Dauntless

by Dina L. Sleiman

  No, Merry could not partake in the children’s prayers. She hugged Wren to her chest, thankful for the excuse to stay at a distance. She expected today’s events would prod Allen to begin his Sunday services once again. She dreaded standing among them as they worshiped a God in whom she no longer believed. Her own fervor had been stripped away on that ill-fated night two years earlier.

  But she had not the heart to strip them of their superstitions either. If thoughts of God brought them comfort, she would support their religious beliefs. And if by chance Allen and the others were correct, better she be responsible only for losing her own soul rather than affecting the souls of every person in this room.

  Wren looked up from her play. She twisted in Merry’s lap to study her in the dim glow of candlelight, then cupped Merry’s face with her chubby hand. “No wo-wee, Ma-wee. Sunshine men take care.”

  Had Wren just admonished her not to worry? Merry chuckled.

  She had heard of children creating imaginary friends before, but none so fanciful as Wrenny’s collection of sunshine men. The tot often chased the invisible creatures about the camp in her own private game. Going so far as to clutch the illusive figures to herself and cry, “Got you!”

  “So are your sunshine men strong?” asked Merry, tapping the child on her turned-up nose.

  “Va-wee strong. And vaaa-weeee big!” The girl stood to her tiptoes and reached toward the ceiling.

  “Are there many of your sunshine men?” Merry continued to humor her.

  “So, so many. One, two, four, ten!” Wren raised her hands over her head, then plopped back down to the earthen floor and continued her play as if she had never ceased.

  Merry envied her. How simple to be a babe. To live in the present. To think not of the past, nor the future. To exist in a singular perfect moment of romping wooden horses and sheep. Of flowers and butterflies dancing in the breeze. Of fleeting sunshine men and tumbles in the dirt. Contentment contained in the tip of her tiny thumb.

  So unlike Merry’s world. Her own mind ever brewed with haunting memories and troublesome worries.

  Someday Wren would understand that her parents had been slaughtered, leaving her a nameless tyke, barely half a year old, to fend for herself in this merciless kingdom. Had it not been for the ingenuity of Merry and the other girls—along with a particularly cooperative nanny goat—Wrenny would have died, as so many children did in their early years.

  Death always spiraled about them in this realm, brushing against their shoulders, reminding them they might be next. Like the rotting remains of criminals upon the town walls, and at every road crossing. So common that it had become the subject of humor and sport. But Merry would never grow accustomed to it.

  An odd sound met her ears from just outside the door.

  The call of a wood warbler . . . or rather a childish imitation of one.

  “Thanks be to God,” Allen said. “Our prayers have been answered.”

  Robert rushed to the door and opened it.

  In tumbled Gilbert, red cheeked and panting for breath. “All . . . is clear.” He collapsed against the wall. “But I lost . . . the berries.”

  Everyone laughed and cheered as they hugged him and thumped him upon the back. Jane offered Gilbert a ladle full of water, then chided him in her motherly way as he gulped it too quickly.

  Once the fray settled, Merry sat down next to the boy. “So tell us your tale, Gilbert.”

  “Oh, ’tis a good one to be certain.”

  The children hushed and gave Gilbert their rapt attention.

  He proceeded to tell his story of stepping through the bushes to find a nobleman and three giant soldiers pointing their arrows at his chest, his berries flying through the air, and the nobleman’s unexpected kindness.

  “I did just like you taught us, Lady Merry. I acted lost and scared. ’Twas easy, as I was frightened out of my wits. Except I couldn’t remember the name of the village I was to tell them I lived, so I pointed to the west. I remembered it was the closest one in that direction. And I cried and told him my mum would beat me if she found me out. So he let me down before we got there, and I ran away and disappeared between the cottages.”

  “Excellent work, my good man.” Merry ruffled his hair.

  “That’s what the nobleman done to me.” Gilbert smiled his gaptoothed grin. “He mussed my hair just like you do, Lady Merry. And he was young, like us. That’s when I knew everything would be fine. Said they were hunting, was all.”

  Merry dared not ask for a description of the nobleman. Nor his name. For all she had survived during the last two years, she feared her heart could not bear to hear if it had been Timothy Grey.

  Young Gilbert tilted his head, as if an afterthought occurred to him. “Although one of the soldiers did ask if I’d seen any men in the forest, which was odd. But . . . no, they were hunting. They nearly shot me clean through.”

  Hunters indeed. But hunting deer . . . or ghosts? Her heart clenched.

  Merry gathered together her courage. “Robert, please take some of the men to town and investigate on the morrow.”

  Robert’s shrewd eyes assessed her gaze. “You can count on me, Lady Merry.”

  The following afternoon the children scratched their sticks into the dirt, practicing their letters and numbers beneath a cloudy sky. Writing. Another pursuit they would never have dreamed of in their former lives.

  Merry scribbled her own dark thoughts upon a patch of cool, bare ground.

  Circling always, surrounding each day.

  Whisking my shoulder, death on the way.

  Acrid and screeching, afar off they burn.

  Crying and weeping, with nowhere to turn.

  Hardly the typical love poem. Perhaps one might consider it a battle verse. A battle lost. She wrote the morbid words in her native English tongue. She rarely spoke French or Latin of late. Those languages were part of that other world. That world of love and family. Of safety and security.

  Ashes and dust, a bitter return.

  Longing for justice, oh, when shall I learn?

  The taste in my mouth, of char and of soot.

  The scream in my ear . . .

  Soot. Soot. Why could she think of nothing to rhyme with soot? Foot simply would not suffice. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she brushed them away before anyone could notice.

  Far! She could reverse the wording. Far would rhyme with char. But she could no longer gather her thoughts to finish the stanza.

  Stupid poetry! Worthless words. She swiped her hand over the dirt, removing in a few quick strokes her feeble and dreary attempt of the day. An hour’s worth of work gone in a heartbeat.

  How fitting.

  Instead she focused on the children—so industrious, so full of hope as they carved their short words into the dirt. As they practiced the spelling of their names. Christian names only. Peasants had no need of family names. Once upon a time these children might have been known as Abigail of Ellsworth or Henry son of Ilbert.

  But no more. Perhaps she should devise a new surname for all of them. One that they could carry into some new sort of stable existence.

  She dreaded the news Robert might bring at any moment. She feared they might not be able to stay in Wyndeshire—or for that matter, in England—much longer. King John might be busy in the north with his baronial rebellion, but eventually he would turn his mind to more minor issues. And hear of the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. Assess that they might just be . . . the missing children of Ellsworth.

  No, they could not stay forever. France seemed the most likely solution. The French would not be quick to turn over a wanted English noblewoman to King John. She supposed any enemy of the king would be a friend to France. Perhaps at the port she could declare herself Lady Merry Ellison and find safe passage for them all aboard a foreign ship. They had ample gold coin for passage. Perhaps they could buy their way into some sort of merchants’ guild and open a business once settled.

  French. She must teach the childre
n French.

  Though they had not come within a furlong of their camp, the nobleman—whether Timothy Grey or not—and his soldiers might yet grow suspicious of a stray child wandering the woods. So for now they would double the watch and be diligent to stay hidden.

  Despite Wrenny’s happy stories of sunshine men, this was no way to live. Merry needed to find a better solution, and soon. If it were not for her father’s stubborn, reckless ways, these children would be beside their own hearths with their own parents.

  “They’re back. They’re back,” cried Henry from his watch point atop the hill.

  Merry rushed to meet Robert, Allen, and Cedric at the rise.

  “Tell me,” she prompted. “What did you hear?”

  Robert frowned and shook his head. “’Tis not good.”

  Merry bit her lip and braced for the news.

  “Nothing conclusive,” said Allen. “Rumors of a hunting party from the castle in the woods yesterday. Castle guards, though, not a typical hunting party.”

  “And other rumors as well,” said Cedric.

  Merry grabbed Cedric by the shoulders. “What other rumors?”

  Robert answered for the stunned Cedric. “Rumors that the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest have come to Wyndeshire.”

  Merry steeled her heart. Steadied the racing beat. She would be strong. She must be. For all of them. Deep soothing breaths. In and out. In and out. The infusion of air did its job and cleared her spinning thoughts.

  Somehow this felt so much worse than dangling from a branch as the king’s own knights rode past upon warhorses. The children were at risk, not merely her own hide. The responsibility of it pressed down upon her, threatening to crush her into the ground. She rubbed her fingers and bade them to cease their trembling. “We will not panic. They are but rumors. Was there any talk of searching for the ghosts? Any reward offered?”

  “None that we heard tell of.” Allen gave Merry’s shoulder a reassuring clasp.

  It almost comforted her. “Then we shall stay still for now. Not stir matters further. And be ready to move if needed.”

  Robert surveyed the children, who had abandoned their studies and ran giggling about the circle. “It shall break their hearts if we have to leave so soon.”

  “It shall break mine as well,” whispered Merry. But she allowed herself only the briefest moment of sorrow. She pulled herself to her full height, which was short for a noblewoman. Arranging her features into a mask of courage she did not feel, she turned to face her men. “But we shall survive this. We always do.”

  “Agreed.” Allen stood taller as well. “Even if they find us, they shall never dream a band of children might be the notorious ghosts.”

  “No, of course not. That would be ridiculous.” Although their being the survivors of Ellsworth would be enough to see them all hanged if King John had his way. Perhaps if he remained distracted by his war, at least the little ones might survive.

  One could always hope.

  Otherwise one was left with nothing but morbid poetry. Ashes and dust.

  Chapter 6

  People pressed in upon Timothy, clamoring for his attention, as they had again and again during the past days. Over top their heads, he stared at the blank grey walls of the castle in hopes of collecting his thoughts. An ache was developing in his right temple, and noon had not even arrived. No doubt it would grow into a throbbing headache by mealtime. But he would not be deterred from meeting his lordship’s expectations. Not by noisy servants and most definitely not by the pain in his head.

  “You have not approved the afternoon’s wine.” A kitchen servant thrust a flagon in his face.

  Timothy pushed it away. “No doubt it is fine. His lordship shall not return for many days, and we have no special guests in the castle presently.”

  “As you wish, then.” The man turned with such violence that he nearly splashed his precious wine and walked away in a huff.

  “Now about those missives . . .” The scribe, Holstead, who had been hired to take Timothy’s place when he had been given temporary responsibility for the castle, waved a stack of papers.

  Timothy rubbed his temple. “Please place them on his lordship’s desk. I shall deal with them this afternoon.”

  “As you wish, m’l . . . Mister Grey.” The man offered a half bow, apparently unsure whether or not one was in order.

  But his bumbling ways brought a smile to Timothy’s face. The man performed his job impeccably. Perhaps he might keep it, and Timothy himself might rise to some sort of full-time advisory role. Now that he functioned in his lordship’s stead, he clearly saw the need.

  A castle guard shoved his way past the steward, who still awaited Timothy’s attention. Timothy took a moment to seat himself upon a chair on the raised dais. If he must administer his lordship’s duties, he might as well look the part. He rubbed his aching head.

  Bradbury and Hadley dragged an emaciated man covered in rags to stand before Timothy. Their presence reminded Timothy that he needed to resume his hunt for the ghosts, if only he could escape the series of minor crises that he found himself buried beneath.

  “Mister Grey,” said Bradbury, “this man has been charged with thievery. And no petty thievery. Several weeks’ wages worth of grain and vegetables.”

  One look into the man’s desperate eyes told Timothy why. He sighed. “Have you a family, good man?”

  “More like no-good man, this one here.” Hadley shook the poor soul.

  “Yes, sir. I have seven . . . no, now ’tis six children. I can hardly work my land since my foot went lame last year.” He lifted the mangled appendage for inspection.

  Timothy winced at the red and swollen appearance of it.

  He turned to the guards. “Have you witnesses?”

  “Aye,” said Bradbury. “Witnesses aplenty to the crime.”

  “And has the accused anyone to speak on his behalf?”

  “No, sir. I ’aven’t a soul.” The man stared down at the floor.

  Lord Wyndemere would no doubt demand the man look him in the eye when he spoke. But Timothy had not such a hardened heart. Having been granted the king’s own authority, his lordship would likely schedule a hanging on the spot in such a situation. At least Timothy could be spared that duty. He would not take liberty with such a decision.

  “Place the man in the gaol until his lordship returns.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bradbury frowned, no doubt dismayed to miss the entertainment of an immediate hanging.

  “And give the prisoner decent food and water while he awaits a proper trial.” Was it his imagination, or did Hadley smirk as he gave the order?

  Catching Timothy’s gaze upon him, Hadley turned his lips into a full and open smile. He approached the dais and whispered, “You are doing an admirable job, Grey. Continue the fine work.”

  Timothy nodded his thanks.

  His lordship’s duties truly were enough to overwhelm a body. The village of Wyndbury had grown into a sizable community in recent years. The man needed an official assistant. Or perhaps a mayor to oversee the town and allow him to focus upon the remainder of the shire. A close friend to the king, Wyndemere was one of the few earls with any real power, and he held it tight to himself. But the man could not do everything alone.

  As the son of a well-respected baron, Timothy might make a suitable mayor someday. But there was no sheriff’s position in the offing for him—the morning’s proceedings clearly indicated that he had not the stomach for law enforcement. He had always been the merciful sort. That characteristic, along with his small stature in his younger years and his thirst for learning, had set him on the academic path rather than the military route. The church still loomed as a possibility, but he was not yet ready to commit to a life of celibacy and a tonsured scalp.

  Until two years ago, his path had been planned out for him. A surprisingly pleasant, fortuitous path for a youngest son. Then tragic events struck, swiping his future away like so much dust from a tabletop. The ache in his head
magnified and traveled toward the region of his heart. Again, he rubbed it away. He would not allow himself to wallow in self-pity and sentimental recollections at a time like this.

  Perhaps later tonight . . . in his quarters . . . alone.

  Taking a deep breath, he surveyed the room again. Only Mister Bainard, the castle steward, a man as young for his position of authority as Timothy himself, rudely leaned against the wall. He eyed Timothy with disdain.

  “Can I help you, Bainard?” Timothy forced pleasantness he did not feel into his voice.

  “About time,” the steward grumbled. “You’ve an important message from Lord Wyndemere. Arrived this morning.”

  “From Wyndemere?” Dread filled him. Had something gone awry? “Why did you not alert me sooner?”

  Bainard stared down his nose at Timothy. No doubt the man hailed from some noble stock himself. Perhaps several generations removed, but his demeanor left no question that he would not treat Timothy as a superior. “You seemed to be enjoying your newfound popularity. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

  Timothy bit back a retort. “Bring it here. I will retire to his lordship’s study to review it at once.” Wasting no time, he stood and yanked the message from the man’s hand. He strode across the great hall, down a dimly lit corridor, and up a stairway. Once to the study he tossed the sealed parchment upon the table.

  Desperate for a quiet moment, he leaned against the open window and gazed past the stinking, noisy town to the crisp, clean trees beyond the wall. So another day would pass without his return to the forest.

  But he could not rid himself of the niggling feeling that the child might provide a clue.

  The thought that things just didn’t add up had followed him everywhere for days. That the boy had not known his own village, but chattered intelligently for much of the ride, asking questions of the soldiers. The story of a mother who beat him, although the boy bore nary a mark upon his healthy skin. The distance of the child from Bryndenbury.

  No, the facts did not add up.

  Upon the morrow he would let nothing deter him. He would return, alone and on foot, to the spot where he had found the boy. Stealth and anonymity were of the utmost importance. His brothers had taught him as much during childhood.