by Sahara Kelly
“Okay, shoot.” Marianne tucked her feet comfortably beneath her.
“Did you hear the nightingale?”
She sat back, thinking—trying to recall every tiny detail of her time with Cristophe in their tent. Jake’s tone made her believe this question might be important, so she concentrated as much as she could on her memories.
Finally, she threw up her hands. “Nope. It was early morning. I remember hearing sounds from outside and seeing…his body. Horses’ hooves, clatter—just noises you’d expect to hear in such surroundings.” She frowned at Jake. “No nightingale. Is it significant?”
“I don’t know.” Jake frowned too.
“Wait a minute…” Renny stood and hurried to a bookshelf, tugging down a small volume. “What was Cristophe’s name again?”
“Er…Cristophe?” Marianne looked puzzled.
“No, his last name. Lord something-or-other.”
Jake lifted his head. “Rossignol, wasn’t it? Maybe like the skis…couldn’t say about the spelling, of course…”
Renny rustled pages, the noise loud in the silence as Marianne and Jake watched her. Finally, she paused and ran a finger down over a certain section.
“Holy shit.” She lifted her head and stared at the two of them. “You’ll never believe this.”
“What?” Marianne asked curiously.
“Rossignol?” Renny gulped. “It’s French for nightingale.”
*~~*~~*
The rest of the day passed in a blur for Marianne. They all agreed to take a break from the weirdly paranormal stuff and that doing routine things like eating dinner, walking in the fall sunshine, napping—all the activities “ordinary” folks did on weekends—would be of benefit to everyone.
Either Jake or Renny stayed by her side, talking of inconsequential matters, passing her a rake when she offered to help with a few garden chores, keeping her grounded in more ways than just her contact with the earth.
She nipped dead flower heads off chrysanthemums, trimmed back a few shrubs whether they wanted trimming or not and managed to breathe in the cool autumn air without dwelling on times long past.
It was soothing busy-work, quietly easing the confusion and ache within her heart. But it was a temporary respite at best, since Jake had recommended they spend the evening trying to deal with the one major issue in all this—Christian.
And it was to this topic that they returned after a lazy evening meal when they settled themselves once more. This time they were in Jake and Renny’s living room, a comfortable space featuring yet another fireplace, welcoming furniture and soft colors that invited relaxation.
Marianne was, sadly, anything but relaxed.
“I don’t know how, Jake.” She nipped at one fingernail. “I simply do not know how to force myself to dream of Christian. Not now—now that it seems there’s other…what can I call them?…passions in the distant past.”
He fussed with the wood in the fireplace, finally getting a blaze going to his satisfaction. “That’s my job.” He brushed off his hands and nodded at the flames.
Renny agreed. “Now that my man has made fire and fulfilled his masculine obligations…” she chuckled at Jake’s expression, “we can get down to business.” Legs tucked up on her chair in what seemed to be her customary position, Renny turned to Marianne. “Jake will guide you this time, Marianne.”
“How?” Marianne snuggled deeper into the cushions.
“He’ll use hypnosis tonight. Yes, you’ve got our excellent mind martini and you’ll be relaxed, as you were this morning.” She nodded at the glass of cordial Marianne had already half-finished.
Marianne glanced at Jake. “I figured you’d hypnotized me then. Your voice, the way you spoke to me…”
Jake shrugged casually as he pulled an ottoman over and sat down in front of her. “I did. A little. Just enough to get you really at ease with what you were about to do.”
“Okay.”
“Now, I want you to give me your hands and just look into my eyes.”
“Sure.” Marianne took a last swallow of the sweet liquid, licked her lips, and did as she was bid, placing her hands—palms down—into Jake’s. Her muscles were already soft and pliant as the special drink went to work.
“We’re going to travel together, Marianne.” His voice was soft, a caress of sound on the back of her neck, soothing and velvety. “You are going back to your dreams of Christian. Back to the love you shared with him, back to the pleasure of his touch, his kiss…”
Jake’s eyes were dark and beautiful, pools of chocolate that flickered with a rainbow of colors.
“You are warm and safe, you are with friends. Nothing can hurt you…” His fingers stroked hers, an additional comfort that did much to calm her turbulent thoughts. “You are relaxed now, here with us. You want to share this feeling with Christian. To see him once more through the eyes of Mary Anne and the eyes of Marianne. To be with him as yourself—the woman who has loved him throughout time.”
“Oh, yes…” Jake’s face blurred, then disappeared as Marianne closed her eyes.
“Let your thoughts drift freely, just listen to my voice and go where they take you. It will be a wonderful journey, something you want—a place you want to be—a love you want to share and enjoy…”
She floated, weightless and formless, her mind a wisp of clouds.
“Can you hear it? The song of the nightingale…”
Somebody spoke, asked her a question, but she couldn’t remember who it was. The fog was lifting…
It was early…
The song of the nightingale hummed in her mind as her heart thudded with joyful anticipation. This was the day—the day she would leave her home, her parents, all the things she’d known and endured for the first twenty years of her life.
She would bid them farewell with a smile on her face and a song on her lips because she was going to be with Christian forever. Their future lay ahead of them, a path full of sunlight and opportunities, not a lane shadowed by the restrictions of discipline and obligation.
She had no doubts, no regrets. From this moment on, she was free to live, to love, where she willed.
Mary Anne walked firmly through the forest, her basket on her arm—a meager bundle of clothes within. Everything else she needed, Christian would procure for her. The less she had to remind her of the bleak home she was fleeing, the better off she was.
Her love for Christian swelled within her, almost touchable in its intensity. It was so…so right. She’d known it from the first time their gazes had met. The first time his lips had touched hers, the first time their bodies had met in desire and in passion. She’d felt she’d come home. In his arms, in his embrace, Mary Anne found the safety and the security she’d always believed could be hers.
And now it would be. She picked up her pace as the first rays of dawn began to push away the night, picking her way carefully through the trees towards the crossroads where they were to meet. Accustomed to the forest, the rustle of its inhabitants did not disturb Mary Anne. There were no creatures wandering the shadows that she feared, nor were the sounds she heard unusual. Perhaps a fox returned from a night’s hunt, or a badger scurried back to his sett where he would snooze away the daylight hours.
But her pace slowed as an unfamiliar noise caught her attention—a whimper, quickly muffled.
She stopped, head tilted, listening. Birds were singing now, welcoming the oncoming day, but she ignored them, trying to pinpoint what she’d heard.
There—there it was again, a short sound of distress, now louder, off to her right in the undergrowth. As she turned her head, it grew into a sharp cry of pain, only to die off once more into silence.
Unable to continue, Mary Anne turned her steps towards the noise. It was definitely something in pain, some animal perhaps. There were still a few traps in this area, although the men in the nearby village patrolled the forest regularly, trying to keep them at a minimum.
People had to survive, to catch in the
wild what they could not afford to purchase. But these traps were vicious—toothed and wickedly effective—and the villagers had chosen not to risk their children’s safety for a wild rabbit stew. There were other ways to forage for food should the need arise.
Mary Anne pushed the greenery aside as the whimpers began anew, this time accompanied by soft whispers. There was definitely something or someone suffering and she had to find out who or what it was.
Within moments, she was staring at two faces, one small and streaked with tears, the other frantic, wide-eyed and afraid.
“What’s happened?” Dropping her basket, Mary Anne hurried to the child and her mother.
“Please—help me…” The woman was struggling with the ugly jaws of a trap that had locked fast around the child’s tiny ankle. There was a lot of blood and Mary Anne gasped as she saw how the flesh had been ripped away by the metal teeth.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Without another thought, she dropped her basket and rushed to add her strength to the woman’s hands. “Here, you pull from that side while I pull from this side.”
The child whimpered, then clamped her mouth tightly shut against a cry of pain.
“You are so brave, little one. Never fear, we shall free you.”
“I should not…you should not be here…” Beads of sweat dappled the woman’s forehead and for the first time Mary Anne realized she was a gypsy. Long dark hair and colored beads mixed in a tangle as she fought to grasp the mechanism of the trap.
“Is she your daughter?” Mary Anne settled herself next to the device and began to pry her side of the jaws free.
“Yes, Mistress. She wandered away from our little camp against my instructions. I have searched all night. We must leave here before we are discovered.”
Mary Anne nodded. There was little comfort for these wandering folk in this area. They were reviled as thieves and troublemakers by the more staid of the villagers, her parents among them. “I understand.”
“You will get into trouble if you are found helping us…” The woman tugged hard. “Easy, Marguerite. ‘Tis coming…”
“I could not walk past such a thing. Say no more about it.” The metal was sharp and Mary Anne bit her lip in concentration as she pulled with all her strength. She put aside all thoughts of Christian for this moment—a child was seriously hurt. That was all that mattered.
The two women worked feverishly, straining their bodies, cutting themselves without regard to their own safety. The spring was new and strong, intimidating as a trap and almost undefeatable as a shackle around Marguerite’s little limb. Their battle continued as the sun rose higher in the sky, each advance met by some new challenge as four hands desperately tried to free the child.
Finally, with a last savage move, Mary Anne and the gypsy woman stretched the teeth free of Marguerite’s flesh and the exhausted child pulled her leg away from the horror and pain of the trap.
She sobbed quietly as her mother flew to her side and the clang of metal on metal marked the closing of the hinged device around nothing but air. The woman immediately began tending to the gash that had bled so freely.
Mary Anne leaned back and wiped her hands on the soft moss, realizing the sun was now fully up and the day well begun. She would be late meeting Christian, but he would wait for her, as she would wait for him, should he be delayed.
Shaking out her cloak, Mary Anne stood. “How is she?”
The question seemed to surprise both the gypsy and her daughter. They’d been locked in a terrible struggle for so long, perhaps they’d all but forgotten to speak.
Then the gypsy smiled, a hand resting on the dark hair of her child. “She will do well now. We can heal the wound, nasty though it is.”
Marguerite gazed somberly at Mary Anne from eyes as dark as night, but said nothing.
“You have my thanks, Mistress…” The gypsy struggled for words.
“None are necessary. Marguerite needed help. I’m glad I was here to aid you and that she will be well.” She glanced at the sky. “But now I must hurry.”
“May you be blessed, Mistress. Your kindness this day…may it bless you always.”
Tossing her cloak around her and picking up her basket, Mary Anne smiled. “Thank you. Be careful in the woods. Take care of the little one. And Marguerite?” She fixed the child with a stern look. “Pay attention to your Mama in future, all right?”
The little girl nodded soberly.
Laughing, Mary Anne scurried back through the brush to her path, waving over her shoulder at her new friends. They would be well now and, with any luck, would be gone from these woods before any knew of their presence.
For her part, she had a rendezvous with her future and she was already late. There was still a mile or so to go and Mary Anne walked quickly now, her heart light, her steps rapid.
She’d already done one good deed this morning, even though it had delayed her. Christian would understand, she knew. He would have done exactly the same thing had he found the child caught. Although, she mused a little ruefully, with his strength it would have gone a lot quicker.
Before long, the crossroads loomed into sight—but instead of the quietly empty roads she’d expected, there was a small crowd there. A cart or two, some people—what on earth…
Nearing them, Mary Anne’s throat caught on a gasp of horror.
There was something—someone—dangling horridly from the old oak tree marking the intersection of the two lanes.
Slowing her pace, she moved softly through the hedge, trying to avoid being noticed by any of the villagers. Oh God—was that her father? And the curate, too. Yes, they were there, staring at the body.
Her gaze followed theirs—dear Lord in Heaven…
Mary Anne’s mouth fell open on a scream she never uttered.
The mists of time began to swirl around her as the ultimate horror sank through into her brain. It was Christian hanging there, Christian’s dear face distorted and terrible in death. Christian’s body swinging gently to and fro from a noose fastened to the strong branches of the oak.
“Stay, love. Stay. It is a horrible thing, but you must see it through. It cannot harm you or Christian anymore.”
A voice—soft and comforting—Mary Anne knew that voice from somewhere. Instead of fainting away or swooning into unconsciousness, that voice drew her back again to where she stood behind a large fir and gave her the strength to stare at the lifeless body of the man she loved beyond desperation.
Tears began to fall unchecked as she stepped from the concealment of the evergreen boughs towards the awful sight. “Christian, my love…what have they done to you?”
“You must find out, Mary Anne. We are here with you. You are safe. But you must go on—for just a little while longer.”
The voice came again, a whisper of solace in the back of her mind. Yes, she must find out what on earth happened. She must fight the overwhelming urge to scream and rant and let go of all that she was, all that she held sacred. She wanted to die—right there, right at that moment. She wanted to die if that was the only way to be with Christian.
But the voice stayed with her, holding her desires in check, steadying the tiny part of her that could still think with any degree of rationality.
“Mary Anne. What are you doing here? This is no place for a woman. Get you home.” Her father’s hand was on her arm, a harsh grip that bruised even as she swung around to face him.
“What has happened here? How could you…” Words failed her as she choked on her grief, able only to wave a hand at the terror behind her.
“We did only what good and honest men would do.” The curate stepped to her father’s side, a look of superiority on his pudgy face. “The beast was a murderer. A killer, pure and simple. We exacted justice for his crimes. May God have mercy on his soul.”
Both men dipped their heads respectfully, oblivious of the fury that swamped the woman before them.
“May God have mercy on your souls. Because, before that very God, I swear
you have hanged an innocent man.” Her body shook with the force of her anger. “What right do you have to take a life? What right?”
Her father glared at her. “If you must know, then so be it. A body was discovered just after midnight. A man, one of the villagers, his neck snapped cleanly. Right outside his…” he gestured with his head toward Christian, “gates. There was nobody else in the vicinity. There were no servants or others who could have done such a thing.”
“Especially in that particular way.” The curate pierced with a stern gaze from beneath his straggly eyebrows. “‘Tis a method commonly known to be taught to soldiers. It was obvious who had perpetrated the foul deed.”
Mary Anne gasped. “This is what you base your terrible actions upon? A mere supposition of guilt and a man meets his death?”
“He did not deny it when we questioned him. He would not account for his whereabouts last night. He was guilty. Guilty as sin.” Her father’s look was disdainful. “It came as no surprise to many of us.”
She wrenched herself free of his grip, surprising him enough to let her go. “How dare you? He was pre-judged and condemned before this incident, wasn’t he? His birth condemned him, not any act you wish to lay at his door.”
“Hush now. You are being foolish. Go home, Mary Anne. You should not be out at this time. Especially not here.”
“‘Tis not a sight for such gentle eyes, I’m sure.”
The curate moved toward her, but Mary Anne stepped quickly back. “The sight which appalls me the most is right in front of me, not behind me.” She spat the words at the two men, stopping them in their tracks.
Pain and fury boiled within her soul. “It is impossible for Christian Lawrence to have committed any crimes at all last night. I know this as a certainty.” She squared her shoulders and stared at them both.
“How do I know this? Because I was with him. ‘Til long after midnight.”
Her father’s face suffused with an angry blush and the curate’s jaw gaped.
She ignored their reactions, fueled now only by the desire to see them humbled and made aware of the atrocity of their deeds. “Yes, I was with him. We met a little after dark and walked down to the stream. There’s a place there we loved, it’s where we spent many a night together. Where we talked and made plans for our future. Where I gave myself to him and he gave himself to me.”