Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

  She tried a different tack. “Look, I’m sorry about your family, I guess you were expecting this place to look better, but it won’t take much to clean it up. Don’t be disheartened.”

  “Why do you care about this?” He gestured with a sweep of his arm to the dishevelled hall. “I’m holding you against your will, I’m going to sell your hide for ransom, and yet...”

  Grace shrugged. “You took care of me. I suppose if you hadn’t I would be lying dead in the bog. I should be grateful, although I’ve no doubt you and your bow probably put me in the bog in the first place, but hey, I think I can do a bit of tidying up for you in return. So, are you going to show me the upstairs? I could do with some privacy.”

  He took her arm and she clung onto his soft woollen sleeve as they mounted the stairs. It was difficult, with only one good leg, trying to climb stone steps which were much steeper than she was used to. He slowed to her pace. He could have carried her more easily. She half-expected him to sweep her up impatiently but he seemed happy to let her be the martyr, and of course she would. She would not ask for his help.

  There were two large rooms upstairs connected by a narrow passageway. It appeared that it had been created at a later date, perhaps in deference to the lady of the house and her desire for privacy. Grace considered that given the choice, she too, would not wish to share her accommodation within scent of beasts housed in the byre beneath the main hall. Along its length a series of small arched windows looked out over the courtyard. At the end of the passage a leaded bay window overlooked a walled garden. The first room they entered was gloomy and cold and Miles set about making a fire in the small stone fireplace. Grace noted how easily he struck the flint to create the flame, knew she would never have managed without the matches.

  He turned to assess her slowly, seemed about to begin a conversation before giving a slight dismissive shrug. “Stay here until I’ve inspected the remainder of the property.”

  Unable to descend the stairs without help, Grace had no alternative other than to stay put. She did just that; not because he’d told her to, but simply because she had seen enough.

  It was time to work out what had happened.

  The room contained a large wooden bed with dusty drapes and a carved wooden chest under a window set so high in the wall that Grace would have had to climb on the chest to look out. She stripped the grubby linen off the bed and laid the cloak which Miles had wrapped around her on their journey, over the lumpy mattress. She needed to heat some water, and she needed a bath. She needed many things but top of the list was the need to get home. She lay down on the bed, worn out with the journey and the never ending confusion. Perhaps she would close her eyes just for a short while. Once refreshed everything might become clear.

  She dreamt of the exhibition, her first, and of Will who helped organise it. Wonderful Will who had been so helpful, so encouraging, filled with belief in her talent. A rare find, he’d called her, a natural artist on a par with the early ecclesiastical painters. He’d made her feel like a star and she’d revelled in it. How easily she’d been seduced by this talk of greatness, of being special, unique and how easily he persuaded her to show how her talent compared against those great works. How easily that work would sell, he convinced her. It was her duty really, not everyone could afford something as rare as a medieval image, but hers were so convincing they would be a welcome substitute.

  Not a forgery, never a forgery, she would never have agreed to that. Her work was her own. But the authorities were not quite so understanding and with her unique portrait of Edward Longshanks, identical in every brush stroke to the original, she was left with no defence. She’d chosen the one painting that stood alone from the usual flat two dimensional works of the period. She’d chosen a painting that at the time of its creation would have appeared scandalous, heretic even. It had called to her in the strangest of ways and the image of the man beneath the crown, the father and husband, had empowered her to produce her greatest work with uncanny ease. Her career in the art world was shattered along with her trust in mankind. She had seen the smug look on Will’s face when he’d left her to face the music. She’d crawled back to the home that had been hers since the death of her parents and grandparents. And she’d lived in that empty house, just her, the dog and a handful of chickens, until Fly had brought her here.

  Chapter Twelve

  She woke with a start, her cheeks wet with tears. The room was in near darkness with only the meagre firelight and one small candle struggling to illuminate the shadows. She watched the flickering light dance on the stone walls and took a moment to work out where she was. How strange this was, when she slept she dreamt of the real world and when she woke she was living a dream. Perhaps this was the real world after all? Maybe everything that had happened to ruin her life was merely a nightmare and she had finally woken from it.

  She became aware of Edmund hovering at the open door and realised she’d been woken by knocking.

  “My lady, we have food ready for yer to eat in the hall. May I escort yer?”

  Grace swung her feet carefully off the bed and tested her leg gingerly. She was cold and starving and would have hopped down the stairs on one leg if necessary. “Thank you, Edmund, I could eat a horse!”

  Someone had been busy in the hall Grace noted as she carefully descended the stairs, one hand securely gripping Edmund’s surprisingly strong arm. It had been swept of the foul smelling straw and the table was lit with candles and set with bowls and a large dish of roasted meat. The fire was well alight and stacked with logs which burned far better and gave out more heat than the broken furniture of her earlier effort. The hall looked more welcoming than when she’d first seen it. A scent of pine logs and wood smoke filled the air, it reminded her of village winters when the fires were lit as soon as the sun’s meagre warmth began to wain. She immediately felt homesick.

  Miles rose from his seat at the table as she approached, pulling out a chair for her to sit. She avoided eye contact with him. His attempt at civility left her feeling awkward, as if they hadn’t just spent the last two days in varying degrees of hostility. She took her seat hesitantly. She felt grubby, her hair hung in greasy strands and she was aware of an unpleasant pungency. She would never have sat down to eat in such a state if she were at home. She would have bathed in a bubble bath up to her chin, then dressed in pyjamas and snuggled up with Fly on the sofa in front of the fire.

  She cleared her throat. “I need to bathe, is that possible?”

  Miles indicated with a slight nod of his head, a bowl of clean water and a cloth next to her on the table and Grace raised one brow questioningly.

  “I was hoping for something a little larger?”

  “For your hands, Mademoiselle,” replied Miles as he appraised her lazily. She wished he would stop. She wasn’t vain by any stretch of the imagination, but she was a woman and bedraggled to say the least. “I’ll bring something more adequate to your chamber later,” he added slyly.

  She shot him an appraising look of her own. Two could play at that game, and quite frankly both he and the boy fairly reeked.

  “Thank you. Don’t forget to keep some hot water for yourself. You know what they say: cleanliness is next to Godliness.” He narrowed his eyes and she realised with a sickening jolt that maybe it wasn’t wise to poke a stick at the tiger. “You don’t need to carry water upstairs, down here will do,” offered Grace in an attempt to recover some ground. “Just find me a tub and I’ll happily splash in it.” His grin widened and she marvelled at her own capacity for digging a hole and jumping in headfirst.

  Miles glanced at Edmund who was paying far too much attention, his eyes flicking from one to the other as he followed the conversation.

  “An interesting thought, Mademoiselle, however I would venture your chamber to be a more appropriate venue. He turned back to the boy. “Did you hear that, Edmund? We offend this fine lady with our stink.” His smirk widened as Grace reddened awkwardly. That hole was getting dee
per.

  “That isn’t what I said. I simply meant we’d all feel refreshed and fragrant after our long journey.”

  “And fragrant skin is naturally more appealing?” The amusement was clear now as he cocked his head and led her on, a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  “Yes, I would agree, Mademoiselle. When I lower my head, skim my lips across a woman’s flesh and breathe the scent of freshly washed, pink and glowing skin, fragrance definitely encourages a...positive response.”

  She gaped at him, prepared to fling herself headlong into the bottomless pit she’d created. The arrogant twitch of his scarred brow saved her just in time and pulled her back from the abyss.

  “So, as I was saying, yes, you stink and you’ve as much chance of a positive response as you have of securing a ransom.”

  Miles sat back with a snort of laughter, and Grace rinsed her grubby hands in the warm water and tried to ignore him.

  “You think I won’t secure a ransom?” he asked.

  “I know you won’t.”

  “And why are you so certain?”

  “Because, I’m not who you think I am.”

  “Indeed.” He sobered and studied her across the table. “Perhaps we should have a wager.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t.”

  “Afraid you’ll lose?”

  Grace looked up at him then, and fixed him with narrowed eyes. “No, afraid you’ll cheat.”

  He spread his arms wide, gave a self-depreciating shrug “I’m a knight of the realm, you can trust me.”

  “If you’re so chivalrous, why didn’t you take me straight home when I asked?”

  “I didn’t say I was chivalrous. I said I was trustworthy. If I say that I’ll do something, then you can wager your life I will.”

  “And what are you going to do with me?”

  He smiled and she caught the hint of something as it flashed in his eyes.

  “Sell you to the highest bidder of course. I reckon you’ll be worth a purse or two, fragrant or not. But in the meantime” he raised a cup in her direction, “I forget my manners, would you care for a little mead?” he asked. “It’s been maturing during my absence. It may be a little strong for your tender palate.”

  Grace took the proffered wooden cup and against her better judgement, took a sip. It was strong and she was not much of a drinker but there was challenge in Miles’ eye so she took another larger swallow and passed the mug back.

  “Did you rest well?” he asked, as if he knew she had not. Grace wondered if he’d come to her room while she’d relived her nightmare.

  “Not really,” Grace replied truthfully, “I was dreaming of another place.” She dried her hands on the square of cloth and helped herself to the food on the table filling her plate with as much as she could take without appearing greedy. The meat was identifiable only as a fowl of some sort, possibly pigeon by its size and there were a number on the platter. She glanced at Edmund who had taken a whole bird and followed suit. The nausea which had plagued her had finally lifted and it left her with a painful, empty stomach which she needed to fill. In the absence of cutlery she was unwilling to produce Edmund’s knife from her pocket, so she picked at the meat and vegetables daintily with her fingers and licked the thin gravy from her fingers. Miles settled back in his seat and watched her.

  “Another place, Kirk Knowe?” he asked as he passed the mug back and Grace wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took another sip between bites.

  “No. Just somewhere with bad memories,” She wondered what Miles would make of the truth, if she ever got around to telling it. She chewed slowly and gazed into the fire. She was warm for the first time in days and there was something about an open fire that was comforting. Despite having just woken she was still weary and stifled a yawn.

  “Was your father the gardener at Kirk Knowe?” asked Miles, taking the mug back from Grace and filling it from a pewter jug before taking his fill.

  She reluctantly drew her gaze from the flames. Of course he had assumed her father’s trade, because her name was Gardner.

  “No my father was a teacher. He taught music at an academy in London. He was a talented violinist, you know, fiddler?” She mimed the action of fiddle and bow and ignored his blank look.“ He played in concerts. My mother was an artist a free spirit, rather like me really.” She thought of them wistfully, hadn’t really thought of them for some time. They had been gone so long and her memories were those of a child. She pulled at her fringe and twisted the ends between her fingers. It had been one of her childhood habits. Her mother had scolded her, warned her she would wake up one morning with no hair if she continued.

  Miles studied her and poured another drink. “Why did they give you to the church? Surely you would have made a good marriage match, or did they have one too many daughters?” The mead was loosening her tongue, and he pressed another into her hand.

  Grace smiled. She would have to put him straight. The whole situation was getting far too bizarre and the mead didn’t help. She enjoyed it a little too much. Perhaps if she just came out and told him the truth they could sort out the mess she’d found herself in. Of course telling the truth wasn’t the issue - having him believe it would be the problem...a time portal, a doorway, a passage to the past? She didn’t quite believe it herself.

  “No, they had only one child, although I always wanted a little brother.” She glanced wistfully at Edmund. “They were killed in a fire at a concert hall when I was ten and I was brought up by my grandparents at Kirk Knowe.” She paused to look at him. “I don’t know who or what you think I am, but I’m certainly not a nun. No one is going to pay ransom for me. In fact there is no one here who would even care whether I exist or not. You may as well take me back to where you found me and let me go. I’m not worth anything to you.” Or anyone else she added silently, and wasn’t that the truth.

  If she was expecting some blinding flash or whirlwind which would miraculously catapult her back to where she’d come from, she was disappointed. Neither did she find herself back in the forest with a bump on the head, or waking up in her own bed in her cottage. She was still in the great hall sat at the wooden table in front of the fire with Miles at one end and a slumbering Edmund at the other.

  Miles took back the mug. She had recklessly drained the contents and he filled it once more. The mead was having an effect on him too. She could see it in his eyes; that mellow self-contentment and just a hint of wickedness. Perhaps her revelations had not come as an entire surprise, she did not behave as nun should, but if he accepted she were not a lost nun, then he must be wondering at her real identity. She watched as he toyed with his knife, slowly running his finger and thumb up and down the flat of the blade.

  “So no one knows where you are and there is no one to care if they did. One must assume therefore that there is also no one to object if I decide to forgo the ransom and keep you for myself.” He leaned towards her. “Or slit your throat and be done with you here and now.” He blinked slowly and watched her.

  “What!”

  “Then again” he added with a slow smile, “you’re not worth anything dead.”

  “Thank you, that’s reassuring.” She wasn’t convinced. He had unnerved her, again. She took another drink and tried to consider her options, which was increasingly difficult as her options were limited and her ability to consider them impeded by the mead. She twiddled with her hair and attempted to concentrate her thoughts.

  “There is more to you than meets the eye, I’ll give you that.” said Miles. “You may not think you’re worth anything alive or dead, but fate crossed our paths and I’m a great believer in fate. I think you’ll be worth a great deal to me, so no, I’m afraid you will not be returned to Kirk Knowe immediately. We will await the bishop’s decision. If I am to believe the account of your father, then he will be known by many and your value will be even greater.”

  Grace shook her head. What on earth was she meant to do, to m
ake all this go away? She drew a large breath. “But what about what I want? Why does no one care what I want? You can’t just sell me. I’m a person - I have rights!” she declared as she struggled to rise from her seat. She’d had enough of his company. She was going to bed. She would worry about her rights and how to enforce them in the morning.

  Miles caught her arm and steadied her. “That was perhaps a little reckless, my lady.” he observed calmly as she swayed a little in his arms.

  “I’m not a Lady,” she hiccupped.

  “Indeed.”

  “Don’t you approve of women who speak their mind?” she tried to wriggle free and he restrained her with ease.

  He shrugged. “You may speak as you see fit, Mademoiselle, however drinking to excess when you’re patently not used to it, I would not recommend.”

  Grace pushed at his chest and with each prod she would have toppled if he hadn’t held her fast. “Oh yes, well how on earth would I be used to ten year old mead when where I come from people don’t drink mead, they drink ....” she struggled to string her words together, “cocktails? They’re fun. Not that I can drink many of those either.” She hiccupped and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle with a hand over her mouth.

  “And where do you come from, Grace?” asked Miles, amusement playing around his mouth.

  “Well, Mr Miles de Know-it-all, that’s for me to know and you to find out!”

  “Are you throwing down a challenge, my lady?”

  Grace hiccupped again. “Of course, but you’ll never win.” She slid back onto her seat, her head dropped to the table with a thud and Miles reached over her prone body and refilled the mug.

  “One thing you should know, Mademoiselle, is that I never lose.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grace didn’t wake until morning and discovered someone had carried her to bed. She still wore her stinking clothes and the fire still flickered in the grate, though the room felt far from warm.