Widow

by Natasha Brown

  Rayne couldn’t run any farther, so she hurried behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. She clung to its bark, trying to suppress her loud breaths. Maybe she’d lost her pursuer. Or maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort and had left her alone in the forest.

  “Looky, looky,” a sniveling voice said from behind.

  She whipped around to face Fulbert. His short brown hair framed his grinning face. His long nose and a darkened tooth became noticeable to her—things she hadn’t observed prior. Because his demeanor repulsed her, she had never studied him closely.

  Rayne had always imagined herself a strong sort of woman. Not the type to cry when she was at the center of cruelty or ill-will. But in that moment, she found tears spilling down her cheeks when fear took hold. Clutched in Fulbert’s hand was a knife. She thought of her penknife secured within the writing box on the forest floor. If she had remembered it sooner, maybe she would have given him a mark to remember her by. Rayne looked about for some form of protection. A stick, a branch, anything.

  “Don’t be getting any ideas.” Fulbert breathed out with a cocked eyebrow. “I might get something good for those threads you’re wearing—take ’em off.”

  “But—” Her mind raced for a way to talk her way out of it. “I will give you whatever you wish, but prithee, let me go.”

  “Start with those lovely threads,” Fulbert answered with a sniff.

  Ragged, ragged breaths rattled from her lips as she nodded. Her fingers fumbled with the decorative belt wrapped about her waist. He held his knife up, letting it rest beneath her chin, which didn’t help her move more quickly.

  Once the belt was dropped to the ground, he lowered the blade and winked at her. She tried to turn away, but he shook his head, so she closed her eyes and lifted her hands to the fabric at her back to ease it over her head. Though her lids were pinched shut, she wouldn’t have seen much through the opening of her dress. However, she did hear something that made her stop.

  The sound was so deep and low she might have mistaken it for wind howling through the trees. It grew louder until she was certain it had not sprung from nature itself but from something else entirely. She opened her eyes and tried to peer out from the neck opening of the interior of her gown.

  “What—” she heard Fulbert say as he took a step back. “Oh, Lord, no.”

  Once again her neck hairs stood on end, and she turned to face the sound, frightened to discover what was behind her. Through her feelings of fear, she held on to one thought: if she were to pass from this earth, she did not want her death performed by Fulbert’s hand. She did not want him allowed any satisfaction from her body or her death, even if it meant her own suffering in the end.

  Her breath caught in her throat for the second time that day as she spotted what stood between two trees. The stories she’d heard hadn’t done it justice. The hound was no ordinary animal. It was a beast so tall its head was shoulder-high to a man, and its wiry fur was as black as raven’s feathers. Snarls poured from between its sharp teeth.

  The beast launched forward just as hands from behind shoved Rayne toward the animal. Fulbert’s voice pleaded. “She’s a tastier morsel!”

  Without her hands free, she teetered and fell to the ground with a groan. She waited for the end to come, for the stabbing bite of the beast, but it didn’t. Something brushed over her body before Fulbert’s screams filled the air. She rolled onto her back so that she might struggle to pull her gown back on, in so doing releasing her hands and arms from their binding.

  Her head emerged from the neck of her dress. In her wriggling she had pulled the wimple free from her head, but she did not care. Propriety was cast aside while one’s life was at stake. Her braids came loose from their covering when she scrambled to get up.

  From her view, the man-sized beast was atop Fulbert, its jaws wrapped around his neck. The wagoneer’s legs squirmed for a time until his shouts turned to gurgles. Rayne did not wait for the animal to set its sights on her. She turned and fled back in the direction she had come, hoping Simun had succeeded in protecting himself from the mute hired hand.

  Rejuvenated with the energy of life, she fled as fast as her legs would take her. With her skirts lifted so her bloodstained shoes could find purchase on the slippery leaves, she ran until the clearing came in sight. The murky puddle the horses had drunk from was near, but there was no wagon to be seen. Three shadows lay exposed upon the earth.

  Sobs came from her lips as she stumbled up to Simun’s unmoving body. His unseeing eyes stared up into the oak tree’s canopy. Beside him were Gerald’s and Walter’s remains, laid out for scavengers to poach. Her hopes that she’d find Simun unharmed, along with the wagon, were dashed.

  She looked over her shoulder, checking for the black shuck. A ghostly beast would not have to run to find her. It might just appear from the ether. Through the fog she saw its pointed ears emerge. Rayne searched the ground for a stick, anything that might keep it from her.

  Instead she found her writing box amongst the scattered leaves and remembered her penknife. She flipped the latch and pulled it free. Its wooden handle clutched in her shaking hand, she pointed its shiny blade before her. It might be small, but it was sharp, and it was the only thing she had to protect herself with.

  The tall form of the wolfhound materialized through the mist, walking slowly toward her, stopping at the edge of the clearing. Something shadowy hung from its mouth. She imagined cords of intestines freshly pulled from Fulbert’s body dangling from the beast’s jaw and fought the urge to crumple from her buckling knees. But as her eyes focused on the creature, she recognized her decorative bliant and wimple held between its lips.

  The hound dipped its head, dropping her belongings on the ground. It walked a short distance away, ignoring the shaking blade in her hand, and lowered itself onto a soft patch beneath the large-trunked oak. The dog proceeded to groom itself, paying no heed to her, making her wonder if it could even see her or if it knew she was present.

  She stood watching the apparition for some time before concluding it had no interest in her, so she decided to take a chance and check on her servants. Her hands clutched at Simun’s tunic as she shook him and called his name. No response came from him or the others in even the smallest measure. All the while, the hound continued to clean itself beneath the tree.

  Rayne thought of all the times Simun had asked after her latest illuminated prose, and his words of encouragement when her father was too consumed with the procurement of more wealth to bother to give any noteworthy praise to his daughter and only living kin. Tears fell down her cheeks as she closed his sightless brown eyes. She walked to the large puddle and cupped some water in her hands. She washed his and the other men’s brows while singing her favorite hymns under her breath. It pained her to think of them not having a proper burial, but she had no promise of security in the forest alone. She might yet be captured or killed. It was an ill circumstance for a woman to be alone in the countryside.

  She spoke a prayer over each of the bodies before she ventured to pick up her bliant and wimple. She wrapped the belt around her waist and shook her wimple free of leaves and dirt before affixing it over her braids once again. When she was done, she was startled to find the hound watching her every move. Red fire did not consume its brown eyes. No fury or hatred could be seen. Rayne had been around many dogs and could ascertain their mood, which only led her to wonder if it was a pious spirit sent to protect her.

  She looked in the direction of the path their wagon had taken. The grooves pressed into the earth from regular use could be seen from the clearing. Fulbert hadn’t mentioned where they were headed for the night, but she knew there was a burg or hamlet likely a day’s ride from this place.

  “I suppose I should keep to the road,” Rayne muttered to herself, lifting the trim of her dress off the ground and stepping toward the misty avenue.

  Before she could take more than four strides, the tall hound ran ahead of her and blocked her way. She
stopped, wondering if she’d been wrong about its attitude toward her. It made no movement—it only looked her way and held her stare. Brown eyes blinked across at her. Rayne was surprised by the curious intelligence she found there. After a few moments, it turned in the opposite direction from the road and yipped. It took a few steps away, then looked back at her as though it expected her to follow.

  Rayne had never seen anything like it. She had never come across a true apparition before, either. She glanced back toward the road, wondering if it was truly best to travel alone on the avenue. Maybe the wolfhound was only trying to protect her still. Maybe it truly was a spirit sent to protect her.

  A bark, louder this time, jarred her from her thoughts. The dog took a few steps toward her and wagged its tail. Then it walked deeper in the forest before casting another glimpse her way.

  “I do not know if I should trust you,” she muttered to the animal. She had little likelihood of surviving this adventure, but decided to take a chance. “If you want me to follow you thither—I pray you are straight-fingered and true.”

  Rayne began to follow the beast. Through the mist and between dark oaks she trudged with her skirts lifted to her shins. Every time she slowed to catch her breath and take a short break, the hound paused to wait. It never allowed her to stop long before it growled softly and continued to move ahead, forcing her to persist.

  The forest ended and they came to open fields, something that put her a little more at ease. Through the deeper grass she lost sight of the hound until its head popped up and the blades around it shook. The fog that had condensed through the woodland lifted, providing better visibility, although the sun remained hidden behind a dense shroud of gray clouds.

  She wished she’d escaped with a cloak, for the temperature had begun to drop. It was likely getting closer to evening, to judge by the chill in the air. The brisk exercise kept her warm enough, yet she had no notion of what the beast expected of her come nightfall. Was she to curl up beneath some shrubs and forage for wild greens? Even her father might have been stirred with compassion if he saw her now.

  Rayne lifted her chin, thinking about him. She dared to conjecture that he would not have made it this far behind such a fast-moving beast. He might have been surprised at her strength and fortitude had he known her predicament. But no one did. No one, that was, but the mute murderous thief who’d escaped with her dowry and personal effects.

  The leaden skies grew darker, falling into a deep twilight. As bold as she imagined herself, she was exhausted. She had walked more that day than she had ever done before. The thought of curling up beneath a hedge was appealing to her, and she slowed.

  When the wolfhound noticed her pace, it circled back. For the first time it approached her up close, brushing against her body. She stiffened at its touch. surprised it was so solid for an apparition, although the creature had, indeed, found purchase on Fulbert’s body. The thought made her shudder.

  She placed her hand on the animal’s back, letting her fingers sink into its wiry black fur. The dog took a step forward and glanced back at her. A soft whine came from its chest, as if it were telling her to pluck up enough strength to move on.

  Rayne sighed. “Is it far? I know a creature like yourself must have the energy of ten horses, but I grow tired.”

  The dog simply stared back at her with its deeply intelligent eyes. She felt like her measure was being taken as it had been so many times before at the entrance hall of a grand banquet by the lords and ladies of Norwich. It was not a feeling she relished, but she supposed there was no truer judge of character than a hound. They sensed when danger was near and whether a person was a friend or foe.

  “Are you through drawing my character?” she asked with a sigh, and the dog blinked before looking away. She might have thought it understood her and appeared self-conscious, but those were emotions fit for humans, not hounds.

  It began to move forward, easing away from her. She followed, trying to pull as much strength as she could, but knowing her wilting form didn’t have much vigor left. Just as she thought herself befuddled for chasing after a dog through the countryside, the creature went barking over a hill.

  Rayne didn’t know if she should be put on guard and trailed behind cautiously. When she reached the crest of the knoll, through the dusky darkness she spotted light from a window. An ebony shape stood out against the hillside. It was too grand to be a farm and too small to be a castle or monastery, but it was the most welcome sight. She let out a little sigh that turned into a soft cry. At last, she was safe.

  Chapter 3

  Every step closer to the building, her body grew more tired and limp. When she was close enough to see it better, she remembered the dog, which had disappeared. It was nowhere to be seen. Rayne craned her head all about, searching for the animal, but it had vanished like a true apparition.

  A water moat cradled most of the stone manor. Its glassy surface reflected the light cast from an arched window. She was forced to approach on its one open side, over a bridge and through the gatehouse. Her arms were tired of clutching her decorative box to her body, but it was her only remaining possession, and she was determined to keep it safe. It also held her only protection, her penknife.

  Any proper lord or lady would show hospitality to a dame such as herself, she assured herself as she walked across the oval courtyard. The entry was recessed in a stone archway, which she might have appreciated if it weren’t so late and if she weren’t so tired. She took a deep breath and knocked on wooden door.

  She did not have to wait long until it opened to reveal a man with a well-trimmed mustache, a respectable plain tunic and blue hose. He blinked out at her in surprise. “Oh! You’re not the master.”

  Rayne thought it best to act as kindly as possible, so she bowed her head and greeted the man. “Hail, good fellow. I pray I do not imposition you, but I find myself unprotected and stripped of my belongings due to a murderous thief.”

  “I beseech you—” The man, suddenly recovered from the surprise of finding her at the door, opened it wide. “Do come in. I was expecting the lord of the manor, but if he were here he would offer you warmth by the fire and a bowl of savory onion soup.”

  “Gramercy.”

  Rayne stepped through the threshold and followed the man into the adjoining hall. It was more than twice the size of the one she’d been brought up in. The rafters rose high above and the space stretched out so that there was room enough for many long tables and benches. At one side was the stone hearth, glowing with warmth, the fire spitting at the cooking pot and the middle-aged woman working over it. Her head was wrapped with linen, which covered all but a few wisps of brown hair that broke free from their binding. The cook turned to see who entered and offered a deep curtsy and smile before returning to her pot. A few manservants sat at the tables, eating bowls of soup.

  The man who’d welcomed her into the manor gestured to one of the empty tables and said, “Take your place and Maud will bring you your fill.”

  Her legs almost gave out as she lowered herself onto the bench. She set her box beside her on the table, trying not to hunch too much, remembering her upbringing, but it took too much strength to stay upright. A wooden bowl was placed before her, and she thanked the woman who’d delivered it to her.

  The warmth and flavors touched her tongue, and she nearly wept in happiness. A piece of bread was placed by her hand, and she bit into it with a sigh. While she ate, the man who’d welcomed her into the manor sat across from her. His hair came just above his shoulders, and although he seemed to think himself important, he didn’t appear vain or pompous.

  “I am Renard, steward of Hundby Manor. I expect Sir Willelm, our lord and knight of King Edward, back shortly. He does not sit still for long and takes his duty to heart, protecting his fiefdom from those set on doing harm. He leaves the manor to me when he departs for days, sometimes weeks at a time.” He paused to check to see if she was listening, then seemed to remember why she was there. “Te
ll me of your troubles, lady, and how we may serve you.”

  Rayne swallowed her bite of onion soup and pursed her lips together. “It is truly a story for the fire,” she said. Normally, she might have taken her time relaying such an alarming tale, but she was tired, and she thought brevity was a virtue at the moment. “I was traveling with my escorts to Grimsford Abbey to join the nunnery when the wagoneers my father hired turned against us. They murdered all three of my servants and were prepared to do worse to me when it came from the mist—”

  Renard’s eyes lifted to meet Maud’s. A silent nod was passed between the two, but the moment was gone just as quick as it came. The woman took up Rayne’s bowl and refilled it with steaming soup—a brief interruption before she could continue, “A black hound came from the woods and bit at the wagoneer’s throat. But alas, one robber remained to steal away my dowry with my belongings, save for this one box containing my writing instruments.” She touched her hand to the painted chest that lay beside her bowl of soup.

  “Ye poor ting,” Maud said and stepped closer while wiping her rosy hands on a rag. “It’s a testament of your strength that you’re sitting here this eve.”

  “I would not have made it here if it had not been for your hound—it led me across what seemed like all of England to get here.”

  Renard again exchanged a glance with Maud before responding, “Sir Willelm has no hound. Ye are mistaken.”

  Rayne had felt the dog’s fur under her hand, touched it for herself. It had felt as real as any living thing, but once she’d found sanctuary it had vanished. Maybe it truly was an apparition sent to protect her. She was too tired to care and said in passing, “I was warned of a ghostly black beast that signals coming death, but murderers and thieves must style those tales, for it never showed me its dagger-like teeth. And I never saw fiery red eyes. They were brown like an oak’s trunk after getting soaked with rain.”