by Troy A Hill
Early on he had passed his pillow back to Lady Meron. She now had her head wedged in the crook of the side and back wall of the carriage. His former pillow cushioned her head from the occasional jostle. He wished he could sleep as easily as she.
The priests across from him had three pillows apiece. Neither of them had offered one up to Lady Meron. She had divvied up her nest of down filled cushions most generously when the priests had joined them. But that left her leaning against the carriage walls with little comfort. He had quickly offered another cushion to her. Then his last. She refused his remaining one with a gentle smile.
The driver again reined in the horses. Around them, came the sound of the wagons creaking to a halt. Laughter and instructions rang out. The drivers, along with the other merchants knew the routine well by now, he surmised. Even Lady Meron stirred. She slid one finger behind the window curtain and peered out.
“It will be good to sleep on something that doesn’t move,” Mihangel said.
"A good bed and a roaring fire would be best," Father Wemba said and flung the carriage door open. Never mind that it was hinged on Lady Meron's side. Mihangel snatched at the door to stop it. Lady Meron's hand was faster and caught it first.
The two priests were quick to exit. Mihangel rose to as well, so he could help the lady disembark. But she waved off his hand.
“I will remain inside until the sun drops farther,” she said.
“May I bring you fresh water or wine?” Mihangel asked, concerned. “You haven’t drunk anything all day. A cup of wine would surely help.”
“Thank you, but later,” she said and rewarded him with a smile. “My stomach is unsettled after the travel. It’s better to wait.”
“Ah, of course,” Mihangel said. He shut the door and turned to look at the sun. Perhaps an hour of daylight left. At least it hadn’t rained since this morning. The ground was relatively dry.
“Get us wine,” Father Hedda told him. “Perhaps some for yourself as well, good brother.”
Mihangel cocked an eyebrow at the Saxon priest. He was tempted to tell the man exactly where the priest should shove his command. But, he blinked then nodded.
“Of course, Father…?” Mihangel knew the fool’s name. But if the priest was going to play him as the fool, he’d act the part.
“Father Hedda, dear brother,” the priest said and waved him on with a stern push. “Wemba and I will see to our bladders, then return for the wine. I hope they have proper chairs in those wagons. I shan’t be sitting on the wet ground.”
Mihangel bowed his head toward the priest and turned so the man wouldn’t see the cloud that gathered behind his eyes. If only he hadn’t taken his vows. There were a few choice words he’d like to share with that priest about his privileged attitude.
He glanced back once to see where the two priests were. They both headed toward a clump of scrub at the edge of the large clearing by the road. They steered clear of the thicket that the wagon drivers were using to empty their own bladders. Only the best scrub was worthy to be pissed on by those Saxon priests.
Over the nickering of the horses, he heard the tinkle of running water. A creek was nearby. A good place to water the horses. Fairly level, with soft loam for soil. They were in a broad valley here, and the road had a fairly sharp curve ahead. They'd just traversed a gentler bend. Not a bad place for an encampment. Still, he'd prefer to have less of a woods, and more sightline along the road.
He found the caravan master instructing a groom about the horses. The young man nodded until the merchant turned away. Behind the man's back, the young groom rolled his eyes, then shook his head when he noticed Brother Mihangel looking his way. Eadwig had a good crew but still felt the need to instruct them on their tasks more than necessary.
“Excuse me, good sir,” Mihangel said as Eadwig glanced his way. “I would like to do what I can to help care for Lady Meron on the trip. Does she have any special food or drink provisions set aside?”
“Help her, ey?” Eadwig gave him a smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “That bird hardly eat anything. Just take a bit of water and some bread with her. She spends most of the night up, staring off into the distance, or walking about the wood.”
“She does sleep all day,” Mihangel said.
“Sleep in a carriage, that’s a task I don’t envy,” Eadwig added. “But she paid more than a fair price. That’s her own carriage. Me sponsor back in Sussex set it up for her special. Wanted me best driver and paid extra for him.”
“She’s been traveling long, with you, then?”
"Aye," Eadwig said and pointed toward one of the rear wagons. "Ye can find a wineskin and cups in the back o'… By Thunor's short hairs! TO ARMS!"
6
Ambush
Father Hedda looked rather uncomfortable with the knife shoved against his windpipe. Just like Father Wemba, he had his arm twisted behind his back. Sweat beaded both of their foreheads, as well as the bald crown inside the rings of their tonsures. Both had their trousers untied. The cloth sagged down around their knees. The priests took small stumbling steps, pushed on by the men holding the knives and twisting the priest's arms. Fortunately, both the priests' tunics were long enough to cover their groins.
No reason to see that, Mihangel thought. He leaned heavily on his walking stick and stepped slowly into the growing ring of bandits. About a dozen men with bows, arrows knocked and drawn ringed the wagons. On the far side of the road, he heard spied more men with steel in hand.
The caravan was only half that strength at best. Half-a-dozen wagon drivers, a few guards, three or four young grooms, Eadwig the merchant, Lady Meron and himself. Oh, and the two worthless priests. Mihangel didn’t like those odds. Not with half-a-score of arrows aimed at them, and as many bare blades out in the fading light.
"Well, what do we have here?" The voice came from behind the wagons. A thin man, taller than average, with a pockmarked face, dark curly hair, and a faded green tunic strode into the clearing. He was flanked by several men, all with drawn blades. Long knives, sharpened along one edge. Seaxes. The blades of the Saxons.
One of the men behind the tall leader caught Mihangel’s eyes. A rotund man. Speckled with leaves and twigs, like he’d been hiding in the scrub all winter. Probably had, Mihangel realized. But his eyes went to the man’s head. That’s an ugly hat, he thought, then jerked his eyes back to their leader.
“Thank you for bringing our wagons to us,” the tall man said. His other men moved closer. Father Hedda yelped as he stumbled and the knife at his throat nicked his skin. A small trickle of blood began to well on his skin.
“Everyone stop where you are,” the tall man said. “Toss all of your weapons, belt knives and whatnot toward the nearest of my men.”
As much as he hated to, Mihangel gently plucked the knife from his belt. He flipped it in his hand, caught the eye of the man holding the nearest priest, then flipped it end over end, so it embedded itself, blade first, into the soft earth at the priest's feet. He took several limping steps toward the carriage, leaning heavily on his stick along the way.
The archers had shouldered their bows and started to gather the reins of the horses.
“You, Monk!” the bandit leader called. “What are you doing? Toss your stick too.”
“You’d deny an old man his ability to stand?” Mihangel as he leaned heavily against the carriage door.
"Of course not," the leader said. "But you seem to be worried about the carriage, eh." He waved several of his men over. The one with the ugly hat, and another came close. Ugly Hat had a seax in hand. The other, he looked Cymry. Dark, curly hair, but a ratty and stained tunic. Leggings and a loincloth instead of trousers. He held only a stout stick. Well worn. It would be a nasty cudgel in the hands of a skilled warrior. Mihangel estimated it was just a stout stick in that lad's hands.
“Step away from the carriage and let us see whom you are protecting, eh, monk?” The leader grinned as he waved Mihangel toward him.
He ha
d no choice. If this became an ugly fight, as ugly as that bandit's hat, what could he do? One man against more than a score? The priests would surely be the first casualties. That he didn't want on his conscience. Though, he did want to do his best to protect Lady Meron.
He levered himself up off the step and hobbled toward the bandits holding the priests. Their knives were still near the cleric's throats, but their initial pressure had relaxed. He also noticed that one of the men was right-handed, and the other left-handed, based on how they held the knives at the captives' throats.
“I believe you wanted to meet me,” Lady Meron said as she stepped down from the carriage. She hadn’t waited on anyone to flush her out. She had donned a dark cloak, but a strip of grey showed she wore a bag on her hip. The strap across her body, under her bodice.
“A Lady,” one of the two closer bandits said, not the one with the ugly hat.
Her eyes took in the scene. She lingered just a second on the two priests. A single, thin rivulet of crimson streaked down from the knick in Father Hedda’s chin.
In the fading sun, Lady Meron's skin still appeared pale. Her eyes, reddish-brown in this light, found Mihangel. She gave him the slightest of nods, then stepped toward the leader.
"Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" Lady Meron said and planted her hands on her hips. Her dress was dark blue, almost black. It was indeed of the finest wool. If she had a headscarf, she had left it inside the carriage.
"Paega," the leader said and bent to give her a low bow with his arm out in a flourish. "Whom do I extend my thanks, and that of my men, for bringing us all of this splendor?"
“Lady Meron of Francia,” she said. “And you are Paega of?”
“A Lady,” the younger bandit said again. The lad’s eyes were wide. His hand darted out to her bodice and gave a squeeze. Lady Meron’s hand was even faster. Her palm caught the lad across the face. The sting of the slap echoed off the trees. Mihangel winced. Lady Meron had strength in that thin arm. The lad’s head spun from the impact. The cudgel fell from his grip as his hands darted to his face.
“You, boy!” Paega called.
“Derog,” ugly hat yelled. “What did I tell you?”
The bandit, Derog, jerked his head back to Lady Meron. Mihangel couldn’t see the lad’s eyes. But the set of the bandit’s shoulders warned him what was about to come. The lad lunged at Lady Meron.
She had read his intent and slid, quick, out his way. He smacked into the wooden side of the carriage. He growled and spun. Paega was signaling his men. Ugly hat tried to grab Derog.
How could Mihangel help her? His eyes darted around the scene.
Lady Meron had ideas of her own. As Derog lunged again, she fled. Off into the tree line, like a hare chased by a fox. The bandit, Derog was it? He was off after her in a flash. Everyone’s attention was on Lady Meron’s mad dash into the woods.
7
Fight and Flight
Mihangel dropped to a knee. His stick made two quick, hard snaps, against a knee on each of the bandits who held the priests. Both yelped and dropped their knife hands down toward their injured legs.
Two more fast raps. The bandit's wrists took the blows. Their knives tumbled onto the soil. The priests were smart enough to stumble away. Mihangel slid forward. He held his staff level, at knee height and pulled back hard. The two bandits flailed wildly as they lost their balanced and flopped backward.
Mihangel didn't stop. He lunged around Father Hedda. The priest was panic-stricken, his hands to his mouth.
Ugly hat was right in front of him. Mihangel's staff caught him in the groin. The bandit dropped his hands down. He didn't have time to wail in pain. Mihangel smacked the bandit's head. The ugly woolen cap went flying as the man collapsed.
Mihangel kept turning. Two more strikes with his stick sent seaxes flying. Two more quick snaps to bandit heads. Eyes rolled back. Another blow, end first into a brigand's belly. Followed up with an attack to the back of the man's head.
Paega had already retreated. He had hold of Eadwig's mare and pulled himself into the saddle. Two of the brigand archers had managed to clamber aboard wagons. They slapped the reins and got the horses moving. But the other four wagons remained.
Two bandits charged Mihangel. Seaxes raised high. He dodged one swipe, then rapped the man on the head. He used his momentum to spin low and leg-sweep the other. Another blow to a groin left one bandit clutching his nether region.
By then the remaining bandits were fading into the woods. Even the ones Mihangel had dropped earlier were fleeing. Eadwig and his wagon drivers had weapons and advanced, waving the dropped Seaxes and clubs. The bandits ran.
“We must help Lady Meron,” Mihangel declared.
“How did you…?” Father Wemba said. His arms were wrapped tight around his chest.
“I haven’t always been a monk,” Mihangel growled. His knee twinged, and he knew he’d need extra men to help track the bandit chasing Lady Meron. “Make yourself useful for once, and get a weapon.”
Eadwig stroked his chin and glanced around.
“Come on, fool,” Mihangel stood nose to nose with the Caravan leader. “Lady Meron is in peril. We must help her. That young idiot will have her skirts up and her honor taken if we just stand here.”
Eadwig stepped back from him and swept his gaze around the clearing once. Mihangel stared the man down. He just needed two or three men with weapons, to make sure the other bandits weren’t in ambush again. What was the fool waiting for?
The caravan master turned back to him and gave a single nod.
Good, it was about time he saw what…
Mihangel's vision exploded in a sea of stars. Pain wrapped around his spine and red washed across his eyes. His knees gave out, and he dropped. Eadwig caught him.
“Help…. Lady….” Mihangel’s words faded off as he lost consciousness.
...
Father Hedda dropped the stout stick the young bandit had left behind. The priest looked at it as if he had expected the club to strike like a snake. The stick slipped through his fingers. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.
"May the good Lord in Heaven, the almighty father forgive me," he said. With a glance at Eadwig, he straightened his shoulders. "How far away can we get tonight?"
“If we ride for another two hours,” the merchant said. “we’ll find the sheriff and can set him on this lot. Let him know that they have Lady Meron as well.”
“The poor woman,” Father Hedda said, a forlorn tone in his voice.
“What should I do with your monk?” Eadwig asked.
“He’s Cymry, not Saxon,” Hedda replied. “He wants to help the poor woman. Perhaps we should leave him here to pursue her when he awakens.”
...
Derog couldn’t help himself. Something inside him had snapped. He was beyond mad at Lord Fadog. Mad that he’d never get to enjoy life with the girl he had chosen. He had to let her go. No not let her… she had been taken. By Fadog and his men. Taken by the Noble Lord of the Land. They always took. Never asked.
These nobles were to blame. It was them always doing the people wrong. They took and took. Never left enough for the common folks. The ones who worked until they dropped, just to feed the lords and ladies.
His heart raced as he pounded after the woman. Her dark hair and dark dress made her hard to follow. But he knew how to track. He’d chased down many an animal. The only way to eat. Catch a doe, and feed the village. Catch a hare and feed yerself.
Over the creek, he leaped. The woman raced ahead of him. Damnation! She was fast. But he was young. Paega had given him food for the last week. His belly was full. He'd catch her. He'd show them nobles. A bit of woman flesh under him, and then he'd be off.
Slow down wench, he wanted to shout. But that'd just make her run faster. He heard splashing ahead. The creek curved back. She must have run down the bank and through the water. He kept running. Then he leaped. He almost made it over the creek bed and onto the other bank.
But he caught a patch of mud.
His foot flew back, and muddy ground rushed up at him. He caught himself with his hands and pushed up to right himself. Then his other foot slipped forward, and he flew back, into the creek.
Damn! That water was cold. At least the bed it ran in was sandy. He’d have drowned for sure if he’d hit a rock and knocked himself silly.
That damned noble whore did this. Curse her. He’d have her flesh. Now it was personal. She had led him this way. He would not have slipped if it weren’t for her flight. All he’d wanted was a bit of a feel. Now it would be more. Much more.
He pulled himself up the bank and listened. In the distance, he heard her thrash through some brush. His ears were good. Just like chasing a wild goat. He'd get her.
He jogged through the forest. With a human like her, he didn’t have to worry about the wind. Human noses weren’t near as good as animal ones. He kept listening then stalking. Stop. Listen. Stalk.
The ground began to slope up. She headed toward the hilltop. If he were lucky, she might find a cave. Dugga had told him the caves in this area were shallow. She might try to hide, but she wouldn't get far. He'd find her.
Ahead, he heard a scrape of leather against rock. Then the swish of fabric. He angled a few steps to his right. A boulder loomed in the darkness. He stepped carefully around it.
The starlight broke through the trees here. He had her now. Behind her, a rock wall.
“Well, well,” Derog breathed into the night. His breath was starting to fog as the night chill settled into the woods.
"What…" she whispered, her arms about her bodice. She hugged herself for protection. It would do no good. "What are you going to do to me?" Her head down, chin to her chest. Her long hair loose and covering her face.
