She knew she looked bad. Her skin had turned a light shade of purple and the white blonde of her locks had stained to a bright purplish-pink. Her green eyes clashed and glowed dramatically from beneath her dyed skin. Pursing her lips together, she glanced at Wolfe who only shrugged.
“Oh!” The baroness gasped coming out of her initial shock. She looked helplessly about the table. “Oh!”
Lady Isabella waved to a nearby servant to order a scalding hot bath brought to the girl’s chamber. Standing, she pulled Lady Jayne with soft insistence to her feet. “Come, Jayne. Let us get her cleaned. And I am sure that Helena has a gown she can borrow for tomorrow eve.”
“But, mother!” Helena protested.
“Helena!” the earl quieted the girl with a stern growl. He frowned at his daughter with displeasure.
The baron’s laughter only grew, earning him a tight-lipped glare from his stricken wife. Lady Jayne’s lips pressed harshly against the taut skin of her cheekbones. To her justice, the nobleman’s laughter lightened into chuckles.
“But King Henry will be here on the morrow! And there will be all his knights and the--” Lady Jayne’s protest trailed off. She swept forward to her daughter. Her hand moved as if to touch Ginevra but withdrew just as quickly. “Whatever will we do with her?”
“I like it,” Ginevra said softly, as she touched her colored locks. She shared a small smile with Wolfe before hiding it under a mask of penitence.
The baroness shook her head as she glanced heavenward. Her lips moved as if she muttered a prayer. Lady Isabella motioned to Ginevra to follow her, but Ginevra was never given the chance to walk on her own. Her mother finished her entreaty with the motion of a cross over her heart before turning determinedly to her purple child. Lady Jayne stepped to her daughter, careful to keep her distance from the dripping wet gown, and led her from the hall by the top of her small ear.
Wolfe looked miserable as he eyed Ginevra’s pink hair. It was wet and combed straight back from her face to dry. Her skin was scrubbed back to normal, albeit a little red from the hot bathwater she had been made to soak in for an hour. She again wore breeches and a tunic shirt, as she waited for her mother to finish the alterations on Helena’s gown.
Kicking at the dirt, Wolfe handed over his palfrey’s reins. “This is for you.”
Ginevra looked at the small tanned horse in surprise. Lifting her hand, she patted the peace offering on the nose. Instantly the horse snorted and rubbed against her palm. She flashed a smile as she cooed to the animal.
Behind her, Robert snickered. Turning to glare at him in amusement, she knew she couldn’t be mad at him, not when he was going to leave on the morrow with the earl. Grinning, she asked, “Did you see what Wolfe gave to me?”
“Our father made him,” Helena stated with a pretentious grin as she came around the corner. Still obviously upset that Ginevra had been given her favorite gown, she huffed disdainfully in the child’s direction.
“Quiet, Helena.” Thomas purposefully bumped his sister on the arm as he passed. He walked over to the horse and patted its back. “It’s a fine animal, Ginevra.”
“You look like a purple urchin,” Robert said as he eyed her dyed tresses. He ignored the young Helena, who tried to take up his arm, by moving forward. “Did mother faint?”
“Hey, she’s a Pur-chin!” William called with a smile as he too walked into the stables.
Ginevra frowned slightly at the nickname as she leaned into the horse. Nuzzling the palfrey’s soft coat, she patted its lean neck in long strokes.
“Purch,” Wolfe muttered absently at her side. Sadly he eyed the horse, as it took a liking to its new owner.
Ginevra looked at him. Then, chuckling she said, “That is what I’ll name him. Purch.”
“That’s a stupid name for a horse!” Helena announced in contempt. She glanced at Robert to agree with her. He rolled his eyes and made a face so she couldn’t see.
“How would you know?” Thomas shot in defense. “You can’t even ride.”
“Can so,” Helena pouted with another longing glance at Robert. The boy still ignored her and she frowned. “Lady Jayne says proper ladies don’t have to ride.”
“Better the horse than me,” Ginevra grumbled under her breath, ignoring them all. Wolfe was the only one who heard. He shot her a bemused smile.
“Come on,” Helena stated in annoyance. “Mother said we were to get ready to dine.”
William and Thomas followed her as she left the stables. Lingering as Wolfe walked Purch to his stall, she watched as he bolted him in. Ginevra turned a frolicsome grin to her brother.
“Our lady mother did almost faint,” Ginevra divulged. With an impish smirk, she rubbed her ear. “And she pulled my ear almost off my head. It still burns.”
“What’s she going to do about your pink locks?” Robert fingered a wet strand before shaking his head in amusement.
“She is going to make me wear a headdress and veil tomorrow in front of the king,” Ginevra said with a sulk. “I hate veils more than I do gowns.”
“You are lucky your eyebrows scrubbed clean,” Robert said. He glanced at Wolfe as he came back. The younger boy said nothing.
“Do you have to leave on the morrow, Rob?” Ginevra asked, disheartened by the thought.
“Yea, Gin. I will be sworn into knighthood tomorrow by the king. Wolfe, too. We will become men,” he responded with a brotherly pat on her head. Ruffling her moist hair, he smiled. “I expect you to be good for mother. And mind your lessons while I am gone.”
“But I don’t like to sit indoors,” she protested. “It’s boring! And mother makes me sew. I hate to sew.”
“Ah, but Gin you are so bright. Don’t become one of those simple-minded maids. If you promise to study, I promise to write to you oft while I am away. I might even send you a trinket or two. As a knight, I will travel many places with the earl. Yea, he might even take us to tourney with him. There I will make a name for myself.” He glanced up from her as Wolfe joined them. He gave his friend a slight smile over the child’s head as he nodded to the downhearted girl. “And someday you might come to watch me and I will be your champion and wear your glove upon my chest.”
“I don’t want jewels, Rob. Don’t send me girl trinkets.” She sniffed, tears lining her eyes. “Send me boy things. Like a sword or something.”
“Yea, Gin,” Wolfe said easily at Robert’s insistence. “I’ll write you too. That is, if you want.”
Ginevra nodded half-heartedly. Sniffing back tears that she didn’t allow to fall, she kept quiet. The boys solemnly walked by her, as they made their way inside.
Ginevra peeked around the empty passageway, a smile on her lips as she stealthily walked the corridor to Wolfe’s guest chamber. Hearing a maid approach, she ducked into an inlet built into the wall. The servant gripped an empty bucket used for hauling bath water in her hands. She hid until the maid passed. Slipping past the maid unnoticed, Ginevra squeezed the bottle of green dye firmly in her hand. Pushing open Wolfe’s chamber door, she slid inside. And, as she shut the door behind her, an impish smile shone from her disobedient face.
That night King Henry came to Southaven. Ginevra’s locks were hidden well underneath her simple veil as she was presented to his royal majesty. Her gown was sewn from the finest silk and her escort’s the finest of linen. Robert and Wolfe were to be knighted that night to join the ranks of men.
The young girl was led forward on the arm of her future husband. The hall was silent, in awe as they watched the young couple who carried themselves with such reverence. As Ginevra curtsied beautifully before the king, a hand gently knocked the top of her headdress so it tumbled to the rush-lined floor.
Lady Jayne gasped and fainted, caught at the last second by Lady Isabella. King Henry laughed heartily, unable to make his words to bless their future union heard over the mumbling hall. Ginevra turned to Wolfe, a sweet smile lining her mouth as she looked at his humor-filled eyes. And amidst much fuss and form
ality stood two odd children, one with hair as pink as a spring flower and the other with locks the shade of a grassy summer field.
Chapter Two
Peasant Village, Whetshire Fortress Property, 1184 A.D.
Ginevra 13 years of age, Wolfe 21 years of age
The virulent sound of clashing swords rang over the smoky village. The thatched roofs of the villeins’ homes blazed with a stubborn heat and unrelenting flames. Their wooden structures were unable to withstand the torture, as they crumpled to the ground in heaps of useless mass. The smell they emitted was worse than fetid garbage in the hot sun as it choked the air from the knight’s lungs and burnt the flesh of any who dared too close.
The shrill cry of women, as they hugged children to their breasts, could be heard over the dying village turned battlefield. Their men lay fallen to the blades and arrows of thieves. The sons that lived swore vengeance on the blood of their fathers as a Whetshire man-at-arms escorted them into the safety of the surrounding trees.
Whisking by the solemn line of peasants, Wolfe pressed against the lean muscles of his destrier’s slick neck. He urged the warhorse faster as he galloped around the fray. His chain-link armor weighed comfortingly over his shoulders. His helm had long since fallen from his head, exposing his strong neck to his enemy’s weapon. Wolfe’s insides twitched with anticipation and focus. His sweat-laden brown hair hung in strings to his shoulders, bound back at the sides by strips of leather. Swords flashed in the evening air, the smell of burning wood grew thicker in the breeze as another lighted arrow flew into the wooden cottages.
“Ho!” Robert called, distracting an armed man running toward his friend. He jumped from his horse and lifted his shield to clash with the man’s spiked mace. The weapon stuck in the hard wood and Robert ripped it from his opponent’s gloved fingers. His eyes shone with the grim light of combat, as Wolfe sailed boldly past unharmed.
Their opponents were dressed as ruffians--thieves and murderers the whole lot. The band had raided near and on Whetshire land for days, pillaging the peasant’s field, burning their homes and ravishing the commoners’ wives and daughters.
The few peasants who survived the raids arrived at the fortress and told tales of horror and bloodshed. The earl dispatched border patrols immediately. Robert, Wolfe, William and Thomas were among the first to leave--their honor unable to take the slight against their people. Already Thomas had led them past several charred bodies and burnt homes before finding the culprits.
Five long years had passed since the eve Wolfe and Robert were knighted at Southaven castle. To them, it seemed like the far off dream of young boys they hardly remembered being. But, the years of fighting raiders and the small skirmishes that broke out with roving tribes didn’t diminish their sense of honor and justness. If anything, it emboldened their ideals of youth with the harsher realities of death.
When the raids started, the three men had newly arrived home from campaigning with King Henry. There was much tension with France over English land, though no war had broken out openly. The men who attacked Whetshire property looked to be a mix of French and German descent. However, they were rogues who raided settlements across the border for profit not country.
William, having met with his nineteenth year, was now of age to join them, and they accepted him amongst their ranks with much revelry and good-natured torment. William took their ribbing in stride, even laughing at their jests. But, despite his friend’s raillery to the contrary, the youngest Whetshire brother had a good, steady arm, and a strong enough mind to make him an asset in battle.
From the fortress, they tracked the thieves easily through the thick of the woodlands. The four men knew every inch of their childhood home. When they caught up to the thieves, they were again raiding the forest villeins. It was a small settlement, but a peaceful one that took pride in working hard and living piously.
Through the haze of smoke and darkness, Wolfe saw his target--three men commanding the handful of raiders from the back. Kicking his horse, he lifted his sword high into the air and charged. A fierce yell escaped his snarling lips. At the same time, Thomas darted from the opposite side of the forest driving his stallion ahead of his younger brother.
The brothers attacked from each side, taking the men off guard. Wolfe felt his sword clash with steel before his blade found the side of the man, raggedly slashing through flesh. The weapon came back to him bloody. His opponent fell to the ground with a hard grunt, his entrails spilling onto the dirt. Wolfe paid the man no more heed as his stallion stormed past.
The sounds of battle became fainter, as thieves abandoned their cause against the professional knights for the shelter of the forest. Wolfe could hear his fellow soldiers pursuing the outlaws away from the main battlefield. William’s red head disappeared into the trees, a discarded arrow in his hand as he searched for the archer hidden within the tree limbs. A cry of victory echoed the air as Wolfe slashed another attacker.
Glancing over the distance, he saw Robert silhouetted by firelight, his sword drawn bravely as he fought off two men at once. Then, in the same instant, his eyes moved to Thomas as his older brother thrust at a dark man on a white horse. The dark man fell to the ground. Without thinking, Wolfe spurred his horse forward to help Robert. He jumped from the moving animal as it whizzed past his friend.
Landing deftly on his feet, his weapon met with the sharpened edge of a blade. The roaring of the fire drowned out the deathly cold sound of steel as it slid along steel. The arrows stopped flying. William slew the archer, turning his arrow back on him so that he fell from the height of the trees with a cry that echoed like a death knell.
Wolfe ducked as a blade angled for his head. With deadly precision born of years of practice, he jabbed his sword into the thief’s gut. A yell escaped Wolfe’s parted lips as his hilt slipped from his hand. He didn’t take note of the blood that sprayed his armor with gore. The man fell to his knees, taking Wolfe’s blade with him. Robert turned the tables on his man by forcing him to the edge of the trees. Wolfe grabbed the end of his blade, jerking it hard from the corpse of his opponent. Then, turning, he realized with a deepened breath that there were no more thieves left to fight him.
Taking a deep gulp of air, Wolfe spun around amidst the fallen bodies. His family crest shone up from a few, but mostly they were the raiders. Over the distance, he saw his brother. Thomas was pitted against a mossy log, his back against the earth. The dark swordsman stood triumphantly over him. In a panic, Wolfe ran. His heart thudded loudly in his ears. Thomas’ weapon lay to the side still gripped within his severed hand. Wolfe growled in furious outrage, but was too late. The dark swordsman lifted his weapon high into the air and thrust the blade into his brother’s stomach.
“Nay!” Wolfe screamed, as he witnessed the blood that ran from his brother’s slack mouth. The swordsman swung up onto his horse. The white animal pawed the air as his master reined him to the side. In an instant, he was gone, thundering into the night.
In numbed horror, Wolfe fell to his knees besides Thomas. His sword dropped to the ground. He pulled the thick leather gloves from his hands with his teeth to press at his brother’s seeping wound. Dark blood almost as black as the night sky soaked his fingers, mingling with the chunky splatters of the slain that marred his armor. His brother gurgled. Thomas’ eyes stared up in confused terror. Wolfe heard the clank of swords in the distance. He ignored them.
Thomas’ lips moved as if he might speak, but no words were forthcoming. The only sound he managed was a dreadful hiss as the air escaped his lungs. His eyes darted their surprise up into the trees as the light faded from his pain-stricken gaze. And then, within a blink, Thomas was dead.
Wolfe shook his head in denial willing his brother’s spirit back to him. He pounded Thomas on the chest, shaking him. The sound of the swordplay drew his attention from his brother’s body. He looked over the distance. Revenge clouded his soul.
The silhouette of Robert had gotten darker. Wolfe’s heart lurched in
to the pit of his stomach as he watched Robert’s opponent overtake him. Wolfe grabbed his weapon as he surged to his feet with a ferocious yell. The blade slipped in his hands from the wetness of cooling blood. He ran, but was too late. He saw the glint of orange as a blade aimed for his friend. Robert, too, fell to the ground and the attacker ran off into the forest.
Southaven Castle, two fortnights later...
Ginevra stood, pale and trembling in the cold wet rain, as it pelted her body in slivers. The dark sky reverberated with foreboding. The clouds cried out in grief to echo in the low rumble of thunder. She ignored the dreary weather as servants lifted a large bundle from the cart. Her throat tightened, her pulse pounded in hard, even thumps. Pulling her cloak tighter around her thin shoulders, she squinted to see the man hidden within the furs.
The baron knocked into her shoulder, as he rushed past her to help those who carried his only son. Gasping in horror, she recognized her brother’s hand by the family crest on his finger. It fell to the side, away from the wrappings of wet cloaks and furs that encircled him. The oddly pale fingers didn’t move. It had been many years since she laid eyes on Robert and she shuddered to think that this is how he was brought home to her.
Ginevra held still, unable to move. Her legs were frozen stiff with mortification. She knew her mother was behind her, fainted away on the stone steps leading to the main hall. Servants scurried about her, lifting her mother inside ahead of her brother. Ginevra scowled in irritation at the baroness, disapproving of her womanly weakness.
And then a throaty moan escaped the folds of wet blankets, drawing her attention back to the bundle. The baron yelled for more hands to bring his son inside. Ginevra watched as they hoisted her brother past her, taking him up the stairs. For an instant, she got a flash of open green eyes as lightening streaked the sky. Robert moaned again, this time in loud protest of the rough jolts of his carriers. The pale hand moved to clench into a loosened fist and deadly curses came from the wet folds. Ginevra’s legs weakened, causing her to collapse on the moist ground. As they hauled Robert into the safety of home, Ginevra’s heart overflowed with relief. He was alive.
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