by B. A. Morton
She lay for a long while, unmoving. Her head pounded. She regretted the mead. How had she allowed herself to end up with a hangover? Pulling herself into a sitting position she wrapped the cloak more tightly around her shoulders. She felt nauseous and dizzy again but tried to ignore it. This was Miles’ fault; he should never have allowed her to drink so much. She was in his care and he was meant to be chivalrous. Some knight he was turning out to be.
Mind over matter, that’s what was needed here. She studied the room, the way the weak sunlight danced with dust motes and illuminated the grimy walls and leaf strewn floor. Casting her eye to the stout planked door, she noted the heavy metal work hinges and latch. She wondered if he had turned the key and what she would do if he hadn’t.
Under the high window lay the wooden chest she noticed the previous day. Rising slowly from the bed, she waited for the room to stop spinning and steadied herself before padding in stocking feet across the planked floor. She wondered absently where her boots had gone and who had removed them. The chest had been carved with the same intricate pattern as the chair in the hall. She ran her fingers gently along its surface and then gripped the edge and lifted the lid.
The smell of lavender caught her by surprise, and reaching inside, she discovered gowns of the finest fabrics stored carefully between layers of linen. The lavender scent emanated from bundles of dried flower heads placed carefully within the layers.
She carefully lifted out the nearest gown and held the garment against her cheek, the scent of lavender was still fresh. Returning to the bed she sat at its centre cross legged, the gown draped across her knees.
This was no dream, these things were real. Miles was flesh and blood, the wound on her leg actually hurt, and the tale Edmund told of the crusades had actually happened. She couldn’t have made it up. She didn’t possess enough historical knowledge for one thing, but there was only one other alternative and Grace was certain that it couldn’t be possible.
Had she really stepped into the woods in 2012 and come out in 1275?
If it were true, she needed to get back immediately. Fear began to whisper down her spine. What if she couldn’t get back? No one would believe her. They’d think she was crazy, or worse, a witch. Perhaps she’d already given too much away. She’d gotten drunk last night and couldn’t remember much other than Miles’ announcement that he was going to sell her to the bishop. She couldn’t let that happen. Bloody hell, did they have the inquisition in the 13th century?
She had to leave before things went terribly wrong. Glancing thoughtfully at the gown again, she began to formulate a plan. Until she could make her escape it was imperative that no one suspected there was anything odd about her. That might prove difficult, she conceded, as she was considered odd by almost everyone she knew.
A commotion outside on the stairs interrupted her thoughts and she hurriedly covered the gown with the cloak. The door burst open, without so much as a knock, and in through the doorway bustled a rotund woman trailing a buxom young girl behind her. Both were carrying large ewers. Behind them in comic cavalcade came an elderly man with a grey beard and hooked nose and a man of similar age to the woman, wearing a patch over one eye. Between them they carried a large wooden tub, and as they held it upside down and over their heads, they had bumped their way up the stairs and through her door unable to see where they were going. Edmund followed with a slightly sheepish expression and a further ewer. Straggling behind at the end of the procession was, Fly, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
The woman set down her burden and clapped her hands together sharply.
“Get a move on yer want-wits. The mistress is askin’ fer her bath and there’s not enough water here to bathe a babe.” The entourage deposited the tub in front of the fire and the ewers were emptied into it, with much splashing and sloshing. With the task complete, they scurried from the room.
“My name is Martha, mistress,” said the woman who tipped a nod at Grace. Grace gazed open-mouthed. This was definitely not an invention. The dog jumped onto the bed alongside her and she drew him close.
“We all returned, yer see, when we heard Sir Miles was back.”
Sir Miles? “Returned?”
“I’m the cook, housekeeper and nurse to Sir Miles when he was a babe and now I’m back and I’ll look after yer, mistress. Just you tell me what ye need. The boy Edmund tells me you’ve had a run of bad luck, but you’ll be just fine here, don’t yer worry. Me and my husband Tom Pandy, that’s him with the one eye - he lost it in a fight over his name, daft lummock, but that’s another story…” She drew a breath. “Me and Tom will put this place to rights, just ye wait and see, and my granddaughter Belle, she’s a good girl, mistress. She’ll make a fine ladies maid.”
Grace, was about to introduce herself when the cavalcade reappeared all carrying extra ewers of hot water which they added to the tub.
“One more round should do it,” announced Martha and she shooed the others out of the chamber.
“Where is Miles?” Grace asked.
“Well, if he’s got any sense, mistress, he’ll be cleaning himself up, same as ye.” She lowered her voice. “Though between ye and me, I’d say he looked slightly worse for wear when I seen him this mornin’.”
Grace smiled. So she wasn’t the only one with a thick head. She decided she liked this woman and her indiscretion. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Thank you for organising my bath.”
“Martha, mistress, call me Martha, that’s me name.” She giggled and her whole body rippled rather alarmingly. Grace bit the inside of her mouth to prevent her own laughter.
“Well, Martha, in that case, you must call me Grace.”
“No me dear, that would never do,” Martha exclaimed. The water carriers were back and she ushered them about their business. “Do yer need me help, mistress?” she asked when the others had finally gone.
“No thank you, Martha.” She was certainly capable of bathing herself. “Please close the door on your way out.”
She waited until she could no longer hear them before crossing to the tub and testing the water with her fingers. It was deliciously hot. She ran to the chest and took out one of the lavender bundles - she was sure whoever they belonged to could spare one - then she stripped off her filthy clothes and stepped into the tub.
Her leg was surprisingly pain-free in the water, though the wound was not pretty and Grace hoped the scar would fade as it healed. She twisted her leg as best she could to see the wound at the back and acknowledged begrudgingly that Miles had indeed saved her life. If he had not brought her with him, she would have died.
By then, she realised, she was already on the other side of whatever strange gateway she had passed through and no one from her life would have been able to find her. She had to get back as soon as possible.
Finally clean, she picked up the russet gown and debated whether she should dare borrow it. It was either that or spend the entire day clothed in the sheet. She made a decision and slipped the gown over her head. It felt soft and gentle against her bare skin. She was surprised that it fitted and relieved at its length, as she couldn’t risk a gust of wind revealing that she had found no underclothes in the chest.
There was no mirror in the room so she smoothed down her hair again and looked about for her boots. She couldn’t run around barefoot in a freezing castle. She found them under the bed. Perhaps she’d kicked them off in the night or maybe Miles had removed them when he’d put her to bed?
Tucking Fly under one arm, she descended to the great hall carefully, conscious her leg was not fully healed and the stairs had no hand rail. Concentrating entirely on where she placed her feet, she didn’t notice until she’d reached the ground floor that the hall was occupied. Miles sat at the table in front of the fire, deep in discussion with a tall, thin man with a shock of red hair, who was folded uncomfortably into a chair that was far too small for his frame. She was minded of a stick insect she’d kept as a pet as a child. At his feet a small boy with sall
ow skin and tight dark curls played happily with a carved wooden animal. Martha was correct - Miles had cleaned up. He’d also changed his clothes. Watching him, Grace thought he looked every bit the feudal lord and just a little tempting.
As she paused at the bottom of the stairs, the little boy looked up. His eyes sparkled when he spotted Fly, who wagged his tail furiously in welcome. Drawing the child’s attention, she lowered Fly to the floor and beckoned him over. He ducked his head, giggling, as Fly tried to lick his face. Taking his hand she walked him back across the room to where the two men sat.
* * *
Miles watched her progress across the room, freshly scrubbed and pink-cheeked. Was this really the scrawny scrap he’d pulled from the woodland bog? To say she was beautiful was not entirely true. He’d known many beautiful women and, in fact, that was entirely the wrong word to describe her.
No, she wasn’t a standard beauty. Her hair, though the colour of spun gold and fine as a babe’s, was streaked with a peculiar shade of pink. Perhaps she’d unwisely strayed next to the dyers vat. It was worn far too short and had a mind of its own, sticking up where it shouldn’t. In fact she was altogether too short with a quirky stubborn look, no acquiescence there, no willing compliance. And yet the gown, though a little long, fitted her body in all the right places, the colour brought out the golden streaks in her hair, and played down the pink, and despite the unlikely pairing of beautiful gown and muddy boots, she looked just right.
Miles swallowed and the giant who sat next to him said something which caused Miles to smile and shake his head in denial. He rose and stepped around the table to take Grace’s hand which he brought to his lips. Grace tried to pull her hand back but he simply smiled and breathed against her skin so his companion could not hear.
“Humour me. I’m bewitched by your transformation, my lady.” He held her at arm’s length and turned her round. “You transform particularly well.”
Grace smiled sweetly. “As do you, my liege.”
Miles narrowed his eyes, immediately alert. There was something different about her other than her attire. Was she up to something? Was he to withstand another of her outbursts? Was the ransom really worth the effort?
“Let me introduce you to a good friend of mine, John the Mason. John is a master of the stone and has agreed to help me renovate the estate.” He gestured to the child. “This is Linus Meek, his son.”
“Meek?”
“Meek and mild,” offered Miles by way of explanation.
Grace turned her attention from the tiny child to his father and smiled warmly at the man who now rose before her.
“My lady, I am pleased to be at your service. Linus will be honoured to know you.”
“I’m very glad to meet you and your son, John. He’s a delightful child.” She ruffled the boy’s curls and he smiled shyly and gripped his father’s leg. “Edmund will also be delighted to meet you. His father was a mason too. He worked on Lincoln Cathedral. I’m sure he’d love to talk to you.”
“Of course, my lady.” The huge man tipped his head again. “I will speak with the lad.”
“I hope I’ve the chance to speak with you again before I leave,” continued Grace.
“You’re leaving?” He glanced at Miles questioningly.
“Just as soon as Miles arranges it.”
Miles interceded smoothly. “John, thank you for coming. We’ll speak later. If you take Linus to the kitchen, Martha will get you both something to eat and arrange lodgings. Thomas of Blackmore should be with us in a matter of days and then we shall begin.” He shook the man’s huge hand and the giant hoisted the child on to his broad shoulder. “It has been a long time in the planning, John. I’m sure you’re as anxious as I am to see this through.”
“Cautious is the word I would use, my lord,” replied the giant and with a nod to Grace he took his leave.
Miles returned his attention to Grace and considered her once more. “A word, if you please,” he said and Grace smiled sweetly. “For your own safety please do not discuss with others the circumstances of your stay here.”
“You mean the fact you kidnapped me and are holding me for ransom?”
“I did not kidnap you, I rescued you.”
“Okay, you rescued me, then you kidnapped me and now you’re holding me to ransom, yes?”
He sighed; she was off again.
“Why should I not discuss it? Why is it a secret? Are you worried your reputation will be damaged?” She faced him, hands on hips.
The size of her, squaring up to him. He had the urge to wrap his hands around her throat just to silence her noise. He kept his hands by his sides with considerable effort.
“No, I’m concerned, however, that yours might suffer. You will be here for some time before we get a message to the bishop and an answer back. It’s safer for you if people think you are under my protection.”
“Under your protection? What does that mean? That no one will think to steal me out from under your nose and sell me to the highest bidder?”
Miles sighed impatiently as if she were a small child, slow on the uptake. “There are those who would like nothing better than to thwart any plans I may have to reclaim this demesne. They would think nothing of using you to get at me.”
“I see,” said Grace slowly. “So they would use me?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“And is that not what you’re doing?”
Miles cursed under his breath. She was correct, he was using her, but she had no idea of the danger she would be in if she got in to the wrong hands.
“I suppose it depends on your definition of the word ‘use’. I will not hurt you. I’ve already told you that. But others would not be so honourable. Just remember the sheriff and his bodies. Let people believe that you are with me until we decide otherwise.”
“With you?” She took a step back and Miles shook his head with exasperation.
“Mademoiselle, you flatter yourself. I admit you look surprisingly tempting this morning and you smell particularly fragrant. Under any other circumstances I could think of far more satisfying things to do with you than argue, but you have the tongue of a harpy. I am worn out with you already.”
“Then let me go home. I’ll take the pony and be gone before anyone has the chance to use me.”
“The pony is lame, do you not remember?”
“Then I’ll borrow your horse or you could just take me back yourself.” She tried her most winning smile.
He took her face firmly between his palms and looked her directly in the eyes. “No, Grace and that’s an end to it.”
“Edmund has told me all about you,” she continued. “Yes, about the bad things you do.”
“Has he indeed?”
He turned on his heels and left her before she could respond and force him to show her the full extent of his badness. She was not going to be an easy captive. She had bewitched Edmund already, and if she continued to charm those in the household, how could he be sure they would keep her safe in the grounds? Only Edmund knew of his purpose for her. He needed to maintain a constant watch if he were to prevent her leaving Wildewood. Unfortunately he had far more important things to do.
Chapter Fourteen
Retracing her steps to her room, Grace crossed to the door in the corner. Instead of the expected cupboard she found a steep set of stone stairs leading both up and down. She wondered where they led. Her curiosity took her upwards.
The stairs were narrow, dark and wound in a tight spiral. She counted the steps and after twenty-two had been trodden and her leg was about to give out, she found a door set in the inner wall. She felt in the dark and found the latch. The door opened with a creak of neglected hinges. The room beyond was surprisingly large, though smaller than her own, and took up the entire floor of the tower in which it was situated. It was furnished simply with a large bed, writing table, and a chair aside a small fireplace. On the back of the door hung a cloak she recognised. This was Miles’ room.
There were three windows, one set on each of the walls not containing the chimney. They allowed sunlight to warm the room. She crossed to the bed and ran her fingers gently across the linen, wrinkled where he had slept. She lingered at the writing table where a parchment map was laid open to view. Perhaps this could help in her escape. The chart showed Wildewood and its surroundings, but she recognised nothing. The text was French and the lettering far too ornate to read. She guessed the river must be the Coquet, but as there were no roads drawn she could make no real sense of where she was. She remembered what Edmund had said about the view from the top of the tower. If she could see Scotland in one direction maybe she could work out where she was by the topography - surely that couldn’t have changed.
Leaving the room, she closed the door behind her and proceeded up the steps to a smaller door opening out onto the roof of the tower. Although fearful of heights, she had to look. Carefully she made her way to the parapet and surveyed the view. Edmund had been correct - the panorama was indeed magical - and by ensuring she didn’t look straight down, she was able to enjoy it without fear. On three sides woods stretched for miles, and beyond them lofty crags taller than the one on which Wildewood was built. To the side where they’d entered the day before, parkland was bounded by a much thinner belt of woods. Beyond that lay the snow-covered moorland they’d crossed with care. Realistically there was only one way in or out. They’d travelled towards the setting sun, so to return she must keep travelling east. There were no other landmarks to be seen.
Could she do that, she wondered, as she left the roof and descended the stairs. Would she have the nerve to set out on her own and cross those moors alone? She’d laughed at the thought of horse-eating bogs, but Miles was correct, the moors were dangerous.
She followed the stairs to the bottom and found a small door which was locked, much to her annoyance. No matter, she thought, as she climbed back up to her own room. She’d have plenty time to discover the secrets of Wildewood. Her leg protested and she rested a while, sitting on her bed. If she were to escape she would have to plan carefully. It had taken them two full days to get here, partly due to the bad weather, but Miles also knew where he was going. It would take her much longer, so she would need warm clothes, supplies and a pony. She also needed to be fully fit if she was on her own at the mercy of the weather.
