Wild Lavender

by Nicole Elizabeth Kelleher

  Lark’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “If you think I wish to own you, then you are sorely mistaken. Just the opposite—I can’t help but desire to be your slave.” He stepped away from her, then stopped. “Do not think to liken me to him again, Anna,” he warned, and strode out of the cave.

  She hadn’t meant to compare him to Roger. She just needed to protect herself. There was too much at stake for her to think that these few days could be anything more than a brief liaison. She would never be that naïve again. But she didn’t want to think about the day he would leave. So she did the only thing she could at such a time. She made herself busy readying their camp.

  Lark returned with their saddles and tack just as she finished setting the logs in the firepit. Without speaking, they spread out their blankets, overlapping the edges. When they finished, they went outside to check the weather.

  The sky had a peculiar yellowish-green brightness to it, a precursor to the violent storm that was brewing. Even the air smelled sharp. Far off, Anna could hear the low rolling of thunder.

  Chapter Forty-One—Cellach

  The ridge upon which Cellach sat offered the best view of the northeastern region of Chevring. From here, he could see its famous rolling pastures, though the lush grasses were oddly absent of the horses Lord Gervaise bred and trained. And to the northwest, he could make out the mountains separating Stolweg and Chevring. Even from this far distance, the sky above the range was unnaturally dark. He thought of Lady Aubrianne, and prayed that she was safe in the keep.

  When she’d entrusted him with the mission of securing her family’s welfare, he’d readily agreed to help her. He would do anything for her, especially if it meant stopping her husband, Lord Roger. But the farther away from her and the keep he traveled, the greater his misgivings grew. Moreover, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d said goodbye to him for the last time.

  Yet he rode on, sparing little time for rest. His current path would place him east of Chevring, far from any of Lord Roger’s men. Thus, he’d been surprised to find so many tracks. One set—two riders, light in the saddle—had ridden hard out of the rolling hills and valleys, to the east. They’d been pursued. From the depth of the hoof marks, those giving chase were heavily armored. The signs of passage were at least a week old, perhaps two. Curious, he followed the trail. It ended abruptly when the pursued managed to hide their tracks in the rocky terrain beyond the fertile hills. Cellach could see where the soldiers had tried to recover the trail. But they’d given up their quarry and turned back.

  He was almost to Chevring Castle, and he slowed his mount to approach with more care. Before cresting the final hill, he secured his horse in a copse of willow and poplar. On foot, he skirted his way along the edge of the trees and up the slope. He crouched low so as not to offer a silhouette against the bright sky as he topped the rise overlooking Chevring. Creeping forward, he peered through the long grasses and into the wide valley. The horrific sight below was one that he would remember for the rest of his days.

  The once-beautiful castle had been demolished. The heavy limestone walls had been crushed as if they had been made of mud and straw. The buildings surrounding the castle—stable, servants’ housing, and even the chapel—had been razed. Scorched timbers jutted from the rubble like the ancient ribs of some long-forgotten carcass.

  A shadow fell upon the grass next to him. He rolled away in time to miss being skewered by a sword. His dagger cleared its sheath but quickly found a new home in the chest of a soldier wearing a strange uniform. As the man crumpled to the ground, Cellach covered the soldier’s mouth to staunch any cry for aid.

  “I can make your death easy or I can make it hell,” Cellach whispered, grasping the hilt of the still-embedded dagger and shifting it imperceptibly. The soldier groaned and nodded.

  “Where is Lord Gervaise, and Lady Estelle? Where are the survivors?” he demanded.

  The soldier sneered at him. Blood foamed from his mouth and through his final gurgle, he managed to answer before dying. “There aren’t any.”

  Cellach had no time to think about the man’s response, for he heard voices just over the rise. He pulled his knife from the dead soldier’s chest and wormed his way down the hill. He was painfully aware that his victim would be found in moments and his own presence at Chevring revealed. Finally, he stood and, at the base of the hill, ran as fast as he could to the edge of the trees. Behind him, he heard the shouts of alarm as the men discovered the dead soldier.

  Only in the embracing cover of the woods did Cellach risk a backward glance. At least half a dozen men had assembled on the ridge. Several were moving to his location. He didn’t worry about hiding his tracks and ran full speed to escape their grasp. Fortunately, the soldiers were on foot. His escape depended on getting to his horse and following the path of those who had fled weeks before. When he reached the copse, Cellach groaned. His horse was gone.

  The soldiers closing in on his location had yet to detect him. They were less than thirty paces away. Three against one. Cellach drew his sword in preparation. He scanned the area, trying to find the quickest escape route. He turned left and blinked, not quite believing his eyes.

  Not ten feet away stood a young girl. She spoke not a word, but motioned with her hand for him to follow. Cellach looked back the way he’d come. He could take his chances against the soldiers, or he could follow the child. For the first time in his life, he backed down from a fight and raced to the girl.

  The ground was rocky, and he covered the short distance quickly. The girl pointed to a small opening in a thick patch of briars. Cellach entered on hands and knees, ignoring the piercing thorns as they grabbed his clothes and bit into his skin. The girl was behind him, sweeping a leafy branch over the ground to cover any possible tracks before using the foliage to close off the hidey-hole they’d just entered. The voices of the soldiers were only yards away. After making sure the child was behind him, Cellach continued to crawl through the thorny tunnel. And then, quite suddenly, he found himself in a clearing.

  A spring bubbled from the ground in front of him, its course cutting into the impenetrable morass of brambles across the clearing. He stood and was met by six frightened faces, all children, most of them younger than the girl who had led him to this strange sanctuary. Beyond the children, he saw his horse, standing patiently with its brethren, Chevring steeds to the last. A skinny boy stood in front of the other children, brandishing a small knife. All around them, they could hear the soldiers calling out to search deeper into the woods. Cellach sat on the ground in an attempt to appear as unimposing as possible. The girl walked silently past him and sat down. The boy followed suit but did not relax his grip on his blade.

  Finally, the voices faded. “I saw him kill one of the soldiers,” the girl whispered. “We took his horse. He would have been killed had I not helped him.”

  Cellach studied the children. Though malnourished, they were unharmed. The youngest was only a babe. That the children managed to keep the infant quiet was a miracle.

  “My name is Cellach. I am the master-at-arms at Stolweg Keep.” The boy jumped to his feet, crouching in an attack stance, ready to protect the other children with his woefully small weapon. He watched helplessly as a toddler of perhaps three tottered past him. With arms outstretched, the lad ran to Cellach, and planted his small body in Cellach’s lap.

  “Lady Aubrianne sent me,” he explained in as calm a voice as possible. “You can put your weapon down. I am her friend.”

  Except for the oldest boy and girl, the other children seemed confused. “Lady Aubrianne,” the girl prompted. “You remember. Miss Anna!”

  The children charged him. He was knocked backward, tackled by their small bodies. The mere mention of his lady’s name earned him their trust.

  Cellach nodded to the eldest two. “You’ve done well,” he said respectfully. “Your parents would be proud of you.”

  “We’ve stayed here night and day,” the boy explained, finally sheathing
his blade. “We have fresh water aplenty. Food’s been more difficult. The packs we brought are nearly empty now.”

  “We haven’t had meat in days, not wanting to risk a fire to cook it,” the girl added. “We take turns foraging for fruit, nuts, and roots. It doesn’t always taste good, but we’ve made do.”

  She pointed to where the infant was sleeping. “There’s but one stale loaf of bread left. We’ve been softening it with water and berry juice for the babe.”

  “What’s your name?” Cellach asked.

  “Sarah. And this is Luke.” She motioned to the lad who’d been ready to defend the others.

  “Did my brother Pieter tell Anna to send you?” Sarah asked. “He left almost two weeks ago with Miss Claire.”

  That explained the tracks he’d seen, Cellach surmised. “I saw their trail. The soldiers never caught them.” The girl rushed to him and clung to him tightly.

  One of the younger children gazed up at him. “You’ll take us to Miss Anna, won’t you?”

  “You have my word on it,” he vowed. “You’ll have to listen to me, and Luke and Sarah.” These children had lost everything—their loved ones, their homes.

  “But first things first.” He walked to his horse and opened one of his saddlebags. Then, he presented the children with a wedge of cheese, a good amount of dried meat, a loaf of bread, and a few roasted root vegetables wrapped in grape leaves. The last bit he handed to Sarah. “For the baby,” he told her.

  The food was distributed, and Cellach sat down, motioning to Luke and Sarah to join him. “We can talk while you eat,” he explained, knowing they were hungry. He needed answers.

  Over the next hour, Cellach questioned them. He learned that Lady Claire, Lady Aubrianne’s sister, had left with the stable boy, Pieter. When they did not return as expected, the soldiers were sent to retrieve them. Lady Aubrianne’s mother had used the diversion to spread the word to the people of Chevring: prepare the younger children for flight. Luke and Sarah’s group was one of the first to leave. They didn’t know if the others had left in time.

  Cellach asked how they had found their hiding place, and they explained that it was a well-known spot among the children of Chevring. In fact, it was where Miss Anna had often hidden from Miss Claire.

  “Did you see what happened to the castle?” he asked soberly.

  Luke toed a rock from the dirt. “Machines, sir, ten of them. Some families had taken refuge in the chapel, others in the hall. I stopped watching when the soldiers began using fire.” Luke’s voice caught, and he buried his face in his hands.

  Cellach pulled the boy tightly to his chest. He had seen the ruins where the chapel had stood, and the charred remains of the destroyed castle. No one could have survived. “All right, Luke. We won’t talk of this anymore today.” The boy nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “How will we escape here?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ll go on foot at first, leading the horses. I assume there’s a way out of this clearing other than the one we used to enter it. The horses had to get here somehow.” Luke nodded.

  “You will take us to Anna, won’t you?” Sarah asked anxiously.

  “I’ll try. But it might not be safe for you at Stolweg. I won’t know until we approach the keep,” he answered. “For now, try to get some rest. We’ll travel at night.”

  Most of the children were able to sleep, having sated their hunger. Sarah waited until the younger children were down before giving in to her exhaustion. Only Luke remained awake.

  Cellach sat next to the brave boy. “Luke, if we have trouble tonight, I will do what I can to protect you. But you must be strong awhile longer. Should we get separated, take the others and ride hard, due east.” He drew the route in the dust with a stick. “After you cross two streams, turn north. You’ll eventually come to a wide road. Follow it east, to Whitmarsh. Lord Baldric is a good man and will protect you. I believe Lady Claire and Pieter were aiming for his land.

  “Travel only at night,” Cellach cautioned. “Try to find places like this to hide during the day. After a few days, you can risk a fire to cook any game you find. But only in the day—a fire is harder to detect in daylight. And make sure you have a thick canopy of trees above you. The branches and leaves will dissipate the smoke.”

  He could see that the boy was frightened. “I don’t plan on leaving you, Luke,” Cellach promised. “I’m only telling you in the event that we are separated.”

  “In case we run into the soldiers tonight,” Luke said.

  “Exactly. I’d wager that a few have already been posted in the area, hunting for me. I will scout ahead before we leave, and flush them out.”

  “And you’ll kill them,” Luke stated. Cellach was chilled by the vengeance in the boy’s words.

  “As many as I can, Luke,” he answered plainly. “As many as I can.”

  Later that evening Cellach found, and relieved of their lives, two soldiers. Their uniforms bore the marks of Nifolhad. He could detect no more and stole back to the clearing. His young wards had packed their meager belongings and put the horses on leads.

  In slow procession, he led the group from the clearing. They picked their way through the woods, coming across no other soldiers. As they approached the place where the ground grew rocky, the hair on his neck rose. Cellach stopped the children and continued alone.

  Someone was hiding somewhere ahead; he felt it in his gut. He stalked forward, hunting his prey, and found the man. He neatly slit the throat of his quarry before an alarm could be raised. Turning back to beckon the children forward, Cellach found himself face-to-face with another soldier, the tip of his sword pressed to Cellach’s heart.

  “Been waiting for you. My captain has a few questions he would like to—” The man stopped midsentence and fell to his knees. With a shocked expression, he keeled forward. A knife protruded from his back. Six paces away, Cellach spied Luke, small and frightened, his arm still outstretched from throwing his blade. Cellach dragged the bodies behind the trees, out of the boy’s view. He removed the dagger, wiped it clean, and returned it to Luke. They walked back to the others in silence.

  Chapter Forty-Two—Scars

  Later that night, after making love again, Lark collapsed on top of her. She noted that in their passion, they had missed the neatly spread blankets.

  “Anna, my Anna,” he whispered.

  The realization of how much control she had lost hit full force. But instead of being fearful, she felt exalted. “Larkin, my Larkin,” she echoed, as he rolled them over to the blankets.

  Outside, though the storm raged on, the worst of it had passed. It would rain all night, drenching the land and drowning the streams and brooks, choking the delicate waterways with its spew. Anna grew thirsty thinking of the deluge.

  She sat up, her legs astride his, and tugged a corner of the blanket over her lap. Leaning back, she snatched the strap of the wineskin. It tasted sweeter today than before, and she offered it to Lark. He didn’t take it; he was too preoccupied with studying her.

  “All of you,” he demanded, pulling the blanket away, then running his hands down her waist to the gentle swell of her hips.

  Anna stretched languidly as his fingers traced down her thighs, then returned to cup her buttocks before resuming the trek up her back. She stiffened. How could she have forgotten?

  “Anna?” he asked, and she slid sideways to lie on the blanket.

  “Show me,” he ordered. “Right now, Anna.”

  She glared at the ceiling of the cave, then rolled away from him to reveal the cruelly made etching on her back. He reached out to touch her and she flinched, though not in pain.

  “One day, he set Gorman on Will,” she explained before he could ask. “I was late by six lashes. Will would not have survived fifteen.”

  “But you could? There are more than nine marks here,” he added when she didn’t reply.

  She shrugged. “Roger developed a taste for it. He told me it had excited him watching Gorman
whip me. He wanted to feel the same power. No one else knew about it because I took care of myself. No one else knew.”

  • • •

  Behind her, Lark caressed her tortured flesh, a silvery passage of snails. He placed his palm, fingers splayed, on the worst area, hoping the warmth would soothe her. He applied a gentle kiss to each mark, and, little by little, the tension left her body. Not for the last time, he regretted his promise to give her first shot at Roger.

  • • •

  Roger was miserable. His arm was throbbing so badly that he was almost able to ignore the pelting rain. All he wanted was to return to the keep, the warmth of his hearth, and, surprisingly, the comfort of his wife’s expert care.

  “Hell’s beast,” he swore when his horse stumbled and jarred him, causing his clouted head to ache even more. He should have taken one of the Chevring mares, but had worried that his brother would have confiscated it for himself. The horses were Roger’s only advantage when it came to his family. Not Stolweg, or Ragallach, or even Chevring, but the destriers his father so desired.

  Lightning arced through the night, followed immediately by a deafening boom of thunder that crushed his skull. Another vicious flash, and the forest ahead exploded, sending burning shards of bark and splinters in every direction. His mount reared, throwing Roger to the ground. Thunder pealed again, and before he could catch the reins, the gelding shot off through the trees. Roger cursed again, then forged on, thoughts of his wife’s waiting balm and the pouch full of herbs protected under his cloak warring back and forth in his mind.

  Chapter Forty-Three—A Question of Trust

  When Anna woke, the tumultuous rain had ceased. Silence pressed against her ears. The fire had long since devoured its meal, its ravenous crackling but a memory. She was wrapped in the warmth of Lark’s arms. His body curved protectively around hers.