Hunt- Red Riding Hood Retold

by Demelza Carlton

  One wolf? That's what the Baron's son had said. But for one wolf to kill so many people…

  "How many men had it killed before the Baron sent for me?" he asked.

  She stared at him, as though trying to decide if such a question merited a reply. Finally, she said. "He killed my parents and my sister, six years ago, and my grandmother a few weeks ago. There are tales of others he may have murdered in the past, but that was long ago. Too long for anyone to know for sure. Then there's you, and me, though he hasn't killed us yet."

  "The wolf attacked you, and you got away? How?" The moment the question left his lips, he knew he'd been stupid. "Wait, I know – magic, right?"

  He'd earned a smile from her as she nodded.

  "Can you tell me more than that? If there is some way I can defeat it, then I must know more." He reached out and captured her hand. "Please, Mistress Rosa. You've told me tales about gods getting drunk. Now tell me the tale about the beautiful young woman escaping from the beast."

  "That is another story entirely, and not the one you want, I think. But if you wish to know the true tale of the reckless witch who went out to kill the wolf by herself, you shall have it." Rosa took a deep breath.

  He listened to her tale, which sounded disturbingly like his own plan when he'd headed out to that clearing. He'd seen the feathers, but dismissed the earlier kill as something the Baron's hunting party had placed, not Rosa. The more she spoke, the more his admiration grew. If the wolf hadn't manage to knock her out of her tree, she would have been victorious, he was certain of it.

  "No wonder the wolf sought reinforcements before it fought you again," Chase said in wonderment.

  Rosa blinked. "But that's just it. Wolves don't do that. They are either part of a pack, or they aren't. The only lone wolves who are allowed to join a pack are either fertile females or a male so strong he defeats their leader, and any other challenger the pack sends against him. Only a man – a leader of men – would go and recruit an army to defeat a foe they cannot defeat alone. In wolves, they would see that as weakness and slink away to find a more easily conquered food source. They would not return with greater forces. Wolves don't think like men…unless magic turned a man into a wolf, as my grandmother said."

  "Is that possible?" He didn't want to believe it, but after all he'd seen Rosa do with her magic, he might have to.

  "My grandmother told many tales of such things, long before my gifts revealed themselves, so that I might recognise my magic when it came. Neither of us expected my powers would have an affinity for air, and it took me longer to master than others might have because it seemed like such a trivial thing at first. Then I learned I could use it to listen, and lift things and…on the night I fled from the wolf, I truly learned to fly." Rosa spread her hands wide. "So, I suppose my answer is that yes, it is possible. Transforming people into beasts is a common method of punishment, when a man commits a crime against a witch."

  She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that it shouldn't have sounded like a threat, or even a warning, but Chase shivered all the same.

  In a soft patch of dirt beside the fire, the cat rolled onto its back, stretching as it dozed in the warmth.

  "What was his crime?" Chase asked, pointing at the cat. He could easily imagine the beast as some fat, greedy baron, taking everything from his people and leaving them to starve.

  Rosa stared at the creature. "Oh, Hagen's crime is laziness. When a rat entered the cottage, he let it get away with Grandmother's dinner."

  "She kept a man in her cottage to catch rats?" Now he'd heard everything.

  Rosa laughed. "Of course not. Hagen is a cat, one who's supposed to be much more suitable for such things. But when he got all the female cats around pregnant so they were all busy with their litters at the same time, and Hagen would not hunt…she took his manhood." She grinned evilly. "One stroke of the knife, and no more kittens for him. I swear it made him even more fat and lazy than before, but Grandmother liked him sitting on her lap of an evening, so she tolerated him. I have yet to find a use for him. Perhaps he can warm my bed when you are gone." Now she wouldn't meet his eyes.

  "Gone. Yes," Chase said vaguely. He'd barely been here a week, but already he didn't want to leave. He'd never thought such a tiny cottage could be comfortable, or even a desirable place to live, but with Rosa…he could not…nay, he did not want to imagine living anywhere else. Yet how could he already think of it as home?

  He was becoming as mad as Abraham.

  Better that she share her bed with a sexless cat than a less than honourable knight who half feared and half hoped he'd give in to his desires and make love to her in the night.

  She'd probably turn him into a neutered cat for it, though.

  Better that he turn his thoughts to besting the beast, and not her bed.

  If Rosa allowed him to. She could easily have left him in her house, and gone after the beast by herself.

  Chase cleared his throat. "When you hunt this wolf again, will you allow me to help you? I may not have magic, but I have yet to meet a better bowman than I. If I take care not to climb or fall out of my tree, of course."

  "Modest, aren't you, Sir Knight? All right, you may show me your bow skills on the morrow. If you can match me, then I will agree to hunt with you."

  From any other woman, the suggestion that he might not be good enough would have rankled. Yet the challenge he saw in Rosa's eyes made him want to rise to meet her.

  Here he had no golden armour, no herald to announce him, not even a horse to ride. In his regular leather armour, with injuries that had barely healed, his fate rested on the best archery performance of his life.

  Against a woman who could manipulate the very air so that she might fly.

  A woman who made his heart soar just by looking at him.

  Aros could keep their queens and princesses. He would give everything he had on the morrow, for a chance to hunt beside this lovely woods witch.

  He inclined his head in thanks.

  Twenty-Nine

  Despite grimacing in pain more than once over the course of the day, Sir Chase never complained. He laboured as hard as Rosa did to keep the fire burning, the distillate flowing, and the casks moving into the cellar.

  She considered telling him she usually used magic to lift the casks, but as he was already halfway down the stairs to the cellar, she didn't think he'd hear her, so she let him continue. Well, until she'd heard him swearing loudly.

  "What's amiss?" she called, hurrying inside after him.

  "The size of your cellar! You have enough space and supplies here to feed a whole castle through a siege, and yet there is nothing more than a tiny cottage atop it?"

  Ah. "This was once the seat of an ancient king, who built a mighty fort in the forest, the home of his gods. When conquering invaders came from the south, he made an alliance with them. Their builders and architects took apart his wooden halls and walls, finding the weaknesses they could exploit in other, similar forts that held their enemies, and rebuilt his in the style of their own brick and stone palaces, so they might winter in comfort and safety in between campaigns.

  "Eventually, the southerners headed home, carrying the wealth of the king's neighbours, but leaving the king his share, and the palace. The southerners never returned – my grandmother said they lost their own city to invaders, while they were out waging war here – so the king ruled alone. One of his descendants moved the capital to somewhere more convenient for trade with the northern cities, and the forest was allowed to conquer the castle."

  Chase nodded. "Then why is the cellar still here?"

  She hadn't thought to ask that question when she'd first heard the tale, but then Grandmother had captured her imagination with tales of battle, kings and princes. Then, she hadn't known how slowly a house fell into ruin, or how the upper parts collapsed into the cellar until…

  Rosa wiped away a tear, chiding herself at thinking of her parents' house, when she should be thinking about this one.<
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  "The kings left much of their wealth hidden here in the cellars, ordering the stones of the palace to be pulled down and carted to where the town is now, so that none might stumble across the king's treasury by accident. A cottage was built atop the entrance, home to the High Priestess dedicated to protecting the grove…and the king's people from the wrath of the forest gods."

  She managed a wry smile. "Grandmother once told me the High Priestess was chosen from among the king's daughters, for the gods demanded no less than royal blood be shed at their altars for granting the king their favour. She laughed and said that meant we had royal blood, too, for she never would have been chosen as High Priestess without it. If it is true, then perhaps I am a princess, too." She stuck her nose in the air, trying to look as haughty as Piroska. "But as I have yet to hear of a princess who milks goats, I won't start wearing a crown any time soon." Or ever, she added silently to herself. Though she had played with some rather corroded ones in the back of the cellar when she was a little girl.

  No need to tell the knight that the old king's treasury still hid in the secret chambers beneath his feet. Forgotten by all but herself, now.

  Chase climbed the steps and stood before her. "That is a pity. A circlet of fine silver, studded with rubies, would keep your scarlet hood in place in the winter, but for summer, a fillet of gold set with sapphires the icy colour of your eyes, I think, holding back your hair so that all might see your lovely face and lose themselves in your eyes as I have. I should write a letter to the king, come spring, commanding he honour your beauty as it deserves."

  She met his gaze squarely. "You're mocking me, Sir Knight. What would your princess think, if she knew you said such things to me?" She turned and headed back to the fire, for while he'd been stoking her ire, the flames were in need of feeding.

  Behind her, she heard him mutter softly, "She is not my princess, and may never be." A sigh with the weight of the world upon it accompanied his words.

  Her heart went out to him – for he loved a woman he could not have – but she didn't stop to offer her sympathy. If he'd meant her to hear, he would have spoken louder.

  Let him think he kept secrets. Like the pain in his eyes as he hefted the next cask. The man would not be able to draw a bow on the morrow, and another day in bed might help him heal completely.

  She'd give him a cup of the freshly fire-distilled mead when all was done, to help ease him into sleep tonight. She might even drink a cup herself.

  Thirty

  Dawn burned Chase's eyelids, while some bloody minstrel had started drumming on the inside of his head. His bladder begged to be emptied, but he had no desire to release the warm, soft maiden in his arms.

  Even her hair was soft, and she smelled of honey. No surprise, given all the mead they'd brewed yesterday. And the mead they'd drunk…

  By all that was holy, he hadn't dishonoured her, had he?

  He should have felt a stirring in his groin at that thought, but with her body pressed against him, as it likely had been for hours, he was already hard as a rock.

  Oh, now he definitely needed to visit the outhouse.

  When he returned, Rosa had already lit the fire, and she had a pan in her hand, ready to warm it to make breakfast. She pointed the pan at him. "What manner of mischief were you up to out there? Doing more damage to yourself, after yesterday?"

  He flushed, torn between telling her why he'd taken so long in the outhouse, or lying and saying he felt fine.

  "Bed for you, you bad boy, and if you try to get up again, I'll tie you to it," she said.

  He wanted to argue, but he hurt too much to stay stubborn when he really wanted to go back to bed. If he went hunting today, the wolf would win for sure.

  He climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets up to cover himself. He might have taken his time in the outhouse, but watching her walk around the cottage in a thin shift, her nipples clearly visible, would soon arouse his desire again. He forced himself to look away.

  "What was in the mead we drank last night? Miners, with picks and hammers, I swear, for my head is full of them this morning," he said.

  "I told you 'tis no good to dull the pain so, or to keep working in your condition, but you're a stubborn one, Sir Knight. I'll make you some willow bark tea, if you swear you'll stay in bed." She set her hands on her hips, daring him to refuse.

  Why did she have to stand so, thrusting her breasts forward so he could not help but stare at those two pink pearls?

  Chase squeezed his eyes shut, but still the image taunted him from behind his eyelids. "As you wish, Mistress Rosa."

  A cool hand touched his forehead, forcing his eyes open. "You feel a mite hot, Sir Chase. I hope 'tis not a fever. I'll fetch you some of the medicinal mead, too." Her icy eyes fair melted with concern for him.

  Chase blamed the fever in his blood. He cupped her cheeks, stretched up and kissed her.

  Her lips were warm and soft, as he knew they would be, tasting slightly of salt.

  She'd broken her fast already, without him.

  Disappointment welled up, and he dropped an arm around her to pull her closer. Her breasts touched his chest and he lost all reason, kissing her as though beyond her lips, she kept the very air he needed to breathe.

  And she returned his kiss, yielding to his embrace as her tongue curled to tempt his, for this maiden was as skilled with her mouth as she was with her hands. Oh, to feel either of them on him, to…

  She broke the kiss. "Sir Chase. I thought I'd made myself clear – I want no swords in my bed." She climbed out of his lap and resumed making breakfast with her back to him.

  Swords? He glanced down at the all-to-obvious tent in his tunic, outlined by a damp patch where she'd been sitting. Either she'd shared his desire, or he'd made a mess of things. Again.

  Strongly suspecting it was the latter, Chase hung his head. "I'm sorry, Mistress Rosa. You are so enchanting, I forgot myself. For a moment. It won't happen again."

  She hung a pot from a hook over the fire, then glanced over her shoulder at him. "That's a pity. For you have quite an extraordinary mouth on you, Sir Chase. Not to mention a clever tongue. I imagine your princess is very fond of your kisses."

  He wanted to shout that he had no princess, but the noise would have hurt his head, and she wouldn't have listened, anyway. Yesterday, she'd said she had royal blood, which meant if he wanted to kiss any princess, it was her.

  Now, if Rosa had agreed to become his princess…

  Chase lay back and imagined how she might grow very fond of his kisses indeed…

  Thirty-One

  Two days she kept the knight in her bed, and two nights she slept in his arms. More than once, she'd considered climbing into his lap, lifting his tunic and finishing what they'd started.

  But she knew she could not. If she succeeded in seducing him, he would stare at her after, his eyes wide with guilt, and swear he would not let his desire overwhelm his reason again. And that simply would not do, with Midwinter approaching. If she could spend but one night as his lover, best to save that pleasure for Midwinter. For she'd be lying to herself if she thought she might want to spend the night with any other man.

  So after two days of letting the magic-infused mead do its work, she didn't protest when she came in with the morning's milk to find him stringing his bow.

  "I won't repay my debt to you lying in bed," Sir Chase said, his eyes on the notched yew. "I mean to help you slay that wolf, so that I may keep my word and complete my quest."

  She almost told him that if he gave himself to her tonight, the longest night of the year, he would help her more than enough, but something in the stiffness of his back and shoulders made her bite her tongue. Honour and pride – a man's worst failings, though most men considered them virtues – would force him out after her if she left to slay the wolf alone. Gods only knew how that would end, especially if the pack found him first.

  "I'll go clear the snow off my archery targets, then," she said lightly, heading
back out the way she'd come.

  He stared at her, his mouth open as if he wanted to ask something, but the only words that came out were an abrupt, "Thank you."

  Rosa scoured the ground of snow, but the archery targets were nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember the last time she'd used them. Certainly not since she'd learned she could simply fire an arrow in the vague direction she wanted, and command the wind to do the rest. Perhaps her grandmother had added the targets to the lumber pile, and they'd become buried under some woodcutter's payment for services rendered.

  She finally found them atop the woodshed roof, covering holes the thatcher had not yet seen to. She set the targets up in front of the bramble hedge that would be a mass of berries when summer came, and found Sir Chase watching her from the cottage doorway.

  "Most men set targets up in an empty field, or at least somewhere with plenty of clear ground to make it easier to retrieve the arrows that miss the target," he said. "I can't imagine you want to venture into the brambles, nor heal my scratches if I do."

  "I never miss," she said.

  He gave her a long look. "Neither do I."

  Chase strode up to the furthest target, then paced the distance across the clearing. He turned, took aim, and fired.

  His arrow hit high, halfway between the centre and the edge.

  Before Rosa could comment on his accuracy, he fired off a second shot…one that buried itself in the very centre of the target.

  By the time he'd emptied his quiver, Chase had marked his target with a cross made of arrows. Then he bowed, like she imagined a knight would to his lady-love at a tourney. "Your turn, Mistress Rosa."

  She shook her head. For a moment, she'd thought…something very silly indeed. "Of course."

  She took her time stringing and testing her bow, ducking her head until her blush faded. He might be a knight, but she was no lady. She was the kind of girl he might allow to warm his bed for a night, before forgetting all about her.

  Rosa let her first arrow fly, biting her lip for the air she needed to carry it where she wanted. She fired off a half-dozen more, until she'd roughly marked the rune for the winter goddess on her target. The goddess was far more powerful than some deity who made fish multiply. Why, the fish themselves could do that.