Trailing the Hunter

by Heidi Eljarbo

  Praise for Trailing the Hunter:

  “A great historical writer takes their reader on a journey through the past as if they were present; and a great fictional writer transforms a story into truth with characters who become living, breathing people. Through excellent research and stunning writing, in Trailing the Hunter, Heidi Eljarbo is a writer who achieves both.”

  – Pauline Isaksen, author of Dying for Justice

  “She captures so eloquently the dark side of human nature born from family instability as well as the light that shines so brightly in those who care so deeply about others. Her clear descriptions transported me to the 1600’s Norway, and I could easily visualize the town of Berg and it’s lovely countryside as I read. This novel has fascinating history, endearing as well as diabolical characters and exciting twists and turns. I couldn’t put it down.”

  – Linnea Shaw

  “The author’s attention to smooth flowing narrative combined with beautiful, detailed imagery is present in Trailing the Hunter, her sequel novel, as it was in her first.”

  – Jana Pawlowski

  “As a trained historian, Ph. D., I appreciate and admire the author’s knowledge and careful adherence to facts.”

  – Gus A. Mellander

  TRAILING

  THE

  HUNTER

  HEIDI ELJARBO

  Copyright © 2019 by Heidi Eljarbo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recorded or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, titles, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Tim Barber, Dissect Designs

  Edited by Jill Noelle-Noble

  Visit https://www.heidieljarbo.com/ to read more about her books, news, events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters to hear about new releases.

  To Tiffany, Anya, Sean, and Linnea,

  for giving me courage and inspiration.

  Forever thankful, happy, and blessed

  to be your mamma.

  CHAPTER 1

  The woods by the village of Berg, southeastern Norway

  Summer 1661

  THE FIRST DROPS of rain fell as the cartwheels rattled over the rutted road toward town. Clara Dahl glanced over her shoulder and paused in her journey home. She moved off to the side of the road as the wagon rumbled past.

  Two men sat on the front seat of the horse-drawn cart, belching and spitting, their loud guffaws echoing in the otherwise quiet countryside. Clara had seen them before. They were the bailiff’s men. Behind them, a young woman sat huddled in the back of the wagon. Her ragged dress and long, unruly blonde hair conveyed a tempestuous disposition.

  Clara puckered her brow and shifted her basket of dandelion leaves from one hand to the other. What was going on? The girl seemed young, not yet twenty summers; why would those men have her tied up in the back of their wagon? As Clara contemplated the situation, the young woman wiggled out of the ropes binding her wrists, leaped off the back of the cart, and escaped toward the woods. Her former captors continued their raucous chatter, having no clue they’d lost their prize.

  Clara glanced back and forth repeatedly between the wagon and the fleeing girl. The young woman was heavy with child. How could someone in her condition move so quickly? And what had she done? She must have gotten herself into immense trouble to find herself trussed up and taken into custody like that. And more importantly, what did she plan to do now? Hide out in the forest? As the wagon disappeared around a bend in the road, Clara made up her mind. She tossed her basket aside and charged after the woman.

  “Hello? Please stop. Let me help you. Trust me.”

  The young woman kept running, and Clara struggled to keep the girl in sight. Huffing and puffing, she ran with short steps, lifting her feet high to avoid tripping over roots and twigs.

  As they reached an open grove, the young woman turned around, stretched out her hand, and shouted at Clara in a language she did not understand. The girl spoke several more words, and the rhythm of her voice made them sound like a curse. Then she spun around and raced off, disappearing into the thicket as the church bell started to ring.

  Clara paused and stiffened. She turned her head toward the sound and frowned. That was no gentle sound, inviting parishioners to worship, nor the joyful chime of peace after turbulence and strife. No…the alarming cadence of the bells had one purpose: to gather the villagers. Clara’s heart raced as she glanced back toward the fleeing woman. They were coming for her.

  Clara sucked in a breath, lifted her skirts, and continued after the girl, calling out, beckoning the young woman to halt. Every few seconds, Clara turned to check if the men from the village were catching up, and then she forced herself to hurry forward and pretend she did not hear the sounds in the distance. Shouting voices yonder confirmed her fear. The bailiff and his men had enlisted the villagers to help in their search, and they were not giving up. Clara pressed on, but the young woman was too far ahead, and Clara no longer caught glimpses of the girl’s ratty white gown through the trees.

  If only the cloudburst would stop. Her gown was soaking wet, and her chemise clung to her body. She stumbled to a halt. I must rest…just for a moment, she thought and shivered uncontrollably. She squatted down under the lower branches of a pine tree, hugged her knees, and wiped the rain off her cheeks. She had to keep going. The girl was still out there, on the run like prey fleeing a hoard of hunters.

  I just need a minute. Clara sucked in several deep breaths and patted sweat from her brow. A moment and to pretend to be invisible. If the posse found out she was trying to help a fugitive, it might jeopardize Clara’s efforts. Worse yet, what if one of the villagers mistook her for the escapee?

  Locks of hair fell loose, escaping the confines of her hat and clinging to her moist cheeks. She brushed the hair aside and stretched her neck to see if she could spot something or someone through the branches. There was no one there, but the sound of shouting voices echoed in the distance. They had not given up yet. Why couldn’t they leave the poor girl alone? If they would only let her go and not hunt her as if she were a wild animal.

  The young woman had an aggressive behavior. If Clara caught up with her, would the girl turn around and start throwing rocks at her pursuer? No time to worry about that. Clara had to get the girl to safety.

  Why were her hands still shaking and her stomach twisted in a knot? She huddled into a tighter ball. Her heart pounded like a drum, and she drew in a couple slow, deep breaths. A lot of good she’d do herself if she gasped convulsively and fainted right there in the woods.

  The downpour was subsiding. Clara let out a deep mouthful of air and pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. Stop the self-pity, she chastised herself. She straightened her shoulders and stiffened her spine. A woman on her own must have ample courage to pursue her goals and follow her convictions, no matter how timid she felt inside. In this instance, that meant helping the young woman.

  The sudden snap of a branch and rustling of leaves disrupted the gentle sound of drizzling rain. Clara held her breath. She sat quietly for a moment then carefully pushed a pine branch aside to look out. A deer stood a few paces away, its white tail like a beacon in the mist. It turned its head and glanced at Clara before disappearing into the woodland. The surrounding forest grew quiet, and a dove cooed as if to pronounce it safe to come out from hiding. She had only been there a few minutes. How far could the you
ng woman have gotten by now?

  Clara’s legs trembled as she stood up. She leaned over, put her hands on her knees, and drew a few breaths. The numbness subsided as she carefully took a few steps, holding on to branches and twigs to maintain her balance. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes then continued running in the direction she had seen the woman last go.

  What would happen if they found the girl? Would they chain her up in the town square or imprison her and feed her nothing but bread and water every other day? Would they burn her at the stake? Clara quickly dismissed that last thought. She had seen such horrors before. People she had cared for had been wrongfully accused and convicted because of vicious rumors, and they had paid the ultimate penalty. Off in the distance, a horn sounded, and a dog barked. Clara kept a steady pace, heading in the opposite direction.

  At the edge of the forest the landscape opened to a slight hill leading down to what looked like a swampy marsh. Beyond the marsh, the hill continued upward, scattered with bushes and large rocks. At the top, a few trees stood on silent parade, silhouettes against the evening sky.

  Clara paused and looked back into the darker woods. Several minutes had passed since she’d heard any noise from the girl’s pursuers, but even if they seemed to have given up, Clara could not return. Not yet. The expectant mother was out there somewhere. Which way had she run? Clara chose the open terrain down toward the dreaded marsh.

  The slight, downward slope was a welcomed blessing. Exhaustion had begun to set in, her legs turning rubbery, and her breath short. She straightened her back, bent her knees a bit, and pulled up the heavy material of the hem of her gown. Then she started striding across the marsh. Patches of straw and grass made firmer ground underfoot, and Clara forced herself to take long steps to hit the few spots of unyielding marshland. At one point, she misplaced her foot, and the boggy wetland swallowed up her shoe. She shivered as she tugged her foot loose. There was no time to search for lost footwear.

  Clara let out a long sigh as she jumped onto drier land to climb the next hill. She glanced up at the hilltop. Another shape had appeared between the two trees on the end. The silhouette looked like a man on horseback. Clara rolled her eyes. What now? Was he friend or foe? Had he seen her struggling across the marsh? He sat still, as if he was waiting for her next move. There was no place to hide from view, let alone disappear for good. She could neither climb a tree nor dig a hole in the ground, so Clara decided to stay put.

  Why was she scared? After all, she had done nothing wrong. The young woman was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, he had not seen the girl and would not know where she’d gone.

  Suddenly, the stranger turned his horse to face her and started down the hill. She wiped her hands on her gown and straightened her hat. With her head held high she gave him a skeptical side-glance and prayed he was not part of the posse chasing the young woman. He had, after all, come from the opposite direction—but one never could tell.

  The stranger brought the large black stallion to a halt in front of Clara.

  “Your name?” he demanded.

  “Clara Dahl.”

  “Have you lost something, Miss Dahl? You keep turning your head and seem to be looking for something or someone?”

  Should she reveal her thoughts? Trust was dear nowadays. How could anyone predict another person’s behavior, especially when that person was a stranger? She turned to leave, but the man dismounted his horse and grabbed her, holding her back.

  Clara looked down at his hand on her arm, and he quickly let go. She lifted her chin, looking up to meet his eyes, as he stood a head taller than she did. He wore leather breeches and a thin, loose-fitting shirt with a long neck opening, and no hat covered his wavy, shoulder-length brown hair.

  The stranger pushed the long fringe back out of his face, revealing deep-hazel eyes. At that moment, for some reason, Clara decided to trust him.

  “I am not alone,” she said.

  “Who are you with? Why are you here by yourself then?”

  “I am not.”

  He crossed his arms, maintaining eye contact.

  Clara bit her lip. “There’s a young woman, but she ran off.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You are kind, sir, but I can manage.”

  He leaned forward and touched her shoulder. Clara wanted to lower her eyes but fought to keep her gaze on him.

  “She’s with child.”

  “I see. Well, don’t you fret. I will find her. I know every corner of these woods. But first, let me take you to Ivershall.”

  She lifted her eyebrows.

  “My home. You’re drenched and in need of a set of dry clothes. Let me get you to my house first, then I’ll come back and look for this young woman. She won’t get far, and I will examine every mossy mound and hidden thicket around these parts. I will find her.”

  Clara nodded reluctantly. She put her shoeless foot into his cupped hands and let him lift her up onto the horse. She turned her head again to see if she could catch a glimpse of the girl. She wanted to escape with her, but her legs wouldn’t carry her another step. Was the stranger telling the truth? Clara had failed so many times lately. Being overly cautious had caused several misunderstandings. She hoped her initial impression of this man turned out to be right.

  His voice was soothing enough, his eyes kind. Although she should have questioned him, should have gotten an explanation for why he had suddenly appeared and offered to rescue her before she trusted him so fully, she sat behind him on the horse and let him take her to his home.

  There seemed to be no obviously discernible path, but the stranger appeared to know exactly where he was headed. After a short while, the shimmer of lights appeared in the distance. The man guided his horse onto a lane lined with birch trees that led to a property different from any Clara had seen.

  Directly ahead of them stood the main house, a two-story manor built of wood with west and east wings extending toward the front on either side. Wide stone stairs with wrought iron hand railings led to the front entrance with its tall oak door.

  The stables were to the right, but the man stopped in the courtyard and lifted Clara down from the horse.

  “Go inside,” he said. “My housekeeper Marna is there, as is my mother. Tell them I sent you, and they will take care of you.” He pulled the reins to turn the horse around.

  “But—”

  “The other woman. Her name?”

  Clara shrugged. “I don’t know her name. But she’s with me…I hope.”

  “You can explain later. I’ll be back.”

  He was on his way before she had time to say anything else. The black stallion galloped down the lane then across the field and into the woods.

  An elderly woman with curly white hair opened the door before Clara had time to knock. The woman held a cat in her gnarled hands and had a stern expression that melted into a wrinkled smile when she met Clara’s gaze.

  “Good evening, miss. I thought you were…I don’t know who I thought… I wondered who would come calling at this hour.”

  “Who is it, Marna?” A gentle voice sounded from inside the house, followed by the tapping of a cane on the wooden floor.

  The second woman appeared and came to a lopsided stop in the doorway. Gray-streaked blonde hair pulled softly back encircled her fair face. She could have been Clara’s mother; she had the same lovely, elegant appearance.

  “We heard someone coming; we don’t usually have guests come unannounced this late,” the second woman said.

  “I apologize.” Clara hugged herself, her clothes still wet through.

  “May we help you?”

  “Your son brought me here. He left to fetch someone else.”

  The second woman reached out her hand and smiled. “Well then, come in. I am Dorthea of Ivershall, and this is Marna, our housekeeper.”

  Clara accepted Dorthea’s hand and curtsied. “Clara Dahl. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “No trouble. We were just havin
g our evening meal.”

  Clara lingered on the steps, her hands clasped together.

  “Enter, Miss Dahl. Are you hungry? Will you join us for supper?”

  “Please.”

  “You are dripping, child.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Marna, would you get some dry clothes for our guest?”

  Marna curtsied and left the room.

  Clara wrapped her arms around herself and fought the shivers that had set in.

  “You poor thing,” Dorthea said. “You must be freezing.”

  “I’m ever so grateful for your kindness. The evening turned out colder than I’d expected.”

  Dorthea smiled. “And moister from the looks of it. We watched the rain pour down from the dining room window and heard the heavy drops pound on the roof.” She placed both hands on the cane. “Well, some dry garments and a cup of warm broth will help. And the weather seems to have cleared up now, too.”

  Clara nodded. Her day had been full of surprises, and the idea of sitting down, dry and warm, appealed to her greatly. Yet, the thought of the pregnant young woman still out there in the damp and cold haunted her.

  The housekeeper returned, her arms ladened with a bundle of clothing.

  “You may change in here.” She opened a door off the foyer then handed the clothing to Clara.

  Clara stepped into the room, closed the door, shed her clothes, and placed them on a chair. The stockings dripped a small puddle on the floor. She rubbed her arms and thighs for warmth then slipped on the dry, knee-high stockings, chemise, and gown.

  Once attired, she smiled. Much better. She glanced down at her bare feet and shrugged. Although she preferred not to go in to supper in her stocking feet, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Surely, she couldn’t go about wearing only the muddy mate to the shoe she’d lost in the marsh. She opened the door and stepped back out into the hallway.