Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Who was she kidding? Certainly not herself. She could never be friends with this man. She was friends with John and Laura from the village, and had been friends with Meg and Vera, her old teachers in the arts of healing. But Garrick was different. She didn’t have friendly feelings toward him—she longed for him, dreamed of his kiss, felt her stomach flip every time she saw him or drew near to his large, muscular frame.

  “I don’t want to be your friend, lass,” he said quietly.

  Her heart jumped at his words, for his meaning was apparent. Could he feel the same way that she did?

  But then he went on. “But…I have to go. I am duty- and honor-bound to return to my home and take up the work I was born to do.” A dark shadow settled over his face, and for some reason, he seemed to be speaking about more than his job as a blacksmith, but Jossalyn didn’t know why. All she could do was nod, for she didn’t trust her voice not to break.

  Ever so gently, he took her hand into his much larger one and raised it slowly to his lips. He placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand, and it felt like a hot brand.

  She couldn’t take it. She was going to crack to pieces right here if she had to say goodbye to him like this. Without thinking, she pulled her hand free of his grasp and away from his lips, then turned, and ran back up the alley. She no longer cared that tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

  Garrick watched her go with a stone wedged in his chest. His feet longed to give chase, but his head kept him rooted in place. This was how it had to be. She was just one lass, and he had a job to do. What did the feelings of two people matter when it came to the fate of an entire nation?

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get the image of Jossalyn’s emerald-green eyes, which had shimmered with tears, out of his head. He had a feeling no matter how many times he rubbed his face, the lass would stay with him long after this war was decided once and for all.

  Forcing himself to turn back to the smithy, he caught Burke watching him from the doorway. His cousin didn’t bother offering condolences or try to lighten the mood. Instead, he gave him a slight but resolute nod, waiting for Garrick’s word.

  “Let us prepare. We move tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  It would have to be tonight, then, Jossalyn thought as she opened the wooden door to her armoire. She had indulged in enough tears throughout the late afternoon and evening, bolting her chamber door and refusing to join the rest of the castle in the evening meal. Now, it was time to clear her head and make a plan.

  She had already decided to escape Dunbraes sometime in the near future, but she hadn’t anticipated that it would be quite so soon. But she couldn’t deny that this was as good a time as any—better, probably, since her brother was still away and Gordon hadn’t fully recovered yet from her dose of laxative tea. She wouldn’t be watched from the castle. The only problem that had remained was how to put enough distance between herself and Dunbraes so that she wouldn’t be traceable.

  Garrick and Burke provided the solution, but she had to move—now. They were heading north, far enough that it would take at least a full day’s worth of travelling, if she remembered their vague comments about their village right. And they had a large wagon with a loose canvas covering to protect their minimal personal effects.

  Now, the only thing she needed to do was pack, sneak back out of the castle, find their wagon, stow away inside of it, and spend the long night ahead bumping and jostling toward freedom. It would be easy enough…wouldn’t it?

  When she ran through all the steps mentally, and all the things that would have to go right, she nearly gave up. If anyone in the castle, especially Gordon, spotted her leaving, they would send several guards after her—for “protection,” they would say.

  And what if Garrick and Burke had removed their canvas covering or filled the wagon with supplies? Or what if they discovered her before she could surreptitiously slip from the wagon as they passed through one of the many small towns to the north? Would they be angry with her? Would Garrick think she was crazy? What if he thought she was thrusting herself on him, despite the fact that he had made it clear that he was leaving and they would likely never see each other again?

  This last worry sent ice into her stomach. She was using him, yes, but only as a means to secure her own freedom. She didn’t expect anything from him. She was leaving of her own free will and with her own goals in mind, not to chase after him or force herself into his life. That was why she had decided that she would slip from the wagon before they reached their home village. She would start from scratch on her own, not latch onto him in hopes that he would save her.

  She pushed away the lingering feel of his large, warm hand engulfing hers. Yes, she could admit to herself she wanted to be with him. But forcing herself on him was no way to start a life together. Perhaps someday, if she could ever be truly free of her brother and her past as an English lady of Dunbraes, she would be able to find him again, to start fresh, to meet on equal ground.

  For now, though, she had to focus on her life—without him. She needed to be a healer, and to have control over her life. If she could somehow manage to find happiness with a man—she wouldn’t let herself think of only Garrick—then all the better.

  Despite the stretch of warm summer days of late, Jossalyn pulled out her thickest winter cloak from the back of the armoire. There was no telling what kind of conditions she might face in the coming weeks and months, and besides, it would help if she had to sleep on the ground. She found a satchel near the back as well and stuffed another chemise and dress inside, along with a few other small items.

  She turned to her herb basket. This part of packing was more difficult. She would have to leave many of her supplies and plants, but she could always gather more. She could take only the rarer items from her basket, leaving things like blackberry leaves and dandelions, knowing she could find them again easily.

  When her satchel was nearly full, she forced herself to sit on the edge of her bed and wait. She would need to go through the kitchen for at least a few scraps of food to take with her, but it would still be bustling from the cleanup of the evening meal. The sun was approaching the horizon, though. She would likely have a small window when the kitchen would be quieter but enough residual light remained in the sky for her to find Garrick and Burke’s wagon.

  When the sun had finally sunk below the horizon and the air began to turn pale blue, she eased her chamber door open and slipped through the stairwells and corridors to the kitchen. Just as she had hoped, the kitchen was now quiet and empty. She moved on silent, slippered feet toward one of the pantries and rummaged in the dim light until she found a few apples, a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and several slabs of dried meat. She wrapped them all in a kerchief and stuffed them into her satchel, along with a half-full waterskin.

  Now came the hard part. She would have to somehow slip from the castle without been seen or questioned. Luckily, the portcullis tended to stay open on these long summer evenings, allowing villagers to sell their wares to the castle’s inhabitants. She held her breath as she approached the castle yard, praying to see the portcullis up and enough traffic moving in and out to provide her cover.

  As the entrance came into view, she exhaled raggedly. It was open. But it looked like the guards atop the curtain wall were just getting ready to close it. The lingering villagers in the yard were making their way toward the castle’s entrance, some pulling donkeys or carrying baskets as they made their way home.

  Jossalyn surreptitiously pulled up the hood of her cloak despite the balmy evening air. Keeping her head down, she forced her feet to move at the wearied pace at which the other villagers were ambling toward the entrance. Altering her path slightly, she angled herself to the far side of a group of three villagers with a mule in tow.

  “Have you seen Lady Jossalyn pass through to the village?”

  Jossalyn’s heart nearly exploded at the sound of Gordon’s voice talking with one of the guards on the curtain
wall overhead. She was nearly through the portcullis and almost bolted as if just being on the other side of the spiked grate would somehow make her safe from detection.

  “She returned several hours ago. The lady is likely in her chamber,” the guard replied.

  “I knocked, but she didn’t answer. Warren will have my bollocks if he hears that she was in the village while he was away,” Gordon grumbled. “You’re sure she came back?”

  “Of course I’m sure. That tasty little morsel’s not easy to miss, or forget.” The men shared a knowing laugh.

  Jossalyn swallowed the bile in her throat. It was no surprise that the met-at-arms of Dunbraes Castle would speak of their mistress in such a foul way. They all saw how her brother treated her—like nothing, like a mat on which to wipe his boots. Why wouldn’t they do the same?

  “I’ll check on her in the morning. The little minx is likely counting her dresses or organizing her ribbons or some such bullshite. But what’s this about your adventures with Lucy in the stables the other night? One of the lads told me…”

  Jossalyn didn’t catch the rest, for she was through the portcullis and beyond the thick curtain walls now. Forever.

  She wove her way through the last few clumps of villagers on the road from the castle to the village, and then ducked down one of the dark alleys. She kept the hood of her cloak up, though, fearing the light of the nearly-full moon would reflect off her pale hair.

  Just as she was about to turn the last corner before the main road in front of the smithy, she heard deep male voices and skidded to a halt. It was Garrick and Burke, talking quietly in front of the smithy. Her heart leapt at the sound of Garrick’s voice, barely audible even though she was mere yards away from the two men.

  “…with the rest of it in the wagon. We needn’t tell John anything.”

  Burke didn’t respond, but then she heard a rustling even closer to her and realized he had walked to the wagon, which was just around the corner on Jossalyn’s side of the road. She heard him toss something into the wagon, and then caught the sound of rustling canvas as he covered the wagon’s contents. Straining, she thought she could hear him walk back to the smithy, but she couldn’t be sure, for both men moved unusually quietly.

  She took a deep breath to brace herself. She couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to act.

  As quick as she could, she darted her head around the corner and back behind it again, but in the fraction of a second of sight she had given herself, the street had been quiet and empty. Neither Burke nor Garrick was in sight in front of the smithy. They must be inside. Taking another fortifying breath, she eased herself around the corner.

  Blessedly, the wagon was mere feet from where she had been hiding. She darted behind it, squeezing herself between it and the building opposite the smithy. Then she threw one leg over the side, and pushed her foot underneath the canvas cover, which was loosely strewn over what looked like several dark lumps.

  As she eased her weight in and began to pull her other leg over the side, the large draft horse, which was already hitched up, turned its head in the growing darkness of the night and looked at her.

  She froze, her blood running cold, praying the horse didn’t snort or give any other indication of its load increasing. Instead, it merely stared for a moment, then turned its head back forward as if it were bored by the sight of her stowing away in the back of the wagon.

  Nearly witless and exhausted with the strain and fear holding her taut, Jossalyn eased the rest of her body into the wagon and shimmied under the canvas. She managed to wedge herself between the wall of the wagon and a few of the lumps of supplies she had seen earlier. Thankfully, the supplies made higher mounds than her body did, so the canvas draped smoothly several inches above her between the supplies and the side of the wagon. Her shape wouldn’t be detected, even in daylight.

  Just as she settled in, she heard the faint sound of the door to the smithy swing open and closed. A moment later, the wagon rocked gently from side to side as the two men swung into the bench at the front. Neither spoke, but Jossalyn heard the slight snap of the reins on the draft horse’s rump, and the wagon began to roll. She was off.

  Chapter Ten

  At first, the hours had stretched uncomfortably for Jossalyn. The road seemed extra bumpy—were they even on a road? But why would the two men take one of the barely-used, faint dirt paths to travel north when there was such a fine road leading from Dunbraes?

  Whatever the answer, Jossalyn had endured all the bumps and jostles she could stand not long after the wagon had started moving. But sometime several hours into their journey, either their path smoothed considerably or her weariness finally won out, for she dozed for a while.

  She wasn’t sure how long she rested, for she moved in and out of a light sleep. The wagon never stopped, despite the fact that they traveled through the entire night. Eventually, the total darkness underneath the canvas began to lighten to first a dim gray, and then a pale blue.

  She dared to use one finger to lift the canvas ever so slightly, creating a tiny gap between it and the side of the wagon. She could see the early morning sky in the sliver of space. She guessed that they had been on the move for six or seven hours.

  Not long after she had checked the sky, the wagon rolled to a halt. She held her breath, suddenly unsure of what to do. She had planned on slipping out of the back of the wagon during a stop for the men to rest or stretch their legs, but there hadn’t been any such occasions. Could they already have reached the two men’s homeland? If so, she would need to not only slip out unseen, but also would have some walking ahead of her to avoid plopping herself down in the middle of their lives—or, more precisely, in the middle of Garrick’s life.

  As she lay motionless, considering her options, she heard the quiet whisper of a blade being drawn. That was all the warning she had before the canvas was yanked back.

  Something wasn’t right, Garrick was sure of it. He couldn’t put his finger on what was different, but his senses were screaming at him to be on high alert. They had traveled through the night, stopping for nothing. Nevertheless, he felt like a sitting duck in this damned wagon. They were moving too slowly, were too visible, even though they had stayed off the main roads nearly the entire journey.

  Now that they had reached the uninhabited safe house, he should feel more relaxed. They could ditch the wagon here, and move much faster and more inconspicuously on their two horses rather than in this hulking, awkward wagon.

  And most importantly, he would have his bow back in his hands. This last week had been excruciating without it. He had felt like he was missing a limb, like he was constantly exposed and unprepared. But not anymore. He would have Fletch underneath him, his bow and quiver on his back, and the Sinclair plaid around his hips and shoulder, where it belonged.

  Then why couldn’t he shake the feeling that something was off? As he pulled the draft horse to a stop, he motioned for Burke to go ahead to the safe house’s barn to retrieve their horses and gear. As Burke moved away, the sounds of his footfalls faded, and Garrick was left straining to discern what had him on edge. He listened. Birds of varying species called in the distance. The draft horse snorted in exhaustion. And then he heard it.

  Breathing. It wasn’t his, it wasn’t the horse’s, and it certainly wasn’t Burke’s. He closed his eyes to concentrate, as he often did just before letting his arrow fly at a mark. Yes, it was there, though it was extremely faint—or muffled.

  His eyes flew open and darted in every direction, but all he could see was the forest all around. As he turned his head over his shoulder, he could hear the breathing slightly more clearly. Could it be…coming from within the wagon itself?

  Even as the blood surged in his veins, he forced himself to move slowly, silently. He eased himself out of the front seat of the wagon and placed one foot and then the other on the loamy forest floor. He bent and placed one hand on the small dagger he kept in his boot to cut the fletching for his arrows, extending the o
ther hand toward the canvas that covered the wagon. Then as smoothly as he could, he yanked free his dagger and jerked the canvas back.

  The sight that met his eyes nearly caused him to stumble backward, but he kept his footing. Gazing up at him, wide-eyes and mouth agape, was Jossalyn. She lay on her side, wrapped in a cloak, but with her head turned up at him.

  “What…how did you…” The gears in his mind ground together slowly as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing.

  “Garrick! I…I was just…”

  “Christ, what have you done?” He registered vaguely somewhere that he had shouted that, but the confusion and frustration were turning to anger quickly. She had not only endangered herself, but she was threatening their mission—and all of their lives. If she found out who they really were or what they had been sent to do, they could be hanged for treason—and maybe she could be too, for she had gone willingly with them. His mind raced, trying to figure out how much she could possibly know at this point.

  Burke must have heard their voices for he was racing toward the wagon from the barn. “What is it?” he said, his voice tight with fear.

  Jossalyn slowly lifted her head up and over the side of the wagon so that Burke could see her. Burke cursed under his breath, and Jossalyn flinched.

  “Let me explain,” she began shakily.

  Garrick exchanged a dark look with Burke. Burke’s normally controlled and gallant affect had slipped, and he was frowning deeply.

  “I couldn’t stay at Dunbraes any longer. My brother…he will be very angry with me for working in the village, and I wanted to be free to use my skills, and I am more needed here in Scotland, where I could actually help people, than I am sitting on my hands in some English garrison, and you were headed north and I needed a way to travel, so…” The flood of her words seemed to finally run dry, and she shifted her eyes between Burke and him, a pleading look on her face.