Return of the Rose

by Theresa Ragan

  Shayna made her way through broken furniture, chipped goblets and broken plates to see what the missive was about. After a moment, Shayna turned to Lord Vanguard. “There is a message for the Earl of Kensington.”

  Derek’s eyes narrowed as he came toward her. “I do not believe I heard you correctly.” He took the scroll and read it for himself. He felt all color drain from his face as he turned back to the small crowd that had gathered. “The king it seems has bequeathed to me the Kensington lands as an early wedding gift, thus honoring me with another title: the Earl of Kensington.”

  The room grew silent for they all knew something wondrous, a miracle of sorts, had taken place these past weeks.

  “We need to find her,” Emmon said, breaking the silence.

  “But where would she go?” Matti asked.

  “To see the Witch of Devonshire, of course,” Odelia said excitedly. “Morgan mentioned the old woman on more than one occasion. She thought mayhap the witch could tell her why she was sent to this time. I am sure that is where she has gone.”

  Dread and misgivings had gnawed at Derek since seeing Amanda come through Braddock’s doors. The thought of his wife disappearing into thin air tugged at his heart. Could it truly be that she spoke the truth all along?

  After Odelia told him where he could find the witch’s cottage, Derek took long strides through the hall and to his chambers where he donned a tight-fitting padded doublet. He snatched his broadsword from where it hung by the door and hurried back downstairs and through the lengthy keep, pausing long enough to let Matti place a belt about his waist from which hung a sheath and his dagger. Shayna swung his mantle about his neck and together the entire swarm of castle folk bid him good luck.

  He made haste in getting to the stables where the stable master waited with a readied mount. The horse snorted and made a nervous sideways movement, sensing his urgency. Before Derek was full upon the animal’s broad back, his destrier reared up and took off without waiting for the command.

  In a blur of dust and rattling of hooves, he sped past the guards and past hard-working serfs as they plowed the fields. He leaned low to avoid the lower branches of alders that lined the path of beaten earth. His wounded shoulder burned and his mind buzzed with the absurdity of it all.

  His wife was not Amanda Forrester? Every word she uttered had been the unvarnished truth? It made his head ache to think of it. How could any rational being have believed such a thing? And yet all that had happened pointed to her telling naught but the truth. She was thrown into a strange world and had tried to tell each and every one of them that something unbelievable occurred. But no one would listen.

  He tightened his knees into the steed’s side as he neared Swan Lake. He had to hurry and find her, tell her what he should have told her long ago. That he was in love with her and madly so. If everything she told him was true, then the Witch of Devonshire, in all actuality, could send Morgan back in time. He would not allow it.

  Time was his enemy now, and he grasped the hilt of his sword, ready to do battle with his invisible nemesis.

  His eyes watered, surely caused by the slaps of wind to his face. And yet strangely, he realized he no longer felt so hollow inside. Soothing warmth filled him and it seemed suddenly that he had no room for detestation. Pools of hatred for his father and the mother he hardly knew began to melt within. For the first time in years he felt a strange sense of forgiveness, exoneration for himself and what he had become. The acrid taste that had steadfastly tainted him for most of his life was suddenly gone and in its stead was something sweet and mild.

  He bent his heels into the horse’s flanks. Should he find her, he would beg for her forgiveness and not stop until she relented. For was he not the infallible Earl of Kensington? Had Morgan Hayes not apprised him of just that? Even the ambush at Swan Lake was the truth, he realized too late as four men with swords appeared from the denser brush without warning. His horse whinnied and reared high.

  The men caught him ill equipped and unprepared as they blocked his path and came at him.

  Had he not just gripped his sword, he would not have had sufficient time to retrieve it. But he had, and he did, thrusting the blade into the closest man’s gut and just as quickly extracting the ancient sword so that he could swing forth once more, this time easily severing the arms that held his steed by the reins. That man screamed as he slumped to the ground in his own pool of blood.

  Derek’s steed took full advantage of its freedom and raised its front legs as if performing a capriole for its master, giving a snort as its hooves came smashing down upon a third victim. Derek let out a cry when a scorching pain shot through his side as another man lunged from behind and knocked him to the ground.

  Derek jumped to his feet with sword firmly grasped. Heated fury bulged from every vein as he turned and spied his adversary. Otgar!

  Having no thought other than killing the man, Derek prepared to lunge when five more men, bigger and more vicious than the others, came to stand behind Otgar.

  ~~~~

  A rickety bridge spanned across a wide creek. Morgan stopped to catch her breath and rub her throbbing feet before crossing. She was close. She knew she was nearing the old woman’s cottage for she’d finally come across a small establishment called the Boars Head Inn. The innkeeper had taken pity on her and after filling her with stew and cider he’d pointed her in the right direction.

  To think she’d been going in circles for two days now. She crossed the bridge and then climbed a small slope. If she’d stayed on the main road to begin with she would have reached the Witch of Devonshire’s cottage long ago.

  Now at last in the moonlight, Morgan caught a glimpse of a cottage set against a backdrop of enormous pines. Overgrown with tangled vines, the cottage had an eerie shadow of darkness veiling it. A shiver ran up her spine.

  She stood silent for a moment. Her life held no purpose in this medieval world, although her heart wilted at the thought of leaving Derek forever. She knew she could forgive him, for how could she expect anyone to believe the things she’d told him? But how, she wondered, would she ever forget him?

  She listened for the pounding of hooves, still praying that Derek would appear, a knight-errant upon his horse, declaring his love for her. But she heard only the chirping of crickets and the wind as it brushed against the trees.

  Her hopes withering, she moved on, feeling a sudden urge to get this over with. It was time to go back. The future was calling her like an invisible emissary whispering in her ear, pulling her closer. She made her way toward the witch’s home.

  A small breeze chilled her. Then a streak of lightning sliced through the night and a boom of thunder followed. Perplexed, she glanced upward. No clouds gathered, only myriad stars glittering against the dark sky.

  Dread filled her insides and before she knocked, the door creaked open and a dark shadow filled the doorway.

  The Witch of Devonshire.

  Long white hair flowed down over frail shoulders. The old woman reached out and touched Morgan’s arm. The woman’s hand shook excitedly and Morgan forced herself to stay calm. “Do you know me?” Morgan asked.

  The witch laughed gleefully as she nodded.

  “Who am I then?”

  “You are Morgeanna,” the witch said elatedly, “twin sister to Amanda Forrester, daughter of the Earl of Silverwood. You were born a sickly child and only I could save you. ‘Twas I, the Witch of Devonshire, who sent you to another world to be healed.”

  Twin sister to Amanda Forrester? Daughter of the Earl of Silverwood? The woman was insane, Morgan realized. Over the woman’s shoulder, she saw that the inside of the cottage was bare except for a few crates and an old faded rug atop a dirt floor.

  She needed to go home, now more than ever. “Can you send me back? To the future where I belong?”

  The witch let out a string of mumble jumble as she threw up her arms. “‘Twould not work!”

  “Why not? If what you said about sending me to another w
orld is true, then I don’t see why you couldn’t do it again.”

  “Too soon. There is no halo about the moon,” the witch said sharply. “The time is not right and it is not your calling to do so. You belong here now.”

  “I don’t care if it’s my calling. I read once that destiny is an invention of the cowardly and the resigned. I believe it’s true and I’m making my own destiny now. I want to go back and see my mother. Do you understand? Show me that you can do this. I don’t care about the moon’s nimbus or where you think I belong. I only know I would be a fool to think that a knight from another world could ever love me. If I can’t have him, then I don’t want to live in his world…your world.” She waved her hand through the air. “Now send me home.”

  “The prophecy does not call for sending you back. You are not ailing. What you ask for is absurd.” The old woman turned and went inside, shutting the door behind her.

  Morgan stood dumbfounded. After a moment passed, she pounded on the door as if her very life depended on getting inside. “I won’t leave here until you do as I say,” she shouted at the door. “If you don’t send me back, I’ll tell everyone I meet that you’re no witch at all, just an old hag who grows herbs. I’ll forever deny that you sent me through time unless you prove to me that you can do it again!”

  The door opened again and this time the witch looked her up and down, scowling with obvious malice as she let her in. “I will rid myself of such an ungrateful wench. What do I care which world you wish to live in or if the time is not right. I have done it before and I shall do it again.”

  Ignoring her complaints, Morgan watched the old woman go from one cupboard to another, gathering a large bowl and many small wooden ones. The woman licked at her lips as she mixed and blended assorted herbs. A foul-smelling liquid was added before the witch began to chant and hiss as if she’d forgotten Morgan was in the room.

  When the moon was at its brightest, the old woman was ready, and she gestured toward a couch of moss for Morgan to lie on. Morgan did as she said, laying on her back and holding tight to her blanket as if it were a lifeline.

  She shut her eyes and listened to the woman’s strange words. A fine dust fell across her face and neck. Within minutes her body felt weightless. And her only thoughts were of Derek and how much she would miss him when she was gone.

  ~~~~

  “At last, Vanguard, we meet face to face,” Otgar said.

  Derek’s chest heaved beneath his torn doublet as he glared at the toad-faced man. “So, Otgar, you have naught better to do than hide in the thicket and wait for one lone man?”

  Otgar’s lips pursed with suppressed fury. “Aye, there is only one man whose neck I wish to snap like a twig. My brother will not rest in his grave until the deed is done. And neither, it seems, will Lady Leonie, for she proved right in telling me we would not have long to wait for you to come. Braddock will be mine before this day is out and Lady Amanda will celebrate my victory at my side.”

  It mattered not that they numbered six and he only one. The veins in Derek’s jaw throbbed and every muscle was taut as he stalked forward. His eyes locked on Otgar’s pitiful face, and he cared not that he was devoid of a horse and armor and only possessed one good arm. He had something mayhap they did not—the determination and will of a dozen warriors. He raised his broadsword skyward in warning, astounding all six men by his steadfast perseverance and by what some might consider to be the harebrained actions of an irrational fool.

  ~~~~

  Hugo nodded for Emmon to be silent as they came upon Derek’s war-horse. They could hear the shouts of men in the distance and paid little attention to the dismembered bodies strewn about the ground as they urged their mounts onward. They easily discerned that a small war had already taken place, but to come forward and see their lord staggering toward six men with raised sword, gave both Hugo and Emmon cause to wince.

  Emmon moved first. With a quick jerk of his wrist he sent a sharp javelin through the air, impaling a man’s throat. A heroic gesture, Hugo thought, worthy of only the most adroit of knights and one that would surely launch Emmon to his glory.

  Hugo’s mount was fast and agile, and he urged the steed close enough so that when he flung his ax it hit its mark square on. His victim went mute as he stumbled and fell before Lord Vanguard’s feet. By the time Hugo took out his target, Emmon was charging forward again, piercing another man with his lance, pinning the bulky frame to a seasoned alder.

  Derek lunged, bringing his sword swiftly earthward, dealing a swift blow to another man’s gut. Otgar had run off the moment he spotted Hugo. There was only one man left.

  The last of the enemy peered about wild-eyed as if he were trying to decide which way to run. Instead, he stood rigid with terror, knowing it was too late as he watched Hugo retrieve an ax and Emmon pluck a small dagger from his sheath.

  Derek raised his broadsword and the man jerked about, tripping on his own feet. Derek motioned for Emmon to let the man be and Hugo chuckled as the gutless coward scrambled to his feet and ran into the denser part of the woods.

  “It seems you needed no help from us, my lord,” Hugo mocked, bearing little sympathy for his lordship’s weary state.

  “Indeed,” Derek said to his men, “for as you could surely see I had the situation well under control.”

  Derek walked toward Hugo as the big man came down from his horse. Derek squeezed his friend’s broad shoulder, knowing full well he should even now be breathing his last breath.

  “What made you think to come?” Derek asked as he bound his side with strips of cloth torn from his mantle.

  “Your wife told her maid and most of the people at Braddock of an ambush near Swan Lake. An ambush that was to be the cause of the Earl of Kensington’s death whilst he searched in desperation for his true love.”

  “Aye,” Derek said, “it seems my wife related the story to me also, but I am afraid it was not the first time I failed to take heed of what she said. Verily, in all honesty, ‘tis a good thing you came when you did, else I would not be around to listen to your insulting barbs.” They shared an amiable look between long-time comrades before turning to Emmon.

  “You have done well,” Derek said, clapping Emmon’s horse on the rump, wincing from the pain it caused him.

  “You are badly hurt?”

  “Naught to fret about,” Derek said as he gathered his things and whistled for his horse.

  Emmon tossed back his long hair. “Any more brave, chivalrous deeds and I am certain the king himself would seek to reward me.”

  “My young knight,” Hugo supplied, “I am afraid the king would not take kindly to the fact that you nearly killed his best knight only this morn. Aye, ‘tis the king’s own dungeons that you almost found to be your just reward.”

  They all chuckled at that, recalling the damage they had caused within the keep, eager to find humor where they could, relieved to see all before them alive and well.

  “It may not surprise you to know that one of the two men running off was Otgar,” Emmon ground out.

  “Leave him be for now,” Derek said as he mounted his steed, ignoring the pain in his side. “I believe Leonie is also behind this bloody mayhem.”

  The corners of Emmon’s lips curved upward. “Apparently, my lord, the ladies are not as enchanted with you as I originally envisioned.”

  Derek grunted as he urged his horse onward, leaving Hugo to scramble for his mount.

  ~~~~

  With her eyes clamped shut, Morgan concentrated on all the new friends she’d made, hoping they would all find happiness after she left. She wondered if Robert had found Amanda. She felt saddened to think she and Amanda would never meet. Inhaling deeply, she listened to the shattering claps of distant thunder together with the strange garbled chants of the old woman.

  Her feet and hands tingled as she felt her body lifting, floating upward. A wispy beam of light filled her head with visions of the same man she’d seen so many times in her dreams. He was carrying w
ild flowers and praying for her return.

  CHAPTER 20

  The air appeared suddenly thick and Derek prayed he was not too late as he charged toward the witch’s cottage.

  Leaving Emmon and Hugo in a wave of dust, he heard chanting and saw an eerie light flicker through a small window. Before his horse slowed, he jumped, launching himself against the door. The ancient planks ruptured into a splintering rain as he rolled across the dirt floor inside the small hut.

  A cacophony of jarring thunder and high-pitched chants rang in his ears. His eyes widened in horror as he glanced across the room. His wife, his angel from another world, floated upward out of arm’s reach. Scrambling quickly to his feet, he leapt through the air, grabbing Morgan about the waist before falling to the ground. For a moment he lay still and held her tight against his chest as he watched the blanket she’d been holding hover above them as a hawk would hover above its prey. And then the coverlet disappeared before his eyes.

  Just inside the door, Emmon and Hugo, having seen the blanket vanish into thin air, stood speechless. The witch failed to acknowledge the men at all as she paced the darkest corner of the cottage and mumbled to herself of moons and faraway places.

  With Morgan draped in his arms, Derek came to his feet. She did not stir but she was alive. He could hardly believe his good fortune at finding her in time. “We will take her to Silverwood,” he said to Hugo. “Hopefully her father can shed some light on the matter of his second daughter.”

  ~~~~

  Impatiently, Leonie waited for Otgar, knowing full well he had failed once again to do her bidding. When he finally did arrive, his repulsive countenance made her inwardly cringe. She did not like the bitter taste of defeat. More than anything she had wanted to see Lord Vanguard on bended knee, begging forgiveness. She had planned to take him in her arms and pardon him his fleeting lapse in judgment, assure him of her undying love. But it was not to be. She had no one. Her heart shriveled, and a dull, empty ache gnawed inside of her.