Defiant

by Jessica Trapp

  Brenna glared at her. “You know you love the attention.”

  A tight ache banded Gwyneth’s chest; surely hersister knew she had no say in the bard’s choice of songs.

  “You preen like a peacock,” Brenna snarled, “flirting and prissing about and wanting all the men to follow you.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Bah. I saw you making eyes at that monk—”

  “Your jealousy is pathetic. ”

  “Your vanity is so great that you even want men of God to lust for you—”

  “You go too far. ”

  Twisting away from her sister’s mocking face and the horrible pile of salmon that rounded up on her trencher, Gwyneth searched the sea of faces. If only she could find someone to ease her hurt. She told herself she was not looking for the monk.

  Emily, a girl who had been her friend just this past summer, turned a shoulder away as Gwyneth offered a tentative smile.

  Brenna coughed at the victory and Emily turned toward her, took notice of the mound of fish on Brenna’s trencher, and giggled under her breath.

  Stinging prickles crawled down Gwyneth’s neck, flushing even the tops of her shoulders.

  “Gwyneth will make an excellent wife,” she heard her father say in a loud, booming voice as if this were an auction and not a meal. “She’s got fine wide hips for bearing heirs.”

  The hundreds of flickering candles lighting the chamber whirled in a spectacular display of color, and it was as if his voice were far, far away.

  She longed to cover her ears, to get up, to run, anything besides sit here and pretend this was normal. Twirling her mother’s ring, she stiffened her back and squared her shoulders. A lady should never slump, her mother had instructed.

  “And she has her mother’s bosom.”

  “Father!” she admonished, but he gave her a sharp look that threatened violence if she interfered.

  “And, here, even the bard sings of her beauty.”

  Because you paid him to, she longed to wail, but instead stared down at the table and prayed for the evening meal to end. At this point she would have agreed to marry even old man Blake, the gong farmer, to end the festivities.

  “Look at those bones on her face, so fine, so feminine—”

  “Fath—”

  “And she knows how to embroider in the tiniest of stitches. Her delicate hands would tend a man’s every need.”

  More guffaws echoed around the chamber.

  Unable to bear any more of her father’s comments, she stood.

  “Where go you, daughter?” he blasted out. His gray beard fluttered.

  She offered a shaky smile. “To … check on the kitchens. The ale runs low.”

  Her father frowned, working his jaw back and forth. “Tell Brenna to do it—”

  “My lady?” Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  She whirled and gasped in surprise. The novice monk! Up close he was even more handsome. His eyes were a startling shade of green—spring grass ringed with the darker shades of summer. His lips sinfully lush. His tall, wide-shouldered body seemed woefully out of place in religious robes, and the plain garments did nothing to distract from his appeal. She wondered how his dark hair would look when it had been shorn and tonsured. It seemed a crime to do anything to mar such perfection.

  “I wished to give you this, Lady Gwyneth.”

  In his hand, he held a small book. The front cover was made of thin wood that was elaborately carved around the edges and coated with gold.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at the gift. “You wish to give me a book?” What on earth was a novice monk doing with something so valuable? Why would he give it to her?

  He seemed suddenly self-conscious, flustered.

  Brenna tsked. “Seducing a man of God is a sin,” she whispered. “I saw how you were looking at him.”

  Oh, heavens.

  “I can’t read,” she blurted, feeling her cheeks heating all the way up to her ears.

  Her father cleared his throat. “Women have no need for reading.”

  At that, the novice straightened his shoulders. He was several inches taller than her father. He winked at her—not monklike at all! Her stomach fluttered. She had the clear impression that all his earlier frowns were for the others and that the two of them were somehow in a conspiracy with each other—that he had sensed her discomfiture, understood how embarrassed she felt about being displayed so improperly. She wished to be a stately lady, modest and regal, like her mother.

  “The book contains instruction on the proper place of women,” he said piously, but the twinkle in his green eyes belied the words.

  Her heart warmed. She had a friend in this dreadful place after all.

  Her father grunted. “For certes my daughter should learn some manners.”

  “Mayhap she should start by wearing more modest apparel.”

  “I did not choose—”

  The monk pressed the book into her hand, giving her fingers a little squeeze. Her skin tingled at his touch and her protest died in her throat. Who was he? Was he on her side or not?

  “Women should be tending to their duty, the needs of their husband and children, not reading,” her father said, reaching for the book. “Thank you for the gift, monk. I will use it for her dowry.”

  “Nay!” She clutched the book to her chest. Likely he planned to sell it or try to buy a favor with it!

  Her father moved forward. “Give that to me.” His gray beard bristled and puffed around his lips.

  She stepped back. The air in the great hall felt thick and murky despite the fact that she had instructed the maids to sweep it clean and put down new rushes just this past week.

  His fingers touched the book’s gilded wooden cover.

  “'Tis mine.”

  “Daughter.” His voice was a warning.

  Abruptly she whirled and fled to the door in the side of the great hall.

  “Gwyneth!” she heard him bellow behind her, but recklessly she rushed outside, away from them. She knew she would be beaten for her imprudence later—that her unruly behavior would spoil all his plans for a good marriage—but she did not care. He would not take the young monk’s book from her.

  “Good riddance,” she heard Brenna say behind her in a loud whisper. “Mayhap the minstrels will playsome decent music now without you whoring around with the priests.”

  Her eyes stung.

  Blinking back tears, choking back the agony threatening to swallow her, she fled out the keep’s door and down the steps. Her fingers squeezed the book painfully. Perhaps she could find Adele, her younger sister who had managed somehow to escape the festivities.

  Later, she would choose a husband. She would submit to a life of duty—but her father would not take the book. And she would learn to read.

  Chapter 2

  Rain scented the air as Gwyneth hurried, heart pounding, for the copse of trees down by the river, her thoughts muddling together as she hopped her way across rocks and patches of grass so that her satin slippers would not get dirty.

  It would be best to hide until her father calmed down.

  Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she leaned against a wide oak, laid a hand on her chest, and wished she could somehow thwart her father’s plans to sell her off to the highest bidder.

  As she waited for her heart to calm, she realized the book the young monk had given her was still in her hand. Curious about it, she turned it over and over, examining the binding. It was small and exquisite—only the size of her palm—and much too expensive a gift to give to a stranger. The front was made of thin wood that was covered in gold leaf. A dragon, meticulously carved, graced the surface.

  Why would he give it to her?

  Puzzled, she opened it, recalling the strange way he had said it would instruct her on the place of women. The sly wink and grin he had given her—as if they shared some grand joke together and he was fully on her side—was vexing. ‘Twas not at all monklike and she suspected the book had n
othing to do with instructing women at all.

  The writing was in clean, beautiful loops and lines of various lengths and heights, artistry all to itself. She squinted at the pages, flipping here and there and holding it this way and that, trying to understand what any of it said. She could make out an A on one page and three T’s on another, but she did not know any other letters.

  She ran her hand across the carved cover, wondering at the care that the craftsman had taken in fashioning it. It was a beautifully fashioned golden dragon with delicate scales and a long, curved tail. Its wings—open and lovely—seemed to beckon her to soar, too.

  Why had the monk given her something so expensive? Why had he been so cryptic?

  Questions with no answers.

  Frustrated, she tapped the binding a few times with her palm.

  Her father said that women didn’t need to learn to read; the church and society preached that educating women wasted time and resources—a sin to be so lavish—but curiosity burned inside her. She wanted to know what it said! Surely learning to read was only a small indulgence in the pleasures of sin.

  Stuffing it into her bodice, she determined that when she returned to the feast she would demand answers from the young monk.

  She tugged at her dress, but the bodice was cut so low the book’s spine poked out the top no matter how much she tried to adjust it. She frowned, irritated once again with her father for insisting on displaying so much of her cleavage. She pressed her breasts down, wishing she could make them flat again as they had been only a year ago. Her body had changed so much in the past months it felt as though an animal lived under her skin—a lump here, a lump there.

  A sense of deep loss chilled her inside. Her own body had betrayed her, growing in places that once were flat and trickling blood down her thighs each month. She wanted her dolls back, her sister back, her own clothing back—the plain kirtles and tough leather boots—garments she could kick a ball in unhindered. These huge fancy houppelandes with their immodest hems and delicate embroidery seemed too flimsy for any use but to make men leer and women jealous.

  A woman’s scream rent the air, interrupting her morose musings.

  Gwyneth jumped, terrified it might be Adele, her younger sister. She had not been at the feast and often walked in the woods with her two dogs.

  The sound, like that of a wounded animal, came again. She whirled. “Adele?”

  A long stone’s throw away, through the thick trees, a flash of colors—blues, reds, purples—sharply contrasted with the greens and browns of the forest. A large man with dark hair, a short beard, and cruel features was tackling a girl, pulling her to the ground. Not Adele. A peasant.

  The girl fell, her skirt hiked to her waist, and the man reached to yank down his hose. She twisted to one side, scrambling for freedom. He slapped her across the face.

  Gwyneth’s body jerked in reaction. Her legs liquefied. She crumpled forward, clinging to a sapling for balance. She should run, go get help.

  The man ripped down his hose and a sausage-shaped piece of flesh sprang out. His tunic slanted to one side. His clothes bespoke the noble class. He wore a fancy pair of green leather boots with silver buckles. “Lay still, wench.”

  There was another scream and another slap.

  The girl ducked her head and put up her arms to guard her face.

  Bile rose in Gwyneth’s throat as the man lunged atop her. His hips thrust between her legs, forcing her thighs to part. She didn’t scream again, but let out a yelp that sounded like a cow being impaled.

  Nay.

  Nay.

  Nay.

  Terror mixed with indignant rage gripped Gwyneth’s mind and she wanted to kick herself for standing helplessly about while another woman was being brutalized. She had to do something.

  She glanced back at Windrose. The turrets hung over the tops of the trees. Too far to go for help.

  Heart pounding, she stooped to a crouching position and searched around frantically for something to use as a weapon.

  “Blasted dress,” she muttered as her legs tangled in yards of useless silk, then felt her heart jump against the book that rested in her bodice. She needed to be quiet, enormously silent, speechless—use her mind, not brute strength.

  Her hand closed around a fallen limb. She lifted but it didn’t move. A curse on being born female.

  Carefully, she selected a smaller stick, one about four feet in length and only about the thickness of a woman’s wrist. The wood scraped her palm, rough and dry. She would sneak behind him, wallop him over the head. Surely she could distract him long enough for the girl to get away.

  And mayhap the brute would turn on her …

  She tightened her grip on the limb.

  Her stick, her wits, the element of surprise—those weapons would have to be enough.

  Please, God, she started, wishing desperately that she had not neglected her prayers all this past week. Dear Mother Mary, she tried again. Perhaps Mary would be more generous than God with religious shortcoming.

  She would attend Mass twice a day, confess how she’d watched a spider crawl across the tiles instead of listening to the prayers and hymns.

  Holding her breath, she crept through the woods as quietly as she could, working her way behind the man. The brute twisted the girl’s titties in his fingers so that they looked contorted. Pain laced her face, but she no longer fought him. The scent of sweat hung in the air.

  “Un, uh, uh,” he grunted, hips pumping in and out between the tangle of her skirts.

  Determination flooded Gwyneth’s mind and in that moment, she hated men. All men. This would be her lot as well if she were sold in marriage. Mayhap it would be on a soft, clean bed and not some dirty forest—but ‘twas the same for all women. They were forced to open their bodies for a man’s brutish lusts.

  The girl’s eyes rolled back in her head, her face pulled into a grimace.

  A knot twisted in Gwyneth’s stomach. Her satin slippers sank in the mud, making hideous sucking noises as she advanced, but the man did not turn.

  He continued his onslaught.

  She took another step. And then another. Only five steps more and she would be upon him. The stench of unwashed bodies and some sickly sweet toilet water assaulted her nostrils.

  A bramble snagged the hem of her gown, pulling her up short with a lurch. The damn blasted gown. She would shred the thing when she got home, take out all her fury on the yards of lace and silk.

  She twisted to pull her skirt loose but the movement caused another section of it to entangle in the thorns.

  Curses!

  She pulled harder and a ripping sound rent the air.

  The man’s piglike noises stopped abruptly and he turned, his eyes going wide.

  Coldness burst in her chest and for an instant her lungs refused to breathe.

  Too panic stricken to think, she tore her skirt free, raced forward and slammed him across the forehead with her weapon. The stick splintered into two pieces.

  Gasping, she clenched her fingers around the remaining part of her weapon so tightly that her palms went numb.

  The man began to rise; his hands reached for her. “You little wench.” His dark brows were drawn together and his lips lifted in a snarl.

  Oh, saints. Oh, Mary. He was going to kill her. With a scream, she raised her shortened club and clobbered him across the face.

  “Run! Run!” she yelled at the girl. At least one of them should get away.

  Blind panic took hold of her mind and she beat him again with the stick.

  A crunching noise sounded, red streaks appeared on his cheeks and blood splattered from his nostrils to his chin.

  He yowled. His eyes glowed with fury. Greenish black. Like a dark, evil spirit dredged up from the bog.

  “You’ll pay for that, bitch.” He lunged for her.

  The numbness in her fingertips spread to her arms, to her legs, across her shoulders.

  She hit him again. Wap. Wap. Wap. And wap again.
/>
  He staggered to his feet, but tripped on the hose that he had shoved down his legs. His eyes rolled back in his head and he melted atop the girl.

  With a grunt, the girl pushed him off. His body landed with a thuck in the mud. Blood pooled beside him.

  The girl began straightening out her garments—a dirty peasant skirt and a simple blouse—and rose to her feet.

  Gwyneth heaved uneven breaths and pressed her palm to her chest; the book was still safe. Her shoulders ached and all she wanted to do was run back to Windrose. The feast that had been so awful only moments before seemed tame compared to this.

  The man twitched, or maybe he just slid farther into the muck. Rivulets of blood ran down his face and his nose hung lopsidedly to one side.

  “Um. I think ‘e’s quite down,” the girl said, dusting her hands back and forth on her skirt and pulling her blouse to cover her chest.

  Gwyneth’s spine seemed to crumple of its own accord. Sickness washed over her.

  “Ain’t ne’er seen a noblewoman do that.” The girl cocked her head to one side and looked impassively from Gwyneth to the man lying among the leaves. Red blood and brown grime oozed together. “I do thank you, me lady.”

  Startled, Gwyneth stared at the girl, seeing her clearly for the first time since the ordeal began. The girl might have been two or three years older than herself. They were similar in height, but she wore a patched homespun dress and no jewelry whatsoever. Her tattered garments smelled of some sort of cheap toilet water and the stench of male sweat. She had mussed brown hair, a crooked nose, high cheekbones, and a large mole on her chin. Despite her common appearance, her chin lifted and her back was straight. A dark wisdom flashed in her brown eyes.

  Unsure what to say, Gwyneth scrutinized her for signs of distress, for some indication that the girl was about to collapse into a sniveling heap. Perhaps she should take her back to the castle. At any moment, she would surely sink to the ground and start crying.

  Instead, the girl stared back, a hand on her hip.

  After a long pause, when no such fits of hysteria seemed to be forthcoming, Gwyneth asked, “Are you all right?”