Knight Dreams

by C. C. Wiley

  She flinched when she heard the anger laced through her father’s rising voice.

  “She’s a dreamer. ’Tis a plan for failure!”

  Bran and Catrin’s voices were low and soft as if they were dealing with a wild boar.

  “We will fight them,” Dafydd shouted. “We will join Owain again. Hurry, Bran, send a message for his men to regroup. A call to arms. A call to arms against the English!”

  Terrwyn scrubbed at her face. Her father still held ties to Owain? After all the times he swore he would never follow the rebel. Swore at the wrongs that befell his family. Swore and pledged his innocence to Mam. He swore an oath that he would never endanger his family and the people of their village. Yet here he was, shouting for all to join his battle. A battle no one wanted. A battle that did not need to be.

  Bran and Catrin calmed him, plying his rage with enough ale to make his need for a bed greater than a battle. Terrwyn could see them in her mind’s eye, Bran’s strong arms around her sister’s shoulders, whispering tender words to soothe her heart.

  Before long, she heard Catrin move about the cottage and settle into the role that had become as comfortable as her given name. The soothing rhythm of the spinning wheel began to fill the cottage.

  Terrwyn waited, thankful the shouting was over. She opened the shutters and tossed out her bag of clothing. Next came Drem’s old cloak. Carefully, she dropped her quiver and arrows and pulled herself through the open window.

  James stopped pacing the tent and picked up the missive delivered with the camp supplies. He read it again, hoping he’d misread it the first, second and even the third time.

  He held the paper over the lamp. The edges curled, caught fire, burning until it turned to ash. This he spread across the dirt floor and ground with the sole of his boot. When he was through, there was no sign the king’s secret missive ever existed.

  Chapter Seven

  Cloaked in the safety of a moonless night, Terrwyn’s movements around the outskirts of the village went unnoticed. She nearly stumbled over the two large hairy dogs in front of the smithy’s barn. Their soft growls rumbled, rising up from their chests.

  She hesitated, quieting the urge to run, and turned to face them. Snapping her fingers, she stared in the vicinity of where she hoped were their eyes. “Nimble. Spry. Down.”

  Dejected groans came from their muzzles as they slowly let their bodies sink to the ground. Rewarded with the soft thump of their tails rhythmically hitting the dirt, she stepped over their paws and worked her way to the grove of trees lining the village. She fixed her eyes on the rise of the hill in the shadowed horizon.

  She gave a determined yank to the cord holding up Drem’s leggings and walked quickly into the night. Somewhere over the crest was King Henry’s army. Their careless trail should be simple enough to follow. She would keep to the trees. Stay out of sight. When the distance was great enough to keep the soldiers away from her village, she would make her presence known and make them believe she was the archer.

  Mindful of hidden roots and low-hanging branches, Terrwyn moved through the grove of trees. She walked over the crest and down into another valley. She hurried as if she held the wind in her fist, pulling her farther and farther from the protective circle of her village.

  Temptation to return to the warm corner by the hearth and the sweet smell of Padrig nearly won over her determination. It would be safe and easy enough to find her way home. Certainly it would be safer to face the villagers’ wrath than to stumble through the glen in the dark by herself.

  Terrwyn felt the urge to turn her back on the lot of them and cast her future somewhere else. Perhaps find her fortune in healing. Aye, she thought bitterly, and mayhap the Queen of Faeries would embrace me as her own. As a foundling in the forest.

  Bits and pieces of every story Mam and Father ever told her about faeries and pixies nibbled at her brain. Her thoughts gathered and pulled at the shifting figures behind every tree and bush. Did they watch her from under the cover of shadows? Their formless shapes hidden until they desired to steal her away to the otherworld? She turned to look at the quivering branch hanging close to her head. They were apt to be just about anywhere. Her heart beat rapidly as sunrise began to peek through the canopy of leaves overhead. Dappled light shifted with the trees’ gentle sway.

  “Saints protect me,” she yelped and nearly fell to the ground when a roe deer jumped out from behind a tree. The stag dashed across her path. Its tawny backside leapt into the air and over the thicket of brambles. In a flash, it was out of sight.

  The sound of Nimble and Spry’s sorrowful howls could be heard off in the distance.

  “Damn and double damn the fates.” She had hoped to be farther away from the village when her family noticed her absence. They might have given her another hour or two, at least until the sun hung higher overhead, before the hounds were loosed to find her. She could not imagine who had raised the hue so early in the day. ’Twas not as if she had a beau to worry over her like Catrin’s Bran. However, there was a short time, a mere breath in time, where she might have thought someone cared to know her whereabouts.

  Without aid of light, she had not realized the slow pace she would be forced to endure. She bit out a curse under her breath. It was a slight miscalculation in her plans. That was all. There was nothing more for her to do but pick up her feet and run.

  No longer encumbered with the bulky weight of her skirts, she ran with mindless grace. Drem’s leggings covered her legs like loose skin. She leapt over the trunk of a felled tree blocking her path. Her triumph slipped when the mournful howls rose to a high-pitched yelp.

  Determined to have her plan succeed, she turned toward the rocky ledges jutting out from the slopes. A small creek wound its way through the woods before ending up at the falls. Beltane, the birth of spring, had been little over a month ago. The water would still be coming down from the mountain. She hoped it would not run too deep.

  She slid down the slope of the bank and stumbled toward the creek. Swollen from spring rains and mountain thaw, the water swirled past her feet. She clutched a thin tree trunk and leaned against the smooth bark until her breath came without pain. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the icy water. Her footing dropped off of what must have been a ledge of rock. The water came up to her waist in an instant. Shock clutched her muscles. The gentle stream of water flowing through the creek had grown into a mighty torrent.

  The current pushed against her body. Her boots slid over the moss-covered surface. A dead tree branch lying on the river bed lifted and swung toward her. Its gnarled branches tangled in her cloak, pulling her toward a jutting rock. She unclasped the broach and shrugged off the weighted material. The branch careened in a frenzied swirl. Its hold loosened, freeing her from its trap. Her bundle, which she was trying to hold overhead, dipped low as she tried to right her balance. It caught on the branch and tore from her grasp, bobbing out of reach.

  Terrwyn’s footing lifted from the creek bed as she leaned after her belongings. Her chin dipped under the chilled water. Her nose and lungs burned.

  She stretched once more and her fingers brushed against a corner of Mam’s shawl. Mindful to keep her head above the flow, she pushed up and blinked the water from her eyes. She tugged at the shawl and the woven material gaped open. Bit-by-bit, the few belongings she had brought with her spilled out.

  The bow and shawl clutched in one hand, she dove toward her spare linen tunic. The distance misjudged, her effort came up empty. The cloud of fabric escaped, sliding around the bend. She turned to renew her fight against the current. The cold seeping into her limbs, she began the slow angled crawl to the opposite bank.

  She collapsed on the land. Triumphant release from the water’s hold mixed with her discomfort, leaving her feeling unsure of herself. However, as Mam would say, in for a penny, in for a pound. The price for her decision had been marked when she climbed out the window. Her actions might be thought madness now, but when she found Drem and saved the
village, then all would be forgiven.

  Determination renewed, she pressed up from the bank. She moved in the direction she hoped—nay, prayed—would intersect with the king’s army as they returned to the English border. The vision of celebration lifted her steps.

  She shivered. The weight of Drem’s waterlogged leather tunic rubbed against her skin. The material of the leggings clung to her legs in a drooping mess. Water squished between her toes and through the seams of her boots as she walked.

  Miserable, she could have wept. However, as it would have been a luxury of time poorly spent, she pushed on.

  Hours passed. The sun shining overhead began its descent. Surrounded by naught but the sounds of the wooded glen, Terrwyn took little relief in knowing the dogs had given up the chase. Their confused silence came at a hefty price. She had lost almost all she had brought with her.

  Hunger gnawed at her belly. She patted her rumbling stomach, speaking to it as if it were an errant child. “Not like you’ve never been hungry before. I’ll feed you soon enough.”

  With the bread a sodden mess, there was nothing else to do but set off and find the army. A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. At least her bow and quiver were no worse for the dunking. She had thought ahead and kept the string dry by tucking it under her cap. Though haunted by fear that her arm would freeze and fall off, she had managed to keep the dwarf elm bow high aloft her head while she bobbed in the stream. There was damage to a few of the arrows, but not enough to lose a tear over. The fletching on some were bent, drying in unmanageable clumps. She would have to keep her eyes open, find a few feathers to replace the ones that were lost.

  Terrwyn worried over the delays. She had to find the soldiers’ trail before twilight set in. When she found the king’s army, she would still have to stay away from them for at least another day. The right timing was imperative.

  As the day lengthened, her hunger pressed against her ribs. If she did not eat soon, she would not be able to convince James she was the able-bodied archer.

  Thoughts of Catrin’s worry-filled eyes reinforced Terrwyn’s decision. What she did was right. She might not have been able to save Mam, but her skill with bow and arrow would save her village and bring her closer to finding Drem.

  The stream left behind, Terrwyn soon found signs of where the army had traveled. Marks made from soldiers’ hobnailed boots were mashed into the soft earth. Leaves and brush, disturbed by the mass of men and horses, bent in the direction of their destination.

  Her hunting skills told her she was not far behind, though far enough to keep from startling the soldiers’ mounts. With the sun setting in the western sky, they would have to pull up for the night and make camp. Then she, too, would find a place to rest. If she were careful and kept the fire small, she could dry the damp from her clothes and warm her body without their knowledge. The gnawing of her stomach reminded her again that it needed filling.

  She found a rabbits’ warren under a small scrubby bush. She settled an arrow, nocking it against the bow. The weight of the weapon felt comfortable in her hands. Her confidence grew. With steady pressure, she began to pull back, stretching the string to full capacity.

  Released, the arrow ruffled a wisp of hair escaped from her braid. It shot through the air until it hit the target. A sharp squeal and the rabbit lay where it fell. Terrwyn moved to gather her supper. She would not go hungry this eve. With visions of juicy meat cooking over the fire, she retraced her steps back to the campsite.

  Concerned that an English scout might stumble across her path, she chose a spot nestled deep in a ravine. A short wall of stone stood behind her back. A tree hollowed out by time would serve as a hidey spot should she need it. Although she knew it a dangerous decision, she built a meager fire. Readied for a quick toss to douse the flames, a pile of loose dirt laid nearby.

  In a short span of time, the campfire was ready and finally so was her meal. Mindful of the heat, she picked up the stick and pulled off the chunk of hindquarters with her teeth. Her stomach clutched and begged for more. Accustomed to having to share her food, she ate as if it had been a fortnight since her last meal.

  Terrwyn tore out a strip of cloth from the lining of Drem’s leather jerkin and wrapped the remaining bits of meat into it. It would last her until she convinced Sir James she was indeed the archer, one whose skill would assure victory for his King Henry.

  The sound of branches snapping cut through the silence.

  A man broke through the wall of brambles before Terrwyn had time to dash the flames and take cover in the hollowed-out tree. He stopped, scrubbed at his dirty jaw and sniffed the air. “Look what we have here, Edgar.”

  Two of them? She brushed her damp palms over her leggings. Then she remembered she must be comfortable with dirt and grease. To allow them to see through her disguise would not bode well for how they treated her. She kept one hand close to the blade tucked in her belt and swiped her cheeks with the other. The smudges of black soot would have to stall them from looking closer.

  “I would not know, Simon.” Edgar’s muffled voice bristled somewhere from behind. “Stuck on them damn thorny bushes. ’Bout to tear clear through my hide.”

  “Quit your bellyaching, Edgar. I’ll remind you to thank me when you ate whatever this fine fellow has cooked up.” The man called Simon turned his eyes toward Terrwyn. “Well, here now! Care to share with a hungered man?”

  She ducked her head. A deep gnawing filled her belly. The prized packet of roast hare would soon be liberated from her grasp. The knowledge awoke her sated appetite.

  “Aye,” Edgar piped up, “if it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll even pay for it.”

  Simon sniggered at the apparent jest and slapped Edgar on his back. Edgar’s toe caught on one of the stones surrounding the campfire. He staggered forward, his arms wheeling in the air.

  Terrwyn quickly dismissed her worries and jumped up. Grabbing Edgar’s arm, she spun him away. His thin body landed with a miserable thud against a tree stump.

  “G’back!” Simon strode over to Terrwyn and shoved her away from his friend.

  She stumbled, then regained her balance. Her fingers itched to test where his meaty fist had struck her shoulder.

  Simon’s eyes pierced through the shadows of the licking flames. “You’ll wish you hadn’t attacked one of the king’s soldiers, you will.”

  “I didn’t do a thing to your friend but keep him from cooking his arse in the flames.”

  Edgar lifted his head. His face, reddened with embarrassment, gave way to anger. “No call to sling me against a tree. I coulda broke my nogg’n.”

  Terrwyn inched her hand toward the hilt of her blade. “You breached my camp without invite. I’ll say good eve to you now.”

  Simon caught her wrist, clamping down with a tight squeeze. “We’ll be taking what food you have left.”

  Indignant fury boiled under Terrwyn’s skin. She sized them up. Her head barely came to the middle of their chests. Even the scrawny one would be too much for her. But what right did they have to manhandle her?

  Her elbow bent, she pulled forward and kicked at his shin with the heel of her boot. Caught unaware, Simon slackened his grip, and she twisted her wrist out of his grasp and broke free. Before either man responded, she grabbed her bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver. With the arrow nocked and ready to fly, she braced her feet and pointed the weapon at Simon’s chest.

  “For shame your mam didn’t teach you better manners.” She edged the tip of the arrow closer. “Ask me nicely, and I’ll think about letting you have a morsel.”

  “You’re a feisty one for your size.” Simon squinted at her over the fire. “Welshman, are ya? Doubt you have the strength and know how to set that arrow loose.”

  Her arrow trained on the men, Terrwyn flipped open the cloth with her toe. Roasted hare, dark and meaty, lay at her feet. She did not stop the snarl that curled her lip when she smiled proudly. “Then I’m guessing I won’t share what I downe
d with me own hand, and thank you to leave me be.”

  The scent of cooked meat wafted and swirled into the air. The men’s wary glances darted between her weapon and the meal before them. Their Adam’s apples bobbed as they swallowed in anticipation.

  Edgar elbowed Simon in the ribs. “Look what yer mouth talked us out of. Quit being the lout and let me do the talking.” Slowly, carefully, Edgar removed his cap. His reddened knuckles crushed the brim to his chest. “Might ye share a bite of yer dinner?”

  “Please,” Simon added. “We do not mean you harm.”

  Terrwyn nodded and moved the packet closer with her toe. Still hesitant to let down her guard, she watched as they devoured the meal with lightning speed. The two men sucked out the marrow from the bones and dropped them on the growing pile at their feet. Their lips smacked together, parting only to groan with pleasure and let loose an occasional belch. When there was nothing left, they licked their fingers, one-by-one.

  Revolted, Terrwyn tried to hide her building nausea. A leaden weight drew her stomach into a knot when they slowly turned their eyes upon her.

  “A feast fit for royalty, that was,” Edgar announced.

  “Shut your trap. You want to end up in the stocks? Clapped in iron for your pride?”

  “No one’s here to hear me.” Edgar turned to gain Terrwyn’s agreement. “Be it so, Welshman?” His eyes narrowed. “There are no others in these woods.”

  “Course there is.” Simon grabbed Terrwyn’s elbow. “Look at this wee muscle. This one does not have the stamina to fell so many varmints.”

  Incensed, Terrwyn jerked free. “I brought them down. Right as rain, I did!”

  Both men stared closely. The reality of her error sank in. She thumbed her chest as she had seen the boys in the village do when they threw down a challenge. “I wager you could do no better. In truth, my spit, flying in a strong wind, has a better chance of hitting the target than the likes of you.”