© 2015 by Dina L. Sleiman
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6537-1
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Paul Higdon
Cover model photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.
Author represented by The Steve Laube Agency
To my readers:
My prayer is that you will be strong and courageous. Follow the path God has laid before you, wherever that might lead. Be a doctor, a lawyer, a professional athlete, a wife, a mother, or even a president.
Chase after your dreams, and if a handsome knight in shining armor should happen to come alongside you, headed in the same direction, and you should happen to fall in love . . . then join together and become partners in your quest.
But please remember—you are complete, you are beautiful, and you are dearly loved by God just the way you are.
Contents
Cover 1
Title Page 3
Copyright Page 4
Author Note 5
Epigraph 6
Prologue 7
Chapter 1 13
Chapter 2 23
Chapter 3 33
Chapter 4 43
Chapter 5 53
Chapter 6 61
Chapter 7 73
Chapter 8 83
Chapter 9 93
Chapter 10 101
Chapter 11 111
Chapter 12 121
Chapter 13 131
Chapter 14 141
Chapter 15 149
Chapter 16 157
Chapter 17 167
Chapter 18 179
Chapter 19 189
Chapter 20 201
Chapter 21 211
Chapter 22 219
Chapter 23 231
Chapter 24 243
Chapter 25 255
Chapter 26 267
Chapter 27 279
Chapter 28 289
Chapter 29 301
Chapter 30 307
Chapter 31 315
Chapter 32 321
Chapter 33 331
Chapter 34 341
Chapter 35 349
Chapter 36 355
Historical Notes 361
Acknowledgments 365
About the Author 367
Back Ad 368
Back Cover 369
To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified.
—Isaiah 61:3
Prologue
I am air.
I am wind.
I am stealthy like a cat.
A wild lynx of the forest.
I whisper my chant as I await my prey, crouched in the branches of a tree, one with it, as I must be. My green tunic and hood, my brown leggings, even my stray wisps of hair blend into the forest about me. The rough flaxen sack, the quiver and bow upon my back, add texture and disguise my feminine shape. Only my trembling hands give me away as human, as other. But I must be dauntless to accomplish this task.
Again I steel my heart. Steady its beating. Will it to turn hard and sharp like the dagger in my belt? Though I have never thrust a blade into human flesh, if needed, I think I could. I fancy myself a fearless leader, but my hands—I glance down and rub them together—my trembling hands always give me away.
Taking deep, calming breaths of maple-scented air, I study the forest across the dirt road from me, picking out the eyes from leaves, bushes, and branches. My “men” remain well camouflaged, as usual, but if I peer closely enough, I can always find their eyes. Tough eyes, strong eyes, yet with echoes of little boys hidden in their depths, begging me to care for them. To somehow, someway, be the mother and father they each have lost, though I am naught but seventeen myself. My men will back me up, protect me with their lives if needed. But I cannot call upon them to do so.
I will do this thing alone. Stealthy like a cat. In and out before they realize. ’Tis always best this way.
In the distance, I hear the first creaks and jangles against the rustling of the leaves. I sigh. One way or another, soon it will be over—until next week, or perhaps tomorrow. I must not think about that now.
I have heard tales of a fellow in Sherwood Forest, not so terribly far away. Robyn of the Hode, they call him, with his own band of men, although I imagine his are actual grown men. Oh, a few of mine are large enough. And I’ve trained them to fight like the guards who once protected me . . . in a stone castle that used to be mine . . . until it was all taken away. Robyn and I, we have that in common if legend holds true.
Yes, I tell myself, I am ready for this.
An explosion of bright color bursts onto the scene. Two stalwart knights on white steeds, covered with drapes of purple and red, proudly displaying some inconsequential coat of arms, ride to the front of the retinue. Another knight in a matching surcoat drives the traveling wagon and clicks to his well-trained team. The wagon itself is painted and gilded like an exotic bird swooping through the green and brown world of our forest. A wagon intended for noble travel, with a rare wooden roof and luggage fortuitously secured on top, just as my informer reported.
I await, lest there be more.
But no.
To my great relief, that is all. A rear guard would be my worst enemy. Perhaps a servant or two yet ride along back to hue the cry if trouble approaches, but no guards watch from behind. The quaking in my hands subsides to a slow tremble. If I still believed in God, I might have whispered a thanks. But I do not. I only believe in me. And the children I must protect. Robyn of the Hode might steal from the rich and give to the poor, but we are the poor, and I concern myself only with caring for us.
I ready myself. Stealth and silence. These are my allies. Cunning and the forest. My forest. And timing. Timing is of the utmost. I will rely on these, and I will prevail.
I give my men the signal. The whistling call of a crested lark.
As the wagon approaches, I scramble along my branch at precisely the right moment and hop onto the roof with nary a thud. I hold tight for a moment, but if the occupants sensed a disturbance, they must have thought it naught but a bump in the road. With great haste I rifle through bags and trunks, grabbing up food supplies and useful trinkets, stashing them in the sack upon my back but leaving nothing amiss.
I catch a flash out of the corner of my eye. My men flying through the forest, quiet as phantoms alongside the wagon.
There remains one last chest. A small one. Locked. I know what this means, and I must make my choice in an instant. It may be the difference between meager dinner and feast. Between prison and death. But our funds run low. One never knows when a little one m
ight need a physician. Or we might require quick passage aboard a ship. And so I stash it as well, with not a moment to spare.
Just ahead, there it is.
The most delicate part of this mission. My escape branch—higher than the one I descended from. I must jump to catch it and swing myself up before I am spotted. One fraction of a moment off and all could be lost. I must account for the extra weight upon my back. But I have trained for this.
Moving closer to the front of the wagon, I leap, a cat, at just the right time. I catch the branch and swing myself up, clutching, clinging, indeed like a scared kitten.
The wagon continues down the road, no one the wiser. My branch sways ever so slightly as a servant perched on the rear board stares up into the puffy white clouds while picking at his teeth with a stick. And then they are gone, around the next bend.
Once upon a time I, too, stared into clouds, dreaming they were dragons, or flowers, or . . . or handsome princes who would carry me away.
But I no longer believe in handsome princes. So I climb down the tree and am met by a quiet but hearty round of hugs from my men. They slap me on the back, grinning like the overgrown children they are.
“Good job, Lady Merry,” whispers Allen, as Red and Cedric boost me atop their shoulders.
I wish he would not call me that.
Red grunts. “She’s heavy today, boys.”
“Must have caught us something good!” Henry, only fourteen, nearly shrieks with delight.
We all shush him.
James returns the conversation to a whisper. “I’d say she caught us an awfully big fish.”
“I think you shall be pleased,” I say with a sly smile. Taking my sack from my back, I withdraw the small ornate chest and display it for them.
They stare in reverent silence.
“But you know what this means.” Shrewd Robert, always a step ahead of the others, knows that if gold lies in that chest, we shall have to move camp. I had only stolen anything so substantial once before, and we all agreed if it happened again, we must move on.
“’Tis worth it.” Red waves his hand in dismissal. “A great story and an even greater victory!”
“Besides,” says Cedric, “’tis high time we start a new adventure.”
A new adventure indeed. I will miss this stretch of forest, which has grown to be a friend, but I agree with Cedric. Time for a fresh start. Whispers already circulate through the surrounding villages that ghosts reside in these woods, stealing from passing travelers. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. Would anyone believe that ghosts had need of gold?
We have survived for nearly two years here, but we can start again. “Let us get back to camp for now. The chest is locked, and we need to pick it. No doubt the girls and the little ones are anxious for our return.”
Being carried through the woods thus, seeing the appreciative smiles of my men, hearing the joy in their voices, makes it all worthwhile. But a piece of me will always long to be back at camp like the other girls, caring for the children, preparing the meals. No, not at camp. In the castle great hall with my mother, embroidering and playing the lute. Waiting for my father to run through the door and catch me in a warm embrace. But those days are long gone, and truth be told, embroidery never made my blood rush like a successful plunder.
I grin in spite of myself.
Chapter 1
Wyndeshire, England
Late August 1216
“I hear tales that the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest might have descended upon our very own Wyndeshire.” Lord Wyndemere looked up from sharpening his favorite sword. “What hear you?”
Timothy Grey shivered at the intense stare his employer shot his way. It somehow matched the cold stone walls of the surrounding armory. “No doubt the overactive imagination of some fool villager.”
“Perhaps.” The lord ran his finger along the glinting blade. “Perhaps not.” Light gleamed against his balding head in a manner that intimidated rather than amused. His remaining salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard framed sharp features. Though a fair man, he could be ruthless if crossed. “I shall not tolerate thieves in my realm.”
“Of course not, my lord.” Timothy continued polishing Lord Wyndemere’s gilded shield with a smooth white cloth.
“They have plagued those to the east for years. And word has it they might be the ones who stole that chest of taxes headed to the king.” The lord performed a thrust and parry, testing the weight and balance of his weapon.
“Ghosts stole the gold? Whatever shall they do with it in the netherworld?” Timothy chuckled at the ridiculous notion.
“Ah, but we, my good lad, are not silly villagers. We understand that the ghosts must employ some human form. A new and most brilliant band of thieves, methinks.”
“Stealing gold intended for taxes? Sounds more like Robyn of the Hode than the Ghosts of Farthingale if you ask me.” Timothy held the shield to the thin streams of light pouring through the barred windows and spotted a smudge on the upper right corner.
“True, not their typical thievery. But over the past month we have had reports of hams, turnips, even tunics gone missing from these parts, with nary a sound nor a wisp out of place. Either the Farthingale ghosts have moved to town, or we have acquired our own.”
“We should await proof before we trouble ourselves with the matter. Nothing has gone missing from the castle thus far.”
“Ah, my stalwart Timothy Grey. Always cautious and prudent. Little wonder you have grown to be my most trusted assistant.” Lord Wyndemere tousled Timothy’s hair as though he were a child and headed out the doorway.
Timothy did not let the abrupt departure halt his polishing. Lord Wyndemere knew his own mind and rarely shared it with others. No doubt some random thought had flitted through his head and launched him on a new mission. Or his stomach had rumbled, sending him in search of a kitchen maid. Or . . . as Timothy considered the comely kitchen maid, he realized his lordship might be thinking of something else entirely.
His face heated, and he focused on his work, banishing disturbing images from his head.
Oh, to be a lord. To jaunt off at the slightest whim. Master of his own fate. Never answering to the beck and call of superiors. But he would not likely know that pleasure. His sisters might receive the courtesy titles of Lady Ellen, Lady Ethel, and Lady Edith, but never him. Never a nobleman’s son who had been “blessed” with eight elder siblings. Nine children! Such families were all but unheard of in their corner of England.
Blast the hearty Grey stock.
He would forever be Tiny Little Timmy, runt of the Grey clan. Never mind that he had passed nineteen summers and two yards in height. Never mind that he had mastered both sword and lance and his shoulders had at long last broadened to fill his velvet tunics. No, people would forever go about ruffling his hair, even if they must reach up to do so.
A pox upon his flaxen white-blond hair.
He would never be the strongest. That would be his brother Derek, the valiant warrior off on crusade. Nor the smartest. That would be Frederick, the priest in London town. Nor even the handsomest. That would be Randolph, no doubt somewhere wooing the ladies. He would never give his parents the most grandchildren. Ellen had a twenty-year advantage in that area. And he would never, ever be called Baron of Greyham. No, only his father and someday his eldest brother, Noel, would be called that.
Unless he did something drastic, he would be just plain Timothy Grey for the remainder of his pathetic life. Just a plain scribe. A plain servant. With his plain grey eyes to drive home the point.
At least for the time being he had escaped to help Lord Wyndemere in the armory, but soon enough he would be back to transcribing correspondence at his desk. Thank goodness he was at least smart enough to read and write, to learn Latin and earn some sort of employment. Otherwise he would have rotted at home as the family pet for all eternity.
But as Lord Wyndemere himself so readily admitted, Timothy had grown invaluable to him in a few sho
rt years. His steady temperament the perfect complement to the earl’s impulsive ways. More and more often his lordship called upon him to help with a variety of tasks. Perhaps in time Timothy might gain favor. Perhaps please the king. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he worked terribly hard and made himself indispensable, he might earn a minor title and a small piece of land to call his own.
He inspected the shield before him to make sure it was perfect. No, it yet required one more round of buffing. So he continued.
Timothy was a patient man. He would do his job, await his opportunity, and then seize it with all his might. Someday he would conquer some foe, unveil some plot, perform some feat so legendary that he could no longer be ignored.
Some feat . . . like capturing the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest.
Merry Ellison surveyed the newly constructed camp. Their little huts were both durable and disguised to blend with the surrounding forest. Small children dashed and squealed through the circle between the dwellings as they played an energetic game of chase. How lovely to see them settled into their new home and behaving as normal, happy children once again.
The trek had taken weeks. They had skirted several large towns and walked through endless forests before coming to this area far to the west of their old camp. Finally the scouts spotted this perfect vale, surrounded on all sides by a ring of hills and with a creek nearby.
Merry took in a deep draught of air, tinged with Scotch pine and meadow flowers. Home again. At long last.
“Lady Merry, Lady Merry!” Abigail nearly crashed into Merry in her enthusiasm.
“Whoa there.” Merry caught her by the shoulders as the youngster slid to a halt.
“I’ve lost my tooth.” With great pride, the child held the bloody, hollowed tooth for examination.
“Oh, how . . .” Merry quelled the churning of her stomach. “How wonderful.”
“Gilbert tumbled me to the ground, and I bumped my chin and it fell out from right here. Look!” She pointed to the gaping hole in her gum. “But don’t you worry. Been loose for weeks, it has.”
Merry did take a moment to look—at far more than Abigail’s bleeding gumline. The child’s blond hair shimmered in the sunshine to match the healthy golden glow upon her skin. Though her tunic was a bit grubby and rumpled, it was made of fine lavender linen.
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