Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

  “I am no madman, nor do I prey on young girls. I merely came to your aid, Mademoiselle. You offend me by thinking otherwise.”

  “And yet you put a knife to my throat?”

  “I am a cautious man and you incite bad behaviour,” he replied with a smile. “I mean you no harm. You are quite safe.”

  “Well obviously you’re going to say that,” she answered. “You’re not going to sit there and admit to what you’re actually planning.”

  He shrugged. “Then why ask, Mademoiselle, if you do not believe I will reply truthfully?”

  She looked at him, opened her mouth to reply and snapped it shut almost immediately; the realisation of the situation, evident in the scowl that soured her face.

  When he realised she had no answer he smiled and began again. “Where do you really come from, you are not from these parts? I’ve been away for some time but still, I do not recognise the name of your family.”

  She stayed silent, swaying slightly before him, the tincture still present in her system. She had worn herself out with her tantrum. From where he sat he could see how her pupils dilated. He would be lucky to get much more out of her.

  He was playing with her, avoiding her questions with ease, but he realised with growing frustration there would be no quick answers to his own. As with a wounded animal she needed sleep and she wasn’t the only one. None of them were going anywhere while this weather continued, but he was happier knowing she was secure while he himself slept. There was something incongruous about her and he couldn’t decide whether it was just her attitude or something more dangerous. Until he was certain of her identity she remained a threat. He could tie her up, although that seemed excessive given her size. Or he could give her more tincture and try again in the morning.

  He considered his options, recalled her tenacity and well-aimed fist and sought the discarded rope. Reaching out he gripped her wrists in one hand.

  “What are you doing?” she pulled away from him and he yanked her back.

  “What I should have done earlier,” he responded sharply as he deftly secured one end of the rope around her wrists and tied the other to the wooden beam supporting the roof.

  “How dare you,” she twisted wildly, whimpering with the pain in her leg and the frustration at being held captive. “You’ll regret this,” she spat at him.

  “Perhaps.” He withdrew the tincture, and avoiding her kicking feet with a raised hand, he offered it to her. “Do you want to fight the rope or fight the pain?”

  “I want to fight you.”

  His grimy, battled-scarred face broke into a wide grin. “Master the pain tonight and tomorrow I will happily meet the challenge.”

  Grace scowled. “Tomorrow you’ll take me back to Kirk Knowe,” she muttered petulantly. “I demand that you do.”

  He was amused by her belief that she was in a position to demand anything.

  If she was from Kirk Knowe, as she insisted, that would certainly explain the cropped hair and the fact he did not recognise her family. He wasn’t sure about the tattoos or the undergarments, although as he’d never had occasion to look beneath a nun’s habit he couldn’t rule it out.

  Perhaps she was from the chapel of ease, a runaway maybe. He’d heard how strict and frugal convent life was with the nuns at Ladyswell, but to be seconded to the tiny chapel at Ahlborett must surely be some form of punishment. He wondered what misdeed she’d perpetrated. Thought again of the butterflies, he could make a good guess. Or perhaps she’d told the truth all along and had merely wandered off the path. Either way it was good news. The Augustinian convent at Ladyswell was under the protection of the Bishop of Durham and the chapel at Kirk Knowe would surely benefit from the same protection. The bishop would be obliged to pay a substantial ransom for a little lost nun, especially one as odd as this. Things were looking up; Edmund had bagged a prize after all.

  “Yer can’t ransom her,” Edmund cried indignantly when Miles outlined his plan. The girl had succumbed to the sleeping draught and Miles had taken the time to decide exactly what he would do with her.

  “I can and I will,” grinned Miles. “She’ll be worth a tidy sum, and you will remember your place!”

  “But I found her.” His expression betrayed sullen displeasure.

  “True, Edmund, you found her and almost killed her. What do you think she’ll say when you tell her that, eh? You shoot her and steal her dog. It doesn’t show you in the best light, does it?”

  He found it amusing the boy was so smitten. He recalled with some relish the moment when he’d first noticed the fairer sex, but at the end of the day a religious who was bound to the church was no woman in his eyes. Not in the real sense, no matter how tempting. She was however worth something and that was ransom, and he was sorely in need of funds. Nearly two years on Crusade at the behest of the king and he’d barely the clothes he stood up in to show for it. Yes he had land, if he were prepared to fight for it, but land that had been neglected for the last ten years would require considerable investment.

  Miles settled down on his blanket to rest while he had the chance. “Prepare for an early start Edmund. We leave for Wildewood at first light. We need to be safely at the Hall before I send a message to the bishop.”

  The boy kicked stubbornly at the straw, scattering a cloud of dust. “And what if he won’t pay?”

  “He’ll pay.”

  “But if he’ll not, what will yer do?” They both looked at her as she lay peaceful now in her drug induced slumber. Edmund saw her as his angel, conceded Miles, he, however, saw her merely as a good investment.

  “Then I’ll think of something else to do with her.” If she were not a nun then she was surely a spy. Either way she would be worth something to someone. All he had to do was make the deal.

  “But she is not yours, my lord. We must return her to the chapel.” The boy stood before him stubbornly.

  “We must first make sure she survives, Edmund. Then I will decide what is to become of her.”

  The boy tried again. “But, what if the sheriff comes seekin’ her?”

  Miles studied her as she slept. Perhaps the sheriff was already looking for her. She was a strange little thing after all and he supposed if she were his, he would be out looking by now. The sheriff did not concern him; he could be outsmarted if necessary. What concerned him was making the best out of a bad situation and that meant not delivering her anywhere, until a ransom was paid.

  Chapter Six

  Grace woke again to weak sunlight filtering through the heavy, snow-filled sky. It crept valiantly through the tiny window illuminating the dancing dust motes. It was bitterly cold and despite the smoking fire, her breath was tight in her chest. She pulled the cloak around her more snugly and considered her surroundings.

  There was only the boy, Edmund in the room. The building where they’d rested was little more than a shack; a shepherds hut maybe, with unfinished stone walls and a dirt floor. She didn’t recognise it and couldn’t even guess at where she might be. Though Miles said they were high on the Crags, she’d no reason to believe anything he said. They could be far away from her home or merely round the corner, how would she know the truth of it. All she did know was something very strange was going on. She was being held against her will and it was about time she did something about it.

  She felt reasonably clear headed, the pain in her leg bearable and she was determined to end this today. She was Grace Gardner, she was in control. She repeated the mantra silently. She hadn’t gone through the nightmare of the previous year without some measure of courage, and no way was she going to let some scruffy woodsman cart her off to goodness knows where and tell her what to do. She sat up gingerly and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The boy smiled at her.

  “Yer clothes be dry, my lady.” He gestured to the trousers and woollen jumper which lay folded beside her. “I stitched yer hose.” He added with a shy smile and Grace realised that despite the annoying Milady affectation he spoke to her in English with a
rural burr, rather than a French accent. She reached for her clothes. The trousers had indeed been crudely stitched but they were stiff with dried blood and mud.

  “Thank you...Edmund.” Yes, she recalled his name and he seemed pleased that she had. “You’re wearing my hat,” she added with a smile. “It suits you.” Edmund grinned. It was his hat now.

  “You found me in the forest didn’t you? Do you know what’s going to happen to me? Where we’re going? I really do need to get home.”

  Edmund glanced at the door. “Yer should be gettin’ dressed, my lady, and takin’ some refreshment. Yer need to eat before we leave.” She sensed his reluctance to discuss Miles’ plans, as if perhaps he didn’t agree with them. She filed away the knowledge of his uncertainty for future use.

  “Leave for where, Edmund? Where are we going? Are we going back to Kirk Knowe?” Perhaps she’d been worrying unnecessarily. Maybe it had all been a misunderstanding and at this very moment they were preparing to take her straight home. She checked the pockets of her trousers as she spoke. The assorted contents were still there untouched. They hadn’t thought to search her, she smiled to herself. Perhaps they’d regret their oversight.

  “To Wildewood,” he offered eventually, as he began to pack away the cooking utensils and sleeping rolls.

  “Wildewood, where’s that?” The name was unfamiliar despite Miles’ earlier mention of it, but it conjured up images in her mind. A Rapunzelian tower with giant vines and creepers. Her curiosity was piqued; she was no Rapunzel though and she wasn’t going anywhere but back to Kirk Knowe.

  “Tis, Miles’ birthplace. We be takin’ yer home. Please do not worry yerself, my lady. No harm will come to yer.”

  “And if I refuse?” she asked.

  Edmund shrugged. “Miles has decreed it, so yer will go to Wildewood. Yer cannot refuse. Please get dressed, my lady and eat yer fill before he returns.”

  Edmund turned away from her and she dressed quickly in clothes that smelled. In fact as she wrinkled her nose she realised it wasn’t just the clothes that reeked. The odour of stagnant water and sweaty horse clung to her hair and skin. She needed to wash.

  Edmund ladled the last of the previous evenings stew into a wooden bowl and handed her a small knife for eating. She took it from him with shaking hands. She hadn’t eaten since leaving the house with Fly. Her stomach was empty and she continued to feel nauseous, and more than a little apprehensive.

  “What about you, aren’t you hungry?” she enquired of the boy. She wondered why he wasn’t eating; looked at her bowl suspiciously. If they’d wanted to finish her off, they could simply have left her in the forest.

  “I have eaten.”

  “You look hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry,” Edmund said simply. He grinned at her and gestured to the bowl. “Please eat yer fill, Miles will soon return.”

  “Why is he not taking me home? What does he plan to do with me, Edmund?” She picked at the food. Despite her hunger, she had no appetite. The strong taste of the meat and the way it had been boiled within an inch of its life, made her feel queasy. She put down the bowl, slipped the knife into her pocket and ran her fingers through the tangled strands of her short hair picking out blades of straw in a vain attempt to regain some semblance of normality.

  “I will take you to Kirk Knowe eventually.” Miles appeared suddenly in the doorway behind her. Propped casually against the doorframe, he added, “But first, I plan to collect some compensation for my trouble, from the bishop.” He smiled at her, a crooked smile with a glint in his eyes. He looked younger. Less weary; more dangerous.

  “Do not concern yourself, you’ll soon be back in the safety of the convent and I will be a good deal richer. A satisfactory conclusion do you not agree?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Edmund put out the fire. Mademoiselle finish your food now, we must make haste.”

  What was he talking about now? What convent? Which bishop? But there was no time to ask questions. She was swept up by him and manhandled out to the horses. Real horses just as he’d said. Well, he could forget that. The last time she’d allowed herself to be manhandled she’d almost ended up in prison. She dug her heels into the snowy ground.

  “Let me go,” she insisted, as he made to lift her onto the horse.

  “We need to make haste, the weather is set to turn again and we’ve a distance yet to travel.”

  “Do you really expect me to go with you?”

  Did he think she was a fool, had no will of her own? Well perhaps she did have a foolish streak, her behaviour over the previous year had rather proved that, but she also had an iron will.

  He cocked his head quizzically and removed his hands from her waist. “I do.”

  “I’d rather not,” she said, in what she hoped was a self-assured voice, but came out a little less so and rather prim.

  “You do not have the luxury of choice, Mademoiselle,” he replied as he turned and tightened the horse’s girth.

  “You’re a stranger, I don’t know you, I’m certainly not about to wander off into the wilderness with you.” She didn’t appreciate having to address his back either. She resisted the urge to prod him.

  Miles shrugged. “We have introduced ourselves, we are no longer strangers.”

  “Nevertheless, I think I’ll just stay here, someone will find me eventually, someone who’s prepared to take me straight home to Kirk Knowe.” She took a hurried step away, as he turned quickly and she found him a little too close for comfort.

  “You’re already found, I have found you. What more do you want? This is not a well beaten path. There will be no more travellers this winter. If you wait here alone you will perish and no one will benefit from your ransom.” He raised one brow and smiled his crooked smile. “Seems a waste, don’t you agree?”

  She hesitated, reluctant to go with this unknown man, to a destination, far from her home. Similarly, she had no wish to remain alone and injured in this remote place. He was cocky and arrogant, but was he dangerous she wondered, did he mean her harm? He was smiling now, a rather charming smile, but she hesitated nevertheless.

  “I want to go home,” she stated flatly.

  “And I want to go on,” he replied. “I have neither the time nor inclination, to retrace our steps through the storm.”

  “I don’t care what you want.”

  He narrowed his eyes and smiled a little slyly. “A foolish move, Mademoiselle, I would also suggest rather reckless to admit indifference to the wants of your captor. Better by far to feign interest until you are more favourably placed.”

  Grace squared up to him, hands on hips, lips pursed indignantly. “Oh, so now you’re admitting you’re not actually helping me. You’re kidnapping me. Well, you can forget that; it’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you propose to stop me?”

  “I’ll think of something,” she replied haughtily.

  “We need to make haste, you can think on the way.”

  He offered his hand, the skin was tanned, the knuckles scuffed. Had he been fighting, she wondered? Or suffered injury digging the grave of his last victim?

  She felt control of the situation slipping away and couldn’t think of a way to recover it. He was waiting and the horses stamped their hooves impatiently.

  She briefly considered the option of escaping, of evading his outstretched hand and starting to run. But the desolate moor stretched endlessly in all directions and she’d no idea where she was or how to get back. She tried to get her bearings, looked in vain for the unmistakable shape of Simonside, or the more distant Cheviot, but the low cloud obscured her view. Even with two good legs it would have been a foolhardy venture to set out into the unknown in this weather. Incapacitated as she was it was simply ridiculous. Even the short walk to the horses had brought tears to her eyes. She accepted reluctantly that for the time being she was tied by necessity to her battle-scarred captor. Perhaps she was overdramatizing. Maybe when they reached Wildewood, wherever that was, she would be a
ble to get help; someone from the village would no doubt come and get her. Until then she would just bide her time, feign interest as he’d suggested. She could feign interest with the best of them.

  When it became obvious to him that her resistance had crumbled, Miles affected a courteous nod, took her firmly by the waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the front of the saddle.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked as he tied his pack to the horse. He looked up when she failed to answer and for the first time since their initial meeting they looked each other in the eye. “Pardon?” he asked in response to her expression.

  “Quite frankly, I don’t know where to begin,” she said, bewildered and frustrated. “Yes, of course I’m in pain, what do you expect? I have a hole in my thigh, you put it there. However, I’ll manage and when we get to Wildewood, will you tell me what’s really going on?”

  “There is nothing more to tell. I will send a message to the bishop and when he acquiesces to my request you’ll be returned.” He smiled again and his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Think of it as a little adventure, Mademoiselle.”

  An adventure! The man was mad. “But I don’t know the bishop and he doesn’t know me.”

  “No matter,” said Miles, as he swung up behind her and clasped one arm firmly around her tiny waist. “He will not leave one of his little lost nuns in the clutches of a wayward knight. Who knows what might happen.”

  Grace tried to loosen his grip, but he merely tightened it further and she felt the shudder in his body pressed hard against her back. He was laughing, laughing at her. This wasn’t really happening, it couldn’t be. Knights and nuns, what on earth was he talking about?

  It must be a dream. That was the only plausible explanation. She must have bumped her head and at some point when she was good and ready she would wake up, hopefully in her own bed in her own home, but waking up in the forest where she’d fallen, would also be acceptable if need be. Anything would be better than this.

  Trouble was, if this wasn’t a dream then she’d hooked up with a weirdo. So maybe she should hedge her bets and feign away until things worked themselves out. She wanted it to be a dream. It was definitely her preferred option when the alternative reality involved weirdoes who thought they were knights of olde. But it felt real, he felt real and the pain in her leg was very real. She turned her head to look at him.