The Huntress of Thornbeck Forest

by Melanie Dickerson

  There was only one explanation: someone was poaching, or trying to poach, the animals in Thornbeck forest.

  Jorgen stood and looked around, still holding the arrow. His whole body tensed as his heart beat faster.

  His father had been shot by a poacher. Had it only been four years ago? It seemed like a long time, and yet he still sometimes would begin to go ask his father a question before realizing that he could never answer Jorgen’s questions again. The memory of his death would flood him for the hundredth time.

  After examining the woods that day, Jorgen believed the poacher had been discovered by his father. The poacher had shot at the gamekeeper and missed, then stalked him until he was able to kill him. It had been murder, plain and simple.

  And that murderer’s arrows had the same white feathers on the end.

  The margrave’s guards had searched for the killer, but they never found him. Jorgen had been preoccupied with comforting his grieving mother and seeing to his father’s burial, not to mention his own grief and shock at his sudden death. He regretted being unable to hunt the poacher down himself. He hoped, with God’s favor, someday he would find him and gain justice for his father.

  This new poacher might not be new at all, but the same man who killed Jorgen’s father.

  He put the arrow in his own quiver for safekeeping. It was evidence and might help him find the murderer and prove him guilty. Even if this poacher was not the same one who had hunted down Jorgen’s father and killed him, he must be punished. Poaching was dangerous and a serious offense against both the margrave and the king.

  Jorgen would not tell his mother someone was poaching deer again. It would cause her to worry—another incentive to capture this poacher and make sure he never drew another bowstring.

  ODETTE WAS WALKING through the game park with her bow and arrows in the middle of the day. A large stag appeared and she shot it.

  Suddenly, Jorgen jumped from behind a tree. She seemed rooted to the ground, as her legs refused to move. He grabbed her arms so tight her muscles ached.

  “You will be sorry you crossed this margrave.” He dragged her through the forest. She lost her shoes, and her feet raked over the sticks and rocks.

  He took her to the margrave’s castle, threw her into the dungeon underneath, and the metal key scraped against the lock as he trapped her inside.

  She sat on the damp stone floor, and the cold wrapped around her body like icy claws. She was all alone and she was hungry, her stomach gnawing and cramping as it had after her mother and father died and she had no food. Nearly half the town of Thornbeck had perished in less than one year from the horrible sickness that ravaged its victims’ bodies and left them dead, sometimes after only one day of being sick. She had been five years old, but being in the dungeon vividly brought back her terror at being left alone with no one to care for her.

  Odette shivered and wrapped her arms around her empty stomach. “Jorgen?” she called, but there was no answer.

  She bolted upright in bed, a cold sweat on her brow and under her arms.

  She had told Anna that she rarely had pleasant dreams, but one would have thought she could have dreamed something a bit less horrific on Midsummer night.

  The next day Brother Philip came to tutor her. She usually relished her time with him and the opportunity to study, but today she could not concentrate. She could not stop thinking about Jorgen Hartman. She had not had a chance to tell Rutger who Jorgen was—that her uncle had invited the margrave’s forester to her birthday dinner.

  “Odette, are you listening to me?” Brother Philip was glaring at her.

  “Oh, forgive me.” Odette blinked hard and focused on Brother Philip’s leathery face. “What did you say?”

  “I brought you a Book of Hours I found at the monastery library. I am risking a lot by bringing it to you, so I would think you would at least be attentive when I tell you about it.”

  She would rather he just give it to her and let her read it. Must he always talk everything to death first?

  He went on with his lecture on how various copies of the Book of Hours differed from each other, as well as how they differed from the breviary and the Psalter.

  Brother Philip mentioned penitence, which brought once again to Odette’s mind the dream she had had about Jorgen. It was the look on Jorgen’s face she now could not get out of her mind. Anger, hurt, disappointment—she couldn’t quite define it, but it haunted her.

  Perhaps her poaching was not the right thing to do. When she was eight years old, she’d fashioned a crude bow and some arrows and shot her first pheasant. She remembered the pain of guilt she had felt. But when she had shared the meat with two other orphans who were starving, her guilt vanished.

  But what she was doing violated forest law.

  Still, the poor people would go hungry if she did not feed them. Her heart told her it was the right thing to do, that God would reward her for her kindness to the poor. Didn’t the friars who wandered about preaching God’s Word say the same? That it was the rich rulers, like the Margrave of Thornbeck, who oppressed the poor? And did the Bible not say God would carry out his vengeance on those who ignored the needs of the poor?

  It was that silly superstition. Anna had insisted she place her flower circlet under her pillow, along with a bunch of calendula and St. John’s wort, so she would dream of her future husband. But the only man she had dreamed of was Jorgen Hartman, the forester, throwing her into the dungeon. And even though his blue-green eyes made her heart thump hard against her chest, the dream had helped confirm her realization that she could never marry him.

  Finally Brother Philip produced the Book of Hours. He made her rub her hands on a clean cloth before he would allow her to turn the pages, but it was worth it when she saw the beautiful illuminations on the pages. Colorful painted pictures of scenes from the Bible shone brightly. The margins of some of the pages were decorated with elaborately intricate flowers, leaves, and vines.

  Perhaps the beautiful illuminations should have inspired her to appreciate God’s creation and give thanks for it, but mostly they made her mind wander to when she was very small and her mother had kept a beautiful flower garden in their small courtyard behind their house.

  Then her mind roamed to more immediate recollections. How many children would go hungry today because Odette had not been able to go hunting the night before, when there were too many people roaming the forest celebrating Midsummer? She had slept little, having awakened from her dream feeling cold, the pungent smell of calendula in her nostrils.

  “Forgive me, Brother Philip, but I am too tired to study today.”

  He frowned at her. “No doubt you engaged in too much frivolity last night.”

  “If you are wondering if I went to the town center and danced with men I had never met before, you would be correct.” Odette couldn’t resist saying things she knew would evoke a look of shock on the monk’s face.

  His expression of horrified disappointment was a little more than she had been aiming for.

  “My uncle Rutger and my friend Anna and her husband were with me the entire time, and nothing unseemly occurred. The two men who danced with me were very courteous, and my uncle approved of them.”

  “Humph.” He scrunched his face. “Maidens of your age should be married or in a convent somewhere.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Your uncle told me you are twenty years.”

  “I will be one and twenty in two days. Does that make me scandalous, if I am walking the streets unmarried?” Odette laughed at the thought.

  Brother Philip raised his eyebrows.

  Odette suppressed a sigh, as she was often forced to do when she was with Brother Philip.

  “Young women such as yourself never understand what a temptation you are,” he muttered, looking down at the text he had been examining.

  It wasn’t the first time she had heard words to that effect, either from Brother Philip or from others, but it irked he
r nevertheless. “I shall endeavor to refrain from being a temptation, Brother Philip, but I rather think it is the men you should be warning. Shouldn’t they shoulder most of the blame if they find me a temptation?” She almost asked him if she should sit at home and let her uncle arrange a marriage for her to a stranger, but he would say yes.

  Brother Philip’s leathery cheeks turned red. He took a deep breath, then quoted, “’Such is the way of the adulterous woman; she eateth, and wipeth her mouth, and saith, I have done no wickedness.’ ”

  Odette answered, “’His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.’ ”

  His eyes narrowed and he growled, “’For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.’ ”

  Odette shot back, “’Unto the pure all things are pure: but unto them that are defiled and unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is defiled.’ ” Odette couldn’t hold back a smirk.

  Brother Philip expelled a harsh breath and stood to his feet. “I see that I had better leave you now. Your scholarship is serving only to provide fodder for argument and the twisting of the holy Scripture.” He reached across the table and slid the Book of Hours toward himself, then closed it with a dull snap.

  Odette had been planning to ask if she could keep the beautiful book until he came back for their next tutoring session, but now she bit her lip to stop herself. He was in no mood to grant her such a favor.

  Should she apologize? She had only refuted his warped opinion with Scripture. No, she was not sorry for what she had said, nor for anything she had done. Still, she wished her tutor would not go away angry.

  She followed Brother Philip to the door, neither of them speaking. Then he turned to her. “I shall not return in two days. Your uncle will have to convince me that you are sorry for using Scripture to argue with me, and if he believes you will be able to concentrate and not allow your mind to wander aimlessly, I may return.” He scowled at her.

  Odette’s cheeks burned. How ridiculous that he would take such offense at her besting him with Scripture! But she did want him to come back. She had no copy of the holy Writ, and he often brought his copy for her to read. She had to placate him if she wanted him to come back. So she bit the inside of her cheek and said, “Of course. Forgive me, Brother Philip.” She bowed demurely.

  He turned and left without another word. But he would be back. He was too fond of the food their cook fed him to stay away. She would send Uncle Rutger to ask his forgiveness and pacify the friar’s injured superiority.

  “So . . . who is your future husband?” Anna asked late that afternoon.

  Odette was baffled for a moment, then remembered she was supposed to dream of her future husband on Midsummer night. She didn’t want to tell her friend that she had indeed dreamed of someone. “You know that does not work. Remember when Irmele dreamed of the swineherd on Midsummer night? And she married a wealthy merchant’s son.”

  “Do you not think Jorgen is very handsome? Did you not dream of him?” Anna arched her brows suggestively. “Or did you dream of Mathis Papendorp?”

  They sat in the first-floor room, eating ripe cherries. Anna leaned over and spit a cherry pit into the pottery bowl between them.

  “You know Jorgen is a forester. I haven’t told Uncle Rutger yet, but I do not believe he would approve. He wishes me to marry a wealthy man.”

  “But he is so handsome,” Anna whispered. “And the way the two of you were looking into each other’s eyes . . . I thought perhaps your uncle might set him up in business.”

  Was it true? Had they been staring into each other’s eyes? “I do not think Uncle Rutger would do that. His last three cargos were lost, two at sea and the other to thieves. He is worried about his profits just now.” Her stomach flipped. “Were we really looking into each other’s eyes?”

  “Do not worry. Probably no one noticed except me. And Peter.”

  “Did he say something?”

  Anna nodded. “Even though Peter was taught at home by a tutor, I think he must have known something about how the other boys treated Jorgen badly in school. He said several of the boys used to torment him because he was poor.” Anna frowned.

  Odette knew how it felt to be tormented for being poor. Her heart squeezed at the thought. But she couldn’t let Anna think there was any possibility that she could marry Jorgen. If only Odette could acknowledge the real reason.

  Anna nodded. “I was surprised your uncle allowed him to dance with you, even though he is not a gamekeeper anymore but the margrave’s forester.”

  Odette did not contradict Anna’s reasoning about why she could not think of Jorgen.

  “I’m sorry if I misjudged your uncle,” Anna said.

  “No, you are right. It did seem strange that he would allow Jorgen to dance with me”—especially since he would arrest me if he knew who I really was—“and to invite him to dinner was even stranger.”

  “But there’s something about him . . . He seemed gracious and humble, but humble in a . . . powerful way. That sounds foolish, doesn’t it?”

  “No, you describe him very well.” Odette remembered how he had put his arm around her and guided her through the crowd of revelers, how he had made her feel so safe. She sighed.

  “I must say, Odette”—Anna spit out another cherry pit—“I’ve never seen you look at a man the way you looked at Jorgen last night. I would not be surprised if you were falling in love with him.”

  “I barely know him. You should not suggest such a thing.” Odette laughed to try to cover her discomfiture.

  Jorgen was the last man she could ever allow herself to fall in love with.

  5

  JORGEN TREKKED UP the castle mount on the path that led to Thornbeck Castle. The guard at the gatehouse waved him through. At the front door, the servant said, “You are Jorgen Hartman, the forester, are you not?”

  “Ja.”

  “The margrave is waiting for you in the library. Follow me.” The articulate servant turned and marched down the corridor.

  Always a bit nervous when he spoke to the margrave, Jorgen felt a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. He had to tell the margrave that there was a poacher hunting deer in Thornbeck Forest. He was certain to be displeased.

  The servant motioned Jorgen into the room. The windows were open, but as it was a cloudy, misty day, lit candles stood in copper candlesticks on Margrave Reinhart’s desk. He sat behind it, staring down at some papers. Unfortunately, Ulrich Schinkel was standing at his shoulder.

  While the margrave seemed to like Jorgen, his new chancellor did not, and the feeling was reciprocated. Jorgen could never forget how arrogant Ulrich had been when they were boys because his father was the margrave’s chancellor, and Ulrich would often boast that someday he would take his place. And now he had.

  Jorgen strode forward as the margrave looked up at him.

  Margrave Reinhart, or Lord Thornbeck as he was known, was not much older than Jorgen. He had become the new margrave when his older brother died in a fire in the west wing of the castle the year before. He had thick dark hair and eyebrows. He was just the sort one would want as a knight defender, broad and muscular shoulders and unusually tall. With the title of margrave, he was even more imposing.

  The margrave’s forehead was creased, as if he was concentrating. “Jorgen,” he greeted and waved him forward.

  Jorgen stepped up to the desk, doing his best to ignore Ulrich, but Jorgen could see out of the corner of his eye that Ulrich was sizing him up.

  “As our forester,” the margrave began, “tell me how the game is faring in the park. Any problems to report?”

  “Lord Thornbeck.” Jorgen bowed and decided to begin with the good news. “The mild weather has produced many new pheasant chicks, as well as many hares. In fact, it might be best, my lord, if you permitted the gamekeepers to snare some hares for
your larder. Too many will cause the animals to be thin and sickly and might attract new predators, like wolves, to move into the game park.”

  “Please have your gamekeeper set some snares, then, as many as you think necessary.” He turned to his chancellor. “Ulrich, tell the cook to prepare rabbit stews and pies for the next few days.”

  “For you, my lord, or for your servants?” Ulrich’s pinched face looked even more pinched, as if he didn’t look forward to eating rabbit stew.

  “For both my table and the servants’.”

  “Yes, my lord.” His face took on a resigned expression. Then he scowled at Jorgen when he caught him staring at him.

  The margrave was looking at Jorgen again, so he went on. “The hinds and their new offspring are mostly accounted for, my lord, but I believe some of the stags may be missing. I also found an arrow that does not bear your red feathers, as well as some evidence of blood on the ground that looks as if someone tried to brush over it with leaves. It appears there is a poacher afoot in Thornbeck Forest.”

  The look in the margrave’s eyes sharpened. “A poacher?” He glowered.

  “I believe so. If you wish, I can put up a notice in the town center. We can offer a reward to anyone who has information about the poacher.”

  The chancellor made a faint snorting sound. “A reward? Don’t you think you are offering the margrave’s money recklessly? You aren’t even certain there is a poacher.”

  Jorgen’s face burned. He didn’t want the margrave to think him hasty about offering a reward.

  “Perhaps we should wait before offering a bounty,” Lord Thornbeck said. “I think a stray arrow is proof enough of a thief, but look around and see if you can discover any more information about this poacher. Poaching cannot be tolerated. The king’s land, forests, and game in this region are entrusted to me, and it is my duty to see that they are maintained and protected.” He gave Jorgen an intense look, and Jorgen could well imagine why he was renowned as a fierce fighter before he had been appointed the captain of the duke of Pomerania’s guards, and later, Margrave of Thornbeck.