Dauntless

by Dina L. Sleiman

  “’Tis just over here, Lady Merry.”

  Allen’s voice hurried her up the hilltop and toward the highway beyond.

  Merry’s men had gone to great lengths over the past days to pull her from her gloomy state. Allen claimed he had found the perfect spot for raiding passing travelers, as they had in Farthingale. Although she doubted they should take such chances so soon, she could not deny that her chest thrummed with excitement at the thought.

  Cedric looked like a little boy at play as they headed up the rise. He turned to grin at her. Comic Cedric, with his endearing crooked-tooth smile and over-large ears. She grinned in return.

  They reached the top, and Merry struggled to hide her disappointment. Setting her face into a mask of placidity, she surveyed the terrain. To begin with, before her lay not so much a highway as a rough trail. She doubted royal wagons passed this way. And beyond that fact, the forest had been cleared for yards away from the road.

  Indeed a long, nearly horizontal branch spread over the path, but it lacked the requisite cloak of oaks and maples surrounding it.

  “I do not know, Allen. It is quite stark.”

  Allen’s little-boy excitement had not dimmed—even though of all her “men,” he most looked the part of an adult male. “Don’t give up on me yet. Picture it first. Perhaps we shan’t encounter magnificent equipages as we did at our old spot. But we could use the tree to attack the king’s nobles on horseback.”

  He moved under the tree and gestured to the longest branch. “We swoop in out of the air—wearing masks to preserve our anonymity, of course—knock them to the ground, and before they know what we’re about, we’ve taken their supplies and disappeared into the woods.”

  Cedric twisted his head from side to side as if weighing the concept upon a scale. “Could work. ’Tis different. Certainly not what one would expect from the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. That stands in its favor.”

  Merry took a breath to disguise her frustration. “Yes, but in all these years we have never injured a soul. Someone could break a bone tumbling from a horse. And what if they are quick to their feet and fight back.”

  “We shan’t be fools.” Allen tapped his head. “We would choose our targets wisely. Besides which, do we train hours a day for nothing?”

  As the one who demanded said training, Merry could hardly argue. “And what if they decide to give chase?”

  “Ah!” Allen pointed a finger to the sky. “I’ve given that thought. We’ll build a camouflaged lair just over the hilltop.”

  Thwarted again. Where was Robert when she needed him? Surely he would detect the flaws in this plan.

  “Cedric,” said Allen, “why don’t you run down the road a bit and then come by as if you are a traveler.”

  Confusion washed over Cedric’s face, turning his rather homely features even uglier. “But I have no horse.”

  Less skilled at disguising his frustration than Merry, Allen ran a hand down his cheek. “Then pretend.”

  A grin split Cedric’s face once again. “Oh right, then.” And he trotted down the lane, leaving Merry and Allen alone.

  Merry scanned the area once more. It was by no means as perfect as their last attack point in Farthingale Forest, but no location would ever be. That spot had been all but magical. A highway often used by the royals and nobility. A long, curving road that they could watch from one side, then dash through the woods to the attack point. And the trees. The thick dense trees the local lord had failed to clear, creating a near cave-like effect. Not to mention the gossipy innkeeper in Farthingale who unwittingly kept the ghosts apprised of everyone’s comings and goings.

  That opportunity was long gone. They would never find such a place again, but at least they had not wasted the idyllic circumstances. A chest of gold lay buried in the woods near their camp. If their Masked Knight ruse was successful, they could start spending those coins and would not need to steal ever again.

  Nonetheless, she followed Allen as he scurried up the tree like a squirrel. She had missed the feel of rough bark against her skin, the thrill of the hunt, the lure of danger—the surge of energy that came with fear. And she understood that her men did as well.

  She perched herself close to Allen upon the branch. “We have no need to continue such perilous missions. I realize you miss them, but we have the little ones to consider. We should not expose them to King John, and with the gold, we now have no need to.”

  Allen turned to her, his warm hazel eyes only inches away. They flooded with compassion. That protective instinct she had always loved in him. He reached and stroked a short wisp of her brown hair behind her ear. His touch sent tickling shivers through her. Shivers, yet warmth to match his eyes. For a moment, she found herself floundering in their depths.

  She shook her head and gathered her thoughts. “We have been whispering tales of the Masked Knight long enough. We shall send Red to town for provisions soon. You shall see. We no longer have need of raids. I would think you of all people should be glad to be relieved of such a morally questionable duty.”

  Allen smiled. A roguishly handsome smile that tipped to the right. With his hazel eyes, sandy hair, and strong features, he had always been her favorite of the men to gaze upon. Although she would never admit as much.

  “You are right, Merry, as always. But I haven’t seen such a smile upon your face in weeks. I’d say the mission has served its purpose. And just wait until you see what fun we shall have when we pounce upon Cedric.”

  Merry giggled, and Allen joined with his own hearty laugh. His warm breath brushed her cheek. Merry craned away from it and looked down the road. “Where is Cedric anyway?”

  She turned back to Allen, and their gazes caught again.

  “You know,” whispered Allen, “sometimes I imagine what it would be like if you were not a great lady. Rather just Merry, a villager like the rest of us.”

  Merry gulped down a lump in her throat. “I am not a lady anymore. I am an outlaw. A waif. The lowest of the low. We are the same now, Allen.”

  She watched his eyes. Lost in their swirl of brown and green like the forest, Merry did not pause to consider his intention. One moment he stared from a slight distance. In the very next instant, he pressed his lips against hers.

  Though one instinct bade her to enjoy the sensation, a stronger one won out. All she could think about as Allen’s lips caressed hers was a different set of lips from three years earlier.

  “No!” she squealed against his mouth. Despite their close friendship, Allen’s lips felt foreign upon her skin, causing her to draw back.

  As she pulled away, she lost her balance. Her arms flailed, catching only air.

  Before she could react, she tumbled from the branch. Not light and flexible like a cat. Rather, she landed hard upon her back—with a loud thump—at the base of the tree.

  All air whooshed from her chest, and she struggled to pull in a breath.

  “Merry, Lady Merry!” She heard Cedric’s cry from a distance as the treetop seemed to spin above her head.

  “Are you all right?” Allen flipped down from the branch and landed in a crouch beside her. At least someone had used their training properly this day. But she could not find the needed breath to reply.

  “I’m so sorry,” Allen said. “It was a mistake. It shall never happen again.”

  Fool! He berated himself. Allen had sworn to himself that he would undertake no such romantic nonsense with Merry. He knew the moment he leaned in for that kiss that it was wrong. But the magic of sunlight filtering through the leaves, her stunning features so close, her beseeching brown eyes, her scent of honey and herbs, her enchanting smile . . . It had all proven too much for his resolve.

  But it must never, ever happen again.

  Merry pushed herself to an elbow, pain twisting her face. She drew in a ragged breath, which seemed not to reach her lungs. Staring at a point beyond his shoulder, she said, “It shall . . . never happen again. And it never . . . happened in the first place. D
o I . . . make myself clear?”

  “Yes, of course.” Had he not told himself it must never happen again only moments earlier? ’Twas a mistake for certain. Yet to hear her deny that it ever happened cut straight to his heart. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

  Merry was a lady—he a peasant. Those who fight and those who labor. Never the twain to meet. His father would be appalled with his behavior. Heat crept up his face at the awful thought, and he turned away from her.

  Would God be appalled as well? He was not so certain anymore.

  Cedric ran up to them and knelt beside Merry. “Whatever happened?”

  Merry sat up now and rubbed her back, desperately sucking in air. “It was the oddest thing. A wave of . . . dizziness overtook me. That has never happened before. Perhaps I . . . have taken a slight fever.”

  She denied his kiss just as Peter denied his Christ. As if it had never happened. Somehow that hurt more than any other aspect of her rejection. It had happened, and in that single, priceless moment, it had split his world in two. He still felt her soft lips emblazoned upon his. Upon his very soul.

  Pressing the back of his hand to Merry’s forehead, Cedric said, “You do feel a bit warm, and your cheeks are flushed. Perhaps that is the reason you’ve been so melancholy.”

  Allen shot Cedric a warning look.

  “What? Is she not supposed to know she’s been in a foul mood of late? ’Tis rather obvious.” Cedric helped her to her feet and pulled her arm over his shoulder to support her weight. “We should not push you so, Lady Merry. We forget ourselves at times. You are not invincible.”

  “Not in the least.” Merry found her footing. “But I think I shall be fine.” She pulled herself away from Cedric and brushed the dirt from her backside, then bent to retrieve her bow and some scattered arrows from the ground. Allen turned his eyes away and focused them on a hawk soaring through the sky.

  The three set out toward camp, Allen mentally chastising himself the entire way. Merry might never forgive him this misstep, and he would be the last to blame her. He knew better. Had known better since childhood.

  Yet . . . what had she said? She wasn’t a lady anymore, just an outlaw, like the rest of them. Were they truly so different now? And if not, might there yet be hope for them?

  Ever since the rebellion started, Allen had dreamed of running off to fight. Suddenly, he could not fathom parting from Merry for even a moment.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, limping along with determination, even as she held a hand to her side. How he wished to gather her lithe form into his arms and kiss away every hurt, every bruise, every heartache she had endured these last years. To feel her tremble and cry out her soul against his chest. She had lost as much as—perhaps more than—any of them. Yet she kept it all inside and maintained her strong façade for their sakes.

  In that moment he pushed aside the voice of his dear father, which he’d heeded all his life. He silenced the voice of the parish priest, which he had treasured for years. He even hushed a still, small voice deep inside that warned Merry was not meant for the likes of him. Hadn’t he learned to trust his own instincts in this new world?

  Perhaps, just perhaps, he might gather his courage and win Merry Ellison for his own.

  Chapter 7

  As John perused the courtyard, his nemesis exited the great front portal of the castle. Anyone who did not so carefully watch Timothy Grey might have failed to notice his exit. Adorned in plain brown leggings and tunic rather than his typical bold velvets, he moved stealthily across the courtyard, his hood shielding much of his face and that appalling thatch of pale hair worthy of a woman.

  But he could spot Timothy anywhere.

  Had it not been bad enough when the earl promoted him to serve as an unofficial sort of assistant? Now he ran the entire castle in the earl’s absence. Tiny Little Timmy. A man no older than himself.

  A bitter taste filled his mouth. He spat upon the ground and rubbed it in with his booted toe.

  What was the man about now, sneaking through the courtyard?

  John watched Timothy exit the castle gate. He took note of the bow upon the man’s back and the soft shoes upon his feet. Timothy must be hunting the ghosts again. Alone this time. No doubt he longed to take all the credit for himself, could not even allow a few of the earl’s guards to assist in the capture.

  If he could escape his mundane duties, he would follow the man. But he was not his own master. He would forever be forced to serve the will of another. Not like Timothy, who set his own course, who aspired to power and greatness.

  But he would never let that happen.

  He would learn every habit, every secret of Timothy Grey, and he would bring the man down from his towering perch.

  Timothy trekked through the forest in his oldest pair of soft-bottomed leather boots. Having been made years earlier, before he had grown his final four inches in a single spurt, they pinched at his toes, but they served their purpose for the day’s mission.

  “Stealth, anonymity, restraint,” his older brothers had drilled into his head time and again as they played at war games in the woods. Some might find more honor in facing one’s opponent in a direct and pompous manner. But the Grey boys did not play for pageantry. They played to win.

  How he longed for those days. Days he had spent scampering through the forest with his brothers and . . . well, and other friends. No use in stirring up such poignant memories. He had wallowed long enough the previous evening over his lost love.

  Stealth and silence—these were his allies. The ghosts embodied such traits, and he respected them for it. Someone had trained them well, as his brothers had trained him. Noble outlaws. The stuff of legends. Never had he dreamed of undertaking such a daunting mission. Daunting yet exhilarating. He would sneak up on the thieves, beginning where he had found the boy and following his trail to their lair.

  Timothy moved through the forest with nary a sound. Ah, there it was, the clearing where the boy had nearly gotten himself shot clean through. Might he be a child of one of the thieves? Of course he would never arrest a child—or a woman, for that matter—but he must find a way to round up the thieves before Lord Wyndemere’s return.

  Searching the bushes where he first spied the boy, Timothy spotted a faint trail. Days had passed. Both rain and fog had rolled through the area yesterday. But he might be able to follow it.

  The remnants of the trail took him meandering through the forest, past a berry bush, then several moments later another, and then another.

  Hmm . . . it seemed the child knew his way about this section of land. The other day had not been the first time he strayed so far, as he claimed. Timothy smiled. His suspicions had proven correct.

  However, two valleys later, the footprints disappeared into the same winding stream Timothy had crossed earlier. His senses piqued to high alert, and he hurried himself into a copse of trees.

  Perhaps their camp lay nearby. The child might have traveled the closest portion to home by stream to disguise his trail. The thieves had not gained their title of ghosts without just cause. If he could peek a glimpse of them today, he might be the first to see them in the flesh.

  Timothy remained still and quiet, and he waited. Waited, watched, and listened. Watched, listened, and offered up silent prayers until the sun had traveled a significant distance across the sky. Restraint. Another ally. He would not burst headlong onto the scene. Such tactics would have cost him the game as a child, but could cost him his very life today.

  He sat against a tree and continued his patient examination. As his eyes began to droop, he heard it. The giggle of a small child. He wove his way through the trees to the closest point and waited behind a particularly wide trunk.

  The giggles grew closer. On the nearest hilltop, shadowed against the sun, toddled a little girl, still giggling as she attempted to run. He drew nearer, crouching into the thicket until he could make out the wispy tuft of baby hair upon her head, aglow with golden lig
ht like a halo.

  “Sunshine man! Sunshine man! Wait me! Wait me!” she called, her giggles tinkling like chimes over the valley. A fairy of the forest. A petite tot in a fine pink tunic.

  She made a mad dash straight toward him, and just when he thought she might tumble into the thicket where he hid, she embraced the air, grinning from cherubic cheek to cherubic cheek.

  He dared not even breathe.

  A voice trickled over the hillside. “Wrenny! Wrenny! Where are you? Come back here. I saw a sunshine man near the fort. Hurry!” Also that of a girl child, although much older than the one before him.

  Timothy exhaled.

  The tot turned and ran back up the hill, falling upon her hands and knees once along the way. “Sunshine man. I get you!”

  Guilt flooded him. How could he justify using such a precious poppet to locate the ghosts? Yet, it seemed as if Providence himself had sent the child to lead the way. These were thieves he was dealing with, after all. No doubt that pretty tunic had been stolen from some nobleman’s daughter.

  Firming his resolve, he crept up the hill, watching for twigs that might snap and leaves that might crunch. Halfway up he spotted . . . a watchman? No, another child, this one a boy aged about ten or eleven years. With a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder and a sword at the ready upon his hip.

  What in heaven and on earth?

  Timothy flattened himself to the ground and remained stone-still, waiting again, glad he had worn the plain brown tunic and leggings.

  The child approached, then turned and headed in the opposite direction.

  Timothy searched for another watchman to his right, but he detected no one. He must hurry. There might not be much time. The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest could reside in the valley just beyond. This might be Timothy’s gateway to all he had dreamed of this past year.

  Using even more caution, he ascended to the hilltop and crouched behind a rock. Lifting up only so high that he might see, he stared down upon . . . a village? Children ran about, and he could now distinguish their squeals and laughter. Young females cut vegetables near a boiling pot. Two young males, perhaps fifteen years of age, practiced at swordplay in a relaxed and languid manner. It might be a manorial courtyard, except that he spied no animals, and in place of a large central home, several rounded constructions blended into the hillside. If not for the human habitation, one might miss the buildings entirely.