by C. C. Wiley
Silence.
A trickle of sweat began to form under her cap.
And then, Edgar and Simon broke up in peals of laughter. Bent double, they slapped their knees and then each other’s backs, until air could be pulled back into their lungs.
“Be careful, wee one.” Simon gasped between breaths. “One day your challenge will be tested.”
Edgar leaned against Simon, nodding in agreement. “Yer luck is with ye for now. If not for having to join our troops, we might have to thump ye for yer own good.”
Terrwyn moved over slightly. They would have to look through the bright light of the fire to see her. She let the shadows dance over her face and noticed their discomfort. “If you are soldiers, why are you not with the other men?”
Edgar spoke up, earning himself a fierce look from his companion. “Me and Simon were feeling poorly.”
“Aye,” Simon added. “Edgar was worse off than me. Had to be nursed back to health before our commander would let us travel with them.”
“Didn’t help none that our commander is also ye brother,” Edgar said. “Sir William treats ye like ye was still wearing nappies and expects me to be yer damn nursemaid.
Scowling, Simon turned his attention toward Terrwyn. “Why do you keep looking at those bushes? Expecting somebody?”
Edgar glanced up. “Thought ye were by yerself?”
Terrwyn shrugged. “My brothers will soon return. All six of them. They will be sorely put out that there is nuth’n to eat.”
“Imagine they are the same pint size as you,” Simon said.
“Oh, no. I’m the runt of the litter. They are all about your size, Simon. Suppose you could stay put and talk them out of beating me?”
Eyes wary, Simon jumped up. “Six of them, you say?”
Edgar rose slowly as his glance skittered over the bramble bushes. “Sorry as we can be for yer plight—”
“—duty calls us to Henry’s army,” Simon finished.
Grabbing Simon’s sleeve, Edgar pulled him to the edge of the encampment, calling out his thanks. The brambles swallowed up their backsides.
Although grateful they left without doing her great harm, Terrwyn suddenly felt the emptiness of being alone in the woods. She wondered how long she would have to follow the troops before announcing her presence to Sir James.
Dread coiled in her belly, striking fear in her heart. Had she followed the wrong trail? The soldiers spoke of Sir William as their leader and naught of James. Who was this man and where was James?
Chapter Eight
James moved the charcoal across the parchment. The need to see her face once more thrummed through his fingers. Quick, fast strokes scratched over the surface. The shape of his subject slowly emerged under his hand. He softened the lines with his thumb. Half-smiling to himself, he gazed into Terrwyn’s face. He had managed to capture the stubborn tilt to her chin. Yet her portrait was incomplete. Some unique quality that was hers alone was missing.
The king trusted his ability to create an image that could not be questioned later. His accuracy brought traitors to the chopping block. Yet this small slip of a girl challenged him in ways he could not fathom. He had attempted to draw her many times. Each time, he could not capture her true essence.
He laid the charcoal down and studied her face once more. Perhaps one day soon he would find the opportunity to return to her village and complete his drawing.
Squinting up from his work, he glanced around the Bloated Goat’s dark ale room and thanked the holy saints that the thatched roof allowed some of the smoke to seep out. According to his earlier conversation with Alice uxor Mal, the mistress of this rustic establishment, a certain someone with the intelligence of a billy goat had thought it best to close off the hole in the center of the room. Her recently deceased husband had deemed smoke better for the soul than risking catching their death from the chilly, damp night air.
Alice set the mug beside James’s elbow and smoothed back her grizzled hair. She bent low, giving him a view of the additional charms she willingly offered. Jammed in the tight confines, her breasts threatened to burst forth from her bodice. “Sure you won’t care for a wee bowl of stew? A fine strapping man such as you needs to take his comfort whenever he can.”
“Ah, though it smells of heaven, I shall have to decline.” He gave her round cheek a gentle pat. “Perhaps another time, my dear woman.”
She giggled as if he offered her a tumble behind the cupboards. Her hip pressed into his shoulder when she stretched to gather the trencher left behind by another patron. The distinct odor of onions and brewed wheat filled the narrow space between them.
“You call out if there is anything else you require. Anything at all.”
With his pleasant smile firmly in place, he gave her an understanding wink. “Do not tease me so.” He gave her full waist a hug. “Now be a good girl and bring me more ale, if you please.”
Another giggle erupted from Alice as she rubbed past him to do his bidding. More travelers entered the establishment and soon her misguided attentions were redirected to more eager patrons. Her laughter mingled with the boisterous activity filling the room.
James sipped the watered-down ale and let it wash the soot from his parched throat. With one eye on the door, he folded the leather packet of drawings and hid them in his boot. He tucked himself into a warm corner near the hearth and tried to merge into the wall. Alone with his thoughts, he nursed the mug of ale he cradled in the crook of his arm. It would not be long now. As soon as the leader of the band of men arrived, their meeting would begin.
Tension in the alehouse mounted as impatience grew. The smell of nervous sweat filled the smoky room. No one spoke of the danger in which they had placed their families by forming this gathering.
The cloud of bravado surrounding the men when they entered the Bloated Goat had slowly evaporated. Their voices dropped as the minutes passed by. The men began to drift away. Sometimes alone, often in small groups, they departed quietly into the night. His presence dismissed, James watched the last of them blend into the dark. Patience learned by the king’s side and in his royal court would serve him well tonight. There was vital information to be gathered. Those who kept their eyes and ears open would reap the harvest.
With all but one of her paying clientele gone, Alice laid her weary head on top her folded arms and was soon fast asleep. Ignoring the indelicate snores emanating from her body, James tucked his chin in the folds of his coarse woolen cloak and continued to wait.
The rhythmic pattern of the bar mistress’s exhausted sleep pulled to him, reminding him of his own sleepless nights. James grew irritated with the struggle and purposely chose the sharp edge on the rough wall to rest the back of his head. Uncomfortable and wide awake, he listened to the sounds outside. His chest tightened, the telltale sign of his body stirring, alert to the dangers.
The muffled sound of something or someone hitting the ground broke through the woman’s snuffle and snorts. James heard it again, although this time it was the quick pounding brought on by a horse ridden fast and hard.
He blew out the candle in the lantern and moved cautiously toward the shuttered window. Slowly, so as not to wake his sleeping companion, he turned the bolt in the shutter and edged open the wooden slats. He peered out in the direction where he thought the noise came from. He was certain he recalled passing a rather rundown shed before he entered the ale room. Its condition had in fact caused him to ponder how it stood upright since most of the building bowed outward and leaned heavily to one side.
A movement.
Shadows, both human and horse, moved and separated. The men trickled out of a side door in the shed. James cursed. Had he been misinformed? Or had someone gotten wind of a stranger asking too many questions?
The night breeze caught the shutter. James could not pull his hand out fast enough. He grimaced as it slammed against his fingers. Sucking back an oath, he pried the slats away. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain Alice had not been awakened f
rom her beauty rest.
Mindful to keep a strong grip on the shutter, he nudged it open for one last look. The wind he recently cursed whipped through the dirt. A tree limb broke from a nearby tree and struck the building. The dilapidated shed vibrated, causing one of the horses to whinny and pull away. The man who had kept mostly to the shadow now stepped out to steady the mount. In his efforts to calm the beast, he did not notice when he moved into the moonlight.
But James did. A tight smile lifted his lips. Aye, a healthy dose of patience did indeed make this evening profitable after all.
As the moon dipped low into the pre-dawn shadows, the Bloated Goat’s mistress awoke to find her ale room empty, a pile of coins stacked neatly by her head.
When Terrwyn first climbed into the hole of the hollow tree, she thought it would suit her needs well. But as the hours stretched throughout the night, her legs and back started to complain. Hours dragged past with the speed of a wintering bear and she began to wonder if the sun would ever rise from its slumber. Finally, with little fanfare, the dark sky began to lighten. The morning air, heavy with dew, cloaked the day with a thick shawl of gray.
Unfolding her limbs, Terrwyn stretched her muscles and yelped when they cramped. Intent on putting food in her belly, she set off for the nearby rabbits’ nest she had raided the night before. She would try her luck there again and discover if the warren held a large family of conies. Cautiously, she wound her trail toward a small stream that ran through the dip in the landscape, cutting through the earth and limestone rock of the wooded forest.
Keeping her scent downwind, Terrwyn stood behind the brambles of a wild raspberry bush. Its branches swelled with faded white flowers. The spent blossoms were pregnant with pale green knobs of flesh. Soon there would be fruit. She flicked the hard nubbin and grimaced. For now, they were inedible. She would have to look elsewhere for nourishment.
Well hidden behind the brambles, she sat and watched for the first signs of movement through the hole of the rabbit’s warren. Time slowly passed and she began to worry. Surely if there were hares close by, they would have already poked their heads out of their holes. If she missed them, it would be dusk before having another chance at snaring them with her arrows.
Her stomach growled against her rib cage, reminding her of the night’s unwelcome guests. Had the men not eaten every morsel intended for today she would not have to sit here, falling farther behind in her journey.
Aware of time slipping past, she watched the dappled sunlight move over a nearby boulder. She shifted quietly. Her mouth, dry as a fall leaf stripped from its tree branch, begged for a drink. She could wait no more.
After sliding down the bank, she dipped her finger into the shallow stream and shivered. She drank from her cupped hands, licking the remaining drops from her palms. Thoughts of baked trout filled her head. Her tongue poked around her lips as if looking for a remaining taste of fish. Distracted, she nearly missed the soft rustle of leaves. Bushes quivered as the rabbit hopped a zigzag path to safety.
Quickly, she readied her bow. Her aim set, she let the arrow loose and watched it miss as the rabbit changed direction. Cursing under her breath, she peered through the gray mist to see what had frightened the creature.
“Hallo!” Edgar called. “What are ye about?”
“You have eyes,” Terrwyn snapped with a hiss.
Edgar shook his head and offered a smile of pity. “There are better ways to snare a conie. Have ye no net?”
Simon followed near Edgar’s heel. He ambled over and smacked Terrwyn on her shoulder. “What did you think to do?” he hooted. “Shoot him with yon arrow?”
She jerked her shoulder from his grasp. “Aye, takes brains and a perfect shot. But it can be done.”
Edgar’s eyes narrowed and scanned the horizon. “Where are yer brothers? Our commander wishes a word with them.”
Terrwyn blinked. “They aren’t here.”
“They up and left ye in the thicket by yourself?”
“And what if they did?”
“Plain to see, you are light in smarts. Dumb as a stump.”
“Shows you nothing of the kind. They have only returned to our village to bring back a cart. They know I’ll down so many conies they’ll need a means to carry ’em home.”
Edgar propped his hands on his hips. “Tell us the way to yer village and we’ll gladly escort them brothers of yers to our commander.”
“My village?”
“Aye,” Simon nodded. “Though I do not know how we missed them. Searched all known cottages that held menfolk. The worst was the village near Abergavenny. ’Twas a pitiable show of manhood and skill.”
“Commander was fair pissed with the time wasted on their phantom archer. Achk.” Edgar spat on the ground. “Shoulda known he was too spineless to show his self and stand on his famed abilities. I told the commander to burn the fields to teach them he means business.”
Terrwyn gulped and turned away. “Simon, what shall become of my brothers if they do not return soon?”
Simon clapped her on her back. “Not to fear, boy-o, you may join us. Henry’s army is always looking for an extra hand.”
“Aye,” Edgar cut in with a tooth-gapped hoot. “One hand to carry the shite bucket and ’nother to kill the thieving French bastards.”
“And what if I am the archer your commander searches for?”
Simon and Edgar glanced at Terrwyn and then glanced away before snickering under their breaths.
Edgar cuffed the back of her head, nearly unseating the cap that hid her plaited hair. “Enough of your blathering lies, Welshman. I’ve heard as much as I want to hear. Direct us to yer brothers.”
“Take me to your commander instead. I’ll prove that I am the one.”
“If ye think I am stupid, test me again with yer lies,” Edgar groused. “I won’t take you to Sir William and announce ye as the saving archer.”
Simon grabbed Edgar’s arm and kept him from leaving. “What’s the harm in a little sport? Let him demonstrate his keen abilities.”
Edgar rubbed his jaw and stared intently at Terrwyn. “I don’t wish to return to our camp without something to show the commander. But I’m no fool. We’ll bring back food if nothing else. Show me yer skill by downing another rabbit.”
“I thought you said you do not have time?”
“So?”
“They are done foraging for food and won’t come out of their warren until the sun sets.”
Edgar pulled out his knife, pointing the tip of the blade toward Terrwyn. “Ye trifle with my patience. ’Tis possible yer a French sympathizer and cannot hit a hillside. Mayhap ye used this ruse to lead us away from your brothers. If I showed up with the likes of ye, I might as well slit yer throat and mine. As I intend to breathe for a few more days, ye’ll be doing the dying alone.”
Terrwyn jammed the point of her elbow into Edgar’s stomach. Feeling the impact of bone against soft flesh and hearing his howl, she lunged for her bow and arrow. The weapon aimed at Edgar’s chest, she pulled the string taut. “I think, my fair-haired Englishmen, we will have a challenge instead.”
“A challenge, Edgar!” Simon crowed as he greedily rubbed his hands together. “By God, I love a challenge.”
“Do not get ahead of yourself, Simon,” Terrwyn said. “I insist you join us.”
“Me?”
“We would not have it any other way. Would we, Edgar?”
Edgar flicked his finger against the sharp edge digging into his chest. “What will it be?”
“Nothing tragic. Target practice. I win, you will be my champion.” Terrwyn paused and smiled. “And you’ll carry all my shite buckets. Both of you.”
“And when ye lose, ye’ll lead us to yer brothers and then be gone from our sight.” Edgar leaned close and scraped his nail over her cheek. “Forever. A true and final ending for a wench.”
Air squeezed Terrwyn’s lungs. She tried to pull a breath in. Her eyes stung as she squashed the urge to flinch. Her ha
nd trembled for a split moment and then was once again steady.
“Here now,” Simon grabbed Terrwyn’s elbow and felt her arm. “You certain, Edgar?”
“As certain as I am that it will rain again before the day is out. Let’s have a bit of sport with this one before we dispatch her from whence she came.”
“Enough,” she said. “If you are too afraid of defeat, then admit it and be gone.”
“Not sure, but I do believe she has a point, Edgar.”
Terrwyn stepped back, her weapon still trained on the men. “I should run you through for your disparaging accusations. The challenge stands. Are you man enough?”
“The question is, what are ye willing to give us when ye lose?” Edgar asked.
Terrwyn let her bow drop slightly. She looked him in the eyes. “I believe I’ll be enjoying every minute you grovel, instead.” She announced the rules. “Fifty paces to start. Increasing each time the mark is hit. You shoot first. I will follow. We’ll continue until the best shot is discovered.”
Edgar and Simon nodded their agreement. One by one, they shot and hit their mark. Each time, Terrwyn followed, splintering their arrows.
Terrwyn focused on the tree as it was marked off with another ten paces. She waited patiently, alert to Edgar’s mounting agitation. Simon trotted back to her side. An excited grin split his face. His eyes beamed with admiration, reminding Terrwyn of a hunting dog her father used to have in the old manor house. When it came to hunting, he was a trustworthy opponent and had a heart made of gold. Loyal as they came. Unless he gripped a bone between his teeth.
“Here now,” Edgar grumbled, “I don’t have any left.”
“That’s all right, I’m all shot out.” Simon offered him his own. “I missed that last one. Went clear into the bushes. Took me forever to find it.”
Edgar snatched the last arrow from Simon’s hand. Hitching his shoulder up, he let the arrow loose. It shot out of control and into the trees. “Damn yer hide, Simon, ye messed with my shot.” Red-faced, he grabbed Simon’s jerkin and twisted. “The fletching was destroyed.”