The Dark Lady

by Dawn Chandler

  “Milord, are you not going with me? Where will you be?” Marshall’s voice was a soft weak plea.

  Peter ignored Marshall’s fear and his own doubts. “I will be right behind you.” He hit the skittish horse soundly on the rump and it bolted away. He added loudly, “Right behind you, in case you fall off.” He kicked his steed and Jackal bounded after the racing stallion. Peter watched the smooth lines of Ebro with pride.

  Marshall clung desperately to the whipping mane and clenched his eyes shut in fear. He was sure he was going to fall and die. He could feel the wind flowing through his whipping hair. Opening his eyes a little at a time, he fought the trembling that wracked his arms and legs.

  He thought of all the things in his life he still wanted to do and thought of his loving mother, as he waited for the fall that would end his life. He could feel Peter racing behind him. He could sense Jackal urging Ebro to go faster, competing with the challenging destrier.

  The first fork in the road was not far ahead of them. He could see it barreling toward him. It split to the left and to the right and ahead of it were several trees and scraggly brush. If the horse didn’t turn the correct way he would be shamed, but if the horse didn’t turn at all it would kill them both.

  Marshall took a deep breath and forced himself to straighten. If he was going to make that turn, he was going to have to do something. He released his death grip on the coarse mane and pulled tightly on the reins.

  He leaned right and pulled the reins, gently at first, in the direction of the turn. Ebro turned neatly into the turn and Marshall nearly shouted from joy. Never had he dreamed he could do this. He had believed the horse to be out of control, that he had no power to control it, and he had been wrong. He had done it.

  He relaxed, feeling the stallion’s smooth neck muscles ripple against the reins. Ebro tugged against them, wanting his head. He had been constrained in the stables and wanted to run.

  Marshall allowed a slight slacking and gave Ebro some freedom while still keeping control. He moved with the rhythm of the horse’s long, ground-eating strides. He leaned forward out of the wind and took a deep breath.

  Fear swamped him once again as the second fork came into view. He pulled on the reins, slowing.

  Suddenly Peter was beside him, slapping Ebro on the rump once again. Jackal pushed forward into the bend and Ebro pushed ahead of him. Fear knotted in Marshall’s stomach but he held firmly onto the reins and leaned into the turn.

  Peter grinned proudly at the boy. Marshall was doing well with the racing stallion. He held an unsteady control over Ebro, but it was control nonetheless.

  Jackal laid his ears laid back and pulled the bit into his teeth. Peter pulled gently on the reins and felt no give. He tugged on them roughly, but Jackal only snorted and nudged his way past Ebro and into the lead.

  Marcus Teredo and his son, Kyle, stood in the door yard of their cottage and watched as the racers flew past them. Peter turned Jackal toward Ebro, forcing him to turn as well and they came thundering back toward Teredo’s land.

  The sheep in the front pasture stood lazily watching the racers go by.

  The horses, heaving heavy breaths and lathered to a thick white, skidded to a stop, side-by-side.

  Marshall, unprepared for the sudden stop, flew over his mount, landing heavily on the ground. He jumped to his feet before Peter could even ask if he was all right. He happily hugged the big animal tightly around the neck before dancing around the two animals, shouting his exhilaration.

  “Careful, boy, look how you are scaring my sheep.” Marcus laughed as the sheep lazily moved from grass clump to grass clump, bleating contentedly.

  “Sorry, sir. I apologize.” The gesture was well meant and honest, even given the mile-wide grin, a new feature to his young, dirt-covered face.

  “Marcus, I am sorry if we disturbed you or your sheep. May I come in?” Peter asked. He glanced at Marcus’s son and watched the slow smile that crossed his face as he stared at the horses. There was a shiny glint to his eyes and a slight slackness to his jaws.

  “Kyle, take the horses and give them a good rub down. Give them little water but no food just yet,” Marcus said gently as he looked over the horses. “Don’t let them gulp the water now.”

  “Aw, I know all that, Papa.” Kyle took the reins and led the horses toward the small stable yard.

  Peter’s shoulders knotted in concern as the obviously, slow-witted boy took his prize stallions. “Is he going to be all right with them?”

  “Aye, milord. He had the fever when he was little and the doctor said there was nothing that could be done. We thought we had lost him, only lost a part of him though. He is here and that is what matters to us.”

  Marcus motioned them toward the house. He led the way, opening the wood slat door so they could enter. “He had been damaged due to the high fever. Aye, he is slow, but he is as strong as an ox, willing, and capable of doing anything I ask of him. He is skilled at caring for horses, milord.”

  Peter turned before he entered the house. “Go with him, Marshall. You need to know how to care for horses that have been run hard. Caring for them properly makes sure they do not become ill.”

  He did not wait for an answer but followed Marcus into the small warm house and took the offered seat at the small table.

  Marcus’s wife was beside herself, mumbling irritably about guests giving notice before coming to visit, even if they were the lord of the manor.

  Marcus shook his head indulgently and ignored her. He looked expectantly at Peter but Peter waited until the ale was placed on the table and Mrs. Teredo was out of the room.

  Peter took a long drink of ale and looked around the small kitchen. It was clean and warm, but looked well used. “I have been told you are having difficulties with sheep coming up missing here of late.”

  “Aye, milord, as I told Lady Grayweist, I believed it to be wolves or some such animal. I stayed up one night to find out. It was men. I did not recognize them, but Lady Vanessa asked me what they looked like and she knew who it was.”

  Peter looked up at him in shock, but Marcus was taking a long drink of ale. Peter took a deep breath and relaxed. “What did they look like?” he asked calmly, but what he wanted to know was why he thought Vanessa knew who it was.

  Marcus repeated his story of the large gruesome looking creature and Peter felt his stomach draw tight. He knew exactly who it was. Eolian was here, of that he was certain, but he was unsure of why Eolian had not made his presence known before now. Why was he keeping hidden?

  “I have told people what she told me to, but no one has come to look at my sheep. I did what she asked.” He glanced nervously in the direction his wife had disappeared to. “I hope it was the right thing, milord. My sheep is all I have to take care of my family milord. Without them...” He shrugged his shoulders and concern furrowed his brow.

  “Everything will be fine. It will all work out in the end. Your sheep will sell, even if I have to buy them all.” He gave Marcus’s arm a gentle squeeze. “My wife just wanted to worry the men who stole your sheep. Tell people it was a mistake, not today, but tomorrow. Tell them it was coyotes that were dragging away your sheep and not a sickness.” Peter took a small drink of ale and leaned back in his chair.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Peter grinned at Marcus. “That should worry the men long enough, but we want them to come back for some more. Tomorrow night I will post a man on your holding as well as several others’ with livestock. We will get the men doing this.”

  They spoke of the weather and the coming winter before Peter made his farewells. Peter and Marshall made their way back to the castle, more sedately than on the way to the holding.

  Peter said very little on the way back. His mind worried over what Marcus had said. “She knew who it was”. He had said it so calmly, but Peter had not been calm since he had said it.

  Eolian, at last report, had been far away from here. He had been seen around a small town of Junket not l
ong ago. What had brought him this far over?

  More importantly, how did Vanessa know it was him? She knew his name, not many did, but it was not unheard of. Knowing Eolian’s name, and knowing one of his men by a description, was not the same.

  At first he tried to pass it off as a woman’s fear. Vanessa knew about the man and was afraid of him and assumed that any man was him. Hysterics would explain it.

  He shook his head and snorted. Vanessa was not the hysterical type.

  He chewed the inside of his bottom lip as the questions swirled through his mind. How would she know one of his men?

  “Well, perhaps I should just ask her,” he mumbled.

  Marshall looked over at him, but Peter just shook his head.

  Peter frowned. He was glad to have a reason to go see Vanessa. He had wanted to see her for most of the day, but could not bring himself to go to her just because of his nagging guilt.

  He watched Marshall return to the men. The boy sat tall and proud in his seat. He was now a confident rider. Peter grinned.

  He reined Jackal around and made his way to his prisoner. Smiling, he thought of many delightful ways to interrogate her. They may not make her talk, but maybe he could make her scream. He smile turned to a lustful grin.

  CHAPTER 18

  Van had easily removed the bindings before there was a knock on the door. A maid proclaimed she was sent to remove her ropes. The shy voice was barely heard through the solid oak. Van told her to go away.

  Now Van sat on the edge of her bed and wondered what she was doing. “I am going to give myself away,” she chastised herself quietly. She forced herself to remember that the Dark Knight was gone, never to return. The problem was she did not know who to be with him gone.

  She seemed unable to be the woman she was expected to be and it was impossible for her to be the man she had pretended to be. She sighed heavily, feeling lost.

  She closed her eyes against a wave of nausea. Her head felt light and her breathing became harsh. She began to feel a panic she had never experienced before.

  Her eyes flew open and her gaze darted around the room. The walls began to close in on her. Her vision blurred as her breath came harder and heavier. As the room began to spin, she ran for the door. Skidding to the stop, she stared at the wide back of a guard.

  James Choral turned, opened his mouth, and she slammed the door shut. She walked through the empty master’s chamber, but when she opened the door to the hall she saw the back of Brevon Dumont.

  Her eyes narrowed angrily. She had somehow managed to go from a great and feared knight, to a lowly woman, and then to a prisoner. Anger exploded in her troubled mind.

  The knight that lingered just below the surface fought for release. She balled her fists into tight balls and glared into Brevon’s bright green eyes as he turned to her.

  “Lady Vanessa, I am sorry, but it is requested that you remain...” A hard-swung fist stopped him in mid-sentence and dropped him to the cold stone floor. She glared down at him, barely containing an urge to kick him violently in the ribs.

  Footfalls running toward her drew her attention. Panic filled James’s face as he ran to his fallen partner’s aid.

  He stepped toward her quickly. She slammed the heavy oak door shut and heard a satisfying crack on the other side with a sharp yell of pain.

  Storming through Peter’s chambers and back into her own, she stomped to the window.

  Out in the distance she could see the lists, and the men. Her heart sank and seemed to settle deep in her stomach. They were her men no longer.

  She could not stay here, not as a Lady and definitely not as a prisoner. She had to escape. She would just disappear.

  Leaning out the window, she looked down at the stables. It was a straight drop to the hard ground far below. Her spirits slipped and she sighed deeply.

  Van let her gaze roam to the gardens. It was still her favorite place in the castle and just the sight of them made her calm. Vines grew from the gardens below the Lord’s chamber to almost his small window. Her eyes widened and a smile crossed her face as her gaze followed the path of the dark green leafy vines. She returned to his chambers.

  “Aye, indeed that is a splendid idea.” She spoke out his window to the quiet garden. She threw her leg into the opening and pressed herself through the small window. It was a tight squeeze, but she was out.

  She teetered unstably on the small ledge and clung to the rough stones and mortar that made up the walls of her prison. She silently cursed her wicked dress as it caught and snagged on the thick vines. She scraped her fingers repeatedly trying to pull it free. How women managed to accomplish anything in the ruffled contraptions they insisted on wearing, she could not fathom.

  The dress clung to the sturdy vines, fighting her the entire way down. Frustration and anger built within her. She looked down and breathed a sigh of relief to see the ground close enough to risk a jump. The dress was worse than getting used to the overly baggy and long tunic she had worn as a warrior. That had been hard to get used to as well, not like the well-fitting clothing she had worn as a small page, before the emergence of her womanly curves.

  A hard jolt to the ground was favorable compared to hanging with one arm trying to untangle the thin black material with the other. She laughed, thinking what it would have been like to try her feat of escape if she had been wearing the layers of lace silky undergarments Amy kept trying to force upon her.

  She took a deep breath and jumped. The hard landing knocked the breath from her and turned her legs to jelly, but she quickly shook off the pain and made her way to the stables and freedom.

  The stables were bustling with activity as the stable hands got acquainted with Mortamor St. Johns, the very small man who came from the village to take charge of the horses. Mortamor was a nice man, small in frame, but not in heart. He owned no whip, tending to his horses and those around him with kindness and gentleness.

  St. Johns looked up as she approached. His eyes widened in surprise and she could only imagine what he was seeing.

  She could feel the sweat trickling down her body. Her black dress clung to her damp body and dust and dirt powdered her face and hands. She was a good foot taller than him and wider by far.

  Fear clouded his widened eyes momentarily. He must have realized who she was as recognition brightened his face. He visibly relaxed though his eyes still held wariness.

  She grinned, wondering what kind of stories he had heard about the new lady of the castle.

  He smiled charmingly. “Milady, can I assist you?”

  She raised her brow questioningly. “You are, who?”

  “My apologies, milady. I am Mortamor St. Johns. I came to take over from the last stable master.” He smiled nervously and swept a low bow.

  “Are you a cruel man, a man who enjoys using the whip?” She sneered at him. She had heard the stories of his kindness, but felt it was always best that you make judgments for yourself in matters such as this.

  “Nay, milady.” His hands trembled slightly but he stood proudly before her.

  She saw no hint of a lie and relaxed slightly. “Good, I am in no need of your service. I have come for my horse and saddle.” She nodded dismissively and moved to walk around him.

  When he stepped into her path she raised a threatening brow at him. She could see the fear in his eyes, but felt a jolt of respect for the man who stood his ground.

  His voice trembled almost as much as his frame. “I have orders. You are not to take out any of the horses or tack. I am sorry, milady.”

  “Orders? That is fine.” She grinned at him and stepped closer. She softened her voice. “I have an order of my own for you.” Her quiet demeanor changed and she straightened to her full height. “Move!”

  He nearly tripped over his feet as he quickly stepped away from her, allowing her to pass.

  She walked toward the stalls and almost cried when she heard the familiar whinny of Damien. The tension seemed to flow from her muscles and she incr
eased her step. The large stallion had his head over the gate of the stall when she arrived.

  He whinnied once more and she wrapped her arms around the heavily muscled neck. She buried her face into his warm mane and breathed in deeply. She gave her old friend comfort and took some from him as well.

  “I cannot leave. I have nothing.” She spoke into the tickling fibers of his mane. He stood patiently through her hug and leaned his large jaw against the top of her head. “I need my things, and I have something I need to take care of first, my friend. It will be just a while longer yet, and we will be free.” She kissed him gently and reluctantly pulled away. She left the stable, her heart and her mind heavy with her uncertain future.

  Where was she to go now? She had no intention of returning, just yet, to her chambers. Though she would have to return to them at some point, she thought despairingly.

  She stood outside the stables for only a moment looking around the massive courtyard. Her gaze fell on the barracks where her men stayed, what would soon be the housing of pages from all over. She made her way to it.

  In the darkness of the barracks Van breathed deeply the smells of the men. She missed the nights huddled around the fires with her men. Was she wrong to still want it? It was the only life she had ever known.

  She could feel the tears clogging her throat, yet she refused to give way to them.

  Van plopped heavily on one of the rumpled bunks and leaned back closing her eyes. She thought back to all the troubles she had encountered since the arrival of that dreaded messenger.

  All of them, her mind had decided, revolved around the hated gowns. There was her first encounter with her father, where she had felt naked and exposed. Then there was the disastrous first meeting with Peter where she could not even walk in them. She did not believe she could ride in the infernal thing and it had almost killed her coming down the wall.

  What would she do if someone found out who she was? What would she do to protect herself and others if she could not even manage a dress. She had already eliminated the thin slippers and the chemise, but it was not enough.