked far enough. It was time for the boy to stretch his legs.

  “We will ride ahead, you will follow on foot with the pony. She must be allowed to take her time or the lameness will be prolonged.” Edmund nodded, his disappointment at being left behind, and his anxiety regarding the sheriff, clearly evident in his pinched face.

  “How far must I walk before I reach Wildewood?” he asked.

  Miles took him by his shoulders and pointed him west, towards the tree line of a great forest which cloaked the hill before them. He pointed then at a dark shape which could barely be made out, peeping above the canopy.

  “Do you see that, Edmund? There amongst the trees, do you see the stone of the tower?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “That is Wildewood, Edmund, my home, and yours too now. Our trail will be easy to follow through the snow.”

  “And what of yon beasts in the wood?” asked Edmund anxiously.

  Miles smiled. “I will ask them to let you pass safely.”

  He swung himself up behind Grace without comment, nodded once more to Edmund then kicked the horse into a canter. Despite the earlier altercation with Grace and the strange encounter with the sheriff, he was exhilarated. That glimpse of Wildewood had set his heart racing, it had been so long since he’d last seen it, and even the forest seemed more impenetrable. He wondered what he would find.

  Grace clung onto the front of the saddle as Miles urged the horse faster through the snow. The horse seemed to have caught Miles’ mood, picking up its pace and covering the distance to the tree line in long fluid strides. Soon they were in the forest wi
th the trees closing in around them. Miles felt her alarm as she braced against him and for once he could understand where it came from. There was a sense of mystery and unease in the darkness between the trees. He slowed the horse and picked his way carefully.

  “Where is the path?” she asked eventually as it appeared Miles was riding into nowhere.

  It was the first time she’d spoken since leaving the sheriff and he guessed the words had slipped out accidently. He knew women; they could maintain a silence longer than any man for reasons known only to them. He smiled to himself. She had chosen to remain with him, despite her opportunity to escape. To be fair it wasn’t much of a choice and she’d obviously been influenced in his favour by the sight of the dead men, but he doubted the basis for her choice would be that straightforward.

  “The path is right here, you just have to know where it is.” He tightened his grip on her waist and felt her wriggle against him stubbornly. He tightened it further. He could be just as stubborn. As they broke through the trees into a large clearing he pulled the horse up sharply and paused to gaze at the place where he had spent his childhood; the place which held many happy memories and where he had first formulated his plans for revenge.

  Chapter Eleven

  Beyond the expanse of snow-covered parkland, Grace saw her first glimpse of Wildewood. Set against a background of impenetrable forest, the building was constructed from mellow cheviot stone and to Grace’s untutored eye, it best resembled a small castle or fortified house. A castellated tower stood to the western end of the building. At the centre of a high retaining wall a stout pair of wooden gates led to an inner courtyard. The gates were ajar hanging unevenly on massive, rusted hinges. Ivy cloaked the outer walls halfway up to the stone slab roof. Some of the straw thatch on the smaller, adjoining buildings had fallen in and young trees were beginning to push their way through. An air of neglect enshrouded the entire place.

  Miles urged the horse onward walking him slowly through the entrance and into the courtyard. Metal horse shoes sparked against the weathered cobbles, echoing coldly around the empty space. The place was deserted, had been for many years. Lichen hung eerily from the gnarled branches of trees and clung to the stonework as if in a bid to camouflage the place from the outside world. Miles slid from the horse and lifted Grace down. He remained silent and Grace saw the look of desolation on his face. She wondered what he’d expected. Perhaps he’d left family here and they’d perished in his absence. She reached out, despite herself, laid her hand on his arm and for a long moment he simply looked at her hand before blinking and pulling away.

  “Did something happen here, to your family?”

  “Yes, something happened to my family,” he answered stonily, as he turned and walked away. The horse trailed after him, reins dangling.

  No one came running to greet them. There were no welcoming noises from the buildings and no smoke from the chimneys, not even a barking dog or clucking chicken. Perhaps she’d made the wrong choice after all. Perhaps she should have thrown herself on the mercy of the sheriff. Miles had made it quite clear that all he was interested in was a ransom which she knew would not be paid. What would happen, she wondered when he realised she was worth nothing? She waited a moment in the snow, cold and hesitant but when he failed to return she made her way with difficulty up the stone steps leading to the first floor entrance and the heavy, oak door which led into the main building.

  Stepping out of the brightness into the inner gloom, she paused awhile, waiting for her eyes to adjust. As they did, she realised she stood within a great hall, an oversized carved stone fireplace at one end and a stone staircase at the other. Massive oak beams held up the roof and mouldy straw covered the floor. She heard rustling and saw movement within the litter. The place smelled of decay and damp and the droppings of vermin living within the debris. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to inhale too deeply as she limped to the centre of the hall. Turning in a slow circle, she took in the sad spectacle before her. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung from the walls. Once vibrant with colour, they were shabby and drab, nibbled by rodents, their threads hung like sinister cobwebs. Near the fireplace a plain wooden table had been tipped over and a bench lay smashed.

  Grace righted a chair which had once been placed to benefit from the warmth of the fire, and as she did her fingers found the delicate carving on the seat back. Flowers and fruits graced the mellow wood. A lady’s chair. She crossed to the fireplace, taller than her, and could just make out letters carved in the stone, although she couldn’t decipher their elaborate script. A basket lay upturned on the hearth; she imagined the soft, white wool of an orphan lamb. This had been a family home and something had happened to destroy it. She felt a great sadness overwhelm her and the unease in her belly grew.

  This was no dream.

  She glanced at the stairs but doubted her ability to climb yet another flight unaided. Her leg throbbed, a reminder of the strange circumstances which had brought her here. Weak sunlight tried valiantly to enter through a number of tall, leaded windows set high in the walls. Although glazed with coloured glass, the tints were muted with grime and allowed little heat from the sun to enter. The room was cold and unwelcoming. They would need a fire and Miles was nowhere to be seen.

  She could attempt an escape while he was otherwise engaged or she could make herself useful. With a shrug, she chose the latter, picked up an armful of wood from the shattered bench and slowly deposited it in the empty hearth before casting about for some dry straw to help the fire catch. With difficulty she knelt on her good knee and arranged the wood and straw in a pyramid stack and then she rose and patted her pockets until she found the box of matches which she knew were there. She struck the match, set the straw alight and carefully pocketed the box. The straw caused smoke and Grace had a moment of doubt when she wondered at the state of the flue, but then the wood took hold and the fire drew as it should and the smoke went up the great chimney.

  She looked about again. The straw was definitely alive and she didn’t care much for sharing her living space with vermin. Fly would have some fun when he was let loose in here she thought with a smile, but he wasn’t here yet and she felt the need to clear a safe area around the fire. Picking up another length of wood from the broken bench she used it as a makeshift broom to sweep away the straw from the area adjacent to the fire. Beneath the straw the floor was flagged with stone and although it was grimy, she could see that clean it would be beautiful.

  She limped over to the table and with great difficulty dragged it to her cleared area. It was too heavy for her to right by herself.

  “What are you doing?” Miles stood in the doorway. His eyes flashed from her, to the fire crackling in the hearth and the swept floor.

  Grace turned and wiped the sweat and grime from her face with her sleeve. “Helping.”

  “I thought you wanted to go home?” He watched her moodily and she was suddenly uncertain.

  “I do,” replied Grace, pushing all thoughts of bad things to the back of her mind. “But I need to keep warm in the meantime.”

  He stepped towards her and she took a hesitant step back.

  “Why did you not request help from the sheriff?”

  “Because you told me not to.” She edged back further until she felt the upturned table at her back.

  “And of course you always do as you’re told,” replied Miles with a raised brow.

  “You threatened me.” Grace’s indignation at the recollection was muted by caution. “You said if I valued my life I should say nothing.”

  “I did not threaten you, Mademoiselle, I merely warned you. You saw the bodies?”

  “Of course I saw the bodies.” How could she have missed them? Real bodies with blood and gore.

  “You made the right choice.”

  “For whom?”

  “For both of us.” Miles crossed to where she stood, heaved the table upright and set the remaining chairs against it. “Where did you find the flint to star
t the fire?”

  Flint? Grace stared at him as her hand closed around the matches in her pocket. She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find anything sensible to say. Everything that had occurred since he’d revealed they were in the midst of medieval Northumberland seemed to prove his account. Crazy or not, she thought it wise to play along and pushed the matches to the bottom of her pocket. She caught his eye, briefly wondering if he could tell she was hiding something. He raised a brow questioningly and she guessed he probably could, but was content he would never guess why. They held each other’s gaze and Grace waited for Miles to speak first. It took a few moments.

  “You have no reason to fear me.”

  “I don’t,” she lied.

  “I have no wish to hurt you. You must understand that. But I need the ransom. Look around, this place has been badly neglected in my absence. I suspect the rest of the demesne will be in a similar state.”

  “But do you not see? I can’t get you the ransom. I’ve already told you, I don’t know the bishop I don’t know anybody here.” Grace’s voice was laced with frustration, why did he not believe her?

  Miles shrugged as if she hadn’t spoken. He cast his gaze to the stairs. “There are bedchambers above. My mother enjoyed her privacy.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “How nice,” she replied sarcastically as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

  “Does the wound continue to cause pain?”

  “A little, but I’m fine.”

  “You mean okay?” added Miles with a weary smile.

  Grace wished she’d never asked Edmund about him, wished even more that Edmund had not mentioned about the bad things. Here he was trying to be pleasant and all she could think about was just how bad, he might be. She wasn’t sure what was worse knowing what someone was capable of, like the sheriff and his bodies, or imagining the worst when you didn’t know the truth.